Sunday, 16 June 2013


So this past week for me was really difficult because part way through I realised that it was a really difficult week the year before.
I don't want to go into details of why, but it was because I realised it I also realised that I am most definitely not the same person. I have changed  so much and all for the better! To be honest actually, I should be grateful of this week last year because it was the thing I had been waiting for in order to be able to move on and be able to be me.. It was a day a couple of weeks later last year that was really very shit.
Well, I thought about it a lot and because I'm not the same I thought my blog should probably have some changes too - any comments of them are welcome(:

My stress levels the past couple of weeks have been at a high - Not having my bike, trying to get money to be able to fix my bike, trying also to afford food, and to get to and from college. To get to and from college I have to stay somewhere in Salisbury because there aren't buses early enough where I live to get me to the college bus in the morning. This actually means I often stay at my boyfriends' house when I need to rather than when I want, I actually don't know when the last time was that I stayed at his just because we wanted to spend time together - nowadays it's always because I have to go to college the next day, or I have work. It's been ages since I've stayed anywhere other than his on a Wednesday night. He says he doesn't mind it, and I will actually probably stay over his about the same amount of time when I get my bike back as I already do... but I just feel rude about it and worry that I'm taking advantage. It's not a good feeling.

I took my bike to a different garage - they should be fixing it faster and cheaper than the other one so that's good news - it's just a matter of waiting for it. I can't wait to just have the whole summer of no worries really.

Wednesday, 5 June 2013

Motorbike - I hate you

So let's recap on this motorbike situation.
I passed my CBT just before Christmas. Beginning of February I buy a bike. Pay for repairs around March. Physically get the bike about three weeks ago. After having it a week get a flat tyre - have to pay to fix it, get it back end of that week. Not even a week after that I slip in the rain on a roundabout. This was last Tuesday. I leave my bike there - I thought there wasn't any damage. Am taken up the hospital because of my knee - which is healing pretty well now. Thursday I went to pick it up, look it over, try to ride it, something is up with the steering and the headlight is hanging onto the front of it. Take it to a garage on the Saturday. Today I am told it is going to cost more than twice the amount of money that I have to fix it. Being unable to fix it means I can't get to college for the rest of the term. And that means that I won't be able to continue my course. It also means that I may be homeless again because the main reason I was allowed to stay with the people I live with at the moment was because I had the bike and therefore able to get about and get to college etc.
I had such a short period of time - only about a week - where everything seemed to be going alright and sorting itself out. It's so cruel of the world to let me think that and then take it away again so soon.
I can feel all the pressure of everything - from the last couple of months and the last week just rush back up and hit me straight in the chest. I don't know how to deal with it right now.
I feel like I just want to get away.
I don't want to be here - and I don't want anything else bad to be happening to me. I think, right now, if something does, I might break completely. I don't want to be that broken girl again - not anymore. Everything was going so well.
I thought 18 was going to be my year.
I really did.

