A new story for you all! This one is set sometime in the future from all the rest of them, and will see the introduction of a few new characters in the next chapters. I hope you enjoy it!
Tommy Johnson stumbled into his dank living room, tripping over an empty bottle as he went. He carried on through to the hall, scooping the pile of post, junk mail and newspapers up with one arm and dumping them onto the dirty coffee table. He sifted through them slowly, throwing anything that slightly resembled a bill onto the mountainous pile beside him. He threw his now empty vodka bottle into a large cardboard box across the other side of the room, wincing as the smash aggravated his permanent headache. He leant back wearily on the sofa, picking up the local newspaper, sifting through it. There was nothing of interest until he got about halfway through. There, in a big colourful photo, was someone he recognised. He tried to focus, to unscramble his vision, concentrating on the photo. With a cry of anguish, clarity hit him. He dropped the paper, scrambling away off of the sofa, sinking down in the corner of the room, rocking back and forth on the grimy carpet. Flashbacks fired at rapid speed through his head, of this woman who had stolen his dignity and his confidence, who had ruined his life. Paula Whittaker. The name was like a bomb going off in his brain, unleashing everything he had tried so hard to keep bottled up.
He was fifteen when it started. A scrawny boy, with dirty blonde hair and sunken grey eyes. He had been shuttled back and forth to different care homes since he was eleven, when he had been taken from his mother due to her drug use. When he was first taken from his mother, he would cry every night, and have even tried running away back to his home. And then he realised that crying didn't achieve anything, so he kept his head down, did what he had to, to survive. School, which was once a place he regarded similarly to a torture chamber, became his sanctuary as he found a subject he not only liked, but was also good at. Art. He was good at putting emotion and depth into his work, that was what Ms Whittaker had said to him. Tommy liked Ms Whittaker, she seemed to understand him, and was more sympathetic than the other teachers. She helped him to identify his own painting style, giving him hints and tips, and also giving him supplies from school so he could carry on his new found love at his foster home. It was during his GCSE year that everything happened. Ms Whittaker offered to give Tommy extra tuition sessions after school to try and achieve Tommy's goal of getting an A in art; it was the only grade he cared about. Tommy jumped at the opportunity to have extra help and support, and anything that kept him away from his foster home was fine by him. Over the first few months of the extra sessions, Tommy's scrapbook grew and grew with his work, and there was an excitement about him whenever you gave him a blank canvas, his mind filling with the possibilities. During one of these sessions, something changed. Ms Whittaker insisted that Tommy call her Paula, which he did, although he thought it strange. And then, when checking his work, she would lean down opposite him, showing off her cleavage, smiling when she caught him looking.
"Its ok." she whispered, "You're allowed to look. Maybe I'll let you touch as well." Tommy was speechless, surely she wasn't allowed to say things like that to him? She walked slowly, almost predator-like, around the table, trailing her hand over his shoulder and around his neck. Tommy was still, not wanting to move, not knowing how to make her stop. She hopped up on the table next to him, leaning back, flaunting her flat stomach, her heavy chest. She smiled at him, encouraging, but Tommy just stared, his mouth open, before grabbing his backpack and his art books and running as fast as his legs could carry him, away from the art room, away from her.
Whenever he saw her around school he would turn and walk in the other direction, or duck inside the toilets or empty classrooms. In art lessons, he would sit on the busiest table so she would have no room to come and talk to him. He stopped going to the extra tuition lessons. He knew what Ms Whittaker had done wasn't right, but he was also scared of what he might have done. He was, after all, a curious fifteen year old boy who was ruled primarily by his hormones. But one afternoon, after art, she cornered him.
"Where were you last night Tommy? I waited and you didn't show up. It made me very sad." Ms Whittaker said with a pout, backing Tommy against the wall.
"My...my...my foster dad was ill, I had to go home." Tommy stammered, ducking under her arm and gathering up his stuff. He heard the clacking of her heels as she followed him.
