A Day In My Life

The entirely fictional account of the day that changed Allie Hirston's life.

I'm sorry if it's crap or long-winded. I hate writing first person.

Chapter One 6:20

Waking up is never the easiest thing to do on a Monday morning, as the Bangles will attest; It's just another Manic Monday. But the persistent blaring of my alarm clock encourages me to roll out from under the covers and crawl across my bedroom, which is no easy feat, I tell you! I may always get my homework and coursework finished long before the deadlines are even beginning to loom up like the psycho man that chases you with an axe in your nightmares, and I always get to school on time and I appear fairly well organised, but my room is a tip within a tip. I have an adverse reaction to tidying after myself. Always thinking, "I may need that book later, so why bother putting it back on the shelf." And even with a school uniform I still have to try on different shirts and trousers until I find some I'm comfortable wearing.

It makes for a dangerous journey across my room. I suppose I could always get up and walk, but that's just me. I can never figure my alarm clock out, the button that's supposed to stop that aggravating cacophony of beeps and whizzes never worked, so I just smack against the wall. It works, okay!

It's 6:20, and school doesn't start until 8:30, so it gives enough time to be preoccupied with my current situation before heading to school. Get it all out my system.

I hurry downstairs, my first port of call being the refrigerator, which... has nothing in it. I don't know what I expect. I do the same things every day, check the fridge, check the garage, check my parent's room. But there's never a sign that they've come back.

I head out side, gasping as the cold wind penetrates the thin cotton of my nightie, and I hurry side of the garage, wrenching the door open to find... no car. I'm better prepared for this revelation, and I have a back-up reason for heading to the garage anyway. The second fridge, dad's fridge, where he kept his alcohol... Oops; past tense rule. I mean, he keeps his alcohol in the fridge. Of course, there is significantly less than when he left, because every morning, I nick a can. This morning is no different.

Heading back into the house is like walking from the Arctic into the Caribbean, or so I would imagine. I always have the heating on high; it just makes me feel better. I take the stairs two at a time, and take the left at the landing instead of straight ahead, which is my room. The first door is the spare room, filled with old toys and instruments and everything dad begged my mum to throw away. I like to sit in there sometimes, just to see everything they collected over their time spent together. It must be wonderful, finding someone you want to spend your entire life with.

Their room is the second door. I already know they're not in it as I push the door open and peer around the dark room. The entire place is like a shrine now. It took me a while, but I dug out all the photos I could find of them, or us, of friends and family, and I pinned them up on the wall. I pinned up my mum's jewellery, and her favourite pieces of art. She was a lovely painter.

I can jump onto their bed; they're not exactly around to tell me off. I get comfy, cross my legs, lean back against the head board, and crack open the can of beer. Maybe it would be a depressing sight, a 16 years old sitting alone in the darkened room of her parent's empty bedroom, sipping a beer and staring sightlessly at the hundreds of picture that line the walls.