It was late. Not the early-morning hour where one’s not quite sure whether to specify the hour as early or late, but late. The summer air was thick with lingering humidity from the day, and the only breeze that stirred was from the droning electic fan that sat on the table accross from the bed.
It was clear that this was to be a sleepless night, and the cotton sheet tangled around her feet only added to her frustration. It was too hot for the simple sheet, but too cold without it. She kicked herself mentally for not remembering to take the little white pills that helped her slip into sleep so easily. It was too late for them now–she’d just have to do it on her own. The glare from the cheap alarm clock next to her bed reminded her that there were only 6 hours left until she has to get up–at this rate, she was never going to get to bed.
She turned over onto her side, and waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. There was some light–an ugly, orange light that radiated from the light post in the alley, that somehow, even from behind a garage, a tree and a drawn window shade managed to beam streaks of the ugly light into the room and cast shadows on the wall. Fantastical shadow, not theatening, just interesting. As a child, she would watch these shahows for hours, interested to see how they would cavort and stretch before the rising sun chased them away and she was forced to find other, more sutable entertainments for someone her age.  She reached out and examined the cool, bumpy plaster that had gone through three different coats of paint.
Indicicive, that’s what she was. There had been the pure white, but it was easily soiled. Then there was the pink, but she had quickly outgrown that. Lastly was the plan for four different colored walls, but her practical mother has quashed that dream quickly, and seafoam green had been chosen.
But in the semi-darkness, she could still she the areas under the window sill and above the closet where the green had not been perfectly applied, places where the white and the pink bled through. She had hidden these carefully from her mother, wanting to please her, hoping that her carelessness would be overlooked. It had been.
She looked at the glowing red numbers, squinting at the sudden glare
The number 12 was sturdy. It was thick and bold..even on the digital clock, it was unconsciously the center..it stood for something.
She hated the number 7. It was limp, useless. It seemed to symbolize all of the failures–school, job interviews, later, auditions–each time, the alarm had carefully been set for 7:00, and every time, she had walked out sobbing. She was destined to be unlucky, especially when it came to things she wanted.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: