"VIOLET?" It echoes angrily in my ear as if I've done something wrong. I wave off the voice and turn over, wrapping the blankets over my head. Wait a second, wait a damn second. How did I get in bed? Seconds ago, I was making out with Apollo– OH MY GOSH.
Tearing the sheets from my body, I sit up straight. None of this makes sense! Putting my feet on the ground, I go to locate him. But a gust of cold air prompts me to gawk down at my clothes. Oh, right, I'm pale and naked. The duvet comes back on, and I lay down staring at the ceiling. My eyes are wide, my heart quickly beating like the rhythm of a drumroll. What's happening? I'm terrified, with good reason. "Apollo?" I whisper into the heavenly morning light.
No response. Great, I cup my hands over my mouth and try louder. "Apolloooo?" Once more, nothing. Annoyed, I wrap the sheets around my waist (doing whatever possible to cover my chest, but you know that can be a struggle). I take a few steps over toward the farthest wall, trying to pinpoint exactly where he sleeps. Using my hands, I poke the little beads of paint. Getting absorbed, I scratch at it. Harder, harder, harder. It bursts, dropping paint crumbs on the carpet. "Interesting," I say out loud as my bedroom door creaks open. The white sheet, more see-through than anything, slips from my grasp. The cloth sinks to the floor like a silent assassin. It sifts through my fingers like shifting sand.
"Vi–"
I flip around on my heels. "What?" Oh, crap. Noah, my dear, innocent (idiotic, stupid, ravenous, annoying, head-scratching) little brother, saw me nude. "GET OUT!" I scream, throwing everything within reach at him. That included paper, pencils, pens, flashlights, batteries, etc. He spins, facing the hallway, hands gripping the door frame.
He pants, gasping for air as if he'd survived a shark attack. "W-Why," he sputters, covering his eyes. "You can't do that, especially with your door open!"
I hobble to my bed and weave myself in, "Don't come near my bedroom unless advised," I arch my neck, "That's your problem." While we talk, I slip into a bra and underwear, enough for my brother to stop comparing me to a deep sea monster. I'm nowhere near as big or ugly. That's like calling me Pinocchio; it doesn't add up. If he were to call me anything, it better be a woman. I'm a solid, prime example of a fully-fledged woman.
"Just be sure to cover up next time. I'm scared of you," Noah breathes, squinting. "But mom says you're 20 minutes late waking up. It's your last day of high school; make it count." He walks out, letting the door click behind him, allowing me to revel in this reveal.
Last day? Highschool? Hell no. It had to be a lie, something he fabricated to get me to rush around like crazy to prepare for something I'd been ready for. Picking my nose, I sniff it and immediately vomit in my mouth. (I'm a different breed when I first open my eyes in the morning.)
After I've showered and picked my final outfit, I take to brushing my hair in the long Victorian-era mirror on my dresser. Today, I have a personal vendetta for defeating high school and escaping unscathed. Though I'm prepared– I can't help shedding a few tears. It's the last time I'll ever see my friends every day or have underclassmen look up to me. It was a good run. All good things must come to an end, huh?
With that mindset, I gather my items, take a deep breath, and slip into the morning air. After this, I'll be required (by an agreement with my parents) to find a full-time job. It's so I don't have to pay for room and board. Wow, this is the end of easy as I know it. Work awaits, but more than that, so does life.
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I walk the busy halls, dodging kids running to and from their lockers. Loud voices talk over others, and women extravagantly promise each other to make plans over summer break or to text and call every day. The boys gave handshakes and rushed out of the large school. Before long, I spotted my small group of besties. One by one, they pooled out of their last class and into the bustling hallway. The sun reflected eagerly off the windows, casting shadows on them. They glittered like radiant diamonds.
YOU ARE READING
Parasite
Fantasy"You're pregnant." Certainly not the words a lowly highschool girl wants to hear. But what can I do about it? Nothing, absolutely, positively nothing. How do I cope with being pregnant with a parasite? I contemplate ways to die. Hell, that's all I...
