Hidden II

It took a while for anybody to notice. Richard and May were playing cards. Such a friendship they had developed in the past couple of days; they laughed easily and talked naturally. "My mother worked in his mansion you see." She told him one night. "He was recently a widower, and my father had been dead for many years; When he found this out, he sought her and asked for her advice on how to cope with the grief. Soon they fell in love and got married." 
Lilly May Williams paused for a moment, maybe going through the motions of remembering.
"My mother and I moved into the house and I was taught all that was 'correct'. His children disapproved of me at first; I was so ignorant compared to them. Then we discovered something that I was good at......" 
Knowing that she had him hung on her every word, she held off what she was saying. He had his eyes entirely fixed on her, "What? What is it?!",
"Solving."
"Solving?"
"Puzzle solving."
She glanced at him and saw that he didn't quite understand.
"I can solve any puzzle, any problem, anything. That is, as long as I have enough information."
Now he understood, Richard beamed at her. "That's incredible!"
She smiled with a small sense of smugness, "You don't even have any prove that I'm good. Why don't you test my abilities? Go on, give me any problem, and I will solve it."
He considered it, and then a girl forced the compartment door open. Like May, she was also small, but clearly older. She had short, dark red hair and eyes like two black buttons. But other than this her other features were pure and simple. Behind her was a tall figure, he lurked in the shadows as her ominous protector.
"Good afternoon." Her tone was polite, but her hidden excitement could be heard easily, "I'm Aria, and this is my brother, Solomon." As she said this, her eyes observed the compartment slowly and suspiciously. "I'm here to tell you that someone has gone missing. Her name is Endora Rose, she was travelling alone so no one might have noticed that she was gone, but we were in a compartment with her. We've looked all other the train and she's no where to be seen; now, it's clear that she hasn't left the train because we haven't reached the first stop and-"
"Wrong." Aria's eyes fixed solely on May, she walked so she was right in front her and said "What do you mean?".
"Well, there are other ways she could have left the train."
"It's not like she jumped off the train."
"I didn't say that."
May waited for her to get there on her own.
"You're not suggesting that she was forced out?"
"It's only one possibility, I have no were near enough information to-"
But Aria was no longer paying attention, Instead she was talking to her brother, exclaiming "We've got to solve it! We've found ourselves a real mystery at last, and my curiosity will not allow us to leave until it is solved and the murderer is caught red-handed!".
With that, they slammed the door shut. Richard turned to May and asked, "Do you really think that she was forced off?"
"Maybe. There are other perfectly logical explanations, but there is something strange about this case that suggests that normal explanations won't fit. I'll tell you the same thing I told her, though. I do not have enough-"

Outside the compartments was silent.
Then suddenly, a hysterical cry came out of nowhere.
It sobbed. It's laughed. It stopped.

Aria was in her own compartment, observing a piece of parchment. Despite appearances, Aria was an intelligent girl, this could be seen in the way her eyes focused solely on the words written on the page. But she was naive, someone who wouldn't question the drink that somebody else gave her.

"Look what you've done." stated Solomon, darkly and dangerously,
"What are you referring to?" inquired May quietly,
"My Aria, my sweet and curious Aria, is dead. It's your fault."
The reactions of Richard and May where typical of anyone who has heard of death; surprise and then sadness. Once they passed a respectful silence the question came:
"How is it our fault?"
"Not your fault boy. Hers. She had to lead Aria on about a murder case, the murderer probably killed her because she was sniffing around so she-" the grief in Solomon's voice became clearer and clearer before becoming an outright sob.
"Let me see her."

Before going to the compartment, May requested for a doctor, claiming that her friend had collapsed. At first, Solomon objected, stating that Aria was long dead and that no doctor was going to help her now. But May insisted that they needed a professionals confirmation and perhaps the cause of her death could be determined.
Aria looked as though she was simply leaning on the window, asleep.
A glass was rolling on the floor, every now and again it would give a short sharp clang as it it the bench; a pool of water was gathered around it, undecided on which way it would go, remaining indifferent. It would decide soon though.
The parchment was on her lap, May picked it up.

It was determined by the Doctor that she was poisoned. This, along with Endora going missing, was told to the rest of the train. Like a bumblebee, the train buzzed over the next couple days until it reached it's first stop; people were more cautious, less eager to talk with strangers and looking forward to getting off the train. Those who hadn't planned to get off at the this stop were discussing what their plan of action was, but the main topic of debate was obvious.
"Who was the murderer?"
Two more people had joined the compartment, Solomon and the Doctor. Solomon had decided to get off at the first stop, he wanted to meet up with family. Accusations against May had long vanished and now he remained quiet and thoughtful, looking out the window. When the question was raised he looked over at May, as though he was finally going to get the answer he had been waiting for. But May shook her head, "I can't answer yet, I have ideas but there isn't enough information to reach a conclusion."
"Could you just tell us you ideas?" Solomon asked with slight desperation in his voice,
But May shook her head again and explained quietly and slowly, "I have intuitions and suspicions which, although have been correct in the past, cannot be used to concluded alone, they need to be tied together with scraps of information. That is how the truth is formed."

