Hadn't written in first-person for a while, but seemed apropos thinking about adolescence.
The day is done, and feel relief flutter across my pillows as if fine, long strands of hair to take in it's sweet aroma. Rather preferred to that military cut my mother demands we sport. Seeing Dad was a Lieutenant Colonel in The Air Force, she requires my brother and I make up our beds military-style, too. Tucked so tight, she can bounce a coin off them. The only up-side to that is when I go to sleep at night, with thermostat kept down at sixty-eight degrees in Winter months for economy's sake.
I shimmy under top-sheet and blanket like a caterpillar in cocoon; warm, safe, and alone. Thinking how it's way better to wake with sprouted wings for fast flight towards greener pastures than just slink slowly along, bound to the familiar as such dangerously easy prey. Us mortal are like that every which way except in cloudland. During sleep I often get the urge to take off from ground-level after one quick retreat or another. Not too tickled to awaken and find myself right back where I started.
As the one who asked for a family dog, I am responsible for feeding her, in addition to three daily walks. This begins first thing every morning, with my alarm clock set for six-thirty a.m. followed by a hot shower and dressing. Since I'm a night person and no longer have any official bedtime, this only leaves me with about four or five hours of sleep. First one up, still that caterpillar burst forth from it's snug cocoon, just as surprised to still don no wings. Essentially, my world remaining cold, dark, and lonely.
First thing to do is put up the heat, so I can at least finish drying off in front of bathroom radiator. Breakfast generally cold or hot cereal while I watch our pooch, Princess, do the same with her wet or dry varieties. Just as I hear my brother jump into the shower, out front door for little more than quarter of a mile walk to school. Another source of those castles in the sky, more akin to my own haunted house, aimlessly wandering it's desolate halls. A route predestined to locate assigned locker where I store my textbooks, binders, and whatnot, with no memory of combination number.
Getting to school, the noise fills head to breaking point, due to all those other thoughts up there. If ever in flight, find myself crash-land as though on some alien planet. Almost disappointed in whatever recall there is on how to access anything these strange beings have to teach me. So present, I can virtually hear each conversation of my boisterous fellow students. First bell to Homeroom a shrill indication of teachers' criticism, demands, or ridicule.
I enter Homeroom with this particular educator's nose in attendance book, and squirm into assigned seat under glare of classmates. It is where I most feel the hole in me, shaped like a missing father already dead and buried for nine whole years now. A mom as well as one older brother who see every flaw pointed out right here with smirks, grimaces, and guffaws. Our Homeroom instructor playing deaf up at chalkboard as lead statement of the day is, "He looks so gay."