Krysta opened her heavy eyes and glanced at the clock to her right. The bright red numbers did little to warm her heart as they read 5.45am, which meant she’d had just 5 hours of sleep, AGAIN. She could have closed her eyes and slept all day if it hadn’t been for the little size fives in ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’ socks, just 3 inches from her face, and the chubby little index finger poking her in the ribs.
Krysta rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. Running them down to the bridge of her nose, she applied pressure to the well-defined cartilage. Her meagre efforts to ease the throbbing headache that threatened to reduce her to a sobbing mess, were futile.
She stared fixedly at the beige jacquard wallpaper that clothed the far wall of her room. The subtlest of smile’s tugged at the faintly wrinkled corners of her mouth as she observed the sunlight dancing with the shadows of the tree branches in an exuberant waltz.
Well, I’ve been procrastinating about this post for a while because let’s face it, talking about ourselves and those who are close to us is always a daunting if not terrifying concept. Telling the story of a total stranger is easy, I simply relay everything they have given me permission to relay, but writing about…