Hidden I

The train gradually slowed down until it reached the station, the high pitched screech of the wheels echoing through the late evening. It was an old train, with a coat of ominous black metal spread with the laziness of someone who's main priority was to finish the job. If you were to touch it surely it would feel rough as bitty, microscopic pieces of harden painting would prick your finger like Sleeping Beauty's spindle.
Once it had come to a halt, everyone waited for the doors to open. The ghostly figures in black swarmed together like splodges of ink on parchment; no one talked, but authority was determined as more assertive people had their toes on the train stations edge. The gateways were small and inconvenient, they revealed nothing about the inside of the train. People hopped over the slither of fright and appeared to sink into a dark abyss of unknown.
In reality, the inside was rather traditional. The corridors continued forevermore, making the future appear as unclear as ever. To enter a compartment you would twist the handle of a sliding door, due to the train being old the doors were rather stiff, quite a bit of force had to be used before there was finally enough room for a person to enter. Into compartment seven entered a small girl, she was probably fifteen years old with long blonde hair in a casual plate down her back, her dark brown eyes spoke of boredom, hardship, innocence and intellect. First she observed the room, the nodded, then moved next to the window, drew a large book from her traveling bag, and read. Next came a boy. He was both similar and different from her. His hair was also casually done, but it was short and ordinary, his dark brown eyes spoke of kindness, suffering, strength and stubbornness. He smiled around the room and then took a seat next to the girl. Imaging yourself walking round a deary and boring gallery, every painting is a typical and miserable landscape and you find yourself tired and wondering why your even there in the first place. Then suddenly, you come across the most beautiful painting. Each and every drop of paint on the page, every colour used and shape created was made for you and only you. That is the only way to describe how the boy looked at the golden haired girl sat next to him.
He asked her what book she was reading,
"None of your business." She replied.
Then he inquired what her name was,
"Goldie."
Really?
"No, not really. Idiots."
There was a moment silence where the boy simply stared at her in amazement and confusion.
"My name is May. Lilly May Williams."
Everything about Lilly May contradicted. Her back was as stiff and perfect as a right angled triangle, but her shoulders were too relaxed to be acceptable. Her legs neatly hung from her seat, but she they would swing from side to side every now and again. Her facial expression was reserved, but sometimes there would be a glimpse of a smile, right in the corner of her mouth. She was a lady, but not born and bread, only recently had she learnt the art of adequacy. This is why it took her a few minutes to remember what was correct.
"Richard. Richard Curtis."
He was the complete opposite to her. A gentleman from the moment his eyes opened to see the earth. He all his movements, expressions, gestures and statements had being engraved in him. However, there was a warmth in his face which could not be taught nor taken away, though it was clear that people had tried.
After that, they talked for hours, as though they had known each other their entire lives. In their small, peaceful and happy aura, they noticed no one and heard nothing. But outside the compartment, down the stretching corridor a pale woman stood. In the dark, it was hard to make out many of her features, but her luminous skin should her short dark hair, her navy cardigan, her smiling pale lips. Endora Rose had been carrying something for many years now, she had longed and prayed to be free of it, and now the end had come. She knew, from the second she had stepped onto the train, that this would be her fate.
As she flew, there was a moment where everything stopped. Her lifeless body hung in the air, gracefully, as the world held it's breath for the final moment of Endora Rose's life. Then the second was gone, and her body hit the ground. Heavy, harsh and hard.

Jonathan

"You killed him."
Jonathan looked up at his father.
"You killed my son. You killed Mathew."
A mother started screaming in the background. Crying and sobbing hysterically.
"Mathew! Mathew! MATHEW!" He eyes desperately looking, trying to find her son.
Her eyes found someone. Someone who looked identical to him. Who could be him.
"Mathew?" She asked before collapsing.

Mother had always been a sensitive soul. Bless her heart. She is not to blame. May she find peace. But why did she have to do this? Why couldn't she accept the devastating truth?
Unable to accept the fact that her Mathew had died. She decided that he hadn't. This is all very well. But Mathew wasn't there. You could only pretend someone isn't dead for so long, because they're not there. Once you realises this you are forced to realise the truth.
But this mother could pretend. Because she had someone who was exactly like her deceased son.
So from then on, Jonathan was called Mathew. On Mathew's grave it said 'Jonathan', friends and family were told the news about Jonathan's death. But not on any account, do you mention this to Mother. Yes she's going through a difficult time at the moment, she doesn't even remember Jonathan. No, we don't want her to see a doctor. I'm sure she'll get better soon. Just make sure you don't mention Jonathan to her.
That's right.
Jonathan doesn't exist anymore.

At first he couldn't cope with it. He would curl up in a corner and mutter "My name is Jonathan. My name is Jonathan." There were a couple of close calls, were mother almost heard. One day she heard him and asked "Who's Jonathan?"
Father grabbed his son by his back collar, and dragged him to another room. Where he shut the door firmly.
"Are you not satisfied?" he spat.
"What?" The boy muttered with confusion.
"First you kill my son. Now you are planning to break Mother. Do you want to destroy everything around you? You disgust me. Listen, this is what I want of you. We will move town soon, and when we do you will become Mathew. You are no longer Jonathan. You are Mathew. You don't deserve the name, but it will have to do. You will also look happy and act happy. There is only one emotion you are now allowed to feel. That is pain. Sadness, anger, depression, excitement and love. You will not feel them, because you do not deserve them. You murderer."

So that is what happened.
They moved to a new town, were he was introduced to the class as 'Mathew'. He looked happy and acted happy. But inside he felt nothing but pain. Funny enough, this had a weird effect. Whenever he saw someone in pain, it was like their emotions were loaded onto him. One day, he saw a girl crying alone in the classroom, and he thought:
"One day, I will go to hell, because I killed my brother. I have sinned greatly. But I wonder, if I was to help this girl, would I be able to go to hell, knowing that I did some good. Even though it doesn't make up for my sins?"
So he went in, and comforted her.
And soon, he became a kind of saint in the school.

"But no matter who I help, no matter what others think of me. It will not change the fact that I am a murderer. I cannot be sad, angry, depressed or excited. There is no love in me, there is only pain."
She had listened to all of this. Plainly and fairly. And had this is say.
"Jonathan-"
"My name is not Jonathan."
"Yes it is."
They looked at each other stubbornly. She continued.
"Jonathan. You sit to the left of me, a couple of seats ahead. I know nearly every expression on your face. I have seen you over the years, and there is no way that you do not feel sadness, anger, depression or excitement. I do not know about love...."
He turned away from her, again looking at the sunset.
"This is not right. I do not think you are a murder, but even if you were. Even if you had killed Mathew with you bare hand. I would still love you. Even if I didn't love you, I would think that you have received a punishment to hard for anyone to bare. Listen to me Jonathan. You have payed your debt. So why are you still in your shackles? You have felt pain, just like Mathew asked you to; You have worn the name Mathew, just like your father asked you to. I will now come."
She walked over to him and grabbed his wrist.
"And I will release you from your shackles. You are now free."
He looked at her in amazement and disbelief.
"LISTEN EVERYONE! JONATHAN IS NOW FREE!" She shouted to the world.
"Jonathan is now free." She told him.
He looked at her and smiled, love in his eyes.

