Seven Years:
Once I was seven years old my daddy told me...
"Go get yourself some friends or you'll be lonely." George spits, the stench of alcohol on his breath. I'm slammed up against the wall, his grip tightened around my wrist. Many times this has happened, and every time I was just as scared.
"What, like you, you mean?" I dare myself to ask, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. "At least I don't make friends with a bottle of vodka."
I spoke too soon. But I didn't know that then, I was too naive to know what the future held.
"You speak to me like that again..." He growls, his voice low, his breath hot on my face. I could feel his heart racing, his blood pumping, his veins palpitating. "And you'll wish you'd never been born."
But that was a wish I wanted to be granted. At the age of seven, just a child. An innocent child, wishing she was dead. Wishing that her mother had realised sooner, or maybe drunk herself into oblivion and miscarried. Oh the irony. Her, her of all people. Instead it happened to me.
It was a big, big world, but we thought we were bigger. Pushing each other to the limits we were learning quicker.
"Carla, your turn." Liam grins, as the bottle stops, pointed at me.
"Do your worst." I dare him, my eyes glinting as his hair flops over his face.
"Climb to the top, stand on the very edge of the quarry, close your eyes and count to ten." He orders, as I narrow my eyes for a second, glancing across at Paul.
"Easy." I stand up confidently, making my way towards the rocks that line the edge of the cliff. I had plenty of practice at climbing up here, it was my escape. The air is cool against my face, revitalising it as I stare out over the view. I don't look down at the boys, I could hear them chanting but it was easy to block out, when I was here.
By eleven smoking herb and drinking burning liqueur. Never rich so we were out to make that steady figure.
"Three, two, one." The shots are like fire in my throat, channeling through my body, keeping me alive.
"You're pretty hardcore for your age." Some random bloke points out, eyeing me up from the corner of the room. "You can only be what? Thirteen."
"Eleven." I say proudly, which leaves him in shock.
"Isn't it past your bedtime?" He grimaces and I flick my hair flirtatiously.
"I don't have a bedtime." I tell him and he sniggers at me as Paul passes me the spliff. I take a large drag, keeping my eyes glued to him the entire time.
I thought I was being cool, he thought I was being cool, I wasn't being cool.
Once I was twenty years old, my story got told. Before the morning sun when life was lonely.
"So you're gonna marry Paul?" Michelle quizzes me, as we sit on his bed, flicking through wedding magazines. The sun was rising and beams were shining in through the window, causing the room to glow a vibrant orange colour.
"That's the plan." I mutter, unenthusiastic, which is something she had picked up on.
"You love him?" She asks again, her eyes wide.
"...Yeah." I reply, hesitantly. "Then again I've never known what love is... But he knows my story, and you've all lived it with me. I think that outweighs love; understanding."
"I don't know what love is either..." She trails off, tilting her head to where Ryan was sleeping soundly in his crib next to us. "Then again I feel differently about so many different people... I love Ryan, but then I love Dean, I love Liam and Paul and my parents..."
"Alright for some." I mumble, and she turns to look back at me, taking my hand in hers.
"I love you." She whispers and I shoot her a smile, squeezing her hand before going back to looking at the magazines.
I only see my goals, I don't believe in failure, because I know the smallest voices they can make it major.
"That's at least something you can take with you in life." Liam's eyes are steady on mine, as I lean up against the wall in my wedding dress. "You never gave up. You're here, now. For that, and for everything, you're the strongest person I know."
I don't reply, and he takes it as his cue to leave. My eyes follow him as he walks down the corridor, disappearing from view in his best man suit.
This has been my goal; to get out of the estate, to force myself forward. A rich, successful husband. A warm home. Accepting in-laws. A life I could call my own.
Once I had said 'I do' I had done it, then there was no going back.
I'm still learning about life.
"I don't need you. No, you can go to hell like the rest of them." I spit at Peter, his eyes pleading me, the scratches on his face reminding me. How was I so stupid? How did I never learn?
Three times. Three times and here I was again. I really thought I'd cracked it. But I was still learning, I would never understand the cruelty that life threw at me.
"I have never felt so pregnant." I snap, tears streaming down my face, one hand clasped over my stomach. I never wanted children. But now I did, now I wanted them more than ever, even if her dad was a lying, cheating piece of scum. Just like mine was.
Soon I'll be sixty years old, my daddy got sixty one, remember life and then your life becomes a better one.
"I'm your... I'm your dad." The words hit me hard. I hadn't heard that right, surely. I turn slowly, my eyes meeting Johnny's, he looked so serious. I hated that. Laugh, tell me it was a joke, even if he was just pretending.
"I had a dad..." I manage to muster, my eyes scanning his face, willing that he didn't suddenly look so much like me. "Rubbish enough to be my flesh and blood, I would have known."
"How?" He dares to reply, the breath catching in his throat. "We never told a soul, me and your mum."
My mum. How did she even earn that title? To this day I felt neglected, lost, broken. All because of her, and apparently, him.
Soon I'll be sixty years old, will I think the world is cold? Will I have a lot of children who can warm me?
"Pregnant?" Nick studies me carefully, his eyes so loving, it killed me. It killed me to know that what he wanted more than anything in the world was a child. That had been taken away from him, time and time again. He could have had Kylie's baby, but it was David's. He could have had my baby, but it was Robert's.
So I would live pretending. I would run away with him, no one would ever need to know. We would raise this baby as if it was his, it was his, it would always be his. Nothing was going to stop us from spending the rest of our lives together.
"Carla." He wraps me in a hug, my head resting on his shoulder, his tears wet in my hair, his hands warm on my skin. "You've made me so happy, so so happy. I love you."
"I love you too." I whisper.
"And when we're old." He pulls away, looking into my eyes, which were equally glistening with tears. "And we're frail, and you can't walk around in your six inch stilettos anymore. I'll keep you warm, we'll count the wrinkles on our entwined hands. Our children have grown up, they'll come and visit once or twice a month. I'll still love you. No matter what."
Once I was seven years old, my mama told me...
"Go make yourself some friends or you'll be lonely." She repeats George, and she doesn't pull him off me. She doesn't tell him to stop. She doesn't tell him to put the bottle down. She doesn't kick him out, or cry, or beg him to stop.
Instead she watches me, weak, fragile, the daughter she never wanted.
The daughter she never wanted, who achieved so much and yet achieved so little.
Once I was seven years old.