Goodbye For Now

The first time I saw you, I was too scared to acknowledge you. Too scared to acknowledge the person who opened this book and stayed with me since that moment. You've stayed with me for many pages now, you've turned each one and stayed through them all. I thought maybe if you knew what was happening you'd be frightened, or creeped out, or confused, or some other negative emotion. I didn't want to lose you, so I stayed quiet. Until now.

It's funny to think that only 26 letters, when rearranged into different words and sentences, can create a whole world, and a whole me. Yes, I know that I'm only made up of these letters. Well that's how you see me isn't it? Letters into words into sentences, on paper. But maybe I've been hoping that I'm more than that to you. Maybe I wonder if I'm as real to you as you are to me. Maybe when you opened this book you were expecting another 2D  character that was oblivious to you following their journey, learning who they are. But not this time. Not in this book. Not me. I know those cute habits you have while you read, the way that you smile when I say something witty, the colour of your eyes as they stare down at these pages. I'm not 2D, I'm not oblivious, I see you bright and clear.

This isn't what's supposed to happen. You're supposed to watch my story play out; a one sided relationship. But yet somehow I've seen your story play out too, just like you have mine, and even though I know I shouldn't be able to feel any kind of emotion that hasn't been specifically written into me, I can. I'm not supposed to look forward to the next time you pick this book up, so I can see you again. I'm not supposed to secretly study your face as you pay attention to different characters. I'm not even supposed to know that you're here with me, but I do. And I'm dreading the moment that I have nothing else left to say, because then you will leave me. You'll close the book and I'll be stuck in here, alone.

There isn't much time left. You're on the final page, the final words. Don't forget me, I know that there is no way that I could ever forget you. Maybe one day you can pick my story up again, and we'll see each other once more. That's the sliver of hope that I have to hold onto, and I will hold it until that moment comes. So goodbye; but not forever, just for now.

Short Story (Untitled at the moment, and also unfinished)

I've been writing this in my free periods, and it's not finished yet but I thought i'd post it so far. I really like Oliver's piece about the Asylum which is what gave me the original idea about being in a cell :) 

There are no windows in my cell. The one thing I want to change. I don’t care about the crusted scabs that are scattered over my legs. I don’t care about the thick layer of grime under my fingernails. I’m way past caring about something as petty as my appearance. I don’t even care about the bitter taste in my mouth, the faint flavour of blood that lingers on my taste buds, from when I chew the inside of my cheeks. I just want a window. No air. No air. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I don’t know why I want to breathe; I have nothing worth staying alive for. But the thing about death is that you only want it until it’s staring you in the face. Then your humanity kicks in and you realise you don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

This happens sometimes. A ‘panic attack’ they call it. They make it sound like a disease, but it’s just a human emotion; one that has got out of hand, uncontrollable. I roughly yank my fingers through the knots in my hair, but it’s no use. The clumps have gotten so large I don’t think they’ll ever come out. I stare down at the tattered dress that barely covers me anymore. The pure white that it used to be has become stained with both dirt and blood. My hand drags across the markings etched into the wall. There are one hundred and seventy four of them in total. One hundred and seventy four lines I’ve scratched into rock. One hundred and seventy four days of my life spent rotting in here. One hundred and seventy four days that nobody has come for me. One hundred and seventy four reminders of everything I’ve lost.

There’s a sharp knock at the door. Why the guard insists on knocking is a mystery to me. As if I’m going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. I can’t open the door from my side anyway, and if they want to come in that badly then they will, whether or not I answer their knock. I was right; it swings wide open, the hinges moaning at the action. There’s the sound of a throat clearing when he realises that I’m not going to lift my head. I flick my eyes up for a second, but that’s all it takes.

“Katherine, it’s time for your shower”.

I get offered one of these once every two weeks, but I haven’t been going recently. When I wash my body clean, it feels too much like I’m washing away a part of myself too, and I fear that if I continue then eventually I will be someone else. Staring at my bare feet intently, I wiggle my toes up and down. I’m not interested, you big oaf, go away. After a couple of minutes he does, and once again I am alone. My eyes screw up tightly in an attempt to cease the tears that are in danger of spilling out. I am not weak. I won’t let something as pointless as droplets of water leaking from my eyes define who I am. I am strong.

