REPORT A PROBLEM
It's beautiful. Standing there in my long black coat, orange paperbag on my shoulder.
All the lines of the world turned into soft curves. Colours muted, cakes dusted with icing sugar. Everything merges into one, a gigantic marshmallow. It looks so inviting, so warm and soft. The air is crisp, my breath turns to steam but the breeze is warm against my hands, my face. Looking down at my black boots, jeans covered in snow. Tracking the first footprints through the blanket of perfection. Falling, landing with a soft
, sending soft powder up into the air.
This is winter.
Think of it. Thump, thump, thump. Motor whirring, soft heartbeat underneath. Louder heartbeat pounding in my head.
My god it's good to see you
. Pushing the light, speeding up to get it there before the minute is up. Slow down again, twinge in the ankle. More than a twinge really, more of a shooting pain up my leg. In my stupidity, I keep going. Thump, thump, thump. Track skips, vibrations from the floor. 1.95. Speed up. Thump, thump. 25. 24. 23. Too fast, slow down. Pain in ankle again. Burns. Hot knife running up my leg. Slow down.
He did one, so maybe I will too. I hate the way people know my name when I don't know theirs. I hate the way people automatically assume things (yes, even I do it. but I still hate it). I hate the way people see a pretty picture, assuming I'm 18. Then when they find I'm 15, they do a runner. I hate the way I can never get my pillows right. I hate loud people. Overly loud people. Drunken teenagers. How childish can you get? Drunken teenagers who want to be treated as adults.
I hate too many things.
Sometimes it's hard. Getting by without him. I try not to think about him, but he creeps up behind me, surprises my mind. I think about the way he called me Angel. The way he'd just stop talking and say, ‘hey, I love you. You know that don't you?' The way he'd tell me how our future was going to be, how he wanted us to be together. How he'd tell me I was beautiful, how he loved every square millimetre of me. The way he went out of his way to make me feel special.
The way I cried.
I did the things I hate, now for things I love.
I love it when B calls me Sunshine. When D smiles his gorgeous smile. When Z laughs, when she's hyper, laughing at my bad jokes. The look B gets in his eyes when I do something good, the way he shows me he's proud of me. When D talks, when I can hear his accent. When I make people laugh. L playing air guitar. When Duncan tells me I'm precious. Watching sunsets with the people I love. Someone playing with my hair.
I love too many things to say.
Music is my aeroplane. I like that song. That line is true.
Music can lift you up. It can bring you to the ground, not always safely. People speak about the calming power of music, but it has power to anger too. To incite passion, to make you stand up and scream. It can put you back in places you have been and never want to be again. It can take you to places you have never been and want to stay in forever. In a breath it can take you to people, to places, to ideas and nightmares.
I'm not sure what to write. I could send thoughts spilling out of my head, but I feel that would be a grotesque parade. Shall I censor my thoughts? Leave them R rated at best? I think I had better; I have nothing else.
Why is it possible to dislike someone completely and yet like them so much at the same time? To love the language but hate the lesson entirely? To love the character but be so frustrated by it at the same time? To be so at peace inside, yet so angry.
Damn it. Too many questions, no?
8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8.
Infinity. Following the trail around, round and round in a never ending weave. Not wanting to, but letting my eyes flow with it all the same. Making me dizzy.
The figure of a woman. Well busted, gently curved. Appreciating and envying her beauty. Looking in the mirror, maybe there is something about me.
A date. Infinitesimal in the scheme of the world yet meaning everything to a handful of people. Painful memories, loving memories.
A time. Delaying the time; maybe wanting it to pass faster to reach that magical number on the clock.
I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Like I always do in the hours before sleep finally drags in and whisks my brain away. The glow in the dark stars I put there years ago wink at me.
Ha, ha! We don't have to sleep, you do! But you can't!
I closed my eyes, seeking some form of solace in the technicolour fireworks my sealed eyelids offer. I rose up, hypnotised by the shooting stars. My whole body was devoid of sensation. Bam. Back in my body with a snap. A fall, a jerk of surprise.
Type. Type. Type. Damnit. Block. Delete. Type again, or give up?
Ping. Or more of a ploop. A message pops up on my screen.
