Lyra.
Chapter One
“Honey, I’m off to work, do you need me to drive you to school?” My mother called down from the kitchen, loud enough to wake me. Oh god, I had completely forgotten that winter break ended today.
“No, I think I’ll be okay, but thanks anyway!” I called, trying my best to sound awake, when really I was the complete opposite. I tore my sheets off of my bed, goosebumps rising on my skin as my body became exposed to the cold air.
“Sh/t, sh/t, sh/t,” I mumbled to myself as I rushed to get dressed. The first bell would ring in fifteen minutes, and with a twenty minute ride to school, I was destined to be late. Oh well, I might as well take my time getting ready, then.
My feet sank deep into the plush carpet covering my bedroom floor as I approached my closet. I pulled open the glass doors, exposing myself to racks and racks of designer clothes, handbags, and shoes. All paid for with my own money, believe it or not. Most of my friends are blessed with luxuries that could only be rewarded to the finest American families; allowances of hundreds of dollars a week and maids to tend to your every whim are the types of things you can expect only from sons and daughters of stockbrokers, prestige lawyers, and top-notch surgeons.
I, on the other hand, am the only daughter of an entrepreneur and a housewife, unwillingly roped into a business that has barely taken off. Money is no foreign object to us, but we save as much as we can. With my 18 hours a week spent waitressing at Nigel’s local bar, as well as my father’s steady, self-supplied income, we manage to pay the bills on our 13,000 square foot home, for no reason other than to keep up appearances.
Pulling a slouchy, teal colored top off of a hangar and a pair of acid washed skinny jeans from my bottom dresser drawer, I examined my appearance in the mirror. My brown hair was not up to standards; the shine was practically gone, and it hung limply at my shoulders. Other than that, and the lack of makeup on my face, I looked good.
Grabbing a pair of black booties from the floor of my closet and attaching my signature silver bangles to my thin wrist, I walked across the hall to my bathroom, where I stored all of my makeup and hair supplies.
The fluorescent lights of the bathroom pointed out each of my flaws, and suddenly I felt small, like I was placed under a microscope. Blue eyes stared back at me through the mirror, examining my every move, as I splashed cold water on my face. I noticed the crack in the bottom left corner of the mirror, the one I had made so many years ago while trying to put on makeup, trying to be beautiful like my mother was.
As I repeated those same actions, applying layers of foundation, powder, and blush to my face until I could barely recognize myself, I fought back tears. Things weren’t the way they used to be, and they never would be. All of the work I had put myself through to become the person that I had always wanted to be, it really wasn’t worth it.
It was times like these that I found myself wishing that I could disappear, but it wasn’t possible. Not if you were Lyra Burnham.
Not if you were me.
Chapter One
“Honey, I’m off to work, do you need me to drive you to school?” My mother called down from the kitchen, loud enough to wake me. Oh god, I had completely forgotten that winter break ended today.
“No, I think I’ll be okay, but thanks anyway!” I called, trying my best to sound awake, when really I was the complete opposite. I tore my sheets off of my bed, goosebumps rising on my skin as my body became exposed to the cold air.
“Sh/t, sh/t, sh/t,” I mumbled to myself as I rushed to get dressed. The first bell would ring in fifteen minutes, and with a twenty minute ride to school, I was destined to be late. Oh well, I might as well take my time getting ready, then.
My feet sank deep into the plush carpet covering my bedroom floor as I approached my closet. I pulled open the glass doors, exposing myself to racks and racks of designer clothes, handbags, and shoes. All paid for with my own money, believe it or not. Most of my friends are blessed with luxuries that could only be rewarded to the finest American families; allowances of hundreds of dollars a week and maids to tend to your every whim are the types of things you can expect only from sons and daughters of stockbrokers, prestige lawyers, and top-notch surgeons.
I, on the other hand, am the only daughter of an entrepreneur and a housewife, unwillingly roped into a business that has barely taken off. Money is no foreign object to us, but we save as much as we can. With my 18 hours a week spent waitressing at Nigel’s local bar, as well as my father’s steady, self-supplied income, we manage to pay the bills on our 13,000 square foot home, for no reason other than to keep up appearances.
Pulling a slouchy, teal colored top off of a hangar and a pair of acid washed skinny jeans from my bottom dresser drawer, I examined my appearance in the mirror. My brown hair was not up to standards; the shine was practically gone, and it hung limply at my shoulders. Other than that, and the lack of makeup on my face, I looked good.
Grabbing a pair of black booties from the floor of my closet and attaching my signature silver bangles to my thin wrist, I walked across the hall to my bathroom, where I stored all of my makeup and hair supplies.
The fluorescent lights of the bathroom pointed out each of my flaws, and suddenly I felt small, like I was placed under a microscope. Blue eyes stared back at me through the mirror, examining my every move, as I splashed cold water on my face. I noticed the crack in the bottom left corner of the mirror, the one I had made so many years ago while trying to put on makeup, trying to be beautiful like my mother was.
As I repeated those same actions, applying layers of foundation, powder, and blush to my face until I could barely recognize myself, I fought back tears. Things weren’t the way they used to be, and they never would be. All of the work I had put myself through to become the person that I had always wanted to be, it really wasn’t worth it.
It was times like these that I found myself wishing that I could disappear, but it wasn’t possible. Not if you were Lyra Burnham.
Not if you were me.
Share
Post to Facebook
Tweet on TwitterBe the first to comment on this quote.
5 Wittians like this
