Forward and Chapter one

FORWARD

So this was it. Our drugged up preassure based hormonally charged parody of a teenage romance. Everything a well brought up girl is supposed to hate, and expected to stand up for herself against. What wioth this being a enraging craefree unengaging formerly disturbed townie more mentally fucked than an amputated robot, yes, i understand, with appreciatance, why 99. 9 percent of the world which arent his friends, are genuinely worried for me. Oh and hell, it get's better. Not only are the minor facts that he is a fraud, theif and drug dealer, he also no longer bothers to maintain the pleasantary standards of treatment over me which he has been warned to by many of my friends of whom i am the mere object of concern for. Even some of his own, the ones who have clearly known him a little longer than myself, and there for are more adapt and adjust to the complexity and reality of his ways.
Oh God, since when has blatant arrogance, the constant expression of self gratifiance for almost every aspect of te world, including your 'bird', been charistacally attractive? In what way was the vicious spit in the gutter, the sharp boastful twist of a skateboard and the flip of a hood over a dark streetly melodic glare endorsed in even the slightest of a turn on? And when did the stinging wound of low self esteem reopened on a daily basis through throughtless unsensitive words direct from his mouth, that apparantly mean nothing, become such a self accepted majority of your time spent in his presence?
I assure myself that it is okay, that the shadowy tones that bring the voices at the endless space at the entirety of my mind to existance are no more than a casual meaningless result of paranoia, and that we are with each other, and that that is it . . .
But who am i trying to fool? The girl in the mirror is the girl who knows it. The boy who embraces me in his arms is the boy who is a monster. A sheer label for such a thing that he is, and for such a creature that the world looks down upon with the most deserved revolt.
He encourages his little boy lost image, his only source to any accomplishment of respect, gradually blessing strangers with the awareness of his sexually abused past, his cruelly rejectful adoptive parents in sick persute to claim their pity so he can use it against them as a guilt factor when he desires something in his own favor.
When fate throws you together with someone you have the fondest memory of being the strange but intruigely unusual boy with the cards you met with a friend once outside a little cafe, it fastly becomes an absorbment of the unspoken rush of hormonally defined ecstasy, and before you know it he is more blatantly aware of how far you fell in at the deep end than you are, for the truth lay within the eyes of the beholder, as once did a certain type of beauty that you longed would lay their again.
Through his hold over you he has the power to be exceptionally cruel, and with the cautious intelligence reflecting from his preserved mind upon his outer impression, he can do it. How innocent and tender, like a little rabbit blinded by the lights of it's own emerging doom i must have shook, grasped within his intensely violated arms, forcing myself to look into his hardened eyes that had distrusted so many others, even if it was just to see the existing hurt that they had all somehow been blind to, missed. He was wrong, messed up, calculating, uncompleted, but he was the most precious treasure i'd ever had the mind altering blessing of even being allowed to touch. He vividly imprinted himself upon the vulnerable heart i bared open to him and became the fluttering rush of weakness burried beneath my many hidden depths i'd protected from the world in all my years of living. Each day was born no longer into a basic flat out back to back sequence of regular horrorble empty life, but a moving heavily influenced darish stream of suggestive unpredictable horizans based within a portrait painted by him especially for me to place myself in and become accostom to and eventually live happily ever after inside, even though, immensed deep within myself, i panicked in my little smitted heart that happily ever after might mean fuck all nest week or even tomorrow. It's like building your own miniature universe in your head based on something that is easily capable of falling down and taking everything with it at any moment, but no matter how much you try and resist temptation you still find yourself adding thing's to your universe, making it bigger and more beautiful with extra colour. The burning truths devour me from within, but the ditestive thought keeps returning to my reassurance. This is that we are, infact an Item, and as long as that remains a solid dreaded truth, then the cheating, lying, put downs, manipulation and even the occasional moments of split hesitance in his video game coated bedroom fifteen miles away from his doting beloved, have got to be worth it.



