Witness, Jamie Wilkinson [best classic romance novels txt] 📗

There is a certain calmness in my room that I am not accustomed to. The silence is creeping into my ears and deceiving my brain with soothing thoughts of reassurance. Everything is okay.
You’re able of facing what this day has to offer, you’re quite able of going to school; wake up.
The calm is heavy, pressing me into my bed and preventing me from getting up and confronting this Thursday morning. The vintage alarm clock balanced on my bedside table tick-tick-ticks, each tick reminding me I have five minutes left of enduring the calm before I can rise and get ready for my day.
The reason I like the clock is because it gives me a sense of time. A mute advisor isn’t worth much, advice is best given through speech and my alarm clock does just that.
Four minutes. My being is uneasy and my stomach churns, very slowly.
Maybe I should be accustom to this calm, after all I face it every morning; but when my bed smells of sweet perfumes and fabric softener and feels like a patch of feather-pedalled flowers, the calm isn’t convincing enough to make me rise.
I know I have to begin this day in two minutes, thirty-five seconds, but I can’t bring myself to trust the calm, it surrounds me like an army and I know I’m defenceless to it.
There is a scream, an order, but it does not startle me, I hear it every day. The final feat is made by my alarm clock, shouting sounds of bells and buzzers; the translation, wake up you don’t have a choice. And like every other morning I lose the silent battle and heave myself out of comfort and warmth and set my feet down on the cold unwelcoming floorboards.

I gently set my hand down on my clock, putting a stop to its commands, assuring it that it had emerged the victor of this early morning mêlée.
I move tentatively towards the bathroom, trying to accept defeat. I’m already feeling very uncomfortable; I’m a soldier and I’m on enemy territory, and I’m sure that things will only get worse as the day progresses.
Even the bathroom is a hostile environment; cold white tile and sterile countertops. I almost welcome the warm water of the shower but it does not provide the same warmth as my lovely bed. This is a scorching warmth, a violent warmth, and it’s just as persistent as the calm in trying to wake me up.
I wipe the steam away from the mirror with my hand and look intently into my eyes, I study them. They’re pale blue, a hazy whitish blue but I can still see what’s behind them by the ill at ease manner by which they stare back at me. There’s a lot of discomfort and malcontent, they tell me what I’m really feeling and what I really want; I want to get out of here. I want to sink back into my bed and close my eyes and go someplace else. But I remind myself I can’t and that I have to be at school in an hour and that I don’t have a choice.
I make my way back into my bedroom and can feel the invisible subconscious forces in my mind drawing me back to my bed, but I resist and instead I put on a grey corduroy jacket and a big black knit scarf; they seem to bring back to me some of the warmth from about half an hour ago that now seems so distant.
I finally open my bedroom door and observe the vast high-ceilinged hallway before me. It has extravagant, creamy white walls with golden detailed trim, and the walls are lined with paintings of all sizes of my mother’s mother’s mother and father’s father and so on as well as various other pieces whose origins I know nothing about.
I dread the sound of my footsteps echoing down the endless corridor, but I know I have to face them as well. My bare feet stick to the hardwood floors as I walk slowly though hurriedly. The eyes of my ancestors gaze down upon me and scrutinize my every step. They ask me why, why are you not like us?
I don’t know what to say to them.
I take a sharp left before I reach the grand stained glass entrance of my home and enter the cleanly stainless steel kitchen which my mother works so hard to keep spotless. I take a look in the pantry and wonder to myself what I’m going to eat for breakfast.
I tend to grab the first thing I see, which is exactly what I decided to do this Thursday morning. My hand found me a fruit garnished granola bar which was satisfactory. I put it inside my book bag.
I peer back out into the hall feeling as if I’m about to be ambushed, but I give myself that final push towards the front door. I’m almost in a frenzy now, fiddling with my chain of keys to get the door open, all the while dozens of acrylic and oil based painted eyes staring at my back, closing in.
I almost forget to lock the door, so focused on getting out. So I turn around to face the manor for what I hope, but know will never be the last time, and lock the door.

