CHAPTER ONE: BLINK
Mia Retsaoc Rellor
Life is like a rollercoaster. You start at the beginning, the safety precautions ensuring your buckle is tightened, ‘ride at own risk.’ You sit there, awaiting departure. Then without notice the rollercoaster rockets off and you embark on your twisted journey. As the ride winds round bends and up mountains some passengers disappear from seats and others take their place. There will be times when you are sitting with another ride goer, it could be a loved one or a stranger who you have yet to call a friend. But there will also be times when you will sit alone, and in this time you will ponder on where this roller coaster is going. You never know when the roller coaster will end, but when it starts to slow down you urge on, hoping that it will once again speed up and you can continue your journey. There will be moments when you’re on such a high you wish the ride would break down and you’d remain at the top forever admiring the beauty of everything around you. There will be times when you will just have to keep buckled in tight, close your eyes and hope for the best. You'll be turned upside down and all around. But no matter what...
“Mia do you have anything you would like to share with the group?"
All that I was about to say vanished from my head. I shook my head and slouched down in my chair. This whole thing was stupid, making me go to a counselling group, thinking I need 'help'. I don't need any help from these people, especially not all the sad sobs around me. I stare around at them as they weep, telling their stories like they're retelling World War 1. There are people who are a lot worse off than them and here they are, crying because they can’t reach the top shelf in the pantry. My eyes stop on one boy who stares right back at me. I look away for a moment then glance back, he’s still staring. His eyes piece into mine, not blinking once. Is he challenging me? We prepare for the game of the century, fingers moving ever so slightly as though we’re preparing to draw. Metaphorical tumbleweed tumbles through the circle. Our minds are in sync as we count down.
Three.
Two.
One.
Start.
Our eyes fix on one another, he remains solid as tears begin to fill my burning eyes. I can hold it no longer, I blink. He eases back into his seat looking satisfied with his victory and gives me a smug look. I slouch back down, drawing my eyes to the tear puddles staining the carpet. It’s not as if I was even trying that hard. Whatever. That's my new favourite word at the moment. It basically sums up the way I feel about everything and everyone. Whatever.
Twig (Ted Winston Inner-Gull)
Whatever. It's such a nothing word. People who use vocabulary as simple as such a word should simply not speak in my opinion. That's what I thought of this female today. She looked like a ‘whatever’ person. Short jet black hair with a fringe almost covering her eyes, a blue streak running through it. She wore black skinny jeans, doc martens, a ripped dark magenta top and of course, a black leather jacket. Yes, she definitely looked like a ‘whatever’ person. The way she slouched in her seat after defeat and stared at the ground sheepishly, all because I had managed to keep my eyes open longer than her. That’s defeat for her? If it is, then why on earth is she in the counselling group when there are people here whose defeat is much worse than the struggle to not perform an involuntary movement? She’s probably asking herself the same thing. People always say to me, "Didn't your parents ever tell you to never judge a book by its cover?" To which I reply in saying, "Well no madame/sir they did not, you see my parents are both gone." That usually stops them from ranting on. It also usually begins a pity talk where they wrap their arms around me, thinking that if they exert their body odour onto me it will cure me somehow and I won’t feel so lonely. Instead, it gives me the need to shower more often and interact with other people less.
My mother died when I was young. I was never actually sure what she died of, no one ever told me. One day though, I will find out. My father was a wonderful man, after my mother died he proudly supported all the local businesses by giving them hard earned cash in exchange for alcoholic beverages. He didn’t want me after long, couldn’t afford me. So he left me at an orphanage, one with a grand library where I spent most of my time. Reading seemed to be the easiest escape, there was nothing left for me in the outside world at the time, and my imagination was more vivid than the world I saw. Matron Anna, the lady who looked after me for many years, allowed me to stay in there for hours on end. “Stay as long as you like Twig, remind people of the power of words.” She would say. It’s also at the orphanage where I received my nickname. I suppose you could say I have a stick like figure, almost like a twig? I’ve never been much of an eater, better things to do with my time than to sit with Matron Anna, pretending to be social when all I wanted to do was return to the library and start on my next adventure. The nickname suited as it's also my name. Twig: Ted Winston Inner-Gull, delighted to meet you.
Chapter 2.
Mia R.R
Well that was a waste of my time. Everyone streams out, wiping tears from their faces. They all act as though they are miraculously healed, ready to face the world now. But I know they're not. Annie will keep running to hide the pain, Joe will go back and comfort eat while he watches his sister's favourite t.v show, The Bold and the Beautiful. And Connie, eleven years of age, will keep harming herself for the guilt that she constantly feels every damn day. They will all still hurt and none of them will ever admit the pain they feel inside. As for me, I'll be fine. I never do care much for these things, Jaja thinks it's good for me, will keep me off the streets. Jaja is my foster mum, well my sixth foster mum to be exact. She's got to be the best so far, five months and she hasn't cracked. The second mum only lasted a week before I was packing for another home. Jaja's alright though, it's just me and her so I like it. I'm not much of a people person, they always seem to run off any time I get close to them. It's easier to never get close so they never have the chance to run.
I stumble across an almost empty spray can underneath bird man's tunnel. I'm not sure why it's called bird man's tunnel but I don't ask many questions. I pick up the can and watch as the fluorescent pink pours out onto the wall. I think of creating my own tag, but I don't want to be identified. Dropping the spray can where I found it, leaving my creation behind for the eyes of whoever chooses to look at it. Looking at the time I begin a brisk walk, Jaja will be worrying if I'm not home in ten.
Twig
What type of person would spray paint a fluorescent pink bunny rabbit onto bird man's tunnel. People always wonder why it's called bird man's tunnel, I wonder if people know Google exists. You should always ask questions. It turned out to be quite a boring story involving a drunk naked man, bird feathers, honey and a tunnel. I think we can all see what happened there. I continue walking, greeting the floor as I trip over the spray can. Okay now this person has a problem. First they spray paint a pink bunny, then they leave the can laying around acting as a serious tripping hazard to those walking by, ie. Me.
I think back to today's session. People who willingly shared their stories to strangers, to people who really don't care. Mr Maleston pulled me aside after the session had finished and asked for a word in his office.
"Ted. May I begin by saying that it is wonderful to have you at these sessions," I mentally rolled my eyes, I knew where this was going, "Don't you think it would be nice for once to share a story with everyone. Share a memory, a thought, anything. Just try for me next time, okay?" He gave me a not so reassuring smile as he looked at me. I replied hesitantly, "Yes Mr Maleston. I'll try." He patted me on the back, similar to what one would do to a dog and led me out of the office. It's not fair. He doesn't pressure anyone else into sharing. He doesn’t pressure that girl, the one with the short jet black hair, the green eyes. She just slumps down in her chair, judging everyone around her without even letting anyone else into her life.
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