I had been there for sixteen hours straight.
And I wasn't tired yet.
But my mom was tired of me up here.
"Margret, come on, it's time to eat!" Mom yells this to me from down stairs.
"It's three in the afternoon!" I reply.
"Exactly! Now come down and eat. You know you like food!"
"Then why do you think I don't have food up here?" I ask.
I get no reply.
I smile and look down at my desk in front of me. My laptop is hot with fatigue, and my left hand has many more pencil smudges than it should have on it for a Saturday. Papers are strewn everywhere with pictures and numbers on them. Some even have doodles on them from restless hours of research, day and night. I sigh because my mother is right, but I'm still smiling.
I save everything that's pulled up on my web browser, and shut it down, its first rest in three days. When it shuts down, it sighs with relief, saying sleep at last-something of which I have not done in a very long time. I sort the millions of papers on my desk. Not by category, because it's all for the same reason, but by if I have found everything I could on that website. Only two piles are left on my desk when I am done sorting: completed or not finished.
I have a huge desire to boot back up my computer and finish everything in the not finished pile, but that's easier said than done. So I pick up my bedroom a little. I actually make my bed, which I normally did for a good while, until a month ago. It's time for me to pick up that habit again...yeah, I probably won't. Next, I pick up all the trash, an throw it away. And finally, I attack the mess of my floor: magazines an shoes. I always put my clothes in the hamper, so there weren't any clothes on the ground.
A good ten minutes later, and a much needed cleaner room, I silently desend down the stairs, and accidentally scare my mom when I reach the kitchen. "Oh goodness!" Her hand flutters to her heart. "You scared me."
I laugh. "Sorry, Mom." I put down all the food I'm carrying back from my room and put them back where they belong.
"I was wondering where the tortilla chips went!" She complains. I hand her the bag without a word, and she happily takes them, already eating on her way back to the couch.
"Mom, you better not ruin your appetite, I'm about to cook," I call to her.
I hear the couch cushions move. I make a face, but continue to prepare food. "I heard something about food," Mom says from the kitchen doorway. I don't see the chips in sight, but then she moves her hand from behind the wall, and BAM there they are.
"Yes," I say, chuckling to myself. "I'm about to cool dinner. Would you like to help?"
"Would I ever!" She exclaims.
"Okay, well tonight it's going to be chicken languini Alfredo, with a salad before hand." I inform her, rolling the chicken breasts in breading. "I'm about to pop the chicken in the oven. You can start on the salad if you want."
Mom nods, and goes to the fridge to get fresh greens. "That's a good meal. Is the Alfredo sauce and vinaigrette already made up? If not, I guess we'll have to buy some at the store."
"It's in the fridge, already made up," I reply, closing the oven door, and starting the timer.
She pulls out the greens and seperates them, washing each one. Then, she takes raw carrots from the fridge, and chops them. I set the table. The whole time we're working, we're talking and laughing like there's nothing wrong in the world, like we don't have any problems. I'm about to say something serious, it might've ruined the whole mood, but the timer beeping stops me, and I take out the golden chicken.
"On the chopping board you go," I say to it, and Mom laughs at me while he drains the pasta and puts it in a nice bowl. I slice the chicken and set it in the bed of pasta, and Mom pours the sauce on it while I pour our drinks. We set all of it down on the table, and Mom says, "Well this looks nice." And I said, "Yeah it does." And in that moment we were both starving, so we sat down an had a feast.
Afterwards, Mom helps me clean up the kitchen. "Thanks for helping me cook and clean up," I gush.
She kisses my forehead and steps out of the kitchen, calling good night over we shoulder. Once I cut off the lights, I sat on our comfy, red sofa, and then came a foggish feeling of unbearable pain that I would never wish on anybody: pain. But more traumatic: emotional pain.
Mom started her hot shower, the way she liked it: steam curling up and out from the crack under the door. And although the higher water pressure from the shower spigot was muffled through the walls, the cries of the wounded cut clean and clear through it all.
Hey guys! I deleted my first story cause it was really scatterbrained, BUT I had a great idea (aka this story) and yeah, I'm REALLY liking it c: sorry, I know it's short, but I will be revealing more details next chapter, so it should be longer. PLEASE COMMENT what you think!!!! Like and vote please! It'll only take one tap. Much love<3
