Neutraiity
05-26-2011, 08:53 PM
Ever had a dream? Ever had a dream that you desperately wish was reality? I'm just going to assume the answer is yes to both questions. For many people that dream would be some-thing like being able to get the girl they've always lusted after, ruling the world, living a dream life, getting their god-awful book published, or any other variety of grey. For me, it's something a lot more simplistic.
I really wanted to walk... which was exactly what I was doing in my break from reality.
No, in fact, in my dream, I was doing more than that. I was cloud running. There I was, bounding and leaping from cloud to cloud, as if they were solid ground. Crystalline splendor, leap for leap, jump for jump, there wasn't a single moment where a permanent grin wasn't plastered onto my face. It was my endless playground, at one moment I plummeted for thousands of feet, only to be netted by a wisp of stratus and hit it running, at another, I bounded an impossible height and tunneled through an impossibly huge cumulonimbus and at break-neck pace. I felt... free
It was complete and utter freedom. No longer was I confined by the restraints of flesh, no longer was I deterred by petty human imagination, no longer was I hindered by my own mortality. I was completely and utterly free.
Call me a liar if I told you I didn't want to burn my alarm clock when it woke me with its high pitched squawks.
My eyes ripped open, probably blood-shot, and the familiar, dark-grey rooftop greeted me. I really, really wanted to burn that stupid alarm-clock. I crawled out of my relatively comfortable bed and reached for my cane, a simple affair painted jet black.
Out of habit, I absorbed my surroundings. First thing that always came to mind was that I was surrounded by books, a lot of books. Some piled high in spires that almost reached the ceiling of my room. Others piled into dishevel stacks. Other's almost neatly stacked into one of the many books cases that circled my bed. It was dark in my room too. Had there been a window?
I slumped through the maze when an annoyingly familiar voice sang, "Good morning birthday boy."
I looked at the origin of the voice. It was a girl, probably sixteen, sitting cross-legged on one of the spires of books in a black and white school uniform, skirt and all. She had pale skin, brown eyes, and a firm looking back-side and a full, but not overly-so chest; I would be either an idiot or a liar if I told you she wasn't beautiful.
"Shut up," I drawled, while pointing my cane at her, calming my urges, "You aren't real, and I refuse to have a running relationship with an imaginary character."
She cocked her head to one-side, like a dog hearing a new sound, "You kind-of just did, Chris. However, besides that, I've told you five-hundred and six times already, and yes I did count, that I'm not imaginary, I'm your Guardian, and second, even if I was imaginary, it's your sixteenth birthday, indulge in your perceived insanity a little."
"Well... maybe I-," realizing what I was doing I swung my cane at the spire she was sitting on, toppling it over.
She lulled something that sounded like laughter. When I looked, she was still sitting like she had been, on thin air.
Jerk.
"Go away, you can come back after I finish breakfast," I pleaded in monotone, feeling a bit jealous.
"As you wish, Master," she said acceptingly, then she disappeared, and no, I'm not talking about the, "gone in a puff of smoke," disappear, I'm talking about the, "vanishing into thin air, gone, was-there-a-second-ago-but-isn't-anymore , gone" disappearing.
Jerk.
It's odd, she obeys pretty much everything I tell her to do, aside from going away completely that is, maybe if- I stopped myself from mulling over the thought before something evil could sprout from it.
"Thump. Thump. Thump!"
That's the beat to my life, it has earned me a bit of grief from the people, and I use the term lightly, I associate with but I just find it... satisfying to drum out that beat with my cane. Don't look at me like that, I'm autistic, or I suppose its "Einsteinism" from how my overly boisterous doctor refers to it as.
I slapped on my clothes and what have-you unceremoniously, then headed down-stairs.
I was greeted by my mother half-way down the stairs, "There's the birthday-giant!" she shouted, her playfulness saturating her voice. She waited for me to reach the crook in the stairs then semi-guided me down the last three steps.
"Morning mum'," I greeted.
Brown eyes, brown hair, tan skin, relatively tall, six foot and change (she still was about seven inches below my chin), yeah, my mother really never stood out in the crowd, but you couldn't exactly miss her either, unlike me, it's pretty hard to miss a six foot seven sixteen-year-old with a jet black cane.
"How'd you sleep?" we asked each-other at the same time. We both smiled the shark-like, yet some-how warm, grin.
We both knew the answer to each-other's question.
