milla partridge } district seven ♥ }

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INFORMATION

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BIOGRAPHY

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Day Two Thousand Five Hundred and Sixty Four

5:15am -
I awaken at the same time as every other morning this year. (Excusing the seventeenth of January, when I departed from slumber at thirteen minutes past five.) The view from the window contained precisely eight birds. (Documentation of their growth and lifestyle can be found on page 312, Volume 5.)

Immediately after waking, I drink the entirety of my glass of water (200 millilitres, accounting for overnight evaporation) and make my bed. The covers are plain blue and tucked tightly into the wooden bedframe. It reminds me of when Emma suggested I get a patterned bedspread, however each and every one of my quilts has been blue since I was a child and I do not intend to break that pattern now.



5:30am -
I collect my book from beside my bed. (The Famished Trials, by Suzy Colette.) I estimate that it will take approximately nine minutes to complete the twelfth chapter, however it instead takes eleven minutes and forty-five seconds. This upsets me, and I fear it will ruin my day. Determined to get things back on track, I time myself as I clean my teeth. (It is correct. Two minutes and thirty seconds. Tap off.) As quickly as I can, I preform my rituals.

(Tap the counter twelve times, mutter the promise, another twelve, another promise. Turn, count to twelve. Twelve breaths. Twelve more taps. To stop the monsters coming.) Here, I pause to check the clock, allowing a smile as I notice I am on course once more.


6:30am -
Next, I dedicate twelve minutes to thinking about my parents, and another twelve to thinking about the hospital. Usually, I do not concern myself with non-productive ways of passing time, but these are my exceptions. I line up my shoes along my wall, making sure they are the correct distance apart with the ruler I keep folded about my person. (Twelve centimetres between each pair, and a 1.2 centimetre gap between the left and right foot.)

At the hospital, they didn't like me doing this, but once my parents died and the money ran out, I came here. Here, they don't question. (Even when I divide Lena's hair into sections, each with twelve chocolate-brown strands, she barely blinks.) The baby, however, I don't like as much. I've tried documenting it's every movement, cry and ritual, but the patterns I find are shaky and unreliable. Even more so than the children of the house, Lena's baby does not do what it should. Sometimes, when it cries for more than the average (two minutes and fifty-four seconds) my lungs struggle and my brain hurts and I have to press my hands over my ears to help myself escape.


7:30 -
At half-past seven exactly, I leave my room and descend the stairs. The first person I am able to observe is Jacob, who sits in front of the fire with his arms folded across his chest. He does not notice me as I pass, his own mind consuming him. Emma, I note, is not with him. I do not find her in the hallways, nor do I spot her in the kitchen playing with the gas stove. She's late, so she'll need to report to me as soon as she comes down from her room. A bead of sweat forms on my forehead.

Lena is sitting in the rocking chair, her eyes blank. In her lap, sits Mabel, whom I dislike greatly. (Babies, with their mess and their noise and their time-consuming uselessness - who would have one?) Mabel looks up and smiles at me without teeth. The smile lasts all of seven seconds before she finds the rug more interesting.


8:00am -
When the ancient grandfather clock chimes eight, I rush to the kitchen. I use the same pan I always do to heat half a cup of porridge and half a cup of milk for three minutes at a medium heat. Beside me, Bronwyn fixes herself three pieces of toast. She doesn't ask me if I want any, because I always have porridge. No sugar. Once, Olive suggested that I melt chocolate into it, and I had to take a whole six minutes out of my schedule in order to sit down and return my heartbeat to normal.

When my porridge is cooked, I attempt to sit down. Enoch is sitting in my seat. "You need to move," I tell him, because I always sit there. He shakes his head and shoves a finger to his lips. "The chair asked me to sit here. It's tell me something important." I wriggle uncomfortably in my shoes, not liking where this is going. "Enoch, the chair doesn't talk and I need you to move because I only have six minutes and seven seconds to finish my breakfast now and it is very very important." He shrugs.

9:00am -
It is only an hour later, at nine, that I am able to control the shakes in my fingers and stop the nervous hiccups that shake my entire body. I screamed, and shouted, and tears began to run down my cheeks. Enoch continued his polite conversation with the furniture, and I grew incredibly distressed. In the end, Jacob came in and wrested me into the armchair and brought me a class of water and demanded that I continue to breath normally. (According to my research, normally is a combination of inhalation and exhalation which allows the lungs and heart to oxygenate the blood.)

My blood oxygenated in a satisfactory manor, I am allowed to rise and continue with my day. To punish myself for my time-wasting, I preform my rituals twice more, standing by the bathroom sink and counting to twelve over and over again. I hate this, I hate this, but I don't have a choice.


10:00am -
Next, I fetch my coat. My clothes are a varient of my usual attire - a plain dress, stocking. The coat is kept third from the left on my wardrobe, which is arranged in alphabetical order. Today, I must make note that it seems to have shifted slightly to the side in the night. (Twelve steps to the cupboard, put on coat, twelve steps to the door.) Readily dressed and equipped with my notebook, I head outside. Finally, I notice Emma, and tick off her presence in my attendance list, along with the time. (Emma, 10:05am, back hallway, upstairs, unwashed.)

Outside, the air is cold. (Nine degrees Celcius, I checked.) The plants are all on course, however, my pocket ruler measuring them to be on track. I graph this. I sit down on the bench and study the animals, taking the ocasional notes on the movement of a ladybug or the flight of a bird. As I do, I recall the hospital, where they wouldn't let me out, and my home before that with my parents constant shouting. I am a practical person, and I am glad that I live here. Perhaps the others are concerned with the deaths of their parents (see page 15, Volume Eight for a study on death) but I understand that it has had a positive effect on my pre-diagnosed condition.

11:00am -
I retire to the library in order to study. Usually, I prefer to conduct research on my surroundings - taking note of every single detail for later use, collecting enough facts and figures to almost predict the future. Not knowing what is about to happen scares me the most, and this way I can conclude, to the best of my ability, what any given moment will hold. As I am working, Claire skips up to me. "Did I eat three Fridays ago?"she asks, without introduction. First, I make note of her question, the time asked, her clothes. Then I quickly flip back through my book. "Yes. An apple, twelve noon. A handful of chocolate fingers after dinner, at 6pm." Dinner is always served at six, and if it isn't my palms begin to itch terribly.

Claire nod and hurries off. I am quite used to settling arguments and bringing order to chaos in this house - if there is something unknown, I make it my business to know it. Every secret is carefully recorded, every movement and misdemeanour. (Emma scolded Fiona at 4pm on Tuesday for walking mud into the house. Fiona turned a plot-plant upside down. I spent one hour and seventeen minutes scrubbing dirt from the carpet.)


12:00am -
I emerge from the library at noon, when I dine alone. Enoch has deserted my chair, apparently losing interest in it's conversational skills. I have the same lunch as I have every day, glancing in the mirror as I eat. I nod solemnly, happy that my appearance has not changed. Naturally untidy hair is a constant battle, although this morning I brushed it for as long as I could justify time for. Eyes I cannot categorise into blue nor green also annoy me.

Emma walks toward me- her hands outstretched. She is holding a match, lit, between her forefinger and thumb. "That damn book," she shouts, and I scribble down her words frantically. "It knows too much!"



Here, the entry ends.

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COMPLETE

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