A Story - She. Written about 2 years ago. xxxx

It was odd. Her head was crammed full of the most none descript, and yet ever so important thoughts. She went to the cupboard, reaching for the light switch. Her soft hands fumbled slightly as she struggled to locate the button to light her way. Six ceiling lights lit up her room, and she watched her feet as she clamoured over books, cushions, kitten litter trays and water bowels, cursing as her toe caught the edge of the deep brown china, and water spilled all over the floor, wetting her food and pyjama leg. She reached her cupboard and scrambled around at the bottom, sifting through the various show boxes to find the notebook that she had been given as a present many years ago, at the age of eleven. Maybe it wasn’t so long ago, but it felt it. She opened the purple notebook, blowing away some of the purple fur that had been chewed by hamsters who no longer lived in her home.

She didn’t know why she was bothering to start a diary. She knew herself, too well for her liking. She knew that her emotions charged through her stronger than most people.  She knew her actions, what she would do, what she could do, what she would never dare to do. She knew that she would use the diary for a while, and then forget about it. Then years later when she wanted the notebook for another use, the used pages would just be recycled. As she made her way back to her bed, she paused momentarily to chance sideways into the full length mirror. She wouldn’t call herself vain, but she knew that she was the stereotypical pretty; tall, blonde, thin, and well matured for a girl of thirteen. Exasperation passed over her features as she wondered again why boys seemed to find her unattractive. She’d read enough books to know that the blonde always got the guy, and she’d lived long enough to figure out that that was pure fiction. She’d had a few wolf whistles from the boys who saw her, while they lounged on the village green, on her way back from the shops. But she’d only ever had one serious relationship. All her friends (well the popular mainly) came back with tales of “pulling” and “grinding” with boys. Another thing that puzzled her; her clique. She hung around with the popular geeks, the peeks (peaks of society), and although classed as bookworms and boffs, they were acknowledged by just about everyone.

She heaved herself up to her bed, up the ladder, and she swung a leg over the wall that surrounded the mattress. She placed her torch between her shoulder and neck, her head on an angle as she held the torch in place. She started to scribble, her messy handwriting taking up the first few pages. Notes to readers. Basically keep out, but in a more civilized. She suddenly sat up and leaned over the side of her bead. She had heard a skid of claws on wooden surface, and she smiled, mostly to herself, when she say her ten week old kitten pick herself up, and skid across the floor after an orange ball with purple tail feathers. She jotted down the fact that she had a cat, well three to be precise. She wrote about her long standing (nine years of her thirteen to be exact) crush on her childhood sweetheart. She wrote about her new school, which she had been attending for about a year and a quarter, and yet she still felt as though it was all new and fresh. She writes about her favourite programme on television at the moment, and she chuckled quietly about some forgotten joke. Then the memories flood in, and her hand sped across the page, trying to squash everything in.  She heaved a sigh of relief as she closed her diary. Ironically she did feel better, calmer. She puts in the iPod she was given for her birthday a few months ago, and the gentle beat of the sad song swayed her gently to sleep.

A few days later she arrived home. She heard the drunken laughter – the usual greeting, coming from her mother. She obviously had company. Her father was still at work, and as she wandered through the kitchen, she saw her Nan, her mum, and some of their friends there. She smiled, and the audience were all too far gone to notice the fakeness of the gesture. She joined in with the polite introductions, the perfect daughter. Then she went upstairs. She walked slowly and evenly, thinking over every step. She didn’t break pace as she walked into her room, once again swinging herself up onto the high bed. She slid off her school skirt and jumper, as she knew the trouble that would come from not hanging them up. She proceeded to throw the clothes over the back of the chair. Then she slid under the duvet, suffocating her head. Here she stayed, her shallow, uneven breathing breaking the silence for about half an hour. Then the tears came. Uncontrollable sobs echoed through her body, causing her physical pain. She knew her mum would be too engrossed in her many bottles of wine to bother to check on her. She was independent, and may as well have been home alone. She took gulps of cold air to calm her shaking body, and she continued to let the tears roll down her face. She dug around in the bed, and after recognising wrappers, books, bottles, pens, candles, and any other unidentifiable objects, her hands found the shape they had been searching for. She wrote about the bad day, failing the test, breaking a friendship. She calmed down and once again used the music to lull herself to unconsciousness. After the usual routine was over (excluding the diary from the routine bit),  she woke up and dressed, finding that she must have as usual changed during the night down to her underwear. The day continued, another school day, and she cried herself to sleep most nights. She didn’t know why, or how to stop, but she didn’t use the diary again for about a month. not even to note the reunion in friendship, or another new kitten.

