Mechanisms.

You can always tell when I'm upset, as I write a lot more, whether it be notes, lists or blog posts like this one, my writing definitely increases in volume when I'm sad, down or under the weather. Maybe that's ironic: I love writing, it's my passion, and yet i seem to excel in it's field only when my life is falling apart around my ankles. So why? Why does it take a few tears to get real? Why when I feel absolutely alone or totally worn down does my writing skill flourish? Surely in my dark times, it really doesn't matter if I can write fluently or eloquently, just at all. It's more of a way to get the thoughts out of my head and allow me to relax than it is for public reading or any kind of display. Perhaps there's a certain peace I get from writing when I'm upset. Maybe that's not practical or good for me, but some of the best pieces of writing I've ever conjured up has been due to too many tears or vodkas, or sometimes both. There's part of me wonders whether I can't write happy things. It's a lot harder to write about happy things. The light is flourescent if you mess with it too much, while the dark can get pitch black and nobody questions it's truth. The positives seem overexaggerated sometimes in my eyes, but the negatives, the old cliché, everyone believes. It's true. A news headline about something terrible and it never passes through your mind as to whether it's fact or fiction, yet a positive story about someone changing their life for the better makes people cynically question the realism of it. That's how I see my writing sometimes. The dark, somewhat depressing side of my writing is where my passions are hidden. If you read my sadness, you get to know the real me. The happy posts are half-hearted, quickly written between an outfit change, a touch of make up, or a taxi arriving at 9.30. The happy times don't get documented much, for two reasons. Firstly, because I tend to find myself preoccupied with said happiness, so writing about it takes a back seat, and secondly, I'm not really sure I know how to write about happiness. That is the elephant in the room I've finally admitted. I've written so much about people's downfalls, low times and heartbreaks I really don't know where to start with the love, laughter and happiness. It's difficult. It's simpler and yet, harder to convey in words. It's a smile at a bus stop, a laugh while staring at your iPhone, someone holding your hand, a compliment you know is actually meant from the heart. The mundane, the real, the normality of every day is difficult, and yet it shouldn't be. Not every day is a car crash, a death, an assault, mentally or physically. Not every day is bankruptcy, breakdown or fall out. Every day is going to work whether you like it or not. Paying bills because that's what you have to do to get by. It's reluctance and disdain and yet it's so many other things. It's routine. It's coping mechanisms all united. It's patience and kindness and calm and friendliness. It's tolerance. It's arguing with someone you love. It's smiling at someone you don't like. It's buying an overpriced coffee so you can take a photo of it for Instagram. It's the Monday mornings as well as the Friday evenings. It's the 7am starts, the baby crying in the middle of the night, the snuffly noses and sore throats, the rain, sleet, snow and sun. It's the going for lunch vs skipping lunch. It's having too much time and no time at all and clock watching and seconds flying by all at once. It's every day that matters. Pieced together. Today is only significant because of there being no tomorrow, or no yesterday. Writing about today is the easy bit. Writing the tomorrow is hard. 

Busy.

I'm content and disorganised and excited and numb and ready to celebrate Christmas surrounded by the best people I know. My blog is being understandably neglected, but hey, life just gets too eventful to sit in front of laptop all day. 💁 

Therapeutic ramblings.

Writing is therapeutic. I've just wrote about 300 words in my iPhone's 'Notes' section sounding off about my moany day, when it hits me, maybe I just need to write my thoughts down. Maybe the so-called writer myself needs to just get things out of my head to get a smile settling on my face. I feel a lot happier already. In a matter of minutes. It's relief. It's more than that though. Writing is innate to me. I was dreaming up stories before I was old enough to write them down. I've always wanted to write. Whether it was doodling my name multiple times in my notebook, compulsive list making or even just a document of my feelings, I've always had a notebook with me. Admittedly, I've never wrote a novel or a collection of poetry. At 21, I've not accomplished anything official writing-wise, but I think that's okay. It's the industry. I love picking up a book in Waterstones and smelling the fresh paper and examining the first page of printed ink. I love buying a book on my kindle and watching the money get debited from my account and then waiting while it appears magically on my screen. I love reading book reviews; gushing or scathing, appreciatory or negative. I love the bit where a writer dedicates their work to a specific person, a time or a place, a memory, a quote or something close to their heart. I love the words on a page and how they resonate with something I've felt, or experienced, or even just said aloud. Sometimes there's nothing more therapeutic than writing. 

Stressed: take two.

The first semester of final year is quickly coming to an-all-too-frightening end. I have two more seminars and one more lecture to go, before the Christmas holidays begin. As of December 5th, I'm free for six weeks or so, to panic and ponder next semester's modules and the finality that comes with finishing your degree, a prospect I was never sure I'd ever arrive at. 