Sunday, 2 June 2013

Flesh and Blood

Snow covered branches stretch across the pink-blue stain of sky, their leafless glory barely quivering in the October breezes. Puffy grey-white clouds drift smoothly past the firmly planted silhouette of magnificent tree. The snow-spattered grass glows cerise and the sky is painted a thousand fiery shades as the sun rises anew from the east.
A tiny rabbit lifts its head from an unknown source in the grass, her little nose red from the cold and azure eyes wide with wonder. The baby rabbit shifts her head and explores her surroundings without moving from her position. Her beauty we see, yet he does not. With her innocent face staring into you, she never sees the bullet coming. Brief yet thunderous was the rabbit’s death; the pale snow is now dipped in a vibrant red.
From behind the tree came the figure. Stunted though sturdy, he marches toward the pest. At this angle you can barely see the boy lifting its head, and exploring the bullet hole with his fingers; as if to ensure her death. The mutilated brains slip out. The boy leaves the remnants upon the snow for another creature to devour, should it wish to. The boy strides away. Away from you. Away from the defiled beauty of the scene. Away, he strides, his grip skin-tight around her feet, he begins dragging it limply behind him.
One by one, infantile flies congregate on the brains, feasting upon the bloody mass. They routinely throw up on it, stomp on it, and suck up the disgusting bouillabaisse of slowly rotting matter. They lay their eggs upon the surface, so their young may join them.
Meanwhile, the rabbit-like beast is dumped down on the kitchen floor, the thump causing its dead, glassy eyes to bulge sickly. The boy kneels beside it and rams a knife through, turning his face away. He rolls the head to the rabid dogs, for what do they care should they discover a bullet among the mass of brains. They joyfully lap up their treat.
The boy sits with an identical thump at the table, pulling at his balaclava to come off, and whacking his head in his hands. His shoulders begin to shake, and though you can only see his back from the kitchen window, you can tell it’s not from laughter. You feel pity for him.
The dogs finish their breakfast whilst the boy stays silently at the table. Their visible ribs are proof that they will still be hungry. Yipping happily and beginning to devour the rest of the body is justified. The boy fails to notice them to begin with, but when he does a few minutes after, he bellows until the dogs stop and stare at him. He chases them from the room with anger in his eyes, and locks them within the rest of the house. The boy slides back down to the body on the floor. His eyes are red-edged, and there’s no trace of a smile upon his red lips. One side of his face has the pink puckered skin, which can only be acquired after a burn injury has healed. He curls up next to the body, that side of his face resting where the dogs had begun to rip into it. The blood seeps into his clothing, and coagulates on his skin.
You watch him for a while, knowing that though his eyes are closed, he is not asleep. You've been following him for weeks. You've seen his vacant expression. You need him to still be the same boy, though you can see changes within him. Regardless, your hands are tied, and you smash your fist through the window.
Upon hearing the impact, the dogs immediately react and frantically scratch to get back into the kitchen. Their fear for their new master’s safety can be heard in their pathetic, incensed cries. The boy’s eyes flash open, but he doesn't flinch. He sees you climbing through the window, landing with a thump, yet he doesn't reveal signs of getting up. He looks exhausted, you note.
Through the kitchen door come the men you requested and you lift the boy in your arms. Half of his face is covered in red, and the other whiter than the snow outside. As you carry the boy to the van, the men begin to retch and heave at the spectacle in the kitchen. The floor resembles the interior of an unhealthy, clotted artery, and the mouldy food on plates contains multiple new organisms. The stench is unbearable, though they manage to ensconce the body into a big black bag, zip it, and have it carried away to a mortuary. As you carry the deprived and defenseless boy into the back of the van, you talk to him softly.
Once inside the van, the driver sets off immediately for civilisation. You've barely managed to set the boy down before you are speeding away, the door still open as you begin along the dirt track. You lie him down and check his pulse - slow, and his blood pressure - low. He looks at you with questioning bloodshot eyes, so you wrap him in your arms and tell him what he has done.
He watches your lips as you speak, and the similarities are noticeable. The same deep blue eyes. The same jutting jaw line. The same soft tones of speech. He evaluates your appearance as the remembrance flickers through his eyes; his poignant, gloomy eyes. He remembers the fire. The fire that ruptured within the city; the fire he thought had eradicated his parents. In his eyes you can see the boy and his sister drifting out of the city, finding an abandoned house, living for years undetected.
Your son is so flimsy. You can barely feel him laid against you. You stare into his vacant blue eyes, searching for a shadow of humanity. You find nothing. Even as he realises the rabbit to be a hallucination, there is no remorse in his eyes. Even as he realises his little sister, whom he was supposed to protect, is now headless, cut open by dogs. His little sister now lay dead, upon the marble mortuary slab. Your son drops from your arms, as he slides out of the van to the dirt track. Nothing but a sack of flesh and blood.