"Thank you Anna."

Mathew

In a typical high school classroom, a girl looked over at Mathew.
She looked at him with the most curious expression on her face. It was almost as though she was gazing a the most beautiful painting in the world, it was something that she had seen many times before, so the initial shock was gone, but there were still new things to search for.
Because every time she looked at Mathew, she saw something new there. She was sure that she knew him the best in the entire world.
"You really love him don't you?"
Her friend was suddenly in front of her, obviously watching her watching Mathew. The girl blushed and nodded, looking at her feet in embarrassment. He friend laughed and said "You better be careful though. You're not the only one after him."
This was true. Everybody knew and loved Mathew. Smart, handsome and friendly. He was the kind of guy that would help everybody no matter what, always making sure other people were happy, even if it meant sacrificing himself. He empathised more than anybody ever could. Even she, had once been bullied and unaccepted by her classmates. But Mathew had become her friend, and now she had lots of friends. She was eternally grateful.
She flushed with determination, adjusted her glasses, took a novel out of her bag and went over to him.
Mathew had been staring out of the window, ignorant to her gazing. It actually took him a moment for him to realise she was standing in front of his desk. When he noticed, he smiled and greeted her. He had a beautiful smile.
"Umm... I- I wanted to give this to you." She stammered, as she held out the book.
"Oh thank you! I sure I'll enjoy it, and I'll give it back as soon as I'm finished."
"You- You can keep it for as long as you want."
"Thank you."
There was a slight pause. She desperately tried to think of something to talk about.
"Sorry, one of the pages is starting to fall out. My sister borrowed it and didn't treat it very well." She stated with casual annoyance in her voice.
Mathew turned and looked at her, there was a look in his face that she had never seen before, and she wondered if she had said something wrong. But then he smile and said, "I didn't know you had a sister."
"Yeah, she's- umm- a couple of years under than us...."
Again she tried to think of something to say.
"You don't have any siblings do you Mathew." She stated. Sure that she knew everything about him. Sure that this was a safe conversation.
"I had a brother."
She looked at him in surprise. He was wearing a look of regret on his face, like he said something her shouldn't have.
"He was my twin. But he died, a long time ago."
The only thing she could think to say was "Sorry"
"It's alright. It happened a long time ago." Giving her a reassuring smile.
She decided to leave him. As she made her way home thought "Do I know anything about Mathew? Does anybody know anything about Mathew?".

A couple of days later, she gathered the courage to ask him something:
"Could we walk home together today?"
On the way home, they walked in silence for a while. He started conversation this time.
"I'm really enjoying the book you gave me."
"Really?" She blushed,
"Yeah. It's quite sad though."
"Yes it is."
There was an awkward pause. She decided to take this opportunity and say,
"About what you said the other day...."
"Hmm?"
"About your brother..."
He sated at the ground in silence. The said "It's nothing. Please don't worry about it. Like I said, it happened a long time ago."
She remained silent, waiting for him to continue.
"His name was Jonathan. He died when we were eleven."
"Were you close?"
"Very."
"How did he die?"
Mathew went back to staring at the ground, and she decided to tell him her true feelings.
"Listen Mathew. I love you."
She took a deep breath, and continued.
"I have always loved you. You help everybody, you are kind to everybody. There is nothing you wouldn't do to help somebody. When I was all alone, you reach out to me. You know everything about me.
I know that you would sacrifice yourself if it meant that somebody else didn't get hurt. Even if they were the worst person in the world. But sometimes I think, Who helps Mathew? Who would sacrifice themselves for Mathew? Then I realised something. I don't know anything about you. That makes me sad because I love you so much and I didn't even know you had a brother. Something as simple as that and I didn't even know." Tears started to fall from her eyes, but she didn't bother to wipe them off. Instead she looked to him.
He was staring off into the sunset. Thinking. At last he turned to look at her.
"I killed him."
"Huh?"
"I killed him. I killed my brother. Jonathan."
"No you didn't."
He looked at her intent and said "I'm not capable of love. The only emotion I am capable of is pain.
But although I cannot love you. I will tell you my story. Only you. As thank you for your feelings."

Jonathan and Mathew

"Jonathan and Mathew" a mother stated.
Did she prefer one to the other? Of course not. She never would. Neither would the father. Everybody loved the twin boys the same. That is exactly why this story is so sad.

Five years later, there was a garden party at the family house. The two boys were identical and inseparable. They played in the corner of the garden, looking for bugs, being their mischievous selves. While digging, a worm wiggled in between Mathew's fingers, slimy and rubbery, it slithered up his hand. Mathew cried out loud in fear, he shook his arm around like a mad man, wailing and sobbing. He would always be sensitive like that. Then he felt his brothers embrace, his hand on the back of his head, stroking it while saying "It's okay, it's okay... You're okay". Mathew cried into his brother's shoulder, thankful that he had his older brother to protect him.
The garden was a rectangular shape, the bottom quarter of it was patio, the rest was perfectly trimmed grass. On the patio, mother had set up small garden tables and chairs, where guests ate tea and cake. Mother was a gentle spirited, you could say Mathew took after her, for she was very sensitive. But on the other hand she had a brilliant smile, and could immediately light up the room. The boys loved to lay their heads on her lap (Jonathan on the right, Mathew on the left) as she sang her lullabies to them. One might compare her to a flowerbed. This is the only way to really describe her, soft, beautiful and natural. She served tea to father, who sat on one of the tables, pretending to read a large newspaper. What he was really doing was observing the boys. Father was a righteous and stern man. There's nothing wrong with that; everybody has their morals and policies. Maybe he could be a little too strict. But inside, he really loved his wife and sons. On the inside, he might have been as soft as her.

