Existence, Chapter One - "Waking up is not as fun as sleeping."
There was a dull sound in a mostly-square room. It was a slight hum, like someone left a light on. My eyes remained closed, halfway out of sleepiness and halfway out of stubbornness to seem asleep to anyone who might check on me and want me to do things.
Then real consciousness came to me. The hum turned into a constant vibration below my pillow which I recognized as my phone - didn't I leave it on my table? - trying to get my attention because some asshole is calling it and it doesn't know what to do. But I do. And that thing to do? Ignore it.
Alas, ignoring it takes a minute and that is enough time to chase away any semblance of going back to sleep. I stayed curled in the sweet comfort of my blankets, resting on the sweet love of my pillows. The imprint of my body in the bed called to me to not leave it, but this thing called being awake called me harder. Numbness in my right arm, which was pinned behind my head, prompted me to flop it to my side and wiggle the fingers for that sensation of blood flowing in my limb again.
I started to move my legs so that I could get up but the overwhelming urge to stretch struck me like a carpenter's hammer on a nail. Me being the obedient dog I am complied and stretched with a loud groan mixed with a grunt as my joints popped. Feeling the refreshing wave of euphoria, I sighed and sat up, my hair a mess billowing in the wind.
It was time to do things.
I reached behind me towards my big pillow and tossed it back, revealing a pack - or, more specifically, a bunch of wrapped pieces in a pile - of cinnamon-flavoured gum. Next to this delicious cluster of mouth-watering throat-burning long-lasting not-really-food were my bright-ass red pants. They were skinnier than an anorexic and redder than shit. If your shit was red, that is. If so, please go to the doctor. Please.
I always kept my phone in the pocket of these pants. Why? Because these were my favourite pants. Plus I had a bad ability of remembering to take it out. Leaving my wallet in the other pocket had nearly cost me my hard-earned money on many occasions. Thankfully, I have a wonderful mommy who doesn't need to teach me lessons.
I fished for my phone from its hiding spot underneath aforementioned pants. I was puzzled for a moment, feeling the overwhelming urge to freak out until I found the cellular device that took much of my time and attention. Then it struck me. It's inside my pillow. Sometimes, I worried about myself. I took my wallet out of the pants and tossed them to the ground and reached into the pillowcover, pulled out my phone, and checked who had interrupted my beauty sleep. The number was quite familiar, so much that I had it in my contact list as “Home #2”; they called two times before that, too, so I knew that it was important.
That being said, there was no way I was going to call back for like another thirty minutes.
To put the return call off, I checked my messages - there was one unread message from he-who-is-named-something-that-rhymed-with-maggot. Upon reading it, I knew it's just a reply to the one I sent at who-cares-what-time-it-was this morning; I decide to reply to the reply. That reply I sent?
Genius. I am the connoisseur of replies. None are greater than I in such matters. It didn't matter that it was five minutes until noon and I was, like, nine hours late. That being said, it did matter that I was hungry. Starving, even. Quite a wonder that a sixteen-year-old would be hungry. What a shocker!
I was in no state of dress to leave my room, though. Not even boxers were covering me in my glorious bed. To fix this indecency, I leaned back over the other side of the bed where my discarded clothes were. I pulled my shirt back on, noting that it smelled like sweat and Mom was most definitely going to kick my ass into the shower if she got a whiff. The thing itself was pure black without a logo or markings and it was long enough that I contemplated foregoing any other oppressive clothing simply because they would be totally unnecessary.
However, I knew better than that. I looked around for my underwear for half a minute before finding it at the foot of my bed. Now is not the time to cover that subject. I pulled the yellow-striped thin material on and grabbed my basketball shorts from the floor in front of my dresser. My favourite things to wear when one is as lazy as I am. I put the shorts on and admired how red I was dressed (which was very, very little) before not caring anymore and crossing the disaster that is the cleanliness of my room.
I opened the door and quietly padded my way down the hall and down the stairs without a thought other than food. I knew that my brother would be out for his football practice stuff and my dad would still be at work and Mom never left the backyard unless someone was screaming, looking for something, or whatever else triggered her motherly senses.
Sure enough, after a precursory check, I was basically alone in the house. I so could have gotten away with wearing just a shirt! Oh well; it's better to be safe than sorry, and Mom would have most definitely made me feel sorry. And then she'd make me a sandwich.
Speaking of which, I'm still hungry. How does one fix that? They scour every cupboard, collecting various ingredients - such as honey, bread, anything visible - before entering the refrigerator and gathering delicious homemade jam, meats (particularly roast beef), and condiments. Mustard is really the only condiment necessary, but it never hurts to have more.
What does one do with all these things? They make a monstrosity. A delectable monstrosity, but a monstrosity nonetheless. Bread gets put to rest upon whatever one has designated the thing to put the bread on and then you lay on one side slices of your meats. The amount varies on your taste and how much is available, just as long as there is plenty to get a taste of. That sounded sexual. It might have been.
Once the meat is ready, I like to put a small layer of jam on top of it before smothering it in honey mustard (if we are to get specific, but any mustard will do). Once it is prepped to perfection, honey may be added for sweetness and added glorification of creating a monster. Once this side is ready, you can opt to do the same to the other side for pure orgasm of taste in your mouth, or you can simply add some roast beef to the other piece of bread before combining the two halves to make a whole lot of beauty.
