I woke up at
I woke up at... I think around four or five this morning and I couldn't sleep. All I could think of doing was working on my story, and now that I'm actually working on it, all my brilliant ideas have fled. Marf. Here's a couple lines I know I'm going to use...The old Claire's movements were careful, precise, calculated, a grace ingrained through the discipline of ballet. This grace was a liquid-fire grace native to the plains of Africa; a grace with subconcious strength imbued in each individual tissue of muscle, every little movement clearly screaming "power!" ==I opened my eyes only to quickly shut them again. What evil, sadistic nymph turned the sun on bright? I blindly reached over and pulled loose the cord holding back the thick curtains, immediately plunging my room into a semi-darkness. The sun continued to glow merrily at the bottom of the curtains, the light reflecting slightly off of the white carpet. I slowly opened my scrunched eyes, and surprisingly, the room was as bright as if I had left the curtains open. Looking at my Legolas poster, I was surprised by what I saw. I still saw the serious-faced elf carefully examining his bow, but if I focused hard enough, I could also make out each individual dot making up the picture. Kind of like when you take a magnifying glass to a newspaper comic strip. I sat up, trying to get that information to process. The movement caused a stinging pain in my neck. Reaching up carefully, I felt two scabbed-over puncture wounds on my jugular. "What the hell?" I said aloud, then winced. Ow, too loud... My own voice sounded grating to my ears. What exactly happened at the party last night? I remembered walking away from Rian and sitting by the woods... then that boy appeared. His piercing golden gaze held me paralyzed, hypnotized... His silky voice, warm like velvet, an odd accent... then a whispering voice in my head, and darkness. An icy wave of fear washed over me. Was I drugged? Raped? Experimentally, I prodded my thighs, checking for soreness. None found, I was slightly comforted. Slightly. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand to check what time it was. The red numbers blazed angrily with a demonic gleam, announcing that it was eight-forty. Twenty minutes until work. I stood quickly, surprised at how little effort it seemed to take. Ookay... things are getting just a wee bit freaky. After making my bed, I padded over to my closet. Opening it, I hissed slightly at the bright colours beaming cheerfully at me. The normally pastel blues and pinks seemed exceptionally bright for some reason. I picked out a black turtleneck and slacks, the colour seeming to be the easiest on my eyes, and quickly shut the closet door. Glancing at the clock, I determined that I wouldn't have enough time to take a shower. Mentally grumbling, I dressed and hid my hair under a dark grey berret. I made a mental note to take a pair of sunglasses with me before I left the house. =="I think I'm going crazy," I complained to Patrick. I put my head on my arms and heaved a sigh.He ran a hand through his spiky black, golden tipped hair and glanced at me while preparing a frothe. "You probably are," he teased. "I'm being serious, Patrick," I replied, my voice muffled.He gave the frothe to the waiting customer, rang him up, then sat down at the stool beside me. "The doctor is in," he proclaimed. "Not so loud," I whined pitifully. "Okay, so spill. What is it that has you dressing like a beatnik?""I don't know," I mumbled. "All that I know is that when I woke up, the sun was way too bright, every sound is making my head hurt, all the smells are making me nauseated..." I ended my rant, my face still burrowed in my arms. "Sounds to me like you're hung over," he joked. Trust Patrick to never have a serious answer.