Hope of Maine pt. 1

Eddie awoke to the constant, but spaced out sound of rain drops hitting the side of his window, which was only 3 feet away from his head. He hated having his bed so close to the window, and every time rain found it in the morning, he swore he’d move his bed as far away from it as he could. And, of course, he never did. This and many other forgetting incidents could be very good examples of Eddies life. For Eddie, life is not a day to day strain that breaks you every once and awhile, it’s like an elaborate, carousel ride with no line, and the only flaw that stalks it, is the very frequent breakdown, that causes the carousel to come to, an almost, screeching halt. But, so far, a little click of the wrench, here and there, has always been able to get it up and running again…for a while at least.
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Eddie stirred in his bed until he successfully turned over. He lifted his head form his pillow and squinted to look at the clock. The time was 6:50, so he dropped his head back down on the pillow knowing he still had, at least, fifteen more minutes to sleep.
After a few seconds of stirring and having to listen to the rain fall on the window, Eddie gave up trying to sleep any longer. He sat up and began rubbing the blur out from his eyes. He could see a small strip of light just under that bathroom door, and he could hear water being drawn from the bath tub.
Dean’s up, already. Eddie thought as he turned his head to look up at the clock.
The time was just shy of 7:00, and Dean, usually, won’t even try to get out of bed until 7:30. Eddie quickly reminded himself of the changing of semesters, and figured Dean, for the first time, was scheduled an early class. The curiosity of Dean waking up early left him, and like a 10 ton freight train hitting him in the head, he remembered his end of term biography paper, on M.C Escher, was due today. First he felt panic, but panic was soon wiped away with anger, and self hate. All the work he had put into History of Art meant nothing without this paper. Without this paper he would surly fail. His mother once told him, as a boy, “small mistakes will come back to haunt you”. The words meant nothing to him then, but now he understood them, loud and clear. He went to slap his right hand to his forehead when, suddenly, the light under the bathroom door, and the red glow of the clock, utterly, went out.
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