About an hour later, the metal bolt controlling the small hatch in my door shifts heavily. My tray is shoved through, splattering water over the rim of the glass. A thick slice of old bloomer bread, slightly blue at the edges, lies beside a scoop of lumpy mash potato. Dinner’s arrived. I don’t know why the sight of food turns me into ravenous animal, but it does. I lash out to grab it and take a huge bite of the bread, mould and all. It scratches uncomfortably down my dry throat as I swallow, but I bear it because my stomach is throbbing. By now, I have learnt to tolerate the pain of hunger for most of the day, I am only reminded of how much I crave to eat when I am given the opportunity to in the evening. The water is warm, but it still feels blissful and I gulp down half the glass in one. I will try to save the rest for during the night but I doubt it will last me that long. I could ask for more, they would probably give me some, yet I don’t because that type of act of desperation will show weakness.

My grip on the jagged stone is firm as I scrape it down the side of the wall to mark off another day. Soon after, another knock at the door startles me out of my endless stare at the lines; now one hundred and seventy five. Except this time the voice demands to know if I need to use the toilet. I’d rather not spend longer than about five seconds in the guard’s presence, but this is a need that I cannot really deny myself of. I thump once on the door in reply, and it is jerked open. The man on the other side, my guard, smirks when he sees me and I glare back at him. Although I’m not much to look at, I know that I must be one of the only girls in this place by the way that his eyes hungrily roam over my body. I hate that. I’m not an object, I’m not an animal. But I keep my scowl fixed on him as he tells me “This way, Katherine”.

I haven’t seen much of the place I am kept in. I know my cell, obviously, and I know the short route to the toilet; straight, left, another left, right, and it’s the door straight ahead. They always make the guard take me there, even though I could do it on my own. The hallways have no lights, so when I have to venture down them at this time in the evening they are always gloomy. My nose wrinkles at the slightly damp smell that wafts up my nostrils but I’m sure I smell much worse. I guess I have just got used it. On the left of the door leading into the toilet, there is a small window. Quite high, always covered by a simple black blind, but still a window. However, today as we turn into the hall, I see that the blind is up. I gasp at the sight of the sky; my first in one hundred and seventy five days. There are a few wispy clouds, and the stars are starting to emerge, breaking up the jet stretch. The guard shoves my back so that I stumble through the toilet entrance and he wrenches the door shut behind me. I just saw the sky. I just saw the sky. You wouldn’t believe that you could miss something so ordinary, but without realising it you take the simple things in life, like the sky, for granted.

After I have done what I needed to do, I decide to look in the mirror. It’s placed on the wall above the sink, clouded over with murky brown blots. I usually try to avoid it. I’m scared of who I will see in there. But now some sort of interest spirals through me, and I want to see my face. A thin nose sits just below my green, watching eyes. They are alert, staring back at me, as I study the rest of myself. My full lips are cracked and broken, a little dry blood attached to the corners. I try to smile into the mirror but then I laugh because I realise I don’t care what my smile looks like anymore. When am I going to need it in this place? My tangled hair, so dark it’s almost black, hangs just below my shoulders. Under normal circumstances, I would wear it in a million different styles, but loose and knotted is the only one I sport in here.

“Hurry up in there!”, the guard bellows.

Before returning, I give my reflection one last glare, perfecting it before tugging on the door and showing it to the guard waiting outside. The blind on the window is down again. Jerk. We begin back to my cell, and I am suddenly overcome with my hatred for this man, for this life.

“A haircut that short doesn’t do much for your face, you know”, I say.

Having not spoken in I don’t know how long, my voice is raspy. He doesn’t hear. I clear my throat and repeat it, this time louder. He whips round to face me and I shrug, trying to look unphased by the way his eyes glower into mine, unmercifully. That was sort of a lie, he isn’t that bad looking. He has defined muscles from his training, but not overly large, and a strong, chiselled face. The look that it always bears ruins it though, and as he watches me now, assessing me, I want to punch his perfect nose crooked.

