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Youtopia, Ch. 10 |
| Written by retrocious.[/sneh] | |
| Tuesday, 22 April 2008 | |
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Share it:      You know how sometimes, after you’ve had this really nice sleep and you don’t have anything to do that morning, you sort of slowly fade into wakefulness? No alarm clock shrieking in your ear, no blaring radio, just the sound of bluejays and chickadees welcoming you to a new day with the help of nature’s orchestra. And when you’re good and ready, you yawn and stretch your arms– every part of them, right down to the very tips of your thumbs– and rise from the bed like some regal ruler, shaking back your hair and breathing in that scent, that pleasant, indescribable sort of scent, that you know means this day is going to be great, maybe even the greatest. You know, in your heart of hearts, that you’re going to enjoy yourself today, and take nothing for granted, and reach your potential like never before. You just know that today is going to be that day– the day when everything’s going to end up just fine. Well, I almost had one of those mornings. I’m like five seconds away from waking up when a sharp, loud screech forcibly jolts me into reality. Before I can really assess what the hell’s going on, I’m scrambling to hold onto a blanket that’s being jerked away, and through the blur I can see a painted, thin face looking down at me in stark, almost comedic horror. The face belongs to a she– Morgue’s mother, to be precise– and boy, is she angry. Words are flying out of her mouth, breeding on her tongue as quick as rabbits, and I’m not exactly sure how I’m supposed to respond. I’m also not exactly sure why the hell she’s in my bedroom in the first place, or what right she has to be screaming at me. Is it really that offensive that I’m choosing to sleep in for once? Though a cool rush of air keeps harassing my legs, I try to ignore her and drift back into my dreamless sleep by cuddling closer to the mass of warmth besides me. Consequently, the volume of her voice goes through the roof, shattering every mirror in the neighborhood. “What the hell are you two doing?” She’s repeating the phrase over and over, altering the monotony with a curse word or two at times. I still don’t know what she’s talking about– us two? Who’s us? “Hmm, Mom, alright, I’m getting up,” The mass of warmth murmurs– strange, it seems to sound a lot like Morgue– and shifts sides towards me. I almost start screaming, too— what the **** is Morgue doing in my bed? Simultaneously, I start to remember Saturday’s events, and I sit straight up in shock. It dulls, however, when I realize that nothing really happened. I just fell asleep at his house. Mrs. Berkeley’s just this big ball of atomic fury at this point. “Get out of my son’s bed, you pervert!” Her nimble manicured hands are grabbing hold of everything that hasn’t been nailed down in the room, and with a throw worthy of the Olympics she begins to attack me. I obey the command soon enough, and I have hardly enough time to sprint out of the room before she’s tagging right behind me, bellowing out war cries while sending textbooks and office supplies towards the back of my head and anywhere else she can reach. We reach the steps almost in unison, and I’m smart enough to recognize that I’ll get severely damaged by Mrs. Berkeley’s arsenal of household products if I try to walk or run the flight of stairs– but not smart enough to recognize that I’ll also get severely damaged if I jump off the banister down three stories and attempt to land on all fours like a cat. I make contact with the carpeted living room floor with a bone-breaking crash– well, it feels like it, but I’m already up and fast-limping, so it must only be a sprain or something. Morgue’s seemingly insane mother is halfway down the stairs, which means I only have about half a minute before she’s going to breathing down my neck with a machete or whatever angry housewives commit murder with. Maybe a steak knife, I don’t know. With shooting pain, I’m slowly but surely making my way to a small linen closet located in a nearby hallway– and I shut the door behind me right as the banshee comes racing past. My heart’s still racing from the excitement, so instead of risking my life I decide to wait out the storm in this cramped little closet. I have to crouch under jutting shelves but it’s not so bad, and it gives me some time to wax pensive. Of course, the world doesn’t even want to allow me that, as my cell phone begins to make a nuisance of itself almost immediately as I began to adjust to the closet’s thick darkness. With some apprehension, I pick up the call and whisper, “Hello?” Apparently, it’s Em. “Hey, how are you doing? My mom said you took Morgue home...is he okay? Are you guys cool now?”. “I’m still at his house, actually. His mom’s running around trying to murder me.” “Ohmigawd,” She says, laughing as if it’s a joke. “What did you do, call her a ***** too?” I recognize the hint of bitterness in her words, but I let it pass. “No, I fell asleep here and she’s all pissed about it for some reason.” “Oh.” Both the humor and bitterness are gone. “Why...did you sleep there?” “Oh, you know. I didn’t want to, but Morgue kept insisting and ****.” “Oh,” She says again, sounding borderline angry. “He...was insisting?” “Yeah.” I’m getting worried– Em’s acting as if I’ve done something incredibly wrong, and I can’t really understand why. “Yeah, you know, since I guess he thought I was mad at him...liking me, you know. But I guess, in the end, he’s still my friend, right?” “Yeah. So...” I can sense there’s more she wants to say, but she’s holding it back. “Em, what? What’s wrong? You’re acting really weird.” “Well how the **** do you expect me to act?” It’s an unexpected burst of rage on her part, and now I’m even more confused. “What do you mean?” “I can’t believe you, Derek. I mean...I know he’s your best friend, alright? He’s mine, too. And I know you were just trying to make him feel better...but I can’t believe you’d go this far.” Okay, now I really don’t know what she means. “Emma...what are you talking about?” “You know what I’m talking about, you ******* skank! You know!” “Skank...?” This conversation is going absolutely nowhere productive. Em’s being weird and Morgue’s mom is being psycho and....then, just like that, it dawns on me. “You...you think I slept with him?” I ask incredulously. “I don’t think, I know,” She sneers into the phone. “To quote one of my former peers.” “Em...!” I launch into defense mode, but it comes too late– she’s gone, leaving only a dull beeping in her place. Copyright 2008 retrocious.[/sneh] |
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