Millay woke up with cool drool dripping off her cheeks. She grinned and wiped her face with her sleeve roughly, leaving a red mark in it’s wake. She had dreamt about it again. About beautiful lights; red; blue; green; yellow; baby blue; orange; even Forest Green. They reminded her of the Northern Lights and wondered what triggered it in her mind. She also saw paws. Silver and full. What could this dream that keeps playing in her head mean? The dream was still fresh in her mind as she got up and began to wash up in the family bathroom down the hall.

Her reflection was staring herself down, as though it was the predator and her natural self the prey. Millay’s dark brown eyes were dull as ever, yet contrasted with her ghastly pale skin tone. Her hair, the color of fresh fallen snow, split down the middle and went to the bottom of the small of her back. Her eyebrows were naturally shaped. They were ebony however. It was as though the natural fierceness of the white hair gene left the eyebrows entirely alone. She was quite a site in all honesty. She wouldn’t consider herself someone to look at if your eyes were sore, but she wouldn’t consider herself an ugly duckling.

But her self-esteem wasn’t at the highest peak like some of the populations. Millay finished washing off the remainder of the grime on her skin, and dried her face with a worn wash cloth. Words echoed out of Millay’s mouth, condemning her to the idea of being a little insane.

“I look like an Albino turtle.” Millay shook her head and let out a chuckle. Her hand went to her mouth as she yawned briefly, covering her chin. As she was walking back to the room she shared with her younger sister, she heard a peculiar sound coming from downstairs. She made her way to the wooden stairwell and laid her hand on the roan railing and then began her way down the stairs. She soon descended upon a living room made up of a torn couch and a knocked over end table with a little television on a stand playing an opera. Millay could have sworn that there were little white feathers scattered about, but pushed it off as her imagination.  

She decided to nose around a bit and peeked into her mother’s office. There she found paperwork piled high and decided it was clean of the culprit of the mess and moved on. She ventured onto the kitchen and felt her stomach rumble with anxious hunger. Millay went over to the tan-colored fridge and reached in and brought out a black berry yogurt. She set the yogurt on the counter and made her way to the cupboard drawers, and pulled on the middle one’s iron handle. She picked up a oval spoon from it’s spot and then slammed the drawer shut with anticipation. Millay then hurriedly peeled back the silver lining that protected the fruitful delicious yogurt, and plunged her spoon into the container bringing out a spoonful to ease the growing hunger. She quickly set her lips over the metal spoon’s rims and ate the yogurt, her stomach finally satisfied. She finished the little container in minutes and threw away the evidence, setting the spoon into the porcelain sink.

Millay continued on her path and went into the surprisingly chilly garage, finding it completely empty except for the now dust-ridden dirt bike Millay and her father had been working on several years ago. Memories of the two of them staying up late most nights, working in the garage were brought to Millay’s mind, bringing warm tears to her eyes. Millay wiped the salty drops away vigorously and made her way out of the garage attempting to deplete the memories. She trudged through the still brick house and back to the wooden worn stairs, and stopped in her tracks at the foot of the stairs. The tears that now sprang from her eyes were cold and filled with despair from her father’s passing. Millay’s father was a kind man and he loved his children with everything he had.

On nights when the winter’s cold wind chilled and bit at even Millay’s brother’s thick skull, her father would light a small dimlit fire in the brick fireplace and would ask that all of his children and lovely wife would gather around so he could tell made up stories of a Wizarding World full of eager magic students and werewolves and the like. On those nights as well, her mother would make tasty homemade popcorn and brew up creamy hot cocoa from a giant pot on the stove.

Millay took a hesitant glance around the disarrayed downstairs and decided with a final glance to dismiss the untidiness knowing her mother would know what happened. She bound up the crooked stairwell and found comfort and safety in her own queen sized bed ,where she laid her ivory head upon her fluffy grey pillow. Finally Millay was alone with her books and her silly yet sad thoughts. As soon as Millay’s skin hit the comforting covers, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep, or so she thought.