Spoiler
This is - at the moment - a one shot. I wrote this when times got tough, so that I could make sense of what was going through my head or, to be more precise, allow others to understand. However, this is the story of a teenager steadily running off the track. I don't know what you'll think of this first piece but I'm definitely intrigued to know your thoughts.
This is the story of one girl’s fall and her mother’s plight to catch her
Hell is not knowing how to save yourself. It’s easy to give someone else advice because you’re not the one taking action. ‘Easier said than done,’ they say and by God, isn’t that true? It’s much more difficult to take your own advice than to dish it out.
Lately, that’s become a bit of a habit for me. I can hand out advice, tell other people what to do but I hate being wrapped up in cotton wool, hate having to tell my parents where I am every moment of the day.
It’s the same now as I’m bawled out for the third time this week. It’s only Tuesday. “Don’t you ever learn?” My mother’s words ring in my ears. Of course I do, I want to shout back. But maybe I just want you to notice me, for once in my life. The thing is, admitting the truth is a lot more hurtful these days. I’m not lying, not really. I’m merely not speaking aloud the truth.
“Lyndsey, are you even listening to me?” What’s the point anymore? You never listen to me. Why should the rules be any different when the roles are reversed?
“Yes, mother. I am.” Her face seems to light as quickly as a splint does that has been re-introduced to oxygen. And then, against the pale of her neck, I see the big blue vein that runs from behind her ear to her collarbone. It sticks out, throbbing. I’m ready to run. It’s always been a warning sign, that blue vein – one that I’ve become appreciative of these past few months.
“Lyndsey Marilyn Rose.” My full name; I roll my eyes. “Don’t push me, young lady. I’m not in the mood for your attitude today.” You never are. I grip the counter I’m standing next to and watch as the blood drains from my fingers, turning them white. With my head bent low and my dark hair obscuring my vision, my mother steps forwards. At least, I assume this action has been taken because all of a sudden, her long fingers pluck at mine like a harp. They tingle as the blood rushes back to them. “Lynds,” she whispers.
“Mom, I-“
“What did you do this time?” my brother laughs, taking in my dishevelled state as he enters our family kitchen, completely oblivious to what he’s just interrupted. I punched a guy in the face. Instead of speaking, I glare at him. If my mother was not standing at my side, I may have told him, glorifying the details so as to make him proud. “That’s gonna be beautiful,” he tells me and instinctively, I reach up to run my fingers lightly over the swollen surface of my eyelid.
“Michael!” my mother scolds but she doesn’t look as angry as before, a delicate smile stretched thinly across her lips. And, not for the first time, I wonder why it is that my brother manages to cheer her up with so much ease that it seems like all he has to do is breathe in her presence.
“Take heed,” I tell him but the truth is, I’m laughing now too. He grins at me and I fly forwards to hug him, my small frame only just reaching his broad chest. I cling to him, wishing his strength would bleed into me.
-
I’ve found that everyone needs an escape, whether you’re a football player or a teacher or merely a fifteen year old girl who does all she can to get through one day. Lately, however, I’ve come to realise that escape is not just a physical thing. When you’re little, escape is running away from the mean boy in class who wants to poke fun at your glasses or tug on your braids. And then you grow up and realise that the disappointment on your mother’s face hurts more than the fist you drove into your locker. Then you really want to escape – from her, from the feeling of letting someone you care about down.
For me, it was always the park. I discovered when I was six that the block of wood underneath the slide isn’t really that at all and if you accidently roll into it to stop your rollerblades, the plank comes loose. If you push on it a little, it gives way to a small hole, big enough to conceal a petite child who wanted to hide from the parent whose favourite vase you just broke.
The trouble was, I began taking the darkness with me. I mulled over everything everywhere until even the sanctuary of under-the-wooden-block-that-wasn’t didn’t help me escape. It felt like drowning so I let myself sink – into writing, into art, into sleep; into anything that occupied my mind long enough for a few moments to forget that my friend had smashed up yet another window at school and I had no way of helping her.
As the rain taps against the attic window, I throw a paintbrush at my blank canvas. I kick the frame of my bed, wishing my mother was not keeping me under house arrest until I was allowed back to school. It’s not that I want to be at school – it’s more that I’d rather be anywhere but here. Here, I am trapped by the lies that cling to my curtains, trapped by the secrets that lie beneath my floorboards. They say the mind is the worst kind of torture. I agree.
I take a few moments to stand at the window, watching the raindrops run down the glass. Then I turn away, adjust my easel and flick the light switch. All of a sudden, my room is covered in a bright, vibrant glow. I sit down and begin to draw in ink.
By the time my brother is up and has rolled up the attic steps, I’m nearly done. “How depressing,” he comments, announcing his arrival and the sound of his voice shocks me, sending my ink pen across the delicate lines of my drawing. Michael! “It’s too dark.” I turn around and kick him lightly.
“What would you know about art?”
“I know that it’s your comfort zone. And I know this darkness isn’t you, Lyndsey. You said it had stopped, that you were fine again. What’s going on?” He takes my hands between his and kneels down. Everything’s changing, Michael. I’m scared of who I’ve become. The silence hangs like a dust cloud between us.
Adolescence is like a fog between you and the rest of the world. As you change, your face is clouded. It takes a while for that cloud to disappear and when it does, you are somebody the world does not wholly recognise. It takes time for it to roll away, for people to get used to the new you. Adults – parents and family members in particular – like to pretend the fog isn’t there and when they look at you, you are still the five year old who made daisy chains on a summer’s day.
Michael is giving me the chance to prove I’ve grown up. Do I take it? “Nothing’s wrong. Stay out of my business.” I tug at my hands and he lets me go free. This isn’t freedom; this is being trapped between what you want and what you need. “You’ve done a good job of it for the past fifteen years. Just continue that, okay?” I can tell by the look on his face that I’ve hurt him but I cannot summon the strength to give a damn. Instead, I run out of the attic, down the ‘main’ stairs and into the hallway, where I pull on my boots and drag my coat from the cupboard.
“You can’t leave,” Michael says, appearing at the top of the stairs. I slam the cupboard door as I turn to look at him.
“Watch me.” I storm out of the house, leaving everything behind. Sometimes, I just wish that I could leave myself behind instead. Or, at the very least, I’d leave my heart. Because then it wouldn’t hurt as much.
I’ve never been much of a runner but I decide then that this is what I shall do. If I can run fast enough, hopefully my mind will not be full of everything I am trying so hard to forget. It’s a rash hope, of course but one that I have to cling to, for fear of losing myself.
However, I hear a meow. I suppose it’s the same as when a mother hears her child’s cry above the rest. The meow isn’t anybody’s – it belongs to my tabby cat, one I’ve adored since the moment I laid eyes on her. It’s her meow that brings me back up the driveway, so that I’m sitting in the front garden and stroking her, as she rubs up against my legs. I never had a hope in hell of leaving today.
So I pick up my little tabby cat – Patch, she’s called – and carry her into the house. Michael rushes abruptly to the door, obviously wondering who on earth it is that’s just wandered into our home. When he sees that it’s me, he relaxes a little, even smiles. “Lyndsey,” he says softly and it’s enough for me to want to crawl into his lap and bury my head into his chest, just like I did when I was little. I was four then though and he was seven; it’s a little different. “You came back.”
When I’m halfway up the stairs, Patch still in my arms, I turn back. “Of course I did. I always do.” What I don’t include, however, is that I don’t intend on adding an ‘always will.’
It’s best that way.
