It feels strange, waking up with the sun. Golden rays shine through my window, reflecting off the specs of dust in the air. I can hear the sounds of youth; the kiddies in our town are off to school right about now. Laughing, playing, chatting away. Every morning, a big, flaming orb of burning gas chases away the darkness of night, and ushers in a time of light.

It disgusts me.

It has been months, and it still feels so unnatural for me to wake up like this. I should be waking up to darkness, to peaceful silence. But no, if I want to receive my mother's hardcore physical training, I need to wake up early, and I need that training.

My life depends on it.

And so, I push past my disgust, and get up out of bed. Then, I grip my quarterstaff for comfort, mentally preparing myself for another hellish day of training.

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The start of my daily routine is always a "light jog" on the treadmill. 25 hungry minutes of jogging later, and I finally eat whatever breakfast my mother prepared for me.

It's usually oatmeal with some fruit in it, and a can of sardines on the side. Whenever I complain about the food, my mom likes to go on and on about "omega fats" and all the benefits of a healthy diet, so I have learned to eat pretty much anything she puts in front of me.

Then, I rest for a bit, to let the food settle. I also take this moment to pray for salvation, because next up...

Is sparring practice with my mother.

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After putting on protective gear and some warm clothes, I step outside to find my mother standing with her back to me, arms crossed. The same as usual.

"... 33 seconds slower than usual. I expected better of you. Let's hope you put more effort into your sparring, or you're gonna be covered in so many fuckin' bruises, people 'll think... uh, that you are purple!" She turns around, and the evil smirk on her face is certain to haunt me in my dreams.

I grip my staff tighter. No, don't give into fear! You. Are. A. Man!

Taking a deep breath, I stare down my mother. "What kind of line was that? 'People'll think you are purple', that was lame as he-"

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My mother swings her staff directly at my head, stopping just before it reaches my skull. "Shut the fuck up, nerd!"

I shut the fuck up.

I hear someone sigh. "He was right, honey. That wasn't really a clever line."

Sitting at a picnic table on our backyard porch is my dad. He's a short, slender, pale man. His most striking feature are his eyes, which are both very pretty and two different colors. That lucky bastard and his heterochromia; I have always been jealous of him.

My mother crosses her arms, huffing with indignation. "Yeah, you are right. But it aint' my fault! How am I supposed to use my brain, when you are sitting out here, lookin' all cute! Words are hard enough already, man."

"Well, that was my plan all along. Had to protect my cute little boy's fragile ego."

I snort. "No offense pops, but I don't think that's why you are out here."

My dad grins. "Hey, what are you insinuating? That I came out here to admire my cute wife as she twirls her little stick around? That I think she looks hot when she works up a sweat? Good lord, what a disappointment. I thought I raised my son better than this! You should know I only have pure intentio-"

My mom slams the staff into the ground, releasing a thunderous, intense soundwave, and then points at dad. "Fuck your intentions! And fuck you too!" The point turns into a thumbs up, and she grins. "Just sit back an' stare at my ass like a good little husband, while I give my child a nice, hearty beatin'! "

My dad smiles. "Yes ma'am."

Mom turns towards me. "Alright, warmup time! Let's get to it."

"Yes ma'am!"

Ah, warmups. The calm before the storm. First up, I relax my muscles, and spin my quarter staff. Spinning isn't something you use in a fight, but builds up the muscles in your limbs that you use when fighting with a staff.

Hand over hand, I spin the staff, quickly getting into rhythm.

"Nice. Nice. You've been doin' a lot better lately, kiddo." Mom says.

"Yeah... I guess so?"

She nods to herself, and spins her own quarter staff around her body. Obviously, she spins the damn thing faster than I can. More importantly, however, her form is perfect. So many years of practice, of sparring, has granted her such control over her movements. It's...

"...fuckin' bullshit." I mutter under my breath.

Mommy dearest, of course, gives me a shit eating grin after hearing that, and kicks her speed up a notch.

Feeling thoroughly humiliated, I immerse myself into the warmup.

I go through the different spinning exercises, perform a series of practice strikes, and before I know it...

My mother cracks her knuckles, sending a shiver down my spine. "Guess it's time to spar!"