When the boys went to school, they wore matching outfits. They walked, hand in hand, chatting casually along the way. Over the years, Jonathan had become rather protective of his younger brother. He felt the responsibility of being the oldest, and thought that if Mathew came into any harm, it would be his fault. This responsibility was not taken on unwillingly or forcefully, in fact Jonathan took it on himself. While walking down the street on their way to school, there was a sudden noise- it was probably a cat- and Jonathan went into a protective stance in front of Mathew, while Mathew cowered behind him. He had big, watery eyes, which looked at the world with fear, and at his brother with admiration. In school they were constantly together. Jonathan was willing to let children play with them, but as soon as Mathew became uncomfortable, he sent them away.While watching them you could almost see a aura around them, an aura of happiness and brotherhood.
But they came for him. Invisible creatures that slithered onto Mathew, crawling up his lags and arms. They whispered in his ear "Your not as good a him". Once they muttered these disgusting lies they would wriggle their way into his ear, and feast inside his body until they found his heart. There, they wrapped themselves round and tightened like rope. Poor Jonathan, how could he protect his brother against something that he could see? Something that didn't exist? That's right, the only person who saw them was Mathew. They didn't exist. Nobody compared them. Nobody thought Mathew to be inferior. If only he had just talked to someone, whether it be his brother, mother or father, they would have surely been able to get rid of these lies.

But Mathew didn't tell anyone about them. Instead, he let the parasites slowly eat him away. And then at eleven years old, Jonathan walked into their room, and finally saw the ropes that had taken Mathew.
There was also a letter.
"Dear Jonathan,

We have always been together, but now we will separate.
But before I say goodbye I want to tell you my true feelings.
I hate you.
I was always below you, you were always better than me. You were born as a human, I was born as your shadow, nothing more.
I know that our parents loved you more, I know that our friends loved you more, I know everybody loved you more. I know the truth.
I have one last wish.
I want you to feel pain.

You owe me this, because you were the one to kill me.

Goodbye.
Mathew."

The Cyberbully

The nest of the cyber bully is a dark room. It is impossible to say how big this room is, or what it looks like, or even what room it is, because 90% is a black abyss that is anonymous to everyone.

The only light in the room is the painful glare of a computer screen. With this light it is possible to make out a few things, that the computer is on a desk, there are school books placed beside it ready for the next morning, and the Cyberbully sits at the desk. In the corner of the screen, the computer states that it is 2:03 am. Doesn't it have school tomorrow? Despite the light being so close, it is almost impossible to make out the Cyberbully. It is wearing a coat of darkness, therefore it is difficult to pinpoint the traits of it. But it's hand is visible, clutching to the mouse in a familiar way. The hand is young with naturally soft and innocent skin, it is warming and inviting, yet it clicks the mouse from time to time in an abrupt and cold manner. Who's have known? 

The coat of darkness that the Cyberbully wears has a hood that completely covers it's eyes, but every now and then it's hand will reach up and rubb it's eyes. Those eyes must be so stiff and dry from staring at that glare for so long. Perhaps this is what makes it blind, blind to it's ignorance and cruelty.

The mouth of the Cyberbully frowns deeply as it observes the web page on the computer screen. Casually, it takes it's right hand off the mouse, reaches for a cigarette packet, the draws out a cugarette, lights it, and smokes. All these movements are done with the ease of someone who is familiar to them. The innocent young hand and the cigarette juxtapose each other, and you begin to wonder how the two are allowed to be together. Surely it is breaking some form of natural law?

"Act like the innocent flower but be the serpent under it" The Cyberbully often thought. Surprised it knows Shakespeare? Well maybe it didn't quite get the meaning, because rather than being disgusted by Lady Macbeth, it took her advice. What we see now is only available to see at night. The rest of the time it is in disguise, maybe it's that really friendly new girl in art class, maybe it's that funny guy who sits next to you in chemistry. Who knows.

The website that it has been observing for quite some time now is an anti-cyberbullying site. It uses bright colours, bold letters, and irritating stop signs. How annoying, thought the Cyberbully. The owner of the website had posted videos, giving support to the victims.

"They're pathetic" he says.

How dare he. 

And suddenly all the hatred and anguish which had been bottled up inside started pouring out and fell into the screen. The Cyberbully unleashed it's full potential.

In the corner of it's eye, the Cyberbully could see the shadow of someone swinging from a rope. It did not care.

I didn't do this, it's social networking.

Do guns kill people? Or do people kill people?

Beyond The Darkness

On this night where the sky is filled with the faraway stars and fireflies dance whimsically, I walk unknowingly beside you.

I am forever gone, forever invisible to you. Yet I am always with you. Nostalgia is my constant companion, as I remember the days of us together in the daylight, laughing. We were young and innocent, because darkness would never come. I truly loved this place, the warmth and beauty of nature. It's ever growing trees, protecting us from harm; they stood before us like intimidating fathers, strict and scared that someday we would get hurt. When we ran through our familiar labyrinth, boots brushed long grass, it whispered "Welcome back!". Even in our teens, we both believed in the sheer magic of this place.

It was winter when my time suddenly came. The trees naked and shaken, the grass muddied and silent, a fog lingering in the air, and in your heart. Yes, I watched you, as you grieved. In the darkest days you refused to leave your bed; preferring the numbness of sleep, the pain of hunger. The only light you would accept was Romeo's artificial light, and even then you strained your eyes, at natural light you screamed and howled. "But I am here!" I called, even though he never heard me. Helplessly I hovered over him, praying that someone would save him. "Forget me!" I cried one day, "If you forget me, you will smile again. Forget me and you will be happy." He must have heard, for the next day he left his room and went to school.

I followed him as he went back to his normal life. He stayed in lessons without causing any problems, he chatted to our friends without shouting at them. I was completely forgotten it seemed, He had moved on. I should be happy, because this is what I wanted. Stupidly, I went to a private place where I cried alone. Idiot, you are alone, no matter were you are. "If only I had lived"I thought as I cursed my fate.

Tonight he has a date. He struggles when deciding what to wear, should he go casual or formal? He goes half and half, wearing jeans but a shirt. When he tried to smoothen his hair, I imagined my living self ruffling it, saying "Why bother? It's always a mess". These days I don't bother saying anything to him, all I do is walk beside him. An expressionless, useless spirit, with no reason. Ah, when will I be relieved of this pain? When will I be allowed to move on as he has? I am nothing more than a shadow as he walks out of his house, along the neighbourhood, and into the forest. I look at him in surprise, he hasn't come here since I was here.

