Author's note: I hope people will think about the working's of a dark mind, of how our society puts a grave... Show full author's note »
AwakeClayton Hewes awoke that morning as he always did, the sound of his alarm clock, set just five minutes past 7:30 (for his stop was last on the bus route), spewing the same old generic pop song he had heard so many times previous. He was not partial to this particular empty sounding hum, though at this point it all sounded the same to him.
But an advantage existed, for it drew him out of bed and into his small marble-sink bathroom. Though it was cluttered, a shower cramped in the corner, each tile well polished. In the mirror, Clayton’s image flew back at him, but crisply, as the mirror also shined with meticulous cleaning. He stared at himself, seeing in the face thrown back at him faintly etchd lines of remorse, tones of embitterment.
A quick brush of the teeth, a splash of water to the face, he left the bathroom. He didn’t feel much like showering today. From the bathroom he proceeded across his tidy, routinely vacuumed carpet to his closet. An assortment of different hangers cascaded an assortment of clothes, like tapestries. Clayton pulled off a light brown shirt, but regretted it upon seeing the obnoxious logo strewn across the front of the tedious fabric. Jaded he became to being a marketing pawn, to wearing essentially the same clothes every day. To being like everyone else. Or more accurately, to be as everyone wanted him to be. All his friends took example of him, those beneath wished they were him.
He couldn’t get away. But why?
The large red digits on his clock glared at him: 7:43. He threw on his brown shirt, faded jeans to go along.
One more rush to the bathroom in wonderment why girls were so fanatic about him. A glance to the mirror and he woefully found out. A strong precise jawline, sandy hair, silky and shiny, the stereotypical light curl lifted up the edges. Any longer and it would look ridiculous.