Page 6 of Devil’s Torture

Everyone made their choices, including me.

I’ll never find out what happened back then. I’m not even sure I want to know anymore. While taking a few deep breaths, I check the time on my phone and turn off the alarm about to go off. My face scrunches as I stare up at the ceiling.

“This early morning school crap was not in the parenting brochure,” I mutter to myself.

I’m already dreading walking into Dawn’s room. At nine, she hates getting up for school. The girl grumbles like she’s been putting in 40 years at the same job in middle management. It would be impressive if I wasn’t the one dealing with it.

Every single morning.

After forcing myself out of bed, I swing her door open, flip on the light, and chirp, “Good morning. Dawn has officially broken and it’s time she gets up to start the day.”

“Oh my god, Mom,” she groans and pulls her comforter over her head. “I hate hearing that more every day.”

With a smirk on my face, I walk out of her room. I know she hates it and I don’t mind one bit. She can hate it; I’ll keep saying it.

“Time to get up and get ready,” I call back to her. “Are we doing bangs today?”

I don’t get an answer beyond a frustrated growl. I wasn’t expecting one. I’ll be checking in again with her at least three times.

It’s a lovely way to start the day. I get my coffee going before trudging back toward the bedrooms. While biting my lip, I lean against my daughter’s doorframe.

The comforter is now wrapped around her making her a child burrito. Her eyes peek over the edge, barely. If she could kill me, she’d be doing it right now.

“You know,” I remind her, “this happens five days a week.”

“Not every week,” she fires back, deciding to be extremely literal, “not even during the school year.”

The droll look I give her does nothing. It rarely does. But she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“I wouldn’t have to nag you if you’d just get up after the first wake up.” I tap my chin before suggesting, “Or maybe you could get up with your alarm.”

Because she does have one.

“I have to wake up to my alarm,” I remind her. Yes, I’m whining slightly but I don’t care.

I graduated. The fact that I have to get up every day and deal with it all over again is ridiculous.

And the most wonderful thing; because it’s my daughter’s life and I’m here for it.

But mostly ridiculous.

Maybe if she made it a little easier on both of us then I’d feel different. She doesn’t; I’m not holding out much hope for it changing any time soon.

“Did you pick out your outfit last night?” I ask, but I know the answer.

“No,” she starts, “but I have time this morning.”

“Only if you get up and get moving. Don’t forget deodorant.”

She sits up and her brown hair, a few shades lighter than my own, is wild around her head. At the beginning of the school year she decided to try a shorter haircut and bangs for the first time. It’s adorable. And makes her look older than she is.

I love it. I hate it.

“Get moving,” I throw the words over my shoulder again as I head toward my bathroom to take a shower.

Thankfully, I can’t hear whatever she’s muttering once I’m in the bathroom. She’s probably tapping into some voodoo energy of the city. I don’t want anything to do with it.

The moment I’m done and dressed, I poke my head out of my door and call out, “Where are you in the morning routine?”