It is three thirty in the afternoon- I am five years old. The walls of the classroom are blurring and my teacher’s voice flits in and out of my head. The bright colours of the walls- our ‘art work’ winks slyly at me. I try to focus on the pink hairband that the girl in front of me is wearing. Then suddenly the desk comes up to meet me and the world turns a funny shade of grey.
When I wake up I am on the floor, there is blood on my hands and my nose hurts. I say nothing I just stare up at the faces of my teacher and my classmates- some of them are laughing. I don’t bother moving- I just listen to the voice of my teacher asking me frantically if I am alright. Eventually I put out a little hand behind me and push myself upright- the world spins again and I feel a little sick. At this point the largest most threatening girl in reception has been placed in charge of my wellbeing as my teacher calls my mother. Sarah- the large girl stands with her arms crossed above me, she gives the other children glares when they come close and she belts out the same questions that the teacher did. I wince, I have a headache now; I just wish she could be quiet.
“Yes, she just….Well I suppose… No, never” Came from the direction of the phone. I felt like sleeping. I didn’t want to have to go home and tell someone why I fell down. I’d get told off.
Eventually Sarah was removed from my watch and my teacher lent down speaking gently- “Your mummy can’t come to pick you up right now so we are going to find the school nurse who can clean you up, okay honey?”
It is seven minutes to midday- I am eight years old. I am lying across a bench face down; Sarah is sitting on top of me. I am trying to make her get off. I can’t really breathe properly and she’s really heavy. I close my eyes and start to count- counting is safe. Safe things are things that don’t change like the colour of my eyes, or the way Dad sneezes, or numbers. Those things are safe because no one can change them; not even if they wanted to. Unsafe things make up the majority of the world. Most of the world could just change and make everything so different.
I lie in perfect silence, she will get bored eventually or perhaps a playground assistant might notice me if she doesn’t. I can feel the blood filling up in my head and I don’t like it. Closing my eyes I feel the nausea creep in and I lose consciousness.
It is ten sixteen, I am twelve years old. I am playing rounders; I’m fielding and I’m not paying attention, it’s far too hot and humid for that. I only want to go home again but Mum thinks it might be good for me to talk to some children my own age, Dad thinks it would be good for me to talk to children fullstop.
But a ball finds its way off one of the opposing team’s bats and hits me square on the head. 4 stitches and 12 minutes unconscious.
It is one thirty am- I am sixteen years old. I have just wrapped a duvet around my leg in order to try to stop the blood flow. I am shaking and the razor is lying on my floor- my mind is screaming about just how obvious I will be when someone finds me. I think at this moment that I am about to die. I know what I want my last thought to be, I think it and for the fourth time in my life. The colours fade out and I faint.
Shall I continue with this or not?
Last edited by random.swirls : 05-02-2011 at 10:09 AM.
Reason: Edited labels - please see this thread for more details http://www.recoveryourlife.com/forum/showthread.php?t=156319
It is nine twenty-seven. I am four years old. “Right then class, today we are going to learn about the alphabet.” I listen intently to the blurry voice of my teacher. I really want to know more about the little shapes that like to sit on lots of surfaces, the way you can look at them and then suddenly know something. She prints out some of the shapes of the letters and says a sound as she writes each one, I try to keep up with her but the ‘aah’ and the ‘see’ are the only ones I can remember by the time she finishes. There are far too many of them- but I can see some of them are still missing. I put my hand into the air nervously, it’s not my first day but I still don’t know many people here yet.
My teacher smiles slowly and points to me, a sign I take to talk. “But, where are the other letters?” I ask quietly. Someone at the back laughs at me and I feel the blush creep in across my cheeks. She puts her finger on each of the letter and turns back to me “There aren’t anymore letters, there are twenty-six.” I frown, I remember seeing some different numbers somewhere- they were my favourite ones; Daddy told me you could write as many of them in a row as you wanted in any order and they made sense.
“Do you think you could try to draw it on the board for me?” My teacher asks, I think she must be laughing at me on the inside too but I push back my chair and walk up to the board. I am passed the pen and I write one of the letters I remember. The letter looks like two little balls on top of each other, just like a snowman, only you make it with only one line. I finish it and my teacher laughs lightly, I am confused. “This,” my teacher says pointing at my letter, “is called a number.” I smile back, I have been accepted and my letter exists it’s just so good it has a different name. “This number is called eight.”
