Again

Chapter 1

𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓲𝓽𝔂

I can just about see the birds chirping outside, greeting the awakening sun that's gradually rising above the horizon, the morning haze softly glistening through my small window. The sky is a mixture of swirls of different shades of blue with peering hues of white clouds tainted with a faint light pink. That's how everyone else sees the world though, and unfortunately 'everyone' doesn't quite include me. I see . . . grey. And more grey. And even more grey. It's just this massive expanse of greyness that consumes the world, like the sky is a dull canvas and the streaks of clouds are bird poo. Weird comparison, I know. I wouldn't mind looking at the dreamy sky a little longer if it isn't for the dull aching in my shoulder. It's quite surprising for a typical January morning in England, considering it was raining heavily only yesterday, but then again, that's typical January English weather for you.

Beep. Beep.

The monotonous alarm sound reminds me that I need to get ready for school. Or prison. They're both the same thing anyway. I have seven alarms, because I know that one alarm won't wake me up. Although it might seem pretty pointless, I do usually get up eventually.

Ok, maybe not.

07:07
07:14
07:17
07:24
07:27
07:44
07:47

It's 07:47 and I quickly sit up, massaging my shoulder, trying to revive my dead arm. I take a look at my phone, and of course - like any other day - I realise that I'm late: I need to leave in only half an hour. And though that sounds like a lot of time, it isn't. Not for me anyway. Don't get me wrong, it doesn't take me half an hour to actually get ready, it's more like . . . the process of getting ready . . . ? I don't really know. I can do things quickly, it's just that my mind doesn't let me. It might sound confusing but I guess it's just a weird concept to grasp. I don't quite understand it myself.

Slowly, I put my right foot down onto the rough, beige carpet below me. I swipe my foot over it four times, but it doesn't quite feel right, so I do it again three more times to make it add up to seven. But the thing is that I don't like the number three; I just don't associate the number with anything good, it just reminds me of . . . death, or a skull sign or something toxic or poisonous, so I try to avoid it every chance I get. I don't even like mentioning it, or saying it, because it brings dark thoughts to my head that I know shouldn't be there.

I swipe my foot over the carpet an additional seven times to balance it out. Four add the forbidden number is seven. Seven add seven is fourteen, which ends in four so, I guess it's finally ok.

No, you did it an extra time. That makes it fifteen. You don't want to get cancer, do you?

Oh no, no, no, no, no. Please don't tell me I have to do it again.

Just do it again. Stop being a baby, it's better to be safe than sorry.

Why does fifteen just so happen to have the number five in it? I'm not quite sure when, but at some point I kind of just associated five with cancer. I know it doesn't make any sense, but I just don't know how to undo my thinking. It's so incredibly frustrating with all these numbers in my head that have so many different meanings, and I can't even control what I think. And I guess it really sounds stupid, but it makes sense in my head . . . kind of . . . well, not really, but I try to make it make sense the best I can.

"Serenity, get up! We're going to be late!"

That's my sister, Bethany, complaining while probably brushing her hair or admiring herself in the bathroom that we all share once she's done knocking on my door. She's eighteen, around two years older than me, and can be a drama queen at times. She acts overly bossy, but she's decent enough for me to call her my sister. Given that she sometimes does my maths and physics homework - a pretty good bonus if you ask me - she's incredibly smart and gets the highest test scores in every subject, even now in Sixth Form, despite the work being so much harder. Well, she was pretty bad at drama and music when she was younger; that's pretty ironic, considering she's the confident and dramatic one.