What if Someone Spoke? [chapter eight]

Instructions

The day before the storm, it was silent. I appeared from the upstairs, my feet making no noise on our smooth, shining wood floors. No one gave me a glance as I simply grabbed a granola bar from the bin and sat at our table, slowly unwrapping it one corner at a time. Mother descended from her staircase, breezily pouring herself a morning drink of coffee. She said nothing, keeping it peacefully quiet, as I enjoyed silent mornings. I peeled back the wrapping on my granola bar, and took a small bite out of the top left corner. The oats were dry, and I nearly spat them out as I swallowed, but that would be disrespectful. Instead, I poured a cup of water, taking it back to my seat. Mother disappeared once more, climbing up the small staircase, likely aiming for her room. Mother kept to herself, and who would I be to question her ways. Instead, I took another bite of my granola bar and followed it with a sip of water. I was not sad about this independent lifestyle, no, it was quite the opposite. I never once felt the pang of sorrow for the boisterous, busy life that opened its doors to me. Rejection originated in my mind, not the minds of those who thrived in chaos. I took another sip of water, then got up to throw the last half of the granola bar away. Mother would not notice, for her singular venture downstairs had already been completed. I stared at my water for a second, the half-full glass heavy in my hands, though the water’s volume was low. My eyes shifted towards the stairs, tempted to go ask Mother if she wanted a drink, but I thought better of myself and rinsed the cup out, wiping it dry. I then snagged my pack from the racks where I hung it after school, and ensured the previous night’s homework was tucked safely in a folder where it wouldn’t get crinkled. I picked up the pack to check its weight. Seeing that it was too heavy, I looked inside, wondering what might be making it so heavy. There were a rather large amount of books, so I picked one at random to take out. The selected book was more colorful than the others, the letters a repeating pattern of color: blue pink white pink blue. No, this was not the book to leave at home. Mother would be confused if she saw me with this. I picked my own fate, and I left that one behind a long time ago. Instead, I chose a book with a placid brown cover and left it on the bench. I’d put it away later, Mother would not notice something out of its place anyways. I checked inside, just to ensure it was not the history book that I disliked, but needed. It was not, and so it remained on the bench. I managed to find a pen and a scrap of paper, then scribbled something down. A note to Mother, as I left every day. She never read them of course, and I doubted she even knew I wrote to her. It seems odd, writing to someone right there in front of you. Alas, each day I addressed it not to Mother, but to the person controlling her. Why write to someone who is mentally millions of miles away if they cannot read it? Oh well. I picked up the pen, sliding it back in the drawer. Dear Mother, even if you are not reading this and unaware of your surroundings, I still care for you. Have an adequate day. -V