I suppose that I should be used to this by now. The silence of the room surrounds me as my thoughts resound through my head. The wooden floor poses as the ceiling as I hang upside-down off my bed. The wall opposite me displays the inverted bridge mural, and one of my three bookshelves hangs from the floor. I move my eyes toward the direction of the bathroom, which is directly opposite the bed, and then on to my second bookshelf, positioned between the closet and bathroom. Ah, my kingdom.
Trying to flip my legs over my head to perform an amazing landing, I end up squashing my nose into the oak floor and then slamming my knees to the ground. My groans of pain echo in the room, and I curl into the fetal position. It's a good thing no one was here to see that. I laugh at my thought, ignoring the sorrow that threatens to choke me with the truth.
Uncurling myself, I stand up and try to moonwalk to my bedroom door. I exit the room at breakneck speed and head to the descending stairs. By my own request at the age of ten, I had asked my parents for a room on the top floor. They, like loving parents, granted my naive wish and now I have to go down three flights of stairs just to reach the kitchen. I've long since determined that my younger self was too moronic for her own good.
When I reach the bottom, my breathing is only slightly out of rhythm, but don't worry, that will change when I go back upstairs. My feet beat against the wooden floor on my way to the kitchen. The sound, my only companion, echoes in the deserted house.
"What shall we have to eat today, mother and father?" I muse. "Ah, of course! I could give you a slice of tears and pleadings, while you serve me a portion of loneliness full of desperation and abandonment. How does that sound?" The silence answers me. It's not like I was expecting someone to respond; that would be bad, seeing as how my parents are in a foreign country.
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Chicken noodle soup sounds better, a lot less soul-crushing." Talking to yourself is a bad sign, Lucilia. Oh, well. No one's here to see me doing it anyway.
I heat up the soup, twirling the spoon in my hand as I dance to some nonsensical pop song stuck in my head. Once it's ready, I pour it in a bowl and head to the living room for an afternoon of swooning over attractive male cast members. I turn on the television, pleased to see that there are some shows on that I actually like. However, instead of watching them, I put on a movie.
After eating my chicken noodle soup and finishing the movie, I go to the kitchen and deposit the bowl into the sink. Then I turn around, exit the kitchen, and situate myself at the bottom of the first staircase, its steep incline glaring at me, challenging me. "Bring it on!" I challenge back with my own ferocious glare. My chest rises as I take a deep breath. And then, I run. Taking the first staircase three stairs at a time, I reach the top quickly and dash for the second set of stairs. I take this one three at a time, also. My muscles burn with the expelling of energy, and once I reach the top, my body heads to the final staircase. My legs shake as I sprint to the bottom step and jump to the third. I continue going up, my pace slowing drastically halfway. My legs don't go as high, and they catch on one of the steps, sending me tumbling onto the stairs.
"Ow! I almost had it this time!" Ever since my family and I had moved to this house, I've tried to go up all three staircases without stopping. I had begun by going step-by-step, but that soon progressed into two steps. After that came three, which I haven't accomplished yet.
Once I recover from my failure and shame, I crawl up the stairs on hands and knees, all my energy spent. Upon reaching my room, I drag myself to the bed and sink under the covers. Considering it's a Saturday and I was home, my pajamas have been on me all day, and I refuse to change them now. So, I pull the covers up to my neck, wrap the bottom of the blankets around my feet, and drift off to sleep.
I awake to the sun beating through the windows to my left, lighting up my vision like a flash grenade. Ugh, I can't see! I don't want to get up yet, you inconsiderate sun. I roll over to the right, eyeing my clock across the room, the time startling red to my unadjusted eyesight: 11:37.
I exit my blanket prison, its warmth taunting me to crawl back under and succumb to another dreamless bliss. I can't, though, because today I have to work. After allowing my toes to accustom themselves to the frozen wood, I go to the kitchen, hearing the food chant my name. Our kitchen is large, like everything else in this house, but I'm fine with its size because the cabinets are stocked full of all the food I need. I eat the cereal I make quickly, so I can prepare myself for work.