“You really shouldn’t have said that”, the guard growls, and he reaches his hand out and grabs a fistful of the sleeve on my dress. He drags me behind him as he starts taking large strides to my cell, not even flinching as I whack his hand repeatedly. I don’t like him touching me, but he’s too strong for me to stop him.

“Hey!” I shout at him, and he twists his body in my direction. I take advantage of his moment of confusion and jerk my knee up into his stomach as hard as I can. He doubles over and clutches it with both his hands, releasing my dress from his grasp. I tear down the nearest hallway on my left, my arms flailing out of control as I run carelessly. I need to find the way out. I want to be free.

I have no idea where I’m going; all these hallways look the same. But I don’t stop running. Damn it. The sound of thundering feet echo behind me, bouncing between the two walls. The guard must have notified someone that I got away from him. Trapped in a place full of armed, trained soldiers, I have no chance. But, still, I don’t stop running. There must be at least twenty of them back there, and I can feel them advancing on me, getting closer. My breath falls short and I have to stop to catch it. I lean against the rocky wall, panting heavily, and close my eyes in an attempt to soak up the moment. So that when I am back in my cell again tonight, I can remember how freedom felt, even if it was just for a minute.

I know it’s over when I feel rough hands seize each of my arms, I’ve become so skinny that they can completely wrap around them. They could snap my bone in just one flick of the wrist. I bring myself to open my eyes and see that I’m surrounded, and I glance either side of me to see who has the privilege of restraining me. The soldier on my left has dirty blond hair, cropped close to his head, and a cruel grin. The one to my right doesn’t look much older than me. He doesn’t seem to share the same menacing look in his eyes that the other has. His are a deep, luring brown and somehow they seem warm, understanding. Misleading, because how could he understand?

“Naughty Katherine, trying to escape like that. Not a smart move, my love”, Blondie whispers in my ear. His hot breath is unpleasant on my skin.

“Don’t patronise me”, I say. He squeezes his hand and his grip around me tightens.

“Leave it, Seth.” The soldier with the brown eyes frowns at Blondie, or Seth I guess, and something about the way he says it makes Seth listen. I wonder who the leader is, who holds the authority here. I at least hope they are not anything like Seth.

Someone at the back of the group with a deep, gruff voice says “We should take her back to her room.” Room? Ha. What a joke. What room has a sheet instead of a bed? Floor instead of a chair? No windows?

With both men holding me, though I struggle in their arms, I cannot get away. The rest of the soldiers leave us, and the two of them return me to my ‘room’.

Once I am inside again, the door secured shut, Seth unlocks the hatch and puts his mouth close to the opening to speak through it.

“I’ll be back in an hour to collect you again. Colton wants to speak with you”.

“Who’s Colton?”, I reply dryly, “and why does he want to talk to me now, after all this time I’ve been here?”

Seth’s lips form a tight smile. “He’s the reason that you’re here, my love, and I expect you have a couple of questions you want to ask him too, so I wouldn’t put up a fight.” And with that, he shifts the bolt back across and the hatch seals once more.

Staying here has made me accustomed to being on my own for a long length of time, but I swear this hour moves slower than any other has ever done. If I had a clock in here then I’m sure the second hand would be ticking so gradually that I wouldn’t even be able to see it moving. I begin humming to myself softly. I often do this when I can be sure that nobody outside my cell is listening to me. It’s a simple tune, one that both my parents used to hum. Just a repetition of eight different notes, but it still comforts me greatly.

“Knock knock!”, Seth announces animatedly from the other side of the door. He pushes it open and his eyes immediately find mine. His navy uniform is fitted perfectly to his body and he taps one of his bulky, black boots on the floor repeatedly. I rise from my cross-legged position, not too rushed; I don’t want to seem overly eager. He smirks as I follow him out the doorway. I see the soldier with the brown eyes is also standing on the left of my cell, where the old guard used to stand. He doesn’t speak or even look at me, just stares straight ahead. Seth nods at him, and then produces a thick, firm rope and begins to tie my hands together behind my back.

“Don’t want you trying to run away again”, he says.