Nothing has changed here, The beautiful summer night is breathtaking. Everything I've been denying pours into me, filling me up. I look back at him and see he feels the same. He remembers it all. All the happiness and sadness. He remembers me. I laugh out loud, and dance around the forest in ecstasy, "He remembers me!" I shout and sing. He laughs.

Then someone shouts from the distance "Hello? Are you there?" and he responds. As he walks to her I am by his side. I look at the stars, the fireflies, his face and know it is time for my to go.
"Goodbye" I say, as we both leave darkness behind.

The Maid

At the age of fourteen, I moved away from my family and took a job as a maid in a large estate.
I didn't know much about the history of the house or the family. Though I was aware of recent things, such as the house being remodelled last year and the new baby, Henrietta Cecil, being born. I knew how clueless I was even then, illiterate and naive, my other jobs had been far smaller. However, I would become accustomed to this house, although I was doubtful of this when I took that first trip up there. I rode in a horse and cart, observing all the things around me like a small child on a field trip. The estate was immense. The majority of it was field, then there was the castle, the church and the house. The castle was no longer used, the fourteen year old me had no idea why, but it was most probably to do with it wearing away. When I first arrived, the church was one of the things I was most curious about, because outsiders were not allowed to see it, only the family and those who worked in the house. The thought that I would now be able to see something that some people had dreamed of seeing made me ecstatic. Then I arrived at the house. I could think of no words to describe it as I gawked at it.
"This is the beginning."

My name I Margret Michael, proud maid of the estate. It was tiring and hard work, but it was work I was honoured to do. I loved my uniform, I black dress and a white apron and mop hat. But I didn't know that there were those who hated that, as one evening the second footman, Mr Evans, told me how foolish I was, thinking that I was part of this house and the family cared for us. It was true that I had grown to love the children, especially Henrietta, who I hope to once become a lady's maid for. His accusations and insults really hurt me, but it was Mr Allen, first footman, who stepped in.
He told Mr Evans that he was wrong. "Look me straight in the eye and tell me that there isn't love written all over Lady Henrietta's face when she sees Margret." He said. Mr Allen was a kind man, gentle and sweet, who tried to be fair to everybody, it was strange that I almost found his warm face as intimidating as an angry one. But he was my greatest friend, calling me from across the courtyard so he could join me on the way to church.

There was only one day that I made my way to that church unaccompanied by Mr Allen. Our wedding day. I wore a traditional white dress that I had saved up for, the family insisted that I use their church, I was the happiest I had ever be. When it came for me to sign the document, I couldn't write my name, so I had to draw a little 'x' which represented me.
In generations to come, that document would be the only thing that would tie me to this place. When my descendant of six generations would come here, she would only be able to imagine what my story was, as she observed a church completely over grown with weeds.

Sentences are essential for Communication.

Who are these people?
They have kind faces, their hands stretched out towards me.
I don't want it. I hate people, I hate this world. Sadness will come again. So I turn away, and they leave.
See. Now they are gone, surely he will come back, the man who barks and shouts whenever I do something wrong. I'm sorry I made a noise, I'm sorry I caused you trouble, I'm sorry I'm alive.

Why are they back again?
I can't believe they're here for me. I have nothing anymore.
That's right, I have nothing anymore, so there is nothing to lose. Maybe I will take their hands.
It's so bright. It confuses me, the colours startle me. I don't understand, I don't understand at all. People all around me stare. Most have expressions of pain, I don't care. Then there's those too, smiling at me.

How is this happening?
They are always smiling, always welcoming me. Sometimes, I'm not to sure how to react. Perhaps I should thank them. I should definitely thank them. They seem to love it when I learn. Language is a fascinating thing, communication with others is essential. They say I am their child, and I wasn't born until I met them. The bad things that happened, they don't matter anymore, because I have them.

What is this for?
I just don't understand it, there is no reason for them do this. "There's nothing to worry about" they say, "We love you" they say. I remember the darkness from before, but it affects me less. I am recovering. We often walk around the park together, holding hands, I see beautiful things. I love to point out things to them, because that is what makes them happy. They tell me that one day I can become normal.

When did they stop smiling?
I have been learning! I have a large vocabulary now! I can name all the objects in the house. With this surely I can become normal? Is this because I can't--- sentence? Communication? Failure? But look. I can name things. Apple, Dog, Kettle, Flower, Car, Park, Potato, Fish, Bed, Eyes, Girl-

Which one do I want to live with?
Of course, I want to live with them! They smiled at me, taught me! Look I can say words now. But she left me. I saw her, she stood in the corner while that man barked at me. I can't go with her.
But they don't understand me, because I can't--- sentence? Besides, someone says, the only reason they looked after you was because you're interesting, and they are scientists. You were nothing but an experiment and you were a failure. You proved their hypothesis wrong, so there's no point with you staying with them.

Where am I going?
Don't leave me. Please. If you leave me, I will never trust the world again. I know I can't communicate, but that doesn't mean you don't love me, right? Please don't let them take me away.
I hate you all.
I hate this world, and everybody in it.

It was years later that I switched on the television, and they were there.
They were crying as pictures of me came up on the screen/
"They took her away!" They sob.
But I don't understand.
Because I am a failure.

City Night Music

As the tapping of my black heels start to form a rhythm, I can almost hear the bass in my ear.

The bass is deep, dark and secretive. Just like the city night. It is also a foundation for everything, as much as we might fear this deep sound, it is a constant comfort. Something that is familiar and essential to any music or night. 

The bass is the silence that surrounds you while you walk home, the guitar is the people you hear from a slight distance. They are always experiencing strong emotions, taking the centre of the stage with confidence that far outshines the bass. Sometimes you might even hear them sing. At times, the guitar might even go wild, for it is far more adventurous. But tonight's music is calming, illusory and appreciates the bass, and the guitar understands that. So it's higher pitch plays in the distance.

