The Wait

A room. A chair within the room. A young woman sits on the chair within the room. Hands folded neatly into her nap. She is well dressed in a pair of dark jeans and an oversized shirt. She is surprised the room looks like this. She had expected something else but unsure what. She was just certain that she had expected something different. There is nothing special about the room, nothing extraordinary except its complete mundaneness. It is medium sized the walls are a dirty cream colour. Once upon a time it may have been a bright pleasant room but now the dust had settled and stained the walls brown. There are no windows just one light- electric and dull.

She sits.

She had expected something different. Unsure what. Certain it was meant to be different. She looks around slowly and stares blankly at the walls. She looks at the brown stains. They always use the colour black, she thought. To describe this. It’s always black. Never brown, shades of brown. Shades of dullness. Shades of decay and wretchedness. She moves her hands from her lap and stands slowly. Her legs feel weak and heavy at the same time, her knees like tired cogs too old to carry the weight. The light dims slightly and she looks up. The bulb looks the same but the room is darker. Her head turns slowly to face a wall. A shape slowly begins to emerge, she blinks rapidly. The walls were blank a moment ago but now she is sure there is a shape. She closes her eyes tightly and opens them. The shape is still there. She walks forwards and looks closely. A solid edge is now in the wall. Her eyes follow upwards and the shape of a door is present. She runs her fingers tentatively around the edges and takes a step back. Something twinges inside her and she turns her head looking at the other walls. They are now covered with doors of all sizes. Something pulls at her, an invisible rope pulling at her stomach leading her. She takes a deep breath and walks towards a door on the opposite wall. The room darkens and her steps feel slower. She looks down at her feet and notices a sticky residue on her shoes. They squelch as she moves cementing her gradually with every step she takes. She looks up at the door determined to reach it. The room expands before her. The door is further away and smaller but she continues onwards. Her shoes rip at the edges as she forces her feet to move forward defying the glue, challenging it to make her stand still. She struggles towards the door putting all her strength in taking one step at a time. The glue is thicker and stronger but she pushes forward. Her breath is ragged. The muscles in her legs pull agonisingly against themselves. Levers and pulleys groaning against the burden of the task. She reaches the door and touches the handle. Sweat covers her face dripping onto her clothes. Patches of sweat have formed into stains on her shirt. She breathes evenly and twists the handle. It crumbles in her hand and she thinks she can hear the sound as her mind cracks slightly. Her heart squeezes against itself.

Her eyes search the ground looking for the glue. She sees wooden planks on the ground. Her shoes are now free of the glue and she follows the slats which form into a small bridge. Slightly rotten and damp it squeaks when she puts a hesitant foot upon it. It bares her weight and she walks slowly her hands grasping at the rails, a heavy pressure in her chest. She feels nervous. She walks forward into the different shades of darkness. Around her dust swirls into large circles building into a tunnel of shades of black and brown. It swirls around her surrounding her with its claustrophobic colour its lack if air. She can’t breathe and yet she continues. The dust blows into her eyes and mouth and her skin feels cold goose bumps building across the surface. Her hands pull her back and she forces them across the wooden rails splinters digging deep into her skin. Flesh wincing and breaking against the force of her resolve. She is on the edge of the abyss and looks down. The tunnel leads into a limitless void of precious nothingness. She craves it and yet knows that the step will be final. Finality that can never be undone. Her foot dangles cautiously over the edge and she tries to remember something. A quicksand like grip tightens around her ankle. It pulls her forward. Her face is wet without her realising and she allows her body to become lax. The fingers of the grip thank her and pulls her closer. She watches as her ankle is now under the dark black and her leg is pulled in deeper. As she watches herself sink the smallest of lights appears in her peripheral vision. A slight light easily missed but it glimmers and wills her to look at it. She turns her eyes, left, and there it is. A small fire fly. Its bottom twinkling making her smile. She looks at it hovering near her face. It seems the tiny creature is waiting for her, beckoning her. She steps back, the grip loosens willingly and the firefly flies away. She runs after it the wooden slats merging into ground. Her shoes have disappeared and she is now wearing a skirt and a vest. She has flowers in her hair and her feet are bare. The fire fly lingers above her head, the room is still dark but the firefly points or so it seems to point behind her. She glances behind her and there is a flickering on the dark walls as though a projector was loading up. An image forms and there she is. Laughing. A long time ago, sitting on the grass with old faces she hasn’t seen in years. Faces that belong to new strangers and old friends.

