Tuesday 1 October 2013

Post!

Yesterday, after college, I walked through the door and - as always - tripped over the post. Naturally, I thought nothing of it. I always trip over the post, because I ache too much to even think about picking it up straight away. Yesterday, however, something was odd about the post.
 
There was a missed delivery slip. It said that two parcels were waiting for us next door. Addressed to me. I never get post.
My mum dropped her bags on the sofa, then told me she'd be back in a minute and went next door to get the parcels. I expected the parcels to be some things I ordered for my sister, but then I heard my mum shouting for someone to open the door.
 
The next thing I knew, I was sat hugging two huge, heavy boxes filled with books.
Filled with my books.



I think it's official. I'm an author. An author who's only sixteen years old.

Sunday 14 July 2013

Imperfect

So, I've started a new blog, because my others were pretty useless and I forgot about them. I also wanted this to be a proper blog, where I can post pictures and writing and random things that amuse me. I'll try to blog actively, this time! So, to start this blog, have some of my latest writing project (Imperfect):

***Warning - It's much darker than In The Shadows, so don't expect rainbows and bunny rabbits, okay?***


“Elaissia, get down here this instant!” That’ll be my mother, I sigh.

I quickly tap three keys on my keyboard – b, r and then b again – to let Xander (my best friend) know I’ll be right back, and tug my earphones from my ears.  I race from my room, to the stairs, fixing my hair and clothes as I do so.

My parents will pick on any little thing wrong with my appearance or attitude, so I must be what they demand at all times: perfect. It’s okay, though, because, even though they’re tough on me, I know it’s for the best. I won’t be the best I can be without knowing how to improve, like they said.

I reach the bottom step of the stairs, and force myself into a walk – my parents frown upon running in the house. I walk into the Living Room, my eyes set straight forward and my shoulders back, the way anyone with an ounce of pride and self-respect should.

“Mother.” I smile politely, and dip my head slightly, before turning to my father and doing the same. “You called?”

“Indeed we did.” My dad says, looking and sounding particularly grumpy. It was results day today, so I had to leave my results slip in front of the television for them when I had gotten home. I wasn’t permitted to look at them, myself, so I have no idea whether they’re going to praise me (which is very rare) or punish me ( I’m punished at least thrice a day, usually with physical abuse. The oral abuse is normal).

My dad is holding my results slip in his hand, and he passes it to me. Acting in the way they have drilled into me as right, I take the slip and politely thank him.

I turn it over, and my eyes scan the paper:
English Language – A*

English Literature – A*

Food Technology – A

Maths – A*

Biology – A

Chemistry – B

Physics – A

Everything else is an A or an A*, too. Most of these were mocks, but the sciences were modular – the first module results are the ones above, and Maths and English language are my final results. This year in Maths I’ll be doing Further Maths, instead, it looks like.

I grin at the paper, glad that I did so well, only to have it snatched from my grip. I say nothing, and wipe the grin from myself. Clearly something about my results is not good enough.

“You got a B in Chemistry.” My mum says, staring at me like she’s disappointed in me.

“I thought-“

“B’s are unacceptable in this house, Elaissia. You’re supposed to be getting all A’s and A*’s, nothing lower than that!” she shouts.

“I-I’m sorry…” I stammer, looking to the ground. “I’ll try harder next time! It was just a really tough paper, even-” My voice is cut off as a searing pain shoots through my face, radiating from my cheek.

I don’t cry out, or even gasp. Tears don’t even begin to form in my eyes; I’m used to being hit, especially across the face. If I do wrong, that is how I will know I have done wrong. Apparently it teaches me a lesson that words cannot.

“Apologies, mother and father.” I say, my voice stable. “If I may be dismissed, I shall return to my room and begin my studies for Chemistry right now, to make sure that I don’t fall behind in my final year, which will begin in two weeks.” I have to tell them when the school year will commence again, because they don’t really pay attention to dates that are only of use to me.

Though he seems reluctant, my father dismisses me and I sprint straight back up the stairs, my cheek throbbing so badly that I no longer care if they shout at me some more for running.

Only when I’m in the safety of my room do tears begin to spill from my eyes. Diving onto my bed seems to help some of the anger vanish. The anger I feel towards my parents, that I’m constantly forced to push down, to forget about.

Sobbing into a fluffy cushion from my bed helps, too, because it’s letting the hurt leak out of my mind.  Constantly I find myself wishing my parents were at least a little nicer, none of my friend’s parents are like mine. Honestly, I despise my parents, the way they’re slobs and do nothing, but force me to be ‘perfect’.

They inherited a lot of money from their parents, so they’re never working, just out at the golf course or rugby club, with their friends.  And whenever they’re home, they seem to have themselves planted in front of the television (which often makes me wonder how neither of them are fat).  They’re always demanding to know every little detail about my life, but I still haven’t told them that I’m dating Quinn – the head of the football team at school.

I hate how my parents make me cook and clean for them, and go get the groceries every week. It’s like I’m a mother myself, sometimes. They accept no less than the best with anything involving school and extra curricular activities I take part in, either. Unless I’m doing chores, when at home, I’ve got to be in my room, making no noise. Though, that’s definitely better than being down there with them.

When my phone begins to buzz from across the room, I finally force myself to stop crying and throw the mascara stained cushion back onto my bed as I stand up.

My full-length mirror is next to my bed, so I catch a glimpse of myself when I pass it going over to the desk. The image I see in the mirror constantly haunts me. Looking into a mirror, I see a young, wide-eyed girl staring back at me. She has brown locks, which stop just below her waist; her arms are decorated with scars, but she would never let you know that (she constantly wears bracelets to hide them) and there are scars on her thighs and hips, hidden by clothing all of the time. This girl in the mirror is very tall, tall enough to be a model, but not pretty enough – her eyes are different colours (one is icy blue and the other is startling green), her lips are full and bright pink and her skin is very pale. She’s also skinny, so skinny that the doctor says she’s anorexic.

Makeup is smeared across her face, today, so I watch as she grabs for a wipe and wipes it all off, making her skin appear even paler.

That girl I see in the mirror is me, the ugly little brat who’s so weak she cuts herself because that pain is easier to deal with than the pain of living.

The girl in the mirror is the thing I hate most about myself. She is ugly, like her parents always say, but everyone at school loves her anyway. She is ugly, and nothing can ever change that. I am ugly, uglier than anyone I have ever known, I am the ugliest thing I have ever seen.

I wish I was pretty.