No One Knew

Chalky white structures plastered the horizon as the Jones family reached the city of Pyrgos. Less than an hour switching from the E55 to motorway 9 was enough to tire the family out and so they paid the taxi driver and made their way towards the hotel they had booked. Hotel Anagennisis stood above them as the three of them wandered inside. Colour. Every wall was plastered with a different colour, there was bright blue, peach, pink, orange – literally all things bright. Warm sensations shot through the family as a sea of relief swept over them. They had done it. They were here. Years of saving had led to this moment, their very first holiday as a proper family. All three of them.

“Χαίρετε!” a voice from another room shouted through, welcoming but abrupt. Glancing puzzled towards one another, Mr and Mrs Jones reach down to get the Greek-English dictionaries they had so wisely brought along with them.

“I think she said hello...” Mr Jones said slowly, eyeing up the dictionary as he scrolled through it. “How did she say it again?”

“Chair-et-ay I think… I'm not too sure… I could be wrong...” Mrs Jones was less sure of her husband's Greek knowledge, but went with it anyway.

Turning, she noted Lucas was in the corner of the room with his dinosaur toy – Mr Roar. He was often known to hide away in corners when her and her husband became unsettled, almost like he could sense it in the air, and Mr Roar was the one thing he would take with him to calm him down. The doctors said it was to do with some psychological attachment theory that was present in a lot of two year old children, sometimes up until the age of eight, so the couple let Lucas and Mr Roar be.

The woman popped her head round the corner and started spiralling off in some Greek conversation before stopping to question the puzzled faces.

“Um.. Sorry… We… We're English… We no understand you...” Using actions and over-exagerative hand motions, Mr Jones tried to portray his message to the Greek woman. Turning to him almost instantly with a look of complete understanding she began speaking

“Of course, sorry I should not have assumed you was Greek, how was your journey? Have you booked room with us? How long will you be staying with us? You like breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? It is all available, just let me know in advance so I can get enough groceries for the day.” She handed them their room key and got them to sign a contract agreement before sending them on their way.

The family wanted to stay within the realms of their room for the night, to rest after the long journey, flight and drive. The couple put Lucas to bed first, as his eyes stretched wide before swiftly closing, trying to stay awake, but swarmed with the ever closing tiredness that was slowly consuming him. Summoning him into a silent dream, a collection of the events and fantasies of the day. Mr and Mrs Jones then went to snuggle down on their bed, watching TV as they drifted into a montage of memories.

The first event that the couple had planned for the following day, was a trip to the archaeological museum: Αρχαιολογικό Μουσείο Ολυμπίας. Despite having no knowledge on how to pronounce the name, the family rushed to get ready and tried to communicate with the taxi driver where they wanted to go. Gestures and slurring of words didn't seem to give him any indication of their destination and so after attempting to show what a museum was with their hands for a good fifteen minutes, they resorted to writing it down, and the driver knew exactly where they were going. That was struggle one over with. Struggle two, however, was the exchange in euros upon arrival, how much did they owe the driver? What did “δεκαπέντε ευρώ ογδόντα” mean? The couple sifted through the notes they had in their wallet and handed the driver a €10 note, but he frowned. Not enough. Giving him a €10 and two €5 notes, they quickly left the taxi, not willing to go through that embarrassment again just to get their change.

Lucas reluctantly left the taxi, holding back tears as they got closer and closer to the museum, and further and further from the enclosed space of the taxi. Mrs Jones picked Lucas up and tried giving him a cuddle, noticing that he wasn't his cheery self, tears beginning to roll down his smooth cheek.

“Lucas, honey, what's up hey? What's up? Shhhh it's okay,” she rocked him gently, trying to sooth his emotional distress.

“Mummy… Mr Roar...” Through tears, his voice was barely audible.

“Yes, yes, we will get him, he's probably in the bag… Mike honey, could you grab Mr Roar for Lucas please? He should be in the bag.”

Mr Jones rummaged through the bag, rummaged again, and again. He slowly took everything out of the bag, replacing it all in perfect order when he reached his conclusion.

“He's not in the bag.”

Mrs Jones face dropped. “What? How can he not be in the bag, he was in the bag. I put him there this morning, have you looked properly?”

