With heavy steps, she tottered to the kitchen, turned the kettle on and waited outside for the water to be boiled. Her eyes closed and suddenly, she was lost in a line of thoughts that mingled with incomprehensible short dreams. The sound of the whistling steam stopping abruptly woke her up. She poured the water into her favorite cup and added a packet of coffee and sugar.
Holding the cup in her hand, now more awake, she headed back for her room. The world was still sinking in darkness. In fact, the sunrise was two hours away. And that was exactly what woke her up quite so early. She put the cup on the table next to her bed, and snatched the novel lying on the same table. Reading a few lines, she realized that was not the thing she wanted to do. She closed the book and returned it back to its place.
She opened the window above her bed and lied on her back while contemplating the stars. Once again she was lost in her line of thought utterly unaware of anything happening outside.
The abrupt sound of the door flung open made her heart skip a beat as she tilted her head quite as quickly to see who it was. A shudder ran through her body as she saw her mother darting flaringly towards the opened window. She covered herself with the quilts as a reflex reaction but knew that would only make things worse. With shaking voice she blurted, “I didn’t sleep like that, I’ve just opened it.” Her mother, still furious said, “You stupid thing! How many times do I have to tell you, you are not allowed to open the window after 5 p.m!” She covered her eyes for as long as two minutes after the window was closed, then slowly looked through the cracks between her fingers to find her mum still glaring at her. Now she was gone.
She didn’t cry, nor did she hate her mother. She rather laughed sardonically at how ironic things can get. She, of all people, had to adore the night air so much that she would happily endure doing stunts like that on a daily basis. She, who almost annually was thrown into furious fits of coughing that would last for months on end, bereaving her of her voice and making her so frail she couldn’t lift a paper out of its place. However, she looked at the whole thing from another angle; maybe if not for the adventure it would take to enjoy her beautiful breezes, she wouldn’t love air so much.
She heard a door being closed. Almost automatically, she rose out of her bed, opened the window, and began drinking the coffee.
I want you to tell me, do you think I'm better at prose or poetry?