So yeah this one is going to be continued, just becasue its rather short, and im just putting it out there, there are a couple more chapters then its done. ENJOY! REVIEW!
She placed her feet on the ground as if she was in the middle of some foreign dance routine. Light, calculated steps each made with a purpose, her faded black converses covering fading black scars. Fades lines that cover her ankle. Each scar straight and precise, each with a purpose; each stroke as purposeful as her steps.
Everything in her life had a meaning; she was just yet to discover it. She often wondered if she ever would.
It seemed to her that her life, her mind, her society, her school, her being was black. Black like the rotten scabs, formed from freshly cut skin. She was condemned, her sin was life.
She isn't religious but when the time presents itself she will refer to 'God' or 'Satan' to make a point. She doesn't believe there is a hell to go too, or a heaven. If there is a hell, then she's in it.
She wishes she lived in the eighteenth century, where the women were skinny, the faces were white, the hair was black, the aspirations were petty and the thoughts were shallow.
Deep thoughts plaque her mind, she sleeps restlessly. Each night she witnessed her death, watches her funeral, see's no grievers and wakes up. Dreaming never in colour. Dreaming never seeing faces. Always dreaming the truth.
Her feet place themselves reluctantly on the brick step of her school. IPod in, Music loud enough to drown out the sounds of the voice in her head. She faintly hears the muffled abuse it yells.
She named her voice, she named it Jacob. Jacob seems to say everything she had ever wanted to say to anyone she had ever met. No-One in particular ever seems to stand out to Jacob, and as a result to her also.
She whispered his name as the ball of her foot collided with the edge of the step.
"Fuck"
Even with shoes on it was enough to peel off the scab beneath. The twisted motion forced her centre of gravity off and she toppled helplessly into the rough stone steps. She lay there in a mangled, bloody heap. Her books, the cookies, her iPod clattered across the steps. Knowing anyone that saw her would simply feel sorry for her and keep walking, just how society had taught them. 'Someone else will do it' was the attitude of the twenty-first century.
Jacob was screaming her obvious helplessness right into the epicentre of all her fears and worries. She quickly found something to distract her from everything that scares her in life. A trickle of blood was making its calm path from her knee towards her ankle, it had about half way completed it journey.
Her fingers clamped around her knee and she began to untangle herself from the steps. She sat down and assessed the damage. A gash in her right knee, and a tare on her top. She thought she had got out of it quite lightly. It wasn't her favourite shirt, in fact it wasn't even hers.
She liked to pick things up, especially if they hold a meaning to someone. It was like a desperate attempt to hold meaning within her. She had seen the midnight blue t-shirt on the side of the road outside a construction site. Standing there in the middle of the street she had taken off the top her mother had put out for her and replaced it with the one she had found.
It was warm and comfortable. She could tell someone had loved this t-shirt. She left her mother's bright pink tight fitting midriff t-shirt and walked off in a loose baggy midnight blue t-shirt. Jacob had been silent that day.
The gash in her knee was starting to sting now. She took away her hand and instantly felt the pain kick in. Tears rimed her eyes and she questioned herself.
'This is nothing Jacob, You've made me do worse to myself, you and I both know that'
Sometimes at night Jacob liked to take over her body, she would let him. Her hands would reach out to the little white box she kept hidden in the bedside table. She would crack her fingernails trying to pry it open. When she succeeds her fingers would run over the little blade that she had taken out of a pencil sharpener. Her fingers would bring it to hover over her legs, her arms, her ankles, her wrists, her stomach, her neck. Long cuts, little cuts, deep cuts, shallow cuts. Jacob would take control and force the blade deep into the soft skin of her thighs. Blood would pulse out and Jacob would retreat back into the depths of her mind.
Jacob and her had an unspoken agreement. During the day she was in control, at night Jacob would reign supreme. They were only human though, each occasionally broke the agreement and a civil war would explode in her head. Jacob would bombard her with images, with words.
At this point in time, her and Jacob were at peace and so he simply agreed. She felt Jacob's pressure in the back on her head as she brought her hands to her eyes. She pushed the tears from her eyes and limped into the school grounds.
She came here on the weekends to draw, to get away. She drew what she saw, she drew what Jacob saw. It was always empty except for the cleaner who she greeted with a smile and a box of cookies. The cookies were merely crumbs today because of her fall. He didn't seem pleased. He didn't speak, he never does. He just trotted off towards the oval. She had overheard the kids calling him Mike one lunch time.
