I roll over in bed, hand slamming my side table blindly until it finally makes contact with the alarm clock's OFF button. I turn my head and open one eye, the bright red numbers of the clock slightly blurred before coming into focus. 7:15, as usual. The other eye eventually opens and I stare at the wall, blinking a few times before throwing the covers off and getting clumsily out of bed. "It's too early for this crap," I say to myself. I find the light switch and flip the lights, blinking again. I make my way to the small bathroom, brush my teeth, do my makeup, the whole production. Have to look great for my wonderful day of fetching coffees and sorting papers. I grab a shirt and some pants from the drawers, making sure they match before putting them on. Loose khaki colored pants and a pale pink shirt. "Modestly professional", as Clinton would put it. I make my way upstairs and smile at my mom as I enter the kitchen. I know, I know, I'm living with my parents at almost 24 years old, I'll never accomplish anything in life. Trust me, I hate it. I just like being close to my mom all the time. I could deal without living with Clinton, though. Working for him is bad enough, but living with him is insanity-inducing. Mom is happy with him though, so that's all that matters. I pop some bread in the toaster and go to sit next to her as I wait. "Your birthday is in a week," she says. "Don't remind me," I joke back. She laughs softly, and we sit there in companionable silence. We've always gotten along. After a few minutes, the toaster dings and I get up, passing by the fridge on my way to grab the butter. The motions are robotic, having long since been memorized. Without thinking, I grab a knife, retrieve the toast, spread the butter, return the remainders to the fridge, and begin to eat as I head back to my room in the basement to get shoes and a jacket. Clinton is in the kitchen when I return upstairs. I don't say hi to him. He doesn't say hi to me. Shoes go on. I am still eating the toast as Clinton heads out the door, saying something about hurrying up so he isn't late. Jacket goes on. I dash downstairs to get my purse, which I usually end up forgetting until the last minute like today. Purse goes over shoulder. I go over and kiss Mom on the cheek, going through the motions. It's always the same, every single morning. Wake up. Get ready. Leave. Work. Come home. Sleep. Repeat. I'm tired of this constant repetition, the same motions, the same rhythm every single solitary day without end. "What do you think you want?" Mom asks as I head to the door, referring to my approaching birthday. I shrug, calling a "Love you" over my shoulder as I shut the door behind me. I usually never know what I want for my birthday. However, I think I know what I want this year. I want out.
posted 10 months ago. ( permalink )