Chapter One

My name is Amelie Scarlett Hornsby. I'm sixteen years of age.
At exactly this time tomorrow, i shall be lying head down upon the open road. A note i will hold in my hand devoutly will have slipped through a grid in the road without anyone noticing. I shall have, for the last time, brought myself unintentionally to the aspects of everyones attention through a cruel distillation of eternity.
Because at this time tomorrow, this very exact time tomorrow, i shall be dead.
I'm not aware of it right now, of coarse, but that still isnt going to stop it from happening. Right now i am a million miles away from tomorrow, right now i am nothing other than a curuious mere remeniscent of my former and future self.
Let me describe the typical day for me at the very beginning. Now as you may well be aware of, times change gradually throughout months, weeks, and years, but at this particular very beginning everything was a little inparticular to how they would soon become and to the time leading up to me coming to write this. The typical day for mer consisted of school, straight forward, same as it had always been. Only this year, year eleven, was my very last, much to my impatient releif. I would see the small group of friends of whom i'd grown a part of over the previous former months, as my social circuit seemed to adjust and reform at different periods of my years at the school. We'd torture through the bad lessons, emphasise happily through the good, then squander unsurely through breaks and lunch untill we found something even slightly productive and useful to do with our time. I never made any effort with my basic school uniform. I didn't even try to sex it up like the other student's preffered to, as i was so used to having tried on many attempts through the years to alter it and make it look good and yet always seemed to retract to the general odd formality of it that seemed to be brought to life on my body. Looking smart wasn't a problem, but had the similar effect as trying to look sexy, it never maintained any noticable significance on me. Given that no body was bright enough to appreciate anyone elses state of clothing i am suprised the teachers gave us all a constant hard time within pointless assembly's about how we presented ourselves. We had no enthusiasm to look good, and when we did, we were persecuted by onlookers for our individuality and determnination to suddenly look and therefor be different opposed to them, there for felt horrorble and unimportant to the world and insignificant beside strict teachers that believed they knew what was best for us, or so they said in words. Little did they know that deep down most of us are pretty smart enough to understand that it is their job to ensure us of such ridiculous notions.
The problem with teachers was that they expected all the kids to be like each other, there for if there was a particular badly behaved individual in the class then everyone was likely to be the same.
When i was seen walking down the coridoor with Steph, i got respected by a lot of the other girls in our year, unlike my first month when we refused to assosiate. But the teachers don't like her. They always expect her to misbehave and dance loudly off the rails for some reason, and when they see me with her i am aughtomatically just as bad. The reality of it was that neither of us ever really did anything specifically wrong or where any more promiscuous than anyone els, we were just more widely 'observed' for some reason.
I never wanted to be seen. That's why as soon as the bell went i was straight out the door before anyone could take the pleasure of reducing me to say or do something i would regret. When i was outside walking home with Steph two metres behind on her catch up, i could recharge, enloosen the tightening strings of information in my head so that everything was clearer and able to breathe, regain it's natural light.
I always enjoyed the twenty minute walk to dads new apartment. He'd recently moved to the opposite village to be nearer Rayrigg High were he tought disobediant schoolboys with troubled backgrounds.
In the afternoons me and Steph would wait for the sun to set, change into our tracksuits, scramble our way through the wood behind dads estate untill we reached the empty set of backfields owned by a drunken senile farmer who was about eighty years old with no family and was never to be seen. Only a broken rusty tracter with three flat tyers lay tinted at the far dark corner of the feild we often chose to monoover in. I remember the very first time we discovered that field when we were eleven. Mum kicked us out the house for going on Seans laptop and supposedly interupting a vital programme. We laughed and cried all the way through Lazamby untill we found the railway, ran through it and follwed a large set of farming land untill we found the same field and the same wood. The first thing i remember seeing was the tracter, which was still there to this day and hadn't moved an inch.
And what did we do in this field, you wonder? Drink endefinitably, of course. We'd squeeze large bottles of fruit juice and vodka into our coats and then chuck them into a dirty plastic carrier bag once we got outside into the yard. Then we'd make an effortless bolt for it like the day we had done when we first found it.
The running was part of what made it more of an exiting exhibition, and i always got a mischeifous thrill from being so secretive and persistantly achieving in my own plans. My own secrecy was the source of my happiness, and yet Steph was happy to go along with the ride as a companion. This was my joy, and over the many many many times we had repeated this ruitine on the often occasion when it were possible to do so, we never tired of it, but merely grew used to it. It was our den, to become and behave whomever and however we pleased for no body in the world was there to judge us or prevent our fun, eespecially not the old angry senile farmer.
I love Steph. Love is a strong word, but i mean it measured by the bond of the bestest friendship. The best i could have hoped for at least, in this tiring enraging scenario that life seems to like immensing us throuout on a permanent basis. Having somebody you are familiar with and whose ways you have grown accustom to you your to them, is fulfilling and assuring when you are low and unsure. On the occasions when you are being pulled into darkness when you don't feel you ought to be, when it's not where you want to be but are unable to prevent yourself from going there. A best friend can lighten that type of darkness, and even sometimes bare an offeritive hand to help lift you out and back into the frame of light where you can regain consciousness of yourself. To me, a best friend brought me the good times throughout empty space in danger of being wasted and unused, and tought me how to be a part of something by will, not by force. I love her for that, at least, weather any of it was her intention or not, and having her made me understand myself more as i grew up.
My dad liked to cook meals for me late at night. He liked to invite people round a lot, generally school related adults, and even sometimes, to my distaste, pupils of whom where in his oppinion, stable and eager for help. I suggested the notion of councelling being a better turn in their favor, but he assured me that to do fulfill his job dutifully as well as proffesionally he needed to enable such specific benefit for them in clean person himself. Supposedly this was the appropriate choice to make, and we endured several accounts of strained evening's with cautious dangerous looking teenage delinquents at our dinner table, tiresomely speaking of their difficultly approached childhoods and unstable involvment with drugs and crime. I'd serve a much unearned late of lavish varieties, and they'd shamelessly glare me over, much to my revolt, resulting to my resortment to eating in the sitting room, listening against a wall and taking in the uncertain conversation produced.
Mum, for years, lived with Sean. He was her third husband, and the worst in my unbound ultimate opinion.
Right from the moment my mum uttered, with much impatience, those fatalized words that crystalized their laxurious wedding into a hellbound marriage, history was born to be cursed for them both.
Of course, as it always does with domineering power obsessed control driven men, Sean was in charge of every last decision to entice between the two of them, and mum, being rather naive and slightly desperate to please, obliged always without a breath to hesitate. No trace of doubt or mention of uncertainty ever read within her face, but only that of a loving smile that suggested that she was here only to please and stand loyally beside her man. Watching the way she acted in his shadow turned me silently sick, although to begin with i was to young to know the definition of exactly how it was i felt. What i felt was anger, shame and embarassment. Another emotion i experienced, of which i can quite clearly remember immencing through me for the very first time, was loss. The loss of my beloved dad, who hadn't died, but who may aswell have done as far as mum and Sean were concerned. I strongly missed him, and those feeling's came to haunt me whenever i in Seans presence, which was almost all of the time. I wanted him home again, back with us, taking care of us, even.
I longed for him esseively throughout a certain period of time when i was at a young age and had begun to recognise Seans behavior as wrong and condemming. But still, it was mainly anger that i felt. Little for Sean, and utmostly for mum, because i was conscious enough to realise that Sean was charasterically thw way he was and would not change no matter where he was or whom with. But mum, she allowed him to treat her that way. Like her opinion didn't matter, like her input into anything counted for nothing, and she gladly did nothing about it and kept silent. I couldn't understand why, and, of which i experienced a great ammount of guilt over later on, my anger turned into a faint hatred towards her, for behaving so weakly without any sign of determination or will to stand up for herself againt him, for her own sake or mine. And also, although i didn't know this either yet, i was angry that this was all she had to show for the role model she portrayed on an open basis for me, her only daughter.
Of course i was extremely young at the time this began, way back at the beginning, and i was ignorant and naive to the many different reasons that explained this situation and why it was the way it was, and why she could not explain it to me in the obvious direct way i expected from her then as a child.
When i look at her i don't see myself at all. We are completely different people, who get along very well. Of course, i forgave her. There was not specifically anything to forgive, although i know she would have been graciously regretful for any confusion or misguidance drawn from me throughout her marriage to Sean.
In the end, he left her. I was immensely guilty to admit it, but i was more releived than i believed possible. I remember the very day mum walked through the front door in her beaded red dress of which she had not removed from the closet in years thanks to Seans restricful dress commandments. She switched on the light in the lounge and had her keys help limply in her palm, and although their was a taint in her eyes and a limply carried co ordination to her bodily structure, she leaned her head slightly to the side, and watching me for the first time with what seemed like natural observment as i practiced my violin, she said ''Well kid, we got the house back''
I smiled, and carried on playing, only this time with a little more needed stamina in my procession of performance. According to my music teacher i never played more enticingly before that day, and little did she know for little did i tell her it may have been down to my mothers divorce, the gainage of my home and the thankful riddance to a very bad man who had a thing about telling women how to 'perform', of whatever aspect that may refer to.
It's now been seven years since my mum walked through the front door that night. Since that moment i vowed i would never stand any less from a boy than what i deserved, which i liked to believe was the best.
I later found out, much to my disgust and unsettlement, that Sean was the one preventing dad from seeing me. He'd made mum agree file for full custody over me, and because dad was single and unemplyed at the time and she was newly married to a successful car salesman, she won.
I don't wish to discuss how i dealed with the discovery of this revelation with her once brought to my understan. It was profoundly unsettling for me to accept and for dad to have to tell me. As for realising what part mum played in the decision, let's just say thing's ran particularly unsmoothly between us for a long time. I even resented my brother Antony for having known so much for so long and failing to inform me of any of it.