She made her way to the school hall. The cleaner knew it was her favourite place to draw so he usually left it unlocked for her. She placed her blood stained hand on the doorknob, twisted and sighed. It was locked. She would have to make sure to keep the cookies safe next time she fell over.
She bit down on her pink lipstick covered lips and shuffled from side to side. Angrily she dragged the sleave of her midnight blue t-shirt over her lips, leaving a pink smudge. She then proceeded to wipe any other traces of makeup her mother had put on her from her face. The sleave of her shirt was covered in all the shades of reds and pinks. Her mother said pink 'flattered her figure' and as a result she hated it.
She pulled the rings from her fingers and unhooked the jewellery from her neck, the belt from her waist and she span in a circle, her arms in the air, her scars showing and her hair blowing.
"You shouldn't be here on weekends little girl" A deep male voice announced from behind her. She froze instantly with her back to whomever or whatever it was.
"I'm not a little girl" it was a stupid thing to say, but it was all the words her mind could form.
"You sure look little to me" The voice had layers to it, gruff unforgiving layers. "Take your arms down; I'm not a cop or anything"
A blush crept across her face and she lowered her arms but refused to turn around until the embarrassing red fire had left her cheeks. When she turned around she saw a man only about three years older than herself. He was tall. Burnt bronze hair covered his head. Green emerald like eyes looked down at her. He seemed to tower over everything she wished she was. He still had the lanklyness of puberty but he had passed the awkward stage the she herself was still in. Her eyes traced the outline of his body.
"The names Edward, and you little missy would be?"
"I'm not little"
"Well Not Little it is nice to make your acquaintance"
"NO" Blushing again the words exploded from her mouth", I mean that's not my name, my mother didn't call me..." Edward placed a single finger on her lips and she fell silent
"Well what did she call you then?"
"Isabella"
"She named you after a beauty?" Isabella lacked the left confidence to tell him to shove it.
"And I suppose your mother named you after a guy with scissors for hands?"
"She did" His tone was one of amusement. Her jaw fell open and from the grin that lit up Arnold's face she could tell she had given him the response he wanted. Instantly she shut her mouth, pursed her lips and placed her hands on her hips.
"Why are you here" she emphasised the 'you' as if the mark her territory.
"Same reason you are." He was here to draw? Questions ran though Isabella's head. Trivial things like where he bought his pencils, "To get away." More questions, meaningful ones, forced themselves into Isabella's mind, and she forced them away.
"What makes you think I'm here to get away?"
"Your little dance routine"
"It wasn't litt... oh forget it" Isabella turned her back to him; she bent down to pick up her book and pencils. "I'm going to the oval to draw."
"I'm going with you." And like that they were friends. Every weekend, for several years, they would each venture to the school, to get away from the horrors behind them. At first their conversations were trivial they talked of the weather, achievements, people. Over the months their conversations got deeper, they began to talk of feelings, of voices, of cutting.
They knew everything of each other and still each weekend that they met they had more to talk of. Each week he would ask her "Why do you call him Jacob?"
She had learnt that he was in uni; she was in the final years of high school. He had voices, more than one, most of which he liked. There was Laurent, James, and Victoria. Each of them had stories behind the names. There were times when Jacob would talk exclusively to Victoria, they got along well.
There was one Saturday that stood out to her. It was about six months after their first encounter. They were laying on their backs on the oval; the cleaner had taken his cookie and left them alone. Isabella had sat upright suddenly and smiled to herself. She poked the sleepy Edward in the ribs and muttered "Come on you bag of mouldy potatoes get us arse off the ground and dance with me" Stir, he did not. She stood over him with one foot on his chest and the other on the ground beside his waist. "Move or my shoe print will be in your chest for the rest of your life" He opened his eyes, winked at her and said "You're too little to leave a mark."
Isabella's shoe pushed down on his chest, and indeed there was a mark. Edward just gritted his teeth. He wasn't one to show pain. "Go on, call me little again." Edward looked up at her, hit the inside of her knees and she toppled over, falling onto his chest. Isabella could feel his warm breath curling again her neck. Edward moved Isabella's hair from her neck gently. He placed his lips lightly on her neck, pulled away and whispered quietly into Minnie's ear "Little."
Luckily her knee was in perfect position to insure that Edward wasn't going to have kids anytime soon. She pulled herself away from him and twirled around in circles, her hands above her head like Edward was a cop and she was a robber.
It had been the happiest day of her life.
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