"Hey, Chris, happy birthday!" shouted my father in his deep, basso voice from the dining table, after he half-way downed a sip of coffee. The table was lined with eggs, bacon and other breakfast paraphernalia. He then got up, cane in hand, his being carved from a branch and having a knotted ball of wood at the end of it where he held it. We met each-other half way to the dinner table and hugged.
He was a tall man, almost as tall as me, in-fact. He had wrinkled features, but that didn't necessarily detract from his youthful-personality. His hair was receding some-what. All three of us headed to the table together, us and the Brainy Bunch.
I loved my parents.
They were two of the few people in the world that I considered, well, people. They never spoiled me, except on the occasion, but they never really unfair. They never argued over trivial things, though believe you-me I have heard them arguing and have argued with them (which usually ends up in me feeling like a jackass, right most of the time, but a jackass), and overall, were just good parents. I considered myself lucky to have them. Like I said, we're the Brainy Bunch.
I looked around the open area. The dining table was off centre to it all. The stair-case dominated the entry-way to the house. Thick stairs sandwiched between two walls that divided the rest of the floor. To my right, the living room huddled into a nook. Some comfortable white couches were scattered here and there, the elegant coffee table sat in the middle of them all, against the wall, a massive bookshelf towered, instead of a television. In-front of me, the old fashioned kitchen reigned the top left side of the floor, clay oven and all. At my flank, thick glass doors lined the wall, opening up to a very Zen looking garden. Brown mahogany encompassed it all.
I liked the house, wasn't too big and it wasn't too small. It was just... cozy.
I liked the house, wasn't too big and it wasn't too small. It was just... cozy.
So far the day looked good, and I had a uselessly optimistic thought that, just maybe, it was actually go to stay that way.
I started molesting the food laid out in front of me, continuing on the notion of optimism, piling my plate high with bacon, eggs and pancakes and a lot of other deadly foods I usually wasn't allowed to eat.
"So, Chris," started my father, after downing another sip of coffee, "how's the leg been? I've noticed you've been skipping your meds lately," he said, eyes peering down his nose.
"Tis' been fine, pop," I said after mimicking him, "there haven't been any spasms lately; less pain is always a good thing."
"Duh," scoffed my mom, still true to her playfulness.
A dull thump resounded from the door.
"That's the paper, let's see if the worlds still killing itself, shall we?" cheeringly drawled my mother, then promptly got up and went towards the door.
My dad took the opportunity to run through the "Happy Birthday" mush.
He took one last swig of Joe, then turned to me and said, "Chris, I know you're not really a big believer in luck, karma or anything that contradicts logic, but..." he stopped talking for a few seconds, considering his words, "just take this, it'll serve you well," he finally said, as he reached into his pocket and fished out a necklace, at the end of which was a perfectly symmetrical silver infinity symbol attached to cheap nylon.
I was genuinely, and happily, surprised by it, I wasn't big on jewelry, but it was rare to get anything but books as gifts, this was, oddly, a breath of fresh air.
I thanked my dad and slipped the chain over my head.
My mother came back with a paper which read, "Political Brawl Underway"
"Well," said my mother, "we haven't blown ourselves up yet, that's always a good thing."
"Duh," I scoffed at her, a smile slipping onto my face, which I promptly hid by bringing the cup to my lips. The "Look" is evil; let no one tell you otherwise. I was surprised that my mom's glare hadn't burned a hole in the coffee cup.
We had just about finished breakfast when I swore I heard something that sounded like children laughing, but painfully so. My parents hadn't seemed to take any notice of it. The white noise seemed to come from the garden, which prompted me to turn in my seat to face it. Nothing, nor no-one, was to be seen.
I saw my psycho-trip snap into reality next to me, leaning against one of the glass doors. It took a good measure of will-power not to pee myself on the spot. I hadn't even noticed that I stopped breathing for a few minutes afterward.
"They're early," my imaginary fiend said, almost to herself.
"Chris, what's wrong?" asked my father.
It turned back towards the food. "It's nothing" and almost on cue, something began to pull at the muscles in my leg.
It came slowly at first, and started to build, like thunder crackling before a shaft of lightning rips through the sky; it began to develop into a literal spasm of pain. I felt my leg start to shake on its own accord.
"So much for the day going well," yawned my insanity.
