My thoughts turned to black as I heard the birds chirping outside the window, I hissed and shied away from the crack of sunlight breaking into my room, uninvited. A racket sounded down the stairs and I groaned as the sounds began to take form in my mind.
“Tony!” hearing her voice, I pulled the duvet over my ears and slipped my head under the pillows. The words shouted from the bottom of the stairs were muffled and I took comfort in the enveloping darkness. I went to sleep this way, in the foetal position, under many layers of bed sheets bunched up tightly around me.
It was only moments later that my mother had stormed up the stairs, being informed by my mewling sister that I would not wake up, and ripped the sheets from my clutches with a look on her face that would send even the most intimidating dictator running for the hills.
“The school bus has left Nathan, again.” My mother said through clenched teeth, I squinted up at her wondering what she meant. And then I saw the clock behind her and lay back resignedly.
My mother was perpetually fuming at this point, “What do you think you’re doing?!” she shrieked.
“I’m giving up.” I answered simply.
She seemed somewhat taken aback by this comment, and even more so by its casual calmness. The attitude that I had adopted, little over two years ago, was displayed daily and the fact that my mother kept on expecting ‘more’ from me only lead her into a hole from which escape was unfeasible. She doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of the phrase ‘give up already’, I mean there must a limit to ones diligence and a point where it stops being diligent and becomes more of a pathetic grasp for hope, unfortunately this isn’t Pandora’s Box.
And that’s when I heard her sigh, I looked her wondering whether she finally got the memo; accepted my nonchalant nature. But to my surprise she said, “You’re forcing me to do this Nate.” I looked her quizzically and was about to ask what she meant when her hand came hurtling down, angled directly at my chest. The breath was knocked out of me and I clutched my chest as I rolled of the bed, and fell on all fours coughing.
“Don’t be so dramatic, get your clothes on.” She said with a hint of resentment and I thought I detected a hint of guilt in her eyes but it quickly vanished, and reverted back to the cold hard gaze she always wore. And with one final look at the room she left, clearly disgusted by the very sight of my room, and even as she walked out I recalled telling her at one point that I was ‘expressing my individuality’.
As I heard her descend down the stairs heavily, I got up and felt my chest for any permanent or at least longer than temporary pains she may have inflicted and I realised that there was none at all. And I was hit with the realisation that she was right; I was dramatic. I hadn’t thought about it before but I suppose drama could actually be a possible career choice. Imagine it, me an actor!
“And the Oscar goes to…*drum roll*…Nathan Maverick!”
The Eccentric Writer 