C H A P T E R 1
WITHERING FLOWER
Puppet
30th October 2009
Freedom .
I say it like I don't live in the absolute middle of nowhere, the kind of home people could only ever dream of. It takes me an hour just to get to the nearest town by car, if that isn’t freedom I don't know what is. But that is not the kind of freedom I mean. I mean no strings attached. It can be so tiresome living with health conditions. I just wish to be normal. Strict parents and absolutely no social life doesn’t exactly scream freedom, does it? yet I’m such a free spirit. I live in the clouds, spending the majority of my time daydreaming about the what ifs. I have goals I want to someday achieve, which is not easy when your parents have already plotted out your entire life for you. I love them dearly and I couldn’t ask for a better pair of clean freak overly protective, love smothering parents, but having a quick wit and a big house doesn't exactly work in your favour when you can’t even hold a conversation.
“You better be coming to my party tomorrow Rara!” My girl Kacey invited me to her annualHalloween party and I am going to feel like an absolute flake if I don’t go. She’s pretty adamant that I attend and she has been banging on about it for weeks, I just know that the answer will be no and it makes me want to rip my hair out so I’ve avoided the question and tried to make excuses as to why I haven't asked Mommy dearest yet. Besides, she's now made plans and it doesn’t matter how many times I tell her, Kacey still won’t take no for an answer. She is desperate to hook me up with someone and I'll be quite honest, I am eighteen and I've never even held a boy's hand. It’s about time I put myself on the market, I guess?
“I’ll be there!” I smile awkwardly, praying she can’t see the nervousness in my face as we pull up in front of my gate.
“I’m sure your mom will understand, it’s Halloween!”
“I gotta dash, but don’t forget to text me! Love ya!” She blows me a kiss before beeping her goodbyes as I hop out of her pearly white Audi and make my way to my front door. It’s about a five-minute walk so I plug in some tunes until I get inside where mom is cooking. Only one meal smells this damn good. Spaghetti Bolognese!
“Hello baby girl! How was college?” I brave a smile and put my duffle bag down on the countertop. College is so boring and the majority of the time I am on my own but if I say that they will probably kick up a fuss and end up in my head teachers office about how the girls need to interact with me more.
“It was good.” The only good thing about college these days is the journey home where I can blast music and write my silly little stories.
“Are you still up for the movies tomorrow? I can book your favourite pizza place before we go?” Oh god, here we go… I already know where this is going. I could just say I asked mom and she said no, but Kacey will see straight through me. I am a terrible liar.
“About that. Erm. Kacey is holding a small get-together at her place for Halloween and I was wondering if I could go?” I'm almost biting my tongue off trying to manifest her saying that it would be totally OK for me to go to a party with alcohol and boys and probably drugs . Literally my mom’s worst nightmare.
“Sweetheart. You know how I feel about parties. And you know I am not big on her either.” This is getting old and I'm starting to lose my patience.
“Mom, it's not a party, just a few friends and food.” I tighten my shoulders, giving her puppy eyes to try and cover up my dishonesty. F riends meaning hundreds and food meaning enough alcohol to knock out a horse.
“You forget I was your age once. Hard to believe I know,” she huffs a gentle smile, the golden accents in her hair shimmer against the setting sun through the window. She's right, It is hard to believe when you look at her. She is the perfect Mom, her whole life sorted with the perfect job and she looks so beautiful and pure it's hard to imagine she was ever a rebellious teen once. But she also had the freedom to do so, whereas I do not. Doesn't that count for something? You'd think she'd at least let me experience it once.
“She is a bad influence Lora.” I roll my eyes quietly.
Play - ‘Wake Up - NF’
“She is the only semi decent friend who's nice to me.” Kacey isn't exactly the most amazing person, but she is the only person who's given me the time of day and speaks to me like I am a human being, like our friendship means something. She does some questionable things… Like hooking up with a younger teaching assistant in the disabled toilet… And put alcohol in almost every English teacher's coffee before flirting her way out of a fail… I won't carry on. But besides that, she respects me and likes me for who I am. I think?
