With a name like Cassandra Howell, I don't deserve the life that I got.
Someone called Cassandra Howell should know people who'd nickname her 'Cassy', and should always be laughing. She should always have something to say, and when she says it -which she will- everyone will laugh. 'Cassy' should have people flock around her. She would never be alone.
At the very least, I should deserve to be a 'Sandra/Sandy', who has a small yet tight-knit group of friends. Because of them, she will never be alone, and once you get through the initial layer of shyness, 'Sandra' will be seen to have a sparkling personality, which is why she is the one her friends want to be around most.
I am, rarely, Cassandra, and that's usually at home. Otherwise I'm just not there.
Sometimes I wonder if I am just an angsty teenager, but I realise that I have been like this ever since I was a child.
My day invariably starts at six a.m., whether it's on school-days, holidays or weekends. I quit setting an alarm when I was ten, as for two years, I had woken up a full thirty minutes before my alarm went off. At six o five, I get out of bed, and shower, then brush my teeth. It's been like this ever since my cousin told me that people who ate before they washed were weird. I don't why I believed him, I think it's due to the fact that I was six, and he was three years older then me.
Of course I dress next. As everything in my wardrobe is pretty much the same, and my mother irons everything before putting them away, all I have to do is pull out one item from the six neatly arranged compartments and wear with care.
I then eat, a meagre breakfast because I am sick otherwise.
Yesterday was a weekend day, and I met the postman as I walked out of the door. There was little mail, as usual. But there is a package for me. I haven't ever gotten a package before, so it provided interesting diversion. I hand the rest of the letters back to the post-man, and carried on. I wasn't really headed anywhere, but my mother believes I am sick-at-heart, and prescribed a daily constitutional, which is really rather dull. I opened up the package as I proceeded along the road, conscientiously folding the boring brown wrapping. I can't stand ripped wrapping paper. Inside is a boring brown box, which I opened. Inside the boring brown box is a ribbon. A red ribbon. Not a small one, lengths and lengths of red ribbon, filling the box almost to the point of overflow. The colour, blossoming on a grey day, in the boring box made me think: maybe tomorrow, I'll try harder.
Today I woke up at six, and washed and dressed, my usual routine. Then I Did My Hair. An activity that deserves every capital letter it gets, because usually I brush'n'go. But today, I had a roll of ribbon. My mother had rolled it up when she found it draped over my bedstead, and placed it in a makeshift drawer labelled 'ribbons'. Upon inspection, there was a piece of card on which something had very clearly been written and then rubbed out again. I had used a pencil to define the words on the card. They read 'To My Neighbour, welcome to the road'... which, of course leaves the question: how do they know my name?
Once I had finished doing my hair, I took a glance in the communal mirror, as I don't own one myself. I am so bedecked, I could be mistaken for a cake. I undo the disaster that my hair became, and instead snipped some ribbon away, and used it to hold my hair back. I feel that a description of me could now rightfully contain the words 'fresh-faced' but I carry on in my morning routine, and leave for school at eight a.m.
At school, I made a conscientious effort to smile nicely at people in my class. It's not that I glare at people, but instead that my facial expression is more morose than most. Probably out of habit. My smiles feel so empty and false, but I persevere, in the hopes that I will be able smile naturally. A mirror in the bathroom showed me that my smile hinted at a sparkling personality. Maybe, at this, my fifth school, I will be a 'Sandra'?
At some point during the day, a bubbling person definately worthy of the name 'Cassy' approaches me.
"Cass... right? You're my new neighbour. Is this the ribbon? I saw you when you moved in on Saterday, and just thought you'd be a red ribbon person. I'm Jess."
Jess was deserving of her name. When Jess spoke, I smiled, and it felt like a smile with something behind it.
I walked home with Jess, and we parted at her doorway. I got a glimpse of her house. It was warm and cosy, and cluttered.
I opened the door to my own depressingly clean house.
Some things will never change.
Someone called Cassandra Howell should know people who'd nickname her 'Cassy', and should always be laughing. She should always have something to say, and when she says it -which she will- everyone will laugh. 'Cassy' should have people flock around her. She would never be alone.
At the very least, I should deserve to be a 'Sandra/Sandy', who has a small yet tight-knit group of friends. Because of them, she will never be alone, and once you get through the initial layer of shyness, 'Sandra' will be seen to have a sparkling personality, which is why she is the one her friends want to be around most.
I am, rarely, Cassandra, and that's usually at home. Otherwise I'm just not there.
Sometimes I wonder if I am just an angsty teenager, but I realise that I have been like this ever since I was a child.
My day invariably starts at six a.m., whether it's on school-days, holidays or weekends. I quit setting an alarm when I was ten, as for two years, I had woken up a full thirty minutes before my alarm went off. At six o five, I get out of bed, and shower, then brush my teeth. It's been like this ever since my cousin told me that people who ate before they washed were weird. I don't why I believed him, I think it's due to the fact that I was six, and he was three years older then me.
Of course I dress next. As everything in my wardrobe is pretty much the same, and my mother irons everything before putting them away, all I have to do is pull out one item from the six neatly arranged compartments and wear with care.
I then eat, a meagre breakfast because I am sick otherwise.
Yesterday was a weekend day, and I met the postman as I walked out of the door. There was little mail, as usual. But there is a package for me. I haven't ever gotten a package before, so it provided interesting diversion. I hand the rest of the letters back to the post-man, and carried on. I wasn't really headed anywhere, but my mother believes I am sick-at-heart, and prescribed a daily constitutional, which is really rather dull. I opened up the package as I proceeded along the road, conscientiously folding the boring brown wrapping. I can't stand ripped wrapping paper. Inside is a boring brown box, which I opened. Inside the boring brown box is a ribbon. A red ribbon. Not a small one, lengths and lengths of red ribbon, filling the box almost to the point of overflow. The colour, blossoming on a grey day, in the boring box made me think: maybe tomorrow, I'll try harder.
Today I woke up at six, and washed and dressed, my usual routine. Then I Did My Hair. An activity that deserves every capital letter it gets, because usually I brush'n'go. But today, I had a roll of ribbon. My mother had rolled it up when she found it draped over my bedstead, and placed it in a makeshift drawer labelled 'ribbons'. Upon inspection, there was a piece of card on which something had very clearly been written and then rubbed out again. I had used a pencil to define the words on the card. They read 'To My Neighbour, welcome to the road'... which, of course leaves the question: how do they know my name?
Once I had finished doing my hair, I took a glance in the communal mirror, as I don't own one myself. I am so bedecked, I could be mistaken for a cake. I undo the disaster that my hair became, and instead snipped some ribbon away, and used it to hold my hair back. I feel that a description of me could now rightfully contain the words 'fresh-faced' but I carry on in my morning routine, and leave for school at eight a.m.
At school, I made a conscientious effort to smile nicely at people in my class. It's not that I glare at people, but instead that my facial expression is more morose than most. Probably out of habit. My smiles feel so empty and false, but I persevere, in the hopes that I will be able smile naturally. A mirror in the bathroom showed me that my smile hinted at a sparkling personality. Maybe, at this, my fifth school, I will be a 'Sandra'?
At some point during the day, a bubbling person definately worthy of the name 'Cassy' approaches me.
"Cass... right? You're my new neighbour. Is this the ribbon? I saw you when you moved in on Saterday, and just thought you'd be a red ribbon person. I'm Jess."
Jess was deserving of her name. When Jess spoke, I smiled, and it felt like a smile with something behind it.
I walked home with Jess, and we parted at her doorway. I got a glimpse of her house. It was warm and cosy, and cluttered.
I opened the door to my own depressingly clean house.
Some things will never change.
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