Sunday, the day when part of the world stops moving — at least in terms of work. Normally it should grant time for rest to all of humanity, and yet not everyone has the chance to enjoy this wonderful privilege.
I think it's a marvelous day: I can watch the sun rise into the sky without needing to go out and reach the cursed building. Said like that it can be quite confusing, so it's better if I repeat it properly. Basically, I've just found another way to say that this is the only day when you don't go to school. Yes, I know very well that some people don't go even on Saturday, but those are lucky people and they have nothing to do with me.
Even so, I don't know if it's my favorite day. Sunday comes before the beginning of a new week, and therefore the beginning of a new temporal torment. This means I can't live it in complete serenity, because I'm worried just by thinking about what tomorrow will be.
So I'd say that, if I had to choose, Saturday would take first place in the ranking. The reason? The morning means torment, but the evening... it's something wonderful. I can decide myself when to go to sleep, without being limited by what little sleep might cause and by how it would affect my attention in class.
Moreover, it's the best day to sleep: getting into your own bed knowing that the next day you don't have to do anything is a sensation I would like to live every single night. In those cases my calm breathing enters into perfect symbiosis with the blankets of my dear bed — obviously in autumn and winter. I don't think it's possible to get under the sheets with the heat there is in summer: I would die drowned by my own sweat.
That being said, I think it's time to enjoy this free time, and what better way to do so than by reading a good book?
I keep them all on the shelf next to my bed, and focusing on it I see that there are lots of interesting titles — too bad I've already read them all.
Buying a book is not very easy: prices are very high and I don't receive any kind of allowance. I can't say that I'm entitled to it — it's not an obligation of my parents to supply me with money to satisfy some whim of mine. Sometimes it happened that I was a little too insistent and I'm ashamed of it, also because parents often feel bad when they can't do certain things for their children.
If you make a quick count, you can notice how many they've bought for me, and they certainly aren't few. But that's only because they are books. If I had asked for sticker packs at the same price, they probably would have told me that they are useless things and that they serve no purpose.
However, this makes me happy: it means that people recognize the importance of reading, even if it only concerns an increase in one's knowledge or imagination. In any case I doubt that the same thing applies when one enters that phantom chapter called "work." There everything stops working and my passion for books loses every single gram of its already creaking value.
Who knows what will become of me...
"Kaede!"
Oh no, I know very well whose voice that is. The clean demon is calling me: the being who feels disgust for every single trace of dust, whether real or only in her head. The entity who would jump in fear at the sight of lizards — I would too, I don't like that kind of animal very much. The one who would throw anything inside the house just to catch me if I ever did something wrong...
If I had to give an example of my situation, I would say that now I have two little beings on my shoulders: on the left the little-angel me, on the right the little-demon me. The good one tells me to stop babbling and follow the voice of the call; the other version instead tells me to continue describing the phantom alpha demon.
If I don't want to die from too much yelling, I'll have to follow the advice of the white wings. I'm sorry, little red one, but this time the straight path wins.
Ah, anyway, I was talking about my mother.
"Mom, what is it?!"
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13.
I think enough seconds have passed to certify the fact that she didn't hear me. To tell the truth, I think instead that she definitely heard my message. It's just that sometimes creators don't answer voluntarily, so you're forced to go to them. I can't confirm this theory, but there's no other explanation: I'm sure I had a loud enough tone of voice. It's worth trying again.
"Mom?"
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
Nothing. Zero. Nada. Better go downstairs before she calls me again.
I get off the bed, abandoning my faithful blanket. I admit that I'm a little worried: usually, when she calls me, all she does is assign me tasks inside the house. Like hanging out the clothes to dry, and when she sees how I did it, she does nothing but complain about their arrangement. I don't understand that.
"Kaede!"
"I'm coming!"
There's one last obstacle to overcome: the stairs. Nothing difficult, even if... being one of the clumsiest people in the entire universe, it has happened many times that I tripped like an idiot. Once, after a fall, a huge yellow spot even appeared on my leg. Because of it I had to put on a strange cream that smelled horrible — thinking about it makes me want to throw up.
At least as for the room she's in, I can't get it wrong: she'll definitely be in our "kitchiving room," that is, the fusion between a kitchen and a living room. Yes, our house isn't that big, even if just mentioning stairs might make you think otherwise.
