Chapter 2

Hi! I hope you noticed that I have clumped chapter 1 and the prologue together, but this IS a new chapter. I have finished exams no and PLEASE review. It really helps! Thanks

Previously…

My eyes widen as I realise that that is not the case. Standing before me is a boy with black hair and blue eyes, and relatively close looking to somewhere around my age group. The arm that had caught me now dangles loosely at his side, and the other is holding the box, which I had dropped, with ease. He smiles, stretching out his palm for me to shake.

'Hi', he comments. 'My name is Ian. It's nice to finally meet you.'

Wanda POV

For a moment, I loose myself in his blue eyes, staring at him with a baffled expression, my mouth drooping open. I can't imagine what I must look like to him, but in that very moment, I decide not to care. It is only seconds later that the world comes rushing back at me again; ready hit me at full speed.

Snapping out of whatever trance I have managed to get caught up in, I eye his hand before stretching out my own palm for him to shake. My hesitation seems to have confused him, but he still manages to smile warmly at me.

Once he is done shaking my hand, I let my arm drop loosely to my side and stand there, staring at his face… and all of a sudden, he bursts out laughing, clutching his side with one hand and bending over slightly.

I blush and look at the ground. I have blown it now. The one opportunity to make a friend has arrived and now, he already hates me! He is laughing at me like the crowd will once I begin school.

After a few moments, his laughter still doesn't let up. He really must think that I'm stupid. However, unluckily for him, I have decided not to put up with it anymore- All the laughter, the shoves, the slaps… I'm going to be strong.

'What?' I try to snap, but it just comes out as a grumble, the pain in my voice visible.

Although this does manage to stop him in his tracks and his laughter abruptly fades away. He looks up and places his hand on my shoulder. I am very aware of his touch but I somehow manage not to flinch. Once he has found out about me, he won't even want to look at me, never mind touch me.

'I'm sorry!' He gasps. 'Didn't mean it like that.'

I look up, bewildered. 'What do you mean? Then why did you laugh?'

'It's just- well, nobody has ever rally looked at me like that.'

I tap my foot impatiently, my arms crossed. 'Like what exactly?'

He bites his lip to keep himself from laughing. 'Like I'm a monster. You look like you're afraid of me.'

I say nothing.

'I promise, I don't bite', he jokes, but scratches his head when I don't laugh.

Eventually, he just shakes his head. 'I'm sorry. I guess I'm not the best at making friends. I didn't mean to bother y-'

'You're not?' I ask, cutting him off.

He runs a hand through his messy black hair and smiles. 'Definitely not.' He pauses. 'How about you?'

This time, I smile back. 'I think we're just about on the same page on that one.'

'How come?'

I pause. Since I have only just met him, I am not going to share with him anything personal. It is almost certain that he will turn against me, and then, my secrets will spread throughout the town. I can't bear to think of anything that could possibly be even more humiliating than this.

I choose my words carefully. 'I… I sometimes let the past get in my way. Everything I touch falls apart, and it's exactly the same with people, although it seems to have a more negative effect.'

I look at him out of the corner of my eye, expecting him to be deeply uninterested, twiddling his thumbs or something of the sort. However, to my surprise, his eyes are fixed on my face and he looks concerned. His forehead is creased and he look as though he is in deep thought, listening to each and every one of my words intently.

Since he isn't laughing, I decide to continue. 'Everyone I meet turns against me.' I shrug. 'It's just life, I guess.'

He clears his throat. 'Then your life must definitely suck.'

'Definitely.' At least he seems to agree with me. I just don't understand why he still isn't laughing at me. Everyone else I have ever told these same words to always have begun by now.

'If you ever need anything, I live just next door. I'm in most of the time anyway.'

I raise my eyebrows. 'How come? I mean, with parties, nights out and all…' I hesitate momentarily. '… a girlfriend?'

He chuckles. 'I'm not really that type of guy and I definitely don't have a girlfriend.'

He seems to be using that word a lot. Usually this would bother me, but in this case, it isn't so bad. It is probably just out of habit. Either that or he is messing with me.

'So if you're not that type of guy, then you must be the one who is ultimately known as the 'one night stand', I'm guessing, seeing as you don't have a girlfriend.'

This makes him laugh again. Honestly, I don't think it is that funny. In truth, I am actually being pretty serious. It is only logical.

'You're wrong.'

'Am I?'

'Believe me; it's hard to find a decent girl in this town. All they seem to care about these days is there bloody makeup and sex.'

I blush, attempting to recover quickly. Thankfully he doesn't notice. He is distracted by the beeping of his phone, although it is obviously just a text since the ringing sound is not constant. To my surprise, he doesn't answer it, or even read what it says. Instead, he is still looking at me, deeply engrossed into our current conversation.

'Seriously?' I muse.

He raises an eyebrow questioningly while I shake my head in disbelief. This, I have never seen before.

'You're not going to answer it?'

He leans in mischievously. 'Why? Does that bother you?'

I snort. 'Of course not. That's just unusual.'

'Back to you. I have never seen a girl off her phone for this long. It's actually quite impressive.'

'Don't have one', I announce, then quickly clap my hand over my mouth. This time, I have blown it for sure. He is bound to think that I'm a complete weirdo now.

He smirks. 'Impossible.'

Somehow, he is still talking to me. 'What do you mean? No it's not!'

'Yes it is. It goes beyond nature.'

I place my hands on my hips. 'Try me.'

When I say this, I have no idea that he would take me so seriously. Before I have time to register what he is about to do, his hand reaches my pockets. I jump backwards as he taps the side of my legs, searching in my jean pockets.

I know what he is about to do now. He is going to slap me. He will make me pay.

Instead, he holds up his hand in surrender, sighing. His face is not mocking, perplexed or disgusted. Unbelievably, it is understanding and kind.

I turn my back to him, ready to attempt flight while I still can, but he stops me in my tracks. 'Hey!' He yells over my shoulder.

I pause and flip around, still taking a few cautious steps backwards.

'I'm not that…'

The rest of his sentence blurs before my ears, making it impossible for me to hear. This enforces me to walk right back up to him again.

'What?' I whisper.

His face now looks worried. 'I'm not that type of guy either', he repeats. 'I won't do that to you or to anybody'. His voice is almost a whisper, like mine, and for once, he is being serious.

'Then what type of guy are you?' I ask.

He taps his nose with his finger. 'That, I'm afraid, is something that you're going to have to find out.'

He shifts his arms, and I finally realise that he is still holding the box that I had nearly dropped earlier. I reach out and take it from him and he tucks it into my arms, ensuring that I have a firm hold, not wanting to repeat what has just happened.

'Thanks.'

'Don't mention it', he says, and with a wave, sets off back to his house.

I am about halfway up the driveway when I receive a light tap on my shoulder. I turn around and grin as I see Ian, once again, standing right in front of me.

'I didn't catch your name.'

'Damn right you didn't.'

'C'mon', he pleads. 'It feels strange that you know mine when I don't even know yours.'

I stand there, my lips pressed into a tight line. If I tell him, then he might find out about me… he might make fun of me…

Despite the fear, I tell him anyway. 'Wanda', I sigh. 'It's Wanda.'

His face lights up. 'It's a pleasure to meet you, Wanda', he says before jogging off in the other direction.

He really is a mystery.

Xxxxx

The outside of the house looks relatively average, although once inside, I begin to realise that this house is nothing of the sort. This place is huge! It may be that we are still waiting for the delivery truck to bring our furniture and the house looks empty and bare without it, but I still think that this has been rather an impressive move.

Even so, before even entering, at the threshold of the doorway, I had made myself promise not to get too attached to the house or anybody I meet in the area. That will just make it too painful for when we will have to move again.

Anyhow, next time round, it will probably just be me doing all the moving since my family does seem to be growing noticeably sick of my 'behaviour.' They don't say it, but it is very apparent on their faces.

When I enter the living room, my parents and Freedom are sat on the carpet, although Freedom not so much. It looks as though they are having to pin him to the ground to stop him from leaping up again and destroying the house on one of his 'adventures' or 'missions.'

His legs and arms are sprawled out in such a way that it makes him look like a starfish. My Dad is tickling his stomach, making him roar out with laughter and my Mum is smiling at him sweetly while I hover in the doorway, towing in the last of our hand luggage- well, I should say their hand luggage.

Despite the sadness that I am not involved in their group, I am pleased that they all look happy. However, there is always that longing ache in my Mum's eyes when she looks at Dad, wishing that he would stay longer so that we could be a 'happy family again.' Being logical, I know that that is never going to happen. Ever.

I stand there in the doorway, watching them play until Mum notices me standing there. She jumps slightly, feeling nervous with my flat eyes on her, allowing Freedom an escape from her hold. He whips out of her arms and begins to run around the room wildly, his arms spinning round in the air like windmills.

She looks at him sighing, before rising from her crouch and walking over to me. She hooks her thumb under my chin, lifting my face up to look at her. I don't meet her eyes.

'Wanda, honey. Don't look so sad.'

I try my best to smile, but probably fail miserably. The buzz that I had felt from talking to Ian vanishes, and a permanent frown has formed on my face. Even though I can't help it, no matter how hard I try, I attempt to look happier, seeing as being gloomy only makes Mum sad too. When she gets sad, she gets stressed.

When she gets stressed, she gets tired. When she gets tired, she has to take her pills. Everything pretty much goes downhill from there onwards, and she either ends up in bed all week or at the hospital with an oxygen mask on her face. It is never a pretty thing to witness.

She strokes my cheek. 'Can I get you anything? Are you feeling okay?'

Again with the questions. They are all pointless. Even if I say yes, you can get me something, or no, I'm not feeling okay, there is nothing that she can do to help me. Nobody can help me. I am stuck inside my own mental web of despair.

'I'm fine, Mum.' I mumble. 'I'll be fine.'

She smiles weakly, her tired eyes gleaming. 'Are you sure? If you want I could-'

'Can I pick my room?' I ask, attempting to distract her.

We have the same conversation every time we move. It always ends up leading us nowhere, and she leaves me behind to tie off the loose ends.

'I… er…'

Dad suddenly appears behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. 'We've already chosen ours. The guest room is on the right on the first floor. There's one room free on the top floor- just to the right. You'll be sure to find it.'

Out of four whole sentences, he still doesn't look at me. 'Thanks Dad', I mutter.

Great. It looks like I am going to be stuck up in the attic.

I climb the stairs two at a time and decide to inspect the first floor to begin with. I count off the rooms with my fingers.

The first finger: My parent's room. The owners of the house have left the double bed behind since it is impossible to fit through the door frame. The walls are bare and the windows have newspaper covering the glass, seeing as there are no curtains to provide them with privacy.

Finger two: Freedom's room. His toy aeroplane sits in the centre of the room, and he has scribbled over the floor in black ink. Stepping forwards, I realise that the black ink belongs to my favourite writing pen which lies in the corner of the room, the lid mangled and bent. The nib has been ripped from the pen entirely. I wipe away a tear and move on.

Finger Three: The bathroom. The shelves are empty apart from Mum's pills. The walls are stained slightly with wet patches where water has seeped into the walls. The sinks are fairly clean, but the floors are layered with dirt and dust.

Finger four: A storage cupboard. Plan, boring and small, just like any other storage cupboard.

Finger five: A door with the stairs leading up to my new room. I can't bear to go up yet. I want to finish inspecting the rest of the house like I have done before many times. It is a routine for me now.

The bedroom is always the last room that I look at, and I usually spend the rest of the day sulking in that very room, preparing for the worst. It is like 'save the best till last' but in reverse.

Finger six… finger six? This room is empty and a decent size for a bedroom. I don't understand why they have insisted that I go on the top floor when there is a perfectly decent room right here. Maybe they made a mistake? Could they possibly have miscounted?

I rush back down the stairs and shake my Mum's shoulder, panting as she spins round. She looks quite shocked at my appearance.

'What about the other room, Mum? I'm sure it's much nicer than the attic.'

'Sorry, pet', she whispers back to me. 'It's taken.'

'Taken? What do you mean?'

'Your father wants to use it as his office', she says, turning back to picking at her uneven nails.

'But he won't even be here!' I blurt out without thinking.

All eyes in the room turn to me. Even Freedom was quiet, his perplexed eyes fixed on my face. He doesn't understand and I don't blame him. It isn't often that I speak up above a whisper, never mind a half- shout.

As soon as I begin to feel more tears dribbling down my face, I turn my back and abruptly depart from the room, leaving my baffled family behind me. I run up to the attic and shut the door. All is quiet behind me and not one soul comes up to check on me.

Sniffing, I tuck my knees into my chest, my back against the wall and let it all out. All the tears, the pain, the horror… and sadly, another memory…

I sit on the bed with James and Martha, a crimson coloured pen in my hand. My legs are crossed beneath me and my dress has become slightly creased. It is black velvet with shiny sequins that always fall off.

He had chosen that dress for me, and all I remember thinking is that he wouldn't be happy. Nor would he be after Martha and James had doodled with their own pink and black pens all up my arms.

'Draw me a flower, Wanda', Martha squeals. 'And make it good- I want to say that I got a tattoo.'

James rolls his eyes. When I finish drawing the flower, he colours it in and makes her growl.

'Get off! It's supposed to be pretty. Now it's just a black… a black…'

'Splodgey mess?' I offer with a giggle.

She snapps her fingers. 'Exactly. Super Splodgey.'

James pops the pen lid back on and shrugs. 'Don't blame me for trying. It's not my fault that Wanda's so good at art.'

I blush. Martha reaches out for my arm and begins to doodle. I reluctantly let her for a few moments, but when she doesn't stop, I snatch my arm away. She glares at me with an annoyed expression.

'Here we go again…' James mumbles.