I am nothing but a member of the audience for this music. I came to this concert wearing a white t-shirt with some unknown band on the front (it's too big), my dark blue skinny jeans and my simple black heels. My hair is down, unkept, I wear no make up. You see, when people decide to join the city night and it's music, they want to impress. They believe the midnight's eyes judge them. It doesn't care, it doesn't give a damn. It's just there to play it's music. Nothing more, nothing less.

In this City night, I encounter artificial light from time to time. This is the keyboard. The street lamps and signs all bring a scene of uniqueness to the music, you never know what colour it is going to play, adding a scene of mystery. It plays tricks on you, making you believe that you're listening to something else. However, this isn't out of spite, it is simply the keyboards way. Tonight the lights dance around, happy to be part of a group. It shines brightest during these city nights.

I jolt suddenly as I hear a siren in the background. The drums are loud, intrusive and fierce. The city sounds are always on the go, never wanting to stop. It understands that it's late, and that people are trying their best to sleep, but it's considerate to it's audience, wanting them to have fun. So sometimes it breaks the rules, and cuts the nocturnal air. Of course it is scolded at by the bass, who demands that this music is calming and illusory, meaning that there is a huge contrast in sound as drums turn into bass.

When I reach the outskirts of the city I am on a higher level, meaning I can look at it with a clear view. With this hindsight, I realise that that I'm probably making no sense at all. But that is what I hear when I walk through the city night, there's no point in denying it because the city knows. But for the first time ever, I wonder what City Night's Music sounds like to the rest of the world. Is the bass essential? 

Peaceful Days

I wonder how long these peaceful days will last.
Before, there were times of trouble and sadness. Those were times where I wasn't allowed to be myself, when I had to hold back my tears. I will never forget them.
But there is no need to think of them now, because these are peaceful days.
When I wake up, it is not because of shouting, an arrogant alarm or even a nightmare, it is when the sun  has breathed it's warm and welcoming ray onto my cheek. Before my eyes even think of opening I already know that today is a good day, with a blue sky. Next my mind registers that I'm actually awake,  so I try to fall back to sleep again; Alas it is too late, I am already curious about the world of today. So I final wake up. I can almost hear the "Good morning" in my ear.
I take my time when I get ready for school, casually putting my school uniform on, carefully washing my face. When it is time for breakfast, I walk with an indifferent pace of someone who's not hungry, but would quite happily eat. They are all waiting for me at the breakfast table, because "Good morning" is a very important phrase for us. At our wooden table in a little kitchen, we all exchange morning talk, eating our typical toast and cereal. I am so happy.
Once breakfast is over, we all say "Goodbye" and "Have a safe trip" as each of us leaves, because these are also very important. As I make my way to school I observe Autumn for the first time this year. Leaves fall down lazily from the trees and I kick the ones on my path up into the air. I can almost hear a happy tune playing in my head as I meet my friend, and we walk together in the orange bliss of peaceful Autumn days I wonder how it came to be this way.
It turns out we only just made it in time, but we made it, so what is there to stress about? We all sit down for class, but I have no interest for what is being taught. No, what is truly interesting and curious is outside, because-
"Are you listening?" The teacher asks me loudly, the whole class laughs along, for this is typical me on a typical day. They continue to laugh when it is lunch time, telling people from other classes about how I was in another day dream. Does this concern me? No. They are laughing with me, not at me. Lunch is brought out, and we all share each others, because that is what we do, and once we have eaten, we talk together. It is the same when half past three arrives and it is time to go home.
When I have made it home, they are all waiting for me. "Welcome back" they say, and for the second time that day we all sit round that wooden table in our little kitchen. Each of us talks about our day, nothing is perfect of course, but these are peaceful days, so everything will be well again soon. This cannot last forever, everything will end one day. They assure me that it won't, that the past has ended, and days will continue to be like this.
Maybe they're right, I think as I gaze at the moon through my open window. Maybe it is time to forget the past and accept that peaceful days have come.

Purpose

One of the most commonly asked questions by the human race is, What is our purpose?
This is a fair enough question, if there is a God who created us, then why? To entertain? Or maybe for something greater. Perhaps each and every individual human on this planet has a reason, and the world wouldn't be the world without everyone, and as the human race we have some major role to play!
Don't be so naive.
I gaze outside my window, watching the clouds drift by slowly..... Ever so slowly.... I suppose I am like a cloud, drifting aimlessly, pathetically, slowly through life. Oh wait, I've had this thought before. How pitiful. My life has been nothing but waiting, constant waiting. Sometimes something vaguely interesting might happen, and when it does my mind likes to repeated play it when I'm bored.

My first memory is dark and cold. I lay on my freezing kitchen floor, having just collapsed for the first time, "Does this mean I won't be able to go round my friends house?" I ask my mother. I was really looking forward to that sleepover, I was going to laugh along with the over children, play with them, live with them.

Next is the first night I spent in this god forsaken room I would spend the rest of my life in. I was so scared, there was nobody to save me, not even a God. I felt abandoned, helpless, lonely, hatred. I scream and wailed and cried. So why........ Why did no one come? By the time the next day came I didn't care anymore. Honestly, I didn't give a damn.
"I'm sorry to tell you this, but you daughter will not live beyond the age of seven."
Poor mother. Poor father. Poor sister. They're all crying, I wish I could stop their crying, this is all my fault right? What was my point if I was just going to make the ones cry?

"We are amazed that this has happened, everything suggested that she wouldn't survive...."
Is this true?
"But I don't think that we can expect this to go on, she'll most probably be gone before the age of ten."
Of course not.

This continued. Time and time again. Seven, Ten, Twelve. Over and over again. My sister decided it was too much, there had been to many goodbyes, so to her, I'm already dead, she has no sister. Forever and ever. Why am I here? What is my purpose?

It is snowing, haha, I hate snow.
Hey, God do you want to know what my wish is?
A beautiful death.
I guess snow would do, as much as I despise it, I have to admit that it really pretty.
Well I guess this is it...... three.... two.... one.
I hear the clock chime, symbolising my sixteenth birthday.
My eyes are heavy, my hands are cold.
What do you know? They were right.
I guess I had no purpose in the end.
Death finally comes. Many would feel scared or sad.
But I welcome it.

