"RISE AND SHINE! THIS ALARM HAS COMMITMENT ISSUES BUT I'LL KISS YOU IF YOU DON'T WAKE UP!!"
Accompanied by a groan, the owner of that uncanny alarm rolled onto his side and slapped blindly at his nightstand. He was a young male of eighteen years old. Excluding his 180 centimeters height, which was tall for his age, his proportions were quite lackluster. There was a little bit of muscle here and there but his figure could still, ultimately, be described as slim and slender. Almost feminine. Truthfully, he didn't look like he could win in a fight against an arrogant squirrel.
"Shut up… shut up… I'm awake…"
The alarm did not shut up.
"TOO LATE. CONSENT HAS BEEN REVOKED. PREPARE FOR AFFECTION!!"
Elias Crowe's eyes snapped open.
"Nope."
He lunged for the phone with the reflexes of a lazy, orange cat that has grown overly fat because of its owner's love. The alarm cut off mid-sentence, silenced by his thumb with a practiced swipe born of long, bitter experience.
The room fell quiet.
Elias lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, breathing slowly as the remnants of sleep peeled away from him. Pale morning light leaked through the half-drawn curtains. The crooked shadows cast by that light looked like reaching fingers for some strange reason.
Who were they reaching for exactly? He thought briefly before ignoring them.
"Seven thirty already…" he rubbed his eyes. "Am I trying to achieve some kind of record? Coincidence much."
Sitting up, Elias swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold — unpleasantly so — and he hissed softly before planting his feet anyway. If he stayed in bed any longer, he'd start thinking. And thinking, in his experience, always led to remembering.
He ran a hand through his messy shoulder-length hair and reached for the thin silver chain around his neck.
A frown tugged at his lips.
Before he could even open his mouth, he heard the familiar voice of his grandmother.
"Elias! If you're awake and still standing there like a corpse, then come eat before the food gets cold!"
He winced.
"I'm not a corpse!"
She's probably in the kitchen. I wonder what she's making for breakfast.
Thinking that, Elias let out a deep sigh before looking around and grabbing his walking aid.
It was a walking aid that, at first glance, looked deceptively ordinary. Just a slender cane of polished dark wood, but anyone paying closer attention would notice the small absurdities that made it Elias Crowe's walking companion rather unique. The handle was shaped like the head of a raven, carved with enough care that you could almost mistake it for alive. A tiny brass ring around its neck which produced a strange sound everytime it jingled, making him feel somewhat dignified and ridiculous at the same time. The shaft itself was reinforced with a subtle metal core, light enough that he could swing it like a weapon in theory, though he'd never admit it. At the bottom, a rubber tip had been replaced with a bright green, oversized suction cup, perfect for staying upright on slippery floors, utterly useless for combat, and yet somehow completely charming.
It was practical and also a little comical.
Elias tapped it once against the floor, listening to the muffled squelch of suction meeting wood. Satisfied, he slung it under his arm like a gentleman preparing for battle, and shuffled downstairs upon exiting his room.
Squelch! Thwack! The all-familiar sound of his cane hitting the floor echoed with each step despite his efforts.
As expected, it was definitely ridiculous. The sound reminded him of a cartoon character tiptoeing through a haunted mansion, and Elias couldn't help but let a small, bitter smile tug at his lips.
Soon, he arrived at his destination.
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and something faintly sweet.
His grandmother, Martha Crowe, stood at the stove with a wooden spatula clutched in one hand, flipping eggs with the precision of a seasoned general. Her gray hair was tied back in a perfect bun, and despite her petite frame, she exuded an air of authority that could make even a stray cat straighten up in respect.
"Finally decided to move, have we?" she spoke without turning her head. "I was beginning to think the bed had swallowed you whole."
"I'm… awake," Elias muttered, dragging a chair across the floor, which protested with a soft squeak. He lowered himself onto it with exaggerated care, resting the raven-headed cane against the table.
His grandmother finally glanced over her shoulder, eyes sharp as daggers.
"You look like a ghost. Or maybe the ghost is jealous of your sleep schedule. Either way, eat."
Elias lifted his fork and surveyed the plate. Toast slightly darker than intended, two eggs that had managed to escape perfect shape, and a smear of jam like a careless artist's brushstroke.
He raised an eyebrow. "How interesting. Looks… edible..."
"It is edible. That is the limit of my culinary generosity," she said with a satisfied nod. "If you complain, I will personally make sure your next breakfast is slightly less edible."
He smiled crookedly.
"Of course. Your cooking is always the best!"
Martha narrowed her eyes suspicious. "Don't you start flattering me, young man. I know that tone. You're either plotting something, or you're about to ask for an extra pancake."
"Maybe a little of both. Who doesn't like an extra," muttering that nonchalantly, Elias picked up the fork and immediately stabbed at the toast.
Martha shook her head, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh.
"Look at this little brat. You've always had a silver tongue, Elias Crowe. That's probably why your mother and father… well, never could resist your nonsense either."
Elias paused mid-bite as a familiar pang of memory brushed past him. He swallowed quickly and looked back at her, forcing a casual shrug.
"I'm just a humble eater, really. Nothing more."
Martha's eyes softened for a fraction of a second before the sharpness returned.
"Hmph. Humble, he says. Well, humble or not, eat properly. You'll need your strength for today, and don't think I won't notice if you try to sneak out without finishing."
Elias smirked faintly, leaning on his cane as he dug into the eggs.
"Of course, Grandma. Wouldn't dream of upsetting the culinary queen of Crowe Manor."
Martha raised an eyebrow, spatula poised midair.
"Watch it, you brat. Flattery like that can get you burned… literally. I might just drop a little extra spice in your eggs next time."
The young man only chuckled.
He looked outside the window. The morning sun slanted through the bare branches of the garden trees. A light breeze stirred the leaves, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and the distant murmur of voices. People out there, walking along the road, were probably talking about meaningless things like: "what I ate this morning," or "that person I saw the other day was fine as hell," or even snide remarks like, "can you believe he actually wore that?"
Still, everyone had their own story, their own history, their own tangled web of relationships.
Each life shaped by an endless chain of choices and possibilities, invisible to the rest of the world.
Elias wasn't an exception to this either. But...
I wonder… if it weren't for this useless right leg of mine, would I have been able to do that?
Those were the inevitable, recurring worries of an ordinary high school student.