Orange- A short story.
 

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?

It's a very interesting beginning, I'd love to read more. xx

yes please carry on its really intriguing!!

Right then- I may but it will be tomorrow I expect.

Thanks guys.

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.

this is brilliant :) your a great writer, please write moree

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.

Wow I am loving this, would love to read more

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.

wow! I really like your writing style. Please continue with this story.

I absolutely love this; you're an amazing writer! xx

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.

Wow, all of these are really good!
I love your style of writing.
Can't wait to read more =]

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.

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.

If someone can think of a nice name not ... then tell me. I'll add it in. :)

I love this!
What kind of name are you looking for?

Um, just a nice boy's name, I'm open to suggestions!

Myles, Jack, Noah, Ethan, Eric, Daniel, Lewis, Joel, Billy, Mark, Jackson, Fraser, Lee, Heston, Denny, Dillon, Lyle, Taylor, Bradley, Justin...

I hope there's one there you like.

David :)

only distraction, i like all your names :) i love Noah :D

this is a great story , i love it

<3 can't wait to read more :)

This is actually amazing. Im so jealous

Keep it going

Oooh pick Daniel (if you think it fits)! I think this is amazing btw, written in a really interesting and engaging way :)

Really, really loving this

Thanks guys- I never get any positive comments about my writing, I feel compelled to write more. Oh and I think David fits, I can see him as David now.

I thought I'd let you guys help me with some of the minor details, naming etc, and I wondered what you think of the time and age thing? (Personally I quite like it and I may find some odd and clever way to iuse it.) But yes, anything to add?

Well I am writing now....

*comes in and sits down with only distraction*
can't wait for more =]
oh and i love the time and age thing, really original and interesting!

It is five thirteen. I am sixteen years old. I am clean. My wet hair has decided to drape itself over my shoulder and I pick at a split end. I like the way I can spilt it right to my scalp, or just pull it out. It all depends if I’m in a constructive or destructive mood I think. I run a hand up my now smooth legs, if you don’t count the scars that is. I walk to my room, turn on the light, with my still damp hands and collapse onto my bed. I know I have an economics essay waiting for me deep in the belly of my school bag and, thank god, a maths paper. Maths has always been a little bit of a strong point for me, I can’t really remember why I liked it to start with, I guess I must have been that keen child in class.
I don’t really want to have to face my parents when they get home; I have apparently been ‘abusing my privileges’ by taking the bus to town one Saturday without telling them. But sometimes I just want to get out; sometimes I don’t care who I tell or where I go. Often I don’t tell them because when I leave the house I don’t know where I am going, my feet walk me to my destination not my brain. I just concentrate on counting the steps.
I know all the numbers for my room. My room is safe. I had to measure and re-measure all of my walls once when I was younger- I think I thought the walls would fall in if I didn’t. I don’t care about the exact numbers as much anymore they can be so hard to keep track off, however my room is a different matter. My room is safe, every number is held in my blue notebook. They are safe there and they sit on the little straight blue lines and they make perfect sense.
I am not feeling to great today, actually that’s an understatement. It doesn’t take long for my warped little brain to find what it is looking for. And you know what; I’m okay with that for now. 10 more, as always. Sharp, sweet and calming. I’m used to my own little regime now, I cut and cover and clean. It’s easy. Easy as 1, 2, 3.

(I also thought I'd try to use major events from age 4,8 and 12 but have a continued story for 16? Comments? Eventually the events will blend in together and if you read from section to section of ages we could almost have a life time?)

