The opinions expressed in this article are the writer’s own and do not reflect the views of Her Campus.
Off the wake, there's an instant tension. The everyday slam of the door becomes a daily routine at this point.
I jerked up from the bed and turned over. At the same time, my feet hit the cold floor as I walked to the bathroom. With the light blinding me, the usual morning pee, the washing and cleansing of the hands, and the gliding and swiping back and forth with the toothbrush to the scorching hot water hitting my body in the shower, not to mention the sweet scent of a mango soap. I feel refreshed.
Wrapping the towel around my body and doing that regular face routine, the cleanser, the toner, the serum, and all that extra shit we have to do in the morning to wash my face. When I finish, I hurry back to the room, unwrap the towel and lotion from head to toe—beginning to get dressed in that same maroon polo, gray skirt, and black mary janes.
Packing up my book bag and other supplies for school, I see the drawings my sister made on that wall when I was 11, and unfortunately, with every swipe of Mr. Clean, those markings never went away; it was on the desk, the table, the chair, the dresser, everywhere. That little girl loves to draw but never cleans up.
I walk into the living room, the aroma of my mom's morning "muffin" in the kitchen and packing lunch. I see my sister in the same spot as always on the couch, waiting for my mom to finish up breakfast so that we can go to school. I sit down on the chair next to the banged-up one and start scrolling through Twitter, cackling at some of the stuff I've seen.
"Always on that damn phone." My mother mumbles, but it's loud enough for me to hear
One glance at my sister, then she glances back at me, and we're both thinking.
"Now the morning has begun."