She didn't even give me time to step into the room that she already spotted me with her hawk eyes — or maybe with her X-ray vision, by now I no longer know how many superpowers moms have.
"Finally you're here. Every time I call you it takes you too long to arrive, you have to be faster, there's no time to waste."
There. And yet I know you do it on purpose, not hearing me when I call you. Admit it.
"What did you want to ask me?"
She gives me no answer: she just takes out a little note from her pocket and hands it to me.
"This is the shopping list, you have to go to the market and buy these things. Go get dressed: the sooner you do it, the better."
"Eh?"
Her words petrify me, as if I had suddenly been hit by a spell or looked into the eyes of a creature of unknown origins. My mother hadn't limited herself to giving me a task inside our home, but had decided to send me scouting into a place I never wanted to explore too much.
"N-you can't do this to me. How can you sacrifice your own daughter with such a difficult task? What if I get kidnapped? Consider that you might never see me again."
I accompany my words by shaking my head several times, all with the goal of making her change her mind. Easier said than done.
She looks at me, ready to reply with the usual words.
"No one ever does anything in this house without me. You and your father would be doomed. In that case I'd like to see what state the house would be in: I'm sure it would become a pigsty."
"We're not that messy..."
"Tell that to all the trash you leave around the house."
Well... sometimes it happens. In a way she keeps a monopoly on management, so every single object has to be where she says, otherwise it's not okay. If I had the chance I would create my own order, but I don't think I'm allowed to. Sometimes finding my own clothes becomes a real challenge with no way out.
"Stop standing there like an idiot and go get ready. I don't need to hear your complaints, I know very well that you don't want to go. But you have to, because you're always locked in the house and you never go out. A bit of fresh air won't hurt you."
She's not completely wrong, and even if it doesn't look like it I appreciate her efforts about my little life outside. But it's not that easy...
"Yes, but... don't you have some other task to offer me? I'll do anything. I can start the washing machine, hang the clothes or take them down. Or also... wash the dishes or vacuum."
"Don't insist, you know I don't like repeating myself."
Deep down I already knew it: once a request is made, nothing will change its fate.
"And if you don't hurry, I'll make you go in your pajamas."
I-in pajamas?! That would be even worse. A humiliation on a large scale — no, on a worldwide scale!
"Okay... I'll go."
After saying this I walk toward the door, ready to reach my room and put on something decent. At least, I hope it is: I don't think I have clothes that can't be targeted by other people's eyes.
"Good. Make sure you don't take too long."
She only puts more pressure on me like this. I can't run: I have to go calmly, without entering panic mode.
From the moment I left the kitchen to the moment I finished getting dressed, I did nothing but think about the terrible obstacle that stands between me and my tranquility.
In the end I decided to wear something simple, far too simple: a normal green tracksuit, made only of a zip-up jacket and a pair of pants. The only decoration was some white stripes on both pieces. Then I put on a light jacket, one of those I've had for a long time. Its color? Electric blue. I like it and it makes me think of the sky darkening when night arrives.
Finally I had to choose between two pairs of shoes: one was new, the other I had had for a while. Obviously I chose the old ones, because the new ones hurt my feet. My mother always says that it's a matter of time, that the foot has to get used to the new shoe.
Another detail: the shoes I chose don't have laces to tie and... this makes things much easier for me. I'm ashamed to say it, but... I don't know how to tie my shoes. There, I said it. I never understood how to do it: I can make small knots, but that damned bow — or bunny — is something impossible. When I see others do it, it seems like they're performing a ninja jutsu or maybe a satanic ritual.
Good. I'm ready.
Even if the closer I get to the door, the more I feel my body weakening. At this moment I am not the exact proof of indelible courage: I am only a cracked shell that follows orders.
Let it be clear: I am not afraid of the world itself, I am not afraid of nature. I am afraid of the change brought by my species, by the conditions imposed by it since its birth.
I take a breath. Okay. I'm here. It's time to go.
I open the door. I cross the threshold. And, before closing it, I catch a glimpse of an eye. My mother's eyeball. I assume she's watching me to see how things are going.
Ah, Mom...