I'm proud, worried and anxious. The assignments are mounting up, along with the pressure, and the looming deadlines appear to taunt me. The uncertainty of my life after May 2015 is scaring me stiff. I'm absolutely bricking it. The outside world. I've never been into the proper outside world before. At the age of 21, my feet have been firmly rooted in education since the age of 3. It's all I've ever known, passed from pillar to post, nursery to school to university, from institution to institution, without a care in the world. I've sat countless exams, cried unbelievable amounts of tears, and written a hell of a lot of words in that time, but maybe I'm about to make it. If only I can make it through these next few weeks of deadlines, I'll be able to breathe again properly without a tight chest and a worried, pallid face expression. 

Here's to hoping. Holding on tight, 2014 is coming to an end. Better go out with a bang. 

Getting Noticed.

okay, I've fell into the habit of neglecting my blog again. Shit. For a few reasons I won't go into at the moment, but I have, and that's pretty rubbish. So basically, I'm calling out to any bloggers, no matter who you are, what kind of blog (if you even categorise it at all) you write, or whatever your interests are, to help me. I'm totally dense when it comes to technology, and I'm not sure where to start. I've been blogging for a while now, and I still don't understand all these different forums and blogging sites.

Translation: which is/are good blogging sites, or connecting sites, that can get my blog read by a wider audience? If anyone can recommend some, or just one or two, and a bit of a demo as to how to use it, that would be great. I feel like I'm missing out on so much blogging, and on different blogging communities, because of this.

Any help would be widely appreciated.
Either comment, or tweet me; @Eleanorward_ :)
big thanks.
x

Welcome to Hell.

A man in the corner of the room grins devilishly as I enter. There's something eerie about him. And this place. It's really hot, but the heat is uncomfortable rather than welcoming. It's not cosy, it's excruciating. It's like being locked in a sauna when all you want is cold, fresh air. Impossible. The man studies me hard as I walk towards the bar and order a double whiskey. As the barman produces my change, I steal a glance at the man to my left. He's watching me. Waiting for something, perhaps. I shrug it off, and walk over to an empty table in the opposite direction. I sit down with my drink in front of me and pull a book out of my handbag. Turning the pages, I can feel his eyes studying me hard. I attempt to ignore it. My eyes gloss over the first sentence of my new chapter, when my reading is interrupted noisily. Someone behind the bar rings a bell.

I look up, to hear the confirmation, but instead, there's someone in front of me. The man. His fierce, glinting eyes focused on mine. The devilish grin creeps slowly across his face once more, as he raises his eyebrows, and whispers, 

"Last orders."

My chest tightens, unnerved. He lets out a monstrous sort of laugh. I blink hard. And he's gone. Just like that. But I can still hear it. The perverse cackling drifting into my eardrums. 

Don't walk away.

There's nothing like it. 

You scream "That's it! You walk away from me and it's over." 

The tears burn and something makes you test the waters and see what happens. It's the stubbornness inside you. The stubbornness you always claim to never own, nor recognise in your own reflection. The pride you so vainly possess. The need for reassurance. Your feet make your legs move, but there's some reluctance in each step. Your wounded face expression fades as I disappear, slamming the door behind me. Tears roll down my cheeks. My stomach plummets and my heart lodges in my windpipe uncomfortably. I can't breathe properly. I choke back the tears and try to prevent my eye make up from cascading down my cheeks. My attempt fails. My head and my heart fight silently with each other. My back to the door, I suddenly move. I peel myself up from my crouched position. Something makes me do it. I walk on autopilot. Out of the door, along the corridor, and pray with every ounce of strength I have that you're where I left you standing. Your head in your hands. You look distraught. You look crumpled. You look gutted. You don't see me coming. Or hear my gentle footsteps. And then the pull kicks in. I run towards you, and wrap my arms around you, and my tears begin once more. 

"I'm sorry. I love you." 

You look up at me, your eyes look sad, but behind that, there's a sort of relief. A thank-god-she-came-back sort of look. I gulp hard. 

"I'm sorry too. I didn't mean it, any of it." 

You wrap your arms around me so tight. I finally exhale properly. Relieved. Reassured. You kiss the top of my head, before leaning into my lips. 

"You don't get to walk away like that," you tell me. 

Beneath the tears and the smudged make up, I grin. Massively. My tears subside, as you take my hand. 

"Let's go. Looks like we both need a drink." 

I nod, and a secure smile settles on my face once more. 

There's something wonderful, beautiful, and utterly terrifying about having someone you can't live without. There's something even more beautiful, wonderful and terrifying in finding out they feel exactly the same way.

Penning down life.

