𝗘𝗖𝗖𝗘𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗦𝗧, marvel (on hiatus)

PROLOGUE!

000
the beginning of the end!

SAWYER-GRACE CALLAWAY groaned as her body twisted and her eardrums reacted to her horrendous, repetitive alarm. She quickly reached over, tapping her screen, turning off the alarm, only for another to begin ten minutes later.

   "No," the girl whines, desperate for even a second more of sleep—which she had gotten as her fourth alarm had just been set off.

   "Come on, my Grace!" The muffled voice of Joanne Callaway floated through the air. "It's time to get up! It's seven o'clock."

   "I don't gotta leave 'till eight!" Sawyer groaned, burying her head into her pillows, her acquired Brooklyn accent become very prominent within her sleepy state.

   "Mhm, but you're not as fast as you think you are." Joanne's sweet voice sang as she entered Sawyer's room. "And I don't want you to miss school, sweetheart." She finished before tearing the warm duvet off of Sawyer.

   "Fine," Sawyer dragged out, "But only cause it's almost Friday!" She pulled herself off her warm sheet-covered mattress before sulking down the hall towards the bathroom.

Opening the door, the air was humid and thick as it hung in Sawyer's face. There was a thin layer of condensation left on the mirror from Joanne's own early morning shower, the already wet shower walls also evidence of the woman's early rising. Sawyer wasted no time in turning the ceramic knob to a close to scolding temperature, then pulling the knob towards her, signalling the water flow from the shower head. The steam danced along the thick air as if the sound of water bouncing off of the young girl and going down the drain was music. She hummed a soft tune over the sounds and feeling of the water and it's vapour. Her one tune slowly turning into six as her adoptive grandmother yelled goodbye from the front door, reminding Sawyer that she, too, would need to leave soon.

She pressed the knob in, the flow to the shower head stopping. She quickly reached out, gripping a red towel to dry herself and her hair, before grabbing a smaller version of the red towel to ring out the excess water from her hair then wrapping it up within the towel. Sawyer quickly escaped the shower, leaving the bathroom and tiptoeing to her room as to try and keep every water droplet fastened to her person.

Sawyer opened her bedroom door, walking into her room of three years, stepping over a throw pillow that lay discarded on the wooden floor. Her room was lived in, as Joanne would say. It wasn't hazardous, but it certainly wasn't pristine. The small room consisted of a white-framed bed which was drowning in her yellow comforter, followed by a handmade baby-blue quilt, and accompanied by three or four small fuzzy blankets—all being different patterns, colours, and brands. Her headboard was covered by four pillows (not counting the decorative one on the floor) the next one plumper than the last. And a wooden nightstand sat next to the bed, pictures and old movie tickets adorning the walls around it. Then a large dresser stood by the wall, the same wood and handle as the nightstand as if they were carved from the same tree—which they very well might have been. Her dresser had a flat-screen TV sitting atop it, no bigger than a computer monitor, although looking useless as the clothes piled on top of the dresser were blocking half the screen. Some of the dresser draws had clothes leaking out, forcing the drawers to be half open. Next to it a large mirror leaned on the wall, the wood surrounding the precious glass being a completely different colour than the dresser and nightstand. Sketches, posters and few achievements littered the once-bland beige walls. Most had been hung up with scotch tape, and it was oh so obvious, too. The odd picture or polaroid would be snuck into the collages, but other than that it was mostly movie posters or paintings and drawings that had been done by the Sawyer-Grace herself that cluttered the walls.