1 This is Jay

In what must be the morning torpor, a shrill voice similar to the cries of a crow slips into my drowsiness, wet with drool and dreams not suitable for minors, making me turn under the blanket. I would like to hear nothing, to be able to ignore threats and questions, but the more I try to go back to the dreamlike images that fill my head, the more I struggle to fall back asleep.

«Jane! Damn Jane! Do you come down for breakfast, yes or no?»

I wish I could pretend that my mother's voice is not as angry as every morning of the year, just as I wish I could say that here, at the Raven's house, a modest building located in the south-eastern part of Brent, traumatic awakenings are not agenda, but I would be lying in both cases. I don't know, I believe that in my genes there is a real repulsion for alarm clocks, that's why I find myself constantly coming to terms with the rapacious verses that Catherine emits just to see me appear in the kitchen at a fairly acceptable time to be able to fulfill my duties as a daughter, teenager and London student.

A new cry comes from the base of the stairs, again disturbing the peace that reigns under the duvet: «If you don't hurry I'll come up and take you downstairs pulling you by the hair! Did you understand?»

"Yes Cat, unfortunately I heard you."

The time has come to abandon the delicious warmth of the bed, willingly or otherwise - so, like a turtle that puts its head out of its shell, I do the same, finding myself dealing with the warm rays of an autumn sun that comes in from spaces between curtains.

The burning in my eyes makes me grudge through clenched teeth, making the already unstable mood of the moment even worse. Why do I have to make my appearance in the world of the living at nine, even on Saturdays? Is it not considered weekday from practically the whole city or Great Britain in general? Perhaps we should also explain it to the Saint Jeremy staff.

My mother doesn't give up, I hear her moan again. She has an enviable perseverance, a gift that no one in the family was able to inherit, not even Jace.

With a firm movement of the arm I remove the covers from above my body, convinced that it is the best thing to do to avoid a war. I do not have time to congratulate with myself for this admirable choice, that the cold assails me with a certain violence, bringing me almost to tears.

"I wanna die."

One should not say it, I know, after all it is only a few degrees less than before, yet, the fact that I have just opened my eyes makes it terrible, something comparable to a massacre.

Goose bumps get hold of the clear skin, make me tighten on myself bringing to mind a too familiar multitude of questions. Why in the hell can't I have a nice, warm and welcoming awakening as seen in the ads? Why do I always find myself having to deal with the bad mood by this time? Is it possible that I can never sleep late, so late as to border on the inhuman?

I take a deep breath, courage and in the end I lift my bottom from the mattress that cuddled me from the moment I returned home the previous night. The feet move slowly on the parquet, they even struggle to rise from the ground; the footsteps don't make any noise, they run silent until a few centimeters from the enormous affair in front of me: the mirror. And here, I begin to look with some attention the reflective plate, trying to focus on my appearance, but above all, trying to remember what I exactly did last night. Everything is clear to me until I got into my best friend's car to change pub, then I think I lost consciousness, sinking into a first sleep weighed down by alcohol.

I bend my head to one side, trying to keep my mind local and, as I try, I realize that I look anything but acceptable. Nothing seems to be in the right place, not even the eyelashes. The hair is a smooth mass that gets tangled near the tips, while the makeup has resisted - so to speak - at least on one eye. It looks like I got into a fight, that I found myself in the middle of something that was impossible to escape and, thinking about it, I could use this excuse to stay in my pajamas to bask in the laziness of the weekend. Surely it is an extremely tempting prospect, given the program that I believe is waiting for me on the lower floors.

Certainly my mother will come up with some evil plan capable of dragging me out of the home sooner than expected, accompanied by her and, perhaps, my sister Elizabeth - Liz for friends.

Snorting, I reach out to the cell phone that flashes a few inches from me, on the desk where I couldn't remember leaving it. I take a furtive glance at the notification of the previous evening, carefully ignored to the last because of its lack of relevance and, there, sent at 11:30 pm, Jace's message reports the good night he sends me every day as a good brother.

I think it's his way to not make me feel lonely, especially now that he's gone far away, to Paris. His escape "for studies" was experienced a bit like a trauma from the undersigned; in our relationship, at the limits of morbidity, it has taken the form of a tear to the umbilical cord that has always united us. And so here we are, with him showing me that he hasn't abandoned me and me taking his place in the life he left in London.

With the back of my hand, I try to take off a part of the smudged kajal, but to the umpteenth scream of my mother I decide to give up the task of regaining a minimum of dignity; it is clear that now Catherine has pushed herself to the base of the stairs, so the next step is the door of the room.

Arming the feet with socks and the shoulders of one of the many sweatshirts stolen from Jace, I cross the threshold of my little alcove, traversing the corridor in great strides.

Going down the stairs that separate the two floors in a mechanical but necessary gesture, I get to the kitchen entrance and here, I stop. I feel the extreme need to take a deep breath before meeting other forms of life and the reason is simple: although the eighteen years are almost upon me, adolescent hormones do not want to leave me alone and, therefore, I continually transform myself in a time bomb, especially against my mother.

I suppose it is a fundamental step in the lives of all of us and those who suffer the consequences are always adults, those who never understand us, who clip our wings on any possible occasion.

After the brief minute of meditation I decide that the time has come to make my appearance in the world of the living, so I pass through the arch in the wall. On the table in the middle of the room my sister is sitting, mixing the cereals in cold milk and staring at me with a sort of annoying boredom. Her adolescent phase began a few years ago, but now she finds herself completely overwhelmed by the thousands of salsa-dancing hormones in her whole being: for her, in addition to the problem with adults, there is also dissatisfaction with being the last of three children. She finds me a useless waste of protozoa - an almost shared thought - and Jace a mystical being to aspire to.

I smile at her and she rolls her eyes in an undeniable demonstration of affection.

"I love you too, don't worry sis."

My mother draws closer: «I didn't know I gave birth to the next queen of England». Her attempt to be nice ends with a plate of beaten eggs and toasted bread under my nose, then undeterred, she resumes arranging the work plan on which she miraculously decided to spend the last two hours.

«Too bad, you could have claimed the crown!»

Liz raises an eyebrow. I do not understand if she is upset by the exchange of unhappy jokes or simply thinking about how to be disinherited.

«Please, Jay, tell me it's the alcohol left in your body that is talking...» and, in concluding, she drops some milk on the floor, regardless of the minutes I spent just yesterday cleaning.

My mother, hearing the words of her pupil, winces. Turn her head, eyes wide open: «What?! Did I hear right? Miss, how many times have I told you that you still don't have the age for such nonsense?» Her questions are shrill like any word that pours out of her lips, so I sight.

«Now tell me, what should a mother think about these continuous rebellions of yours?» Catherine bangs the twelve heels inch on the marble floor.

«That I am a teenager at the edge of the adult age?»

My answer seems to contradict her even more. So she tightens her arms around the chest, shaking her curly head and tries not to grab any blunt object in an attempt to beat me for the umpteenth lack of respect for her.

«Thank heaven that I was not given the gift of omniscience, little girl! Who knows what you do when you go out with those two! God is the only one to have the unpleasant fortune of seeing your actions». Her outburst seems to have no longer any restraint, but instead of instilling fear, she generates a sort of hilarity in both her daughters.

Elizabeth almost chokes on the grains she still has in her mouth, while I wobble dangerously on the stool.

If I did not know that my mother's mind is almost completely devoid of malice, I could almost have assumed that, in that last sentence, she had intended that "free entry" in large letters was embroidered on all my panties.

"Nice Saturday morning at the Raven home."