2. Sarah Annette Gibson

Friday, August 4, 2006 4:45am, my alarm blares on pulling me from my restless slumber. Ugh. I love mornings, but not when I went to bed at three. Begrudgingly, I look over at my sister Annabelle, who is almost ten, still fast asleep in the bed across the room. I turn off my alarm before she wakes up and unleashes her rage. After a quick stretch and an elongated yawn, I quietly climb out of bed and get ready for my busy day: a 6am opening shift at the restaurant, followed by mailing out three more college applications, and completing two more scholarship essays. I had already filled out four college applications and applied for several scholarships, but one more couldn't hurt. 

I head to the bathroom and shudder. Across the floor, lays my dad: the highest ranking highway patrolman on the force in our area. He came home last night drunk. I was terrified it would be another end of the day routine - shift ends at midnight, he comes home long enough to change, then he gets drunk, and comes home to left off steam. Usually with his fists, usually on me, but never my face. The reasons are never the same: dishes aren't done, dishes are done, my sister wasn't in bed, there was no warm food left out for him, anything and everything. 

Quickly thinking of my options, I head back to my room, grabbed one of my pillows off my bed for under his head, and one of my sister's spare blankets from under her bed to cover him with. I didn't have time to deal with his possible wrath this morning, and she would never be hurt by him for she is his perfect angel. So if he thought she helped him, that would be best for everyone. I quickly made it so he was comfortable and gave him a final look over. I determine my dad is good enough off and go use the bathroom connected to his bedroom. 

My mom rolls over in her bed and mumbles something unintelligent. Using the little light I have, I check her over for any signs of abuse. I find none and released the breath I didn't realize I was holding. After freshening up, I move to wash my hands. Beside the sink is a single picture of my family. Everyone is smiling and bunched together nicely. I scowl as I recall that day so many years ago. Mom was in the middle, playing with a three year old Annabelle, my older brother and I leaned on her arms, and Dad stood behind us. He tightly held onto a shoulder each. The amount of pressure he applied caused my right arm to go numb for two full days. We were told if we made a peep, he would sew our lips shut, but if we weren't smiling and showing our teeth, our teeth would be pulled from our jaws because clearly, we weren't using the them anyways. I shook my hands of any excess water before drying them off completely. My brother and I have received most if not all of the fists of fury. It's a small victory when you realize how bad it could truly be. My mom has been mentally unstable ever since my sister was born. I was seven. I don't know what happened, but life had been full of bruises and regret since. It was also the day, my family stopped calling me Sarah and started calling me Annette. I liked it better. It was more unique, so I didn't question it. 

It was a rare day that I wasn't covered in bright bruises on my arms and legs. I decided the three separate quarter sized, dull, week old bruises I currently had could use some sunlight. Plus, I'd be running around like crazy for at least the first three hours at work myself and the forecast calls for 120°F.  After putting on a teal tank top, I pulled on my designated sky blue t-shirt for work, paired it with some white shorts, and my white sneakers, then pulling my thick blonde hair into a high ponytail, I'm ready to start my day. I leave the house as silently as possible, making sure to lock the door behind me, and get into my beat up red Subaru. Only a few items are in my car: an apron, my name tag, and a sweatshirt in the seats, two CDs in my center console, and a postcard in the passenger visor, but I don't need anything else. Once I secured my apron and name tag, I hit the road. With a quick glance at the clock, I am pleased to see that the clock reads 5:05am. I left with 10 minutes to spare.

I enjoy my half hour drive to work and always plan to be early. As I drive down the road, the corner of the post card my brother sent me four months ago catches my eye. Quoting from memory, I recite his words. "Hey 'Nettie. I'm sorry to leave you. I know you're strong and will do great things. Stick to the books, don't impress him with sports. Life gets better. Love you. Thinking of you always, Noah." He always was able to put a smile on my face. I could be strong if it was only for me. 