“Honey, he's not here.”

The dinosaur toy had gone. Lucas' tool of comfort had gone. The panic they felt was what kept them from going into the museum. They needed to resolve the issue before they could have a good day out, because Lucas would not be willing to do anything without the toy. Racking their brains for some idea of what it was they needed to do, they finally came to a conclusion of what they could do. “Lucas,” Mrs Jones started.

“We are going to go into the museum, and if you behave like the good boy we know you are, we will get you a little souvenir from the shop at the end, and I'm sure they will have another Mr Roar, but you have to be good, okay?”

Putting on a half-hearted grin, Lucas made his way towards the museum, a hand on each parent as the museum loomed above them. A white temple of the ancient gods, holding any evidence of life before us, glowing in the sunlight.

Stories within the museum were the same sort of things that we all knew: Perseus killing Medusa, Achilles and his heel, Hades love and need for Persephone and Zeus's way of getting the ladies. But one story stood out. It was a small stand towards the edge of the museum, small and lacking in information. The child who once lived among the three Fates: Perdita. The lost one. An orphaned child who took refuge among the Fates, and caused them to make mistakes that really were fatal. Little is known about her though, as all of the documents and stories about her have been lost. Or destroyed. Mrs Jones pointed her out to her husband, and he started reading the few documents there were of Perdita, noting also that some of the facts didn't all match up.

As the evening drew closer, the crowds surrounding the family began to disperse. Closing time was arriving and so with Lucas swinging on their arms, they wandered hand in hand, towards the little gift shop at the end. Jumping down each step to maximise fun for Lucas was what caused Mrs Jones to fall. Misjudging the distance between the two steps, she caught the edge and was whisked away, tumbling down each step. Bump. Thud. By the time she had reached the bottom step, an ambulance had already arrived and Mr Jones, letting go of Lucas' hand, ran to her rescue. Lucas wasn't far behind and without quite understanding the serious nature of her injury he approached her.

“Mummy, Lucas kiss is better.” He began leaning over to kiss the bleeding patch planted upon her head before Mr Jones intervened.

“Lucas, no! You could hurt her even more!” he was maybe too firm for the little boy, who began to tear up.

Mrs Jones was loaded up into the ambulance and Mr Jones followed, lifting Lucas in first – making sure he made the step. He turned to Mrs Jones and grasped her hand, staring intently towards her closed eyes, hoping that even just his touch would release her from the state she was in. He stared too intently.

As the ambulance doors slid shut he glanced outside once more, to the beautiful city of Pyrgos, one which they would be unlikely to return to, and in the corner of his eye he saw Lucas' dinosaur toy. Being held by a man, a man wearing black clothes. And there was Lucas. No longer in the ambulance. The doors of the ambulance shut tight and despite Mr Jones' best attempts to stop the ambulance, no one understood what he was saying. No one knew his child was out there. No one knew.

Grave

Moonlight glinted off the falling tears. A child's cry whistled through the headstone under which she had forever lain. Realisation swept the longing apparition into another life.

The Darkness - Shallow Water

The Darkness - Shallow Water by on Scribd

The Silent Oiwa

The dirt was putrid below my bare feet as it slipped through the gaps separating my toes. Sliding my feet across the sludge, I reached for the crumbling wall glowing in the night. The Silent Oiwa. Cautiously, I waited. Watching the entrance, watching the people inside, watching the movements they made. It was here that she told me to visit, her words were so defined, so specific. What are you waiting for? It was time to go in.

Shaking, I trod softly, keeping the noise I made at a minimum to ensure I remained unheard and unseen. Purposelessly I glanced at the changing ground, shifting as I move through from the outside to the inner building, revealing a softer floor, covered in bristles of woollen fabric, feathered to the touch.

Inside, the building was lined with a burgundy wallpaper, decorated with butterflies, swarming over white chrysanthemums. She told me about the wallpaper of this place, hiding secrets in plain sight. But what secrets?

