“You don't remember what happened. What you remember becomes what happened.”

- John Green

Young Love

Home

    I've recently returned home after spending 16 days in Hungary/ Serbia, doing some sightseeing and attending an International Girl Guiding and Scouting jamboree. Hence the lack of posts and whatnot. (Although it's summer, and therefore sunny, so I probably wouldn't have posted much anyway.)
    I had an amazing time, especially as the trip was so anticipated- I've spent the last year fundraising and preparing for it, so to finally go was incredible. Hungary is a really beautiful place, full of old buildings with amazing architecture, and lots of pretty scenery. It is also very very hot. Serbia was a lovely place too, though it seemed a bit busier and less quaint- it was refreshing to go somewhere which isn't completely targetted at tourists, it gave a real sense of the true culture and way of life. And Serbia is even hotter than Hungary. I'm talking 38 degrees c (and don't forget I'm from England, we're not used to the sun.)
    I went with a group of 14 other people (3 leaders, 12 girls (including me)), most of whom I barely knew. Over the course of the two weeks we got to know each other well, and form really strong friendships. We all agreed to stay in touch and I know it will definitely happen. It was odd, knowing that my family were on holiday in Devon whilst I was out on my own adventures but it didn't bother me particularly.
   However as the promise of home got closer and closer and we neared the end of the holiday, I did begin to miss my cosy house and my cosy family and the feeling of total safety that is associated with Home. As we embarked on the journey back to England, the feeling between all of us was, although we'd had a brilliant time, the trip had come to it's natural end and there was a buzz of excitement in the air at the prospect of returning to our safe little havens and our loving families. Sitting on my sofa with my parents catching up on Torchwood and Eastenders that evening, I felt totally content. I couldn't of asked for anything to make me feel more comfortable and happy than I did. And I think that's the beauty of travelling- after the whirlwind of excitement and daring, there's always that place that you can return to, exhausted and in need of a shower. Home.

My Bucket List

In the last few years it's become pretty normal to have a 'bucket list' (a list of things you want to accomplish before you die) and, well, I'm not all that normal but I do have a bucket list so I thought it would be interesting to share it with you. Bearing in mind that I'm still in school and I don't want to put things on the list just for the sake of it, it's not all that long yet.

• Get my handwriting turned into a font. If I manage nothing else in life it won't matter, as long as I do this.
• Be able to juggle decently with 3 balls. I'm getting there...
• Get a book published. Pretty self explanatory.
• Be fluent in a language. I'm studying French, Spanish and Italian currently and I absolutely love it. (Though I have about as much chance at being fluent in Italian as winning the x factor. And I can't sing.)
• Get to Grade 8 flute. I'm hoping to take my Grade 6 in Autumn. *Fingers crossed*

I'd love to hear what's on your list  =)



The Test cont.

That’s when I saw her. Her eyes were two lakes, depthless abysses, shimmering with tears. They’d spilt over and rolled down her face which was covered in blossoming bruises- all shades of yellow and purple. Complimentary colours. Most of her other eye was obscured because of the swelling.

He didn’t see me at first. I watched as his coffee coloured fist buried itself in her slender cheek, crashing against her prominent cheekbone. The noise it made was jarring. He continued to pummel the slight figure beneath him. She was limp, like a ragdoll. She began to shake her head, her eyes pleading me to leave, to not get involved. The effort obviously strained her- she looked as if she might pass out. He followed her eyes and that’s when he saw me. His steely grey eyes bore into mine. My eyes are blue, the spitting image of hers.

I hate him.

The noise is overwhelming me. I just want to block it all out, block everything out. I don’t want to remember but I can’t stop now. I can’t close the floodgates. And I can’t ignore the ticking.

When she spoke her voice was less than a whisper, the slightest breeze would have whisked her words away forever. But the house was deathly silent. “Please Jonah.” She directed her plea at me. The lump in my throat made speech an impossibility. He glared at me, hatred gleaming in his concrete eyes. I broke the stare. I backed away from the doorframe, reversing into the corridor and stumbled blindly towards the stairs. I ran up them on my hands and feet like I used to when I was seven, when my biggest worries were how to save Metropolis and how to reveal my identity to Lois Lane.

The blonde woman just came and peered over my shoulder. Now she’s whispering to the other teacher. She has grey hair and a sharp nose and she keeps glancing over at me. I don’t know her. They keep shrugging. I guess all I am is another result to them, another grade, another percentage. I’m just here to make them look good. And there are plenty of other people who can do that instead. They don’t care about me. And I don’t know why I cared so much about pleasing them before. I don’t care anymore. Caring makes you weak. It’s things like caring that stop you from fighting back, when you’re hurt so bad that you can’t put up your defences in time. I won’t make that mistake again.

This morning I got dressed into my school uniform, packed my bag full of revision cards and exercise books and walked downstairs. Another average, normal day. A dream- that’s what it was, that’s what I told myself. Then there they were in the kitchen. He stands by the kettle. It’s almost at boiling point, shaking and spluttering. Almost but not quite. She sits on a chair, avoiding his eyes and staring blankly at the table top. Another average, normal morning. But the bruises remained defiantly snaking up her neck, ruining the illusion. She’d tried to cover them up but her foundation was already ill fitting. There isn’t all that much selection for darker skin tones but it’s never mattered before, her complexion is always so flawless. Not now though. Then he spoke.“Morning Jonah.” How could he dare to act like nothing’s wrong? How could he? “Earth to Jonah” he said with a humourless chuckle. I was silent.

