A pair of strong, rough hands grabbed my trembling shoulders. I was prompted along the looming corridor by overly persistent officers, shoved into a dark, desolate cell. I could not see, but I could hear the gentle click of a firm padlock – I was locked in. My emotions defeated my dignity at that moment in time, and I let out a troubled sob, curled up into a tight ball in the corner.
After about 10 minutes, or so I thought, of letting my true feelings fly free, I took a deep breath, sighed, and tried to calm down. Glancing around what I could see of the cell, I saw that they, the strong-handed officers, had left me with a lamp. I switched it on, the light was fairly dim, but I could see reasonably well with it. There was a small, rusty, iron camp bed in one corner, ageing and sad-looking, and a equally tiny bedside table, only one of the three drawers intact and two out of four legs, promoting it as uncared for and useless. It didn’t help that the beech wood was slowly rotting away into a colourless piece of junk. I hated it, hated the camp bed, hated the way the dusty black walls were stained, corners coated with cobwebs, hated everything, hated my new life there. I had no place there, no belonging, nothing.
I cried again then, leaning against a dismal wall, thumping my fist against it, banging my head against it, taking my anger out on its lifeless appearance. My soul reflected it’s blankness like sorrow, it’s greyness like fading memories of long-ago times of joy, friendship and laughter. Slowly, I drifted into a dreamless sleep, as empty as my cell, or so I thought…
My sleep was most definitely not dreamless, in true fact; it was a pouncing, crashing, terrorising, shivering, attacking nightmare. And, the worst thing was, it was one of my actual experiences and doings, the exact of which landed me and my life in the damp cell. The day that ruined my life and also my dream began like this…
* * *
It was not too late in the morning, about nine o’clock, when my alarm clock buzzed. Yawning, I eventually forced my tired body out of bed, put on my faded tartan dressing gown, and dragged my heavy bones downstairs. My mother was already up, smiling brightly as she cooked bacon into a frazzled crisp, the way I liked it. She was always a morning person, but I never was, she says I must have got it from my father, Tony, who at that moment in time was lounging around in his bed. Father had recently been acting kind of strange towards me, but Julia, my mother, still meant the world to him, and he made up half of her life and living, as I was the other half. I felt like they were up in a bubble, soaring above the clouds in a glorious dream of their own, and I was stuck below, watching enviously.
Twenty minutes later, my mother and I were perched opposite each other on leather chairs, scoffing crispy bacon sandwiches from a china plate. Her long, chocolate curls tickled our best white tablecloth playfully. I sighed, fingering my own short, sticking-out black tangles.
Everyone said she was beautiful. I however, did not remsemble her, or my father, who was tall and twinkly, his golden hair glinting even in the dimmest of lights.
I didn't look anything like them, the actual opposite in fact.
My mother and father refused to admit it, but I knew that they knew. I have to admit, there was definitely something paranormal about my rather different appearance, but neither my beloved parents nor I, mentioned it.
Anyways, at about eleven o’clock, my father finally came downstairs, his milky brown eyes blinking at the harsh light. My mother was reluctantly washing the dishes, one of the household chores I knew she utterly despised, while I was struggling through my homework. My father greeted my mother with a hug. I had to turn away. I am not the loving, caring kind of person. Surprisingly, then my father greeted me with a similar, yet no were near as caring hug, which made me want to throw up. My father is not the kindest father, even at the best of times, but he is definitely a brilliant husband.
After my father had finished breakfast, he sat my mother and I down in the living room, and told us he’d be right back. I wriggled uncomfortably on the hard, costly leather sofa. My mother, at a first glance, seemed to be equally anxious and restless, yet with a closer look had a mask of anticipation and excitement. Her emerald green eyes twinkled my father as he slammed the door behind himself. She knew what was about to happen. I didn’t. When she caught me staring at her with a truly worrying expression plastered across my face, her features projected a look of dread and fright. I then suddenly realised something bad was in it for me, but something good for her. I nearly lost my mind wondering. Luckily, after about a quarter of an hour of pondering, I was then distracted by the familiar creek of the door. Tony was back. I tried to smile.
“Guess what, my darlings!” my father exclaimed, bringing a brown envelope out of his trouser pocket and waving it about.