Radio One is playing in my ear, as I sit cross-legged on my bed, and the smell of food drifts into my bedroom from downstairs. I think it's Biffy Clyro and Bastille doing a cover. Playing I mean, not cooking in my kitchen. My dad's making lasagne. I am suppressing my deep stomach rumbles as I continue to type. I'm on a writing mission, as I explained a few posts ago. I need to beat last year's post record. Also, I somehow believe that writing and publishing snippets of my writing, whether it be random head-space typing on the bus home after a long, rubbish day at uni, or drunk 2am notes made on my phone, a creative piece or just a rant, or a list or something, in the long run, maybe it will make me more organised.
I've got to work on my ECP/CWP: it depends which uni you attend, some call it an Extended Creative Project, while others, including my Uni, know it and refer to it as a Creative Writing Project. Either way, it's a project I write myself, creatively. A story. A plot. A narrative piece of my own brainwork. Whatever, its a creative writing dissertation. As far as some are concerned, its slanderous. I should be writing my own, English Literature dissertation. Well, I stick two fingers up to those people, because this thing is bloody hard work, and I'm trying.

So yes. Back to my point. I told you, I tend to wander, both physically and mentally, from time to time. Maybe it makes for good writing, but at the grand old age of 21, I'm yet to know either way.

I should be using my Thursday evening for something constructive or organised. Instead, lucky me!!! I'm off out for food with my lovely boyfriend. I'm very excited about this, because as everyone knows, I LOVE food, and even more so, I LOVE going OUT for food. (hence the really bad caps.)

Maybe no one even reads this. I'm a bit frantic, and sometimes, I write for an imagined audience. Although, I must say, I hope there's someone in that void. Someone reading my mad rants, drunken outbursts and occasional attempts of real writing. Let me know, whoever you may be. I'll be ever so grateful.

Behind.

             

Gosh, I'm a rubbish writer when I'm happy. I always say that. I can't write when I'm caught up in my own lovely life with a grin on my face and a spring in my step. But instead, it's when I'm at my lowest that I manage to do some of my most heartfelt writing. Weird, and kind of awkward too. 

Hence my dilemma. I've just noticed my blog count for 2014. At the minute it's 105 posts short of 2013's. Fair enough, last year was my first year of blogging, but still. This year's is a poor effort, and for funny, happy reasons. 

I've found myself too preoccupied with the good things in my life to stop for breath and time to type something up. Okay. It's 23:56 on Wednesday 29th October. As part of my CWP for uni, I intend to smash last year's blog count. 105 to go to level it. Ish. Some more to out-do it. In under two months.

Let's do this. I'll write everything. This is my blog. And it's what I'm supposed to do. Especially if I'm going to be a writer someday.

While it lasted.

Sitting on the balcony, in the darkness, looking up at the lit up main road, and I can't help but smile. My family are all a metre behind me inside the villa drinking various caffeinated beverages, eating sugary food and on a total alcohol-infused comedown. The week is coming to an end. We fly home to less-than-sunny Newcastle tomorrow. I'm kind of excited as well as disappointed. I'm loving the sun. My tan is coming along rather well. Although, I'm homesick. I miss my boyfriend, my puppy and my own comfy bed. I miss waking up without insect bites and sunburn. I miss being able to walk to the shop without having to layer myself in Factor 15 and armed with sunglasses and a huge hat. Apart from that, my first visit to Menorca has been kinda lovely. I'm tipsy on lager and cider, and really hot air. This time tomorrow, I'll be tucked up in my own, cold bed with nice freezing pillows and the ability to sleep soundly. Back to wearing my parka and jeans. I knew there was a reason summer didn't last forever.

Hectic holidays.

So, it's Friday morning. My mind is working in a stressy overdrive mode. And I'm neglecting any form of writing whatsoever lately. Wrapped up in too much sleep, the rubbish british summer, and my lovely boyfriend, writing has just been pushed back underneath everything. Oh, and to tell the truth, I'm a bit uninspired. I'm stuck with regards to writing. And now, holiday planning is running wild. Me and seven others, my family, are jetting off to menorca on Saturday afternoon, (yes, as in tomorrow afternoon.) Note these things:

1. We aren't packed.

2. We have no holiday money

3. The holiday docs for our details are somewhat vague. 

That's a stressy start. I have a lot to do, and no time at all to do it in. My alarm is set for 7.30am, and I've got a list in my 'Notes' of things I must achieve tomorrow. All of which, I intend to have finished by early afternoon, for then, I have something vital to do. Oh yes, SOPPY ALERT...I'm off to see my boyfriend before we part for a week. Oh, and I'm telling myself I won't get all emotional and cry. (WHO AM I KIDDING?) 

Take a breath, Eleanor, god. Holidays aren't supposed to be THIS stressful. Jeeeeeez. 

Forgotten raindrops.

 

This is the view from my bedroom window at present. It's raining. It has been for about four hours now. I might add, that in the small world that is Chester-Le-Street, it pretty much rains non-stop. The greying clouds have set in, however, spirits aren't dampened. Its Friday after all, and "we won't melt if it rains" is something my mam always says. I'm uninspired, lazy and apathetic today. Worrisome, stress and out of sorts. I don't feel ill, I just feel, well, not quite myself (or on-point, yes... go on, laugh you lot!) With a family holiday around the corner and Final Year on the horizon, I'm supposed to be all chip and cheerful and optimistic. This isn't me. I feel all empty and bored. I need to set my sights high and my act together. I need a reading list sorted, my iPod updated (which may be one of the most gruelling tasks ever pre-holiday) and a desperate plea for inspiration where my ECP is concerned. This is rubbish writing, basically. Side note: A massive, lovely happy birthday greeting to my favourite girl and wonderful writer, Gracie. Enjoy today. You bloody well deserve this.

