I peak my head out of the quilt with squinting eyes. The curtains are fluttering weakly and the sun is shining through them, giving my room a pale look of Monday morning. Behind them the window is barely cracked and fresh air is streaming through it. The warmth and comfort of my bed makes me want to stay in it all through the day. I enjoy the thought of this scenario for a couple of minutes before I stretch myself and make a dramatic scene out of throwing my quilt off. The cool air surrounds me and I jump out of bed and half run, half tip-toe, from the cold and fresh environment into the warmth and safety of the bathroom.
The shower is warm and comforting, and I enjoy it for all it’s worth before wrapping me in a white, fluffy towel. The mirror is fogged from the damp caused by the warm water, and I stare at my fuzzy and vague reflection.
‘I am happy and safe, as is my family and friends. Thank you for the truth of this.’ The chant is forever etched into my mind although I no longer form these words consciously. Childhood rituals, formed and forced from the first day out of my mother and father’s ultimate power over what would influence my mind, have all led to this one consequence. Is it truth or lies? It does not matter, for whatever the answer to this would be, the sun raises regardless of it.
The fog clears up, and I see myself staring confused back at me. Who are you? Hannah Georges. Who is that? That’s me.
“Hannah? Breakfast is ready! What’s the hold-up?” my mother’s voice is impatient. I dress myself, no longer taking in my surroundings, before skipping down the stairs and into the kitchen where my family is having breakfast. They are in the sort of state you see at most households in the morning, the mix of stress and forced relaxation. They all try to hurry and check the time every minute, while still making an effort to slow down and have a relaxed and comfortable morning ritual with the people they love. My father is reading the paper and drinking his coffee while my older brother is hovering over his shoulder, chewing a sandwich absentmindedly and trying to read at the distance.
“Hannah! Plait my hair?” my nine year old sister, Molly, demands, making it a questioning tone at the end when she realizes her chances of hair-plaiting are better that way.
“Molly, Hannah is late for lectures already,” my mother says, while pouring coffee in a big, red cup and handing me a sandwich. “Are you all right?” she asks, putting the cup in my free hand and looking quizzically at me. I nod, smile and take a sip from my coffee. She looks sceptically at me, but leaves it at that when my brother suddenly storms out of the room.
“What?” she asks, looking at my father. He only hands her the newspaper. Molly and I both pay great attention to my mother’s facial expression as it gets more and more suspicious for every word she reads. We hear the door slam, and knows our brother has gone early to the university, leaving me to go on my own.
“What does it say?” Demands Molly and stares her father down.
“Nothing special, sweetheart,” he says, “are you ready to get going? You don’t want to be late for school.”
“Yes I do.” she retorts promptly.
“No, you don’t, I don’t want to hear you say that, Molly,” my mother snaps.
“Come on, then,” I say, and grab her hand. I rush her into the hallway and hand her jacket over. She gives me a look, and even though I know exactly what she is trying to convey, I simply respond with a confused expression until she gives up and puts her jacket on.
“Off you go, then,” I tell her, and open the door. She is scared, I can tell. She is not scared of going out. She knows nothing will happen to her. It is the safest trip you can imagine, going to school, and she knows that. She is scared of what I was scared of at her age. She is scared of what it is our parents won’t tell us before we have left school, in fear of us telling someone there. But of course, living in our house, you’re bound to know that something is up. You’re bound to know that when the paper makes your older brother storm out of the room and your father pretend as if nothing is wrong, something isn’t right about the world. She knows that we're all being watched. Her school, her home, her friends, her friend's homes. But not who watches, or why.
“Bye,” she says, and goes. In about twenty minutes, she will stand behind her desk, chanting words she doesn’t know the meaning behind and thanking the state for the world she lives in, wondering which world it has replaced.