“Exactly my point. I don't trust her, she's the definition of plastic. You've watched mean girls, and besides, it will ruin your schedule.” Kacey is the definition of a blonde baddie. We are complete opposites with her beach wave curls and her sandy skin with a killer body, next to me. A nerdy brunette with the figure of a stick and no appealing features going for me besides my eyes. I like my eyes. My parents take her at face value, they have only met her a handful of times and every encounter is more embarrassing than the last, so now we just hang at college or before when we walk together with our coffee.
Dad walks in through the double doors to the kitchen with a crumpled up roll of newspaper, his eyes glued to the pages. He's a former detective but I know he misses it. I will never understand why he dropped out. I have told him multiple times to pick it back up but he tells me he's happy, and that this life is what he wanted for me . That he was too absent in the life of catching criminals, yet he spends the majority of his life in the office anyway, so I don't see what the difference is, we barely have a relationship anymore.
“Dad. Please tell her I'm old enough to look after myself.” I scowl at him, ready to give him my best face but he doesn't even acknowledge me, still fixated on the passage he's reading, throwing his finger at Mom shaking it gently.
“I'm with your mother on this munchkin. She has nothing but bad intentions and it’s bad enough you being around her at college.” I throw my arms in the air before slamming them back down on the marble countertop, he can't be serious right now.
“This is not fair!” I'm so tired of being controlled, I'm losing my mind.
“We are only looking out for you, plus; your mother made plans with you, don't be rude.” Don't be rude! Are they kidding me! My inner anger spirals in my chest. I am such a quiet person at the best of times, and I also hate confrontation but I'm reaching the end of my tether. I have been eighteen for eight months now and they still treat me as if I'm fresh from the womb.
“I never get to go anywhere or do anything! I'm eighteen now, I'm literally an adult. When are you guys going to see that?” Everything inside me wants to break and scream at the top of my lungs.
“We can see that, but your health comes first and partying and alcohol will not do well with your blood sugar levels, we have talked about this.” I've not been able to do anything remotely fun my entire life. The most exciting thing I did was move, which I can barely remember because I was too young. I have never left the country, nor have I done anything that may remotely mess up my schedule. They treat a holiday like a trip to the hospital, it’s exhausting and I've had enough. They preach that my health comes first, but mentally I am deteriorating. What's a life for if you can’t live it?
“You cannot let my diabetes rule my life. And you can't keep using it to control my freedom! ” Frustration laces my voice, irritation building in the back of my teeth. I’ve never blown up, about anything, I don't dare disrespect them, but it seems to have gotten me nowhere in life. I am a doormat.
“Please do not raise your voice young lady. And you can't be too careful during Halloween. Who knows what is behind those costumes.” He can’t be serious right now? He’s going to try and use Halloween as a scapegoat for my safety?
“You're actually being ridiculous. You think a serial killer disguised as bad cops and clowns is gonna kill me on the one night in the entire year I've actually left the building besides putting my head in books?” I slouch on the kitchen stool, my index fingers lining between my brows and down the bridge of my nose, rubbing a brewing migraine from this bickering that will get me absolutely nowhere.
“I didn't work in the police force for nothing kiddo. You'll be surprised what kind of sick and twisted people are out there.” Why is he bringing this up when he was the one who dropped out? He could be protecting me from the sickos he preaches about but instead he sits at home coddling me like a child. All he ever talks about is a life he no longer lives, a life I have told him to run back to but he refuses to acknowledge that my burden is now his to bear. My fuse blows, pushing myself up from the stool, the legs ringing against the tiled floor as I use all my force to get up off the chair in anguish.
“Yeah well. You can't protect me forever.” I’m hurt and I'm angry and tomorrow I will probably hate myself for the things I’ve said but right now I don’t care, families have arguments all the time, this is normal. Right? Hopefully they will listen to me for once and realise I am not a kid anymore, I am a grown ass woman who’s aching to experience things beyond my four walls. From an outsider's perspective I have the perfect life and the perfect parents, and maybe I do, maybe I am the problem. No. I know I am the problem, and I cannot change it, I cannot fix it, I can only live with it. I know I shouldn't be angry at them; they didn’t give this to me but right now I need someone to blame for the strings tying me down , I need to pin my fury on something.