My mind likes this- numbers are like magic. Words have to be planned but numbers just are. “Eight.” I repeat in awe.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is six thirty-four. I am eight years old. I push the food about on my plate, my mum is staring at me but I don’t know what I am supposed to say in reply. If I tell her that yes I did run away from school today I will have to tell her why. If I tell her I didn’t she won’t believe me and she’ll ask my teacher what she thinks. I don’t know who would give me a better deal- myself or my teacher. I decide that I can’t decide so I don’t say anything. I concentrate on the food on my plate and I arrange it so the carrots are separate from the peas, but the peas are with the broccoli because they are both green. “WILL YOU STOP THAT!” my mum yells and the fork drops from my hand and hits the floor with a clatter. I feel my eyes well up with tears and I jump off my chair to pick up the fork. I put it back onto the table and start to walk away from the table. My father says my name gently and my mum does her usual trick of pretending I’m just being immature. I walk out of the room in silence and close the door behind me. It wasn’t my fault, I had to leave. I was just scared; everyone at school seemed to think it was fun to see me hurting. I went to my room and sat on my bed- just thinking about things. I try to make the things in my room safe but I don’t know how I can. Everything looks like it could fall on me at any moment. I sniff and wipe my nose with my sleeve. I can’t work out what I did that was bad enough to make everyone hate me so much- I must have done something really bad, without even noticing.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is twelve fifty five. I am twelve years old. I sit at the usual table I use in the lunch hall; it’s near to the doors. I’m getting pretty worried about the English test I am supposed to have this afternoon. I really hate English tests. They are all about trying to work out what the question want you to say and not about a clear right and wrong. How can they expect us to find an answer which is right when there isn’t a right answer?
From across the room I can see Sam; this isn’t helpful in trying to work out strategies to not fail a test. He is talking with Jessica and Katelyn, Katelyn brushes out her long brown hair with her fingers. She preens obviously and Jessica looks slightly bored. I try to concentrate on eating the damp tuna sandwich school has presented me with for lunch. It looks disgusting but I take a bite and it tastes okay. I’m really not hungry but then I don’t really seem to be hungry often at the minute. Sam is sitting down now; his tray contains the school’s pasta bake, a glass of water and one apple. I wonder if he feels like eating today. I look at my watch, twelve fifty-seven; this is obviously a good time as 5+7=12. It makes sense and the sides can balance each other. Sam is laughing.
This makes me smile. I want him to be happy, it doesn’t matter that it’s not with me. He could never want me.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is four thirty in the afternoon. I am sixteen years old. One of my feet hits the tarmac, then the next, then the first again. My breathing comes in spurts and bursts, but I don’t listen to my body I just listen to the noise of my feet. I glance down at my watch, I have to run faster if I want to beat my PB next week. I cross my own personal finish line and feel the heat creep over my limbs. I walk slowly back to the changing room, I am disgusted with myself that sixth mile took me almost eight minutes. I am so useless sometimes. I’m not even very good at running but then I am pretty much bad at most things of that sort. I can just about run in a straight line and when I feel like it I do 100m in 14.5 seconds, however the amount of times I have actually felt like running have gotten less and less recently. I make myself do it though; it’s one of the most natural things in the world.
I change into my trackies and sling my bag over one shoulder. I prefer to walk home than ask someone to pick me up. Mum prefers it too, anything for her to spend less time with me I swear. I clutch my folder to my chest tightly. That always makes me feel a little safer. I have a layer between me and the outside world. My house is only about a twenty minute walk from school and most summer and autumn evenings I enjoy the walk home, the privacy of having a house to myself for a few hours each night and being able to just shower at home rather than with the prying eyes of my ‘friends’. I walk home slowly and stroke the ridges that line my arms and I smile. There is more than my skin between me and the outside world after all. The scar tissue separates me.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is seven fifteen. I am four years old. I am lying in my bed, it is still a little too big for me but mummy says I can grow into it. I stare at ceiling and try to recognise shapes in the curly pattern that is on it. I can find a horse and a lot of sea monsters. For some reason there are a lot of monsters above my bed today. I try to find a number. We’ve been doing them in school a lot recently, I think it’s because I mentioned it. I like them, they are always the same. If you add 4 to 3 it is always 7. No matter what the weather’s like or anything. I find a number 6 and I am slightly more content.