Recently dad became re involved in both our lives for good, and i have stuck to the firmly contemplated decision to withdraw emotional involvment concerning either of my parent's buisness from now on. I beleieved in the belief of my own person, the person i had been given the ability to create within myself, without the partaking or enhancment of anyone els. I knew the influence of people around me would effect the person that i would become, or already had but had not yet discovered, but i had this dream that i would remain a secret from the world, hidden in the shadows so as i was immune to the harm capable of being reflected from anyone surrounding. Remaining my identity as everyone's question was my way of pretection, i suppose. It also felt exiting and naughty, because everyone had this certain perspective of how i was. It made me laugh to think of how sure they were of their own correctness, that i came to understand the meaning of ignorance, and there for arrogance. This, i considered, ranked amongst the uglier traites that propelled and bounded life and the general state of the world into what it was. Even though it was only one of an immense ammount of truths of the world of which i was to discover.

It may feel like i'm unvieling a life tale here, but really it's nothing. It means something to me, of course, but it's merely anything more than memory documentation now. I wanted to bring to attention how thing's were before the change. The real change, not just thing's replacing and retracting themselves in and out of life insignificantly throughout graduate time.
A beginning, a middle, and eventually, an end. As have does everything. Only there's sometimes the beginning, at some places there'll be the middle, and in turn the end will come, but none will be straight forward or brought to the simplicity and convenience of order or sense. Subtracted, divided, corruptional, however way it is percieved. This is it all.

~~

There is no certainty of where i am, or where i want to be, because nothing is rekevent or definable, only that i have become the type of calm that can only be defined through description of the curious unlimited mind, that steers me, every so once in a while, from my bounding senses that cage and protect me from the harsh dangers of the open world.
I want to run away. I want to walk up a mountain at night. I want to lay down in a river naked and let the moonlight filter out the cold and the lonliness, insulating me with a compelling entity, and the black darkness surrounding it can be my restoring shelter, that hides me when i am in need of guarding.
I wonder if anyone would notice if i left. They never notice anything else. Perhaps if i brought my distruptive imaginarities to life then i would shock them, but i dn't want that sort of attention. Giving everyone the chance to judge me and accuse me of all sorts of thing's i would likely be guilty of.






~~




I convinced myself that i would not ever get a decent boyfriend. Well, not anytime soon at least. I thought no guy would want near me after the rumours about me and Steph had circulated throughout school, and it wasn't that we cared much for what people thought, but it tarnished our reputations completely and gradually we noticed the large change that commensed between ourselvs and everyone els. We wern't in the circle of acceptance, which was never were we particularly wanted to be once we had each other to feed of, yet it caused us to become the infamous centre of attention at times that perhaps didn't suit our liking much.
I soldiered through, becoming engrossed in the challenge of peoples protestance against us, forcing myself to use what negative impact they had on us productively so i might somehow learn how deal with attraction like that. Steph didn't like to comment seriously on it, but would rather mock them consistantly without remorse of which did appeal to me humourously but with deep down knowledge it wasn't doing much for the hope of our remaining contentment at school, yet only further deepened a void for the riot commensing. An eagerly awaited riot between us and the school, or the circulation of acceptance, rather. They held a pending grudge, an awaited riot with everyone who dared question their status, their frontal image which protected their high position in the eyes of those that cowered obeyingly beneath them, those who allowed them power to be there in the first place. I always knew it wasn't in my nature to function like that. To be empowered by someone on my own level or take advantage of a capability to have that effect on someone els. It wasn't real, and it wasn't natural, least of all fair. Just because people tried to behave that way towards me, to monoover me to that side of the peer circulation, i wasn't going to betray my grounds for an easier life.
This meant no boys. I'd only kissed one, and that had been a one off in year eight, when i was thirteen. He had been a sixth former to, and not a particularly nice one. He'd been ahsamed of me, and kept me a secxret, when he asked me out, pleading with me to remain it a secret to. He made out like it wasn't an issue when he asked, but the worry i sensed from his eyes put pressure on me to agree, and i felt i didn't deserve the right to have a boyfriend so i shouldn't question into it. This was before my repuation was in danger of much suspectment, and no one noticed me a huge deal. The kiss hadn't meant a thing, only that i then familiarised with how it felt to share that level of closeness with a boy. It shudders me to think i shared it with him now, Henry Vicars. He wasn't anything delightful to look at and had been through a loop of aquaintances of mine already. He likely had no idea how scared i was of his expectations, of the thought of the preassure i was already facing from the thought of what a relationship with him would require, and, instantly knowing within three days of it, i finished it on good terms. I didn't see him again for at least two years.
But now, now i'd grown out of my repulsed attitude towards sex. Somehow i'd supressed past all memories of repulsive mental imagery, of terrorfying fantasies in which sex seemed a horrific shameful act to commit ones self to the involvment within. I no longer denied the acceptance that i was fascinated by it. I wanted to know how it felt to break free from ignorance, the outward reactive effect of being dealt with with delacacy and care, from the ghastly degradency of innocence of which people could only address me with in the idea that i had not yet been stung by the juices of the Earth. How innocence is beautiful, and how we long for it's riddance once we sense the deprivation it blesses upon us.
I definitely had convinced myself that no one would want me, that the price of taking a chance upon someone of which aquaintance would bare the riskiest consequences was to high. No one was right for me, and it wasn't a hugely focused problem for me. I'd had practise in accepting it for a long time, by then. I felt that the poeple who had attempted to convince me otherwise were kind liars, afraid to tell me what they thought might damage me. If only they'd known i hadn't cared.
I was so used to everything remainign the same. Change was something i hadn't contemplated dealing with, and had had so little familiarisation with that i couldn't image thing's being any different to how they currently were. Simple, retrated from the circular attention. Reserved from popularity in the investment of something more dignified and profound. How could thing's have turned so sourly opposite?
I'd eagerly awaited the anticipated ending to my school days. So had everyone in my year. We had been counting under our breaths of each passing day to the termination of our educational contract, the end of an agonising era of which our useless school had failed to deliver much positive benefit from. The year elevens had the privelege of leaving in early June, rather than late July as everyone els had. We had yet to sit our GCSE exams, but in all honestly it hadn't been something that concerned me that much. We'd be sitting them at the beginning of the following term, and in a separate part to the main school building, so although we were forced to sit exams in our school uniform from the moment of the departing day i felt free.
The follwing Friday i had heard a rumour.