"Ack!" I shouted through a mouthful of food and tried to stand up in order to stop the muscles from contracting into one big twisted knot. I just wasn't fast enough.
The leg grew and shrank in thickness visibly and each second lasted for a relative life-time. Pain began to drown out all other emotions and sweat started to dot my face. I heard something that must've been someone shouting my name, meaning my parents finally recovered from the gob-smack.
I yelled something that I'm sure sounded totally animalistic, I didn't care, I just wanted the agony to end. A fresh wave of pain shot through my leg again.
I shouted something guttural again and I could feel the beads of sweat dotting my face. I opened my eyes and looked at a blurred world. I could see three in-distinct figures standing over my body, mom, dad, and my imaginary psycho-trip.
I tried to lash out in defiance of my pain, but all I got was a dry heave.
Tears of anguish filled my eyes.
I saw as the blurs melted away from my incarnate insanity. She had a pondering look on her face, as if she was contemplating what pain must really feel like.
The world threatened to waver again, and then she bent down and placed her hand on to my foot.
Then something weird happened. My entire consciousness (what little I had this point is immaterial) seemed to focus itself intently on her without checking with the rest of me. Her eyes started to shine a blinding white and azure flames licked off the sides of them, the rest of her face was set in cold focus, giving the image of soft wrath, something immensely powerful yet peaceful, patient and calm.
White sigils and symbols began to dance down from her face, beginning at her eyes, seemingly born from the immaculate flames, across her hand and crossed over to my foot and diffused onto my leg.
My parents were none the wiser to the girl, but it looked like my dad was busy calling the ambulance; the voices came like dull throbs, mostly blocked out by my heart-beat.
Here's the thing, never let anyone tell you there is any better feeling in the world then lack thereof, the pain in my leg evaporated away, steadily at first but quickly began to dissipate more rapidly. It felt like orgasmic bliss.
My psycho-trip got up, her azure eyes fading back to their original brown hue, and smiling a self-
pleased smile. I gasped something that was intended to be, "Thank you."
Still looking pleased with herself, she snapped out of reality again.
Jerk.
The blurs started to focus themselves into something conceivable and I saw my parents staring down at me. My mom was crying.
"Perfect," I thought to myself.
Vision drifted to my dad. He just looked... calm.
I stood up, relying more on my cane than my parents whom were halfway supporting me. How's that for symbolism?
Then we all just floated around the table for a few minutes.
My mom tried to start a conversation a few times, but I think her and I were on the same wave-length. That attack was particularly bad.
Growing tired of the silence and still breathing hard, I walked off and headed for the stairs, muttering something that only remotely sounded like gratitude.
I shuffled up the stairs as best I could; my leg felt stiff... and cold.
I heard my mom and dad shuffling with the plates and cutlery, their anxious acceptance all but drifted in the air.
I slumped to my room and yanked at the wooden sliding door to find myself amidst perfectly organized books. No more were the disheveled stacks, no more towering spires, even the mound of books that was the aftermath of the spire I knocked over were arranged alphabetically, color coded and in size order on the book shelves.
The row of alcoves that were usually pushed against the wall farthest away from my room door were arranged in stacks of two's their sides facing me, I hadn't noticed they had two sides when we first moved in... oops. My bed had been moved to make way for their size and was now within arm's reach from the door. To my right a closet stood, lined with nice looking clothes. T-shirts, button-ups, long-sleeves, short sleeves and sleeveless and other clothes I never wore were all arranged neatly and precisely like you had locked a kid with extreme O.C.D. in there for a few hours.
To the left of the locker, a large mahogany desk sat facing the empty wall, its surface immaculately clean... where in the world had that been hiding? An Indian looking rug sat in the middle of it all. I had a rug? Okay you know what, you probably got the picture by now, it was clean and it had a lot of stuff in it that I didn't know existed.
The morning sun drifted into the room through the window I had assumed was hiding behind a book shelf and blocked out my psycho-trips figure, making her a silhouette absently adjusting books that were less than a hair out of line.
She seemed not to notice me for awhile, the silence that stretched between us was only consumed by the steady, persistent ticking of a clock... where had... never mind, not going there.
"Thump. Thump. Thump!"
After a few minutes of just waiting for her to do or say something, I said, "Okay, I'll bite, what the heck are you?"
That got her attention.
Her glasses were angled in such a way that my image was reflecting off them. Tall, skinny, dressed in black, cane in hand. The girl looked predatory.