In the corner of the room there was a small trinket box, tucked into the furthest crease of the wall. Engraved into it was a drawing, curved in shape, a rugged line making its way towards more lines that carved back down past the start of the image, almost like a face. But missing from this almost-face were the chilling eyes I was expecting to be greeted with. I opened the little box and was surprised to find it had a large jade encrusted into a medallion, with swirling inscription in a language I didn't fully understand. Put it on. Round your neck.

Spiralling round the room I began to feel movements in my body I had never considered possible before, my legs twisted round and the bone of my arms bent and cracked – surely this couldn't be possible? But they didn't hurt, and they didn't break. A new lease of life had engulfed me and I was clinging to the edge, just about hanging on. My body whisked me into the next room, feet sliding in all the wrong directions, in the way they would hang if the bone had been smashed up, like a lance from a losing jouster.

Eyes blinked at me from a dark sheet, angry and questioning. What was I doing here? One working class guy who eats beans on toast for dinner most nights, so what was I doing creeping through The Silent Oiwa stalking these beastly figures. What was I doing? It wasn't my idea of fun, what was she after? What did she want me to do?

It wasn't long before I felt my hand reach out, legs moving closer to the silhouettes, grabbing them by the throats and pinning two of them against the wall, the other two unmoving beside me.

“I hope you know why I am here, Tamiya Iemon?” That was not my voice that worked its way out from my lips and entwined its whispering tone in the sockets of one man's eyes. “Do you know why I am here?”

Confusion bled from his eyes as his pupil stretched into his dark iris and he began to scream for help, glancing at one of his untouched friends. My grip around his neck tightened as I began to feel the blood pulsing through his veins begin to struggle, his breathing became short and I could see his face turning the colour of nausea. He was drowning in his own pain. Why was I doing this? What had he done wrong?

Don't worry, he deserves it. They all do.

Relief swarmed over me as I heard her voice once again. She would never lie to me and so I continued to hold him high above my head, watching as my grip grew tighter and tighter, even though I had passed my point of strength – adrenaline? Whatever it was, it was working and that made things easier for me. Easier for her too.

Turning to the other man, I asked a very similar question, with a very different meaning… “Do you know who I am, Yuta Yamada?” It was almost spat at him. I don't quite know what I hoped to achieve with that question, but even without wanting to ask it, I would have anyway, it was already in motion to leave my mouth before it had fully processed in my mind – unusual how that can happen. But without even acknowledging the question, the man began to squirm, reaching out to my face, beginning to claw at it, but pain was absent from my body. I squeezed tighter and tighter and tighter until I could feel each and every vain of his burst. Oozing blood leaked out of his nose and erupted out of his mouth as he violently choked, my grip only tightening, trapping his life force and urging it out.

Overcome with complete and utter terror, the other man, the first man, started grasping at the hand I had clenched around his muscular throat. Ripping away the skin on my hand, he knew that this spelt bad news, but still he struggled. Still he reached for help. The fly trying to hide from the swatter.

“I don't know who you are, you're insane!” he choked up the words, shaking as he did so.

“I am surprised you don't recognise me… But then again, after what they did to me… I don't recognise myself sometimes.” That voice definitely didn't come from me, and I'm not quite sure where it came from. Soft and echoing, like a feather that was designed specifically with the purpose of tickling the tender skin left open to it. Not my voice.

The confusion that had plastered itself all over the man's face slowly began to fade and merged into a blank, almost concussed look – shock maybe? His squirming became much more intense, to the point where I nearly lost my grip. Nearly.

“So you do recognise me then? Nice to know I haven't been erased completely from that dull head of yours,” Resisting the urge to look round and try and work out who it was talking, I fixated on the man's eyes, only to find his eyes too were glued to mine.

“What is it you want? You-you can't be here,” what he was saying was beyond my comprehension of the events that were unfolding, yet the question was directed at me. I realised in that instant that I didn't want to be here, it may have been what she wanted, but why was I even listening to her – who even was she. She said she knew me, but why would she know me, how would she know me? I couldn't work it out and that was tearing me apart. She was so familiar, yet I didn't know who she was. I had never met her. Ah but you have. I am you and you are me. I couldn't get her out of my head. What the hell is that even supposed to mean? I don't know what she is doing and I don't know what she wants.

