Springing to Hatred

I’ve never enjoyed the Spring all that much, to be completely honest. The haze of yellow pollen, the allergies poisoning the children, the cleaning. I never had much of an intent to do anything in the spring. Hell, I still don’t. Spring was the season of chaos. It’s always been that way for me. People like to think I hate it for this reason and that reason. I don't hate it for this reason or that reason. I hate spring because spring decided, one day, that it hated me back. I'm perfectly fine with that decision, really. Why would I need it to like me, anyway? I've got enough self-respect to tell myself that it's not worth it to try and make friends with everyone.

I sat on the barstool in front of my marbled kitchen counter. It was the first day of spring. Dreadful, horrible, no good spring. As much as I hate spring, I told myself that I'd do it today. I promised myself that I wouldn't take no as an answer. Not from myself, not from myself, and definitely not from myself. My eyes slowly dragged over to the clock hanging on my wall, innocently ticking and tocking. Innocently counting down to the time I promised myself that I'd do it. Tick-tock, he laughed at me, making me seethe. That horrid clock. He liked to torment me often. My teeth ground together as I rose from my seat, the screeching of my chair ricocheting in my ears.

I walked away from the kitchen, slumped over in defeat. I wallowed in my failure, wallowed in my blinding rage, in my hatred for the damned season. It wasn't like me to wallow, mind you, I'm a very proud person. Spring just got to me in ways that no person could ever. As I sulked, the grandfather clock in my hallway chimed. I looked over; 10 o'clock. I would have to get to work soon.

I thudded up my stairs, making sure to mumble obscenities under my breath every couple of seconds. Curse spring. Stupid, stupid spring. I felt my spirit crash and burn, my motivation crumbling apart before my exhausted eyes.

Sighing, I threw open my bedroom door with violent intent, sending waves of pain through my hand. I ignored the sting and flopped on my messy bed, eager to let go of the sorrowful feeling in the pit of my empty stomach. Shoot, I thought to myself, I forgot to eat breakfast. I laid my head on my pillow, feeling my problems melt away then and there. I could eat later. If I could just sleep a little longer. Let my eyes flutter closed for just a second. Just for a minute. I could get back up.

I snapped my eyes open, the sunlight illuminating my room and my face. It seemed a bit different from when I first entered the room. Panicking, I checked my phone, the time reading 11:37. Crap. I slept way longer than I meant to. Forcing myself out of my alluring prison, I slinked out from the black covers and stood. I stretched my arms up and cracked my back, scratching my chin. I had exactly 23 minutes before I had to do it. Before I had to admit defeat and hand over my crown on a platter made of my own tears.

Exiting the room, my body felt heavier. This was probably a sign of getting lazier. I was too lazy to care, though. Thumping back down the stairway, I made sure to linger a bit too long halfway down.

With my expedition down the stairs complete, I headed for the kitchen. I had my heart set on late breakfast, my regular routine if I'm honest. I made it slowly to the big room, my attention mooning as I did. I immediately gawked at my counters as I entered, feeling stupid for doing so. I always stared at them when I came in. I was proud of them. I'm not sure why I was, but I was.

I looked at my cabinets, my stomach growling. I was so hungry. When was the last time I ate? As I made my way over to the food, I spotted the taunting clock out of the corner of my eye. I wasn't so hungry anymore.

Walking out of my kitchen, I checked my phone. 11:57. "No, no, no," I whispered, my eyes widening. It couldn't be that soon. Not 3 minutes. "If only I could stop time," I wished, hoping something would hear my plea. No one did. With a shaky breath, I set off.

I didn't want to do this. Spring did this to me every year, but I have to do something about it this time. Damn spring. What's it done for me? Make me sneeze, sure, but what good has it done? I don't care about some stupid grass and flowers.

The clock chimed. It was time. 12 o'clock. Noon. I walked hesitantly down my hall, twiddling my thumbs anxiously. My eyes tried desperately to avoid the cream-colored door that was so close, yet so far. I reached the door after an eternity (maybe a minute or two) and turned the knob.

The door creaked open and I shuddered in fear. I leaned down, picking up bottles of surface and window cleaner. I snapped a mask over my face, tying my long, black hair into a ponytail.

"Alright," my muffled voice announced, "let's get to it."