Immobility

Chapter One

The distant yet seemingly shrill multiple-tone ringing of my alarm interrupts the silence of my blissful slumber and I am simultaneously swallowed up by a barreling wave of consciousness. Unwilling to open my eyes just yet, I clumsily reach over and pick up my phone, which lingers on the nightstand, and tap the screen a few times until the tip of my finger makes contact with the snooze button, brusquely concluding the constant bombardment of unapologetically loud invaders of my ears that draws me into a state of wakefulness every weekday for months on end.

I place the phone back on the nightstand and reposition myself beneath the comfortable sheets spread across the new mattress of my bed, yearning for just five more minutes of rest, half the time before my alarm blares again. I always relish that ten-minute interval, but I normally don't drift off again before the alarm brings me to my senses.

The next thought that flickers through my awakening brain is the realization that I have my penultimate calculus exam of the school year this afternoon—sixth period, to be precise. Upon the conclusion of this semester, I will officially transition from the eleventh grade to twelfth. The three months preceding my final academic year before I embark on a brief journey to whatever college I'll apply for will be upon me within the next two and a half weeks. Although I'm seventeen, I have yet to take my driver's test and obtain my license, but that's my first scheduled accomplishment this summer. As a young adult, I've had a perfervidly tight schedule throughout the preceding few months, so I don't spend much time at home, and when I do, I rarely ever strike up a conversation with my parents or siblings; I've become kind of reclusive. The fact that this new chapter of my life is about to begin is both exciting and saddening. I will certainly miss the memorable times during which I spend seven hours a day being educated by sophisticated adults. I'm also, like every other student approaching graduation day, exceedingly grateful for all the information that's been drilled into my brain over the course of more than a decade, that's prepared me for the day on which I'll step out into the openness of the world and spend the next few years preparing for the following long decades of work that will earn me decent wealth that I'll rationally spend during my years as an elder.

I grab the plastic bottle of pure water sitting on my nightstand and unscrew the cap, swallowing a few mouthfuls of the liquid refreshment to speed up the awakening of my system. Throwing back the covers and then smoothening them after climbing out of bed, I walk over to my window and pull open the curtains, letting the golden bars of light emitted from the sun that's barely broken the unreachable horizon flood into the room. Here in Cottonwood Springs, the sunrise is always something that you do not want to miss, especially if your living quarters are, like mine, located in a hilltop residential area.

I trudge into my bathroom and strip off my nightclothes and undergarments, stepping into the shower and adjusting the temperature of the water until the downpour becomes satisfyingly warm. I take the bottle of shampoo and conditioner and pour a tiny fraction of its saccharine-smelling contents into my waterlogged hair, then lather the bar of soap and scrub myself from head to foot, watching as the excessively fragrant amalgamation of shampoo and body soap in the form of bubbles swirls down the lightless drain in the current of the water while I rinse.

Clean at last, I turn off the shower and acquire a dark blue and white striped towel, wrapping it around myself and squeezing the excess water from my saturated hair. I climb into a pair of clean garments when I'm dry and brush and floss my teeth thoroughly. I grab the perfume bottle and spritz my neck with the fragrant antiperspirant. I tiptoe down the hallway, making certain not to awaken my brother and two sisters, all of whom happen to be triplets—they're only in the third grade, and don't have to get out of bed and prepare for their bus to arrive until five minutes to eight—and make my way downstairs and into the kitchen, whereupon I dump an exceeding amount of Raisin Bran cereal into a bowl and thoroughly drench it with nonfat organic milk. I switch on the television, and what appears on the screen is something I have never seen before and never want to see again.