Waking up sucks, I think as I glare at the offending alarm clock. Sleeping in an unfamiliar room sucks. Having to get out of bed sucks. Life sucks.
I don't even remember setting that alarm. No one should have to wake up at seven on a Saturday. No one.
I sit up in bed and rub my eyes, not quite ready to face the day. I hate the room I'm in. Steve said I could decorate it however I want but… I'm not ready to make this home. I only have to stay here on weekends and during the summer. I can still be with dad…. most of the time. I still don't get why she would do this. Anyways, I've hardly even seen her since I've gotten here. In my mind, she doesn't want me here. I think she wanted to show dad up, prove that her life is better without him or something along those lines. Wanting to be in my life is a lie. Everybody lies. I don't like everybody all that well right now.
Well, at least I've got some time to myself. I've always liked sitting in bed. Completely alone. No one is around to tell me who I'm supposed to be, so I can remember who exactly it is I am.
I slump back down. I 'm going to sleep for a three good hours more. It's way too early to be contemplating about life like this. As I said before, waking up early on the weekend is inhuman. It takes a while but I start to feel drowsy. I let my eyes go into lock down just as there's a knock at the door. I flip over and groan into my pillow.
Assuming it's my mom, up bright and early to pester me first thing in the morning, I answer with a irritable ",Come in. It's unlocked."
"Your mother wants you to come down for breakfast."
I shoot up in my bed. That's not my mother's voice. Repeat, that is not my mother's voice. Tis' decidedly masculine. Decidedly conceited . Decidedly Darcy.
"Why the hell are you here?"
Standing in my doorframe is no other than Fitzwilliam Darcy. Yeah, just standing there looking all high and mighty…. in a snide 'you're seriously not ready yet' way. I speak the truth; his appearance depicts someone ready for the morning. At seven fleeping AM. All dressed in his stupid rich people clothes-Darcy looks ready to face life. Unlike me. I can't help but notice he has his dad's curly brown hair, though his isn't as styled as his fathers. He lets all the little curls free to wind and twist. His skin is obnoiziously light as his eyes are green, both a tad bit frightening. He has some serious nerve; standing there looking like Adonis this early in the morning. He also looks kind of pissed, so I can take that as a condolence.
"I kind of live here too. And may I add, before you ever did."
And then, with that signature air of entitlement, he turns on his heal to leave.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
When I finally get the energy to go downstairs, everyone is long gone. That's cool. Have Senor Stick in the Mud wake me up for breakfast only to bail. Real classy ,guys. Real classy.
While fancy, I hate the kitchen. It's not something that really fits into a 'home'. It would be better suited in a five star restaurant. It's cold and calculated. Black granite countertops span the area and match all the grays in the room. Everything is so shiny and perfect, I feel afraid to touch the appliances for fear of leaving fingerprints. It's not warm or homey or welcoming. It's Darcy.
My train of thought crashes when I hear my stomach growl in protest. While I'm here, I may as well grab some breakfast. I'm so tired, It's not even worth raiding the fridge. I'm still half zombie and not ready to try for humanity status. I take a looksey into the breadbox. Toast is about the only thing that sounds mildly appetizing. I mean, when in doubt eat carbs. Carbs are your friend. Carbs understand. Carbs don't wake you up at seven A.M on a weekend.
The breadbox is entirely empty. There is not a slice to be seen. Not a whiff of wheat. I would even settle for a roll of rye (if such a thing is even in existence.) Not even a crumb. It just sits there, all empty and mocking-ish. Stupid breadbox.
"C'mon, even prisoners get bread." I can't keep my complaints to myself. I mean, seriously, you spend countless dollars on a high end kitchen but you can't even manage to keep bread in stock. Normally, this wouldn't piss me off as much as it does. Maybe it's because it's early. Maybe it's because I'm used to dad buying the bread. Maybe it's because I'm here.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
My phone rings and I jump to my feet. The caller ID identifies my best friend in the whole entire word…. Jane. YES! Just like that, life is good again. She's one of those people that radiates happiness. Seriously, Jane walks into the room and people get happy. It's always positive with this chick. I need some positive.
I click the doobly doo on my phone to accept the call. I hear the faint crackle in my ear. I smile and give a grateful greeting to Jane.
"Jane!"
"Hey, Lizzie…."
That little phrase set off a wave of suspension. Jane didn't sound… peppy enough to be Jane.
"You know how I was coming over next weekend?"
Crap. That didn't sound so good. See, my mother wanted me to adjust faster. Make this place home. Still not sure what exactly her intentions were, but nonetheless, she said Jane could spend next weekend with me. I haven't seen Jane for five months. That's like ten years in best friend time. She moved to New York for her dad's new job. Good excuse… but still. I'm not great with making friends and Jane is.
"I can't afford the ticket anymore. The price went way too high and…. My dad still hasn't cemented his position and I don't make enough at the Capt. Clucks to make it down. I'm so sorry, Lizzie. "
"Oh- um. Yeah, it's fine. I mean, I understand. Shit happens right?"
It's with that last sentence that I realize how dejected I sound; so I try to lighten it up.
"I guess I'll just have to describe how horrible Fitzwilliam Darcy is until you can get here….."
And from there on we talk like best friends are supposed to talk. Happy. Laughing. Whining. We don't talk about her visiting anymore. I just tell her all about Darcy and his infuriating self. I tell her about my mom and Steve. I tell her about my huge room. I tell her about the mansion I'm living in. I tell her about how I get lost in it sometimes.
I don't tell her about how completely and utterly miserable I'm feeling.
Authors Note: TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY! I'm officially sixteen. I can drive….. and stuff. Yeah….
I'm done.
But you should totally review.
As a birthday present.
