Private School Uniforms and Domino Masks (On Hiatus)

That Bruise Doesn't Suit You

"Shoot," I muttered, attempting to slap the snooze button on my alarm clock and failing spectacularly.  I rolled over and glared foggily at the shrieking device on my night table.

I slammed my palm over the button and it shut off, a blissful silence spreading over the room again.  I burrowed deeper into the blankets, sinking my fingers into the corners of the mattress.  I really, really, really, didn't want to get up today.

I always set my alarm clock for forty five minutes earlier than I actually have to, generally because I'm so exhausted the mornings after patrol and it takes forever to cover up all the bruises and cuts from earlier that morning.  I usually get in from patrol around twelve or one and I get up at six thirty to make it to school which starts at eight thirty.

An hour of trying to get out of bed, showering, cleaning up all of my previous injuries and hiding all bruises and scrapes; fifteen minutes to eat as much as I possibly could in that time frame; ten minutes to get dressed; five minutes to fix my hair into something presentable, five minutes to double check that I had all my bruises covered; twenty minutes to get to school; and the rest is spent at school preparing for my day before the bell rang.

Fun, fun, fun.

I tried to pull myself out of bed but the effort was too much and I wound up collapsing onto the floor of my bedroom.  Thank God for carpeting, but the impact was still jarring, even if I hadn't had so many aches and bruises.

Okay, I coached myself silently.  You're strong.  You're an acrobat.  You go out fighting crime in D.C. at all hours of the night.  If you can do that, you can pick yourself up off this floor.

Fifteen minutes later, I was reawakened by Maria who was shaking my shoulder. "Miss, what are you doing on the floor," she exclaimed, taking in my glazed expression.

"Just taking in a refreshing view of the ceiling.  I was going to get up, but I decided that the carpeting was too comfortable," I mumbled in reply.

Maria shot me a queer look, but she seemed to accept my answer, "Children these days, can't even get out of bed by themselves.  I'll be back in ten minutes once you make yourself presentable. "  With those words, she whisked out of the room.

That was too close.  I had to be more careful next time I fell off the bed, I'd have to be quieter about it.  

With a stunningly impressive force of will, I managed to get up from the floor and onto my feet, tottering from side to side like a drunk.  And like a drunk, I sought only two things: black coffee and an ice cold shower.

By the time I got home last night, it was eleven; very early by my standards.  I showered for at least forty five minutes; soaped, scrubbed, shampooed, soaped again, lathered, shampooed again, scrubbed again, and conditioned my hair.  Then I had to wash my clothes; I never put the clothes I wore on patrol in the hamper.  If Maria caught sight of them, she may be concerned by the sweat soaked, blood stained, torn and ripped state of them.

Thus I, a girl living in a mansion with a seven figure trust fund, was forced to wash my own clothes.  Then again, the whole reason I had to wash said clothes was because I had spent the late night and usually early morning kicking criminal ass in the projects of D.C., and that wasn't something girls with seven figure trust funds did either.

Once again, being an adrenaline junkie sets me aside from the pack, I thought grimly as I clutched the dresser to my side with both hands to regain my balance.  

 Of course I had already showered at the most seven hours ago and those seven hours were spent in sleep but the hours leading up were taxing to say the least and the show off acrobatics-martial arts I was performing for hours on end, generally required a longer rest break.  At least it's Friday, I consoled myself, wincing as I massaged a sore shoulder where one of the punks had managed to get a lucky hit in.