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Today started out pretty normal, now that I think about it.
Mornings in the Hale house were interesting as ever. I had my bowl of cereal, which was the third flavour I've tasted this week. It was disgusting. Even more than that other one I ate a few days ago.
(I mean, it was called Raisin Blazin' — if that wasn't a red sign for me, I didn't know what was.)
Penelope was in the living room watching reruns of Hannah Montana. I told her she should be grateful that the channel still aired their episodes, because most of the new Disney shows sucked. She threw the remote at me.
Mom was in the kitchen sipping a cup of coffee, a giant canvas statued on one of the counter stools, per usual. She's a painter; a really good one at that. I didn't inherit that trait sadly.
What I did inherit was the competitive trait. That's why Dad and I are pretty much mirrors of each other. Around the house were medals, trophies and certificates of all the things we either won or participated in. There's a variety in them — a Mathletes competition (me), Best Student of the Year (him; and this was after he graduated), a skateboarding race (I was thirteen), and the list goes on.
That morning, he was bent towards the table, focused on a crossword puzzle he found on the newspaper. Never the one to back out of a challenge.
I know the feeling.
"Bye, my blood people," I called before leaving school. They all bid me goodbye and, as I stepped out of the porch, I knew what's about to come. Even when I thought nah, this is going to be different.
Then I tripped.
Like every other day.
"Dad!" I yelled, kicking away the demon. "Your gnomes are terrorising the place!"
He decided to shroud the front garden with gnomes — little, sharp demonic gnomes — just because a rude neighbour of ours had commented how our garden was the most "boring" one in the neighbourhood. Dad, of course, retaliated in the most weirdest way possible.
