Watching Windows - Chapter 7

Thanks a lot for your help, Demeter!

Oh, lunch hall's one of those silly little English things It would be much easier if we called them canteen, but, oh well.

Ahh You'll find out who the note's from soon enough. Patience, patience haha

Sarah

xxx

Hi again

Hmm. One thing I didn't quite get was that all the people suddenly "hate" Amelia. Why? Is it because her mom doesn't remember who she is? If that's so, I think it's not believable. Or then you'll have to clear the thought up a little.

lunch hall

Nobody could eat lunch on their own as that was probably the worst kind of social suicide anybody could commit.

Getting away with being a loner at break was hard enough.

Gah! All my extremely intelligent points that I'd jotted down have already been taken!!
Uhhhhh...
Just in this sentence:

so tight it felt like he would never let go. And the look in his eyes. He looked so drained, so tragic, so desolate

I sorry to review the seventh and not reviewing the fifth and sixth ones. I really sorry, sky. But I will right after I review this.

Okay, this is getting sadder and sadder.

Mistakes,

I noticed that the people huddled in their tight little groups were watching me as I walked past the corridor

They were pointing and whispering, sly looks on their faces.

As I walked to the lunch hall one Tuesday, heads were turning in the corridor without even being discreet.

deciding fixing my eyes on the table I normally sat at.

if she disliked someone, everyone else followed her lead.

I did not understand her. I did not know her. I did not know my own mother, and he did not know me.

I clawed at my soaked eyes until the lids bled and balled up the paper,

It's me again! I'm getting there!

I sat down at the normal table with the group of people I normally sat with. I did not have any friends, but I had to make a move at the beginning of Year Seven, to have somebody to eat lunch with.

Nobody could eat lunch on their own; that was probably the worst kind of social suicide anybody could commit. Getting away with being a loner at break was hard enough. Most of the gangs didn't accept me at all in Year Seven because of the influence Kirsty Brightman had over people: if she disliked someone, that went for everyone else as well. The 'Nerd Gang', as they were cruelly stereo-typed, didn't really accept me either, but at least they normally allowed me to hover at the edge of their table and nibble nervously. Being a group of child prodigies, junior Einsteins and poet Laureates, they probably knew what being different felt like, accounting for why they did not shun me. I was not normally invited to enter the conversation, nor was I acknowledged, but I didn’t mind. I was grateful enough for the fact that I had not been submitted to utter humiliation by having nowhere to eat lunch.

…

“Listen, Amelia,” she said, obviously uncomfortable. She reminded me of the male nurse at the hospital who’d had to break the news to me about Mum. “You can’t sit with us anymore. It’s because of... well... you know. We can’t afford to get any more stick than we’re already getting. And because of how much you’re, well, hated now, we can’t really...” her voice trailed off and she fixated her eyes on her shoes.

“But...” I started, my voice trembling. “But... but couldn’t I just...” I looked at her pleadingly, hoping that somehow I could change her mind. Kirsty’s hate for me had made everyone scared to be associated with me, for fear they would be victimised as well.

She shook her head at me sadly. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I wish… I wish things were different. I wish people didn’t get so prejudiced against each other and I… I wish...” she [s]broke[/s] (‘Trailed’ might work better here. ‘Broke’ to me conveys that she suddenly stopped speaking.) off and looked for a second as if she was going to change her mind. But then Kirsty, picking at a celery stick, caught her eye and a shadow passed over her face.

…

It was a bad idea though because some year eleven chavs came in, hoping to skive off their next lesson, have a fag and plaster makeup on their faces to infuriate the teachers. When they heard me weeping they banged on the door and yelled at me to "Shut the hell up!"

So it was back to roaming the corridors for the next few weeks. In a nutshell, I was just too scared of facing the hall again.

…

“No! No! NO!” she screeched. “You’re strangers! You’re strangers, strangers, strangers!” Maybe italicise one of the ‘strangers’?

[s]I stared at her, dumbfounded, unable to do anything but stand and stare.[/s] I was unable to do anything but stand and stare at her, dumbfounded. I couldn’t even cry. I didn’t understand her. I didn’t know this madwoman who hated us so much.