Eat as is necessary. Do not be alarmed, it is quite delicious, despite what one would expect. Then again, only pregnant people have ever given it a try so I really don't know what to say on the matter. All I know is that I have just made one such monstrosity and I am devouring it as quickly as my body will allow me, and drinking it down with a nice refreshing glass of juice. On second thought, I should have checked what kind of juice this is because it tastes weird.
I proceed to devour the remainder of my delicious food with fervor seen only when there is food to be eaten. Obviously. While tempted to make a second one, Mom does not like it when I do that. Never really understood why, but I also don't question it. It is never good to question her.
With nothing left to do in the kitchen other than crumple the paper towel sheet, I toss it in the garbage and head back upstairs to my room. Once there, I gather clothes to change into - pure gray boxer-briefs, a white shirt with a boot on it in some sort of indie-slash-hipster-y fashion, and of course my red shorts. I don't bother collecting socks for the same reason as I chose shorts over pants: it is way too hot out. And I'm lazy. I do not forget to pick up my black beanie, though; despite temperature, I am always to be found with that hat.
With my collection of fashionable clothing in one arm, I depart my room once again and head down the hall, down the stairs, and down another hall until my hand touches the doorknob that opens to reveal the splendid bathroom. Okay, maybe it was not so splendid, but I loved it all the same. I pulled a towel from under the large cabinet next to a giant mirror, which was over the marble sink. This is the spot I set my new clothes down so that I could peel my stinky-ass shirt off and throw it into the hamper (which made me yell “Booyaw!” and contemplate going into basketball in the upcoming school year). I pulled off the rest of my clothes and tossed them haphazardly into said hamper.
Naked, I stretched just to feel the cool air on my skin. I enjoyed it. Eventually, though, my enjoyment has to end, and it did when I stepped into the large space that was our shower. I closed the outer curtain and shut the glass door as to get all the steam to stay with me. I did not hesitate to pull the temperature knob and start the water, which dripped out the shower head for a second before raging in full force.
It was cold. Closer to freezing than it was to my ideal setting, but I sat there and let it cascade over me. The drops ran down my skin and I, of course, had to suppress a shiver. Cold showers were a great way to make me feel alive and awake. Too bad that's not what I was going for. The waterfall heated up rather quickly, reaching scalding in a matter of like half a minute. As much as the cold thrilled me, it was warmth that I loved. I stayed there for minutes, letting the steamy water collide with my body and drip down, wetting every bit of skin on its way. I was slightly excited by it and how, in my mind, I imagined it was someone giving me loving touches. I enjoyed just standing there for at least ten minutes, but I did have to get things done before either I prune or my brother gets home. I took my shampoo and popped the lid, squeezing a little dollop and massaging it into my perfect platinum hair.
It had been over two months since I did my hair a very silvery, almost lavender, kind of colour and it was as beautiful now as it was then, even if my roots had begun to show. Oh well, my woody brunet hair went well with it so I'm not going to complain.
I let the water cleanse my beautiful hair of the strawberry shampoo and added the plum-scented conditioner that I've been buying longer than I've been a teenager; I left it alone and popped open my tube of body wash, eking out enough to lather up my upper body. I am not a particularly muscular person - especially when compared to my brother - but I am not devoid of tone. Whereas he had pure beefy muscles, I was very wiry and lean and far more slender. These are things that I only notice in the privacy of my lovely showers or when we play sports together. Since the latter does not happen ever anymore, it's something I forget quite often.
That is, until I'm rubbing my bubble-covered hands over the tiny, solid lumps that are my muscles. Once I cover every inch of my front and back, I get another glob and lather it up and apply it to my waist and down. I spare no inch of skin nor thread of hair from the cleansing.
I think you get the picture.
I wash myself, letting the water remove most of what I applied, but I always use my hands to get rid of anything that decided to linger before rubbing my skin down for added effect. With nothing left to do but enjoy scalding-but-feels-like-warm water, I turn the shower off and open the door and curtain, releasing the steam. I take one step onto the linoleum floor (even if it feels like stepping into Antarctica from inside a warm tent) and marvel as steam rolls up and off me in a plume before grabbing my towel and making me not-so-wet anymore. In order to do that, I have to be rough, and so I am as I forcefully rub my arm with the towel so hard that the baby-soft skin is red. I do not worry about it and continue with the other arm and my face, then my chest and back before I attend to my legs. I am not forceful when it comes to drying my crotch, though, and prefer to just dab and softly graze my most sensitive skin. One time I was rough. Never again.
Once complete, I towel my hair before setting the spent fabric to dry. I figure I'll take care of it later.
Also once complete, I don my chosen outfit and admire myself in the mirror before combing my hair back and putting my beanie on. “I am complete,” my soft tenor murmurs. It is not a second after before I hear the bathroom door swing open somewhat violently. It just so happened to be my brother. “Yes, you are welcome to barge into the bathroom while it is occupied.” What a perfect greeting. Damn, I'm good at this. What I'm not good at is fighting, especially with the same brother who is giving me the evil eyes at the moment. I am giving him exasperated eyes. If there hadn't been steam in the room already, I daresay that he would be fuming hard enough to make more. I wonder what he could want?
