Notes: This chapter has been revised, mostly some editing in narration style and extra added character background stuff. Nothing super major, haven't killed anyone.

Disclaimer: Everyone here be mine yo.

Chapter One

"Rise and shine, sleepy head!" Mom sing-songed as she brutally tore the curtains open; the flowered fabric parting to let an intense white light inside. The light poured into the room, revealing everything that had, just moments before, been hidden in darkness. My eyes failed to adjust and I tugged the bed sheet over my head.

"Mom!" I wailed in annoyance.

The sheets were ripped from me almost immediately and I felt somewhat embarrassed about mom seeing me curled in the fetal position, wearing flannel pyjamas with cats on. She sat down on the edge of the bed, the light from the window reflecting on her blonde hair, making it shine like a halo. Her hand reached out and she placed it on my forehead, despite the fact that I had attempted to bury myself in a pillow.

Her azure eyes narrowed, "Hmm, not as bad as yesterday." She removed her hand, and looked disapprovingly at the waste bin by my bed; it was overflowing with used tissues. "How did you sleep?" She picked up a few of the tissues off my bedside table and placed them on top of the bin, making it tower at least three inches from the rim. We both watched as a crumpled tissue tumbled onto the floor.

I turned over and laid straight, trying to pull the covers back up to my chest but to no avail. Mom either didn't notice or ignored my struggles. "I woke up a few times, when I first went to sleep."

She nodded as she leaned down, placing the escaped tissue back in the waste-paper basket, "I heard you coughing." She stood up, stroking out any creases that may have formed on her dress and apron. "You don't sound as... nasally." She started to pick up the empty glasses on my bedside table, and eyed the empty cough medicine bottle before picking that up too. "I'll get you some from the store today."

Murmuring a response in agreement, I began to sit up, knowing I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep.

Mom sighed and looked at me, one hand holding the recent occupants of my bedside table, the other resting on her hip, "You're definitely going back to school tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Mom."

She pulled the covers back up, just to my waist, as I propped up my pillows against the headboard and sunk back. "Hungry?"

I fidgeted slightly as I pulled the bed sheet up higher and wrapped my arms around it to keep it there, I glanced at my flicker clock, 6:04am. "Just a bit."

And with that, she left my room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Now, open doors had always irritated me - whether it stemmed from a childhood fear of the closet monster, I wasn't sure – but now I had to get out of bed, I had to close the door. Swinging my legs out from under the covers, my bare feet connected with thick, baby-pink carpet. I looked down for my slippers, finally finding them under the bed, I reached underneath and pulled them out, tucking my feet into them. I stood up, and suddenly needed the toilet.

Pulling myself forward, my whole body began to feel stiff, like I had slept like one of the contortionists I had seen at the circus as a little girl. I walked stiffly down the hall to the bathroom, exactly opposite my own room, and stretched my arms out, hearing my bones crack in satisfaction. I passed my brother's bedroom, whose door was also slightly open, but I doubted he was awake yet. At fourteen he was still struggling to get out of bed in the morning and get ready for school, I think it made my mother grateful, that now he was at highschool, he was partly my responsibility too. If he was going to be late for school, so was I, if some bully stole his lunch money, he'd have to find his big sister and borrow some of hers'. Occasions like that happened too often for me to recollect a particular instance.

I entered the bathroom, overwhelmed by turquoise and linoleum. It was what woke me up completely in the morning. Dad had started to redecorate the bathroom that May, but an important business trip had arisen and we were left with the turquoise tiles, only half chipped away. The pink champagne tiles mom had bought - on sale, she liked to remind us - were still in their boxes, stacked at one end of the bath tub. I had asked why we hadn't just painted over the already existing turquoise tiles, but my parents had given me that whole 'you're-only-sixteen-what-do-you-know-about-decorating?' look.

While I was washing my hands, I glanced at myself in the cabinet mirror, directly over the sink. I, and consequently my hair, hadn't been washed for a week because of the cold, and it clung greasily to my head. My skin had also suffered, it was never completely clear by any means, but the lack of any fresh air for a week had brought out teenage acne at full force. "Damn adolescence," I muttered drying my hands on the plush white towel.

Sometimes I wondered what mom thought of me when I looked like this; she was always beautifully coiffed, manicured and maintained. In all my memories of her she was perfect, the rare times my child-self had seen her without make-up had been strangely disappointing – there was barely a difference between how she looked bare and how she looked after she spent fifteen minutes in front of the vanity. I was always told I had been "such a pretty child" when people saw photos of me before I hit puberty. I hoped it was all just a phase, that I was still growing, and would still change.

