My First Bedroom

My first bedroom was where fairies gathered motionless on the walls waiting for night to come so they could dance around under the faint glow of the fairy castle lamp. Occasionally they tiptoed off the wall to tuck a silver coin beneath a pillow covered with wavy chestnut hair. In the corner stood a washbasin where tiny soapy hands scrubbed away the remains of each day’s adventures. The mirror above the basin reflected rosy marshmallow cheeks, lips plumped with a thousand questions and eyes sparkling with the thrill of the present. Next to it towered a white wardrobe with a neatly ironed green school uniform hanging on the front like a medal. Inside the wardrobe Snow White’s dress vied for space amongst hems of colourful tulle, shiny Lycra leotards and lovingly knit woollen creations.

The wardrobe was good for hide and seek and for disappearing into when I didn’t want to be found… I feel the cold metal from my tap shoes digging into my skinny legs as I crouch in the corner of the wardrobe with my eyes closed to shut out the darkness. But I stay where I am because I believe that one day the back of the wardrobe will suddenly open and lead me to a world of snow queens and talking lions and enchanted forests. A world where I can be a real Snow White, the heroine of my own fairytale. I hear my Mummy’s footsteps, followed by her voice. I know that any minute now the wardrobe door will open and I’ll have to climb back out. Back into my bedroom. My first bedroom. A room where fairies are trapped in wallpaper and can only come out at night when no one’s looking. At least they didn’t think I was. Even fairies make mistakes.

You lose your sense of humour

You lose your sense of humour when you’ve only got a week left to write a 5000-word coursework essay and you still haven’t started even though you’ve had three months to do it and you’ve had a fever for the last week which has kept you awake at night so you’re feeling tired as well as ill whilst trying to think what to write but you can’t concentrate because there’s a contract sitting next to you waiting to be signed but you don’t know whether or not to sign it because it’s for a flat you’ve made an offer on but you’re not sure whether to go ahead and complete because everyone’s saying it’s a bad time to buy because the housing market’s going to crash and you’d be a fool to buy now but then again if you don’t you’ll lose the flat you’ve had your heart set on the flat you walked past the other day and saw the owner in the window cradling her newborn baby who she’s waiting to take to start a fresh life in a new house where another family sits waiting to move but you don’t know why because you’re not dealing with them directly because they’re further up the chain but your decision still effects them and potentially even more people because you don’t know how long the chain is or exactly how many lives could be turned upside down by your decision but you can’t think about that because you’ve got an essay to write and the deadline is drawing nearer and the page is looking blanker and bigger and you still can’t think of a word to write so you might as well switch off the computer and try again tomorrow because everything looks smaller in the light of day

Her Mum's Kitchen

It was hard to see in her Mum’s kitchen. It was always thick with smoke. Not smoke from cooking - not much cooking went on in that kitchen. Smoke from her Mum’s cigarettes. If her Mum could’ve rolled pastry as well as she rolled a bit of baccy and paper, she doubted she’d be the size 8 she was today. In fact she had a lot more to thank her Mum’s nicotine addiction for than her skinny little ass.

It was her pert buttock that started it all. He pinched it as he passed her in the club. She saw him blow her kiss as he walked towards the bar, motioning for her to join him. Her friends urged her to follow, told her he was far too fit to ignore. And well, she deserved a bit of fun after the way Andy had treated her. So she DIO’d her Bacardi Breezer and followed the trail of testosterone.

He’d insisted on walking her back to her Mum’s. On kissing her goodnight outside the front door. She thought he’d started walking back down the path as she turned the key in the lock, but suddenly there he was pushing her inside, pushing her forwards through the hallway and into the kitchen. One hand over her mouth, the other pushing her forwards. Forwards over the kitchen worktop. Darkness. The sound of a zip opening. Her arms flaying across the worktop searching for something. Help. The sponginess of the tobacco packet first, then on top something small, hard. Grab. Flick lighter. Flame to denim. Shrieks. Obscenities. Legs being slapped.
Jeans pulled down. Off.

She watched his silhouette run from the kitchen and out the front door, then stamped on his jeans until all the flames were out. Her Mum’s kitchen thick with smoke.