“What is it now,” I replied, trying to look pleased, but my voice echoed my utter boredom. I hated Tony’s ‘surprises’.
“I got us all tickets to see Joe McCelery at the Millennium Theatre! Tonight!” my father told us.
“Honey, that’s fabulous… that’s amazing… that’s perfect… that’s brilliant!” cried my mother, leaping up to kiss him on the cheek.
I pulled a disgusted face and remarked moodily, “Wow. I can’t wait.” I hate stinking Joe McCelery. My mother loves him nearly as much as she loves my father. Which is a lot, I mean it.
My parents groaned at my sarcasm and pulled me up into a tight ‘family’ hug. Awkwardly, we broke apart and sat down, my mother on my father’s lap, me, feeling embarrassed, on the other side of the room.
After a couple of silent minutes, my father left the room, closely followed by my mother. I was told sternly to get dressed and come down for lunch, as this was about half twelve. I obediently went back up to my room.
My room was quite babyish for a twelve year-old girl’s. It was painted pink, with a matching fluffy carpet, worn and tattered now. A dozen Disney Princess posters were blue-tacked up on the wall – Belle, Snow White, Cinderella, Ariel, Sleeping Beauty, Jasmine. The bed was only a single one, eventually starting to rust after eleven or twelve years. The duvet was patterned with twinkling tiaras and splendid castles, my curtains were an exact replica. Apart from the broken wooden wardrobe half-painted silver containing my few outfits, the rest of the room was sparse and looked almost unlived in. I quickly changed into a pair of tattered jeans, with huge holes on both knees, and a white t-shirt with a denim patch across the stomach area. I pulled on a pair of socks at least three sizes too small, and charged into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash.
Downstairs, my mother and my father were discussing something probably secret. I could only hear a few sentences, as they were speaking in a low whisper to each other.
“We can’t tell her, not now, she’s way too stressed.”
“But she needs to know.”
I instantly became curious, and after letting a couple of minutes pass for my own benefit, crept downstairs. Seeing me, my mother nudged my father, and he collected our lunch and told me to come and sit down. I gulped down my lunch as fast as I could, and then scrambled upstairs. I needed a bit of distraction from my life, so I turned on my TV, and fortunately my favourite film of all time, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, was just starting on Sky Movies 2, so I sat down with a bag of popcorn, stolen from the kitchen, to watch. ‘Filmgoers’ magazine was right naming it ‘Feel Good Film of the Year’ as I felt much better about my life situation when it had ended. I sat watching the next film that was showing, which I had never seen before, titled Ferris Beuller’s Day Off, about a boy who stays off from school and has all kinds of fun. It was a hilarious film with a charming plot and I must buy the DVD as I enjoyed it more than I thought I would.
When it ended, I heard my mother calling for me to hurry up and get dressed for the concert because it was five o’clock and we were going out for a meal before the performance. Sighing heavily, I switched off the TV, and changed into my only remotely suitable outfit for a meal and then a show – a very much despised strapless black evening gown, hemming approximately two centimetres below my knees. I replaced my socks with a pair of black nylon tights, patterned with ladders and holes, and carelessly slapped on some make-up. I grabbed my black jacket, slid on my only decent pair of shoes – black stilettos with four inch heels that, if I wore them, resulted in me looking like a giraffe and walking like a duck. Not a pretty sight I looked that terrible night.
My mother, as always, looked astounding. She modelled a tight-fitting scarlet tube top, a denim mini skirt and black UGG boots. Her hair was curled into angelic ringlets and her make-up was divine. My father also looked usually handsome in a black tuxedo. He escorted my mother, who was clinging onto his arm, into the limousine, while I kept up the rear, sulking as I walked. My problems were swirling around in my mind. We can’t tell her…we can’t tell her…we can’t…my mind whispered.
I stepped into the limousine and the chauffeur drove us to the most expensive restaurant in Manhattan – La Suevue. My parents were extremely rich when it came to money, but they hardly spent over ten dollars on me, while they spent thousands on themselves and each other. That’s why their clothes were designer labels like Hugo Boss, Chanel, and DKNY, and mine were from the Oxfam shop, and the Saturday morning market.
