After I Wake Read Online Free Page B
Author: Emma Griffiths
nothing less than absolutely pathetic, but I need to move on. âThereâs going to be summer work too,â I add, a touch too smugly.
But my mother is prepared, and not to be outdone. âI only disconnected the Internet. You still have your document creators and whatnot. And you can learn from textbooks, which are in your backpack in the closet, where I put them after I picked them up from school. And, I did state before, I have Internet, because I need it. You can send an e-mail if you ask nicely.â And, with that, I am defeated. My mother, despite the fact that I donât mention it nearly enough, is one hell of an evil genius mastermind when she needs to be. Like right now. I love her for it. Sheâs fantastic, and she really knows what sheâs doing.
It takes me several minutes after she puts Sarah back onto my stomach and leaves to realize I had actively counted time. Those sixteen and a half seconds were seconds that I counted and noted in my brain. Keeping time feels so foreign.
When I start to sit up, Sarah makes an indignant sound at being disturbed and shoves her snout into my face, licking it and demanding I pet her. I comply before gently moving her to the bed. But something is wrong. The comforter is different. This one is blue and simple, the old flowery one I grew up with, gone. I look to the floor. There is a matching blue throw rug on top of the hardwood. Thatâs new.
I sit up fully, and Sarah yawns at my face grumpily. I flop back down, onto my stomach now, and reach down, to pick up the corner of the rug. There is a large stain on the hardwood, faded to a brownish color. But it is obviously the remnants of a lot of blood. I let the corner of the rug thump softly back down and look at the bedspread.
The moment is hazy and tinged with the light-headedness of blood loss in my memory, but I was definitely on this bed. I guess that means I ruined the comforter too. I feel the sudden loss of the blanket in my gut, throbbing vaguely as if Iâve just been punched. I never imagined the lost feeling of a warm blanket. Maybe this one is warmer.
Now: 12:14 p.m.
Tuesday, July 2nd
Â
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A FTER MY mom leaves, gloating from her lecture and leaving me feeling small but strangely enough really loved, I meander to my desk and unceremoniously seat myself in the chair. I decide moments later that I am not ready to sit at my desk, though I am not sure why.
Instead, I get up again, cross my small room to the door, and close it gently, looking at my reflection in the long mirror that hangs over the back of my door. I look at my face, searching for zits. Itâs mundane enough and will take some time before I move on to anything else. I find a few small bumps forming under my skin after my close inspection. I poke at them, aggravated at my pores and whatever biological thing thought it necessary to invade my face, which was totally rude and utterly uncalled for.
Satisfied with my facial exploration, I walk back to my desk, open a drawer, and retrieve a notebook. Itâs empty. There are no new poems. There havenât been any poems written, actually. Iâm drained, completely empty. There are no poems to be found coming from me.
I hate this feeling, this worthlessness. But I canât write. I am barely able to grasp a pen or any writing utensil for that matter, or anything at all really, with my nonexistent dominant hand. Iâm supposed to be getting better, but I canât even write properly. And thus, I am reduced to technology. I am forced to change.
Charles Darwin came up with the theory that animals adapt to survive. Those with favorable traits survive to adulthood and reproduce. Those with unfavorable traits are unable to survive or reproduce.
But where do I fall on that scale? I have to embrace the change, and itâs not very fun. In fact, it sucks. And, apparently now, according to Darwin, Iâm screwed.
The fear of change is classified as
But my mother is prepared, and not to be outdone. âI only disconnected the Internet. You still have your document creators and whatnot. And you can learn from textbooks, which are in your backpack in the closet, where I put them after I picked them up from school. And, I did state before, I have Internet, because I need it. You can send an e-mail if you ask nicely.â And, with that, I am defeated. My mother, despite the fact that I donât mention it nearly enough, is one hell of an evil genius mastermind when she needs to be. Like right now. I love her for it. Sheâs fantastic, and she really knows what sheâs doing.
It takes me several minutes after she puts Sarah back onto my stomach and leaves to realize I had actively counted time. Those sixteen and a half seconds were seconds that I counted and noted in my brain. Keeping time feels so foreign.
When I start to sit up, Sarah makes an indignant sound at being disturbed and shoves her snout into my face, licking it and demanding I pet her. I comply before gently moving her to the bed. But something is wrong. The comforter is different. This one is blue and simple, the old flowery one I grew up with, gone. I look to the floor. There is a matching blue throw rug on top of the hardwood. Thatâs new.
I sit up fully, and Sarah yawns at my face grumpily. I flop back down, onto my stomach now, and reach down, to pick up the corner of the rug. There is a large stain on the hardwood, faded to a brownish color. But it is obviously the remnants of a lot of blood. I let the corner of the rug thump softly back down and look at the bedspread.
The moment is hazy and tinged with the light-headedness of blood loss in my memory, but I was definitely on this bed. I guess that means I ruined the comforter too. I feel the sudden loss of the blanket in my gut, throbbing vaguely as if Iâve just been punched. I never imagined the lost feeling of a warm blanket. Maybe this one is warmer.
Now: 12:14 p.m.
Tuesday, July 2nd
Â
Â
A FTER MY mom leaves, gloating from her lecture and leaving me feeling small but strangely enough really loved, I meander to my desk and unceremoniously seat myself in the chair. I decide moments later that I am not ready to sit at my desk, though I am not sure why.
Instead, I get up again, cross my small room to the door, and close it gently, looking at my reflection in the long mirror that hangs over the back of my door. I look at my face, searching for zits. Itâs mundane enough and will take some time before I move on to anything else. I find a few small bumps forming under my skin after my close inspection. I poke at them, aggravated at my pores and whatever biological thing thought it necessary to invade my face, which was totally rude and utterly uncalled for.
Satisfied with my facial exploration, I walk back to my desk, open a drawer, and retrieve a notebook. Itâs empty. There are no new poems. There havenât been any poems written, actually. Iâm drained, completely empty. There are no poems to be found coming from me.
I hate this feeling, this worthlessness. But I canât write. I am barely able to grasp a pen or any writing utensil for that matter, or anything at all really, with my nonexistent dominant hand. Iâm supposed to be getting better, but I canât even write properly. And thus, I am reduced to technology. I am forced to change.
Charles Darwin came up with the theory that animals adapt to survive. Those with favorable traits survive to adulthood and reproduce. Those with unfavorable traits are unable to survive or reproduce.
But where do I fall on that scale? I have to embrace the change, and itâs not very fun. In fact, it sucks. And, apparently now, according to Darwin, Iâm screwed.
The fear of change is classified as
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