The Mystery of Anaïs Harper Hill.

where do you belong

Where do you belong? - Mean Girls

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The process of getting ready was strange, for Anaïs. Unlike all those people on fictional stories, it takes her a solid 15 minutes to get ready for school. No makeup, no fancy hairdo, plain uniform. Such is the life of that in a private girls school. A seemingly gruelling 7:50 wakeup was the norm in this household, allowing arrival to school at precisely 8:20 for an 8:25 start. It was almost cathartic, to have the same routine over and over and over again. 

Navy blue double-walled heavily insulated vacuum thermos filled with tea, bag in tow, and many, many uniform layers later, she's ready to head out to continue the semi-traumatic experience of high school in year 11. Straightened spine, small smile, and she felt normal. Or, at least as normal as humanly possible for her. Which, in theory, isn't normal at all. She wasn't bipolar, per se, but to her, it sure felt like it. Have you ever felt like that? When you feel like you know the secrets of the world, mom-friend to all, and wise beyond your years, but one trigger later you've regressed to the mental capacity of a 4-year-old? Oh, you have? It happens to the best of us, I guess. 

So why does it make Anaïs feel so bad? Imagine your worst experience with this, then multiply it tenfold. Pretty bad, right? Anyway, Anaïs has been through hell - as much as hell can be experienced without the literal experience. The one thing she's always wanted, the one thing she begged for, prayed for, it was so close, just out of reach, before it exploded in her face.

She's not ready to tell you yet. Heck, she's not ready to tell herself yet. It's understandably difficult. As her "guardian", or whatever you've settled on calling me, I experience everything. Every complex emotion, every unwanted thought, every love, fear and sadness, I know. So yes, I do know what's going on, but despite this, it is not my place to tell you all that has happened.

Greeting friends, hugging people, giving the occasional trip-up was the norm in attempting to get to her locker, which, for some reason was at the opposite end of the can-of-sardine-like hallway than she would have liked it to be. A flurry of paper greeted her as she opened the door, no-longer padlocked for fear of being too slow and missing out on hot food. Cleanliness is not her strong suit. Neither is time management, it seems. Staying up until 2 am to finish her homework seemed like a good idea at the time, which is no time to be awake. 

Perhaps after a nap, she'd feel better.

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xlyssx