(Originally published at https://www.journeymouse.net/ on 26th October 2008)
She basked in the warm comfort of her bed, the duvet pulled around her. The smell of fresh coffee rose from the kitchen, where her mother pottered through the morning routine. With eyes held tightly shut, she held on to the illusion of night and sleep, ignoring the scent tickling her nose and the warm light beginning to filter through the curtains.
Unfortunately, there is no such thing as perfection. The fly in the ointment was the nagging sound of an alarm somewhere in the house. She could not quite bring herself to get out of bed and turn it off. Instead, she chose to lie there, cocooned. Perhaps, if she waited long enough, her mother would turn off the alarm.
But, eventually, she heard her mother's footsteps on the stairs. They paused and the sound of a quick, quiet knock on the bedroom door preceded her mother's entrance into her room.
"You have to get up now, baby," said her mother with a regretful tone, "Time to get up."
Her mother's hand would be reaching out to touch her shoulder through the thick duvet, she knew, so she finally admitted defeat and opened her eyes.
For a moment, there were two images. The bright, morning bedroom of her dream and the dark, night bedroom of reality. The figure of her mother seemed to hover uncertainly, as if unsure to which room it belonged in. The face was shocked, turning to horror even as it dissolved into the night air like smoke.
It had been years since she had lived under the same roof as her mother. But for a moment, the half-waking dream had seemed to be real. Until she had opened her eyes.
In the hallway, the alarm was still ringing.