The crush begins. It starts in her head and spreads across her face and her chest pressing against her lungs tightening around her waist crushing her thighs wrenching at her bones. Nostalgia wraps its strong arms around her and squeezes. She tries to scream and nothing happens. Her throat is dry and the room is filled with the sound of her silent sobs and her pained laughter. And she remembers, finally. The feeling. The firefly watches her, hovering slightly above her eye line. She watches the film of herself and stares at herself. The colours are in a dreamlike 70’s overcompensating vintage brightness. The edges are slightly blurred the frames a tad slow. A film made by unknown hands with amateur zoom in’s and unrealistic tableaus. The grass is too bright. She cries as she sees the yellowness of the daises, the green stems crowning her head. The polished nails the pedicured feet. Bare. She tumbles to the ground content and full of laughter. She remembers that feeling that word; that she was happy. Once. She wants to go back to that time. That was the time. The firefly watches her. She is not seeing, he thinks. She continues to stare willing herself to remember clearly and fails to see the details. The colours begin to change gradually. The green grass is not too bright, the daisies slightly wilted. Her feel are sandaled and there are grass stains on her skirt. She was happy she decides. She poses for a photo with her friends smiling showing off her white teeth at the camera. She doesn’t see the tiny crisscross pattern across her wrists. A brown a shade darker than her own skin colour. The firefly watches her. She looks up at it blinking its light at her. She doesn’t want to see. She looks at the screen and the colours have faded and now she notices the details. The bags under her eyes, the marks on her arms, the label on a box popping out from her handbag, the twitch in her smile, the hesitancy of her eyes. She looks up once more at the firefly and tries to run. The firefly hovers and flies away. She can’t run, she is stuck. There are more fireflies; they are everywhere, twinkling in the dark room. She closes her eyes and sobs pleading with them to leave. They fill the room with her memories distorted over the years. The colours are sharp and dull. She runs after them, swatting at them to leave her. But they mean no harm. They mean nothing. She stands in the middle of the room and looks at herself. She sees the years flashing past slowly revealing the details. The walls begin to whisper filling the room with unfinished sentences and hissed words. Her head is full with empty sound and her cries are silent. The fireflies continue their watch. They cannot leave her. Not yet. The room floods with the sounds of her sobs and the sounds in her mind. The walls close in, inch by inch. She falls to her knees and clasps her hands to her chest.

The room brightens slowly and the images die away. She looks up to the ceiling and her heart screams out in rage. She is on her knees, her head bowed before an empty room and she begs. Every part of her screams into silence, help me. Reward my faith. Help me.

The room darkens once more and the images appear once again. They are random. Appearing and disappearing in no particular pattern. The chair is now there once again. The wooden slats are before her. The voices begin their malevolent harmony and dust blows into her eyes. The doors appear and disappear, the abyss calls to her enticingly. She sits down neatly and looks around her. Nothing is real, reality was distorted from the moment it began.

Someone is asking her a question. She faces familiar eyes. It is dark outside and she can hear distant tides moving towards the moon. The wind blows warmly through her hair. She looks at the face. ‘I’m fine’, she replies. She receives a kiss on her forehead. A squeeze on her hand.

A small flickering catches her eye. A small twinkling.

A tiny flying creature twinkling at her. Waiting for her. A firefly hovering above her eye line. It makes her smile.

Annie: A star in the Making

Following on from The Story of Alex,we now have the back story for Annie. A short record of the childhood of a very imaginative little girl... I hope you all enjoy it xx

Annie: A Star in the Making

Annie was born to be a star.

She discovered her destiny on a non-specific day at age six. Sat cross legged on the floor, small hands tucked underneath her knees, face inches away from the TV, pupils shrinking and dilating as dancing images were absorbed by her subconscious- cementing her fate. With the absolute certainty that can only exist in a child’s un-faltering faith in themselves and the Universe she decided to change her name in preparation for a life enveloped in the flashes of lights, camera and big dreams.

Formerly known as Anheela Shabnam Sharma, she upon realising her destiny decided she did indeed hate her name. It caused her great stress and she was fed up of forcing herself to laugh when the boys called her inhaler. She was growing even more tired of the parents that really did believe that was her name and shrugged at the ways of the strange brown people. Anheela Shabnam Sharma. It didn’t really bother her that her initials spelt ASS; this could be modified later on. She could drop her middle name or better still use it as a small section in her autobiography under the section of Early Childhood Trauma. She grinned, and decided that yes, her new name would be Annie. Modelled on the heroine of her all-time favourite film.

Whilst the children around her perfected the cartwheel and tried to score as many goals as possible into imaginary goal posts, Annie perfected the kind of haughtiness she assumed was the trademark of all divas. Training to be a star was hard work. She slowly memorised the inflections of well-to-do accents in order to have perfect articulation and spent hours in front of the mirror trying to smoulder after reading a magazine piece on the ability of all great starlets to execute this trait flawlessly. She quickly realised she looked angry and constipated and maybe smouldering was something she could work on later. In the meantime she had to come up with a ten minute presentation in order to convince her parents why they should spend X amount on ‘Little Stars’ after school club. She had already been harassing them all winter but it was yet to pay off. Her Father unable to comprehend how his daughter had turned into a little madam overnight and for some absurd reason kept insisting they throw dinner parties. He had become fed up and offered her an ultimatum. She had ten minutes to present her case in any way she chose BUT she had to be able to answer the five questions he would propose to her after the ten minutes. Correctly answering those questions would determine whether or not she would: ‘begin a journey lighted with big dreams….Little Stars’ Annie had work to do. Her Father’s love for riddles and puzzles meant he was infamous for asking questions which were mind bogglingly impossible to answer. Her presentation would have to knock his socks off and distract him from his stupid questions which he always asked with a smirk on his face. She would have to render him speechless. Lying on her stomach on her bedroom floor with colouring pencils and paper scattered everywhere she began to hatch a plan.

