Chapter One of The Untold Story of Gwyneth Jackson
by carefreewritergirl
/Prologue/
She was standing just outside her bedroom door. Inside, she could hear her passionate scribbling and was again stabbed by the hurt and pain she had felt so long ago. She had thought that most pain, even deep agony, dulled with time, but now she found that it hadn't. Breathing in sharply, she clamped her hand to her mouth to stifle an abrupt sob. The clock on the mantlepiece downstairs chimed once, a thrilling, eerie sound. It sent tremors through her, knowing what would happen next. She waited a few moments, listening earnestly.
The scribbling stopped.
If listening to the scribbling was painful, listening to the silence was ten times more so. So empty and yet so full and thick, like a heavy blanket coating the house, pressing down and stifling everything inside it. To her, the absence of sound felt louder than the sound itself. Like a trumpet blast in her ears, it woke her to the reality of what had just happened. Now her younger self was truly and completely gone - forever.
She felt weak at the knees. Steeling herself, she pushed the door open. Pale moonlight lit her bedspread. The soft indentation of where a small bottom had rested only moments before was visible. She slowly, tentatively, sat down. The bedspread was still warm.
She looked down and saw the pencil she had been writing with casting a thin black shadow against the carpet.
And as her eyes traveled around the room she saw other things:
The strange black lump in the corner where she had tossed her old clothes in an icy fury.
Her books, CDs, pictures.
Her various relics from Torchwood that she had dissected and examined.
They were all there. They were all hers.
Except they weren't really, not anymore. They all belonged to a version of herself that no longer existed.
Leaning forward, she sobbed into her palms.
/
E
m
a
i
l
s
/
To: marsham
From: gwynjack
Subj: Higher Grade Level
Dear Mrs. Marsh,
I have been wanting to write to you for some time about the possibility of my being taken out of Kindergarten and switched to a higher grade level. I'm sure you would agree that since I have already mastered the alphabet and know basic sums there is little reason for me to remain in your class. I love the art projects though. They are stupendous. And that one doll we are allowed to play with during free time with half its hair out and an eye missing - simply brilliant. It's obvious that it was only handled by the most responsible and caring of children; they should get a sticker for treating the thing so beautifully.
But anyway, I am obviously getting off topic. The purpose of this letter is not to be sarcastic, but to persuade you that a higher grade level would be greatly beneficial to me. Not only would I be challenged, but I would also succeed in my dream of becoming a prodigy and a polymath and rising above my prosaic classmates. So many more doors will open for me, so to speak. Surely you understand?
The bottom line is this: If I continue to remain in your class, I will only be wasting precious time. A man only lives once, after all (I think). All that remains for me to do is to decide what to do with the time that is given me. I have decided. It is up to you to make the decision a reality. Will you do it, for my sake and for the sake of a world that needs me?
Sincerely,
Gwyneth Jackson
P.S. I think sixth grade would be ideal. I have talked to other sixth graders and I believe that although their math curriculum is mediocre, the English and Science subjects will challenge me. Perhaps I can move up to a higher grade level for math?
P.P.S. Did you catch the Lord of the Rings reference? (Hint: It was a Gandalf quote.)
To: gwyjack
From: marsham
Re: Higher Grade Level
Gwyneth:
I would like to begin by telling you how impressed I am that you have begun to take these steps for yourself. That, more than anything I have seen or heard you do, convinces me of your superior intelligence. Showing initiative is a trait lacking in many children much older than yourself.
However, transferring you to a higher grade level, as young as you are, is practically unheard of. It will take more than my testimonial to guarantee you a place in a grade above your own, especially if you are considering skipping six grades. You most likely will need to take a test to convince people other than myself that you are ready to take on responsibilities and academic work that are usually only taken on by people twice your age.
But before even this happens, I must arrange a meeting with your parents to talk about your idea and establish that they are comfortable with it. We can not go through this without their consent.
Show them this email and let me know as soon as possible when you are available to meet.
All the best,
Mrs. Marsh
/
1
/
The instant Gwyneth Jackson walked into her brand-new third grade class, she knew something was wrong.
It had to do with the fact that the adults were clustered in a group talking earnestly to one another and the kids were in another group, talking eagerly amongst themselves. All the humanity in the room was a member of one of the groups-except a small-boned frail little boy with long messy hair. He was standing off to the side, hands in his pockets, silent, still.
