SOMETHING IS AMISS

Chapter 1

“Please sign here.”

Signed. Sighing, I picked up the pen, scrawling a bullshit signature onto the page. Ringlets of hair streaked my eyes red. It was a fine pen; Mont Blanc, I believe.

The form contained some strange words, such as special treatment, next to sunflower syndrome and possibility of psychiatric intervention. What these meant, I couldn’t tell. As an avid reader who could hardly read a page a day now, words revolted me. These contracts seemed strange, considering I was applying to an educational institution, not a fucking law firm. But oh well. One down, twenty more to go. The stack alone made my head reel. Anything goes, so long as I achieved what I came for; admission. I had to get in. It was one of the most prestigious institutes in the country.

Ever since I was four, my parents begged me to go to some world-class institute, lavishing money on my education: first-class teachers, private tuition, you know the drill. They even made me quit swimming, which was what I’d lived for, until I was forced to live for something else. I found this strange, for would I not succeed better in something that I loved? But no. Failure to comply resulted in death. Physical, mental, spiritual, etc. All that mattered to them was turning me into some academic pariah. Nothing else. And sometimes, to get your way, a little violence is necessary.

Those damned GCSEs; I never got the hang of them, not really. My memory is as shit as a goldfish, and if I’d received a lobotomy, I’m sure it would have made no difference. Except that goldfish probably don’t have large enough brains to poke an ice pick with. But then, neither do I, so what does it matter?

Yes, I am intelligent. Undoubtedly so. But GCSEs aren’t a metric for intelligence so much as they are for arbitrary recall and bladder control; two things I certainly shine at. Yet somehow, I managed to score 100% in every subject. Well, except for German. Stupid German. I made one mistake in the reading paper, forgetting to put the accent on the word 'Hasse'. Ugh. Tears welled in my ebony eyes. How annoying. Still, I tried to move on. I thought that this was about as bad as it could get, and that even the punishment wouldn’t do much to solidify the trauma. Besides, that night was my parents’ anniversary; surely they would take it easy on me then?

Well, my darlings. They did. By throwing a half-empty wine bottle at my head. I swept the glass up, disposing it in the nearest bin. I wasn’t surprised, but that doesn’t mean I was expecting it. To be fair, they were drunker than usual, and I’d pissed them off the night before by bringing home several strippers, one of which tried to hit on my dad. Still, does anything warrant abuse? Bleeding, I wept and shook and screamed and threatened to kill myself… to no avail. I knew it wouldn’t help, but still. No harm in trying. Naturally, the parental units laughed. They say it was deserved, at least their laughter was, for they wanted only to push me to the limits. "We only want you to have a better life than us. To have opportunities we never did." Wasn’t that plausible?

But since when did stupid tests, which demanded nothing more than memorisation of the loquacious mark scheme, not even the content itself, ever determine my prowess? I worked my ass off. On average, I pulled 14-hour shifts; minimal breaks, three hours of sleep. Yet I’d always been top of my class; all the teachers adored me. I had ever so many friends, I smiled, I obeyed my drunk parents’ requests even at 3am, I never dared to forget my manners or talk back at them, or anyone for that matter.

And the result? Internal haemorrhage. Caused by the product of which I yearned to taste. How bittersweet. Was rushed off to hospital, with the ward nurses telling me I was lucky to still be alive. I don’t remember much, except for this crimson jelly they always gave after meals, and my parents ‘forgetting’ to visit. Discharged a few days later, with a shattered self-esteem and arteries clogged up with IV fluids.

Thankfully didn’t have to attend school for a few days, except by then my exams had finished, so therefore I wouldn’t need to attend school until September.

The whole charade almost seems like something that would happen to a protagonist in a shitty rom-com; you know, something you love is used against you, slapping you in the face. Letting you know that you loving is a disease.

Love is not loving, said David Bowie in a famous song of his. A means to torment you and then tell you that you brought this upon yourself, reminding you of the perpetual shame of your existence. Something like that. But I digress. Let me get to the point.

I felt that, of all the things I was forced to sustain in my life, this was the breaking point. Not because it was the worst thing to happen to me, but rather there was a kind of… humiliation that the ordeal wrought, in that I’d nearly died in such an unfortunate environment.

If I was going to go, better it be by my own hand, because then the setting is guaranteed to be chosen by me. The only thing in my life I could ever have any control over.

This thought brought tears to my eyes, hot springs cascading down the rocky curvatures of my cheeks. How poetic. I hated that. I hated my tendency to lyricise my suffering. It made me feel inadequate, even more so than usual. Can’t do anything to solve my problems, so I have to cry about them through the lens of poetry. How fucking charming. I could feel my cheeks redden, my face flush. The anger solidified. Anger is all that drives me. Not sadness… never sadness. Sadness makes me feel so powerless. At least with anger, there stood within me a declaration to run away and never return. I needed to get out of there. And I did just that.

Everything froze but the tepid pulse of youth.

I packed my things that night, whilst the Nutcracker played softly from the radio in my parents’ room. Lying in bed, I felt a nervous trepidation, succumbing to insomnia.

The sun barely rose from its turbulent slumber, when I shot out of my house (I am aware I have provided no description of my surroundings; let it be said that they are so insignificant to me, I have forgotten what they look like) laughing like a madman, with each cackle reverberating off of the fog-laden roads. Realising all I possessed was a tattered, leather-bound notebook and a wad of cash (two hundred pounds, I think), I began dancing in the softly lit streets, screaming:

“I’m a madman! I’m a madman! Dated a man who tried to rape me! Ha! My my I shall never feel love, I can never feel it. It’s impossible for some damn reason. Yet I love so intensely. I love with my very being. I can’t love. I love too much. I don’t really love at all. What an interesting question my father posed to me one fine morning; do you love anyone? I didn’t know what to say. Then I met him. My only true love. And my contempt. That man, dog, whatever, really pushed me over the edge.

