Seven o'clock not quite sharp. A feminine voice cruelly singing me out of my dream.
I silenced her quickly, opened my eyes and looked around me, then unburied myself from sleep's sweet and warm grave. It was very dark, very cold and very silent. I peeled off my nightie, put on a gown and rustled through the bead curtain. Then creak creak creak I went down the stairs, still not quite alive, a shivering zombie of the night longing for the grave.
The switch of the bathroom light was outside the door. I touched it and a thin line of cruel light stung my eyes. When I opened the bathroom door it attacked me fully and I had to close my eyes against it. Half-dead still, I could not bear the light.
The water of the shower couldn't be hot enough for me. I felt so rotten and tired, having been dragged out of my sweet sleep so rudely, that I stood too long and had to endure my mother shouting 'Enough!' even though I had sworn to always turn off the shower before she did so.
To take revenge I had another minute of hot water, then staggered out of the cell. Still not fully alive, though my head had cleared up by now. The light didn't hurt me anymore. Creak creak creak on every stair back to my attic room, banging on my sister's door as I passed by, being asked to. I went into my room, put in my contacts, dressed and packed my bag for school. Down the stairs again, the other zombies now also having risen from their easy graves.
The table was laid for everyone at once, but as always we took breakfast in turns. The same with tooth-brushing, hair-brushing, putting on shoes and going to school.
I felt good now. School's always been a lovely place, for all the beautiful people roaming around in the proud hall and narrow passageways, and the busy spirits of knowledge that haunt every classroom. I loved it. I loved being given knowledge by people who really used it and pushed me to work hard and do my utmost best. I never did, though. It was not my habit to work really hard. Well, not always. Sometimes I did. But not often, oh no.
It was the people really, not so much the grown-ups as the growing-ups, and then mainly the fifth- and sixth-graders that interested me. The latter were my friends and classmates and some of the former were - well, I couldn't really call them soul mates but I secretly wished they were, because O, such beautiful spirits, full of life and colour and talent. So admirable and interesting.
Yes, it was worth it, really. Dying into a lovely safe death every day late at night, living in a heaven or hell of dreams, and having myself sung back to life every morning at seven o'clock not quite sharp, a grumbling zombie of the night, a scholar to be.
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Eat jazz, drink sunshine, listen to honey, talk to tea
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