“She said I wonder when it'll be my day
'Cause I'm not too far from breaking down
All I've got are screams inside
But somehow they come out in a smile
And I'm wondering if I'll always feel this way”

One Less Reason, “A Day to Be Alone”

There goes the alarm again. Staring at the ceiling I listened to the sound of the static as its noise filled my room. I hate that sound. Yet each morning at precisely 7:06 it invades the stillness of my room; the kind of peace and quiet that one can only experience in the early mornings before everyone else is awake. Rolling out of the comfort of my sheets I shuffled across the room to shut the damn thing up. I could probably throw it out; I almost always wake up a few minutes before the alarm goes off anyway, but there’s just something about it that makes me set it each night, knowing that I’ll hear its dreadful noise each morning. It’s a love-hate relationship really.

Moving to the closet I grab running shorts and a tank to throw on. That completed, the shoes are slipped on, the hair pulled back, and the iPod turned on so that the sounds of the rock music I love so much fills my ears and; more importantly, my thoughts.

Leaving the house I started to run. Where I ran wasn’t of importance, nor was how fast I went. Anyone could tell you I made a mediocre runner. No, the running wasn’t the reason why I got up at this ungodly hour. It was because this time of day was so quiet and empty. In the mornings it was just me and my music, and that’s the most peaceful feeling in the world.

I have never really felt many emotions—my parents say I’m a passive person—but when I listen to music I can pretend I am the singer, feeling what he felt when he wrote the song. For the twenty minutes that I run with my music, I can fool myself into being something, someone. Once the run ends the headphones come off and I go back to being me.

◊••◊••◊

“What would you like to order?” Cue the smile.

“Well I’ll have your special, but without cheese, or the pickles, and can I get the sauce on the side?”

“Sure thing.” Picky bastard.

“And I’ll have the garden salad, no dressing please.”

“Alright, it’ll be right up.” Cue another smile. Anorexic bitch. Sighing into the kitchen the orders were repeated to the cook before I forgot them. I was never great at remembering anything, so I usually screwed up at least half of them. It didn’t help that every waitress had to memorize each and every order; the higher ups thought it would make the restaurant unique. I would complain, but seeing that the boss was my mother, I knew better than to invoke her wrath. I was the target of her unpredictable temper enough as it was.

“Chase, you’ve got a party of one on table sixteen; try not to screw this order up please! ” My mother screamed into the kitchen. I love how much faith she has in me. Reiterating the last order to the cook (and praying I got it right) I rushed out of the kitchen.

It was unusual that we got single diners. I don’t know why, but people can’t stand to be alone for two seconds let alone a whole meal. Whenever we did get one, I always served them. After all, it’s easier to remember one order instead of two or three.

“Hi, my name’s Chase I’ll be your server today. What would you like to drink?”

In the two seconds that it took him to answer I measured him up mentally. He was a fairly young man; probably mid-twenties. You could tell he was athletic by his fit-but-not-quite-skinny physique. To go along with his athletic appearance were broad shoulders and a nice tan—he definitely did some heavy labor outside. He was handsome without being pretty or hot. Overall, he was an average guy that wasn’t too bad to look at.

“Uh, yeah just a coke thanks,” Came a smooth, if not a little aloof, reply. Judging by the way he failed to look up from his menu he was either very hungry or rude. Knowing most men; it was probably a mix of both. I walked away shaking my head; there will never be a guy for me, I’m way too damn picky. I jammed the cup against the soda dispenser and continue pondering over my hatred of man. I should write a book. Men: The Inferior Species. Has a nice ring to it.

Every male species that walked in here got the same critical glance; it drove my mother nuts, she’d do anything just to fix me up with a date. I on the other hand am perfectly content being single; from my observations dating just sucks.

“Here you go. You all set to order or do you need some more time?” My voice asks in an annoyingly sweet tone. I hate how the pitch and tone in my voice changes when I talk to customers; its extremely fake sounding.

Apparently he wasn’t bothered by the fake tone for he looked up at me and smiled, “Hey, don’t I know you?”

“Umm...no I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.” I hate when that happens.

“Oh, my bad, you just look very familiar for some reason. Hmm…well I guess I’ll have the cheeseburger and fries.” His brows furrowed as he stared at me. I could pretty much see the wheels turning in his mind. Flashing a quick smile I left the table walking to the kitchen in the back. I could practically feel his eyes searing into my back, or maybe it’s just my wild imagination.

◊••◊••◊

“So I know where I know you from.” His hand reached out to stop me from taking his plate, the smile pretty much took up his whole face. It was almost pathetic how proud he was of himself for figuring out the ‘big mystery’. I for one don’t like to be touched. Removing my hand from under his and taking a step back I waited, not returning his smile. Obviously he noticed for the smile left his face for a more sheepish grin, “Sorry, it was just really bugging me, but anyway, you go to LCC don’t you?”

“Uh yeah I do.” LCC meant Lollswood Community College, the hellish place that was only marginally better than my job here—and that’s only because my mother isn’t there.

“I knew it! You’re in my Statistics class with Mr. Bemis,” That pathetic smile was back on his face again. I was really beginning to hate it.

“Oh, yeah I guess so.” My hand reached out for his plate again. This time he didn’t try to stop me.

“You don’t know me do you.”

“No, sorry, I don’t really pay much attention to anything in that class.” Wanting to end the conversation I carried the plate off to the kitchen. I should probably feel bad for not knowing him, but then again it is a big class and I really don’t pay attention.

◊••◊••◊

Home again, home again, jigidy jig. Flopping down on the hard mattress I lost myself in the ceiling. It really wasn’t that fascinating, painted white it was actually pretty plain. Yet I was too tired to get back up and take a shower, which I desperately needed because I reeked of leftovers. Nothing came to my mind, not thoughts, no feelings; I was alone with only my breathing to keep me company. It was kind of unsettling these moods I got, if you could call them moods. After all people are supposed to feel something, it’s our nature. Sometimes I feel like I’m missing out. Emotions are supposed to make people care about things, without emotions there’s nothing to get attached to.

Sighing once again I forced myself off my bed and concentrated on taking a shower. The best thing to do when you started over-thinking was to keep busy. Thinking can be dangerous, it’s best to avoid looking for answers you won’t find.

I threw on a pair of shorts and a tank, letting the steam slowly escape from the bathroom and flow into the bedroom. For a bedroom it was pretty bare; just a closet, a bed, and a nightstand on the opposite wall of the bed with that annoying alarm clock on top of it. The walls were white, and the floors some type of fake wood. No pictures or posters adorned the wall, no clothes covering the floor; the room was anything but homey. If anything it came off as empty and almost jail-like. Then again, I was never one to spend much time in my room. The only thing it was good for was to sleep.

The same type of bare theme went throughout the whole house. The floors were always cold and hard, no carpets to relax on. The couches were small and hard, the TV almost microscopic and with only ten channels. The kitchen almost never had food, we (that is my mom dad and I) were expected to eat at the restaurant during break. After all, my mother still thought I was going to grow up and inherit the restaurant as she had from her family. All she lived and breathed was her restaurant, and her husband supported her by helping her manage the staff and bookkeeping. They’re not exactly the kind of people that are open to new ideas, particularly when it comes to my future.

Not that I know what I want to do with my life. I’ve been coasting since I was born my mother always scolded. Never committing to anything I floated from one thing to another. One day I’d be a soccer star, the next I’d be a writer, or a vet, or a musician; the truth is I just don’t know what I want. Everything seems so dull and uninteresting. I can’t help feeling that there was something more out there waiting for me, and if I could just figure out what it was maybe I wouldn’t feel so numb anymore.