ANYTHING BELOW HERE IS NOT FOR THIS CHAPTER





Sometimes i feel as if life is one big tranparent wave of emotion that would be impossible for us to outface. Because if it was, then what would be the point? The meaning? There would be nothing. The whole meaning to learn and progress as well as just BE would be gone. Nothing would be enjoyed, for it would not be seen through the windows of any other circumstance. No other option, no opposite diversion, just the same minimal track of depthless simplicity, no guide or point because their would be nothing to attatch it to. Just emptiness. It echo's within me to think how that would be. To imagine being nothing inside, meaning nothing. To be is to mean, and to mean is to be. And to be nothing, would be my ideal hell. To dispose of the something vreates a physical nothing and you see, how that so perfectly creates room for a mental somethig, and for that to be meaning the phsycological something was there all along. But then that would be impossible to, because after all, how can we create a physical nothing?
Today was so different. It was one of those days were you end up dwelling on the real matters in your heart a little more. Not much like how i do everyday, where i think about it all the time at the back of my mind and at certain times of the day depending on the thing i am doing it becomes a little more vivid and interesting and at other times boring and unecassary. I actually try my hardest to avoid them to be honest, because no matter how emotionally beneficial they can become, there is always some part of them that suffers because of it. Maybe it's the last remaining shreds of innocence. Of my mind stretching to a little further experience of thinking it each time i do.Perhaps it's the conscience, for some related matter. Perhaps i believe i've done something to deserve all the bad thing's that happen to me and i shouldn't dare to want anymore or hope or contemplate the possibility of it, because maybe i think a certain way that is wrong or i do thing's differently to others and that is wrong. And perhaps i just don't want to believe what the future holds. What future holds, beyond life, even. Perhaps something i don't understand is not something i am worthy of having. Isn't that what is said in the Bible or something to that notion? About how heaven is only deserved to the who believe in it. And God and everything relating to him.
I don't want to go to heaven, not neccasserily in the strict afterlife order that people talk of. I want to feel heaven. I don't even know if it's the same heaven everyone else thinks of. And i don't know why but a tiny part of me feels ever so wicked for feeling that. Like it's expecting more than i deserve or it's not right. Or it's a sickly alluring trap that appears attractive like the harpies in Jason and The arganoughts who drew sailors to their island with their angelic voices before feeding on them alive.
So this is why i get nervous thinking about such intensities to which the heart is curious. As much as it enthralls me to explore the idea of that unknown, it silently punishes me to. An overcome of hollow dryness.
When i woke there was nothing to it. It was just another casual day where i had nothing to do and no one to do it with. The Goldfish barely ceases to entertain after the first few months of owning him, no matter how much you tell yourself he is. The pasta in the cupboard becomes very common. It only just occurs to me how much i dispise artificial light. The Sun is probably the biggest object created by nature within our sight. Man has recreated the resource of the largest object of nature with disgusting lamposts flickering yellow rays and huge built in bulbs raging at 150 watts in your eyes every Monday morning at 7:30 when you feel half dead and your mum is bellowing the school song in your ear. Oh dear, bad memories. Thank God the times that created them over. At least all this free time isnt being packed with intruding school hours that were never of much point to my education given the lack of PASSION the teachers applied to their job. Because at the end of the day, that's what makes a job well done. Determination means it get's complete, passion means it already is. That's if the intention to which it is invested is not planned on being savotaged by jelous downsiders.
Lifting up my phone at the side of my art desk, i checked my messeges half hopefully, imagining an amazing beautiful text of Jack describing how much he wanted to see me again and kill my emptiness with vibrant sex. I giggled, and then sighed doubtfully as i saw their was only one messege from someone i didnt even like which was of no importance or at least not a spark to my interest like i needed to satisfy my craving for a buzz. All hope was lost, when i realised how sick i felt when i thought of the pasta in the cupboard.
I arised from my pit, which was the sofa as well as mine and Antony's bed, and scarpered to the kitchen gleefully in the hope of something of which i did not know just quite yet. There really truly was fuck all that was so needed to be done that i could do it. Why did i want to anyway? I'm usually lazy. When i'm not deadly set on completing something that no doubt will gain me some rewarding of some type.
I notice how dad doesn't line up all the recipe essentials on the chopping board the way Sean did when mum and him were married. Nor does he have everything arranged perfectly in precise order in the fridge the way Sean did. Or in the cupboards. I'm not used to it being so different in these little ways. It's different because their are crumbs on the table. Sean always had everything tightened up and locked back away the minute he had finished using it. Every last crumb was disposed of after cooking, and i found myself in an inevitable habbit of making sure that job was checked. Dad has different habbits entirely. Half of everything he used last night is still hanging about on the side boards. Stuff like biscuits and butter. Crumbs galore. Not a cloth in sight. I feel glad that i now live with my dad again, and i mean that. The gut instinct i sometimes become aware of tells me that, for some reason that has nothing to do with the kitchen or anything, that i am, perhaps, just now, safe?
Wow, it's only now that i notice how different everything else is. If you compared the house to a person, the person would be a reformed character that no one would believe. Dad has papers on the floor, of which some are from last week. I counted a short number of small marks on the wall which hadn't been painted over. Totally unrecognisable marks, but still, i could not imagine them in Seans and Mums former house. Neither could i imagine these interesting looking tools lying around or the few shavings from the wood dad had been drilling a whole through last night, keeping me awake. I definitely couldn't imagine a goldfish. And oh my goodness, no way in hell could i imagine a dog in their home! Mum had always fluttered on childishly about how she'd always 'fancied a dog'. I would often joke and reply that that had been dad not her, to which she would correct me that it was his former girlfriend, rather than herself. Hence the woman he dated post divorce. Anyhow, mum arised the notion to Sean one day, and that was the last time she ever spoke of it. i don't know where mum is right now. i feel sorry for her. I want her here with me. she doesn't seem like herself. i hate it when people change, it confuses me. It frightens me because i know there is always a reason for change, even though change is inevitable.
The home phone rang midway thought. It would have startled me or something being in a mass of pause at that particular moment but it didn't. It was Elena, from my course. She needed to see me urgently about filework concerning our essay on light, which seems to be all we ever spoke about in Photography now. I felt a little displeased and unsettled at this sudden preasure out of my cosy little settlement i had for myself right now, but only in that small way you naturally do. I was obliged to take a shower and apply a cake of make up to see how good i could look, even if it was for nothing. I often find that the more appealing i look the more sppealing i feel. That way at least if there's nothing to do then there's something to do it with. To elaborate physical talent, the type that doesnt require action. Becoming your own project, almost. Must be quite how those lifeless models live. Hollow would be a better word, for that is the word i use for mental emptiness that means nothing but aquires (with respect) shallow forms of occupance to make it barable.
As a walked to the bus, dad messaged me to bring down a shirt in a bag with a receipt that he needed to take back to a shop. He'd forgotten to take it to school with him to return on the way back for a smaller size, and asked me to drop it in at aunty Charbonnet's resturant on the way back for her to do it. Tutting, i slumbered back to the house and searched amongst piles of newly bought prizes for the forgotten shirt. It was nice, but i hated the idea of going into aunty Charbonnet's resurant and embarassing myself by hanging around for her. It was a very explusive place invested by her boyfriend and she and him ran the 'Pizzeria' with the help of z ton of elaborately dressed waiters and waitresses quite obliged to do whatever they were told at the wages they were paid, or so i am told. It's very expensive, and is the sort of place people take you for a treat and where you wouldn't usually see your friends. I have to say the wine i've tried made me very very happy last time i dined there. Dads welcome home treat.
Oh and how different is aunty Charbonnet to dad? So much more sophistiocated and preserved within herself and her actions. Dad doesn't much care what he does or how he looks doing it, which i suppose in a light is a positive way to behave but in others it can be extremely risky. He does, however, care an awful lot about how he looks to his pupils at shitty Grayrigg, which is pointless in my eyes because those kids shall never change and have no hope at wanting to stand out and become something. But i can tell by the way he talks about it that he takes his job very seriously and is intent on giving something back to those kids. Something tells me that that isnt exactly the way the cookie crumbles with aunty Charbonnet, who i think perhaps tries her hardest to look commited but is actually sitting nervously basked within a whirlwind of idea's taking form of life around her that she is possibly in the long run incapable of handling with great success. It's a bit like that. All unsensemaking and ironic. Dad looks like he isnt bothered, but is actually very comitted about his work, where as aunty Charbonnet is all front with certainty and determination but doesn't withold the correct tools (passion) to match.
I handed it to her as soon as i saw her. It was a little abrupt, charging through rows of tables and prodding it in her face in a hurry, to which she looked most uncomfortable and unenthuesed.
''Ah yes'' She concluded, taking hold of it awkwardly, ''Steves shirt? He rang''
I smiled uncomfortably and raised my eyebrows, scarpouring my hands to my back pockets ''Must mean a lot to him then''
''Mm'' She mumbled, briefly glancing it over in the bag. She refaced me. ''I'll see to it. Are you okay chick? You look sweated''
''Erm. Yes'' I hesistated, before realising i was meant to be in a hurry at this point
''Shit i gotta go, Smelenor's waiting at cafe in town'' I babbled, pulling an odd expression
''Not that rude girl who keeps ringing up and asking for tips, surely'' Charbonnet questioned before i found the second to dash
I rehesitated, then laughed.
''Does she? She seemed like a bit of a kiss ass'' I smiled, amused
''Yeah. I was trying to finish that dam paintwork in your dads stting room the other day and all i could hear every five minutes was this 'Elenor' girl on the answer phone going on about God knows what about light''
A couple of waiters tried to slip around us while we spoke. Charbonnet didn't do anything about it. I suddenly realised that i needed to get straight to the bus right that very second.
''Yeah okay. That's what i have to see her about now probably. Anyhow i have to get off, i'll see you later''
''Okay sweetheart, enjoy yourself''
She said it so distinctly as if i was having a day out and i was curious to know what she had meant, and as i was turning to leave i quickly spun round again for a minute, ''Enjoy myself?''
''Yeah'' She replied birghtly, ''Your obviously off out somewhere nice dressed like that. Or hoping to bump into someone special perhaps?''
I wanted to cower away right there and then but common sense resorted me to a look off confusion before nodding awkwardly and running out with the waiting bus being my very exuse. The nodding was totally pointless and i don't know why i did it just to please her. I hate doing thing's to please other people. It's just she sounded so sure that she was right that i almost felt trapped, within that particular second, of believing it myself.
I missed the bus. Or more embarassingly i took the wrong one, which has only ever happened once when i was a child and which i cried over and left me traumatized with embarassment. It was just the abselout worst thing that could have happened to me there and then, and finding that when i managed to get off at the first place possible i had a long way to walk before i could find my way back to the village. Not only that, but during my brief encounter on the bus, it had began to rain quite heavily. It was a very bleak day, and i should have expected it, i just didn't expect it to come down so hard. But what am i saying? I love rain. It's water, and water is a good thing. The only thing that makes raining seem negative, really, is the cold and the generally cloudy skies (plus other obvious annoyances such as hair/make up/paper related objects). Ultimately rain with sunshine is always beautiful, and can be the creation of something beautiful. Hence rainbows. And you never ever are that upset about it when it happens. But somehow, just now, at this point in these clothes with this make up and with skies so grey yes, it was not so marvellous. All i could do was fantasise about my cosy messy house which felt lightyears away at that stage.
As i trodged through the continuous cicle of puddles i managed to get a rough recolection of my reflection. I bagen to see and fake believe like an intoxicated person, remembering how it felt to be intoxicated with alcoholor a drug of some sort. Not anything major, i never did that, but the lighter enhancers, enhancing my moods a nd adjusting my personality to substance of the dose. I often like my senses to become out of control, but only when i am in the calming knowledge of a secure surrounding, with people who will divert me if i turn toward a downward spiral that will lead to no good. I love the feeling of a negative mood being devoured by an immense sense of oblivion which will dissolve the doubt and the worry burdening on the mind. I'm not naive. I know it is a danger and a threat to me and many others to believe and act upon this. Sometimes, i convince myself that i do not care, telling myself there is nothing now that i cannot overcome and detatch myself from once it tries to melt me into it's demands. Perhaps it is my aspirment to give into temptation that makes excuses. Perhaps i simply believe that a darkness worth writhing throughout is a darkness worth believing in.
I began to imagine my reflection more and more, as i walked through the graveyard, past the old church, rain becoming thicker and faster. Rain that blurred the scenery, my open outward view of the world, so that i had barely much option than to rcollect over the most frequent mental image, my reflection. The one in the puddles, the water, the rain. I love it. Thats a darkness in itself, the water. It is dark in it's ability to kill.