It is approximately two forty-six. I am four years old. I haven’t had time to work out exactly when I am and this scares me but I don’t have time to work out when I am. I am running. I won’t be able to keep running for long my legs hurt and I’m not breathing properly. I don’t know who is chasing me anymore I just know that if I am able to get to the tree I am safe, there is a playground assistant over there. I slip and fall on the grass. I can already imagine the grass stains that have imbedded themselves into my knees and skirt; I can imagine my mummy telling me I am not careful enough. I think of my lunchbox, stolen again today and I can’t cope with the thought of having to tell her both those things in one day. I could tell daddy but if I do he will tell mummy, he says he is ‘obligated to’. He likes to tell me long words when I ask a question he doesn’t know the answer to. I cover my head and wait to be punched or kicked but no one does. This worries me and I stay very still, trying to catch my breath. I feel a hand reach down and touch my head. Then a sharp tug. I feel some of my hair rip out along with my hairband. I know it’s not much but it’s sort of a last straw for me. So for the first time ever I stand up, I take four punches from the largest fattest boy, his name is Freddie, and then with my fists clenched tight I put out a hand and catch him in the face. I hear a squeal and crunch.
This would be the time the assistant chose to turn around. At two fifty-seven I sit in the headmaster’s office with one of the boys who took my hairband. I haven’t said a word but the other boy has, he says that I started it, that he would never hit a girl, and that anything I say will be a lie. So I don’t open my mouth, just in case the headmaster believes the boy.
The boy asks where Freddie has gone and the headmaster says he is going to hospital, that I broke his nose. I have to stop myself from gasping out when I hear this, I didn’t think I was big enough to break anyone yet. The headmaster asks me if I have anything to say in my defence.
I don’t know what a defence is but I know I didn’t want to talk so I shook my head. I don’t want to be thought a liar. I think next time I should let them hit me. I get told off less so I think that is the right thing. I still don’t ask if I am right, I don’t like to talk and I don’t see why I have to. I think I don’t really trust letters anymore.

It is five twenty-one in the morning. I am eight years old. I am sitting on my floor. I feel really sick and I don’t know why. I haven’t eaten anything nasty and I felt okay when I went to bed last night. I felt okay but then I remembered that I have to go to school tomorrow and that makes me feel a little funny, like the corners of everything are spinning a little. I think I’m a little bit afraid.
I don’t know how I can help myself anymore, I have to go there tomorrow, and Mum says that it’s just ‘not an option’ to come and go as I please. Even though I wouldn’t go to school at all if I didn’t have to. I hug my knees to my chest and try to imagine a world where no one could get me, a world where I am safe from all the hurt, from all the people who need to see my cry. I don’t want to have to explain myself to my teachers, my mother, and my classmates. I don’t want to have to try so hard to keep happy. Everyone wants to pull me down; I think it must make them feel a little better. The problem with this is that even though they feel ten times better I feel one hundred times worse; it’s proportional to the square of. Sometimes I get a little bit annoyed but it’s mainly with myself for being such a pushover and not being good enough to make them stop. I think I deserve it though and sometimes that makes me feel a little sad.
I feel very sad right now, everything feels all wrong and I don’t know how to make it right. It is so stupid, it’s my fault; of course it is. I should just cope with people bullying me, the teachers don’t mind and none of the other people in my class care. I think that I am just supposed to be hurt.
For just one second I wonder what it would be like to hurt someone else, whether it makes you feel better than them. I wonder who I could hurt- even if I had the chance. I don’t know if I could actually do that to someone else. I glance down at my arm. It is white with only a few darker bruises and flecks. I take a tiny amount on skin between my fingers and I pinch myself. I am surprised- it doesn’t hurt one bit.

yay for picking david :)
your such a fantastic writer!

Wow, i am well and truly hooked to this story missy!
It's brilliant and very well written of course.
I think the numbers are a major part in what makes this story original, interesting and good!
I love your description too =]

Still love it, you are seriously an amazing writer. It's original and I love your style :)

amazing! loving it, keep on writing!

just read all this, and i don't normally post much anymore, but had to say that this is brilliant, and i'm hooked!

It is quarter past one, I am twelve years old. I have just left the school lunch hall, we got in late again today. I don’t know what I am supposed to do for the rest of today. I don’t want to have to go and sit though a whole lesson of double history- for the majority of the year I quite like it, it makes a lot of sense to read something, find out what you can about it and then decide who is telling the truth. It is very logical but today I don’t feel much like it. I spoke to Sam earlier, I sounded very immature and I was made fun of. Not like it matters.
When you think about it nothing really does matter, not me, not him not whether the leaves on the trees are brown, orange or green. None of it really matters in the run of things. Only a few people in this world ever get a chance to matter and I’m just not one of them that’s all. It doesn’t really matter if I turn up to history today, or if I just went and disappeared.
It sounds silly coming from me, I know that I am too young to think this but some of the time I really hate myself. Some of the time I really like to see myself hurting, I deserve it. I can be so stupid, so immature and so just worthless. I hate myself, I really do.
I am twelve years old- I am healthy, I am rich enough to eat. I have two parents, I am not dying from cancer or something horrid but sometimes I wish I did suffer from something. I wish there was something wrong with me, that it wasn’t just imbedded in my personality to be sad.
I am twelve years old and I already know how I want to die. I already know that I want to die.