Downstairs in the kitchen Mr and Mrs Sharma began one of their whispered ‘discussions’. Mr Sharma sat opposite his wife and watched mesmerised as she shelled peas. Fifteen years of marriage and not once had he ever witnessed such a thing. He did not think that he had actually ever seen peas in a pod. Such trying thoughts began to fill his head as he began to wonder what other vegetable he had probably never seen in their naked state when a pea without its pod bounced off his forehead indicating that his beloved wife must have been talking at him for quite some time. He smiled at her sheepishly, she glowered at him.

‘I just don’t know what to do,’ she said. He sighed. This was an old but recent conversation.

‘She’s definitely determined,’ he said and sighed again. This time he rubbed his face to add affect. Truth was he liked his odd little daughter. She was certainly different and had developed a funny accent but she was the most interesting out of his three offspring. He didn’t worry like his wife who always seemed to have a frown on her face these days. He didn’t understand his child but he wasn’t worried about her; this one would be fine no matter what. Nonetheless the Sharma’s continued their whispered ‘discussion’ and came to the conclusion, that yes, of course, with no doubt in their minds they were good parents. Of course they were. And their children were all fine – Annie was a little strange and this whole ‘Little Stars’ business was definitely curious. Why they would pay for movement classes- what in God’s name was a movement class- was beyond them. It was a tricky situation and neither of them in all honesty could afford it. And so they did what any good parent with a strange child and her and her strange wish would do- they chose to ignore it.

Annie was furious. She had been told by her hateful Father that the presentation was not necessary as they couldn’t afford anything extra -curricular at the moment. Covered in tinsel and glitter dust Annie listened to her parents silently and tallied up all the injustices they had done to her. First naming her such a silly name and not even thinking about the initials and now murdering her dreams. This situation would definitely get a mention in her autobiography under the title: Horrible Childhood. She watched her parents destroy her childhood and quietly just like a true classy lady, closed her bedroom door, fell onto her bed and cried giant silent sobs.

Her Father stood on the other side of the closed door, his heart breaking and wondering what on earth his glitter and tinsel covered daughters presentation would have been like,

Fast forward a few years and Annie was now in secondary school with all her big dreams mostly intact. Her arrogance was executed to perfection and her ideas of grandeur prevailed. Many would think her sense of entitlement and arrogance would repel those around her- but there was something about Annie that was magnetic. People were drawn to her like a writer to a cliché. It was never anything she did or said it was simply who she was. Her energy was intoxicating, her attention to detail dizzying, her focus on you, just you mesmerising. The Universe had promised Annie great things and thus, her talent: the ability to convince anyone of anything. So it never did bother Annie that she did not make ‘Little Stars’. It didn’t bother her that to date she had been kicked out of choir three times, drama club five times and had failed every possible dance audition on the basis of lacking any talent. It didn’t bother her that her parents were working class and said Fanks instead of thanks, and couldn’t hear the difference when she corrected them. It didn’t bother her that the only two books that were worth reading on her English syllabus were Educating Rita and Death of a Salesman, Shakespeare was useless – dumbed down into bite sized chunks. She was smart, she was bright and let’s face it a looker. Annie was born to be a star and even without any real talent she would do it.

Years later as she sat in her childhood bedroom for the final time – suitcases all packed and ready to go she allowed the sounds of flashing bulbs and the cheer from the crowds from her childhood dreams to overtake her. With eyes closed she thought briefly about her life. With the skill set acquired from watching film after film she had charmed her way into getting as much free education as possible knowing it was her ticket out. She had received offers of full scholarships to every University she applied to and still remembered the surprise of the Ofsted inspector who had never thought such grades were possible from an establishment offering such little education. She had never let go of the promise she had felt in her bones that morning aged six watching Annie from the Universe: a whisper that her life would be much bigger than anyone else. Sitting on the edge of the bed she felt that strange feeling again starting in her toes and spreading like pins and needles all across her body. Her senses tingled and she felt as though she should sing. Quickly remembering how painful that sound was even to her own ears she decided not to sing and quietly enjoyed the fast beat of her heart pulsing through every pore. It was destiny, and it was awaiting her impatiently.

The next day in the foyer of the Grand Hall she fiddled with her notebook and pen and observed all the new students milling around waiting for the welcome lecture to begin. Past a throng of people she noticed him. The good looks were undeniable and obvious. The height, the hair, the body all resembled an Adonis and he easily had the attention of all the girls, some walking past shyly others openly gawking. But Annie noticed something else. The little too tight grip on his plastic cup half full of cheap wine, the fidgetiness, the constant looking around but not for anyone or anything. The general nervousness. She looked at the name badge: Alexander J.F. Jones. 

Smiling, she walked towards him.

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