“Don’t ignore your Father, Jonah.” How could she defend him? I wanted to shout, to hit him, to shatter this false pretence. But instead I sat and ate my cereal, concentrating on chewing each and every flavourless mouthful. They both stayed in the kitchen as I made my sandwiches. I could feel their gazes on my back, weighing me down. Nobody spoke. I left the house as early as possible. Nobody said goodbye to me. I walked to school in a daze. Nobody wished me luck. Because nobody else cares either.

          The teachers are still looking at me funny. Not encouragingly; not concernedly; not worriedly. They’re looking reproachful. Critical. Disparaging. My head is about to burst with all of the noise. It’s like a record on repeat, turned up to the highest volume possible but still getting louder. Tick, clippety-clop, tick, tap, tick, scratch, tick. Then, suddenly, a rattling of rain against the windows. Heavy droplets smash against the glass again and again. Tick, clippety-clop, rattle, tick, tap, rattle, tick, scratch, rattle, tick, tock. It’s this room. I have to get out. Now. I can hear the sound of knuckle hitting cheekbone. The sound of the shrill whistle of the kettle. I failed her, yesterday and this morning. I failed that test. And now I’m going to fail this one too. I’m a failure. I stand up and walk out.  

The Test

        This is the first half of a short story that I wrote for an English Assessment at school. I was given the title 'The Test' and this is what I came up with. I know it's quite long but I'd really appreciate it if you read it and I'll post the rest in the next few days.

       The clock’s ticking really loudly. Every jerk of the hand reverberates around the hall and bounces off of every surface; the polished-to-the-point-of-eating-your-dinner-off-it wooden floor; the ‘off-white’ walls that stand tall around me, imprisoning me; the shiny stage sitting forlorn and unused; and of course the uniform fold-up tables in their perfect rows and columns, knelt obediently. Nobody else seems to have noticed though. They’re all hunched over their desks, hair obscuring faces, noses practically touching the paper and eyes squinted in concentration. But the ticking has crawled its way into my head and it’s echoing around my skull now, a tinny noise- like raindrops hitting against a window pane. Every now and then another sound manages to force its way in. There’s a table towards the front, the left I think, and it’s rickety. The sound of the metal table leg tapping against the ground traps itself in my mind. Along with the ticking.

          I glance around again. There are a couple of teachers pacing up and down the room, their heels clippety-clopping and their expressions blank. I am the only student not writing. One’s blonde, her hair is an immaculate bob. As she catches my eye she smiles, briefly, reassuringly. I know what she must be thinking. I’d better start working...and she’d be right. She’s turned away now, heading back to the front. I don’t think she’s too concerned- not with me. Who would be? Straight As, that’s what I’m headed for. Quite a few A*s aswell if the predictions are anything to go by. All of my teachers are in agreement- I work hard, study hard, put in all the effort. But here I am now and the words don’t make any sense. They’re dancing infront of my eyes, tantalizing me. If they would just stay still. I just can’t keep a hold of them.

          Outside the World carries on but in here, in this exam hall, time is suspended in its own shiftless freeze frame. So why is the clock still ticking?

 Outside the sky is a swathe of grey, omnipresent and gloomy but dry- just a hint of rain in the air. I wish it would just rain, just get it over with. I wish it would stop pretending. Outside is unappealing but inside is worse. There must be water in the air in here too- the words are still swimming on the page. They’re stretching and distorting through my blurred vision. The more I stare, the less sense they make. It’s like when you’re trying to remember something, some distant memory, and the harder you try, the further away it floats. So why try?

          That teacher isn’t trying to conceal her worry anymore. I’m sat back in my chair and my pen lies lost infront of me. I haven’t even taken off the lid. The paper it rests on is blank, other than the uniformly printed symbols that perpetually dent the page. The ones that seem so illusive to me.

          There is a scratching, monotonous and continuous, that drills into my very consciousness- the sound of pen against paper. It’s reminiscent of nails being dragged against a chalk board. And that table leg is still drumming away, faster and faster. It’s all pounding in my head: the scratching, the drumming...and the clock. Manically ticking, frantically racing around and around the clock face, each movement of the hands bringing another wave of deafening noise. This tumultuous cacophony of sound pulses through my mind, beating with my racing heart - forcing my heart to beat, flashing infront of my eyes. Ingrained in my brain. I’m shaking. I blink dementedly, trying to escape. Head down I attempt to focus on the question that is set out before me.

There’s a diagram. It’s all labelled and ruler precise. It’s an eye, open wide. Fearful, those pale blue irises that I know so well. The way she stared up at me from the floor. That image is imprinted forever in my mind. Now this diagram stares up at me, taunting me, forcing me to remember. But last night will last forever in my memories.

I’d heard a noise downstairs.

I don’t understand.

I crept down silently.

It doesn’t make sense.

The door was ajar, the light was on.

Why did he do it?

I saw the shadow first, dark and sinister against the beige wall.

I hate him.

'There's always an odd one'

Don't worry, I do intend to do a lovely long written post sometime soon.