Your alarm has been going off for no less than five minutes. The music is beginning to sound like repetitive static, so you squash the feathered pillow harder into your head. You hope this worsens your “head ache”. Or was it stomach ache? Maybe a combination of both will play off as believable.
The night before, you are moping around the house. You made sure to alternate unmanageable coughing with absurd gagging, while adding in a few agonizing moans for the cherry on top of your performance. Your mother knows you too well. She knows everything in fact. But you had to ignore her orders to gargle with warm salt water; for you are risking a lot, and may just have a clear throat by the morning. She keeps reminding you to do so before you fall asleep.
The piercing static shuts off like magic and you roll around under the covers and let out little cries of ache. This has always guaranteed a response from her. She assumes you are way too ill to leave bed. Your dad disagrees, but knows to walk away, still tying his tie. She gazes at your reddened, clammy face and calls you her “poor baby”. This classification has gotten you everywhere, ever since early childhood. It takes you back to presents without holidays and cookies prior to dinner time. She is sometimes too nice.
She fixes the soft blanket, making sure you are fully covered in your princess-like cushioned bed. And calls the attendance office bedside, refusing to leave me alone right now. Too easy to fool. All she wants is to ensure that you are comfortable, in the most comfortable place in your world. That slightest bit of guilt grows and engulfs your mind as she props your pillow. She brushes your hair away from your face, so you can prioritize your itinerary for the day.
You want to sleep. You do sleep. You dream of your breakfast. And ironically, you wake to the tray an arm-stretch- away. She knows you are not sick; however, she makes it her business to cater to you all day.
The night before, you are moping around the house. You made sure to alternate unmanageable coughing with absurd gagging, while adding in a few agonizing moans for the cherry on top of your performance. Your mother knows you too well. She knows everything in fact. But you had to ignore her orders to gargle with warm salt water; for you are risking a lot, and may just have a clear throat by the morning. She keeps reminding you to do so before you fall asleep.
The piercing static shuts off like magic and you roll around under the covers and let out little cries of ache. This has always guaranteed a response from her. She assumes you are way too ill to leave bed. Your dad disagrees, but knows to walk away, still tying his tie. She gazes at your reddened, clammy face and calls you her “poor baby”. This classification has gotten you everywhere, ever since early childhood. It takes you back to presents without holidays and cookies prior to dinner time. She is sometimes too nice.
She fixes the soft blanket, making sure you are fully covered in your princess-like cushioned bed. And calls the attendance office bedside, refusing to leave me alone right now. Too easy to fool. All she wants is to ensure that you are comfortable, in the most comfortable place in your world. That slightest bit of guilt grows and engulfs your mind as she props your pillow. She brushes your hair away from your face, so you can prioritize your itinerary for the day.
You want to sleep. You do sleep. You dream of your breakfast. And ironically, you wake to the tray an arm-stretch- away. She knows you are not sick; however, she makes it her business to cater to you all day.
Your mom seems a little bit like the one from the story. She seems to care and lets you rest, which is pretty cool. I like how your dad walks away knowing that you're fine but doesn't care to argue.
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