So, with Little By Little playing on a loop, the rain falling like teardrops staining my double-glazed portal to the outside world, and the irritable feeling of being unsettled, I sign off. Have a lovely weekend, wherever you are. Monday, my strict healthy eating starts, my early morning awakenings and the feeling of constructive tasks commences. Oh well, good intentions are a start, aren't they?

Channeling avoidance.

July breezes and inane sneezes. The sun is out already. I'm gallantly attempting a tan. Or a top-up, that is. There's nothing I love more than a good ol' vitamin D binge, hence why summer is my favourite time of year. So, the sun worshipper is optimistically donning an outfit not too suitable for northern summertime, but who cares. Im writing because, well, I'm slacking. It's been a fair few days since I've written anything, and that's not just on my blog. I haven't written so much as a list, or a note, or a reminder in recent days. I'm being lazy. Avoiding the inevitable. Savouring my summer holidays before the dreaded, important final year stress sets in. I don't have a clue what to do with my life. I need help. I need opportunities. I'm scared. I'm excited. I'm ready for a challenge! 

Electric veins and window panes.

You can't see her properly through that frosted prison-glass, but you know she's crying. A tear cascading down her sculpted cheek, gaining speed as it reaches her jaw. It looks bitter. It's cloudy, blurry, not quite in focus. It has mucky fingerprints all over it, and year-old chewing gum stuck to the  corners of the glass. The silence is deafening. The space between the two figures seems miles; totally endless. As one of them presses their palm to the partition dividing them, the other flinches. It's uneasy and clumsy and the encounter just isn't the same. The space between them is too much, in reality a few inches seems infinite. They don't breathe the same air, or drink the same coffee anymore. Their voices are only met by plastic echoes, their touch is never truly felt, through a thick wall of loneliness. 

'The Abyss.'

So, this is the piece I originally wrote for my blog, and then frantically deleted, revamped totally, and submitted for my Creative Writing Assignment for Uni. This, as I'm posting now, is the end version. (PS. I just got 65% for this assignment, and I'm very chuffed about it.) This is my favourite piece of writing to date, and for some reason, I cannot explain my attachment to it. It was very difficult to write. Harder to watch it get put under scrutiny. But, that's all over. Here it is.

 

                                    The Abyss.                    

 

‘The abyss looks back.’

 

She knew what that was like. Waking up every single day and resenting each breath that is snatched unwillingly from your lips. A crushing feeling that made your lungs tight and your face sour and blank. She coped, nevertheless. In the darkest places of her mind, were hidden the worst things imaginable, her very own Pandora’s box. For Molly knew what it was like, to look the abyss straight in the eye, to scream into an echoing void, to cry for help and her voice to be muffled. She was trapped. More than that, she was her own prisoner. The sharp corners of her mind, her cranium of torment. When she tried to break out of the never ending cycle that was her life, she was always caught with a fist clutching at her wrist, pulling her back, maintaining her consciousness for now. Then of course, there was Nicky. He was her rock, her crutch, her man-made safety-net. It was as if their ribcages were suitably entwined like an intricate, yet robust spider’s web, keeping them both alive. Most days, Nicky was the only reason she got out of bed, the one constant in her chaos. Blood ran through both their veins in rhythmic parallels.

----------------------------------------------------------------

I walked towards her street. Immediately, I spotted her. Molly sat on the window ledge of Victoria’s B&B, a dated old place. It was a hot day, in the height of summer. She was precariously balanced. Half a bottle of cheap vodka in her left hand, the neck of the bottle clutched between her fist clumsily. She kept taking a swig every so often, but never winced once. In her other hand, between her thumb and forefinger, she held a nail varnish brush. She was painting her toe nails, a mucky black colour. She had her right leg bent, touching her chest so she could access her toes more easily when applying the varnish. Her other leg was stretched out as far as she could, her ankle resting on the outer ledge, with her foot just dangling in mid-air, carelessly. She kept tapping her feet, and her anklet rattled every time. The window behind her was jammed open. The radio was playing ‘Sweet Caroline’ and she sang along to it, badly. Her favourite song. The bottle of nail varnish, cheap stuff and almost dried up with frequent usage, was balanced on the ledge alongside her.

 

Molly was heavily made up, with dark black eyes which made her face appear harsh and frustrated. Hers are the kind of eyes that you never forget. Wondrous, haunting almost. Her fingernails wore the same gaudy black nail varnish, bitten back so far that her fingertips shone red raw. There was very little remaining nail varnish on her fingers. She was totally spaced out, drunk, high. Occasionally she scraped her blonde hair back with one swift motion of her hand. Her hair was lank and messy. She sang along to the radio. As the song reached the chorus, she took another huge swig from the bottle of vodka. The second time, she was too busy singing to the music that she missed her mouth and the vodka spilled down her front. She didn't acknowledge it, that is, if she even noticed. Getting carried away with the music, she stretched her once-bent leg out, withdrawing it from its neat nook in her chest, knocking the nail varnish off the ledge and making her catch the brush on her knee. It left a dirty stripe on her bare leg.