Hi my little punk princess, mail me and I will be your slave forever
I wonder what these people think of me. Shouldn't have put a pretty picture up there, should've left the goofy one. They all want to know now; and most that want to know are false. Liars. One wants to be my sugar daddy. Twice my age, I'm not even legal. They all want to meet up.
I'm tired of saying no.
So, if I e-mail him today, will he be my slave? Will he do what I want, when I want? Without complaining? Will he let me choose the film, the ice cream? Will he leave me alone when I tell him to, will he be by my side when I call his name? Will he take the shouting like a man, never once regretting his choice? What if, in my dominant position, I tell him to be dom for once? Could his little submissive brain cope with that? If I told him to do whatever he wanted?
I doubt it.
Today I lay and cried. He could not see me. Nobody could. He knew there was something. I sat up. Stated plainly that it was the day that all people love, Valentines, on Friday. I looked at him. I had tears in my eyes. He told me he loved me. I told him I wanted my baby back. He told me that he knew. I looked at the concrete. He searched for words. I told him not to say anything. He moved. Put his arm around my shoulders while I sobbed. The smell of smoke has never been so comforting.
Valentine's, again. Damnit, the year rolls around too fast for me, too difficult to keep up. Got to make Valentines for the girls. I was never any good at crafts. But, unlike Louise, I won't be kissing them personally.
My mantra. Got to remember it.
Don't think about it, don't think about it
. God I miss him.
I think B kissed me yesterday. Not on the lips, not even on the face. On the head, that patch of hair that's always soft. But then again maybe he didn't. Whatever he did, it felt like affection. Maybe he does love me.
Names…I don't understand how nicknames get formed. A while ago someone asked me what my nickname was. I have so many; it's impossible to count them all. Sunshine, Princess, Angel. Gorgeous, Lover. And they all remind me of different people. Princess and Angel remind me of Ian. Sunshine, of Ben. Gorgeous, Duncan. Lime Fruit Pastille, Zoë. They are only simple little words, but they remind me so much of people so important in my life. I would never be without those nicknames, however much I dislike some of them.
Back to near enough normal service tomorrow. Or not, perhaps. Whatever.
Why, when you fall, do you have to fall so hard? I was just climbing out of the hole that he put me in, when someone else comes along and pushes me right back down again. Is it true? Could this possibly be right? There's a huge age gap. He tells me how grown up I act, how something just grabbed him. How he's going to give me driving lessons in his Esprit. How he'll show me all these films, show me how to play snooker properly.
So I'm thinking, maybe falling isn't so bad after all. It's pretty good.
I'm sick of it. All of those stupid teenage magazines are sending out completely the wrong message. Yes, everyone is beautiful on the inside. But outsides matter too, why aren't they telling teenage girls that they're beautiful? What about the girls who want a boyfriend so desperately yet have no self-esteem? Why aren't they telling them the truth? That no matter what you look like, what body shape you have, there are always going to be lots of people in this world who think you are beautiful. Not just one, but hundreds, thousands.
Why can they not tell the truth?
So. What to write about. What to talk about. What to think about. I don't know; things are in a bit of a spin right now. Endless choice, but none of them fit. Except one, but it's really too far to travel, even if that one does fit perfectly. All the way to Slough. And then, what if I got the measurements wrong? What if it doesn't feel right? I may love it now, but what if it's different when I see it? Things are always different in the flesh…never the same.
Yeah. Boys always equal ‘it' in my world.
Goddamnit. ‘Curvy' is not a nice word for ‘fat'. Some of the most beautiful women in the world are curvy. ‘Fat', in my world, is reserved for people over a size…24. All being curvy means is having a nice shape. Having nice breasts, a waist that is a bit smaller than your chest, and curved hips. I don't really believe that anyone under a size 10 can be curvy, but I suppose it's possible; I just haven't seen it. In my opinion size 14-16 women are utterly perfect. A lot of size 18 women are too.
Don't just dismiss everyone.
Yes. Some want to hear it; some never do. You can wield so much power over someone just by knowing when to use that word. You can prolong agony, sensuality; you can draw out a tease until it teeters on the edge of painful pleasure. You can make someone feel good; you can make them afraid. You can look at a person, so hopeful, wanting you to make them happy. You can. Or you can spit in their face and tell them they haven't got a chance.
Please, use it nicely for once. Be happy.