…

He smiled back at me [s]with his mouth[/s], though his eyes were hard and unfriendly. “If you say so.” [s]he said, obviously disbelieving[/s] He clearly didn’t believe what I had just told him. I had no energy to fight the cause of a lie, though. I didn’t care what he thought. As long as he left us alone. “But, Amelia,” he said, continuing, “If there ever is anything wrong, you can tell me.”

…

Turning around, I saw Dad, standing erect in the hallway, caught in a moment. It was like he was trapped in himself, and it seemed there was nothing I could do to [s]stop[/s] get through to (?) him.

We stood there looking at each other and neither of us said a word. Words wouldn't have filled the sad, empty silence stretching the gap between us. So we stood in front of each (space) other, silent tears running down our cheeks[s], tugging at our heart[/s].

…

[s]In the morning[/s] I woke up the next morning with a terrible feeling in my gut, having the usual panic attack that seized me on school mornings. Today, it was worse that usual – my palms were sweaty, my heart was thumping and I was shaking all over. Unsteadily, I swung my legs over the bed, and went to brush my teeth. Then (no comma) I knelt on Mum's bed, where she lay with an empty look in her eyes, and said, "Mum? I'll just brush your hair." I picked up a brush, but she shook her head.

"No... Go and... do whatever you have to do."

"School," I said. She said nothing, but took the brush from me (no comma) and started pulling the teeth through her tangles. She managed this quite well; [s]and[/s] her hand had obviously strengthened.

I whispered the word again and then burst into tears. I fell back onto my bed and cried until my throat was raw, clawing at my soaked eyes until the lids bled, (Can eyelids bleed? Yuck!) and balling up the paper, throwing it to the other end of the room where it [s]bounded[/s] (Try to find a different adjective – a note can’t ‘bound’) against the door, leapt up ? and then lay [s]at[/s] on the ground.

As I walked to the lunch hall one Tuesday, I was aware that heads were turning in the corridor. I noticed that people who werehuddled in their tight little groups were pointing and whispering, [s]frowning and giggling[/s]. I’d known that word had spread amongst my [s]year group[/s]class, obviously, because of the fact that Susannah knew about it and [s]that[/s] she was mentoring me at the moment. [s]But[/s]However, I didn’t know that my personal problems had travelled through the entire school.

I sat down [s]at the normal table[/s] with the group of people I normally sat with. I did not have any friends, but I had to make a move at the beginning of Year Seven[s], to have somebody to eat lunch with[/s]. Nobody could eat lunch on their own[s],[/s]; that was probably the worst kind of social suicide anybody could commit. Getting away with being a loner at break was hard enough. Most of the gangs didn't accept me at all in Year Seven because of the influence Kirsty Brightman had over people: if she disliked someone, [s]that went for everyone else as well[/s]everyone else followed her lead. The 'Nerd Gang', as they were cruelly stereo[s]-[/s]typed, didn't really accept me either, but at least they [s]normally[/s] allowed me to hover at the edge of their table and nibble nervously. Being a group of child prodigies, junior Einsteins and poet Laureates, they probably knew what being different felt like, which accounted[s]accounting[/s] for why they did not shun me. I was not [s]normally[/s] invited to enter the conversation[s], nor was I[/s] acknowledged. I didn’t mind. I was grateful enough for the fact that I had not been submitted to utter humiliation by having nowhere to eat lunch.

But as I entered the hall today, the leader of the group, Claire, approached me apprehensively, a strange look on her face. I could see the others in the group sitting at their table, avoiding my glance.

“Listen, Amelia,” she said, obviously uncomfortable. She reminded me of the male nurse at the hospital who’d had to break the news to me about Mum. “You can’t sit with us anymore. It’s because of...well...you know. We can’t afford to get any more stick than we’re already getting. And because of how much you’re, well, hated now, we can’t really...” her voice trailed off and she fixated her eyes on her shoes.