 

“Shit!” she swore too loudly, as the bottle hit the concrete below and smashed.

The chorus of the song returned for one final time, as she took an even bigger swig than before, and sang at the same time. At that moment, she noticed me. I’d been standing just metres away, watching her, a witness to her own little nightmare. Her eyes became fixed on my outline.

“NICKYYYYYYYY!” she droaned, raising her arm, and the vodka bottle in tow, as if she was privately toasting me from her ledge. She got excited. The song was just finishing, lowering the volume to the end of the track. Fading, peacefully away.

“Nicky, where’sya been? I’ve been waitin’ fo’ ya f’rever” she slurred.

As I walked closer, I realised how much of a state she was really in. Her big, brown eyes were starting to roll into the back of her head. Her eyelids were swollen and the dark circles under her eyes made you think she hadn’t slept for a fortnight. I gulped hard, raising my arms all the while moving towards her, ready to catch her if I needed to.

“Nickyyyyyy!” she shouted, now seemingly euphoric at my arrival. A haunting grin was artificially plastered across her face. She clumsily got to her feet, and began to sway drunkenly on the ledge, caught up in the music.

“Shit Molly! What you doing?! Sit down, will you! You’ll break your fucking neck!”

I ran up the flight of stairs and burst into her room, all the while, my pulse vibrated through my eardrums. I fell through the door just to see her swaying on the ledge, her arms outstretched, like a strong gust of wind may catch her and sweep her off her feet at any moment. At that point, I didn’t recognise the song in between the stomach-churning fear and the distraction of her drunken slurs. I froze a moment, fascinated, before grabbing her wrist and pulling her back inside to the safety of her room. She didn’t say anything for a minute, just studied me closely. Like a young child would, all wide-eyed and full of intrigue. She looked at me as if I was the most wondrous thing she’d ever seen.

Molly was wearing the tiniest pair of denim shorts. Light blue, frayed around the legs. I couldn't really make them out properly until she stood up, because she was wearing an over-sized t-shirt that was almost down to her bruised knees. Far too big for her. If I didn't know better, I’d say it was a man’s shirt. It made her look drained, too thin, wobbly. As I grabbed hold of her arm, I noticed the syringe marks. They were raw and puckered, like tiny pin tucks. She’d been scratching at her arms and made them sore. Her eyes couldn't focus, and her heroin and vodka cocktail were pickling her liver more every second. I didn't know what to do. I never did. She caught me looking at her scars, and snatched her arm away, bitterly.

‘Get off me!’
“Right, put some shoes on. We’re going for a walk. You need to sober up.”

“I don’t need to, I am sober.”

I ignored her blatant cries of denial. My nerves were dead to it now. More than anyone, I knew never to trust the words of an addict. No matter how much they prevailed. She followed my lead, and we headed off down the road. I had my arm around her waist, a necessity, rather than a public display of affection. We wandered through town, as I tried my best to divert the attention from my junkie girlfriend. She was a total mess. We got a few funny looks, but I wasn't taking an awful lot of notice.

 

Her paces began to slow as we reached a bridge, and then, suddenly, I saw her eyes light up and her legs begin to strengthen. She broke free from my grasp and seemed to sprint towards the bridge. Once her feet were firmly united with its concrete, Molly came alive. She was euphoric. Deep down I knew it was the effect of her drug cocktail, but part of me wanted to see past that, see the Molly I used to know.

She sat down, very matter-of-factly, on the concrete, shuffled over to the edge and hung her feet over the side. I shouted at her, urging her to get up, my stomach lurching, but she ignored my pleas, so admitting defeat, I joined her. I nervously shuffled to her side, so both of our legs were dangling mid-air, with only the water below and each other for company. It was late afternoon, and it was quiet, peaceful.

Suddenly, Molly spoke.

“What if I jumped?”
“What do you mean?”
“What would you do if I jumped?”
“Um…” I hesitated.
“See. Nothing,” she snapped.
“Well that’s not entirely true, is it?”
“You tell me.”
“Well I don’t want you to jump.”
“I never said I was going to. I said if I did. I said hypothetically, if, right here, right now, there was just me and you, and I jumped, what would you do?” She might be totally messed up, but Molly’s tact and wit were still in full working order.

“I’d jump too.” I realise now that was a crazy thing to say to a girl who was fragile, mentally unstable and under the influence of both alcohol and drugs, but she caught me off guard.

“What?”

Her face almost crumpled at my response. Tears began to form in the crevices of her bloodshot eyes.