The Differences Between Them

I am simply an observer. Nothing more, nothing less.
My friend has taken me to see her favourite singer at a place called The Birdcage. I must admit, she's pretty good, but it's hard to fully appreciate music you don't really know, and for some reason or another I find it difficult to just sit down and listen. My head fills with the most random of thoughts. When she starts to sing some sort of love song with her guitar, I observe her and the man on the side of the stage, taking photos. It is obvious that he is a professional photographer and it is his job to take pictures of her, rather than him being a member of the audience, because of the confidence he took the photographs with and how everybody else seemed to ignore him. Well except for me, and maybe even her.
It would so happen that a story unfolded in my head as I observed the two of them, unraveling like a scroll and laying out clearly in front of me. This was their story.
They were childhood friends, next door neighbours to be exact. He was shy and quiet, someone who preferred to play alone with his simplistic toys, in his own little world, with a small smile. Maybe he was even bullied slightly, this would make sense as it is usually the quietest kids and the smartest kids (he might have been smart as well) who get bullied. It was because of this that he was always weary of other people. Then there was her, fearless and unreserved, always looking for more friends to make and people to share with, she had a bright smile. She stood up for him whenever she thought that someone was being nasty, she was proud to be friends with him. But she didn't play with him because she thought that was the right thing to do, it was because she wanted to. Quite often she startled him and was too loud for him. But he loved to have her next to him, humming or singing some strange and random tune.
They grew up like this. Both having different lives and, I determined, rather difficult lives. Him because of school and friends, her because of family. However, they always remained friends despite everything. And when she told him that she wanted to leave school and become a singer, he did not scold her or claim her foolish like others, he supported her, and eventually decided that he was going to drop school as well, and pursue his dream of becoming a photographer. They both faced many trails, but as you know they both made it, otherwise I would not be observing them now....
"Oh look we can buy the CD over there!" My friend exclaims in delight, "Are you going to buy one?". Well, it was only a two pound CD and the music wasn't half bad, "I will" I say.
But there's something different about their relationship, something has changed between them.
Was it love? For some reason I doubt this option. When their eyes meet it does not suggest a relationship to me. Oh I know!
The present day him focuses his camera one her, he is careful and precise. Once he takes the photo, he looks at it, then at her. His eyes are that of love, pride and sadness, of desperate longing. He believes she is too good for him, why should she fall for him? He is nothing. So he sits on the sidelines of her life, never reaching out incase he damages what he has. But he is something. She knows this. As she sings her love songs, she glances at him, but alas he is looking at his camera. She loves him, and this is as clear as day, and yet he never looks at her. She constantly tries to reach out for him, but he is always turned away. Perhaps he doesn't love her.
How this relationship will unfold in the future I have no way of knowing, for I am simply an observer. In fact this might not even be true. But this is what came to mind when I saw a camera man gazing at a singer, and a singer glancing at a cameraman.

We Shine!

She sits next to me, repeatedly drawing hearts on her notebook.
"I'm not sure if you know this, but that notebook is for school work. It's certainly not for your doodling and scribblings." I tell her with an sigh.
Why do I always feel such exasperation with her? How is it we've managed to remain friends all these years? And while you're on that topic, how did we even become friends to start with? It's not like we have anything in common, at all. I look at myself, practical, studious, average. My school uniform is always prim and proper, my hair is clean, smooth and sharply cut short, my thick glasses fit perfectly. She sits there like a child, unable to be still, swinging her legs everywhere, playing drums with her colourful pen. I can't decide whether her uniform expresses freedom or disorganisation. Her hair is always long and messy, she has a constant smile on her face.
"I suppose so.... Hey! Do you know what would be fun?"
Why do all her sentences start this way? What is she going to force me into now? Juggling? Photography? Stilts?
"Singing!" She exclaims. I can't help but bring my hand to my face. As we walk home, she is sing some random, off beat tune, and she can't decide whether she prefers 'la', 'de', 'da' or 'lu'. But despite my annoyance with her, I can't help but smile.
She always so free, always so beautiful. We have known each other since we where small, I have had to take care of her over the years, making sure she has everything she needs, stopping her from doing rash and irresponsible things, organising her whimsy. In return, she introduces me to all that life has to offer, all the joys and spontaneous adventures. Quite honestly, I don't know where I would be without her.
But there is a slight twinge of jealousy in me. For many years I almost wanted to forget all my obligations and responsibilities, join her completely, and walk beside her rather than behind her. I couldn't do it, it would be far too scary, who knows what would happen if there was no sensible one between us. Besides I couldn't do it like her, I would just look awkward and foolish. There's no way I could be as bright a her, have her spirit.
At that moment she turns to me, "Lets go!" She says, and all of a sudden I've forgotten all my reasons not to got....
I grab her hand, she smiles, I smile back, we go.
Suddenly we are running, skipping, dancing, jumping, flying!
Limits are broken,
Dreams Overflow,
Love Consumes,
Space is reachable,
Distance is no longer a problem,
I am free for the first time,
We shine!

The Birdcage

In the Birdcage, I encountered something beautiful.

The Birdcage was a cafe...... or maybe a shop........ or maybe even a concert hall. I haven't decided yet. Maybe it was all three.

Imaging this. You are walking through a streets with hardly any lights and it is night. Everything is uninteresting and I am bored. You don't look back, but you don't look forward either, you look at your well used converses on your feet, to ensure that you don't trip over any obstacles or rubbish that life may have put in your way. Now and then you may look to the side, just out of whimsy, and there you see a distant city. It is glowing from the streetlights, and for a moment you are a little taken a back. But then you frown, how stupid, that light is completely out of your reach; and besides, if you were to get close it would be an ordinary street lamp. So you continue.

If you haven't noticed already, this is a metaphor of my life.

That is, until I passed the Birdcage one night.

I'm not to sure what made me look at it. A call of fate maybe? If I believed in that stupidity.

When I entered I was actually rather curious. What was it? It had a counter which served cakes, tea and minted water (I'm not too sure I like that... mint in water) in one corner. Clothes hung from walls and ceilings, looking like they were for sale, but you weren't really meant to buy them. A small staging area was at one end of the room, with instruments lined up and a microphone ready for action. Surrounding the stage was loads of vintage sofas and arm chairs, old ones that mis-matched.

