Awake. I blink slowly up from my pillow, wiping motes from my eyes. My mind is a haze. I stretch my arms, yawn, roll over. The warmth of my bed is comforting, protecting me from the biting cold wheezing at my window. My brain begins to work as I try to return to the land of dreams. Cold realization is a bucket of water. Wide white eyes stare up at the ceiling. I am awake.
Awake. I grip my bed sheets, eyes now squeezed tight. I know what waits for me. Somewhere below the sudden “thump” of recognition. Remembering what has to be done. I roll to one side, hiding my face in the soft folds of the pillow.
Awake. My blood is electric, my heart the motor, sparking and whirring into full consciousness. Far below, in the silence that hangs suspended in the air, footsteps. Slow, careful, wooden, they grow louder and louder.
Awake. I bite my cheek, eyes squeezed shut, burrowing deeper under my quilt, deeper into my pillow. No light must be seen. I must appear as still slumbering. The footsteps continue, stop, and the sound of the basement door creaking open shoots through my veins like ice water. My thoughts are flying and I try to quiet them, to still my mind, to return to safe dreams and the quiet sanctity of sleep.
Silence. My ears quiver with expectation, wondering, striving to hear any noise, any sound, anything that would let me know…
Awake. The footsteps continuing, growing louder still, every inch of my body screaming for them to stop.
Awake. My brow trembles, face contorted in pain and anticipation. My door opens, an agonizing sound. My spine is a lightning rod, catching the energy that crackles in the air. My muscles tighten and I clench my fists, tears leaking into the pillow.

“It’s time to get up. You didn’t get a snow day. I’m sorry.”
I groan, rolling over onto my side, “I’m awake, Dad. Five more minutes.”
He turns on my light and leaves, delivering the same decree to my sister slumbering next door. I hear her shout of protest and I bury my head into my pillow. I curse the sky and the snow. I loathe the school board and abhor the snow plows growling along the street. I blame it on the weatherman, on the universe, on God.
Damn it, I am awake.



Joined September 2008

  • Artist
  • Artwork Comments 2

Artist's Description

an attempt at writing a “short short” for creative writing.

Artwork Comments

  • Matthew Dalton
  • Banalheed
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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