the art of doing nothing. [open]

Like usual, Cass was not looking forward to socialization. She grabbed all her covers and pillows and made a pile, so she wasn't visible beneath the lump. She was sitting cross-legged beneath the mess, so she could reach the opening where some air could fill her nostrils. Thanks to her petite build, she seemed to be a clump of blankets and pillows opposed to taking a human shape. She wasn't quite sure what she was doing, really, but knew she was feeling bitter - a common feeling for her. She decided to let her memories pour into her thoughts and invade her mind. It took her a minute or so to realize that the back of her mind closeted most of her childhood - and most of her childhood happened to be her taking care of her mother. It wasn't until her mother's death that she realized that the role she took on in life wasn't natural; it wasn't healthy.

Cass frowned and blew a strand of her hair in front of her face, now only hiding - her sadness gone. Exasperated, she fell backwards on the bunk. She was too lazy to get up and be productive - not to mention that she literally could not move.

She felt overheated from the humid air seeping in from the outside, and pushed the covers off herself, all the while falling out of the bunk on her way out. She tripped, slipping on her comforter and flopped back on her bed, feeling bruised, scratched up and sweaty - exhausted.

Today was not a good day.