HER

Chapter 1

My alarm was blearing at six o'clock. If it weren't for my detest of being late, and the fact my phone acts as my alarm clock, I would have thrown in across the room and went back to sleep.  But no, I had to get up, no matter if my knees are shaking under my weight, which these days, isn't much.

I haven't been well. The doctors can't tell what's wrong with me, but I can't eat, move, or even sleep without causing severe exhaustion. I can sleep 14 hours at a time and still be tired when I wake up. I can't eat, because I throw it up every time. I take medicine for it, and I guess they help. When I mix them with three to four cups of coffee, I feel somewhat human. Still, convincing myself it's worth the effort is difficult.

Money is usually my motivation. I don't really care for much else. "You can't make friends in your bed," my father would say. "I can't sleep if I'm trying go make connections with simpletons, Father," I'd say in response. That usually got my phone taken, but why would I care about that? It isn't like I have anyone I'm dying to chat it up with.

My mother (the Mega Beast as I call her) would try, "Why don't you make yourself useful? What good is having a son who never never even walks upstairs for food?" I would usually respond with, "What good is a Mother that cannot help her ailing child? And bold of you to assume I leave my bed." That never ended well for me, but the end result always got me an excuse to lay about for a few days.

My older brother, Parker, would try and convince me to come and work out with him. "Some guys and I from school are going to be working out, it's good for the body. Nothing too much. C'mon Seth! I want to introduce you to my friends, Alder and Cedar," he'd say. I usually respond with, "No." By that time I'd never have the energy to compose a coherent sentence.

But alas, summer is over and I start a school for "Gifted Adolescents". By "Gifted" they mean odd with money. I had to take an entrance exam and show off a "Special skill". I play six instruments (I'm no prodigy, but I'm good enough I suppose). I can speak seven languages (I can only speak six of those fluently). I have a high IQ (not that I think IQ's mean a thing), and I like to paint and draw. They aren't that good, however.

I pulled myself out of bed, quite literally. My head throbbed from the effort. I climbed into the shower, and turned on the hot water in hopes that it will burn away the soreness in my muscles. It helped, I guess. I washed my body, but I wasn't in a rush, the hot water felt great.

I stayed in the shower till the water turned cold. By cold, I mean slightly less hot. That meant that Parker was up and getting ready. I still had so much to do. I brushed my teeth and said forget my hair. I put on deodorant and cologne.

I forced myself to take my meds then I struggled to get into my stupid school uniform. Who needs to wear a suit to school? I tied my tie to the best of my ability and eventually gave up out of frustration. For a school that celebrates individuality, it's uniform is kind of repressing my individuality.

I put on my shoes and walked upstairs to the kitchen. My bedroom is the basement. To be clear, it was my idea. More privacy, no one can hear my music, and no one can just bust in. I don't like people in my space or in my things. My art is safest that way.

I find it odd, but I love to draw and paint. What's odd about it is that it's humiliating. I find it embarrassing when people look at my art, it's like they're seeing inside my head. I don't like that. Then again, I don't think anyone does.

I opened the fridge to find some juice when I noticed the note on the refrigerator door. It was from the Mega Beast. It read,
"I'm so proud of you Seth! You've earned yourself a reward! You know where to look, love Mama!!!🖤"

I rolled my eyes but I opened the trophy case with my name engraved on a plaque. I opened up an envelope with several more black hearts on it. I could smell the cash. Ahh, it smelt like my only motivation.