So instead, Taylor covered herself with her blanket, trying to protect herself from the chilly January weather, noting that they would need to check the insulation around her window, then closed her eyes, and tried to fall asleep.Īfter trying to count sheep, giving her breathing exercise another go, and even extracting herself from the blanket nest she created and getting a glass of lukewarm water (they were, of course, out of milk), she finally managed to fall asleep after a few hours of tossing and turning. She contemplated reaching for a book on her nightstand, a novel her mother loved, but it was already late, and she knew she would need all her strength on the first day back. Then, after taking a few steps with her too-long and gangly legs, she threw herself at her aged bed, listening as the springs creaked upon her body's impact. She raised the picture and hovered her finger over her mother's smiling face, then she placed it back into its place, helpfully marked by the absence of dust, then with a quick motion she turned around while clearing the gathered tears out of her eyes with the hem of her too-short pajama. The picture contained her mother, her dad, and her on a field of grass, in the middle of a picnic, all beaming with happiness. Every time she noted that there was too much dust, she promised herself she would clean it up later, but somehow she never managed to get time for it, despite literally having no social or home life, and spending her life, when not suffering in the school in front of the television, reading or trying to do something with the ancient computer. Once again she entertained the thought of simply opening her door, taking a few steps towards her father's room, and telling him everything but after his 'performance' during the winter break, she was more sure than ever, that if she did that, he would simply collapse into himself.įinishing the combing, she stood up then placed the comb on her desk, then took a look at the only picture in the room not covered in some amount of dust. One more point in the Taylor is useless column. She hoped it would help her keep calm under Emma's barrage of insults.ĭidn't really work out, but at least she could say she was passable with it. ![]() ![]() The thought of going back to that hellhole, filled her with such dread, that she had to stop for a second before she ripped out a big chunk with the ancient comb, and calm herself down with a breathing exercise she had picked up from a book. Reaching that point in her depressing circular thoughts that seemed to permeate her life nowadays, she sighed and started to comb her hair with a little more force. And it wasn't like anyone would go for the dumpy, frog-like Taylor, so there was no point even trying to figure out how she could pretty herself up. She began to untangle her hair, the only feminine activity she kept up with nowadays, as an homage to her dearly departed mother, as it was futile to even try anything with what was happening in Winslow. It was old, and she should have probably gotten a new one, but she never had the strength to do it. Taylor sat down on the edge of her bed, took out her brush, one that her mother had given her. So much that she couldn't even tell what color were the ornaments. The last time she took an effort to look at it, it was covered in even more dust. The tree was left as it was, barely quarter covered with dusty and old ornaments in the corner of the living room. ![]() She sat there for a few minutes and continued the procedure with a sour face before giving up and putting away the box that contained the ornaments. Then they spent half an hour apathetically hanging up Christmas ornaments before her father made some excuse and left for his office to continue working. Sure, her dad had put up a tree, a small and ancient plastic one that had lost almost all of its fake leaves over the years collecting dust in the attic. The Christmas break provided her with some well-needed rest despite that total apathy that enveloped her house and the total absence of Christmas cheer. Her entire body was taut with stress, as she knew well that the next day she would be returning to her personal hell, Winslow High School for the Burgeoning Thugs and Thugettes. Taylor walked out of the bathroom clad in her pajamas with its frayed edges and faded symbols that were once upon a time legible, displaying the stylized grinning head of Mouse Protector.
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