A tall brunette girl with an arrogant stride broke from the group of laughing, talking children and passed near the lone boy on her way to the tissue box. She pulled on his hair casually as she went. "Look at this little squirt," she said rather loudly. "What do you think, peeps? Boy or girl?"
Eager for some distraction, the group quickly gathered around the boy and began debating in overly enthusiastic voices whether he was a female or a male. They made a show of pulling at his hair and remarking how long it was, some mockingly saying that he had to be a girl, no boy could have hair that long. The brunette girl snapped her gum and put in scathing comments at intervals. The adults continued their conversation, oblivious.
Gwyneth's original plan was to remain as inconspicuous as possible. She had promised to Mrs. Marsh and her parents to remain mute during class discussions and only showing the true measure of her intelligence through her written work, which usually only the teacher was allowed to see. She knew that if any student of this class got even close to suspecting that she was more intelligent than them, the hostility they would show would be astounding. No one had to tell her this: She had a grasp on human nature far above her age.
But she knew now that these kids would bully her no matter what. She had prepared herself for the fact that, being noticeably younger than them, she would naturally gardner some curiosity and attention from the other students. But seeing them now, bullying a kid just because he happened to have longer hair than them - well, in that case she was bound to attract negative attention. So she had no chance. No chance at all.
Watching them, she felt a mixture of loathing and despair.
And then, in a moment of decisive action, she stepped right in front of the girl with the brunette hair, forcing her to pay attention to her, the preschooler, the little twit who didn't know anything, rather than the long-haired boy/girl. Immediately everyone fell silent and stared at her. And stared. And stared. Gwyneth tried to make herself believe the staring bothered her, but really she was enjoying it rather a lot.
"What are you doing here, baby?" the brunette girl said after recovering from her surprise. "Off to find your mummy? Scraped your knee and need a band-aid with Elmo on it, hmm?" She spat her gum into the trash can and twirled around to face Gwyneth, her arms folded in a guarded, don't-mess-with-me pose.
Gwyneth straightened her slender frame, raised her head to meet her opponent's gaze, and put back her shoulders. She gathered every ounce of hate and anger she felt towards this girl and channeled it into her ferocious glare, a glare that sliced through her opponent like a knife through playdoh. The brunette stared stupidly, her mouth half-open.
Gwyneth swept her gaze among the other children; it was like a blazing light from a lighthouse piercing through a dark night. No one could meet it for long. The icy fury in those bright brown eyes was so terrible, so beyond all imagination, that it seemed to burn into their very hearts and lodge there like a scorching-hot rock. The heat of that anger was never forgotten by any of the children. There was something so...unearthly about it. Not normal. Strange. Alien, even.
When Gwyneth spoke, she kept her voice a low and cool monotone. "Why should how many dead cells a person has piled on top of their head determine whether or not they are eligible for bullying?"
"Excuse me?" the brunette girl said, her voice sharp with a note of hysteria just hovering beneath the surface.
"In other words, why should long hair merit bullying?"
"What kind of stupid question is that? It's ugly and gross. Besides, he looks like a girl."
"Let me ask you this," Gwyneth paused, again sweeping her lucid, fiery gaze throughout the cluster of children. "What if every boy on the planet had long hair like that boy did? What if you were a boy, and you were the only one who had short hair? Who do you think people would be calling ugly?"
The brunette girl did not respond. The silence was intense.
Gwyneth cleared her throat. She fixed her gaze on the semicircle of children and ejected every ounce of venom she could into her words. "You. You would be the "ugly" one. Do you understand what I'm saying? Beauty's just an idea, fabricated in people's minds, an idea society makes and one that changes over time. The meaning of beauty differs with people's perception of it. That means beauty has no meaning. That means your hurtful words have no meaning. Which means I don't understand you and that your words have no impact on me or on this boy."
She finished her spiel and let the words sink in. Most of the children's faces looked blank. A few were fearful. One was filled with awe.
"But, I do understand your intention. You meant to hurt this boy with your words. You were bored. You wanted attention. You needed to make yourself feel better. And I understand that because you use others to make yourself feel better about yourself, that inside you are weak. Weak, because you let evil and jealousy get the best of you."
Silence. Stunned faces. Wide eyes. As one they broke off and scattered from her like leaves in the wind.
