My alarm clock is not a clock. It's the chiming of the church bells alerting the barely waking world of 5:30. It's my groaning sister rolling around in her bed that sits just a few feet away from mine. It's the banging of my mother's pans making breakfast in the kitchen. It's the sunrise, peeking out of the horizon like a shy but curious child peering out from behind a tree. It's the sights and sounds of the morning's performance that drags me out of bed and into routine.

Once my "alarm" has gone off, I roll out of my bed that I grudgingly enter during the night at ten or even eleven, depending on my homework, and that's too comfortable to leave during the cracks of early morning. But I shake my older sister until her eyes peep open, two grey-blue slits that fill with tired menace as she realizes I've woken her. Shrugging sheepishly, I grab my clothes that Mom had to lay out last night because I have practically zero fashion sense, and hurry to the bathroom. This is one of the benefits of being a morning person. You get everything first. Tracey is always reminding me which one of us is older, which one of us goes first. But while she stays in bed until almost seven, I prefer to be up with the sun. Now who gets everything first? I think triumphantly, with a laugh.

After locking the bathroom door, I rip off my threadbare pajamas that used to be a floral and vibrant combination of royal purple and a shiny yellow but are now faded, practically grey. And too small. I got them when I was nine.

For the first time, I observe the clothes Mom has selected. A pale-blue shirt with three quarter sleeves, and tight black pants that have a silver button to keep them on my waist. A thin, ivory scarf with a hint of the golden color of Autumn wind, earrings that have a pearly honeycomb pattern forming it, and three rings, one silver rimmed with fake diamonds, one a plain blue that has in gold writing, the word truth, and one striped like a zebra. I decide not to wear any of them, sticking with just the shirt, pants and scarf, and my tiny silver star earrings instead of the pearl and honeycomb ones. Honestly! It's just school, Mom, nothing special!

Shoving the unneeded jewelry into an overflowing box that technically belongs to Tracey, I grab my skinny toothbrush, the one with the bristles smashed together and squirt toothpaste on it. After rinsing it through the sink, I start scrubbing my teeth. The spicy mint flavor fills my mouth and stings its roof. Once my teeth are sudsy with toothpaste and water, I spit it out and wash my face. Then, so Tracey doesn't come yelling, I head away from our room and to the kitchen, where Mom has already been up for fifteen minutes.

Coming down the stairs, I wrap my arms around my shoulders, feeling the biting chill of November. Something about waking up super early makes me really cold. "Can't we turn up the heat?" I complain, and Mom turns to me, rolling her eyes. "Good morning to you, too," She snorts, looking at me, through her tired, grey glare, like I'm a worm just crawled out of the dirt. But I know my mother well, and I can detect a hint of amusement behind the disdainful scowl. I flash an innocent smile and scoop up the oatmeal she's prepared, then sit down at the counter and dig my spoon into the thick, sugary brown mush. Pulling it into my mouth, I make an appreciative sound at its deliciousness, an mmmm pulled from somewhere in my throat. I have to say, Mom can make oatmeal better than she can lasagna. Perfectly sweetened with the brown sugar, softened by the bananas, yet hardened by the raisins.....it is pretty good.

Soon, Tracey, the queen of perfection, comes downstairs. Popular and intelligent, she lays out her own clothes, has crowds of friends and admirers, was allowed to try out for any type of sport...unlike me. It makes me insanely jealous as she comes gliding in, her curly, chocolate brown hair tied into a simple yet attractive ponytail and swishing across her back, her snow-white, heart-shaped face amplified with just a dabble of make-up, her silvery blue eyes twinkling like stars. She looks great, wearing a clean white dress under a denim jacket that's a pure, sapphire-like indigo. If that wasn't enough, she's wearing tights. The tights that are almost see-through, but have that stretched-out black pattern keeping them fashionably visible. I could never picture myself wearing that sort of outfit, even if Tracey and I could be twins. My hair, though, is darker and flatter, and my eyes are a brighter blue, more like aqua. I'm also shorter, her being tall for fifteen, me being short for twelve. But other than that, our age and polar-opposite personalities are our only difference. Yet somehow, Tracey manages to pull off any style.