My first time dating, you see, all hung-up on narcotic emotions feelin’ like a deadbeat singin’ the Mexico City blues, and boy was I out of my mind. Hated school and had no one, so desperation kissed my ass. Year 9 jives, y’know?

Then I met ‘im and I just fell in love but of course it weren’t really love, just obsession. And then he used me. Oh how he used me! Shit I need to hurry. About to miss the fucking train.

Anyways, one night, as a result of this affair at my house, my parents beat me even worse than usual, but I was too cowardly to do anything about it. Poor poor me!”

I sprinted like a stray, cackling. Tired, I arrived at the musty train station, deserted. It looked like something from the Matrix. Liminal, but unreal. Everything was chrome. Ish. Save the train tracks streaked yellow. There was silence all-round.

Silence was my lover’s caress. Silence was a haven for the lonely.

There stood a man with a tattered coat, and facial features mottled like curdled milk, standing near the edge of the train tracks. He was smoking a cigarette with his long, reptilian fingers. He smiled at me with yellow teeth. Recoiling, I went to the ticket counter.

I ordered a one-way ticket to Croydon and decided to never look back.

It hurt to do this. But I didn’t know what else to do; alternative options didn’t present themselves to me. I loved my parents, in some twisted way that's difficult to articulate, and I would miss my friends (though I knew they weren’t actual friends; they needed someone to cheat off of in tests). Sucking up to the teachers was a favourite of mine, especially in Maths where sir would constantly threaten me with isolation for talking too loud. But I would prefer to lose everything, than to gain absolute shit. I stared at the train tracks with blurry vision, wondering what would happen if I just took a nice little nap on them.

As I was pondering this, the train arrived with a flourish, as if announcing its arrival to a bespectacled audience, expecting raptures of applause. What a shame the only raptures came from its greased-out wheels grinding the tip of the tracks with lustful vigour. The doors opened with a creek. I entered, trembling a little. The cabin smelled funny. The seats were horrid; cheap, piss-smelling polyester. At least the horrid man hadn’t followed me on.

Of course he had.

Staring at me, with a strange look in his eye. I approached him.

“What do you want? I know you’re a perv, but still I’d like to know why you pity me. You look as if you know me or something. Who are you?”

Undeterred, he fixed his bloodshot eyes onto mine. He leaned forward, and I can still smell his pungent garlic breath on me.

“I know what will help you. Truly, I do.”

Before I could respond, he pointed to a building approaching our view. It was the most terrifying shit I had ever seen. It loomed and arched, with zig-zag shaped windows, and was tall, even taller than the Burj Khalifa, perhaps ten times so. Chrome, like a coloured corpse. I loved it instantly. It seemed like home, though who knows why hell would knock on heaven’s humble abode, only to wear her mask to the eternal ball. It had a giant, tacky neon sign on it, as if showcasing its shame in Hollywood lights. Presumably the name of the building. Hunee’s Solicitors.

I rolled my eyes, and inquired:

“Excuse me, but what the hell is a solicitor’s going to do for me?”

No response. He continued smoking, shooting me a glare. “You misinterpret the context of your surroundings, perhaps quite often. See, it’s not a solicitor’s, but an institution. Pretty damn prestigious. So prestigious in fact, that they purposely chose that name to attract as few people as possible.”

I arched my brow. How dare he try to psychoanalyse me? What’s his deal? Still, I brushed it off and asked why.

“Well, they need to keep a solid track record, don’t they? Only the obsessed can show up at their doorstep.”

Sounds like he said possessed. I paused for a bit. “And what makes you think I can ‘show up on their doorstep’, never mind get in?”

“Missy, I’ve seen kids like you before. Their parents push ‘em real damn hard, it’s heartbreaking. They turn out to be either druggies, or like you. Smart. Pretty. Ambitious. And I presume that, at least in fear, you are a very high achiever. Yes?”

“Yes. I was the highest scorer in the country in my GCSEs this year. I made one mistake though, and…”

I trailed off, biting my nails, not wishing to confide to this creep about the origins of my unbecoming scar. But his eyes were fixated on mine.

“Yes, I can see that your parents were harsh; exceptionally so. It’s a shame, but I guess that’s life ain’t it? My point is, you’ll be able to find some respite, even permanence, at this institution. Away from your parents, your teachers, acquaintances.”

The best thing about it; you won’t ever need to find a bloody job. Tuition’s free.”

I scoffed at that, claiming that money was the least of my problems. Everything else was. He nodded, rather slowly.

“Perhaps. But it relieves the financial burden on the family, and also means your parents ain’t gonna come looking for you anytime soon. Not anymore. Perhaps not ever again.”

This prospect both excited and deflated me. I couldn’t tell which was which. Whether dread was excitement’s mask, or her boring, responsible friend. On one hand, I wanted to escape, and find a place where my intellect would not be wasted. On the other hand, this place seemed fucking unreal. There is no way this place, this seemingly 'prestigious institution' with free tuition, could possibly exist; there has to be some catch to it. Horror slid down my spine, a lecherous salamander, making me shudder. My fingers twitched. But I ignored it, thinking it was just another fit. I had those so frequently it became a daily routine. They seemed to occur at a precise time, I think around this time. So of course, I took no notice of this quite reasonable physiological response, and smiled at this man.

“When do I get off?”

“Now.”