Sienna, Sienna

This is the first Chapter of a book. Be brutal. English isn't my 1st Language, thanks :).

The black screen behind my closed eyes turns amber, and colorful dots start playfully dancing. The morning announces itself. Slowly, my numb body connects itself to reality, and my senses start kicking in. Sounds of traffic, birds, and leaves rustling in the wind. My arms seem to automatically reach out to stretch my sore muscles. The sunlight reflects on the metal of the spoon on the plate from yesterday's dinner that I had in my room, as Dad had colleagues over. I didn't feel like talking. Sometimes I feel as though even talking is something intimate, as though my voice belongs only to me and the people I trust. As if others could hurt my words if I said them out loud. Seconds later my alarm rings, and I squint my eyes shut. Still, I have to get up. Lifted out of bed by the smell of burned toast and freshly made coffee I make my way into the kitchen using the velvety green stairs while checking my phone. A question from Caro about the Lit homework, ironicallysent at 1 am. Kiana replied that she didn't do it yet; Georgia sent some videos I'll watch while having breakfast, and Paloma informed the family group chat, consisting only of her, my dad, and me, that she'll visit Brooklyn this weekend. Dad already left for work this morning, so I get to savor the morning silence alone for a bit. I'm not awake yet. But then again, I'm not ever awake. I sip my coffee while enjoying today's episode of the Georgia show as she explains to the group chat everything she bought during yesterday's shopping spree with her sister. I love Georgia, but sometimes it's hard for me to breathe when she's close to me. She doesn't mean to hurt anyone, I'm sure of that, yet she has one of these presences that tend to inflate like the plastic water balls you get in planes when you're young, until the whole room is filled and your mouth is pressed against it and you can't catch any oxygen. I’ve asked myself a hundred times if I’m the problem, though. I open a window to let some air in and feel the temperature before getting dressed. It's breezy, and the branches are dancing in the wind, so I decide to put the dark blue sweater with the school's crest over the rest of my uniform. I actually quite like it; we get to decide if we want to wear a skirt or pants, and the choices are relatively broad, which allows for some level of individuality. I decide on the skirt and open the braid I sleep in to let my hair flow freely. I grab my bag from the corner before heading down the stairs and turning off the lights.

I make sure the door is closed before I make my way down the street to the subway station. Like every morning, I secretly wish I'd have to walk a longer way to get to enjoy the outside for a little while longer to start the day every morning. It's a nice walk, with the trees lining the street and glimpses of people's lives through the window. Sometimes you can hear music from people's kitchens while they're preparing breakfast or smell what they're making. The streets are ever-changing; you never see the same poster more than twice or really get used to people walking the same way. What is new today is a black and white poster of a missing cat; it appears to be a tabby, quite young and remarkably beautiful. I rush down the stairs, not willing to miss the train, which is already waiting on the subway platform. It's not even 8:00 yet, and still the cabin is quite full. I stand still in the middle, trying my best not to touch anyone's upper arms in the process. Already overstimulated, I try to zone out and let my mind roam free, like a cat exploring a new room. I think about Caro and her lit homework that she's probably doing in her bed right now before hurrying to school, about Paloma visiting this weekend, and about the school newspaper I haven't finished yet. And when I think about the newspaper, I think about Madeline. I think about how I wish she was still in school, a grade above me, and I could use the article as an excuse to talk to her. I'd make something up and then ask her in the hallway. Something like “Oh hey Madeline, what’s the word count for this article again? I don’t want to mess up the layout, you know?” Or something like “Madeline, hey, uhm, did Paul do the pictures yet?” Before I let myself wonder if I ever crossed her mind now that she’s out of school, I rip myself out of that comfortable half-conscious state of thinking.

Everything, every sound, was loud again, sharp. I make my way through the crowd at the station. I remember getting panic attacks in crowds. Later Paloma would go on about how she thinks it's my fear of being perceived or something. I never paid much mind to her antics, her random facts she picked up while reading random magazines in endless yellow hospital halls. But the more I thought about it, the more it started to make sense. Language is what comes closest to magic in this world. You find words and terms that describe something that you’ve only ever experienced as an instinct, and all of a sudden it’s a state of mind. Something that isn't happening to you, but something that you are doing to yourself.

I like my school. The hallways are cool, even in summer, but not freezing in winter, like now. They’re dark and minimalistic. The doorframes and floorboards are made of old wood, and the windows are tall and of baroque architecture. The whole school seems to move like an elegant, calm, yet strict lady. A stark contrast to the bustling city, it's meant to capture the spirit of the rich and powerful families that send their offspring to get the best education possible. I usually tend to harbor a disdain towards upscale, restricted places reserved for the bourgeoisie, yet this place serves as an oasis for me too. Leaving the busy, visually distracting streets to enter this soothing, cool, and strangely calm place feels like letting yourself sink into the sea on a sizzling summer day. I'm early, and the halls are still quiet as the heavy door closes behind me. I've got about half an hour before class, so I decide to go to the Augustine Ledger office and work on the article.

We all have our own lockers and little spaces here. This year, we're short of one creative. That's what we call everyone who's in charge of anything visual. Design, Pictures, Layout. That's what Madeline did. Her locker still remains untouched, as no one is filling her position as of now. “Sienna, I knew you were here, babe!” I hear Kiana's voice echoing in the hallways. It's deep, it's dark, it's thick, honey. “Ki, I’m in here!” I laugh. “As if I don’t know that! Catch a break, girl; school hasn’t even started and you’re working already!” She hugs me, and I smell her powdery perfume and hairspray. “So did you do the lit homework?” I ask. “About that…” she starts, before I cut her off. “It’s in my bag; send Caro a picture while you’re at it.” “You’re my savior!” she sings dramatically. “Uh-huh…”

I open my laptop and start working on the latest article while Kiana is copying my homework. Madeline’s not in school anymore, since she graduated with the other seniors this summer. She still sent me the rest of her remaining work a few weeks ago. I open the file and start looking over the pictures again. It’s a story about Green-Wood Cemetery and the difference in graves connected to class inequality; it’s pretty heavy. I start with simple things. Research, examples, and famous people buried there. Soon it becomes pretty clear that I won’t be able to write much if I don’t even know the place. I close my laptop, and somehow, Kiana, like a bloodhound, takes up the signal.

“Sooooo…,” she sings with an innocent expression across her face.

“What?” I raise my brows, ready to strike back.