Mark of the Moon

Chapter 3 - Lying Fantasy

Chapter 3: Lying Fantasy

  Cold bit into my skin, and I groaned softly, tugging on the comforters of my bed so they covered my exposed skin more thoroughly. I froze, my hand clenched around my familiar blanket, taking a deep breath of it to confirm that it was indeed mine, I could still smell the fading scent of when I had accidently poured a whole bottle of perfume on it, thank goodness it had faded. 

  My eyes snapped open, and my room stood before me. I was lying in my bed. How had I gotten here? The last thing I remembered was walking home from school, but I quickly disregarded it, blinking away the sleep in my eyes. Locating the source of the coldness, I noticed my bedroom window was wide open, the curtains billowing as the breeze drifted them further inside my room. Groaning I pulled myself out of the safe, warm haven of my bed and padded over to the window.

  My hand met the cold glass, and I found myself instinctively looking towards the woods that was just across the street, its dark depths echoing eerily.

  Suddenly the whole previous nights events came rushing back to me, and I slammed the window shut. Shaking my head slowly, I glanced at the clock, noticing that I was late; I had to be at school in an hour. Cursing the stupid alarm clock for not working for the umpteenth time, I also was glad, because it momentarily took my mind off what was nagging to take control of my every thought and worry. Werewolves.

  I took a quick shower, lingering in the waterfall of warmth a bit longer than normal; the chill in the air still hadn't gone completely away in my room. Not feeling like having to go through all the trouble of taking a curling iron to my hair like I did yesterday, on the special occasion of the first day of school, I wrapped it in a loose bun after drying it throughoughly. I gave a quick glance in the mirror before parting of my room for the day.

  My dark brown hair was pulled back from my face, leaving my eyes to lay back a little in the expanse of it. Amber was the color I had finally decided they were, after many long discussions with my friends over them, I had given in; in embarrassment from the attention that it wasn't red, but amber. My full length mirror had to be hoisted off the ground and hung on the door, so I could see my face when I looked in it. I had never been tall, always on the short side, until I got into high-school. It was like a jack and the bean stock incident, I shot up, and all of a sudden it felt like I was looking down on everybody. I hadn't minded it, much. I tugged on the hem of my red tank top that was underneath a shirt that I could only explain as a painter's shirt, that's what it reminded me of, a buttoned up white shirt with a collar and breast pockets. My belt kept my jeans from sliding off my hips, I had long gotten sick of having to pull them up every three seconds, and went through the uncomfortably of wearing a bulky belt, but at least I wasn't always having to discreetly yank my jeans back up.

  I snatched my backpack off the arm chair beside my desk and rushed downstairs. My footsteps echoed emptily across the wood floors as I walked into the dark kitchen. I flicked on a light, not surprised when I looked out the window to find the driveway abandoned of my father's car. I walked over to the coffee pot, and grabbed a mug out of the cupboard.

  There was a newspaper laid out on the table, and I checked my watch and figured I had a few minutes before I would have to start up the car. The steam of the mug wafted up to my nose as I sat down opening up the paper. The front page was just the normal stuff, the article illustrating in words about the first day back at school, the bus routes for kids and such. Absent mindedly, lost in this normal world stuff, I took a sip of the coffee.

  Next thing I knew the paper was splattered with drips of coffee as I spat the mouthful out. My nose wrinkled as I realized my father had made black coffee. Quickly I ran to the sink, I poured the rest of the mug out, the scent not so much pleasant anymore, more so a disgusting reminder of the awful taste in my mouth. I was a picky coffee drinker, only taking French Vanilla, or really anything that had banished the taste of the original coffee. Basically I didn't drink the coffee; I drank all the stuff that went with the coffee. Black coffee; well to me it just tasted like burnt dirt.