Creative Writing
The Calling
I opened my dry aching eyes and immediately felt the pounding in my head. With regret on my breath I stumble into my petite bathroom. I go about my normal morning routine, but in a more sluggish way, and put aside the fact that it is three in the afternoon. All I wished to do was crawl back in bed, but I was being forced to attend this youth group at the church down the street. Hating every bit of my life at the moment, I throw on the dress that I secretly shoved in my bag last Thursday at Tj Max. Though the dress was only worth $29.99 and was on the clearance rack for 40%, I still felt some kind of rush getting away with such a thing. Most 15 year old girls didn’t usually wake up with a dreadful hangover and wear clothing neither their parents nor themselves paid for. Then again most 15 year olds don’t date 19 year old guys with scraggily beards. I did though; that was normal for me. This new group of so called “friends” I had. A group far too old for me and introducing me to nearly everything: alcohol, cigarettes, marijuana… the list continues. Though my parents knew of this new group of friends I had in my social circle, I had seemingly convinced them both I was too old for them to talk to parents. Convincing mom and dad there was absolutely nothing to do at my own house that would interest anyone, not even myself. So more and more I began not to show my face, whether it was because I was highly intoxicated, or because I was convinced I was old enough to no longer depend on my parents. This was the first and final adventurous night I would have, after staggering and tripping my way into the house at 4 o’ clock in morning. I was then committed to this youth group; I was already late for this event due to my pressing of snooze seven times on my obnoxious, but strangely addictive, dubstep alarm. Once I combed my beer drenched and bleach damaged hair, caked on my paper white foundation, and drew thick dark lines around my eyelids, I took a step back.
I opened my dry aching eyes and immediately felt the pounding in my head. With regret on my breath I stumble into my petite bathroom. I go about my normal morning routine, but in a more sluggish way, and put aside the fact that it is three in the afternoon. All I wished to do was crawl back in bed, but I was being forced to attend this youth group at the church down the street. Hating every bit of my life at the moment, I throw on the dress that I secretly shoved in my bag last Thursday at Tj Max. Though the dress was only worth $29.99 and was on the clearance rack for 40%, I still felt some kind of rush getting away with such a thing. Most 15 year old girls didn’t usually wake up with a dreadful hangover and wear clothing neither their parents nor themselves paid for. Then again most 15 year olds don’t date 19 year old guys with scraggily beards. I did though; that was normal for me. This new group of so called “friends” I had. A group far too old for me and introducing me to nearly everything: alcohol, cigarettes, marijuana… the list continues. Though my parents knew of this new group of friends I had in my social circle, I had seemingly convinced them both I was too old for them to talk to parents. Convincing mom and dad there was absolutely nothing to do at my own house that would interest anyone, not even myself. So more and more I began not to show my face, whether it was because I was highly intoxicated, or because I was convinced I was old enough to no longer depend on my parents. This was the first and final adventurous night I would have, after staggering and tripping my way into the house at 4 o’ clock in morning. I was then committed to this youth group; I was already late for this event due to my pressing of snooze seven times on my obnoxious, but strangely addictive, dubstep alarm. Once I combed my beer drenched and bleach damaged hair, caked on my paper white foundation, and drew thick dark lines around my eyelids, I took a step back.