THE PREVIOUS TO HAVE SPEECH CUT OUT MADS











Later





i trecked along side Steph as we trampled effortlessly through the subways into the town sentral. I'd never felt so cold in my life, and this wasn't even touching christmas. As young human people, we as girls we not used to nor did we much take to being in full function consciousness at this precise point of the morning. It was to early. SIX, for crying out loud. No doubt Steph wouldn't be seen in an elaborate university of boys without the facial spark that stimulated her vanity assets, as i like to call them. That will have taken me ten minutes, if i put my mind to it. Being an artist and all i was used to putting intense effort into light work. After all, all art meant something, did it not? For her, having not mastered the useful art of pateince, will have dibbled and dabbled anxiously at it for half an hour or so at least. Poor girl. Much do i love her for her blind mishaps. So now it was a question of getting to college. Somewhere both of us shared the preference of rather being at than school anyday. And no, it wasn't a university like i'd said. That was for show, and anyway, i'd get far to home sick, not that this is a home much to my liking, so i don't understand that either.
At college i can play the violin, i've been told. I must say i don't much like the idea of practising in front of a room of strangers, even though dad persistantly antagonises me about 'learning to perform comfortably in front of others'. Well why should i? He knows i'm a very private person and i perform quite happily for none other than myself. It's alright for him inside his cosy little deprety heads office at Grayrigg shit-hole High. He tells me tales of when he began working at Lazambe college. How challening, sophisticated and well presented everything was, how well annered and standard risen it was to other basic education centres. So why, may i ask, did he give it up to kiss ass the head master at an abseloutly downright apalling mess of a school like Grayrigg? I cease to know, or at least understand, as always with basic straight forward behavior.

