Post by Fel Touu on Feb 3, 2011 20:55:22 GMT -5
Chapter 2!!
I wake up to crashes in the kitchen. It’s not one of those cliché moments in books where you think it’s still yesterday, I remember, kind of, where I am, but all I think about it; I’m so so so tired. My eyes hurt. Oh. My. Gosh. Who the hell is making so much noise? I sit up, pulling a hand through my think white-blond hair. Sometime during the night half the blankets fell off, and they are in a pile near the couch. I hope I didn’t thrash around to much.
In the sunlight of whatever-time-it-is-o’clock, everything seems nicer. It’s even warm, which is an accomplishment considering it’s November.
This morning really doesn’t feel any different than any other morning, even though my arms feel heavier and I’m in a strange house. I still wake up wishing that my parents were back, and that there wasn’t a war we were loosing. The telephone call we got two weeks ago, that told us that every able adult over 18 was being enlisted in the army is still fresh in my mind. The words are burned into my mind. That’s why we’re all on our own, in case you were wondering. The government chose fighting to the death of the very last person over admitting defeat. Now the economy is in the hands of some paranoid old people and the kid next door who’s over-enthusiastic about BB guns.
“What the hell are you talking about? You put the syrup in after you cook it, you idiot!” Someone yells from in the kitchen.
“Don’t you think putting the syrup in before would make it taste interesting?” Evan says calmly.
“Pancakes aren’t supposed to be interesting! They’re supposed to be pancakes! They’re cakes of batter!”
“That doesn’t mean they have to be completely lacking imagination.” He argues.
“This isn’t art class! Nessie has to eat this shit when you’re done with it.” Jude snarls, stalking out of the room. He looks at me in surprise, almost stopping completely. “Oh, you woke up.”
“Good morning to you too. What time is it?”
“It’s eleven. Evan might have breakfast ready soon, if you’re brave enough to eat it.” He says while he walks upstairs.
I get out from under the covers and walk over to where I assume the kitchen is. It’s a huge kitchen, filled with decorated plates and stuff, there are even a bunch of magnets with saying that are only funny to old lonely people. There is an entire counter filled up with breakfast stuff, which looks either unused or mutilated. Pancake batter is all over the floor. I can see Evan bent over the oven, trying to take a tray out with his bare hands. There is more pancake batter in his hair, and flour on his jeans and shirt.
I wake up to crashes in the kitchen. It’s not one of those cliché moments in books where you think it’s still yesterday, I remember, kind of, where I am, but all I think about it; I’m so so so tired. My eyes hurt. Oh. My. Gosh. Who the hell is making so much noise? I sit up, pulling a hand through my think white-blond hair. Sometime during the night half the blankets fell off, and they are in a pile near the couch. I hope I didn’t thrash around to much.
In the sunlight of whatever-time-it-is-o’clock, everything seems nicer. It’s even warm, which is an accomplishment considering it’s November.
This morning really doesn’t feel any different than any other morning, even though my arms feel heavier and I’m in a strange house. I still wake up wishing that my parents were back, and that there wasn’t a war we were loosing. The telephone call we got two weeks ago, that told us that every able adult over 18 was being enlisted in the army is still fresh in my mind. The words are burned into my mind. That’s why we’re all on our own, in case you were wondering. The government chose fighting to the death of the very last person over admitting defeat. Now the economy is in the hands of some paranoid old people and the kid next door who’s over-enthusiastic about BB guns.
“What the hell are you talking about? You put the syrup in after you cook it, you idiot!” Someone yells from in the kitchen.
“Don’t you think putting the syrup in before would make it taste interesting?” Evan says calmly.
“Pancakes aren’t supposed to be interesting! They’re supposed to be pancakes! They’re cakes of batter!”
“That doesn’t mean they have to be completely lacking imagination.” He argues.
“This isn’t art class! Nessie has to eat this shit when you’re done with it.” Jude snarls, stalking out of the room. He looks at me in surprise, almost stopping completely. “Oh, you woke up.”
“Good morning to you too. What time is it?”
“It’s eleven. Evan might have breakfast ready soon, if you’re brave enough to eat it.” He says while he walks upstairs.
I get out from under the covers and walk over to where I assume the kitchen is. It’s a huge kitchen, filled with decorated plates and stuff, there are even a bunch of magnets with saying that are only funny to old lonely people. There is an entire counter filled up with breakfast stuff, which looks either unused or mutilated. Pancake batter is all over the floor. I can see Evan bent over the oven, trying to take a tray out with his bare hands. There is more pancake batter in his hair, and flour on his jeans and shirt.
