"Does this look good?"

A young woman in her late twenties inquires while dangling a mid-thigh length dress in front of herself. Her eyes look questioningly at a young boy, swinging his legs back and forth, playing with his thumbs. His eyebrows furrowing with a serious look on his face, deep in thought. An expression that looks wrong on a child so young.

"Micky, baby. Stop daydreaming and help mommy, okay."

The woman pleads in an impatient tone waiting for her son to respond to her. Her son, still lost in his thought, doesn't respond to her. The woman seeing her son still not responding slowly walks towards him, arms outstretched. Once she was in arms length of him, she grabs him. Tickling him, knocking him out of his thoughts and throwing him into a fit of laughter.

"N-no... mother...haha...stop...I'm listening!"

He begged in between laughter but she didn't let up until a few minutes. Grabbing his chin and making him look her in the eyes. She asked with a serious tone a question.

"What's the answer to the question I asked you?"

Panic quickly fills the boy before being replaced with a lulling calm. His eyes narrows and through his Peripheral he can make out a glittery short dress, still on the hanger. Discarded on the ground when she approached him. The air around his mother has a hint of rosemary. Most likely perfume. The skin on her fingers are soft and her nails are groomed. Must be lotion. She must be going out, but she isn't dressed yet. Which means has to be asking about her appearance!

"Everything mother wears is beautiful!"

His tone was monotone and lacked actual sincerity, but his mother's eyes simply lit up and she left him alone to focus on her own task at hand.

After a few minutes of his mother flurrying around, she was finally finished getting ready. Heading towards the front door she turned around to face her son.

"Remember sweetie. Don't answer the door to strangers and leftovers are in the fridge. Bye, mommy loves you!"

And with that she left. She left her eleven year old son. Alone. In a two bedroom apartment. Three stories high. In LA. In 2002.

Oh wow! What a great mother! Mother of the year! Just! The! Best!

Not that I'm complaining it's just that if I was a real eleven year old I would have died a long time ago.

Micheal stares at the door with a blank expression before it morphs into a pout. Stomping off to his room and slamming the door behind him. His room was very... unique?

In all corners of the room were desks. All the desks looked identical except from the Materials on them. They were dark wood desks.

The desk nearest to the closet has stacks of long flat wooden planks ranging from many sizes, and five stack of woofing burning kits. This desk was very disorganized and messy.

The second desk nearest to the door Michael just came through has a filling cabinet next to it, A computer with a keyboard on top of it, a printer under it, and small plants scattered around the orderly desk.

In another corner a desk had a sewing machine and piles of fabric scattered about it, and the last desk had a lamp, a piles of papers, canvas, brushes, and paint on it in no particular order.

In the center of the room was a tall four sided bookshelf with books filling it completely.

Instead of a bed in between the painting and sewing desk was a long couch with piles of pillows and covers laying on top of it and a window directly above it.

Still in a bit of a mood, Michael hopped onto the couch and wiggles into the mound of pillows and covers until only his head was sticking out, making him resemble a small Caterpillar. With the window slightly ajar, he was soon lulled into a dreamless sleep by the sounds of a car door slamming shut and driving off.

The cold air of August barely effected him because of all the covers surrounding him. The sun slowly begins to peak over the horizon.