I had mom's eyes, but with smatterings of green. It was an unspoken tradition that any of my friends would, at least once a year and usually during slow summer afternoons or an unappetizing cafeteria menu, after staring at me for several minutes ask "Are your eyes blue or green?" in an accusing tone that made it sound like I was changing them purely to perplex everyone. My answer over the years became varied depending on my mood. I was born with white-blonde hair that had gradually gotten darker as I grew older, halting at a murky blonde. The previous summer, I asked mom if I could have hair like hers, platinum blonde, like Marilyn Monroe and Jean Harlow. Dad had given a few sceptical raises of the eyebrow, but never voiced any dislike. He was more of a presence than a direct parent to me, as soon as I'd started to outgrow my childhood toys and training bar, he took a clear step back as a parent, leaving me to the guidance and whims of mom. And mom, being mom, saw the whole mother-daughter trip to the salon as thrilling, frequently joking that we'd be like twins. We weren't. My hair hadn't gone platinum, but a strawberry blonde, with more strawberry than blonde. I didn't mind much, until my natural hair colour started to grow back through and now I was undecided about what to do about the whole thing.

Walking back to my bedroom, I scratched my head in attempt to un-flatten the clinging hair. I would wash it that night in the bath, ready for school tomorrow, and hoped the steam would clear up my skin a little too. Closing the door behind me, I climbed back into bed, kicking off my slippers and pulling the sheet back up to my chest. I felt well enough to go back to school, and I wanted to go, but my head still felt as if it was being compressed. Everything was a bit, well, muddled. I'd gone through my maths textbook the previous day and had struggled to do some of the easier equations, I did not want to go to school if I couldn't concentrate. I told myself I would be better tomorrow, that today I just needed to rest and try and make myself not look like I'd been living in the fryer at the Blue Point Diner for a week.

Mom came back into the room some minutes later while I was fiddling with the knob on my portable radio, Pat Boone was half way through 'Love Letters in the Sand'. I left it on.

A tray was placed on the bed in front of me, brimming with bacon and pancakes, freshly made and covered in butter and syrup.

"I brought you some hot water with lemon," she said while resting a steaming hot mug on my bedside table.

"Did you-" I managed between mouths of crispy bacon and soft pancakes, vaguely aware of syrup running down my chin.

"Yes, I put some sugar in." She ruffled my hair, thankfully not getting caught in the grease-trap that it was, and began to walk out the room.

"Hey, Mom, can you ask Davey to get any work I've missed?" I asked, halfway through a mouthful and wiping my mouth on my sleeve.

"I thought he got you some yesterday?" She'd turned at the doorway and leaned against the frame, her brow furrowed ever-so-slightly at my eating habits.

I swallowed, "Yeah, but I might have missed something important today, I don't want to have to catch up in class tomorrow."

Smiling, "Okay," she left, closing the door completely behind her.

She stayed in my thoughts whilst I ate, the beautiful housewife, Mrs James. She had never looked like a housewife apart from the apron, and the odd times when we'd all go shopping together. She charmed people as if it were as natural as breathing, though her true power only revealed itself when she knew she could get a better deal. Other mothers, particularly from the previous generation, in the neighbourhood had often given mom disconcerting looks, but she'd smile right back and they'd be under her spell within moments. My younger self had had some worries that as my friend's moms had started to grow outwards and wore lighter shades of lipstick, that my own would stand out too much if she didn't follow suit, but worse still would be if she had joined in and started to wear flat shoes and ugly 'mom' dresses. But she stayed constant, keeping up to date on the latest fashions and never scrimping on the time in front of the vanity, she was the jewel amongst the other moms in Castle Rock and I liked to think they lived vicariously through their friendship with her. Sometimes she seemed, and acted, more like a sister, she'd giggle and whisper jokes to me, but then there were times like this, when I'd been home from school for a week and she had taken on the role of 'mom', feeding me, bringing me hot drinks and anxiously rubbing my back when I said I thought I was going to be sick. She was an entirely different species compared to everyone else.

I picked up the mug patterned with daises, the liquid inside was the colour of watery urine. I shrugged and held my breath, I knew I needed to be better for tomorrow. I gulped three times, it tasted just as bad as it looked.

Note: Hello! I wonder if anyone who read this when I first uploaded it has now read the revised version? It's been seven, SEVEN years since I posted anything on here – to the day! Perhaps I planned this along? (I didn't.) I'm contemplating looking for a beta, preferably someone who is awesome regarding grammar and can hassle me for updates – but in a funny-encouraging-abusive-email way.

So much has changed on the site. Woah. Time to investigate and make a cover.