In trying to loosen my grip on the man who I had never met before, I felt my fingers strain as the grip grew tighter, almost too tight for them. I tried to walk away but only found myself closer. I was no longer in control of where I was, or what I was doing. Could it be her? Could she be twisting my bones and stretching my muscles? My grip was not loosening and I could feel the fear dripping off the man, and he could see the fear within my eyes.

“She… got you… too, huh?” he wheezed out. I didn't know what he meant by it, but I also knew it wouldn't be long before those could be his last words. Although, as far as last words go, they could have been a lot worse. Fighting with myself was not something I ever imagined I would do, but this man's life wasn't over yet and I don't think he had done enough to deserve the same fate as his friend. The same one now crumpled on the floor next to us. He couldn't be revealed to be the antagonist here – I was the one ruthlessly killing these men for no apparent reason, it wouldn't hold up in court, so why should it hold up as a morally acceptable thing to do? Just because she said so?

Forcing my hand loose from the sweating, pulsing neck of the man was no easy feat and every time I tried to force my hand one way, it just did the opposite – tightening with every move I made, but I wasn't going to give up. If I could perhaps lose balance or cause myself enough pain that my body would no longer be able to support his weight, then maybe we would topple over in a pile and he could leave, without getting hurt. Shuffling, I focussed on moving my feet closer together, if they got close enough together I could start twisting them in weird directions. Sliding my left foot behind my right and then shuffling the balance onto my left, entwined foot, I felt the ground reaching out to me and my grasp on the man wavered slightly as I plummeted down into the dark abyss of nothingness.

Light did not dazzle me when I awoke, instead I was blinded by a throbbing pain in the back of my head, could it be where my head plummeted into the ground? And after trying to lift my arm, being consumed with excruciating pain, witnessing my heavy limb just drop, I discovered most of the important bones in my body were… damaged. Every movement sent some excruciating level of pain searing through my body, although an absence within the comfort of my mind relaxed me, at least I could seek refuge there. Away from the chill I kept feeling, the numbness in my leg and the sickness in my stomach. A chill that should probably resemble pain, but was just cold. Maybe it was blood. Could I have been stabbed? What did the men do to me whilst I was sleeping? Did any of them survive? There were so many questions running through my mind but all I could really do was realise I was probably losing blood fairly quickly… Probably getting relatively… Tired… But no matter what… I could not… Drift… Away… Sleep was… A sign of the end… of… death… and I… couldn't… not…

Feeding The Family

Stumbling through the hanging branches, like a drunk reaching for the final pint, the figure made her way down the trodden trail. Drizzled chocolate hair yanked her backwards as it tangled with the branches above, separating as she hit the earth beneath her. A scream broke through her pursed, chapped lips and an unsavoury expression, all crumpled, an old face on a young woman, began to spread across her face; her pierced, juicy skin beginning to crack and whither.

Sounds such as her wilted scream could attract all sorts of predacious creatures, none of which were as unhinged as the one watching. Watching and waiting. Waiting for the opportune moment, the moment in which her hope runs out and leaves her to rot. That's when they strike. Never allowing the innocent to last, to survive, to live.

Attempting to stand, she reached up to grasp at the nearest tree branch; another scream. Blood began to seep out of her hand and work its way round the branch and slowly drip, drip, drip. Time was running out. Step by step she made her way further across the landscape, further from it, but then she stopped. Just out of sight.

This was the moment. My moment.

Filled with both fear and panic, she didn't notice the approaching sillhouette. Large boots protected my feet from the thorn entwined wildlife, allowing me to move swiftly, pain free. Shadows lurked between each tree, concealing my identity from anyone within sight.

Before she could hear anything through the rustling leaves enclosing her, she felt a cold pressure on her neck, and a voice. A low raspy voice, telling her not to struggle, and after the cold pressure turned into a sharp tingling prick, followed by the trickling liquid she began to lose, I assume she realised that resisting would not result in anything good, and that it was better to just do what I want, to just follow me. Follow me down to the secluded cabin, down the stairs into the place of which she would remain.