Her father picked her up from school, about a month later. She had just finished the production of the school play, and she chatted merrily for the ten minute drive home. The ever careful driver began to reverse into the driveway, and looked into her eyes. She knew something was wrong straight away.  He spoke in a calm voice, and her face contorted into the most awful of shapes, with about fifty emotions flicking through her eyes, as she found out the news that the kitten, her kitten was dead.  She couldn’t breathe. She accused him of joking, and then lying, and then she ran out the car and slammed the door. At that moment the front door open, and the ever cheerful bouncy mother was in a state. Tears were running down all three pairs of cheeks and the embrace that lasted for ages meant all tears were mingled. She needed breath, and ran to the driveway, sinking down onto her knees. She couldn’t cry, or breath and hyperventilating took on a whole new meaning. Both parents called her in, but she refused, until she finally calmed down enough to feel the bitter English winter night cold. When she returned to the house, her mother sat in the lounge, crying but watching TV, with the newest kitten, who was obviously grieving his mate,. Nobody told her what had happened, and she called a childhood friend, but also a fellow cat owner, to be comforted. It was late, and selfish, but it was right. She missed the morning of school, and when she woke up she heard her mother telling the cleaner what had happened. It was drowning. She crept back to bed, not too late to hear the cleaner telling her mother that she shouldn’t tell her, that even for a thirteen year old it was too awful to bear. It was to awful to bear, but not knowing would be worse. The ride into school was awful, and as she entered her favourite class, English, it was obvious that word had to around what had happened. She sat in her space, but the pitiful stares brought a new emotion up, and she began to cry. After setting the assignment, the teacher came over to check she was ok. She obviously wasn’t, but he left it to her friends to comfort her. She ended up having to leave the room, and then spent the rest of the lessons in tears, but silent tears, enough to have every child in the room stare and ask her what’s wrong when she accidently caught there eye, but not enough to have to leave. When it got to PE though, her worst subject, she changed, but after a restless night, she was told to go back to the health centre, to get some rest. He teacher obviously knew she would be no help. Throughout the day word had spread to the teachers, and many teachers were visiting her classes to say sorry, and worry, but she blocked them out.

The next month was different and long. All different people offered their apologies, but they didn’t help. She remembered the diary and wrote an update. The month after that school life was back to normal, although she still carried an air of sadness with her. She remembered dancing, and they were playing games, (and in an all girl’s school that meant jumping like crazy and doing wrestling and black magic) and she wrote about the awkwardness of the popular girl, who she had mixed feelings for, wrestling her playfully. She wrote about her comforting best friends.

Weeks ate this was not the case. She was talking to a teacher, and her “friends” started a “teachers pet” chant, loud enough to fill the field. The teacher pretended not to hear, but to her it was obviously odd. She left the conversation quickly, but went to sit by herself. She didn’t accept apologies, and it was an awful night. She was still haunted every night by her kitten drowning, struggling to breathe against the weight of the water, and eventually giving up.

Now she has 5 cats, two of which are new kittens. She’s travelled, and is approaching her fourteenth birthday. It’s amazing what happened in a year, she couldn’t possibly write them all in her diary, just as I can’t write them here. She won the English prize, despite her off week. She carried on with life, but not a day goes by without her thinking about her baby. She met a guy who she thinks is quite nice. She doesn’t know how much he likes her, and his sister is hated by the entire year at school, so it probably won’t work. I might tell you later. She has no idea what happening about the girl, and as she is on school holidays at the moment, she will not see her for a few months. Her life is more organized, and there is too much to say now.