This was going to be a horrible birthday.
Please keep in mind that I am only 15, so excuse any poor grammar, spelling or just overall bad plot formation .-.
I really wanted to walk... which was exactly what I was doing in my break from reality.
No, in fact, in my dream, I was doing more than that. I was cloud running. There I was, bounding and leaping from cloud to cloud, as if they were solid ground. Crystalline splendor, leap for leap, jump for jump, there wasn't a single moment where a permanent grin wasn't plastered onto my face. It was my endless playground, at one moment I plummeted for thousands of feet, only to be netted by a wisp of stratus and hit it running, at another, I bounded an impossible height and tunneled through an impossibly huge cumulonimbus and at break-neck pace. I felt... free
It was complete and utter freedom. No longer was I confined by the restraints of flesh, no longer was I deterred by petty human imagination, no longer was I hindered by my own mortality. I was completely and utterly free.
Call me a liar if I told you I didn't want to burn my alarm clock when it woke me with its high pitched squawks.
My eyes ripped open, probably blood-shot, and the familiar, dark-grey rooftop greeted me. I really, really wanted to burn that stupid alarm-clock. I crawled out of my relatively comfortable bed and reached for my cane, a simple affair painted jet black.
Out of habit, I absorbed my surroundings. First thing that always came to mind was that I was surrounded by books, a lot of books. Some piled high in spires that almost reached the ceiling of my room. Others piled into dishevel stacks. Other's almost neatly stacked into one of the many books cases that circled my bed. It was dark in my room too. Had there been a window?
I slumped through the maze when an annoyingly familiar voice sang, "Good morning birthday boy."
I looked at the origin of the voice. It was a girl, probably sixteen, sitting cross-legged on one of the spires of books in a black and white school uniform, skirt and all. She had pale skin, brown eyes, and a firm looking back-side and a full, but not overly-so chest; I would be either an idiot or a liar if I told you she wasn't beautiful.
"Shut up," I drawled, while pointing my cane at her, calming my urges, "You aren't real, and I refuse to have a running relationship with an imaginary character."
She cocked her head to one-side, like a dog hearing a new sound, "You kind-of just did, Chris. However, besides that, I've told you five-hundred and six times already, and yes I did count, that I'm not imaginary, I'm your Guardian, and second, even if I was imaginary, it's your sixteenth birthday, indulge in your perceived insanity a little."
"Well... maybe I-," realizing what I was doing I swung my cane at the spire she was sitting on, toppling it over.
She lulled something that sounded like laughter. When I looked, she was still sitting like she had been, on thin air.
Jerk.
"Go away, you can come back after I finish breakfast," I pleaded in monotone, feeling a bit jealous.
"As you wish, Master," she said acceptingly, then she disappeared, and no, I'm not talking about the, "gone in a puff of smoke," disappear, I'm talking about the, "vanishing into thin air, gone, was-there-a-second-ago-but-isn't-anymore , gone" disappearing.
Jerk.
It's odd, she obeys pretty much everything I tell her to do, aside from going away completely that is, maybe if- I stopped myself from mulling over the thought before something evil could sprout from it.
"Thump. Thump. Thump!"
That's the beat to my life, it has earned me a bit of grief from the people, and I use the term lightly, I associate with but I just find it... satisfying to drum out that beat with my cane. Don't look at me like that, I'm autistic, or I suppose its "Einsteinism" from how my overly boisterous doctor refers to it as.
I slapped on my clothes and what have-you unceremoniously, then headed down-stairs.
I was greeted by my mother half-way down the stairs, "There's the birthday-giant!" she shouted, her playfulness saturating her voice. She waited for me to reach the crook in the stairs then semi-guided me down the last three steps.
"Morning mum'," I greeted.
Brown eyes, brown hair, tan skin, relatively tall, six foot and change (she still was about seven inches below my chin), yeah, my mother really never stood out in the crowd, but you couldn't exactly miss her either, unlike me, it's pretty hard to miss a six foot seven sixteen-year-old with a jet black cane.
"How'd you sleep?" we asked each-other at the same time. We both smiled the shark-like, yet some-how warm, grin.
We both knew the answer to each-other's question.