I turn around and faced the early winter, it was mid-November but the snow already covered most of the yellowed and very dead ground. The air was crisp and the wind was bitter and dry, dead leaves whirled around my head and I rubbed my bare hands together in an effort to heat up on my way to the bus stop.
The sounds of the outdoors are bliss to my ears, cars, the few birds that had yet to have flown south, the rustling of the trees; the clamour was a suburban orchestra and I cherished its disorderly melodies.
Then I heard my bus, it came to a screeching halt and provided the shortly awaited solo in the song of the street.
I give little acknowledgement to the driver as I supply him with my bus fare, and I give little acknowledgement to the passengers of my bus. Some faces I recognize from bus rides prior, and some I’ve never seen before. Regardless of recognition, I sit down and ignore my company as well as my surroundings; it is not because I’m a cold person, one could argue that we as a society have lost our sociability, maybe because we have fear distilled in us every day, maybe because we no longer feel there is a need to socialize; but no. I’m not ignorant because of fear, but because of envy.
I envy their average lives.
A wealthy woman marries a wealthy man, because it is in her best interest to marry within her social class. They have a child together. That child is me.
Ever since I can remember I’ve had everything handed to me on a silver platter. I wanted a toy, I received it. Sometimes I wonder if I even have the ability to appreciate. Do I value my belongings; do I value my own life?
Ordinary people always have something to look forward to, something to dream for. What do I dream for? I wonder to myself and my contemplations go unanswered.
The wheels of the bus move slowly and the engine lets out short coughs.
I clutch my book bag and gaze upon the people walking the streets. My heart feels like it’s sinking in my chest, my eyes burn with jealousy and resentment.
I wish I was back in bed, I wish I was immersed in the comfort and warmth of my soft downy blankets. Maybe if I fell asleep I could wake up someone else.
What do I dream for? Maybe I just want to have hope; I covet these ordinary people not because of their way of life, but their ability to dream. What they posses is the desire to live, what motivates them is what they are lacking in.
Maybe it’s the desire for money. Maybe its power they’re craving for. Maybe they just want some appreciation.
I need motivation.

-

The bus comes to a halt and I try to shake bad thoughts out of my head but they never seem to want to leave me completely.
I make my way across the street towards a bulky intimidating structure; a large brown building, stack upon stack of massive cubes of brick, towering glass windows which cover floors at a time with their impressive length. This is my school, just another variation of the cold corporate world that I’m trapped in.
I look it up and down and my stomach churns once more.
I take a glance at the giant clock perched about the school entrance as flakes of snow begin to fall from the grey autumn sky and I have no choice but to go inside. Class is due to begin in seven minutes.
Inside is warm, but once again not the same warmth as that of my bed. The soaring ceilings and unforgiving emptiness overwhelm me, and I don’t want to see my friends. They are a reminder of everything I hate. Privileged, spoiled, not a care in the world.
My locker is ten paces away, and I can see them waiting for me. They wave and smile and I wave and smile back. I wonder if my eyes are just as revealing to them as they are to me. Can they see what’s behind them, or are they just blissfully ignorant, focused on the outside, the appearance of things?
“Good morning Paige, how are you today?” Dakota sings, “Are you ready for the science exam?” she adds, not giving me the chance to answer her first question; and I’m glad for it.
“Oh I think so, I’m trying not to worry too much about science I have a few other things on my mind right now.”
“Like what?” she takes a stride towards me, her coiled hair bouncing as she does.
“Like finding my winter hat.” I lie, shaking my head slightly so as to let them see the flakes of snow fall from my hair.
Dakota laughs and puts a hand on my shoulder; I resent it, “Well as long as you think you’re prepared. Aubrey and I are going to the library today at lunch to study; I assume you want to come with us?”
“Why not,” I force another small smile before the bell announcing the start of the school day rings, allowing me some privacy.
“We’ll see you later then Paige,” says Aubrey, and the two wave to me one last time before they make their way to their own lockers to gather their things for class.
I sign inwardly before I open my locker and organize my belongings.
Staring for a moment at my books I once again feel the urge to flee. Just close your locker and leave, no harm done. But I have thirty seconds before class starts and the unwavering obligation presses on.
I retrieve my pencil case