Fallen Queen

~ C H A P T E R O N E ~

My coffee usually was the indicator of how my day would go. This rule, slash indicator had never faltered. I began to have second thoughts about how I said I'd start my new job on Monday, which was today, considering my coffee wasn't done well. I'd never been one to make good coffee myself. And apparently, the coffee machine had chosen today of all days to go amiss.

Honestly, I count my days less and scream when I can. I cry and admit when I miss things. I hug my big musty teddy bear a little tighter. I watch the clouds like they were a theatrical show. I take care of things I don't cling to. I sleep without looking at the past; the beautiful moments wrap me like a blanket. I open the new chapter of a book and stop when I hate to continue (which is never). I reread the seventeen versions of Pride and Prejudice just because and tell the birds I love you without them hearing it. I wake up to quiet and to peace and watch the sun rise without telling my heart to rush. I embrace my tired eyes; the black sky makes it's home under my lashline.

God. I should stop ranting. The topic of self-care gives me such a rush. 

Hurriedly, I stripped off my sweats and t-shirt that was three sizes too big. And did my regular, comical show of hopping on one leg when I tried to get into my pants. Funny, trying to get into my pants? I chuckled to myself. I hated hours in the bathroom. Anybody who knew me well would never put it past me to skip baths for days on the record.

I was one of those weirdos who'd pretend to enter the bathroom for the sake of taking a bath.

I snuck a look into the mirror, hoping that by some miracle, my hair would be all done and pretty, not like the usual bird's nest. Unfortunately, my hair always seemed to love defying gravity. As usual, not only was it a bird's nest, but multiple nests. It was half wet, considering I'd reckoned drying hair a dull and menial job. Hissing in fury, I tried to button my shirt up with one hand and dry my hair with the other.

How would it feel to wake up with photoshoot-worthy hair some day? Maybe our very own, gorgeous Charlize Theron. God, I'd kill to get hair like her. My hair, however, liked being just your next door neighbor's cherry tree's inhabitant's house, a bird's nest. Wild as it was, it was in a hundred directions. I rushed my brush through it a couple times, maybe pulling out a few strands. I didn't care, I had a generous amount of hair, honey-hued brown with a couple of caramel gold strands.

I dropped the brush on the bed, which looked like I'd trashed it. A side of the large king size bed had been cleared, where I slept last night. Wedged into the corner were my MacBook, headphones, a comic book (I have no idea why I read that, but I did), an empty bowl with various wrappers in it. Sketch pens were spread over half of it. I wondered what Mom would say would she see the sad state of affairs going on in the cleanliness levels of my house.

Quickly, I turned back, running a hand through my hair, which now fell in long strands, framing my oval face. I'd lost a few pounds again. Which was why I left my last job. Senior Economist, in ES Technology. Plus, I had to shift to Montreal. Montreal really wasn't my ideal place; California was. Most importantly, L.A. was all I remembered. Los Angeles had definitely changed a lot. My parents were chatterboxes who complained about me staying far away in Canada, and they were almost knocked senseless when they heard I ended up in the emergency room at my first job during the first year. Now three years fast forwarded, I was back to L.A, with a nice, cozy and luxurious flat I bought with a fat paycheck, courtesy of the long, endless hours of overtime I worked.

Now, now, overthinking makes me pretty, and overtime makes me gorgeous. 

You find it hard when you had to work at odd times in a day, having to reply to ten clients at the same time, and more so because of the frequent stock market fluctuations and occasionally balance of payment crises. And it didn't really help when your overprotective parents had a knack for calling you at least twice a day because they didn't trust a girl in her mid twenties to be able to dodge a few hours without getting herself arrested (for being too gorgeous probably).