"Hey, Chris, happy birthday!" shouted my father in his deep, basso voice from the dining table, after he half-way downed a sip of coffee. The table was lined with eggs, bacon and other breakfast paraphernalia. He then got up, cane in hand, his being carved from a branch and having a knotted ball of wood at the end of it where he held it. We met each-other half way to the dinner table and hugged.
He was a tall man, almost as tall as me, in-fact. He had wrinkled features, but that didn't necessarily detract from his youthful-personality. His hair was receding some-what. All three of us headed to the table together, us and the Brainy Bunch.
I loved my parents.
They were two of the few people in the world that I considered, well, people. They never spoiled me, except on the occasion, but they never really unfair. They never argued over trivial things, though believe you-me I have heard them arguing and have argued with them (which usually ends up in me feeling like a jackass, right most of the time, but a jackass), and overall, were just good parents. I considered myself lucky to have them. Like I said, we're the Brainy Bunch.
I looked around the open area. The dining table was off centre to it all. The stair-case dominated the entry-way to the house. Thick stairs sandwiched between two walls that divided the rest of the floor. To my right, the living room huddled into a nook. Some comfortable white couches were scattered here and there, the elegant coffee table sat in the middle of them all, against the wall, a massive bookshelf towered, instead of a television. In-front of me, the old fashioned kitchen reigned the top left side of the floor, clay oven and all. At my flank, thick glass doors lined the wall, opening up to a very Zen looking garden. Brown mahogany encompassed it all.
I liked the house, wasn't too big and it wasn't too small. It was just... cozy.
I liked the house, wasn't too big and it wasn't too small. It was just... cozy.
So far the day looked good, and I had a uselessly optimistic thought that, just maybe, it was actually go to stay that way.
I started molesting the food laid out in front of me, continuing on the notion of optimism, piling my plate high with bacon, eggs and pancakes and a lot of other deadly foods I usually wasn't allowed to eat.
"So, Chris," started my father, after downing another sip of coffee, "how's the leg been? I've noticed you've been skipping your meds lately," he said, eyes peering down his nose.
"Tis' been fine, pop," I said after mimicking him, "there haven't been any spasms lately; less pain is always a good thing."
"Duh," scoffed my mom, still true to her playfulness.
A dull thump resounded from the door.
"That's the paper, let's see if the worlds still killing itself, shall we?" cheeringly drawled my mother, then promptly got up and went towards the door.
My dad took the opportunity to run through the "Happy Birthday" mush.
He took one last swig of Joe, then turned to me and said, "Chris, I know you're not really a big believer in luck, karma or anything that contradicts logic, but..." he stopped talking for a few seconds, considering his words, "just take this, it'll serve you well," he finally said, as he reached into his pocket and fished out a necklace, at the end of which was a perfectly symmetrical silver infinity symbol attached to cheap nylon.
I was genuinely, and happily, surprised by it, I wasn't big on jewelry, but it was rare to get anything but books as gifts, this was, oddly, a breath of fresh air.
I thanked my dad and slipped the chain over my head.
My mother came back with a paper which read, "Political Brawl Underway"
"Well," said my mother, "we haven't blown ourselves up yet, that's always a good thing."
"Duh," I scoffed at her, a smile slipping onto my face, which I promptly hid by bringing the cup to my lips. The "Look" is evil; let no one tell you otherwise. I was surprised that my mom's glare hadn't burned a hole in the coffee cup.
We had just about finished breakfast when I swore I heard something that sounded like children laughing, but painfully so. My parents hadn't seemed to take any notice of it. The white noise seemed to come from the garden, which prompted me to turn in my seat to face it. Nothing, nor no-one, was to be seen.
I saw my psycho-trip snap into reality next to me, leaning against one of the glass doors. It took a good measure of will-power not to pee myself on the spot. I hadn't even noticed that I stopped breathing for a few minutes afterward.
"They're early," my imaginary fiend said, almost to herself.
"Chris, what's wrong?" asked my father.
It turned back towards the food. "It's nothing" and almost on cue, something began to pull at the muscles in my leg.
It came slowly at first, and started to build, like thunder crackling before a shaft of lightning rips through the sky; it began to develop into a literal spasm of pain. I felt my leg start to shake on its own accord.
"So much for the day going well," yawned my insanity.
"Ack!" I shouted through a mouthful of food and tried to stand up in order to stop the muscles from contracting into one big twisted knot. I just wasn't fast enough.
