She sits on the bed in her room, neatly tucking her hair behind her ear and looking around. Her legs are tucked up beneath her. Her childhood dances around her. Deep purple walls covered in pictures of past memories. Glow in the dark stars stuck onto the ceiling. Wind chimes circle by the big open window. The cottonwood tree outside her window sways in the wind. White carpet that would normally be covered in clothes remains perfect, untouched. Her bed is made. Her white desk is organized with books stacked where they belong, pencils in the desk, and a clear surface that would ordinarily be covered with paper and mess. On her bedside table a lamp, a teddy bear, a picture of her mother. There in the corner is her guitar. An umbrella stands abandoned in the corner behind her door. Her dresser, covered in stickers and pictures, has all of the drawers closed. For a moment, her world is still. She bites her lip pensively.
Loud footsteps can be heard on the stairs, and a small blonde girl adorned in jewelry and make-up bursts into her room in a storm of 16-year-old motion.
"Anne!" she yells, moving toward her with arms outstretched, "What are you doing? We're going to be late!"
She grabs Anne's hands and pulls her off the bed. "Mom and Dad are like, ready to kill us already," and, glancing around the room, "Wow. Quite a difference when your clothes aren't covering the floor."
Her blue eyes focus on Anne's face. "You know. You should wear some make up. You could really be pretty if you tried more."
She turns and bustles out of the room yelling. "Come on! We have to go."
Sighing, Annemarie Woods smooths the blankets on her bed, picks up the umbrella the fell over with the violent intrusion and places it back in it's corner, and, with one final glance back, quits the room closing the door behind her.