Back in my room after breakfast, I walk to my closet and grab my mandatory uniform. It consists of a t-shirt and dark jeans. Dressed with dirty blonde hair in a ponytail, I stroll to the front door, my bare feet padding across the oak. I slip on my shoes once I'm on the porch, and then I lock the front double doors.
Traversing the driveway is definitely the worst part about needing to walk everywhere. It contains so many curves and is about a mile long. Thanks, parents. I have to walk to my job and everywhere else, too. I don't mind, not really. At the beginning, it was hard for me to go the whole way to school without passing out from exhaustion or crying from fear of being out alone, though. Then, I met him and things got easier. A smile overtakes my face as the image of him comes to mind.
Shaking my thoughts away, I step through the door to the bookstore, light and warmth basking me with their presence. The bookstore is owned by a young couple, but it's run mostly by the wife. She, Mrs. Dawson, is an English major, but the most she does with it is editing. Meanwhile, Mr. Dawson is an Art major. He is constantly in their adjoining house, painting and drawing. Once, I even saw him sculpting a giant slab of clay out on his porch. I don't know what it ended up being, but it must have been good, since Mr. Dawson came strutting into the store like a peacock the next day. Both the Dawsons have brown hair; however, Mr. Dawson's is lighter. He also has a pale skin complexion, while hers is sun kissed.
While the owners have some slight eccentricities, the same cannot be said for their store. When you open the door, you're immediately greeted by one shelf facing the door; it displays all the new books. If you go down the path to the right of the shelf, an adjoining room contains a cafe and sitting area. The furniture in there are old, but refurbished, wingback chairs and short wooden tables. The dark red walls and the stone fireplace coupled with the furniture gives it a calming atmosphere. That's where I go when I take my break because I get to read and eat free food, courtesy of Mrs. Dawson.
However, if you go to the left of the first bookshelf, you're taken into the book section of the store, where all the different genres are sorted out. There's also the purchasing counter back there for anyone who wants to buy a book. That's generally where I work, but sometimes, like today, I get to work in the cafe.
When I reach the cafe counter, I see Mrs. Dawson entering through the door that connects to her house, carrying a plate of homemade cookies. I believe that she loves cooking more than English, but when I once asked her about why she didn't go to cooking school, she said that books are her passion. However, my stomach disagrees.
The smell of the cookies wafts towards me, tickling my nose and causing me to salivate. She must have seen my ravenous expression because she silently, with a smile in place, lifts the tray in offering. I grab two greedily, stuffing a whole one into my mouth. I chew and while covering my mouth at the same time, I say, "Thank you, Mrs. Dawson!"
I'm pretty sure that my words sounded nothing like a thank you, but my blissful facial expression must explain it to her. "You're welcome, hun'. You know I don't mind you eating the snacks." she replies. That's a true statement, but I'm pretty sure she just likes needing to bake more.
"I know," I choke out around the cookie. After that, she smiles, the skin around her blue eyes crinkling from the action, and restocks the cookie. While she does that, I don my "Dawson's Bookstore" apron and start serving customers.
The day goes by quickly, and at 6:00, I'm ready to leave. Right as I'm about to exit, Mrs. Dawson peers around the bookshelf at the entrance and speaks softly, "Do you want a ride home? I don't want you to have to walk when it's getting dark."
Looking over my shoulder and seeing the slowly dwindling sunlight, I agree to her proposal. Nightmarish thoughts of what occurred to me on a night similar to this one assault me, and I tremble as I climb into Mrs. Dawson's car. My palms are slick with sweat, and gooseflesh appears on my arms, but I'm neither hot nor cold. My heart palpitates with illogical fear, and the rhythm of my breathing shudders. I close my eyes and lean against the window, lengthening the breaths I take to help calm myself. You're fine, Lucilia. Nothing can hurt you right now. This chant follows me all the way home, up my stairs, into the shower, and then to my bed.
Nothing can hurt me right now.