Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I hit the switch for the lamp on the newly put-together nightstand. The furniture from my apartment looked doll-size here, which meant buying a few pieces, at least for my inner sanctuary of my bedroom and office. I should really get up, clean my toy, maybe throw a towel down, but my tiredness is finally hitting me. No more flipping and flopping around like a fish out of water as I try to get comfortable enough to sleep.
An ear-piercing screech comes from somewhere in my room. My relaxed body is now locked up tight, causing me to bolt upright in my bed. That wasn’t the earlier noises and creaks I heard through the house, definitely not packing paper ripping with the air condition, skating across the mass piles throughout every nook and cranny. There it is again. I keep the light off, grab my cell phone, and gingerly move the sheet and summer quilt I have on my bed for the time being until winter hits and I’ll need my two down-filled duvet inserts in the rich jewel burnt orange-colored. It was a huge splurge for only using it six months out of a year; totally worth it, though. One socked foot hits the floor, then the other, and I try to be light on my feet, worried about the unknown. The softball bat leaning against the wall next to my nightstand is a memento from my high school and co-ed college days. I stand up, the bat resting on my shoulder, and tuck my phone into the front pocket of my pajama shorts. My hand chokes up on the handle, grip tightening. The palm of my hand is sweaty, nerves are hitting me, and I’m second-guessing buying a house and moving to a town that isn’t closer to my parents. Damn being frugal at this point. Maybe I should have bought a more expensive place and been house poor.
“Jesus, Josie Marie, you’re an idiot,” I tell myself when I find the culprit. A damn tree, the Red Oak outside my bedroom window, has a branch, which rubs against the window, creating the scratching noise. My list with this place is going to be never ending, starting with trimming the tree. No way am I going to be able to fall asleep each night with Mr. Red out there attempting to claw its way inside my house. Finally, my rapidly-beating-out-of-my-chest heart returns back to a normal pace. I take a deep breath, drop the bat from my shoulder, and lean it against the windowsill, then I take my phone out of my pocket, knowing going back to sleep is going to be impossible, which means I’m up for the day, and at this ungodly hour, too. My forehead hits the cool glass, wishing upon all wishes sleep would take over my sore and still aching body. I’m to the point that I’d sleep standing up if that helped. Fat chance it will likely happen.
“Time to get to work.” I turn around. A chill skates over my body as my feet shuffle to the wood and fabric chair. I’m ashamed to admit that I have an unhealthy attachment to certain tangible items—my computers, my chair, and what I’m about to pick up. My computers because it’s my bread and butter, the chair, well, it was my mom’s. When I was sick, she’d tuck herself into the chair, put me in her lap, and hum a melody, usually one of her favorite seventies classic rock favorites, and I’d fall asleep. I made her promise to never get rid of it, delegating the chair to my bedroom in my college years when she redecorated the house, and then taking it with me on the few moves I made. It used to be in my apartment office, for whenever I needed to move away from my desktop computer and relax while still somewhat working. Now, it’s back in my bedroom, where it belongs. I’m sure there will be plenty of days and nights I’ll need it when I’m having a rough day. The black zip-up hoodie mocks me from where I draped it along the arm of the chair. Years I’ve been trying to run away from the fact of what Trace and I did in his bathroom, yet without needing so much as a light, I pick it up and bring the fabric to my nose. The scent from the previous owner is gone. Unbeknownst to me, when I ran out of the bathroom, grabbing my jacket on the way out of the front door, I snagged Trace’s jacket instead, and I’ve been holding on to it ever since. The fabric is on the thinner side, having washed and worn it so many times throughout the years in the comfort of my own home, usually while working late into the night or starting in the morning when you’re still warm from getting out of bed. My arms slide into each of the sleeves while my feet glide into my slippers before I finally hit the switch. The light guides my path down the hallway. I open the door to my office, wake up my computer, turn on another light, and then back out. Caffeine in the form of coffee is much needed, especially given the lack of sleep I’m working with. Maybe I can catch a nap later today to make up for my atrocious sleepless night.