Do you love me?
I wonder what you'll dream about tonight…
You. And all of the things that we've said.
Me too, I think.
If you dream about me you have to tell me.
I do dream about you!
What, more than once?
Yes- most nights.
So you want to know what I dreamt?
What if it's XXX-Rated?
I don't mind…I won't tell if you won't!
So what have you dreamed about me?
Well I dreamt you drove my Esprit…and didn't crash her!
And I dreamt we were together, fell in love and didn't want to separate.
C and D, a fairytale ending…
Serendipity. Fate. Destiny…
One of the most painful moments in my life became the turning point to the happiest moment. To think…if it never happened, I would have had to tell Duncan I was involved. Things would have just ended, right there.
But…the possibilities now feel endless. At first I didn't feel this way, but with each day that we talk, whatever I feel about him intensifies just a little bit. Whatever anyone who reads this may think, I am normally a happy person. But when I'm talking to him, I never stop smiling.
There is something there. Something good.
You know, I have some crappy men in my life. Slowly, one by one, I'm getting rid of them. Well, there's one I won't ever be able to get rid of, but I can stay away from him. It started with Gav, a year ago. Jez, a month ago. I'm just brushing them off now.
But I have some amazing men too. Ben, Steve, Duncan, Glenn. The men that may rule my thoughts, but in a good way. They have my trust and look after them well, unlike creeps like Jez.
Yeah. I'm moving up in the world of men.
His hands were so soft. Warm, and dry. You could feel the strength behind them when he squeezed my fingers. When I withdrew my hand, because I was nervous, he sought it out again, holding it, mentally putting something into words. His thumb kept making these little circles on the palm of my hand and across my fingers.
I love you Colleen. You're one of the only things I miss about school.
Sometimes you make me so happy.
I love you too.
I know that as well.
You may be an idiot sometimes, but I wouldn't change you.
Oh dear. James, put the fish back in the tank. No, I don't think it does want to go for a walk. Georgia sweetheart, it's cats that land on their feet, not hamsters. I don't think Hammy would appreciate being dropped from that height. Liam, don't pull her hair, and George! George! Put that away, Libby does not want or need to see it. Now, for today's lesson. Daniella! Don't encourage George like that. Charlotte, this is not a hairdresser. I know she has pretty hair, but that's not the point. Thomas! Don't draw on Andrew's face!
That's not nice!
Bloody hell he's a grunt. Nothing against rugby players, I love to watch the game and I'm sure most of them are really very intelligent. But this one…oh man. Seriously, if I could see him I bet he'd have scabs on his knuckles and a forehead the size of Africa. And he'd try to drag me back to the cave by my hair. Cute, but his vocabulary consists of monosyllables strung together pretending to be words. Oh, if we had babies and they had his looks and my brain we'd be just fine…but the other way around…oh dear.
He has huge hands. They engulfed the steering wheel of the Beemer. Kind of hardworking, yet artistic hands. You get the feeling that they're hard and calloused but gentle if they were on your waist, or trailing through your hair. He has a sweet smile that makes me want to crack jokes all day just so I can see him laugh. He worked on a farm; he's strong. He had a rough childhood; he's caring. And, above all, he's intelligent. And five months until he comes to see me! I was wrong, it's not Slough, the package came from Ipswich.
So. Ipswich. That's not so far. Not a bad distance to travel for a king size, nudge, nudge, wink, wink etc. He's asked me if, when I'm 16, I will be able to come and stay for a weekend. In his huge house. Together. It's a scary, yet happily tingly thought. I like my tingly thoughts. The ones that make me want to squeal excitedly and jump up and down like an utter maniac. It's familiar, something that was destined to happen now. Like the sequence of events that has happened in the past few months will ensure happiness forever.
Last one, sob, sob. I bid you adieu, farewell, auf weidersehen, au revoir. For another month, the beautiful month of March. I'll be back in April, with tales of Thursdays, Wednesdays and the ever-ubiquitous Fridays. And probably the rest of the days of the week. Dagavi will still be here, trying to complete his goal of every month in succession. You should go read him.
In April I'll tell more (if it is at all possible) about Duncan. And Steve, never forget Steve. And the results of my team's final.
So long, and in those immortal words, I'll be back.
The Tip Jar