Steph kicked the side of the pavement, folded her arms and snuggled her chin deep down into her navy green scarf as far as possible as we walked on. A harsh ground absorbing wrath at the bottom of my stomach made me partially want to vomit and pass out on the pavement, but felt embarassed even despite the lack of people in the street and merely couldn't create the effort to do so. How pathetic to feel this way. Faces down, eyelids half closed. Grunting, sighing, coughing in the frosted breeze every second minute. Feet trailing, bags dragging, atmosphere rotting simply because of the mere frustration from the mass lack of energy caused by an unfamiliar early morning. And the cold played a heavy part also, i must say. It cut way in on the chances of practising the social telant we so eagerly and convincingly pretended to have, as like many others, being sort of like an adolescent law. I knew Steph well enough to know that this would bleaken her mood far worse than mine. I had a determined nature, and could stick out the odd early morning once in a while. I even quite liked getting up and knowing that i would be the only one in the house awake for hours. It was one of those unusual thing's that strangely satisfied me. But Steph? Oh no, you may aswell forget it. I bet her dad had to throw a sack of rotten oil leeking potatoes over her to make it slightly more possible to drag her out of bed at half 5. And then, and how ironic is this, we miss the bus by like, five seconds, literally, and there for have to walk two miles through this big empty ass town to college.
And when we stop occasionally to pointlessly take an ectra hard breath or put a larger effort into flicking our hair out of our faces it doesn't like a really bad excuse to do nothing, not at all. I just want to get there. But somehow despite telling myself through the conscious mind that i am very much not enjoying this agonisingly cold treck, i cannot help but love it so dam much just for making me paler, more vulnerable, more eaily hurt, more subtle, and more protective of myself. It puts me in a state of pretend self pity, which enables me the chance to nurse my aching body, which along with the theory of mothering and the general tendancy of being needed, i adore. A phsycological or mental habbit, i suppose. Why should i love this drastic weather more than anyone els, but then again why should i label it drastic when i know in my heart that i believe it to be a crude ungenuine ignorant description of what i truly believe to be a beautiful sketch of nature and the form of it, the delacacy and grace of it in it's most unspoken distilled state. It's almost silently livid, hence the sharp vibes firing off me and Steph like an eratic pig pong ball.
At these sort of wonderous times when we are both silent i don't know weather Steph has any idea of the places which the abscence of speech has restored my thoughts to, but i am sure she knows i am somewhere els. After all, i know her pretty well, and i would proudly swear my diary on that. I excpect her to know me back.
Eventually, a few minutes after we cut a corner, Steph turned her neck to me and subtly glanced me over.
I knew she was about to speak even without looking at her, i was that consciously aware.
''I want to go home'' She tethered, but not annoyingly, like a child does.
I sighed, dropping my shaulders and following the floor.
''I know you do. And you know i do, to. But if we turned back on everything we do when it get's a bit harder than we'd turn into nobody's, you do realise that''
Steph said nothing, but focused on the ground for a few seconds. Spaces between words were perfectly necassary in silent atmospheres like these.Thoughts were the dominance of sound, of social music, of mental politics.
She curbed her head up,
''You always told me that everybody is somebody, that nobody is a nobody''
''I was humoring you'' i lied.
It didn't take her long to come back on that. One of her specialities.
''No'' She corrected, detecting my mistruths, ''Your humoring me now, and i don't think i like it to much''

She glared and wearied, and I ceased to notice or care, being to fulfilled by the calming serenity around me, even despite whatever her words may signified she felt right now or was trying to translate to me. I responded indignantly the way I generally do when absent minded. Times when all other worries become a silent murmur in the shadows of my mind, shadows formed by the in taking aroma within me that absorbed all attention I bared. For all I knew, Steph could be in exactly the same place as me at this moment, but detecting by the anxiety in her tone, I tended to doubt it.
‘’I think we should stop somewhere’’
Steph looked confused.
‘’Stop where? For what?’’ She asked spryly, probably quite in impractical favour of the idea.
‘’Food. Somewhere’’ I said undoubtedly, reversing answers to the question. Still, I didn’t stop to discuss it further, but continued walking as if our destination was route.
‘’Okay’’ Steph replied questionably.
At this point I glanced sideways at her, looking clearly thoughtful. For a minute I didn’t say a word, and neither did she, even though I half expected her to by this point. I could sense her want for further talk.After a few minutes she asked ‘’Where can we go? There are no café’s open yet, and the supermarket it about half a mile away.’’
‘’We don’t have to go to a café to eat’’ I pointed out, ‘’this is planet Earth after all’’
Steph raised her eyebrows, ‘’and where on Earth is the planet you are living on?’’
We both grinned simultaneously, as we do, and continued to walk closer and more in sync with one another from now on.
‘’I want to take you somewhere’’ I said without stirring.
''Planet Venus'' Steph smiled, not striking her eyes from the horizon, ''Now that i wouldn't mind''
''And why would you want me to take you there?''
''Because'' She breathed tiredly, ''I'v no doubt it's warm and exotic''
I giggled at her certainty, ''I've no doubt it's cold and wet, m' dear!''
Steph shrugged, asthough the prospect didn't seem so bad.
''No. It will be warm with all that love, wouldn't you think?'' She said turning to me, smiling furtherly. I couldnt help but offer her a look of patronising realism.
''I knew there'd be more to it. Of course it's full of love warmth. Where do you think we develop the ability to love? From tree's? Nope, that's breathing.''
Steph seemed to draw cloer to me all of a sudden, and withhelf a strange vibe of confidence.
''Same thing, you said once''
I carried on walking for a moment, without speaking. Silence was sociably acceptable, when surroundings such as this restored the atmosphere at it's most calm such as now.
''Well it's not Venus, just to clarify'' I reassured her, leading her down a turn in beside the current road we were side passing. Well, not so much lead, she simply just followed me, without me feeling the need to direct her. Perhaps this was another point that we knew each other well.
She followed me all the way down past the riverbank. The rough side, where everyone tipped their take away left overs, but it wasn't near there where i was planning to stop. Nor was it anywhere near the back end of Sainsbury's and the farming vehicle refurbishment with all it's wasted oils and toxins poluting the fields and what grows in them.
Infact, i took her down narrower pathways untill we reached the large bridge that would take us across the river and onto the more appealing side. Here, i walked over to the corner of the field, and over the wall, i sat down by the cherry tree.
Steph looked at me, then studied the tree carefully. She then returned her look to me once more, this time rather questionably.
''It's been growing rasberries for over three decades, as i'm told''