I make my way upstairs, stomping my feet like a child as I do, drowning out the things they should be saying to me right now but they are not. They aren’t saying a word, they let me go and my guilt swallows me. They know I don’t mean it and they also know that one day they won’t be here to tuck me in at night and write out my schedule for the week; set alarms for my pen and have emergency doctors on standby just in case. So what I said was not exactly wrong, but I can be mad at them for a little while, mad at them for being too perfect… Mad at them for caring too much. I’m lucky I have parents who Love this hard, but sometimes it’s overwhelming and exhausting. If you give a flower too much water, you'll drown it. And I feel like I'm drowning. My pot is spilling over taking the soil with me.
I throw my bag on the bed before following suit. My back hitting the mattress, arms spread and I glare at the ceiling. My room is made up of all the things that complete me, yet I still feel so empty. Its beige, fluffy blankets and cushions scatter my perfectly pristine bed. My black bass guitar and vinyl records displayed on their shelves hang flush against the wall by my window. I love music. I love all things creative. I love art. It’s a symphony I understand, I speak to art like Love. It's how I escape. I make memories through paper, and movies through songs.
After a momentary cool down, I pull my phone from my black knitted cardigan.
I slip off my little black docs, crawling onto my front, tucking a duck feather pillow underneath my chin exhaling a disappointed sigh.
I glare at the phone, dissociating for a moment, wanting so desperately to tell Jack to pick me up tomorrow. But it will only cause more harm than good and that impulsive thought will feel dumb when I wake with a guilty conscience. So I stare at the chat a little longer, rolling my eyes in frustration as I lock the screen and throw it on my bed.
??
I t’s been a few hours and I’ve ploughed my feelings into a new story I’m writing. It’s a story about a girl who escapes her captivity and falls madly in love with a stable boy she runs away with. I’m a sucker for romance, which is funny coming from someone who has never even kissed a boy before. But a girl can dream . I was so engrossed in writing that I missed dinner, but I wasn't hungry anyway. I would rather not sit at the table playing with my food in tension as thick as fog. Sleep should wash away the awkwardness by tomorrow.
My alarm goes and I glance down at my phone.
My least favourite time of day. Mom usually does it for me in the evenings, but I'm in no mood to see her right now. Slipping into my jammies, I take my pen from my bedside table, lining the little needle up with my fleshy skin just above my abdomen and click, placing the fresh pen back in the pocket of my shorts.
Timid footsteps creep up the staircase beyond my bedroom door followed by a gentle knock as I run my brush through my cocoa hair.
“Did you take your Lantus sweetie?” Her voice is gentle, a mixture between her natural persona and the way I'm fragile as of right now. She should be angry with me but she’s not, caring for me still.
“Yes Mom.” I glared at the door expecting her to come in, but she doesn’t. I guess this is the first proper argument we’ve ever had. I know she isn't my biological Mother, but she has been in my life since I can remember and looked after me like I came out of her womb. For a long time I thought she was my biological Mother until I was old enough to understand, but by that time the truth didn’t hurt. It never has, she will always be my mom and I wouldn't ever change that.
“You missed dinner, have you eaten?” No . I ate enough today to last me all week.
“Yes.” I lie. My replies are short and blunt, I don’t want her to come in, but at the same time I am craving a hug.
“You know we love you right?” She argues her point, she can hear my hurt and she is never short of reassurance. They are strict but they are good at being gentle.
“I know.” I crawl underneath the bed covers, clutching my pillow tightly. I’m not a crier. I can’t even remember the last time I cried; I have no reason to cry really. But I won't deny the lump forming in the back of my throat. I hate crying.
“We just want to keep you safe.” I've heard that a million times before, but for some reason now it just sounds different.
“I know.”
“Sweet Dreams Sweetie. I Love You.”
“Love you too.” I roll onto my back, rubbing underneath my eyes before picking back up my phone and surfing through Facebook at silly memes and what people are up to. I don’t really use it, I don't know why I look, seeing everyone out doing things only makes me feel worse, but I look anyway. Smiling away at the life I will never live at this rate. I can keep daydreaming my life away. Living through the ink on my pages, bleeding out my selfish emotions so people don’t have to hear me moan about my perfect life.
A never-ending cycle of silent melancholy.