My Book

Elli's normal morning ritual is always clouded with misplaced trains of thought. Let's follow it.

There’s No Sympathy for the Dead

Chapter One – My Book

It’s around five thirty in the morning. A slight hint of the sun peeks through the navy blue drapes over my window. I lay in the shadows opposite of the light on the cold marble floor. Nobody else is awake yet, and I’m surprised I am, too.

I stare at the ceiling. Another nightmare has awakened me from a peaceful slumber again. I imagine the gruesome creatures in the patterns above me.

More sunlight floods the room, spilling into my shadows. I try not to notice, but as it touches my eyes, I flinch and shrink back. Today was going to be a torturous one.

A knock comes from my door. I quickly jump from the floor back to the bed, checking the clock swiftly and pulling the blankets up to my neck. It’s already six forty-five. Time passes me by all too often.

The light from the hallways mixes with the sunlight and illuminates my small sanctuary as my mother pops her head in. “Elli, are you up honey?” her sweet and delicate voice calls out softly.

I know she’s waiting for a reaction, but I stay curled under the micro-fibers of my sheets. I don’t really feel like going to school today—or facing any of the daily struggles that happen there.

She doesn’t give into my tactics. The door flings open and she enters my domain. I curl further under the covers. “Elli you know that today’s a school day. You know you need to come out from there.”

I still remain under my safe haven of warmth. “Do I need to come under there and pull you out by your black painted toe nails, El?” I giggle a little and sense that she’s smiling.

Her job is done and I emerge, “There’s my freak!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah Mom,” I yawn and brush back a strand of loose raven colored hair. “Mom, I don’t feel well. Can I stay home from school today?”

“Hmm, let me think about it.” She makes a strange face, which I assume is supposed to be her thinking stature. “No. You’ve got to go today, honey. You’ve missed too many days. You don’t want to get suspended do you?”

As I’m about to answer, she interrupts me, “You don’t. You’re going, and that’s the end of this little chat. Now get your a*s out of bed and into that uniform! I’m baking cinnamon sticky biscuits for breakfast, and they’ll be out by the time you’re finished getting dressed.”

I watch her walk out of my room, waiting until she’s completely out of the room before I slide down onto the floor again.

Underneath a blue fluffy madness of coverlets, and a feather mattress, I keep a book. I wouldn’t call it a journal or a diary, but a keepsake holder. I’ve got things taped inside that book that I would never show to the world’s eyes.

In this book I have, on record: three slightly used razor blades popped out of my mother’s “missing” razors; a picture of my mother and father when they were teenagers (I know, how cliché?); a picture of my mother and me taken on Madeira Beach in Florida; a blue tulip from the first date with the first love of my life; a “Coping with the Death of a Loved One” pamphlet from two years after that very date; and then a note. A special note I hold dear to my heart. But I won’t let the contents be known yet.

I open the book and stare at the blades taped onto page thirty-four. The slightly used condition didn’t mean that the mutilation I experience is the same. The blades don’t appeal to me. They’re more of a security blanket.

The scent of freshly baked cinnamon breaks me out of my hypnotic state. I promptly crawl to my dresser and pull out a gloomy long sleeved T-shirt and a pair of indigo jeans. My usual attire never changes.

As I rapidly pull the clothes on, I reflect on how many days of this school year. Being a junior, I hate to realize that I have one more year of this torture—and then twelve more following that.

“Elli?” my mother calls towards from down the hall.

I grab my black messenger bag—decorated with various stickers—and walk silently into our tiny, messy kitchen. The overpowering smell of spices was sickeningly sweet.

“Smells… delicious, Mom,” I say, grabbing my usual squeaky chair. “Did you make these from scratch?”

She smiles and holds up a tattered can. “The Pillsbury dough boy paid us a visit this morning, Elli. I’m afraid these hands were only made for loving, not baking, cooking, or making anything that supports life.” We both laugh at this.

I glance at the clock and notice that it’s seven thirty-nine. If I didn’t leave right now, I was going to be late.

I skip the mound of sticky dough, kiss my mother goodbye, and head out to Hell.

I didn’t know today would be the worst Hell I experienced in my life.

Author's Note

First chapter, so it's not that good. And the next chapter's really slow coming out.

Reviews

[Sharkapillar]

!!!!
That's how i spell my name! The English variant, anyway. Elli! I mean, so many people have spelled it Ellie or Elly or even Eli...i only spell it Aoelgaire cause it's cool.
Her life sounds so much like mine. I had therapy for loss of a loved one. This is too uncanny.
And very well written.
Good job, Bubbles!