Earlier



I’m waiting outside for a bus. The bus that comes every morning at 6 30 at the end of my road. It’s quite a long road, and I usually wait about five minutes before the 599 arrives. This morning I’m waiting longer, and the bus still doesn’t come. It’s a cold morning, and I can barely breathe. I’ve never known it to be this cold, never really felt it untill now. My breath conjures before me in a silent cloud, and I am hardly capable of akwknoledging it at all, for I am so dam cold and wet. Silence is rapid. No one is around. A faint murmer of something tremmers around. I realise that the reason iv’e never heard it before is because the louder sounds have always overshadowed it in daytime. This is the real sound of early morning, and it’s so loud I can barely breathe. The sound of an engine starting twenty miles away. The roadworks from the next town. And then, there’s something else. I kneel on the pavement, as the seats from the shelter look like carved ice. I’m perched on the very tip of the road and I can hear these footsteps. They begin silent, so silent I could mistake them for something els. Only now they become louder and louder, gradually thudding into my ears like a frustrated drum, unable and unwilling to give up. Give up the determination to divert me. Divert my curiosity, even though I hear the very same sound thousands of times over every single day. Though, it’s never quite the same. The stillness that surrounds the footsteps is never quite so halting. The crisp grading of the grit on the tarmack as the shoes scrape the floor is never quite so crisp. Never quite so intense is the anticipation to glance over and see who the stranger emerging towards you is. And never quite so missed is the sheer reassurance of it when it slowly fades away back into nothing.







