Roots On The Rocks

When I wake, it takes me a few panicked moments to realize where I am. Sunlight floods in through the window, promising a beautiful fall day as I blink in the light, trying to remember where exactly I am. Memories of the night before begin to flood back and the guilt threatens to engulf me again until I remember Taylor singing, his voice flooding all my senses, calming me down and exciting me all at once. I need to stop thinking like this. I can't. It wouldn't be fair to him.

My watch says it's just after 8 o'clock in the morning. I slept through the night. First time in years.

I slip out of bed and walk over to the two small boxes I use as a dresser. I have collected about four outfits in my time here along with a few other items of clothing. I quickly pick out a pair of leggings, a t-shirt and a cosy zip-up sweater that's almost a size too large, by far my favourite item of clothing. Everything is used so the leggings have a hole in the hem by my right ankle and the t-shirt has a small stain by the shoulder but it's far better than anything I have known before. Somehow, my drunken father didn't put finding me nice clothes at the top of his priorities. Shocker.

I pull a brush through my hair and inspect the final product in a mirror I have on the wall. If we weren't invalids, I would have access to all the technology available to make my hair perfect each day. I watched a woman using hers one day through the salon window when I was around 15. She placed her hand on this small black box and it dried it perfectly in seconds than tucked her hair up into this metal hat. When she took the hat off a few moments later, her hair was perfectly curled and styled. I was so jealous. 

Unfortunately, I don't have access to the amazing styling technologies of today's age so my brown hair hangs loose just passed my shoulders, a mix of small curls and frizzy waves. Nothing special. Normal at the best. My eyes were the only thing someone other than my mother has told me is pretty. And they were hers.

I don't think pretty is the right word. More interesting. I remember hers vividly, better than I remember the rest of her combined. I thought they were beautiful, so utterly entrancing. I remember staring into them whenever she spoke, wishing mine would one day look like that.

They were hazel, forever changing colour with the light in the room, going from deep brown to vivid green to almost blue. Right now, mine are light green with flecks of brown circling the iris, dull in colour and shine compared to hers. My father used to tell my mother he had never seen eyes like mine or hers in his life and he could stare into hers forever. Told us that that was the first part of her he fell in love with. I never really thought of mine in that way and after she died, I think they were just a reminder to him.

When I am satisfied that my hair is somewhat tame in its braid, or at least it's as good as it's going to get, I slip into my runners and head out for breakfast, hoping it might be pancakes like last week. It was the first time I have had pancakes since I was maybe six. Taylor laughed at me when I poured basically an entire bottle of syrup on them, his eyes sparkling like they always do when he laughs. I vaguely contemplated pouring the rest on his head at the time. Thought I better not waste it. It's a rare treat.

It's not pancakes, just oatmeal and an apple, our standard breakfast. Still good though. About halfway through eating, Kelsey and Mataus join me and Kels entertains us with the intoxicating story of her weird dreams the night before. I am not really listening. I picture Taylor's eyes staring into mine in the window pane, his song stuck in my head although I don't remember the words. I hear Kels say something about a lion and a warthog and a giant rock.

As I finish up, Taylor walks in and grabs my shoulders from behind, making me jump as a small squeal escapes my lips. Tingles run up my spine. What is happening to me?

"How you feeling this morning?" He asks as he steals the apple off Mataus' plate. A small tousle ensues, ending with Mataus eating his apple with a smirk and Taylor nursing a small bruise forming on his arm.