"Now now Tommy, it's not good to tell lies, especially to your teachers. I thought we were friends?" Ms Whittaker said with a frown.
"I'm not lying Miss." Tommy said, keeping his gaze down. He felt his eyes rising up to meet hers as she tilted his head up.
"Tommy, if you don't come to those sessions, I will fail you. Do you understand me? You won't be going to art college." she threatened softly. Tommy desperately tried to stop the tears falling. "Oh Tommy darling, don't cry." And with that, Paula kissed him.
The "affair" carried on for five months, until Tommy finished his GCSE's. He didn't do badly overall, and he got the A he so badly craved in art. But he couldn't do it anymore. Anytime he picked up a paintbrush, he thought of the rough texture of her lips when she kissed him. Anytime he mixed up a peachy colour, he thought of the colour of the skin of her breasts. Everything to do with art reminded him of her, and he couldn't face it anymore. So he rejected his place at art college, he locked all his old sketchbooks up in a trunk stored in the attic, and he got the hell out of there. He needed to change radically, to stop this from happening again. Gone went the scrawny body, replaced by bulging muscles. Gone went the shaggy blonde hair, all shaved off. But still the sunken eyes remained, ringed with despair. That was something he couldn't get rid of, however hard he tried.
After some months of dossing about, not knowing what to do with his life, he joined up with the army. It was the best choice he had ever made. The training was draining, both physically and mentally, but it meant there was no room for her in his mind. He became really good mates with two of the guys, Jason Cook and Miles Grey. He didn't tell them about Paula, didn't want them to see him as a victim. When they were posted to Afghanistan for a six month tour, it wasn't fear he felt, but excitement. This was it. He was going to fight for his country and he could die, but he would be with the only people who he regarded as his family, his brothers. It was so unlike anything he had ever been through. The heat was unrelenting, the dust constantly getting in his throat, and the casualties were insane. In his first month, two people from his unit died, and one lost both legs. Nearly all of them had suffered some sort of injury. He had never been so scared in his life, but he knew that with Jason and Miles by his side, he would be fine. They were on patrol one night in the town, the three of them patrolling the main street. They were laughing and joking, Miles telling them all about his dappy fiancée Keira.
"Boy is she thick sometimes, but I can't help loving her. She makes me laugh! We went to Ibiza last summer to celebrate our engagement, and when the plane landed, she said, and I quote, "Thank God we're back on terracotta!"" Miles was in stitches by the time he finished the sentence.
"You're lucky to have her waiting for you back home, mate. All I've got is my mental mum." Jason said with a sigh.
"At least you've got someone." Tommy pointed out.
"That's true...hey, what's that?" Jason said, squinting and pointing to a speeding car coming up the street towards them.
"It looks like it's heading for the embassy!" Miles shouted, grabbing his radio, alerting their unit and any nearby uniforms to be on alert. The threesome ran quickly after the car, watching as it aimed straight for the embassy. Tommy pulled out his gun, aiming carefully at one of the car's wheels. He aimed and took the shot, getting the tyre, watching it explode and the car roll three times, resting in the middle of the street. The three men approached cautiously, guns drawn. Miles kicked the broken door open, Jason helping him to drag the apparently unconscious man out, Tommy training his gun on him. But in the blink of an eye, the man had pulled a gun and shot Miles point blank in the face. He fell with a thud, his face completely obliterated.
Jason and Tommy returned from their tour, without their comrade, best friend, and brother. They went their separate ways, promising to keep in touch, but Tommy had sunk into the depths of despair, suffering horrific flashbacks of Miles death, of all the friends he'd seen suffer, of Paula. It all piled up on him, got too much, so he turned to the bottle, and he hadn't emerged in over three years.
Tommy fell into an uneasy sleep on the floor, curled up as tightly as possible. In his dreams he only saw one thing; himself with a gun, shooting it straight into Paula Whittakers face.