The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

#7: Change

Write the beginning of a story with the opening line 'I woke up that morning and everything had changed...'

I woke up that morning and everything had changed. That's the simple way to say it, anyway, if a bit ominous. I suppose we should have seen it coming, after all, school was a warzone, each of us clung onto the fact that one day it would all be over, grasping our way out of that dreary prison, where harsh words were spat with the severity of bullets and one piece of paper would dictate your future. Why the end upset us was questionable--was this not the relief of a lifetime? Was this not what we had dreamed of since the beginning? Why were we so remorseful that our sentence had been served?

I don't have an answer for you, I have always assumed it was because of some level of indoctrination myself, like we've been conditioned to crave this system despite constantly berating it. My friends would say I'm something of a pessimist.

Disbanding from our detestable peers, we trudged onwards through more exams, more years of early mornings and sleepless nights and poverty and pressure and all for a few more pieces of paper. But in between the sobbing fits, when the world seemed to cave in on itself, swallowing you whole and enveloping you in a jagged cage of procrastination and intense frustration to the point of mental decline, there was always a constant beam, a steady beacon that pulled you close and rubbed your back with the smell of warmth and the gentle embrace of comfort: the end. I have a theory, you know, that the value of things increases as the permanence declines, and I believe this applies to time too; my friends and I, we seem to become more optimistic when we are reminded of the end, whether because of a premature longing for our youth back or simply because that meant we could get a decent night's sleep every once in a while is irrelevant.

Like marionettes, we were dragged along to the expected, the stage was set for us, so we got jobs that pay decently, we lived our nearly-dreams during the long hours and tedious responsibilities that plagued us, yet somehow we found pockets of contentment, solace in each others arms when the nights were a bit too dark. We were the protagonists of our own mundane novel, wherein the climax was some mindless drama, and the gossip slid back to the shadows haunting the darkest corners of our minds to reveal a group of people, a group of friends, a group that made up a little family.

I woke up that morning, to my phone whirring and buzzing and dancing around on my table excitably, alive with messages and missed calls and more and more and more. As prior established, I am not (and never have been) an optimist, so naturally I assumed something gruesome had occurred. One of my friends had gotten engaged. Astonished, my sluggish eyes sprang with tears as shaky fingers raced to her contact--it was confirmed, she'd said yes--and a giddy, breathless laugh filled my room, and blubbering congratulations were given.

It was a frivolous affair, with explosions of colour painting grins onto each of the guests faces, the kaleidoscopes in their eyes celebrated, and an air of triumph glided about the reception, as though the unanimous feeling of wonder and optimism had formed a consciousness. The exuberance tasted floral in the late night, and our laughter resounded off of the decorated walls, the precious melodies of our voices sliding over one another in a messy sort of waltz quickly becoming my favourite song.

So what was so different when I woke up the next morning?

This time, I think I do have an answer. It was the inevitable, impending nostalgia that had clawed at my chest as soon as I sat up in bed.

My corkboard, a chaotic display of nostalgia, featured scribbled quotes from our favorite films that we'd whisper under our breath, ticket stubs from concerts so loud that even recalling them would leave the music echoing in our ears, and animated doodles from scraps of paper that were alive with mischievous grins from another time.

The books that lay in scattered piles, with dog-eared pages, cracked spins and ridiculous notes in the margins, a messy, affectionate time capsule, a distinct scent of pretentious teenhood lingered as delicate fingers fanned through the pages.

The reason everything was different? The wedding was a faded memory already, a photograph yellowed with age and with curling edges, and one day it would be nothing but that, just an old, weathered photograph with strangers smiling sunnily, until the fact that it was once a fresh memory would be lost, a relic.

The songs of our youth, of the days when we'd save one another from harsh deities as boredom, and homework, and extra shifts, would be a hum in the wind, the lyrics, once screamed passionately into a carefree void now forgotten and mumbled.

It's all gone.

They're all gone.                        Where have they gone?

It's gone.                                                                                                    Everything's gone.

It's gone.                              It's gone. 

It's gone.                They've gone. They're gone.                   Where has everything gone?

And I cried.

Because I had woken up that morning, and everything had been different for years.

A/N: Hi, long time no see, right? Well, this is an English Language Paper 1 Question 5 I did, so as I mentioned to my darling Potato, this is very much a case of hitting two birds with one stone. 

Just wanted to let you know here that other chapters across my books are in the works, but school doesn't end for another 2 weeks and I am months behind on my media coursework, so maybe the fact that they're half written doesn't mean all that much.

Let me know what you think, feel free to use the prompt to write your own (if you do, please send it to me), or give me some more prompts if you like?