Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It became very hard to get up in the morning. It was becoming harder to find the motivation to leave the bed or to do anything at all. For [Name], it just felt like this dark cloud had consumed her and she's been lost in the fog ever since.
"[Name], get up already!" Her mother shouted from across the hall. There was no sizzling bacon to be heard or the scent of food anywhere. In fact, no one ever really cooked in the house.
[Name] sighed, already feeling nervous about facing the new day, as her sock-clad feet touched the worn hardwood floors of her room. As soon as her body left the sanctuary of her bed, ripples of goosebumps ran through her body. It was a cold world and the girl wasn't sure she wanted a part of it anymore.
The house was old. It was a relic of the past, a family heirloom, passed from her grandparents to her mother. It wasn't much and even at times, [Name]'s mother struggled to pay the mortgage or to renew registration on the only car they own.
It was safe to say that the girl couldn't afford to keep up the new and booming fashion trends of the early 1980s. [Name] wasn't too phased by it. She slowly walked to her cramped closet, pulling out her dark grey sweater. The fabric was the thickest she had, as worn as it was, it was her best bet for California's winter.
She pulled the sweater over her white tank top, then looking for a pair of well-worn jeans and her tattered sneakers. As soon as she was dressed, she heads downstairs to see her mother dressed in her uniform already.
"For Christ's sake, it took you long enough, [Name]. Did you eat yet?" Her mother inquired, looking at her reflection on one of the drying pots on the dish rack. Today was a big day for [Name]'s mother to potentially get the promotion she was breaking her back for.
"No," [Name] replied, looking through the pantry for the cereal.
[Name]'s mother shook her head, frowning, and muttered, "Hurry up. You know how important this day is for me."
It was simple to say: [Name]'s morning had been rushed. When her mother dropped her off at school, the tired girl could've sworn her mother burn rubber turning out of the parking lot.
Today's goal for [Name] was the same one as yesterday's—get through the day.
School has always been another lonely aspect of the girl's life. If there was anything that kept her coming back, it was the insistence of her mother and the school's art room.
[Name] had her portfolio ready, with her newish self-portrait project safe inside it. Today was critique day for Mrs. Matthews's class.
On the other side of campus, James Hetfield has fretted over the self-portrait project.
"Fuck, I'm going to fail," James muttered, angrily glancing at the crumpled art assignment he had. The blond boy couldn't even manage to keep his assignment in his portfolio. In fact, he forgot about the thing, which was probably lounging around under a bed at his brother's house.