'Wanda, don't you want to look sexy?' She wiggles her eyebrows.

I sigh. 'I know what you're going to say, but don't. I'm going out tonight and he won't like it.'

He won't just 'not like it.' He will be furious. I sometimes tend to forget this, just like I do just moments later.

'C'mon Wanda. Just have some fun!'

'Yeah, he won't care. It's only a date, right? Just wear a jacket or something.'

Martha giggles. 'He will Never notice.'

I sigh again, looking at both of their puppy-dog eyes. I can't help it. I give in.

Although hours later, I had only just begun that Martha and James may have gotten a little carried away and had forgotten their promise to tone it down and keep it minimized and simple. When he had come to pick me up, my earlier and wiser assumptions had been correct. He was more than unhappy to see that his girlfriend had appeared with pen all over her face and arms.

I step forwards to hug him like he had insisted that I do every time we meet. He takes me in his rough cold arms and squeezes me slightly. The embrace never lasts long but this one in particular seems to be noticeably shorter than the rest.

Something is wrong- I can sense it. I just don't understand what that something could be.

His whole body suddenly goes stiff and he pulls me away from him, holding me at arm's length. His hold on me begins to hurt, but I don't complain. I silently stand there as his nails dig into my skin.

His eyes are scanning my face and arms with a horrified glint. I curse under my breath as I realise that I have forgotten to bring my jacket.

'What the hell is this?' He growls.

I try not to panic. 'It's just pen', I soothe him. 'It was fun…'

He is just standing there, his nails still breaking the surface of my skin. I bite my lip as I watch the red liquid lap over his fingers and run down my arms.

'… do you like it?'

He scowls. Suddenly, he began to bend over, and ripped the hem of my dress, revealing the pen marks trailing all the way up my legs.

In that moment, I recall Martha saying, 'He won't see them here. Just have some fun!'

Of course, Martha was wrong, once again. The pair of them continuously underestimated his ability of getting angry.

Before I can attempt to reassure him that it is nothing, he grabs hold of my hair and begins walking, dragging me along with him. His pace is too fast for my short legs to keep up with, and I find myself stumbling along the sidewalk, a wave of panic rolling over me.

He swings open the restroom door and drags me in; locking the door behind him once he has checked that there is nobody inside. The stench of alcohol tells me that we must be in some sort of pub, but unfortunately, it is highly unpopulated. Nobody will hear me scream…

He pulls me along to the sinks, but I refuse to go any further, planting my heels into the cracks in the floor. 'Stop!' I sob. 'You're hurting me!'

He spits on the floor, and slaps me straight across the cheek, the blow sending me falling to the ground. He lets me lie there on the cold, hard tile for a few moments, towering above me and listening to my whimpers.

Moments later, he is off again, hauling me up and planting me down in front of the sinks.

'What are you-'

He bangs his hand into the glass mirror, pointing at my reflection. The glass shatters beneath his fist and I split into a million pieces, dropping to the ground like fresh tears.

'Do I like it?' He roars. 'Just look at yourself!'

He grips the back of my neck and points my head down in the direction of the floor, forcing me to look at my tear streaked face in the broken shards of glass, mascara running down my cheeks.

He kicks me forwards in rage. 'Wash it off', he orders.

I obey, and obediently turn on the taps with shaky hands, rubbing the water onto my skin. I pinch hard into my flesh, but no matter how hard I wash my arms, the ink fails to leave my pale skin.

'It won't come off… I…'

'Wash. It. Off.'

I put my head in my hands. 'But It won't come off', I sob.

Being in the reckless state that I am in at this very moment, I don't see him come at me for the last time. He grabs my skull and bangs it against the edge of the sinks. My helpless figure tumbles to the ground and the rusty old tiles are given a fresh new coat with my blood.

All I hear is his shouts. All I taste is my blood. All I smell is his same, musty scent. All I feel is pain and all I see is blackness.

The next day, I had woken up in the hospital. He hadn't brought me there-m of course he hadn't! My best guess at the time had been that one of the bar attendants had needed a bathroom break and he had been forced to co-operate. He had been a brilliant actress.

None of my family had been there, but he was, for a limited amount of time. He had remained as a warning as to not open my mouth. I had known what would have happened if I ever did.

The doctors had reported that I had collapsed under the influence of alcohol. He had been there to 'rescue me' and that I would be fine. I had a fractured skull, a broken arm and a sprained ankle but I also had nothing that couldn't be fixed.

He had warned me shortly after that wherever I hid, he would always find me- wherever I went, he would follow me and that whenever I ran, he would always catch me.

He taught me that there were penalties in life and that my life would be a living hell.

I had believed him. The worst thing is that to this day, I still do. He will always come back for me.