Gwyneth turned to the boy, who still stood mute and immobile beside her. She could see his eyes, staring at her through a film of thin blond hair. She tried to read his expression. "What?" she asked. Her question came out as a bark: Terse. Annoyed. She tried to relax her posture, but found she was incapable of it.
"What's your name?"
Quick. Abrupt. Breathless. Gwyneth didn't know what to think. His expression was still unreadable.
"It's Gwyneth. Gwyneth Jackson." She smiled, tried to put some warmth behind her words, tried to make him feel at ease so he could see that she was a friend, or at the very least someone sympathetic to his situation.
The boy's chin began to tremble. He took a step backwards, one finger up and pointing at her.
"No...no way...you can't be...impossible…" He was shaking his head rapidly, his blue eyes wide and fearful. He stared at her a moment longer, then, stumbling in his haste, raced as fast as he could out of the room.
Gwyneth stared after him helplessly. Was this something to do with saving him from the bullies? Was he mad at her for doing so? But no, it was when she told him her name that he began to blow up, not beforehand. This was something to do with her name. It meant something to him.
Ridiculous. She had never seen him before. She had an absolutely ordinary name. There were probably a thousand Gwyneths and Jacksons in London alone. There was no reason for him to get so upset over such a small and meaningless little thing as her name.
She walked over to a small blond girl who had just come into the classroom with her mother a few seconds ago; now she was looking at the fish aquarium. "You know the kid with the long hair?" Gwyneth asked, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the door. "What's his name?"
The girl tapped idly on the glass, trying to get the attention of a tiger fish. "Oh, the really long blond hair? Blue eyes?"
Gwyneth nodded.
"Oh." The girl shrugged, disinterested. "That's Tony. Tony Tyler."
Tony was leaping from one foot to the other, anxious energy streaming through him. Wherewashisfatherwherewashisfather where was he? He watched the cars driving by, picking up kids, but he couldn't see his father's Ford anywhere. Oh if he didn't get here right this very minute…
Finally! Suddenly he was leaping, flying, dodging backpack-clad children and bikes that just managed to screech to a stop when he came near. He ignored their frustrated yells and ran on, his tiny legs pumping up and down. Reaching the car, he catapulted in and slammed the door closed with perhaps more force than was necessary. Breathlessly, he grabbed the granola bar proffered by father, ripped it open, crammed it hastily into his mouth, and started to gabble incoherently as his father pulled out of the parking lot.
"Daddaddaddad, guess who I saw today, you won't believe it, you won't!"
"Slow down, son." His dad glanced at him, smiling a little at Tony's obvious eagerness and excitement.
"But dad," Tony said, carelessly throwing the empty wrapper of the granola bar behind him and leaning eagerly forward to his father, "it was-"
But his father was distracted. "Tony, pick up your wrapper. Remember what I said about littering the car."
Tony gave a quick disparaging glance at the wrapper, now crumpled up in the back seat. He leaned forward again and grabbed his father's arm impulsively. "But dad it was-"
"TONY."
"-Gwyneth Jackson," Tony finished. Total silence fell in the car; outside the blare of car horns felt like a million miles away. His father's hands were rigid on the wheel. Slowly he turned his head to look out of the car. Tony followed his gaze.
There she was. Standing there rigidly like a statue. Staring at them with a blazing, puzzled, slightly harsh look in her penetrating brown eyes. Tony found he was caught in her gaze, unable to look away.
Suddenly the car lurched. Tony was thrown backward against his seat. "Dad…"
His father's hands were still like iron gripping the wheel, his face a rictus of concentration and pent-up pain. He didn't answer.
Tony tried again. "What's wr-"
"Tony," his father snapped abruptly, his eyes glued to the road ahead, "shut your mouth."
Tony reluctantly closed his mouth. When his father spoke like that, there was no use arguing.
Gwyneth watched in annoyed perplexity as Tony's car drove away. She stood there, still and intent upon it, until it passed behind another wall of cars and she couldn't see it anymore, then reluctantly shook her head. The mystery of this strange kid would have to wait-at least for now. Tomorrow she'd resume unraveling the answer behind his peculiar reaction to her name. But maybe-an idea sprang into her head-she could make some progress right here.
