Plain Jane (H.S.)

Where Am I?

J:

Don't know why, but my ape of a mother just woke me up for the first day of school. Is this a joke? Is she sending me to a boarding school or some shit?

It may be the morning fog, but I cannot for the life of me remember how I got here. Did I end up drinking the pain away last night? No, for real, I can't recall the last thing I did yesterday. All I know is I was fuming like an over-microwaved hot pocket. Over what, though?

My mom also let me know there was breakfast waiting for me and she straight up never makes breakfast. Has to be an intervention or something. 'Mom, I can stop blazing up when I want...I just do want to.'

These sheets are dummy soft. They have to be in the 1000's thread count, when did we get these?

Someone must've cleaned my room last night, too because gah dayum, there's not even a piece of lint in sight. Wouldn't have been me.

I spring out of bed, planning to throw my hair in a messy bun.

What the fuck was that? No, I wasn't going to do that, actually. Yet, now I'm on my feet, having been thrusted upward like a puppet on strings.

My silky blonde locks slide through my fingers as I gather it all to the top of my head.

What's happening? Whose silky blonde locks? Who's speaking to me?

A few panicked strides bring me to the first mirror I can analyze myself with. Crossing the doorway, the initial sight of my blonde hair catapults me to the back wall.

Ouch. Fuck.

I brace the back of my skull after that hit. The pain subsides with my clarifying vision.

This is not a drill. Who the fuck is that. Is this a two way mirror because I know I'm not making eye contact with myself. That's not me.

I cautiously inch toward this stranger's reflection for a closer look.

The sight of me is so unfamiliar, I must be in a state of derealization. It's not just my new blonde head, it's everything about me. 

For once, my body swims in an oversized Tshirt. And my face.... my cheeks are hollowed, skin bereft of speckles--in fact, I might have changed races overnight because the Irish in me is incapable of producing this dark of a tan. I'm like an Italian that just returned from a month in the Bahamas.

I prod at my bouncy caramel complexion.

It's so....hydrated. Tiny pores, lengthy eyelashes, rosy lips. It's like I reared my little head right out of a Kardashian. The bun, being an action taken against my will, had turned out surprisingly well. I managed to make one of those tumblr-perfect messy buns that went out of style half a decade ago. 

Making the bold move to turn to the side, I'm able to size out my body. I pull the t-shirt taught against my...

Flat stomach?

The oxygen is punched outta me from the gut I don't have. I white knuckle the marbled countertop to stable myself as my head empties its weight.

I can't wrap my mind around this. Who ate a fortune cookie and freaky fridayed me into this? This body, this face, is my definition of perfection, but it's not mine! It must not be real. I have to be dreaming. Or dead. I'm dead and this is the version of heaven I personally synthesized. Why else would I be looking like a tall tglass of water? My mother must've bludgeoned me in my sleep. She would do such a thing, that vile woman.