Not Exactly Poetry But C/C Are Still Appreciated. Please..?

[mymelancholysoul]

Three. Two. One. 6:00 am. The radio plays a tune; one that everyone is sure to know but me. My hand calmly reaches accross the floral print bedside table, past a stale glass of water, fingers sliding the alarm bar to off. Jean covered legs swing over the side of a perfectly made bed, crossing at the ankles. I wasn't tired anyway.

Down the hall feet patter rapidly over solid wood floors. A door slams and she screams for mother. Cody made it there first again. Sylvia swears up and down that she needs the bathroom far more than he. I once tried explaining to her that by being last, she would get more time. Her little nose wrinkled as the heel of her foot dug into my toes. So much for sisterly love.

But what would I know about what its like to be last? I'm always first in the bathroom. Of course, I'm first for everything. The first to wake up, the first to shower, the first out the door, the first to my homeroom. I was even the first born. I blame my parents making me their first child as my reasoning as to why I'm first for everything iny my life.

My backside slides off the edge of the purple colored comforter, hands folding neatly in front. Both wet braids slam into my fallen shoulder blades as I stand as if attention. I can hear mother opening the cabinets downstairs to start breakfast as the hot water causes a steel kettle to scream for mercy. The whole house has come alive and its on six o' eight in the morning. I leave my dark hollow; red bag slung over one shoulder as I head toward the dimly lit stairwell. Sylvia has her back propped against the wall accross from the bathroom. Every so often, she slides forward and slams a barefoot into the door. Cody yells and the lock cringes with fear. Her baby blues send me a dark glare as I begin my descend into reality.

Shes breathtaking in the morning when sitting at our kitchen table. Beams of lemonade splash through the stained glass windows, painting my mother a masterpiece. Every strand of her perfect strawberry blond hair is pinned back into a butterfly clip. She sips tea from a coffee mug while reading the daily happenings of our timid town. One leg is propped over the other at the knees and it moves to the beat the radio plays. A lose fitting robe matches the same ice color of her gentle eyes; eyes that don't even realize someone is watching. She laughs gently, taking another sip of Earl Grey, turning the page of her paper. I take a slow step forward into my mothers light, wanting to take in more of her radiance. But the soft creaking of my dreary black shoes on the white floor causes the beauty which pulsates from my mother to face. One foot pushes out a chair accross from where she sits, offering me to join her. I accept and place my bag on the table next to a cup of juice. She stares at me with now disapproving eyes. I look up from my soggy oatmeal, not needing to utter a word.

"Elizabeth, why don't you do something with your hair for a change?" She says that every morning because every morning my hair is always braided. You see, I wasn't blessed with my mothers soft locks of blond beauty. In fact, if you compare my appearance to hers, Cody's, or Sylvia's I look like a complete stranger. My ratty birds nest is the color of coal from a West Virginia mine. Dull brown orbs seem to fall in sync with my abnormally pale and pasty flesh. Compared to everyone else, I look to have been adopted. I inherited my "fathers" drab physical appearance. I call him my "father" because no one one the face of the earth has seen or heard from him in seventeen years; since I was born. Richard was the closest thing to a father I have ever had. Unlike my own anonymous sperm donor, Richard stuck around to raise his offspring. He died three years ago. Sylvia and Cody were devastated; being only eleven and nine at the time. The four of us stayed in the same house, unlike those families on TV that leave their whole life behind when a loved one dies. Unlike them, we do not need to skip town to realize life was much better but does go on after that person is gone. And also unlike those sitcom families, our pain did not end within two hours.

Before I can answer, or even think of opening my mouth, Cody comes barreling into the kitchen. Hair gel drips from his ear into a cup of milk. Both mother and I cringe before she climbs down from her chair to stand next to the full-of-life Cody who can't seem to sit still to save his life. He pours that same milk over a bowl of sugar-loaded cereal. My mothers gentle hands comb through her princes short honey colored hair, helping it spike up. Our lives, since Richard's death, had become nothing but routine. Every morning was filled with the same simple tasks; followed in a mind numbing order. Changing how things were done did nothing but through everyone else into complete chaos and I had given up on trying to make things different.

 

Its the first part to the first chapter of something I'm working on. Please be honest in your replies.

[kskm]

Keep going, but don't get too caught up in the descriptions of everything surrounding you.