After ensuring her security, I retreated back up the stairs and left the woman to herself. Desperately trying to work out why I wanted her captive would have been one of her priorities – if she knew, maybe she could use it as an escape plan? But at the same time, if it was nothing that could suggest escape, how would she get out? I had left all of her clothing intact, telling her that I was after something other than lust. And if lust wasn't my main priority she would question what was? Money? But on a household income of only $28,000 a year, there wasn't a lot that could be gained. Could I have just brought her here to inflict brutal wounds onto her? This single thought should have sent panic searing through her veins. Where she comes from, a person should not be able to be that lacking of the ability to withhold his need to cause pain, that lacking of the one thing humans claim they have, the one thing they have to hang on to – their humanity. Could someone really be lacking that one natural human instinct?

Struggling hopelessly, the young woman prayed for escape. Surrounded by darkness, she hadn't yet attained a full look at me, only the dull eyes heavily weighted within the depth of my tenebrous skull. Eyes which looked straight through her, as if she was already a corpse, rotting away as the thriving bugs began to prosper from chewing at her insides.

Thumping sounds began to come from above her, large boots, heavy footsteps. Looking towards what she believed was the door, she trembled. I made my way down the stairs to the cellar. In the small space in the corner she waited, like a chicken in a battery farm. Being held against her will should have been the least of her worries, yet still she squirmed. What was with this woman? It's not like she knows why she is here – now that would cause her to panic. A lot. But then that makes this more exciting, watching them panic and struggle when they have no hope left for life, and you can just watch it fade out, watch the hope die with each breathe they take.

I reached down to the rope that held her secured and began to tug at it. As soon as I had untied her arms, she began swinging them round in an attempt to claw at me – possible escape plan? Thrown by the madness of her actions, I almost lost my footing, but then managed to regain it just as she tried to leave the building and be released from my grip. Dragging her up the stairs, her head bruising more with each step she thudded into, I reached for the door. It would be upsetting to see the swollen grey patches around her face, but hopefully preparations would still work as it was only the head that was damaged.

Upon going through the door, I noted that she had a wound along the side of her torso, allowing her blood to trickle out, her life force escaping. Time was running out.

***

I had decided the best thing to do would be to begin the preparations early, rather than let the life drain out of the meat. Time was running out and it was vital that we do not waste this opportunity given to us. Death was not the way for this though as heaven was not in her field of vision just yet; that would all come with time.

Following the ancient rituals descending from our ancestors, it was vital we start with the lower arm and leg meat to ensure the rest of the meat was kept fresh, and these had time to marinate in a creamy honey. Grabbing the weathering rope I secured the blood flow in her upper arm and started to cut deep into the skin. Curdled flesh crumpled up on her face as her frown became a cry and she could no longer hold back the need to scream. This was my favourite part of preparations. Screams would, however, attract attention from onlookers, and that could get messy. One option remained and so I reached over and grasped the rusting poultry shears and, holding her whimpering mouth open, I sliced the squirming voice from her throat, leaving the blood to trickle down her throat as she ached for the end.

Inspecting the damage made to the rest of her face I accidentally locked in with her gaze. Raw hatred melted my soul, the fear had gone. She was an inferno, hell-bent on dragging me under. Never had I seen such a look strike the hearts of past victims, never had I witnessed them lose this much hope – did she know the meaning of that word anymore? She had reached beyond hopelessness. She was hopelessness. Defining the very meaning of the word and the very soul of what it was like to die a death somebody else had thrust upon her. Control of her life had been taken from her, and she wanted it back. And she would do anything to get it. She had gone past the point of hope – just where I wanted her. She could be dangerous now. Shame.

Risks were one thing my family could never take and so I regrettably made the decision to end it there and then. Standing over her, fixated on her stare, I began to slowly remove the deep orange tie from around my neck, unfolding the knot it has been systematically woven into. Tensing my muscles I wrapped it around my hands. One time. Two times. Round and round until it was about 25 inches – pulled tight. Springing from my spot in the room I swiftly moved round until I had her back facing me and in one motion I twisted the tie round her naked neck and squeeze tightly, watching her choke and gurgle as her very life force is squeezed out of each crevice in her body.

