AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ONE
JENNA
I am used to the sensation of the sun spilling over the foot of my bed, slowly crawling up to my slumbering face. I have to be out of bed at daybreak, but I’m generally already awake. My body has grown accustomed to the routine my mind has been stuck in for what feels like eternal damnation.
I don’t mean to be so dramatic, but life hasn’t given me the most fulfilling hand as of late, or actually, for a very long time.
I woke with my eyelids glued shut, and I made my way into the bathroom. To have running water, even if it is cold, is a small luxury we have here in Tlouz.
My eyes slowly fluttered open, the only light in the bathroom was from the sunlight seeping in, and I teased the thick wash of flaming red hair flowing down the front of my chest. My eyes are a dim, gray-green shade, and I once considered myself to be rather attractive when that kind of thing interested me.
But that all seemed like decades ago, back when pleasure was commonplace. Now, it is an extravagance I rarely, if ever, give myself permission to indulge in.
Right after I washed my face, I watched the amorous daydreams filter down the drain, and my routine began like a soldier in a military camp proceeding into their day.
It is strict, but it keeps my swirling emotions at bay. I don’t need anything interfering with my duties because, at this point, my responsibilities are crucial to not only my own life but the life of the main person I love, my mother.
I moved into the kitchen to make breakfast. The mornings are tranquil and quiet. The glow of the orange sun is splashing across the floor like a painting. I notice these beautiful scenes because they are so rare in the goings-on of my day. Every now and then, beauty charms me, but in the grand scheme of the day, it only fuels the anger I keep in the depths of my heart and soul.
So is the life of a human on Protheka.
I use products that are naturally grown after decades of nourishing and committed cultivation on behalf of my father from our farm, which is on the outskirts of an orc-controlled village. I think of him thousands of times daily. Theclinkof the metal spoon sitting in the pot of tea is akin to theclankof our plow moving across the fields.
I was once told that grief never goes away and that it lasts a lifetime, so we must get used to the pangs in our hearts that remind us our loved one is gone. I always rejected that notion, a cheap idea of comfort.
I cut up fresh strawberries and blueberries from the garden and stirred the oatmeal made with oats grown by the farmer across the road. Once it is hot and ready, I dish it up, sprinkle flecks of brown sugar on top, drop in the berries, and slide a spoon into each bowl.
I walked toward the room we now refer to as thespare. It was once my father’s, the one he would sleep in when he had to rise early the next day to not disturb my mother. I knocked lightly and opened the door. I feel an ache in my heart that I have managed to ignore.
“Good morning,” I whisper.
The person using my father’s room is my good friend Carmen. She opens her eyes to the sight of me holding her oatmeal, and a sweet smile blooms across her pretty face.
“Mmm, this bed and breakfast has great service,” she quips, her voice husky from sleep.
I chuckle quietly, placing both bowls on the side table. I open the curtains softly, then sit next to her. She stretched while laying on her back, and once she finished, I placed a hand on her thigh.
“What time did you get in last night?” I ask.
Her face turns sour as she sits up, taking the bowl in one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other.
“Before sunrise,” she teases, but when I give her a stern look, she shrugs. “I don’t remember.”
I take my own bowl of oatmeal, the steam swirling in the stream of sunlight running over us, and nod. I don’t push the subject with Carmen. It’s her nature to ignore that painful truth until it manages to dissipate on its own accord. I’ve told her before that is not how life works, but she quickly resorts to her most swiftly applied form of armor … a sardonic wit.
We blow on our meals and have the first few scoops in silence. This is the easiest part of my day.
“Don’t start talking all at once, okay?” Carmen jokes.
I smile, and she grins, holding a good spoonful of oats and fresh strawberries before her mouth. She has a pleasing presence which is enhanced by her intelligence and humor, but she also isn’t one to be messed with. She works as a barmaid at a local tavern and is known for cracking skulls and not taking anyone’s shit.
But that wicked defensiveness does not exist when it comes to her father, who uses alcohol to soothe his woes and takes out his afflictions on Carmen. Hence, her constant presence in my father’s old bedroom.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I feel like I’m moving in a loop these days. Nothing is going well or changing, even. I’m in a rut, and I’d take a good, challenging variation if it means I’m not moving on a conveyor belt anymore.”
Carmen nods, stirring the sugar in her bowl. It is the best way to optimize the taste.
“You've got to get out of the house every now and then, gloomy child,” she told me. “You spend all day working your ass off. Have you ever heard of a break?”