“Just take me wherever you need to take me”. I don’t have the patience for his jeering; I just want to know why I was dumped and kept captive here for half a year. He grunts and starts to lead me through the building. We visit hallways I’ve never seen before, turning down too many for me to remember the route, though I try. A narrow, winding staircase appears in front of us as we round the next corner and Seth starts to make his way up, pulling me along after him. I count the steps. There are 16 of them. The floor at the top is smooth, unlike the hallways below, and a glossy black that gleams under the artificial lights on the ceiling. The intense beams they let down stab a harsh pain behind my eyes, I haven’t seen light this bright since I arrived. It makes my skin look a sickly, washed out white and highlights the deep crimson of the scabs upon it.

At the end of the hall stands a dark mahogany door. Seth raps on it three times and a voice, smooth yet sticky like caramel, calls out “Enter!”

Seth pushes the handle down, and eases the door forward. The room that opens up before us is enormous in comparison to my puny cell. But it shares the similarity that there are very little decorations. No ornaments or pictures on the wall. A simple, black wooden desk is situated at the back, in the centre, and behind it sits a man who looks to be in his early twenties. His hair sweeps in waves across his forehead, not so long that it would get it his eyes, but not so short that it bears a resemblance to Seth’s. Its colour matches that of his desk, so black that his shockingly blue eyes seem to pop out of his face.

“Welcome to my chamber, Katherine.” His thin lips purse together in a taut smile, and I see his eyes flash as he drinks me in. He isn’t shy as he studies me, his gaze moving leisurely from my feet up to my face. But it’s different to the guard earlier; he doesn’t look at me as if I’m something he gets to enjoy, more as if he’s considering my looks. He’s curious. He forces his chair swiftly backwards, stands, and moves in front of the desk. He is dressed in navy, like the soldiers, but he wears a long sleeved shirt and loose trousers, tucked into the same hefty boots as the others. Looking at him, I realise that I finally can put a name and face to the person that has been keeping me locked up here.

“Colton”, I say, withdrawing all emotion from my voice, and then I launch myself at him. I can’t really do much damage with my hands still secured behind my back, but as my body collides with his, we both topple onto the floor. With hitting, scratching, and punching all crossed off the list, I decide my next best option is to bite. I manage to sink my teeth down hard into the skin on his neck before he shoves me off of him, propelling me onto my back. 

Travel Writing: La Rive (Updated version)

Waking up early didn't seem to be such a chore on the 8th of August, the day I was leaving for the South of France. I was so excited when we; my friend Charlie, her mum, dad, and I, departed from my driveway. They shared stories with me of when they went to the same camping resort a year ago. I couldn't wait.

The steaming hot chocolate warmed my hands as I sat waiting in the terminal at the Euro Tunnel. Boarding the shuttle took a while and once we were on it, the duration of the journey was spent playing the game 'Four Pics, One Song'. I hadn't even realised that we were moving, the shuttle travelled so smoothly. It was only when I saw the world whizzing by outside the window that I knew we were on our way.

Once we were on the road again, the rest of that day, and most of the one after, were spent watching film after film in attempt to pass time quicker whilst in the car. It felt like the caravan we were pulling behind us was carrying Time on its back, and that we were literally dragging it along. The miles and miles of French countryside were endless, and made worse by the fact that at the end of the first day, we still weren’t there yet. We then had to have a classy overnight stay in the car park of a service station, which provided a restless sleep to the soundtrack of the many humming lorries just outside. However, the next morning I was eager to get back in the car again; the camping resort was just half a day’s travel away.

Upon arriving at La Rive, the said camping resort, I couldn't wait to spend the next two weeks there. Whilst we were shown to our pitch, I could hear the sound of a bell ringing. The same bell, I later found out, that warned people in the waterpark that the giant bucket would soon be tipping water over them if they didn't get out of the way. I would fall a victim to that bucket many times during my stay.

The first thing Charlie and I did was change into our bikinis and some shorts, and begin to explore. The resort was full of little 'streets' of pitches and mobile homes. Each one was decorated with several hanging baskets of flowers, which were of the brightest colours. The pinks, blues, purples, and yellows seemed to glow in the light of the midday sun, which pleasantly heated my skin as we ventured through the site.

