Didn't Know I Was Lost //Tea+Bea
Nov 6, 2013 7:20:11 GMT -5
Post by gamemaker kelsier on Nov 6, 2013 7:20:11 GMT -5
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| [atrb=style, word-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; opacity: 0.6; padding: 35px 10px 0px 10px; border-radius: 5px;]I wake up, hands automatically reaching up to rub the sleep from my eyes. There is a fogginess in my brain, as if a thick blanket of mist settled in overnight. My knuckles feel sort of funny against my eyelids, and my mouth tastes like sand, as if I swallowed a whole beach. When I open my eyes, I'm staring at the wrong ceiling. This isn't my ceiling. This is Sora's one. I must have slept overnight in his room for my birthday. I wonder why we didn't sleep in the tree house my dad literally just built for us. I hope we didn't hurt his feelings and it's because mum said no or something. I blink at the ceiling for a bit, waiting for the fog to lift. It's funny because normally when I wake up the only things I can't remember are my dreams. Mum says it's because we aren't meant to. My body feels heavy, like there is a giant sitting on it. That's funny, he must be invisible. I lift an arm up and it feels floppy, too big. I try and think again about yesterday, but all I can remember is climbing up the tree house. My palms were sweaty, I was excited, Sora was beneath my chattering in excitement. Panic fills me because after that I remember air rushing and then after that I don't remember anything. A hand flies to my head, to feel for a bump and I cause another one, whacking myself. My hands are too huge. I don't know what this is, but it's wrong. I've just turned eight and my hands are as big as Daddy's. I start screaming, big monstrous howls that probably shake the house. I can't help it, I'm scared. "MUM," I shout. My hands grasp at the blankets, pulling them up to my chin. I look down, and I see boxers and a muscle shirt with some logo on it, I don't know what it is. My legs go on for miles. Suddenly I am a giant. I scream again. A boy runs into my room, he's an older boy, a teenager. Hey, I'm a teenager. His face seems tired, sad, worried. I don't recognize him, not right now, and not ever. He looks sort of like dad, but too young, and too sad. If this is a dream, I don't like it. I pinch my elbows like mum said to, but it doesn't work and my skin hurts. There's never been a stranger in my room before. I scuttle backwards on the bed, trying to make myself smaller. I hope he isn't a house robber. There's something in his face when I do that, a soft hurt, and I almost recognize the way his lips work down in a scowl. "Come on, Tea, don't be like that. I don't...I can't handle it today," he says. Even his voice is weary. I recognize that voice. It's familiar but I don't know it. Tentatively, I say, "Mum says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers." My voice is weird sounding. Mine but not, right but not. He shakes his head, slightly exasperated, I can tell. I recognize that too. His jawline looks sort of familiar. His eyes as well. When he opens his mouth to speak, I cut him off. I've always been pretty fast, smart with numbers, quick on the uptake, everything. "Sora, why am I...why are we big? Where's mum? Why didn't she come when I screamed?" That wasn't like my mum at all. My mum has always been here for me, even when I pushed her away because I didn't want her spit on my face. He looks at me for a long moment, a sad sort of smile playing on his lips. Everything about my brother is sad, weighted, weary. I wonder why. He doesn't answer, just sighs and takes something off my night table. It's my journal, the one Mum gave me yesterday for my birthday. No, it isn't. It's the same make, but not the same one, because beside it are two identical journals. The one he hands me is thick with writing, so is the second. The third only seems to be half full. My fingers run over the cover in a way that's far too familiar for only a day's worth of knowing it. My fingers treat this book as if it knows every single page. My brother points at the sign on the back of the door. I hadn't noticed it. It reads, 'STOP. READ THE JOURNAL.' So I do. My hands start to shake as I read because this feels more like a story than real life. I read the important dates, the ones that are starred. There are ones that are marked with 'J's too. The key at the top says that 'J' is for Job. I'm only eight years old. How can I have a job. I'm not eight years old because here is the last nine years of my life, and it tells me what I did every day, what I ate, who I saw. There are small reminders in the margins, like, 'the dog's name is Nancy' or Don't eat strawberries, will result in death.' My life is a series of notes in margins, pages, and things I don't know. No wonder the teenager who is my brother but is a stranger looked sad. I toss the journal angrily across the room, half-read, and commence with getting ready for work. Before I leave, I scoop up the half empty journal, thinking that if there's information about what I was working on yesterday in the library, which is apparently where I work, it'll be in there. Yeah, I work in Archives at the library. Go figure. I guess I figured if I can't remember, I might as well work on storing information. I'll never really know why I thought it'd be a good idea, because I'll never remember to look it up in the journals. It's only seven am and I'm feeling as bitter as lemons. I'm lucky that the library is in the same place as I left it. My feet take the polished steps two at a time. I went looking in my closet for something like what my Mum would we-would have worn to work. I only found a bunch of flash stuff. When I checked the tag, it said it was designed by Sora Pekoe. My brother. I guess my brother got a job too. There's an apple between my teeth and I almost forget the no eating rule. Luckily I dump the core in the bushes just outside before I push the doors open. I didn't expect it to be bustling, but I also didn't expect the dead silence that greets my ears as I self-consciously make my way through the grand room. I can hear pages being turned, somewhere in the vastness of this room. I stop in the middle of the room, somewhere in the middle of the rows. Stopping over my journal, I flick through the pages, trying to find what it says I do when I get to work in the morning. I find a list: I don't even know where the archives room is. It would have been nice of me to let me know. I swallow a hysterical laugh that threatens to rise up and try to ignore the fact that Feeling my way t h r o u g h t he d a r k n e s s Guided by a beating heart I can't tell where the j o u r n e y w i l l e n d But I know w h e r e t o s t a r t |
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