My teacher thinks I am special with numbers, I don’t know what that really means because I thought special was a good thing but then Daddy said a girl who wasn’t special at all was. So I don’t know whether to tell them or not. I hold on tight to my stuffed bunny’s ears and stroke his head with my other hand. I know that he always thinks I am special in a good way. Mummy said I would find friends in school fast, like everyone else has. I’m still on my own and I don’t know why. I did what mummy told me to, I smiled and sometimes even gave people a grape from my lunch box but now they just take one without asking. I don’t really understand why school is such a good thing. I reckon if I was left in my room alone I could figure out all the things they want to tell me.
I told daddy about it and he says it because they all knew each other before they went to school but I don’t know anyone. He thinks that if I keep trying I’ll find someone who will want to be my friend.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is two minutes past three. I am eight years old. We only have another eight minutes before we are freed to the world. For once I’m not the only one paying attention to numbers. Mrs Lanes is trying desperately to keep us interested in the facts of the First World War but we are all lost to the clock now. Soon the little hand will creep its way around and the bell will sound. We wait. Mrs Lanes has given up and goes around the class placing a piece of homework for the weekend on our desks. I pick mine up. It’s history. We have to find someone in our family and ask them how far back they can remember. I don’t really want to do that. I know that my parents don’t have much time left over after they finish doing things in the day.
I didn’t have a nice day today. It was sunny so we had to go outside for morning break, lunch and afternoon break. It’s like a World War One battle field out there for me. I have to hide in the corners of the playground, and I hope no one knows where I am. Sometimes Kyla from year six will come and talk to me, but that doesn’t happen very often. She only does it so she can still be playground monitor.
The bell rings loudly. Twenty-three chairs slide back noisily, one slides back silently. I pick up my four pencils and my homework. As per usual I wait until all of the other children have forced their way past the bags and through the narrow door before I start to leave the classroom. I walk into the cloakroom and my bag is open and upside down on the floor, I stumble over to pick it up and I scrabble for my pens that are sliding all over the floor now. I carefully fold my three large exercise books into a normal shape again and I replace them, complete with muddy footprints, into my bag. I unzip my pencil case and slide my stationary back into the places where they should be. I feel a little like crying but suddenly I wonder where my art had gone. I painted it earlier and I was really proud of it. It was of a girl who was crying and smiling at the same time and I thought it was good. Then my heart fell, through the glass of the door I could see my painting. It was in pieces, being swept by the wind. They had torn it up.
I tried to find the pieces until my Mum came to find me; she wasn’t happy and told me off for ‘scaring her like that.’ I didn’t tell her about the painting, there was almost nothing left. The only piece I found was the tear drop.
I think that I painted me.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is ten to ten. I am twelve years old. I am bright red. All I want now is to disappear. I don’t understand how this even happened. I am standing next to my French teacher’s desk and he is trying to explain what rape is to me. I had put my hand up in class and asked if it was a French word. A boy in the year above mine had said to me earlier that if I was lucky someone would rape me. I assumed it was a good thing. When I asked him what it meant he laughed and said to his friends ‘she wants a translation.’
I feel like crying, he has sent me back to my desk and all of my class are staring at me. Liam, the boy I sit next to for French edges away from me and smirks, clearly he doesn’t want to be associated with me either. Mr Kim looks irritated and tells the two girls who are still snickering at the back to grow up please. We continue with the lesson and blissfully after exactly five minutes and forty-eight seconds I am outside of the room. I run out and down the stairs heading for the toilet, I want somewhere to cry on my own. I run straight into someone, I don’t know who he is he’s way older than I am, like 15 or something and I can’t help it I just start to cry. He looks very confused and then asks me if I am okay. “No.” I whisper and he looks down again, this time more worriedly. “Do you need me to like, um fetch someone?” I shake my head but don’t move. I don’t really know what to do, no one ever talks to me, it seems rude to run away from them when they do but I am just standing there crying.
A few boys who look about the same age walk past then point and laugh at the boy who is standing over me.
“Hey David, catch them young huh? Maybe she’s still stupid enough to like you. What a paedophile.” They yell and walk away. The boy turns to face them opens his mouth, I assume to yell something else back then he thinks better of it and turns back to me, “I’m David. If you like, um need someone to talk to about, um stuff. I’ll do, right?” He ran off in the direction of the other boys.
I don’t know whether I should take up his offer or not- I think it would be another bad thing. He was only nice because I ran into him after all.
Last edited by Olive branch : 05-05-2009 at 01:19 PM.
Reason: Names
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
