Sunglasses ✧ h.s. (re-write)

0.2 :: "Think again, Tarzan."

( 15 / 02 / 17 )

I can't think of a title for this chapter, this book is not starting well.

Also trying not be discouraged by the v few people reading this :')

Love y'all (HELP ME THINK OF A TITLE)

*

It doesn't matter if I only have to do it once a week; waking up before eight in the morning is not a pleasurable experience.

Sure, I've been waking up early my whole life: for school, for running practice on weekends... and for no reason at all. My psycho mother always insisted that the day was wasted if you woke up too late, and consequently forbade me from remaining in bed after eight o'oclock. Apparently, the twelve hours of activity I would still get if I woke up at ten wasn't sufficient enough for her. That doesn't mean I'm accustomed to it, however. To be frank, I never really had anything to do anyway, so those extra couple of hours were never much more productive than they would have been if I'd stayed asleep. Consequently, I loathe getting up early - more so now than ever before, because my mother went on a three week cruise for the last part of summer and left me with my dad, and now that I've tasted the sweet honey of extra sleep, I'm never going back.

But alas, my Tuesday History class begins at eight o'clock.

Hearing my alarm go off at seven is like being home all over again, with my mother's merciless screeching in my ear and the sun glaring into my eyes. Admittedly, my curtains are closed and my alarm is an only a slightly annoying beeping, but it's still torture to have to open my eyes at the asscrack of dawn. I roll onto my back and stare bleakly at the ceiling, listening to my phone remind me that it's time to go be a functional human being.

"Bìtch," Frida mumbles. "If you don't shut that shìt off I will sleepwalk over there and knock you out."

I obediently reach over and turn off the alarm, unsure whether she's serious or not. Despite being my best friend of about ten years, Frida has told me more than once that she's not responsible for her actions when she's mad.

"She'd better not mess with me, Katrina. I might have to love her but these hands don't love anybody," she'd told me once.

She'd been talking about her great-aunt.

Frida Kingston is my best friend and is already in her second year of university. She opted out of taking a gap year like I did, deciding she didn't need the break, whereas I spent the year doing a whole lot of nothing. We're opposites in a lot of aspects, pretty much all of which are kind of obvious: Frida is loud and vivacious, willing to pick a fight with anybody who breathes wrong, whereas I'm more of an introvert in public. It seems rather unlikely to everyone else, but we're compatible. I'm not unable to stand up for myself when necessary, and I'm not shy - I could make friends and socialize if I wanted to, I just prefer not to. Less drama, and less people to please and keep track of. I have Frida and my Dad and that's pretty much it, but I don't mind.

A loud groan warbles from my lips as I drag myself upright and clamber out of bed, the noises that escape sounding utterly inhuman as I stretch.

"Katrina Hart," Frida hisses. "I have no classes today, and I will annihilate anybody who causes me to wake up before two pm."

I roll my eyes but don't say a word as I check my phone. To my complete horror it hasn't charged at all overnight and it's on eight percent. "Shìt!"

"Kat!"

"Okay, okay! I'm going to shower," I defend, plugging my phone in (properly, this time) and waiting for the charging symbol to appear before I amble into the bathroom. A twenty-minute shower later, I get out. Frida is apparently fast asleep once more, judging by the loud snores that come from her side of the room. I now have forty minutes to get to class: ten minutes to brush my hair, ten minutes to get dressed, ten minutes to grab a muffin and a hot chocolate from a café nearby, and then ten minutes to get to the Humanities building for History class. Maybe I should have gotten up at six forty-five...