One Beginning

you get into a ay of thinking, believing that everyday is a repetative cycle of the same thing's. I fall into believing this sometimes, but then i ditest and completely enthrall against the idea of getting influenced and preassured into thinking or behaving a certain specific way simply because of what's happening around me. More likely than not the thing's happening around me are a bad source of energy that deep down i feel are trying to destroy me and persecute me, humiliate me to the world and be unforgiving to whatever i may have done to deserve it. Like many other thing's that i have found useful in teaching myself, i teach myself never to depend on a ruitine written by the fake surrounding's that have i have been tested by for existing and developing around me.
I sat at home, mildly bored like i usually found myself. I was preparing for an early start to work that day in Harry's store. Christmas was a short drive ahead and getting stocked up on festive gifts early on was never a bad idea as far as buisness was concerned, even if my dad hated christmas and insisted on morphing into Scrooge at this particular time of the year just to annoy everyone who annoyed him with rejoicing early and esstatically in the spirit of christmas. Despite enjoying my job very much at all times and persiveres of my moods, i felt unsteady about going in today, and tired from having little sleep for some reason. It wasn't serious enough to have acted upon and withdrawn from the day's shift, but i couldn't distract myself from the scent of captivation from normality in some descreet distant place within myself of which was so far i was unable to ditect what it had stemmed from. What was i longing for that i couldn't have today? After all, these feelings, i had leanred had mostly always been born from my unmistakable consistancy to long for something upon all times. Guilt comes from longing when you are fully aware that there are those existing, breathing at this very moment, who long as you do, which much further reason.
I picked up a book laying upon the floor as i sipped on my coffee. Mum was still in bed, but i had never known her to be much of a reader. It looked like something dad would have bought. Exactly the type of book. I knew he had a passion of reading, perhaps where i got my eagerness to explore words from. Perhaps it was somewhere els.
I found, to my unlikely intruigment, the the book i opened was all about Lazamby. My town of which i looked upon and over as i bared a descreet and shy living upon the outskirts. The town of which i had known so much more of over the last six months and adapted throughout and amongst within a thousand different ways and reasons. The old days. Victorian. Not me and my experiences, just the pictures in the book. A picture of a part of Lazamby a hundred or so years ago compared to how it was now. The difference, the change. Almost every spot you could think of in Lazambe. All te places you would have seen if you lived there but never really thought of and always assumed was private if thought of.
I began to feel captivated by this persona and reality of a former Lazamby,, a Lazamby of age. Of history. All the places and parts of this town were in this book, and they all had a history, a ghost. I was haunted within my soul from this moment on. The ghost of Lazamby, of my town. Of every place which i had at least two or three memeories of at least, which had a million more in it's own existance, it's own reality. Each place i had grown aware of of recent, was immortalized in it's own right, bared to eternity with the blessing of being built into a place of which happening's would take place and situations would immense. A secret unknown portfolio, biography, for every part, segment. I didn't know it, but the seedling's of me had caused me to become lost in devotion to the memory of this town, to the meaning and entity, and to every former memory of every part which made it a whole. Was this how strongly i felt about the place of which i had fallen in love with him? And was i being dramatic in knowing that it was because of that of why i felt this way towards this place? This significant place, distant to me in spirit but close to me in heart for the reason of him only.
I turned every page with delacacy and grace throughout my fingers, with a new curiosity, a hunger and appealment to discover more treasures within the history of another part of it. Of course i was aware that it was merely nothing more than a ew paragraphs of information and a blearly victorian picture of how it used to look, but i still felt enthralled and attentively diverted. It was what was distracting me from the fateful ruitines of daily life at this point. Now i look at it, i was a child, yearning and curious to know of the past of that which had brought me such joy and such pain, such exisit unpredictable emotions of which soared me drainless of bearings into the entity of everything.
I saw the town centre. The shops which i had seen and bought from, met people at and desputed arguments and rejoicing's at. I saw the river bank as the children played along it all those years ago. The riverbank which me and Jack walked along all these yeard later, yet all those months ago. We held hands and he teased me and my emotional tolerance through. Then all the other times he seemed more distanced each time. Growing further and more insignificantly distant within consciousness to me as we embraced our adolescent stride throughout it's stretch. Don't think of it.
Picture this. Yound adolescent male rogue from uncertain relative connections raised in challening workhouse town cheekily blags a railway lift to local village on the train. Young rogue comes in desire of current young female interest lving by local village who also happens to be a secret scoundrtal of similar means, but has her longful eye upon an aquaintance of his despite havig already indulged in innapropriate suggestive manners with the young rogue. The young rogue smokes his pipe and eagerly awaites within the circle of aquaintances from his secret young female companion, of which he does not know any but cockily attempts to intervienge in his own interest's of getting what he want's. Another young female aquaintance of his female companion steps out of a passng horse and carriage lifting people from the following town. She knows his young female love interest rather well from having attended school with for several years, and has always been the object of awe and envy of the young female companion of which he has come to see today, perhaps in the interest of coming across more intruigable treasures. The boy is instantly captivated and entranced unmistakably by this young raw innocent girl, who is without mitake a step less promiscuous than the troubled young female friend which had accompanied her throughout her school day's. As this happless curcle of young teenage children roam amongst the joyous facilities of the village, the young woman of which arrived and caught the eye of the boy, follows of into a new curcle of her own friends, of which he undoubtedly excpected she had aside from the other girl, and wonders away, much to his wonderment of ever being enticed with her alarming and spectulous prescence again that afternoon or any other. Then, suddenly, the girl realises she does not want to be apart from her original group, for whatever reason of which she cannot quite understand just yet, and makes up her mind that she has only parted to rejoice in her new group to obide by the cruel natures of peer preasure, and feel's asthough her heart depends on returning to where she had begun her arrival, with her young female friends. Within an hour or so, the older, challenging preassurising young women surrounding this girl, of which she soon sees as an obsticle of that has diverted her away from where she truly wishes to be tongiht, faulter in their will to strive into unknown terratories of the village, as they have already explored and persued these parts many a night before with the same intention which has gained them very little amusement or fulfillment in the idea of fun. The young girl hopefully suggests the retrieve back to their original criteria where the first group had circulated, but the older girls seem doubtful and hesitate at being propelled away from their domain dominance and intewntion, but eventually see no reason or point to coninue with their unsatisfactory exhibition and accompany the heart thrust defiant young woman back to the centre village where the two groups had agree'd, much to the young girls relectance, yet she only realised now, to part ways.
She assured te older girls from her group that she would undoubtedly cross paths with them again that nigt, and to expect many exitments stemming from her toward their way, although she felt in her heart rather unsure to weather she would carry them out. All that was in hope of her heart right now was amidant and eager, blind to her right now as she refused to contemplate or understand it in fear of demolishing her propriety in some way.
The young rougue boy and his young lady love interest had barely spoken since entwining interveignment within the group, much to his distastement and her longing for another his earlier mentioned fellow aquaintance of whom was not here. Not only had she unveiled her ahir, but she had deliberately lisfted the hem of her petty coat in hope of his appearance this afternoon. The young rogue acted none to much care but spoke of his awareness to her subguided attitude towards him and her friends that night. Her displayed to her an oscar deserving performance, with much truth invested, to being utterly uncaring of her lack of attention towards him, by captivating the humour and popularly engaging the admirance and attentions of the remainig members of their young ruffian group. She had to admit he did splendidly well considering he had barely met a single one of them. before in his life.
The young female friend of the rogues love aquaintance had almost lost heart in attempting to detect the whereabouts of her former original group of friends, who had seemingly moved from where she had first departed from them, not that she hadn't ecpeted they hadn't. Her heart sank further than she knew why and suddenly develpoped a longing to return home safe to her father. Her desire to act upon her undying curiosity had enforced her to comitting one last chance to the notion of retracking her friends, who she pined to see before she returned home. After all, it disheartened her to understand she had enagaged herself into an outing with which nothing had she gained from physically or emotionally, which, she hadn't, quite yet.
Before she went to wait for a passing coach carriage, she checked behind the local book colllecters gatherings. Behind it lay a pitt for young scallies from miles aroud to roam aimlessly and smoke their pips without a care for the occasional yelling's of disaproval diverted from appalled modest elderlies who happen to be passing by on the other side of the riverbank. The young rogue appealing reached into his pocket and dragged out a burnt brown pipe of which he fastly lit whilst poked at the edge of his mouth. His grinned in a pleased manner as the smoke blew graciously fromthe side of his smitten mouth, monoovering under the bonnet of his bobble cap. The young girl wh had strayed an hour or two earlier to unwanted means saw the young rogue perched on the edge of the stone stairs. She walked over to him and sat beside him, not replacing her decided look from the empathic rapid churning contents within the river. The young rogue stretched his feet inside his torn buckled oversized shoes, clicked his fingers together simultaniously whilst stretching out his reflexed sleeve rolled white arms, then gaped closely into her scarlet cheeks, her wallowing scently mouth, her drifiting cautious eyes, her contented focus on the empowering waters that lay ahead. He had all the character of a pining child, ready to plead upon the floor for bread crumbs by the hand of a master or mistress. But she was no mistress, and she was certainly no master, as she would soon discover, and not much later would he.
The group vanished. The young girls school companion, the rogues love interest of whom he had supposedly come here to entice, had gone home to her abusive stepfather, and now all that lay ahead was a wallowing of sterdy darkness brought forth by the inevitable night. An accompaniment of a growling wind would commense also, yet the girl was left in blistering wonders still to this moment.
''Can i share your gobstopper?'' The boy said, lusciously, his eyes panting breathlessly but his mouth remainig enclosed and predruelled.
The girl turned her head, and looked down upon his face. His new, interesting beautiful face, of which was proportioned slightly beloow hers, and of which she had only set her bare undistracted eyes upon with utmost this very moment.
She handed him the ball of candy, of which his gratifiantly took in his rough leatherly schoolboy hands and cracked effortlessly against a plate step on the ground. He bit into it. It made a hard gritty sound against his teeth, but he seemed unoticed to it, and he planted his physical contentment to the outly diversion of the river, whilst he did this.
''Come back with me''
A moment, silence. A glance without movement.
''Where?''
Stillness. Modesty. His turning of gaze. The river was nothing less than an occupance of attention to him. But what had it been to her?
''To Lazamby''
Her glance remeained untread. Nothing moved other than her eyelids in a vast blink. She wanted to move her head away, but couldn't bring herself to ster herself from how she was.
'''But how?''
''By train''
''I have no money to pay my fair''
''I have money, i have enough for both of us''
Another paused silence. This time she turned her head away, unable to maintain it, unable to maintina her focus. Unable to be the way she wanted. Distracted to propriety and caution.
''My father won't be pleased''
The boy insisted on mastering her eyes at this point. Her looked at her, made her so aware of his attentment upon her, that she had no other option within her natural instincts but to encline her gaze to oppose his.
''It doesn't matter'' He breathed, silently, ''Just come''
The girl got up and walked away. She shut her eyes and breathed.
''Perhaps i'll see you another day''
Perhaps

Now, enough of the historic parodic invionsary nonsense. You may want to hear the real thing as it were told in modern day reality. Prepare yourself for the long recallings to the beginning of a love story