“But...” I started, my voice trembling. “But...but couldn’t I just...” I looked at her pleadingly, hoping that somehow I could change her mind. Kirsty’s hate for me had made everyone scared to be associated with me, for fear they would be [s]victimised[/s]victimized as well.

She shook her head [s]at me[/s] sadly. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I wish, I wish things were different. I wish people didn’t get so prejudiced against each other and I...I wish...” she broke off and looked for a second as if she was going to change her mind. But then Kirsty, picking at a celery stick, caught her eye and a shadow passed over her face.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, and then walked back to the table, not looking at me again.

There I stood, abandoned in the middle of the hall, feeling everyone's deriding looks pierce me like knives. As usual, a flood of frightened, sad tears surged up inside of me so I turned around and ran out of the lunch hall, my lip wobbling.

Unable to find any other means of escape, I hurried along the corridor and rushed into the bathroom. I swung open the door to the furthest toilet cubicle, locked it carefully and put the toilet seat down. Sitting there, I put my head in my hands and just cried my eyes out, my shoulders shaking with suppressed grief and frustration.

It was a bad idea though. because some year eleven chavs came in, hoping to skive off their next lesson, have a fag and plaster makeup on their faces to infuriate the teachers. When they heard me weeping they banged on the door and yelled at me to: "[s]S[/s]shut the hell up."

So it was back to roaming the corridors for the next couple weeks. In a nutshell, I was just too scared of facing the hall again. I don't really like 'in a nutshell', too much of a cliche.

I sat on my dream sill one rainy Sunday, staring glumly at the raindrops spattering the window pane. I saw the young Russian prince through the gleaming light in the clear window, across the block. The female pirate seemed to be rocking him in her arms and cooing to him. They looked happy enough. I was glad for them.

I was interrupted from my contemplation by the sound of shouting. I sprang off the windowsill and rushed [s]in[/s]to the hallway. I could see Dad, fending off Mum’s slaps and saying something in a voice he was trying to control. I don't understand what you mean by 'a voice he was trying to control'.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

Dad didn’t reply, but Mum answered my question for him.

“Go away!” she shrieked at Dad, hitting his face. “Leave me alone! I don’t know you people! I don’t know you! You’re strangers!”

“Please, Kelly,” said Dad, in a quiet, resigned voice. It still seemed like he was holding back his temper. “Please, Kelly. This is your home. This is your home and I’m your husband and Amelia here is your daughter and we just want you to come back to us.”

“No! No! NO!” she screeched. “You’re strangers! You’re strangers, strangers, strangers!”

I stared at her, dumbfounded, unable to do anything but stand and stare. I could[s]n’t[/s] not even cry. I did[s]n’t[/s] not understand her. I did[s]n’t[/s] not know this madwoman who hated us so much.

The doorbell rang and I rushed to answer it. It was Mr Lane, the neighbo[s]u[/s]r from across the floor. He peered at me over the tops of his horn rimmed glasses.

“Morning,” I said in a shaky voice.

“Good morning, Amelia,” he said, looking at me suspiciously and trying to see past me into the hallway, where the screaming was continuing. “Is...is everything [s]OK[/s]okay in here?”

“Um...” I started, glancing nervously at Dad. He had his own problem to face. I obviously wasn’t going to get any support. I bared my teeth at him in what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Um, no, Mr Lane. No, nothing’s wrong in here. It’s the...um...it’s the TV. I’m sorry. We must have had it on too loud. There, do you hear, Dad’s turned it down,” I said, as the noises from the hallway subsided and I guessed Mum must have gone into her bedroom.

He smiled back at me with his mouth, though his eyes were hard and unfriendly. “If you say so,” he said, obviously disbelieving what I [s]had[/s] just told him. I had no energy to fight the cause of a lie, though. I didn’t care what he thought. As long as he left us alone. “But, Amelia,” he said, continuing, “If there ever is anything wrong, you can tell me.”

Reassuring. Not. Mr Lane’s wife is the most irritating loud-mouth on the block and he’s like her accomplice, going around the flats, collecting pieces of gossip and pretending his motive is kindness. If I confided in him our secret would be all around the block, and then who knows? All around the town? Likely.

