It was cold, and I mean cold. My house is always under 60 degrees, even in the dead of winter, because my dad refuses to let us turn up the heat. “It costs money,” he asserts. It didn’t bother me, though. While my mom was running around preparing for Christmas Eve dinner, and my sister was busy talking to her friend on the phone, I was still in bed. My eyes glazed over the dusty blue walls, the rusting trophies, and the dark floor. None of it matters, I told myself.
I’d been like this for awhile, and I knew the name of it. I wouldn’t dare say it, though. Then it would be real. That’s silly, I said, Of course it’s real. It couldn’t be more real. There were a million reasons why I was depressed, but I neither had the energy nor the desire to figure out which one was the main culprit. My sister yelled from downstairs, imploring me to be helpful. I knew I wasn’t actually needed, she cared about flaunting her helpful nature over my supposedly selfish nature. She screamed a second time.
I rolled out of bed, not caring about where the linens fell. I trudged to the mirror and looked. I looked past the grime of hardened makeup on the edges of the mirror and past the flecks of gold in my eyes. It took another screech from my sister to pull me from the trance.
A year later, my cat, by opening my bedroom door, woke me up. I laughed and turned on my phone, nearly blinding myself in the process. “What are you doing in here? I thought I let you outside last night,” I questioned my cat. Once she got a kiss on the head she sauntered out, hoping I’d follow. I shook my head, walked over to the mirror, and picked up a brush. The blue walls surrounding me were a little lighter. After brushing my hair I searched for my mascara, it was always getting lost. The trophies to my back were still a little rusty-that was irreversible-but shone in certain spots. With my hair in place and my mascara on, I opened up my door, letting the hall light shine in.