(This is just a brief scene with a character who came to me in the middle of spin class. It isn't really a story yet, but its a start)
Affirmations
Angie started awake when the clock radio clicked on. 7:00 a.m. and the DJs were anouncing the weather for the day. Another day. Another affirmation. "Still alive," she thought as she rolled over and switched off the alarm clock. She settled back down on her side of the bed to savor one last moment of comfort. Her side of the bed. She still thought of it like that even though Bobby's side had had been empty for...How long has it been now?...six months. He had longer than anyone had expected, as sick as he had been. Hell, it was longer than she had expected to have herself. But, here she was, a Monday morning in October and going to be late for class if she didn't get out of bed.
She sat up on the edge of the bed and blinked with bleary eyes into the morning. She stretched, yawned, and felt a tickle in her chest as she over-inflated her lungs. Coughing into her hand she thought to herself, "Easy, girlfriend." Angie slowly reached for her robe and felt along the carpet with her long toes until she found her slippers. Protected now from the autumn chill, she made her way past piles of dirty clothes and books to the bathroom. She clicked on the all the lights, cringed as they stung her eyes, and slammed the switches back down. "Everything in moderation," she thought and turned on only the vanity lights over the mirror. She caught her reflection as she turned towards the toilet. God, she was pale. "We all look that bad this early; you'll look better after your shower." She turned on the water and sat on the toilet. It would take at least five minutes for the water to warm up with the ancient water heater and old pipes of the apartment complex. Plenty of time to sit and reminicse about what a morning person she used to be. Used to be. Before she got sick. "Don't think like that. Remember, you're out of bed. You're going to class. You're getting better. You'll get there."
When the water was warmed up, she slipped off the robe and into the stream of hot water. Angie lathered up her hair and inhaled deeply the steam and shampoo smell. She coughed again and felt phlegm rattle around in her chest. It could have been pneumonia. It was so close. Where would she be now if it had progressed? She felt a momentary panic, a flutter in her stomach. "It didn't go that far. It's just a cold. Everyone gets them. It just takes you longer to get over them. You'll have the cough for a while, but you'll be fine. It doesn't mean anything." She calmed herself and let the hot water run down her back, let the steam clear her head.
The water turned suddenly cold and Angie quickly turned off the faucet. Someone must have started the shower in the neighboring apartment. The super has promised to fix this little problem, but it did keep Angie from losing track of the time while she showered. She dried quickly before she got chilled. A chill could be dangerous. She wasn't strong. Not yet. Angie wrapped herself back in the terry robe and went to the vanity. She took a glass from its customary place next to the toothbrush cup and filled it with water. She picked up her pill case with the days of the week printed on it, opened Monday, and poured pills of various sizes and colors into her hand. She popped them all into her mouth at once and swallowed them with a sip of water. "My morning cocktail," she thought grimly and finished off the water, remembering how much she and Bobby had enjoyed a different variety of cocktails once. But, the alcohol and medicine don't mix, and she didn't have anyone to party with anymore anyway.
Angie brushed her teeth quickly to get the taste of pills out of her mouth.
She picked up her hair brush and drier. It was cold outside, and she couldn't leave with wet hair. She faced the mirror squarely for the first time this morning. A fog from the shower still clung to the surface, obscuring her reflection. Angie frowned and leaned in to wipe away the condensation. She stopped for a moment and pondered her reflection. Distorted as it was, her reflection reminded her of her mother: the annoyed crease between the dark brows and the stubborn set to the jaw. It was her mother's stubborness that had kept her from speaking to Angie for more than three years. Ever since Angie ran off with that American boy. Even when she learned Angie was sick.
"I am my own person." Angie turned the drier on to "hot" and aimed it at the mirror. The fog retreated, revealing Angie's face: dark eyes, black hair, and pale skin just beginning to regain its color. She turned the drier on herself and reveled in the heat. It flushed her cheeks a temporary, healthy pink.
A quick glance at the bathroom clock revealed just how late Angie was now running. She hurried back to the bedroom and dressed in her favorite jeans (now a bit too big for her, but they will fit again soomeday) and her favorite blue sweater. She accesorized with large nickel-plated hoop earrings her mother would loath for being both gaudy and cheap and then painted on red lipstick her mother would hate for the same reason. She shoved the day's books, notebooks, and her essay on Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath" into a well-worn backpack and headed back to the bathroom for the last step in her morning routine before leaving for class.
[i]Every morning she stands in front of the mirror feeling silly, but less so each day. She stares into her own reflection and thinks, "I am going to class today. I will make something of my life." Aloud, with confidence growing each day, she says the affirmation she learned in Group.[/i] "My name is Angelica Isabel De Silva. I am not my disease."
Gender:
Points: 890
Reviews: 51