Something's gotta grieve

It happens on a cold, very cold winter morning. The alarms wakes you up. The radio joins in. You don't look in the window because you know the only thing you're going to see is yourself looking like the walking dead, the black stains round your eyes not quite wiped away yet.

Taking a shower, pick and put on clothes, before you realise it you're halfway through brushing your teeth and finished with you're morning routine, so you pick up your bag and go through the hallway, heading downstairs. Everything's silent. It's 7.20 though, things should be moving. You bounce on your brother's door to wake him. Something's not right.

And then it hits you, like a brick in your face. It's one of those mornings.
Immediately you want to go back to bed. But you don't, 'cause you're such a reasonable kid. You go put on an extra sweater and hiking shoes. As if it would change anything. You sigh and pick up two tangerines for lunch. You eat another one for breakfast. You eat dark chocolate, 'cause you read somewhere that it's full of stuff that makes you happy. Serotonin? Endorphins? Whatever. Bullshit.

Your throat constricts, and you want to cry. You swallow it, though. It makes your chest contract and it hurts like hell, but 7.30 am is not a time to cry. "Just as it's not a time to drink," you think ironically while you look at the fridge where the beers are kept. You snort. As if you would, you're not so crazy about the stuff anyway.

You shout at the rest of the house to 'come down or you gonna be late'. Not that you care, but this is all about keeping up appearances while you live on autopilot, trying hard to keep the bile down.

You load your bicycle in the car. It's freezing and you didn't put your coat on. This time, you have to choke back the waterworks, but you stand your ground. It isn't your first that kind of a morning.

You decide to become a hollow shell, to be sure nothing comes out. You get in again, making a beeline for the radiator. You get your hat, gloves and coat, greet your father and send your brother to put his bike in the car. You marvel at your acting talent, everybody believes you're just not a morning person, and not that you're falling apart on the inside.

You do not say a word during the car ride. You're relieved it's not your mother driving. You borrowed your father silk and wool scarf. It doesn't sit well. Doomed be those mornings.

You're there. You're late. You couldn't care less. Your father unloads the bikes, you brother's first. As he hands you yours, you rasp out a 'Thanks, see you tonight'.

You don't know how he picked up on it. Perhaps your eyes weren't glinting, or your voice was too hollow. Maybe it was the way your gaze averted his or the way your underlip trembled slightly when his hand brushed yours. Maybe your answer was too slow.

Anyway, he cocks his head to the side and asks, worried: "Magali, are you okay?"

And you want so much to say: "No, dad, I'm not okay."

But instead, you give him a wry smile, you grab your bike and ride away.

"I'm late, dad. Have a nice day."