The Second Bit of Boring: Wren

NOTE: This post is about Wren, Hazel and Rosie's daughter, from generation seven. Please skim the last few chapter of generation seven and first few of eight before reading this.

  BRRING! BRRING! The ancient alarm clock began ringing, saving me from the restless coma I referred to as sleep. The haunting nightmares that hadn't visited for a week- eight exact,  if I was feeling painstakingly, aggravatingly precious- were back. I suppose after everything it shouldn't surprise ne, what I saw at night. It still did, though. Every morning I'd look at the small pad of paper and brown mug of pens and think perhaps I should document the nightmares. I never did. The dreams were too commonplace to waste a sheet from the fifty cent notebook.

   I couldn't leave a trace... if they broke in, found something... I couldn't let my mind think of what would happen. The paranoia was lingering, not often, just there. Caution. You were never too cautious, according to them. They don't know I'm here, they don't. If I remembered their rules, I'll be alright. All the thems, theirs, and theys become confusing after too much thought. Luckily, there's no one to tell; no one to spill my thoughts to and confuse.

   I sat up in my bed, the springs poking out through the top of the old, stained mattress. I didn't know who it use to belong to, nor where it came from. It was here when I moved into the trailer. All the furniture was. If it wasn't for my ratty t-shirt I used instead of a real pajama shirt and the sheet, the cold metal spring would be directly touching my back. Not that two layers of thin fabric made it comfortable, just slightly more bearable. Slightly.

   I glanced at the only window in my bedroom and, through a thin layer of dust and pointless shades, saw the thin rays of sunlight that only came from a sun that was present on a clear, cloudless day. Most would be rather joyful that the weather was picture perfect, but after months of sun, I was eager for a storm; a refreshing rainstorm with thunder and lightening that shook City Hall. Was that unreasonable to wish for? I groaned, knowing I'd have to stand up a moment from now, eat breakfast, change into horrid, itchy clothes and stumble off to be a productive member of society

   I wonder if the roof would leak if it rained. Rain would still be nice though. Maybe the yellowed grass would look nicer... maybe it would look alive. BRRING! I stood up, my feet hitting the carpet. The whole trailer was hideous and dirty and I didn't have the time or money to clean it. They do say time is money. I thought to myself. Haha, guess it's true, because I have neither.

    I began dragging my feet to the kitchen, opening the cabinet and pulling out a box of generic Mini Wheats. No wasting an extra dollar and thirty-four cents plus tax on a name and cereal that didn't taste like cardboard that had been coated in a mixture of high fructose corn syrup and powdered milk.   

   What would I do for a real breakfast, from Starbucks? Probably murder someone. A sconce, vanilla or blueberry, and grande hazelnut frappuccino with extra whip blended in and two shots of caramel syrup and java chips was what I wanted. Back before this, before the theys and thems and theirs, the local baristas knew my order by heart... then it happened and I was suddenly away from the place I'd grown up in, the only place I'd ever known, slipped away. I was stuck in this town now. The town that was so small it didn't even have a Starbucks.

   I sat at the table, on the creaky chair that had one leg shorter then the other,and quickly spooned spoonful after spoonful of mush into my mouth. I glanced at the stove's clock, suddenly noticing that it was ahead by seventeen minutes. Or was my alarm ahead? I pulled out my cheap, pay as you go flip phone my employer said I had to have, and saw that it agreed with the oven. Crud. I'm late for work! 

   I tossed my bowl into the sink, as the small amount of milk and cereal that hadn't splashed all over the counter dripped down the drain. I suppose I'll have to deal with a clogged sink later. I rushed to my bedroom, threw on a striped blouse that my employer deemed acceptable and a horrible khaki skirt.

   I worked for a lady who, despite being barely thirty and dressed like a whore, was rather strict about my attire and called pants unladylike. I didn't think her mini skirts and tank tops were exactly what people who used the word unladylike- they were all probably from the nineteenth century- thought was proper.

    I began my trek to work, once I slammed the front door shut and locked it. Why bother locking it? The most valuable thing I own is a pair of twenty dollar heels you got as a holiday bonus and a washing machine. Better safe then sorry, I suppose. It  isn't like I have any money to replace anything if it was damaged or stolen. I didn't own a car; I never had. I would say I was saving my money for one, but the truth was I had no savings. I was living paycheck to paycheck.


   The sun beat down on my face, as I wished for rain. If I arrived to work soaking or with a tan, I would receive a lecture about looking trashy or cheap. I desperately wanted to inform her that she was probably the trashiest out of the two of us, but I needed money. Hopefully she wouldn't be too pissed that I was late.