She spun on her heel, turned toward the school wall in a dramatically secretive fashion, and pulled out her phone from her backpack, logging on swiftly and searching "Tyler London". She waited in impatience as Google loaded the results.
She clicked on several promising links, but after a cursory search she was forced to conclude there was nothing, nothing easily accessible at least. This was going to be even harder than she had originally thought.
Frustrated, she thrust her phone back in her pocket and started on the trek home. Gradually sunlight faded and shadows fell, stabbing the pavement like sharp black knives.
As the sun was beginning to slip beneath the horizon she passed a small grocery. A few cars were parked there but it was mostly deserted. Gwyneth stared about idly and noticed a lone woman making her way across the concrete with a couple bags of groceries. Suddenly the woman cried out-in one swift breathtaking motion she fell to the pavement. Brightly-colored groceries surrounded her like candies scattered on the ground.
Before Gwyneth had consciously recognized what had happened she was next to the woman, rapidly scooping up cans and other oddments that had fallen to the ground. The woman thanked her profusely over and over again. Gwyneth was getting rather peeved by it all, actually (it seemed like she was getting pissed off a lot today).
"Yes, yes, fine, fine," she said, resolutely pushing away offered money. "I'll help carry the groceries to your car, and then I'll be on my way. No payment needed, thanks."
Again the woman thanked her, but as Gwyneth hoisted the groceries for the first time she noticed the woman's face. For a moment she stopped and stared, forgetting herself. There was something so familiar about her, something Gwyneth could not place but felt like she ought to know. It disturbed her. Deeply.
"Something wrong dear?" The woman also seemed a bit nervous. Had she been nervous before Gwyneth's stare, or had her anxiety been caused from Gwyneth's stare? Gwyneth didn't know for sure, but for some reason she had a vague suspicion that the woman had been nervous ever since she had laid eyes on Gwyneth. That her anxiety had originated with Gwyneth's appearance.
"Dear?"
Gwyneth came to herself, shook herself, forced herself to focus on the world around her. "What? - sorry."
The woman shyly tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and clasped her hands in front of her. "Anything I can do to help?"
The two of them locked eyes. The question seemed so genuine, and the lady's voice so full of real compassion. It was evident to Gwyneth that she really meant what she said, that she wasn't just saying it out of a robotic instinct or simply to be polite. And again, Gwyneth got the same spooky overpowering feeling that this woman knew her, knew her in a way even her own parents didn't know her...
Gwyneth broke the gaze and looked down. She slowly shook her head again. This was wrong-she must have gotten something wrong. Too many strange thing had happened today. She was just feeling "out of sorts" as her mother called it. It would pass. It always did.
"No, nothing," she answered. She loaded the groceries into the car and saw a dog poking his head out of the window. Immediately she went to fondle his head and stroke his ears. He was beautiful. Gwyneth was jealous; she had always wanted a dog.
"That's Gareth," the woman said, smiling as she opened the front door.
"I've always wanted a dog," Gwyneth said. Immediately afterwards she bit her lip. What did she say that for? This woman was a stranger. And yet there was something that made Gwyneth instinctively trust her. Why?
"Maybe someday you'll get one," the woman said. Her face was turned away now, and Gwyneth couldn't see her expression, but a certain cadence in her voice seemed to suggest she knew more than she was letting on. It only added to Gwyneth's discomfort and sense of confusion. She stepped away from the dog-it too suddenly seemed to have a malicious glint in its all-too-innocent brown eyes. She felt her foreboding and fear increase. Why had she disobeyed Rule Number 1 for small children, a rule she should have obeyed no matter how intelligent and competent she believed she was: DON'T TALK TO STRANGERS.
She started to walk backwards; tripped and righted herself, then turned and began running as fast as she could away from that weird woman and the mysterious, creepy dog.
"Wait!" the woman called frantically after Gwyneth, her voice breaking, her shout strangled. "Wait! You have to watch for the cracks, Gwyneth Jackson! The cracks are your only chance of escape!"
A part of Gwyneth wanted to stop. A part of her wanted to call to the woman, What cracks? What do you mean? Why would I ever need to escape? What would I be escaping from? How do you know this? How do you know my name? But most of her was too scared, too frightened to do anything but continue to run, run as fast as her tiny legs could carry her away from the deserted parking lot as the shadows deepened and darkened and melded with the night.
~Please remember that reviews are always appreciated. :D
