Snippets... sometimes even paragraphs.
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I come out of the shower and head to my room. The house is quiet. Very quiet. I get up the earliest so I can shower first and then sit on my bed for a while. My sheets end up getting wet because I hate having my hair in a towel, but I don't mind.
It's Tuesday. Today's classes start at nine thirty, but the teacher always gets there by nine forty, just about two hours from now. The commute is usually half an hour, twenty minutes if the traffic's good. That leaves one and a half hours for staring at the wall, having breakfast, and getting dressed. As always, spacing out takes first priority.
I sit with my back straight. Posture's important, or so they say. I stare at the wall, painted a dull shade of blue-ish grey. It used to be mustard yellow. I don't particularly like any color over another, so both are fine by me. It's a very good paint job, you can barely see any drippings or missed spots. Dad brought over a church friend to help him out. He was rude and would talk loudly as he ate lunch with us, but no one else seemed to mind, so I said nothing.
A spotless wall is good for appearances, but bad for contemplating. No blemishes to fixate on. A smooth texture not worth running your fingers over. I find myself wishing my eyes would bore a hole in it. I want to scrape at it with a knife, kick it until it caves in and destroys my parents' bedroom wall on the other side as well, but I've been told nothing good ever comes out of violence. It seemed a very hypocritical thing to say, coming from my father, who never hesitates to speak loudly and impose on others, who puffs his chest, always trying to be so much bigger than everyone else... but I suppose we have different definitions of "violence". Nothing good ever comes out of arguing, though.
I look over at my alarm clock. Twenty minutes have passed. I turn on the hair dryer to get started, blowing hot air around my head. I don't actually know if I'm doing it right, but I don't see the problem as long as I don't walk out my room dripping water onto the creaky wooden floors. This particular hair dryer was a secret Santa gift from one of mom's book club lady friends. She seemed really happy about it and threw the old one out, even though it worked perfectly fine, and told me it was no big deal when I mentioned it.
I always dry my hair in my room, even if it means stopping by the bathroom again to return it. It beats being there for longer than necessary. I hate this house, but my room's the most tolerable place in it, even if I can't stay here for long during the day. They're scared I might turn into a shut-in, so I spend most of my day at school, painting my time away, which I can only do thanks to the teachers lending me a spare room. Such a nice, responsible girl, they say.
"Sorry, system's down. Cash only."
Obviously, he knows I'm lying. He raises his head, and then looks down at his feet again almost immediately.
"But, that woman just now... she paid by card, didn't she?"
"Well, it's pretty unstable. Not much I can do about it."
"O-Oh. Okay then."
I don't bother trying to stop the grin that forms on my face as his hand trembles, hovering over mine. I hold it tightly, too tightly and certainly far too long for him to ignore and brush off as something casual.
As always, he pretends nothing's wrong, glancing over to the side shyly.
But it's okay, I get it. I can tell he's scared.
I will drag it out of him one day, though. I will terrorize him until he can no longer run from it.