“You asked me what I’d do. I’d jump with you.”
“But… but…why?”
She looked increasingly puzzled and upset.
“Just ‘cause I wouldn't know what else to do.”


“Well, I guess I just expected more from you, that’s all.”
“Expected more from me? Are you fucking kidding Moll? Are we really going to do this now?!”

She just stared past me, blank. I knew then, I’d lost more than her gaze. 
“You know what they say, don’t you? If you stare into the abyss…”
She didn't respond to me.
“Don’t ever say you’d jump after me. Ever. Promise?”
“Er, I thought you said this was all hypothetical.”

You had to be matter-of-fact with Molly. There was no room for any more irrationality, sudden reactions or unexpected outbursts. She had all of those stations covered.

“It is.”
“Well then, why does it matter?”
“Because, Nicky. It matters to me.”
“I’m not gonna let you do this.”
“DO what?” she wears an innocent expression, not quite believable. Knowingly smug.
I shook my head, “Don’t patronise me. You know what I mean.”

She laughed sarcastically.

“I love you Molly.”
“Yeah. I know, more’s the pity.”

“Y’know sometimes, I don’t think that’s a defence mechanism, I just think you’re being a bitch.”
“Whatever, just don’t sign your life away on my account.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just because I might be bored with this place, doesn't mean you have to be.”

I refused to dignify that with answer. I saw through her cocky façade, and sometimes, it was just exhausting, being the other player in her constant mind games. I laughed, because, really, what else could I do? She was right, in a way. She was a complete fool, a waster, a junkie. But she was mine. I was blinded by her, and she knew it. I shrugged it off, my shoulders weighted down by such an exhausting responsibility. Just before sundown that day, we headed back. I walked her home to the door of the B&B.

 

“I’m staying the night.”

“No, no, don’t be stupid, you don’t have to do that.”

“”We both know I’m not gonna leave you like this Moll, so don’t patronise me.”

“Fair enough.”

 

I helped her clamber up the stairs, and through her front door, and sat her clumsily on the sofa. She was sobering up and looked totally worn out.

 

“Nicky, will you run me a bath?”

 

I nodded, and did what I was asked. I could hear her shuffling about in the next room, trying to get comfortable. When I came out of the bathroom, she was curled up in a foetal position, with her thumb nail between her teeth, half asleep.

 

“Moll?”

“Hmm,” she groaned.

“I’m just gonna go buy some tabs, I’m dying for a smoke. Sure you’re okay here?”

She looked at me indignantly.

“Yeah, I don’t need babysitting y’know.”

“I’m just checking. I’ll be back in ten.”

I began to walk towards the door when she grabbed my arm. Molly looked at me, her eyes clinging on to the very image of my being almost as tightly as she clutched my wrist with her tiny hands. She pulled me closer in one swift motion and kissed me like she didn't have another second to live. I grinned.

“Wait. I love you, Nicky. ”
“I love you too.”
I laughed, it was just like her. I smiled again, and watched her close the door as she headed into the bathroom.

-------------------------------------

“Molly? Hello? It’s just me, I’m back. Got caught up…I mean, ya wouldn’t believe it, they had no fuckin’ Marlboro lights.”

There was no answer. I could hear her old record player humming, notes drifting under the gap in the bathroom door, along with the very familiar scent of lavender. I smiled to myself, slumped myself in the chair and lit a cigarette while I waited. The sickly-sweet taste of Nicotine seemed to switch a light on in my tired eyes, the taste of relief after a very long day. I must’ve zoned out, because when I looked at my watch again, it was five to nine, and I only had six cigarettes left in the packet. My eyes darted from one side of the apartment to the other. It was dark outside now, and the only light was glaring from the bathroom. I could hear the radio crackling vaguely.

 

“Molly? Moll? You in here? Y’know that bath water will be freezing now…”

 

My voice trailed off as my eyes struggled to become accustomed to the scene in front of me. The radio was still playing. The bath water was discoloured, an almost rainbow effect that would’ve seemed pretty in another light. My throat was tight, I felt like my airways were constricting, and yet, it was undeniable, there was something remarkable about what was in front of me.

Razor blades and exposed veins. The radio skipped and was stuck on a particular line of the song. I was met with a scene of carnage. Blood. And yet, I would come to hate myself for thinking it, but at that moment, she had never looked so beautiful. Her eyes were open. Her pupils blown, dilated. Her wrists slit, her lips a dangerous, lonely shade of blue. They were parted slightly, sleepy and yet happy. Stunning. Peaceful. One of her hands hung loosely over the edge of the bath, the razor blade still in her mucky clutches.

Thoughts twisted in and out of my mind, making my stomach lunge.

It’s funny really. When you lose someone, there’s always an influx of people waiting to lay flowers and say nice things about how loved they were, and all of their positives. But at that moment, it was hatred loitering in my chest. She was a fucking mess, frankly. But she was my mess. The good days, the bad nights, the bitters slurs and the exclamations of adoration at three in the morning when the Methadone was wearing thin and her skin was raw and her nerves were needy and shaky.

