A story about a girl close to fifteen in age, and her control freak of a mother.... Once it gets going, the story line should be pretty clear.
The bright yellow sun woke me up this morning, filtering in through my blinds, shining in my face. The sun felt awesome, warming up my room and everything in it, including myself. I breathed in the early spring air. It was glorious.
As great as the sun felt though, I buried my face in my pillows again, trying for an extra minute of sleep. It was of no use, as was usual, because not even a second later, I could hear my mom's tennis shoes stomping up the stairs. I glared over at my clock, knowing what I would see. It was only seven in the morning, and it's a Saturday.
I sighed pitifully and further buried my face in my pillows, thinking if I was lucky, they might suffocate me before she opened my door noisily and started talking non-stop.
I heard my door knob rattle, and slowed my angry breathing to what I assumed was my usual sleep breathing, and pretended I was still asleep.
"Marcela, wake up."
I didn't respond.
"Marcela, it's time to wake up," my mom said, shaking my shoulders.
No, it's time for normal, sane people to be in bed, I thought grudgingly. Still I remained indifferent, moving to face the wall slowly, making it look like I was just moving in my sleep.
I'm an incredibly hard sleeper... I could sleep through the end of the world. So my mom wasn't surprised to see that I was as unresponsive as ever.
My mom took a step back and reached up to turn the little black knobby thing on my wall sconce, turning the light on. A bright yellow gleam flooded my room, illuminating my room more than the sun had, only making me want to stay in the dark longer.
About nine minutes later, I was still playing dead until finally, my mom grabbed one of the many semi-full water bottles littering my cluttered floor and unscrewed the cap.
The next thing I knew, I was sitting bolt upright in my bed, soaked to the underwear, and yelling at my mom.
"Get out!" I yelled.
"When you get your feet on the floor." she replied coolly.
I glared at her and touched my bare toe to the carpet.
"There, my foot is on the floor. Now get out of my room," I said in the same cool tone.
I glared at her some more, wondering why I had to be the unlucky child forced to grow up with her.
Finally, I stood up, still glaring at her, and said, "There. I hope you're happy because I certainly am not."
"Yep. I'm happy." And just like that, my mom walked out of my room and back downstairs.
My mom was only an inch taller than me, making her five feet and two inches tall. She had thinning short brown hair and a square face, with a cleft chin. She wasn't fat, but she wasn't skinny. And for as old as she was, which was forty-nine, she hardly had any wrinkles, and hazel-ish brown eyes. She wore glasses, and was, as I'm sure I've mentioned before, a total and complete control freak.
Sometimes... okay, Most of the time, I resented her. She kept me on an incredibly short leash, and the only time I got any freedom was when I was at my dad's house every other weekend. Don't get me wrong, I love her, but I've had far too much of her. Like, five years too much of her.
I decided to try to get around, because I knew that if my mom thought I was asleep again, she'd come marching right back up here, and I did not want that.