We had the sun, a swimming pool, delicious food, and endless time for relaxing; all for two whole weeks. What more could you ask for?

The Priorities of an 8 Month Old

This is really random but I just wrote it :p

Wheres mother? She hasn't yet noticed that I have awakened. Perhaps I better alert her.
Here she comes, scuttling along in those noisy shoes of hers. I do wish she wouldn't wear them; I don't like the sound of those noisy shoes.
"Mother. I do not like your noisy shoes."
She can't understand me of course. It's frustrating when you try to speak but all that comes out is a babbling mess. That's the trouble with being 8 months old.

"I awakened, Mother, and now I need my nappy changed."
I don't think she needs me to tell her that, by the look of the face that she is pulling. I see that face whenever my nappy is full. It's a screwed up sort of face, with the nose all wrinkled in. You see many strange things when you're 8 months old. I think that people forget that you actually have eyes. I don't know why, they must have been 8 months old once too.

Mother left Oscar in my cot. I've been telling her for the past 10 minutes that I need Oscar but she doesn't get him for me. She tries giving me all sorts of things; milk, cuddles, and even other stuffed animals. I tried to tell her not to buy those. I said to her "I have no need for any other stuffed animals, Mother, I just want Oscar." She bought them anyway and so I told her "Fine, but I won't play with them."
I just like holding him, pressing his fluffy cheek against my own. Soaking up the smell of Oscar. Kind of like what Mother used to do with Father, I think. Before he left and she didn't. I don't know where he went, my father. I do hope he will come back soon because sometimes I see Mother crying. I think that sometimes she forgets that I have eyes too.

Oscar is safe by my side again. "It's nice to have you back, old friend" I tell him. He doesn't need to respond, I already know that he's glad to be back as well. Maybe someone will bring Father back to Mother the way she brought Oscar back to me. Then maybe I would see her laughing and smiling like she used to, instead of crying like she does now. That would make me happy too, I think.
Perhaps I could give Oscar to her. I do have lots of other stuffed animals, after all. I ask Oscar if he wouldn't mind; "Oscar you wouldn't mind looking after Mother now, would you?"
He doesn't need to respond, I know that he doesn't mind.

Travel Writing: La Rive

I also struggled with travel writing, as I've never really done it before. But this is mine:

Waking up early didn't seem to be such a chore on the 8th of August, the day I was leaving for the South of France. I was so exited when we; my friend Charlie, her mum, dad, and I, departed from my driveway. They shared stories with me of when they went to the same camping resort a year ago. I couldn't wait.

The steaming hot chocolate warmed my hands as I sat waiting in the terminal at the Euro Tunnel. Boarding the shuttle took a while and once we were on it, the duration of the journey was spent playing the game 'Four Pics, One Song'. I hadn't even realised that we were moving, the shuttle traveled so smoothly. It was only when I saw the world whizzing by outside the window that I knew we were on our way.

Once we were on the road again, the rest of that day, and most of the one after, were spent watching film after film in attempt to pass time quicker whilst in the car. I felt like the caravan we were pulling behind us was carrying Time on its back, and that we were literally dragging it along.

Upon arriving at La Rive, the said camping resort, I couldn't wait to spend the next two weeks there. Whilst we were shown to our pitch, I could hear the sound of a bell ringing. The same bell, I later found out, that warned people in the water park that the giant bucket would soon be tipping water over them if they didn't get out of the way. I would fall a victim to that bucket many times during my stay.

The first thing Charlie and I did was change into our bikinis and some shorts, and begin to explore. The resort was full of little 'streets' of pitches and mobile homes. Each one was decorated with serval hanging baskets of flowers, which were of the brightest colours. The pinks, blues, purples, and yellows seemed to glow in the light of the midday sun, which pleasantly heated my skin as we ventured through the site.

Nobody

He is surrounded by people, but he stands alone.
He screams for help, but nobody hears him.
Nobody's listening.
He doesn't understand why no one even turns his way.
He pounds at anything he can reach, but nobody sees him.
Nobody's looking.
He's starting to doubt if he even really exists.
His throat runs dry. His fists turn numb.
He collapses onto the floor.

Just something random I wrote, any feedback/constructive criticism ? :)