She wasn’t fearless, Molly acted out of cowardice. Utterly and completely. It was naïve and selfish and if Molly hadn’t already got there first, I probably would’ve killed her myself for even entertaining such a monstrous thought. At that moment, beneath the anguish, the heartache, the sheer breathlessness, I wanted to cry, but more so, I hated her. From her selfish ways to her absent-minded self-indulgence. Her vanity. Her lust for all the wrong things in life. I hated how I’d sat back and watched such a soulful, passionate girl destroy herself all because I was too proud to admit I couldn’t cope on my own. Who was I kidding? I hated her and I hated myself, because I couldn’t handle her and I should’ve been able to, or at least, I should’ve been brave enough to ask for help when I realised I was in way over my head.

When I saw the razor, and the cuts on Molly’s wrists, I gagged. My stomach flipped, my heart leapt from my chest to my vocal chords and lodged itself there like something unpleasant you just can’t digest. And I knew the real reason for my reaction. Molly wasn’t dead because she’d slit her wrists, or because she drank so much cheap vodka she’d pickled her liver prematurely at 25, or even because she was a junkie who never got the right help. She was dead, truthfully, because she had a failed support system. Her crutch snapped beneath her deadweight, fragile frame. My knees buckled at the thought of losing her, so when she tested the water and saw the fear in my irises, she kind of got off on that. Knowing she was almost gone, as if she was standing on a cliff face readying herself to step over the edge into the abyss. And so she plunged, into the dark, lonely recesses of her mind. But the abyss isn’t as lonely as it seems. The abyss isn’t for the dead, but for the living. And the problem with it is, even when you snatch your gaze away with every ounce of strength you conjure up, the abyss always looks back.

Book #8: The Post-Birthday World by Lionel Shriver.

To sum this book up in a word, bittersweet. That would hit the metaphorical nail on the head exactly. Lionel Shriver, award-winning author best known for her weird masterpiece that is We Need To Talk About Kevin, has this time, written something totally different, so far removed from her other works that you actually stop and question whether these two novels were dreamt up from the same mind. Poles apart, and yet her striking writing style is evident throughout both. 

The Post-Birthday world focuses on protagonist Irina, and her struggle to decide on a concrete path in which to develop her life. The narrative splits almost immediately after the introduction, into two parallel plot lines, in which Irina proceeds to make decisions that will shape, not only her future, but those individuals closest to her. A crusade of morals, life choices and loyalties, The Post-Birthday World tugged at my heart strings and made me question the very foundations between right and wrong. Skewed ideals are at the forefront of this novel, and while at first, my emotions were drained by the protagonist, the ride through the pages is nothing if not tumultuous. 

A brilliantly-written novel, one I've taken my time to read, like savouring a fabulous meal, if only to feel too full afterwards. Shriver writes with such conviction that once or twice, I even shed a tear for the most pompous or infuriating characters. My sympathies were all over the place, constantly switching between head and heart like Irina does. Her dual-journey is full of emotion, heartache and excitement, and not one I took lightly. I struggled to read certain parts of this book, out of sheer denial at what I was reading. Just when you think you've cracked Shriver's secret, you're spun in an entirely different direction, left with nothing but an expression of disbelief.

You'd do well to read this book. 

Intimidated.

I can't help feeling how I feel. You know how it is. For me, if I'm ever nasty or bitchy about someone, it's usually because they pretty much intimidate the hell out of me. I know that's not a nice trait, I'm well aware it's not big or clever, or mature, but it's a defense mechanism in my eyes. There are certain people lately who intimidate me so much, it upsets me. Someone who seems to always have the upper hand. Always on the side lines, in my ear whispering snide comments and always haunting my peripheral vision. I can't help it. Some people just get my back up, make my skin crawl, and make me feel about six inches tall.

I'm having a bad day. I feel under-appreciated, unwanted, alone. I've felt like that quite a bit lately, and there's kind of a reason, but I don't want to moan all over my blog about my problems. No one really wants to read that. I'm a bit suffocated at the minute, even though I think that's the wrong word to use. I feel like I'm surrounded by people I love until I really need someone, and then it's like a tumbleweed in a deserted street. No one is to be seen, heard of, all are absent. No one breathes a word, rings, texts or anything. I'm alone. But that's the problem, because I shouldn't feel like this. I want my family to see that, and yet they, somewhat rightfully so, seem to notice my mood. I keep getting asked am

I okay, because loneliness apparently crawls through your pores or something. I need to sort my life out. Better yet, I need other people to sort theirs out, because I'm sick to death of feeling like I'm everyone's sideline, everyone's second choice, everyone's last resort. I'm no one's consolation prize, (to quote the brilliant When Harry Met Sally) so, it's about time I sorted this out. Once and for all. Time to grab all my favourite people, and tie them together (not in a weird way) because I want everyone back. As close as you like. 

Inside my head.