My older sister greets Mom with a sweet "Good morning, how did you sleep?" and politely asks if she could have some oatmeal. Mom gives me a sharp look, clearly stating, "You should be more like your sister." I roll my eyes, exasperated, trying not to show how green I am with the envy that's all too familiar. Tracey can't run for three minutes without hunching over, too cramped to carry on. Tracey can't ever get up in the mornings. Tracey can only play two instruments, singing and the piano. Does singing even count? Anyway. I can play four, clarinet, drums, saxophone, and piano. Tracey can't speak Spanish. She only speaks French and English. Tracey has a million reasons to be jealous of me. Stuff your envy down the trash can, Brooke Ellis, and let her suffer. I tell myself this every time I start to be jealous of my sister, but I still find myself wishing that I were less of a "Brooke" and more of a "Tracey." At least then I wouldn't have to feel so much like a burden.

Soon, Dad comes downstairs, looking like he was dragged out of bed. His salt-and-pepper hair is a wild jungle, his eyelids pink and heavy. He has nothing on but a long, dark blue robe and floppy black slippers, and his face wears a slightly irritated expression, but he doesn't say anything as he slaps his feet along the kitchen floor until his hands reach the coffee machine. Steamy black liquid pours out of a small spout that is opened when Dad presses the Release Coffee button, flooding his cup. I've never understood how my dad can drink his coffee so strong, black and hot. Sometimes I'll drink a cup of milk and cream with a splotch of coffee making it feel more...sophisticated. Real black coffee messes with my ADHD. I'm hyper enough!

"Good morning Dad!" Tracey says brightly, sitting up straighter and beaming. He smiles at her, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. "Hi Dad," I mumble, staring into my oatmeal sorrowfully. I hear a light laugh, and then a hard hand ruffles my hair. "Hey, Brooklet. How'd you sleep?" I smile slightly at the nickname, and look up at him. His sky-blue eyes are round and far apart, like mine, but in his is the weariness of aging. He knows I can see it, because he sees it too. When he looks in the mirror, I see a frown wrinkling the edges of his mouth as he makes eye contact with his own reflection. I see my own eyes when I stare at my reflection, too. There's that energetic youth of a mere twelve years of living, and yet I know of the sadness that fills my eyes like water in a cup. It's not the hopeless anguish of depression, just a mere bit of upset that sprinkles weakly through every part of me. It's invisible to Mom and Tracey.

Suddenly, I feel upset, with a large lump forming in my throat. I wonder if this is because today is Thursday, and Thursdays are usually bad days. I don't want to keep eating, or be desperately hurrying to catch the school bus like always, or going to school and watching my heart fall apart all over again. As I scoop a sticky banana with brown sugar and syrup coating it into my mouth, I start to feel my heart race, and my face getting hot. I leap up and scramble for my medicine, grabbing it just as the world starts to blur. Gasping, I fall into my dad's arms, squeezing the small vial of medicine tight as I can.

"Give her the Abberdoxin!" Dad yells, and I feel the medicine yanked out of my hand, a needle pressed into my throat. I wrinkle my face in disgust, because the medicine makes my mouth taste like swamp water with a whole lot of sour candy crystals sprinkled in. As the edges of my vision darken to a muddy grey, I know that my neck will be nearly immobolized with soreness later.

It'll take a few hours to completely work, and I already can hear the beeping phone as Tracey dials in the school's absence line, just like she always does when I have seizures. To her, it must seem like a chore or something. I shut my eyes and moan, feeling dizzy.

These seizures are like whirlpools, and though I've never been in a real one, it couldn't be any worse. They tear me out of reality, sucking away all air and slowly eating at my consciousness, spinning me around and sweeping towards the unknown danger. There's fear, nausea, tightness, blurriness, and the inability to breathe.

But beyond all is the sinking, the sinking, the sinking disappointment that I'll never be normal.

No matter where I am, I will always be sinking, drowning in a sea of darkness.