Chapter 1

I wake up like every morning. Hating Mondays. With a sigh I drop my feet onto the glossy, varnished hardwood floor, opening my eyes to take a quick glance at the damn machine that wakes me up every morning.

Along with another long sigh I start to walk to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes on the way. When I look in the mirror I look like the girl from Ring, yes, the goddamned girl from the well ... I close my eyes again as I search for the handle to turn on the shower, I wait for the water to heat up and quickly disappear under the steam.

As I leave, I grab a towel hanging to my right. It's soft and pink, I love my towels. After an embarrassing moment, I shake my head back to reality. I look at the time again and I'm already late, I'm a disaster, as much as I get up early, I'm still late.

- Honey, are you awake ?! - I sigh again at the shrill voice of my mother. She couldn't come over, knock on my bedroom door and check that I was awake, no. He had to wake the grumpy neighbors, again, to her booming voice.

- Yes, mom ... - I say without raising my voice. I clear my throat with annoyance when I remember that my voice is not powerful like my mother's, mine is rather normal and small. Sometimes I doubt whether I myself have spoken or am just thinking.

- You're going to be late! - There is a knock on the door from the street, I know who they are.

My mother has reawakened the Lauren couple with her screams, a picturesque couple who argued all day, unless my mother was there to rip the bad mood out of them. Then they would vent to her and return with a smile from ear to ear to the small flat next door.

I sigh as I return to my room, imagining the scene: my mother, with a careless and vivacious look with a hand rubbing the back of her neck, nervous, but at the same time with some guilt. Like a child who has been discovered red-handed.

And the Lauren's, Mrs. Grace with her curlers on her straight dark hair that temporarily keeps that curly shape, at least until she gets to work, and that ancient nightgown that she thought women still wore. Mr. Lauren, with his hairy belly sticking out of his thirties pajama shirt and his not-so-well-concealed baldness under a brown wig, when his eyebrows were as dark as his belly hairs.

I make the bed in one quick motion, putting the cushions on top in an orderly fashion, none of them can be out of place. I stare at my bed, moving the bear that seems to be too far to the right one last time. Determined to face a new day, I go to the closet, put on one of the panties from my favorite collection, with animal prints, a basic T-shirt and the school uniform.

I go out again to go back to the bathroom and do something about the tangle of hair that doesn't seem to want to stay in place. Fed up, I shake my head, letting the unruly rebellious curls set as they please. At least I have tried. I brush my teeth once, I brush my teeth again. I put on deodorant and cologne.

The mirror gives me a messy, almost ghostly reflection.

I shrug, again, I walk to the kitchen and find my mother in the hall. Her eyes the color of her sea look at me in detail, in the end, she continues with her path without saying anything. But I know what goes through her mind, every day they are the same smiles, the same features.

I follow her in silence and sit at the table. The plate in front of me is full of food, I reach out and take the pill along with a glass of water. I get up under her watchful eye.

- You're not going to have breakfast today either? -Every day she asks me the same thing, for more than eleven years, her look is the same, her words do not change.

I go out and find my father reading the newspaper over a cup of coffee in his untouchable black leather chair. We quickly crossed paths. Still, I can hear his stress-filled sigh from him as his hands go awkwardly to his jacket pocket and pull out another Camel. The sound of the lighter reverberates inside my head.

I grab my backpack and coat, put my shoes on at the entrance, carefully tying the old, threadbare laces. I must buy others for this year, apart from destroyed, they are also small. I leave without looking back.

In the elevator I meet Grace Lauren.

- Good morning, Ailey. - I look at her like always, she gives me a big smile hidden under a ton of red lipstick. - Honey, I understand.

She winks at me as she holds the door to let me pass. Every morning is the same scene, yet every morning her words baffle me. She always says the same: << I understand you. >>

What does she understand?

I know she is crazy, I know she has a very bad mood, but the only thing I do not understand is what she understands. Every morning I go through the same discussion with my own mind, in the end, I come to the same conclusion: I understand that she understands something that I do not understand. And like every morning I go out, with a relentless ion frustration, from the elevator.

I hear her distant farewell as I go through the alleys that will lead me to the main street of the town. I observe the amount of noise that a small town gathers, the motor of the cars, the animated conversations of strangers in my same uniform, dogs barking, shops opening their doors. All of it deafening and annoying.

I put on my headphones, without connecting them to my phone. The silence they provide me is more than enough to calm me down again. I keep walking until I reach the gates of the local Allamand Institute. A small place, for sure, but noisy like himself.

I bow my head, looking at the markings on the floor of the exit in case of emergencies ... it made no sense, if there was a fire ... You wouldn't see the picture on the ground or, most likely, they would all be so scared that they could not see.

I keep walking my way until I come to a polished, white, artificial wood door, almost new. I read the metal sign, attached with cheap stainless steel screws that probably wouldn't last more than a year without turning gray and then green from the humidity of the environment.

I take one of my tissues out of his plastic package, open it and push the door open, several teenagers of my own age give me a quick glance. They continue with their things when they see that no one else entered with me, I walk again until my feet stop in front of a desk in the back to the right of the classroom.

I allow myself to look up to observe the calm, distant and impassive sea, with its persistent dance between the sand and the waves, through the wide classroom window. I decide that later I will go down at lunchtime. Now I leave the black backpack, half open with some loose threads from use and the time it has been with me. I crumple up the paper that is still in my hands and decide to throw it in the trash behind my seat at the end of class.

Afterward, I sit carefully on that wooden chair, open the old backpack and check that my second-hand books for this year are there, intact. I have not missed any. I reach back in and take out my pencil case, it's pink and purple, it's shaped like the cat from Alice in Wonderland. I watch his twisted smile as I remember that it was a gift from my uncles, from when they went to DisneyLand for their 10th wedding birthday.

- Welcome to your first year of the scientific Bachelor, dear students, - I look up again, when has the teacher arrived? I closed my eyes, trying to listen carefully to his words, resigning myself to another year of solitude, peace and tranquility. - I will be in charge of giving you Chemistry this year, those of you who have also chosen Physics as an elective, you will also have me as a teacher, I hope...

Hands flew to cover my ears as the door slammed open, slamming against the metal frame of the blackboard, creating an overwhelming roar. I open my eyes again when a low-pitched, husky voice echoes through the walls.

A boy with a penetrating blue-gray gaze, with unruly and tousled brown hair that falls on his hidden gaze. He leans against the door frame with his hand as he watches each of the students. As if looking for something.

The professor's throat broke his exalted breathing.

- Sorry, I couldn't find the classroom. - I can't stop looking at him, he reminds me to one of those boys who appear on the covers of my mother's model magazines. What is a famous boy doing here? He should be in a city, spending money carelessly, jumping from party to party like flower to flower. - Can I pass?

I see how the teacher points to the desk next to me. I'm not sure if he has seen that one, since the one in front is also empty. My classmates make it a rule not to approach me.

I observe his walk, a powerful step with a lot of presence, he collapses on the desk and seems exhausted, as if he had run to get to school on time. I pay attention again to what Mr. Hales says, I listen to him with more attention than ever, since...

They have returned.

Soothing voices, moved by the gentle breeze of thoughts, returning to haunt me.

I don't want anyone to know, so I close my eyes and block them with all my might, the soft whispering from the classroom doesn't help me. I have to pay attention.