Short Stories On Odyssey: Away

The sun sets on yet another day in the same place. My bed squeaks as I crawl under the sheets. The air that occupies the space between my bed and the window is hot and sticky. The open window gave way to nothing but dense air, so I closed it once again. I lay in my bed, throwing the sheets to the side, cursing the warmth that lay over the room like fog. I push my long hair to the side, sweat sticks to my sunburned neck, a bug bite itches furiously on my right leg. An owl calls out in the distance, the moon shines brightly in the sky and I let myself drift far away. Tonight my mind wonders off to the rolling hills of the Italian countryside. The sun on my face, my feet on the cool grass...there I could have a better life, but crossing over an ocean is hard especially when all I’ve ever known exists within a couple of miles of where I currently lay in the darkness. The owl calls out again, and I turn in my bed to watch as it spreads its wings and flies away into the night. I close my eyes wishing I could do the same, but instead of the ability to fly, sleep finds me instead.

The next morning I’m greeted by the same room, the same smells and the same surroundings. I sigh and take my time waking up. The sun peeks in through the window, hitting my face and turning the inside of my eyelids red. I turn my body to face the opposite wall hoping that if I try hard enough I’ll go back to sleep and dream of faraway places. Knowing that I’m too awake to even think about going back to sleep, I lift myself up and leave the comfort of my bed to make breakfast. The smell of morning swirls around the room, and the toaster announces the arrival of nearly burnt toast. The sun throws beams of light onto the kitchen table, butter melting slowly in their wake. A bee flies around the kitchen in search of the strawberry jam I finished yesterday morning. The toast crumbles slightly in my hand as I spread the butter over the dark brown surface. Raising the bread up to my lips I wonder if this toast would taste better if I were sitting on the porch of an Italian villa. I close my eyes, as I chew, and escape to the Tuscan hills. The bee lands on my shoulder. The kettle hisses impatiently on the stove. The gravel driveway outside announces a visitor's arrival. My heart starts to pound.