Loving this

this is really good, your writing style is very similar to Mark Haddon's, he is one of my favourite authors. This is very different to other stories i have read. It's really good, can't wait to read more.

those last few sentences almost just made me cry.. it sums up exactly how i feel except im a fair bit older than 12.

this is amazing.

its such a good read
omg your words are beautiful, and i dunno why. i cant pick out what it is.

YES.

I love this.

Um, wow. These comments are all so lovely- I shalle endeavour to write more tonight.

It is seven twenty-four. I am sixteen years old. I have just finished eating dinner with my family. I’m a little worried today. My cuts weren’t too bad- I was very controlled but I don’t know if the bandages were showing or something because my mum was looking at me very oddly. She kept glancing towards my wrists and back to my meal. I can’t be bothered with this today- it’s really not the right day to do this. I know that she doesn’t know about any of this and that is she did she’d probably just try to help, well perhaps help is the wrong word but she would definitely help me to cover it up from the world. She seems to enjoy having the control to make me do whatever she tells me to, she doesn’t know I often have full control of myself. That no matter what she says or does I am still the directing force in my own life.
She doesn’t know that I cried myself to sleep for approximately 8 years of my life- not that I do that anymore. I can’t really cry anymore, sometimes I wonder if I’ve used up my tears for this life already.
She doesn’t know that I have complete control over what I eat- that I have lost enough weight to lose my period- she wouldn’t even notice. She doesn’t really care what I look like and she doesn’t know what size I am. She just gives me £70 every four months and tells me that I should ‘try to look nice.’ When I do try I am asked if there is a boy involved- which I always fervently deny. The ones there have been don’t matter to me now.
She doesn’t know that when I feel bad I know I have one good, steady coping strategy. And she doesn’t know that this strategy is slowly taking further away from people.
In fact no one seems to have noticed that I’m slipping from this world, I’m becoming nearer to the other world made for me, the world I see in my dreams. No one has noticed that I have a panic attack on the bus almost every time I travel. No one notices me counting under my breath, over and over. No one has noticed that I cry in lessons. No one ever notices when I’m in lessons, or when I decide I don’t want to go. No one seems to see me, I mean if they do then they are just careless- the amount of people who will walk into me, laugh and splutter a weak apology. I think I’m the only one who knows how alone I have made myself. Someone, please have some mercy. Please just take the time to see me and to see that I’m not coping.

It is eight forty-two. I am four years old. Mummy is driving me to school; we’re passing under the big oak tree which scatters acorns all over the road sometimes in the year. Acorns crunch under my feet like the noise paper makes when you screw it up. Mummy is crying. I don’t know why, she hasn’t said anything for a while either. Eventually I can’t help but to ask her, even though I’ve been enough times by Daddy that when Mummy cries she wants me to be quiet and not talk to her about it. “Mummy,” I ask as quietly as I can without being so quiet she can’t hear me. “Mummy what are you crying for today?” Mummy lifts up her head slightly and sits straighter in her chair. “I’m not crying sweetie.”
I scrunch up my face and rub my eyes but when I look back at her she still has red puffy bits under her eyes and her nose is running. I am so sure she is crying. She looks just the same way I do when I cry. I shuffle in my car seat and I say very quietly again “Mummy.” She looks at me for a second then her attention flicks back to the road. “Mummy do you love me?” I ask.
She glances at me once more, “of course I do. I’m your mother. Every mother loves her own child.”

I learnt two things that day. I didn’t know that love was compulsory before then. That every child must love their mother and that every mother has to love their child. I thought love was an emotion but if I think about it as an emotion it doesn’t really work.
Because love means wanting to be with someone, no matter what they look like or what they have done. Love means trying to make people better when they’re ill and knowing they would do the same for you. Love means you think about that person a lot. I don’t think that if it was voluntary anyone would do it. Wives have to love their husbands. Mothers and fathers have to love their children. Dogs have to love their masters. People have to love God. People have to love someone for them to do things for them. My mummy doesn’t do any of the things I think of when I think of love as an emotion but she does try to look after me.
The other thing I’ve learnt is that it’s okay to pretend not to cry sometimes. Sometimes if it’s too hard it can be better to keep it inside and not spread it to everyone else. Sometimes it’s okay to lie to other people and even yourself if it helps you feel better.

another amazing post :)