“Of course,” I said coldly, not bothering to put on an act anymore. “I’ll tell you. Bye.”

And before he could open his mouth and say anything more, I shut the door.

Turning around, I saw Dad, standing [s]erect[/s] in the hallway, caught in a moment. It was like he trapped in himself and it seemed there was nothing I could do to stop him. Sorry. 'Erect' just takes all seriousness out of the story.

We stood there, looking at each other. [s]and[/s] neither of us said a word. Any words would have [s]just[/s] felt empty and too small, yet I needed one of us to say something. Anything to fill the terrifying silence. I never thought it would be this hard, never dreamed that he would feel like such a stranger to me. There was something in the way. Something stopping me from stepping forwards into his embrace.Everything that [s]had been[/s] was happening [s]had[/s] built up an invisible wall that was impossible to climb over and impossible to break down. So we stood before eachother, silent tears [s]lacing[/s]dripping down our cheeks.

He did not try to dry my cheeks, he [s]just[/s] stood watching them fall, a strange expression on his face. It was as if each tear explained something we didn't understand. So I watched his tears as well, searching for the answers I needed to find.

That night, Dad sat with me as I lay in bed for a very long time, and I could tell he was desperate. His eyes were wet and swollen, the lashes spiky with tears. His hand trembled slightly as it held mine in a tight grip, so tight it felt [s]like[/s] he would never let go. Hardest to forget was the look in his eyes. He looked so drained, so tragic, so desolate, as if he were stuck on a desert island and there was no-one to rescue him. He whispered, "Goodnight, my little girl," and opened his mouth, breathing in as if he were about to speak, but then closed it abruptly, He heaved a deep, forlorn sigh, and walked out of the room, leaving me to stare into darkness.

***

In the morning I woke up with a terrible feeling in my gut, having the usual panic attack that seized me on school mornings. Today, it was worse that usual – my palms were sweaty, my heart was thumping and I was shaking all over. Unsteadily, I swung my legs over the bed, and went to brush my teeth. [s]Then,[/s]

I knelt on Mum's bed, where she lay with a empty look in her eyes, and said, "Mum? I'll just brush your hair."
I picked up a brush, but she shook her head. "No...Go and...do whatever you have to do."

"School," I said. She said nothing, but took the brush from me, and started pulling the teeth through her tangles. She managed this quite well and her hand had obviously strengthened.

"Goodbye," I said. Mum did not reply, so I left, went to my bedroom, and dressed. As I pulled on the second sock, I felt something inside, and the sound of rustling. I took it out of the sock. It was a note, painstakingly neatly folded along the creases. I unfolded it, feeling even more scared, and saw one word in familiar handwriting on the page. I made the word blur again and again on the paper until I uttered it, in a broken, hoarse voice.

I whispered the word again and then burst into tears. I fell back onto my bed and cried until my throat was raw, clawing at my soaked eyes until the lids bled, and balling up the paper, throwing it to the other end of the room where it bounded against the door, le[s]a[/s]pt up and then lay at the ground.

'Sorry’.

This was very good. The part about her eyelids bleeding is very intense. Nice work. There wasn't much to edit. You are a very good writer.

AHHH CHAPTER SEVEN!!!!!!!!!!

But I didn’t know that my personal problems had travelled through the entire school.

I sat down at the normal table with the group of people I normally sat with.

Getting away with being a loner at break was hard enough

But then Kirsty, picking at a celery stick, caught her eye and a shadow passed over her face.

CodeSelect all

Reassuring. Not.

It was like he trapped in himself and it seemed there was nothing I could do to stop him.

There was something in the way. Something stopping me from stepping forwards into his embrace.Everything that had been happening had built up an invisible wall that was impossible to climb over and impossible to break down. So we stood before eachother, silent tears lacing down our cheeks.

Then, I knelt on Mum's bed, where she lay with a empty look in her eyes, and said, "Mum? I'll just brush your hair." I picked up a brush, but she shook her head. "No...Go and...do whatever you have to do."