Long days and longer nights. Sleepy eyes and half-hearted smiles to keep you warm when inwardly, that grin has you glowing. Absence and unity, through a slight touch. That's all it takes. It's electric. Your heart skips three beats instead of one. Your breath isn't ever fully caught around them. You bite your lip, you stifle your laughter for it to burst out when you least expect it and frightens both of you. Every touch and you jump, flinch, draw back, just for a second. It tickles, and yet, it's a wonderful feeling. Catching a gaze, a raised brow, a slight movement and something beneath your ribcage begins to react like you can't even imagine. Someone who makes you happier by just breathing near you, being an arm's length away. Someone to shout at, laugh with and be yourself around. The one person who expects not one, but one hundred drunk texts from you. Every. Single. Weekend.

This is for you, and the ego you claim not to possess. It's mad to me, that notion.  You are entwined with my brainwaves and my body clock. I check my phone for your name every five seconds or three minutes, or every time I wake up. You shouldn't just have an ego, you should have the biggest ego in the world. Or at least, I know you would if you could see inside my head, (as much as you really do get inside my head.) The best thing to ever happen to me, even if now, I find myself trailing off mid-sentence to think about you or something. This doesn't count, evidently. I'm comfortable around you, in a way I've never ever been with anyone. So, I guess you should feel pretty fucking special about that. Where's your ego Lukas? Well, it's hiding in my dark, twisted little mind as far as I'm concerned. A little place reserved for you. My happy place. (yes, my inner Pheebs is calling out, AGAIN.) 

I'm blank when you feel low or are all spent with confidence, because, I don't see you like that. If only you could see yourself through my eyes, I think it'd work wonders. I can't even put it into intelligible words or sentences, because frankly, you fuck with my head (in the best, most intense way possible) so sometimes, yeah, I can't string a thought together. I love that. Honestly, truthfully, undoubtedly, this is the happiest I've ever been. So, those doubts, well, hide them away, or shout them from the rooftops, but they're your own criticisms, not mine, and there's absolutely no need for them. You're none of those things in my eyes; you're my rock and my ego, so fair is fair- I guess I should be at least partly responsible for yours. I can work on that. ;)

Hello Ego. Welcome to my world. You'll fit right in. Trust me.

x

Writing silence.

I can't believe it's been so long since I've posted on my blog. It's like my baby, and I've neglected it and just shoved food under a crack in the door rather than commit to any proper regime whatsoever. Stupid analogy but who cares, I am pretty stupid at times. So, why have I been gone? 

Well, I could rhyme off a long, convoluted list of excuses, or instead, explain where I've actually been for two weeks or so. I'm not sure which of those I intend to fulfill but here goes. Between finishing uni for the summer (minus a deadline and an exam, niether of which have even been considered, never mind completed) and sleeping, basically all I've done is drink and laze about and channel blind avoidance with regards to my uni work. I have a 3,000 word creative piece to write that is due soon (I honestly can't even remember the date, it's sometime before May!) and I'm so desperately uninspired. Stuck in fact. An idea is blossoming in my tiny little mind and yet I'm unable to really run with it. Preoccupied with alcoholic outings and socialising with my friends, as they gradually creep their way back home to not-so-sunny Chester-le-Street (it's Newcastle way-FYI.) from various locations for uni. Tonight will be my third night out in five days. I haven't done this in ages, so the air is filled with hairspray and excitement. 

Let's go get drunk. Basically. Drink too much and laugh so much our stomachs ache. Oh, and of course, prepare ourselves for Sunday. Yes it's Easter, and for some people who are religious this has another significance. But, it's also Bank holiday, which for me and my ever-expanding group of friends, means lots of laughs, and even more alcohol. The celebrations start at 8. I'm counting down the hours. 

Dipping your toes in.

The way to my heart is through the neck of a vodka bottle, the gap between the front door and the local pub, my lips and a cup of black coffee at 6 in the morning, the soles of my shoes and the northern concrete, the space between me and you, the time difference between Newcastle and New York City, the thud of our heartbeats and the next touch of skin on skin. The feel of a fresh, crisp twenty in my hands, hot cookies, the smell of real leather on my shoulders and around my ankles, perfume that makes you remember something distant, the instant photos taken in a drunken haze, the screamed words and bitter slurs. The sticky mark left on the bar when the tequila runs dry, the murky puddle when the sun isn't quite out, the cold cup of coffee, the downpours, the black eyeliner and burgundy lipstick, the expensive dress only worn once, the paper shopping bags that are overfilled, the six inch heels that hardly ever see daylight, the bitten down nails, the karaoke music, the cheesy grins and the psychotic rages. The hearty laughter, the constant Friends repeats, the silly cravings and the mental notes, the feeling when you open a new book and the spine cracks a little. OCD tendencies, memorable quotes and sitting on curbs having tipsy conversations. The first breath you take when you're waking up and become aware of it, the summery daze drinking pints in beer gardens, the last words in your favourite song, the first time you meet someone, and the last time you feel alone.