The people were of a variety of ages and there were probably an equal amount of males and females. Did anybody really have anything in common, I wondered.

I suppose it was that all of them were smiling.

They were all a family. I could see it all. Everybody referred to each other by there first name, they asked about personal stuff such as children and parents, they all sent each other christmas cards.... no I bet they all met up for Christmas and had a party, maybe even a secret Santa, and even though they were all so different, everybody had gotten the perfect gift, they all laughed and sang, maybe sometimes they would sing karaoke, what did it matter you couldn't sing? Every man, dog and his beast accepted you here because........ well because.

They were all a family.

A family that I suddenly want to be a part of.

That was it, there was no turning back. The sun had risen on my dark street. Everything and everyone was beautiful and curious, something I wanted to be a part of, something I needed to be a part of. Several emotions suddenly switch on, loneliness, happiness, sadness.... love. A want, to be accepted into their paradise. Oh I hope they accept me, I look down at my clothes, how dull they are! Nobody would accept me here....

No, they would accept me. I'm sure of that.

So what I did was this, I brought a cake, poured myself some minted water (and hated it), sat down and did something outrageous.

I talked.

A Snowy Day

Even as an adult I am always caught by the sheer magic of snow.

As a child, it used to fascinate me. I would stare for hours at each tiny little snowdrop; how every one was made out of thousands of shimmering crystals. They fell casually to the ground, some of them lingering in the air, as though rather enjoying flight. I would then gaze at the pure white blanket that lay on the ground. If I got up early enough, I would be able to see it's untouched , innocent state, otherwise it would be imprinted with the footsteps of life. Whether that be a busy worker, a playful dog or a curious child.

When I was nine, Christmas day began with my early awakening and longing gaze at the frosty windows. Time passed and eventually my mother came in. A proud woman, a tired woman. A lady. Her pride was that of someone who was completely paranoid of what someone 'above' might think about her for a passing moment. Her exhaustion was that of someone who's only job was to order others. Of course her pride meant that her daughter always had to be of a certain standard, and her tiredness made her very often irritable and impatient. She did not process the traits of someone who might be considered 'cold', however she was not a warming figure, and she honestly believed that everything she did was for the best. Whether that be for her, or her daughter.
Well this is my knowledge now that I am an adult with an open mind, at the time, my mother was perceived as a nagging dragging voice that always started it's sentences with "A lady must always..."
But despite my annoyance with her, I very much wanted to be a lady; It was something I constantly reminded people. Arguments would always end with 'Well I'm a lady' and I would blush happily when people called me 'Lady Abigail'.

My mother took me down to the living area, where the christmas tree had been set up. Of course, I had had no worries about whether or not Father Christmas would deliver me presents or not. After all, a lady is always good. I was very pleased with my presents, they were entertaining and pretty. My main present was my favourite though. It was a red dress, with ruffles on the bottom, a dark green ribbon and broach on the front. Looking back, I realise that it was a rather simple dress, but from then on I would wear that dress whenever and wherever I could, until it would eventually get too small for me, and I cried for hours. It is hard to say what I loved about it so much, maybe it was the sheer confidence of the red, the grace of the ribbon and broach. It was just so..... lady like.

I wore it to christmas lunch. My face pink with the delight of the dress and of my life. The whole world was beautiful. Or at least, mine was.
I'm sure that there is a time in every child's life, when they suddenly realise that not everybody has the same life as you. It is the first step to the loss of innocence, when you suddenly see the sharp edges of the round world, and you catch that fatal snip of ice within the soft snow.
This happened to me when I managed to slip from the table between the main course and dessert. I ran with the sneaky ease of a child who is naive enough to believe that there will be no fatal consequences for mischief, to outside, where I would be able to survey the snow in all it's wonderful glory.

Expecting to be alone, I skipped and danced in this beautiful blanket. I especially loved the crunching sound as I jumped, tarnishing the spots with hadn't been touched yet. It took a while to realise that someone had be observing me. A boy, my age. He was wearing trousers which cut off at the knee and a shirt. Both were ragged, torn and filthy. He had snow white skin with patches on blue, and a bruise on his shin, his hair was a brown mess, and his eyes monotone and hardened. For a second, he had been wearing a small smile on his thin lips, but after registering that I had noticed him, he gave a apologetic, almost fearful, look before turning away.
For some reason or another, I used to believe that part of being a lady was giving short statements and questions. My first one, out of many, was "Were you spying on me?"
The boy looked up, he didn't make eye contact, in fact he would make eye contact with me for at least six months, and shock his head violently.
"Good, because you shouldn't spy on a lady."
A curt nod.
"I am a lady"
A curt nod.
His lack of knowledge on conversing irritated me at first, but I would eventually get used to it, and even love it. But for now I said "You are freezing."
That got no response.
"I will help."
And with that I ran up and hugged him. Although this might seem like a rather sudden and foolish move now, at the time it was like I had seen an adorable furry animal that needed my help and I hugged it. Nobody would have had a problem with that.
Of course, the boy was so shocked. Once I let him go, he stood frozen still, uttering embarrassed whispers and turning a slight pink at the cheeks. I then smiled what my grandmother called my loving smile, and invited him to have desert with us. How lady like.

But he could not, for he had work to do. I protested, thinking of how cold and tired he must be. But he explained to me in a manner of fact tone that this was his life. Neither christmas nor snow, would excuse him from work, and that was his life. Eventually I got round to helping him, if I remember correctly it was something to do with digging, but mostly I listened as he talked about his life. It had been a life so different from mine, one with hard work and punishments, but he didn't seem bitter about it. Although the thought of anyone having a life where you had to work on christmas terrified me, I realise that it was probably for the best that from that day on, I was less ignorant about the world, and people around me. It didn't matter that my mother called me in fifteen minutes later, furious at my state and who I was with, or that I would nearly always spend my time blocked out from the outside world where that boy lived. Because that day, I had learned empathy. And I met someone who I would have a relationship with for the rest of my life, a relationship with was beautiful and difficult, and started with a snowy day.