White Lies ✓

1 - Dust Bunnies

The blinding sunlight filtering through your bedroom woke you up early Saturday morning. You tried to bury your head in the pillow, to block your eyes from the brightness, but it was no use, your curtainless windows made it impossible to escape the light. You laid face down for a while, trying to convince your body to go back to sleep, with no success. The air mattress squeaked under you as you rolled out of bed. You glanced around the room, almost forgetting how empty it looked. The white walls were void of your childhood memories. The movie posters and photos of your friends had all been packed up and shipped away, along with your furniture, clothes, and everything else you owned. It was hard to believe you were finally moving to Quantico. You gazed out your bedroom window towards the Las Vegas skyline. The sun rested just above the buildings, making the scene look picture perfect.

Growing up in Sin City had been quite an adventure. Your mom, as loveable as she was, had been fairly accustomed to the rebellious lifestyle that usually followed the residents of Vegas. She was the party animal, she worked hard to give you the best she could, but you knew she'd had you too young, making it hard for her to be a responsible mother. You'd been the real voice of reason in your relationship with your mother, making dinner, sorting out the bills, and scolding her when she came home too late. If a child with strict parents felt the need to rebel to receive any form of attention from their parents, your situation was the opposite. Your mom constantly encouraged any form of risky behavior, so your teenage rebellion revolved around being the best you could. You'd skipped a few grades in elementary school, attending your highschool graduation at 15 years old. After that, you'd snagged a full-ride scholarship to the criminal science program at the University of Nevada. Like your earlier years, your talent in retaining information allowed you to finish with a Bachelor's degree by 17 and continuing your college career until you held multiple degrees in subjects ranging from psychology to forensic science. You'd been in the process of obtaining your fourth BA when you got the call, asking you to apply for the FBI's academy in Virginia. You did so quietly, not wanting to get your hopes up, but you were quickly accepted to the training program, breaking your mother's heart in the process. She'd pouted as you flew up to complete the 20-week program, secretly hoping you'd change your mind. You had begun to doubt your choices too, as you realized that a major part of the credentials was based on physical activity. But still, refusing to be a quitter, you pushed through and completed the courses. You returned to the FBI's field office in Las Vegas for a while, doing mainly paperwork before you were approached by some higher-ups back in Virginia. This brought you back to the present. Today was the day you were leaving Vegas.

"Mom?" You called down the hall, "I need a ride to the airport." No answer. "Mom?" You slipped on your socks and started towards your mother's room. You pushed the door open slowly and were greeted with what you feared, an empty bed.

Shit

You swept your eyes around her cluttered bedroom. The room was a mess, clothes strewn over the bed while your mom had hunted for her clubbing outfit the night before.

"Now I have to call a cab," You grumbled to yourself as you stomped back into the kitchen.

It was just like her to stay out on your last day in Vegas. You complained to yourself as you pulled a mug from the cabinet. You grabbed a muffin from the pantry and made your tea, taking a seat at the table. Piles of dishes were stacked on the counters. You hadn't had any time to do your usual housework while you were trying to pack up your life, and your mom didn't have the patience to clean the house. After you finished your breakfast, you tackled the stacks of plates. After about thirty minutes, you finally loaded the last cup into the dishwasher. You wiped your hands against your pants and wandered back towards your bedroom.

Checking the clock, you realized your flight was in two hours. You grabbed your small duffel bag from the closet and pulled out a random assortment of clothing. Stripping out of your pajamas, you shoved the tank top and sweats back in your bag. The black tennis skirt you pulled on fit perfectly, along with the slightly oversized brown sweater. Your socks came next, and you forced your shoes on with one hand, as you used the other to dial for a cab. When it arrived, you swung your duffel bag over your shoulder and made your way to the porch, shooting one last glance back into the home you'd lived in for all your 26 years. The driver honked once, so you bounded down the steps and climbed into the backseat.