The leg grew and shrank in thickness visibly and each second lasted for a relative life-time. Pain began to drown out all other emotions and sweat started to dot my face. I heard something that must've been someone shouting my name, meaning my parents finally recovered from the gob-smack.
I yelled something that I'm sure sounded totally animalistic, I didn't care, I just wanted the agony to end. A fresh wave of pain shot through my leg again.
I shouted something guttural again and I could feel the beads of sweat dotting my face. I opened my eyes and looked at a blurred world. I could see three in-distinct figures standing over my body, mom, dad, and my imaginary psycho-trip.
I tried to lash out in defiance of my pain, but all I got was a dry heave.
Tears of anguish filled my eyes.
I saw as the blurs melted away from my incarnate insanity. She had a pondering look on her face, as if she was contemplating what pain must really feel like.
The world threatened to waver again, and then she bent down and placed her hand on to my foot.
Then something weird happened. My entire consciousness (what little I had this point is immaterial) seemed to focus itself intently on her without checking with the rest of me. Her eyes started to shine a blinding white and azure flames licked off the sides of them, the rest of her face was set in cold focus, giving the image of soft wrath, something immensely powerful yet peaceful, patient and calm.
White sigils and symbols began to dance down from her face, beginning at her eyes, seemingly born from the immaculate flames, across her hand and crossed over to my foot and diffused onto my leg.
My parents were none the wiser to the girl, but it looked like my dad was busy calling the ambulance; the voices came like dull throbs, mostly blocked out by my heart-beat.
Here's the thing, never let anyone tell you there is any better feeling in the world then lack thereof, the pain in my leg evaporated away, steadily at first but quickly began to dissipate more rapidly. It felt like orgasmic bliss.
My psycho-trip got up, her azure eyes fading back to their original brown hue, and smiling a self-
pleased smile. I gasped something that was intended to be, "Thank you."
Still looking pleased with herself, she snapped out of reality again.
Jerk.
The blurs started to focus themselves into something conceivable and I saw my parents staring down at me. My mom was crying.
"Perfect," I thought to myself.
Vision drifted to my dad. He just looked... calm.
I stood up, relying more on my cane than my parents whom were halfway supporting me. How's that for symbolism?
Then we all just floated around the table for a few minutes.
My mom tried to start a conversation a few times, but I think her and I were on the same wave-length. That attack was particularly bad.
Growing tired of the silence and still breathing hard, I walked off and headed for the stairs, muttering something that only remotely sounded like gratitude.
I shuffled up the stairs as best I could; my leg felt stiff... and cold.
I heard my mom and dad shuffling with the plates and cutlery, their anxious acceptance all but drifted in the air.
I slumped to my room and yanked at the wooden sliding door to find myself amidst perfectly organized books. No more were the disheveled stacks, no more towering spires, even the mound of books that was the aftermath of the spire I knocked over were arranged alphabetically, color coded and in size order on the book shelves.
The row of alcoves that were usually pushed against the wall farthest away from my room door were arranged in stacks of two's their sides facing me, I hadn't noticed they had two sides when we first moved in... oops. My bed had been moved to make way for their size and was now within arm's reach from the door. To my right a closet stood, lined with nice looking clothes. T-shirts, button-ups, long-sleeves, short sleeves and sleeveless and other clothes I never wore were all arranged neatly and precisely like you had locked a kid with extreme O.C.D. in there for a few hours.
To the left of the locker, a large mahogany desk sat facing the empty wall, its surface immaculately clean... where in the world had that been hiding? An Indian looking rug sat in the middle of it all. I had a rug? Okay you know what, you probably got the picture by now, it was clean and it had a lot of stuff in it that I didn't know existed.
The morning sun drifted into the room through the window I had assumed was hiding behind a book shelf and blocked out my psycho-trips figure, making her a silhouette absently adjusting books that were less than a hair out of line.
She seemed not to notice me for awhile, the silence that stretched between us was only consumed by the steady, persistent ticking of a clock... where had... never mind, not going there.
"Thump. Thump. Thump!"
After a few minutes of just waiting for her to do or say something, I said, "Okay, I'll bite, what the heck are you?"
That got her attention.
Her glasses were angled in such a way that my image was reflecting off them. Tall, skinny, dressed in black, cane in hand. The girl looked predatory.
This was going to be a horrible birthday.
Please keep in mind that I am only 15, so excuse any poor grammar, spelling or just overall bad plot formation .-.