At 5:35am, I pull into work's parking lot. I know I'm early so I gather my thoughts before heading in. No one else is here, and I don't expect them to arrive until 6am sharp; they usually seem to come in a touch later when I open. They look to me and my enthusiasm to help them get through the day, especially before their morning coffee. I look at myself in my rear view mirror. I see the worry and stress in my eyes, and notice how gray they look today. "Good morning, Sunshine," I think to myself as I focus on the electric blue ring by my pupil; it has always been the brightest part of my eye but no one ever notices it, so I often question if it's all in my head and I'm going insane. I shake it off and tske a deep breath. "Work is work and home is home. This is a public place. You are safe. Even better, you weren't hurt before leaving. Go make someone's day today! You got this, girl! Come on, 'Nettie! Why do I see fear and panic in your eyes? If I can see it, who else will? Right now, you are safe. Dad is still passed out at home. You have nothing to fear. Chin up. Smile. There you go." As I finish my inner peppy monologue, I close my eyes and count to ten. When I open them again, my eyes are no longer gray. I smile as I notice the hint of electric blue by my pupil that blends into a brilliant cobalt blue as the colors move outwards. I'm pleased with this and therefore know I'm successfully hiding the fact that I'm afraid. Yes. Today will be a good day; my pain and misery will be hidden from the world and I can be the reason someone smile. Seeing them happy makes my day, and just for a moment, I can forget my fears.

Reviews

[matrixmark]

Paragraphs are nicely set out, which always makes for good reading.

Quite an intriguing story I have to say - wasn't expecting this after I had read the prologue. I shall be continuing to read as it has a sense of reality to it.

Good read once again.

Kudos to you.

Mark.

[CLR9]

I think the title of this chapter is appropriate. This girl tells us everything about herself. If there is a purpose for this, I wonder what it is because if you are not highlighting her day to day activity for any real reason you might want to leave it out of the story.
The description of her home life is good. Normally these kinds of stories are narrated by a girl with a "why me?" mentality, but this one is nice because at the end she is not thinking about herself, but making other people happy. It's really an abnormal thought for younger people to have because they are so dependent naturally, nice detail here.
A way you could fix this story a little more is to reduce the amount of sentences beginning with "I". For a lot of younger writers, including myself, this is a common problem but a very easy fix. Some different sentence variation will lighten up your prose and make the narrative seem less dull.
I'm interested to know what is with here eyes.
Thanks for sharing,

Craig

[Lynaelee]

Thank you for your review and criticism. I appreciate the advice you are giving. I'm glad I could give you a change of pace and mind set. Thank you for taking the time to read, more importantly, thank you for helping make me a better writer.

[SweetNutmeg]

I am glad Miss Gibson has some problems in her life, She seemed way too cute and perfect in the prologue.

You did a good job of making the introduction of your character and her environment. I am not so great at that part of starting my stories and I admire your facility.

I am curious, where is there a high of 120 F? What extreme place has such a high? I can't wait to find out. My guess... Australia.

I am also curious why/how her eyes can fill with blue.

So good job on leaving me curious, it makes a reader want to read chapter two.

[Lynaelee]

Thank you for taking time to read this chapter! I'm glad this piece has pulled you in. You'll find out more about the environment later, but I never actually state that it's the USA; I just list a few states. Northwest USA, to be exact. I understand most of my readers will be used to the Centigrade and the Metric System, but please note I'm familiar with Fahrenheit and the Imperial System, so I will apologize now if my measurements and temperatures seem off. For those who are curious, 120°F = 49°C.

I'm glad my piece is making you ask questions; it shows me as a writer, I did my part. Curiosity is a great motivator to keep reading.

[Lynaelee]

As for the eyes - pay attention to those around you. Eyes are windows to the soul. I have seen many eyes change color based on the mood they are in - usually it's just a shade or two lighter or darker. (I didn't explain this either anywhere in my story. Good catch!)