Read Sign of the cold cottage :: Chapter 01 • Page 04

I rolled out of the bed, walking past my calendar before pausing and retracting my steps. I stopped in front of the calendar, staring at the date written, “2023, how odd, that somehow seems incorrect.” I continued on, leaving the calendar and taking the last few steps out of my room. As I entered the hallway, my heart began to race, though I ignored the odd feeling that came with it, brushing it off as me being hungry. I turned down the hallway and entered the doorframe that led into the dining room and kitchen. When entering the kitchen, I felt a soft breeze as the back door swayed open.

“Good morning, Barley, how did you sleep,” My mother greeted me as she walked into the kitchen through the back door, carrying a basket of eggs.

“Restlessly,” I replied, a slight sense of déjà vu striking me, “I see the chickens are doing well today.”

“Yes, the vet had said they were just being stubborn last week and were likely hiding or eating their eggs.”

“Eating them, does that not strike you as odd?”

“Oh well,” she shrugged it off, weighing the eggs, rinsing them, and placing them in their respective carton. She grabbed three of the larger eggs, breaking them into a frying pan that rested on the stove top. The smell of bacon hit my nose, putting me into a hungry trance for just a moment. “What are your plans for today,” she turned to me with an inquisitive look to her face.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it is Sunday after all, do you not have friends?”

“Ouch,” I dramatically placed my hands onto my chest, falling to the ground.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she rolled her eyes with a laugh, before trailing off, looking over my shoulder.

“What is it,” I stood up quickly, turning around to face what mother was looking at. To my surprise, it was just my father glaring back at her with a sorrowful look on his face. He glanced at me with a nod, I gathered the meaning quickly and went back down the hallway, to my room. I took a seat on my wheeled chair, turning on circles vigorously for a few minutes before becoming bored of that. I stopped abruptly, bending over and sliding open a drawer that contained a few notebooks. Reaching into the drawer, I pulled one of the notebooks labeled with, sketch, and placed it on the desk in front of me. Simultaneously, I kicked the drawer closed with my foot, and grabbed a pencil out of the cylinder holder on the desk.

I began tapping the pencil on the wooden surface, giving myself a moment to think. Before I knew it, I was scribbling on the page, making lines that seemed to correspond with one another. Not even I knew what I was drawing, all I knew was where I wanted the lines to go as I drew them. After a few minutes, I lifted my pencil off the paper and placed it to the side. What was left on the page was not a simplistic drawing that filled my other notebooks, but one of increased talent, almost as if I had practiced for two years but in less than a day.