* * *
We presented out tickets to the usherette, and strolled over to the bar to purchase food and drink for during the concert, although we were still quite full from our meal at La Suevue. My father bought a half-pint of Carling for himself, a bottle of white wine for my mother, and a bag of salty roasted peanuts for them to share. He left me with five dollars to spend on my refreshments, which we both knew wouldn’t go far. He reminded me where our seats were, and demanded I meet them there in five minutes. He took once last stare at me, and with that, took hold of my mother’s hand gently, and walked away.
I went up to the counter, clutching my five precious dollars, and requested a can of Coca Cola and family bag of Minstrels. It came to four dollars and thirty six cents. I paid without a word. I pocketed my remaining change, collected my food, thanked the woman who had served me, and I was gone.
I took the lift up to the VIP box, put my special key-card through the high-security lock system, turned the handle and entered. There were only five seats in the box, scarlet plush, with full backrests, side tables and a fantastic view. A dark haired lad and a blonde girl were sitting down in two of the seats. My parents were perched on another two, and they kept the last seat, on the end, for me. Sitting down, I realised the dark haired lad was Robert Matterson, and the blonde girl Kristen Jewart. I gasped in amazement at the film stars in my presence. My father firmly pulled me to my seat, hissed at me to shut up, and turned all of his attentions onto my mother. The lights dimmed and the presenter, Dillon Osborne, spoke.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen! I hope you will thoroughly enjoy this collection of songs from the 2009 winner of The Z Factor! Everybody, please give a warm welcome to Joe McCelery!”
* * *
“YOU…YOU DISRESPECTFUL, SELFISH BRAT! YOU EMBARASSED OUR FAMILY, RUINED YOUR FATHER’S REPUTATION FOREVER WITH YOUR CHILDISH BEHAVIOUR AT THAT CONCERT! YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED, AIMY! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’VE DONE, THE PROBLEMS YOU’VE CREATED! I HATE YOU! I REALLY DO!” screamed my mother after the concert, as soon as we were inside our house.
I hung my head, to hide my emotions, and, after changing, brushing my teeth and washing, crawled sleepily into bed. My eyes welled up with tears when my father turned off my light and walked away. I sobbed for what seemed like hours, but realistically only about fifteen minutes. My life was falling apart, and I didn’t know. It was like my mother had ripped my heart out and stamped all over it in her Channel stilettos. I was about to lose everything I really loved, through the stupidity of my own actions.
It was two o’clock in the morning. I had made a decision. All the events in the past two weeks decided for me. The shouting after the concert, the mysterious conversation at lunchtime, the mist behind her eyes. I tiptoed into my father’s room, shook gently him to wake him, and half-carried half-dragged him into my room. I switched on the light and started the conversation holding my fate.
“Father?”
“Yes, darling?” my father replied, eyes full of sleep.
“What is wrong with mother?” I questioned.
“Well, I shouldn’t tell you,” he shrugged.
“Please, father, I must know,” I insisted.
“Alright then, but do not tell a soul.” He demanded, but in a soft tone.
“I won’t,” I promised.
He sat me down on my bed, knelt in front of me and began,
“Julie is… depressed. She wouldn’t tell anyone, not even me, at first, and she visited a psychologist to try and sort it out. She was too depressed for them to help her, stuck so far down in a hole, no –one could help her out of. She either has to stay down in her hole, or leave this world. Die.” Father was sobbing, then, so I hugged him tight and reassured him,
“She won’t do that, you know that, and so do I. She needs us now, father, needs us more than ever. We can help.”
“She will go. The physiologist told me. She hasn’t long left. We must embrace our few remaining days with her, love them, and treasure them as joyful memories in the future. The President of the AFTED says she will have to go on Monday. Tomorrow, the three of us fly to their island, just off the coast of Morocco. It is there she shall die. We have to witness her final few minutes on Earth, and I am dreading it.” Father cried miserably.
“Father, I am so sorry, I didn’t know. Oh my, I am so very sorry to hear this terrible news. What shall we do? This can’t happen, it can’t!” I cried then, hugging my father tight.
It's interesting and captivated my attention for mostly the whole way through.