Slumped on the floor I could see the hardness in her stare fade into nothingness. All of the hopeless power she had was gone, she was left empty, like an animal who had gone against the hunter and lost. I could do nothing but stare at her for what felt like hours, until the muscles supporting my weight began to ache with guilt. She had died trying to survive, her meat may sour, may become unpleasant to eat. The Thanksgiving feast would be ruined this year. All because of me. 

Guilt was not something I tried to avoid, especially when I had wasted the life of an innocent, having no purpose unless the meat was able to be used, but the moment was passing. Soon she would be rotting and that would be dragging the quality of the flavour. It would not last long enough. Not until my Thanksgiving feast at least, and I couldn't eat it beforehand – that would be wrong. It would defy every rule we ever created within the recipes. But fresh meat was the key to the preparations, and the traditions I followed stated that the meat mustn't be killed until the optimum time, but there was nothing else I could have done, I couldn't save her, her mind had too much power. The world around me dimmed to black as the panic I had become indulged me and as I saw the floor head towards me before the descending darkness consumed me.

When my vision finally returned I was greeted with the consuming weight of my ancestors' pain. I had failed them for the first time in my life, and it felt like a million people had just stabbed me through the heart, all in one go. It was as if hell itself had opened up and set me on a course of destruction and death. I would not see another happy day. I could not hold the feast. I could not be a part of the world anymore. Not now that I am a failure. It was not the kind of thing you go through every day – failing the whole family after generations of success. I would be lucky if they let me live anyway. I was a murderer. Not a farmer, not a butcher, but a cold blooded murderer. Killing in fear and that could never be forgiven. I had no choice but to run. Run and leave. Never look back. Never go back. Never do that again.

But would running be effective? would it really be of any use? They would find me eventually, surely. If not, could I fit in and cook broccoli and carrots with chicken as a meal? Causing harm to no-one, ever. Or would I become a world famous serial killer/cannibal? The possibilities are endless but none of them really suit me. Not in this life.

Kneeling beside my bed I fought the inescapable abyss creeping towards my very soul of being. The urge to leave was too great, to leave this life and to leave the descending madness that had become of my life, the pain I had caused and the torment I had created could all disappear, could all be gone... For a price. It would cost me my life, and was I really prepared to give that up? Could I really get the knife and slice my throat. I'd seen it happen so often to other people, but never someone inflicting it on themselves. Would it hurt? Would I be able to cope with it? What would happen to me after I died? I would have suggested that I would be heading to heaven before I died, but that was before she was gone. Before I had compelled her to leave this dull world. The more I thought about it the less I would be willing to commit the act. I had to fight this. I had to do it now.

Stretching my worn out fingers across to the splintering wooden top of the bedside table, feeling each prick of wood as the fragments slid into my fingers, piercing the skin as they settled in their new home. Cautiously grasping the chilling handle of the knife, I focussed on the sharpened edge. Towards my neck. A quick slicing movement. Stinging sensations. Nothing.

Reality of Life

Life was rare. Life was precious. Life was unexpected. The day you lose hope and happiness is the day your life is no longer valued as it should be. These past few days taught me that. Running through fields filled with towering corn was a new hobby of mine; a way of feeling happy whilst also being alone, whilst being misunderstood, whilst being deserted. Sunny days brought back the good times, the days of hope and friendship, the days where we would gallop across the glittering meadows, catching butterflies and climbing trees, but with them came the bad times too. Best left in the past.

As a child I mostly spent my time with Matthew, the invisible boy. I would be Princess Aurora and he would be Jim Hawkins. He would be Jack Frost and I would be Elsa. Whilst we were off fighting the dragons that threatened our kingdom with lava and fire storms, everyone else would paint their nails and buy make up. Our tasks would always be successful and we would always be welcomed back as heroes, until the tragic day that the battle was too great. Our entire kingdom fell. Mum said it was just my imagination. There never was a kingdom, and so it's nothing to worry about. But I know the truth. I failed them, I failed Matthew, and I never got to say sorry.

Through primary school and middle school I was alone. Break times would be spent in the library reading, or in the orchard alone. Anywhere that people couldn't find me. Loneliness was my best friend, and although I was with people during lessons, it was just as lonely. Then one day we had a new student, Brendon, a guy who looked just as lonely as me. At first he annoyed the hell out of me. Always texting me and assuming we were the best of friends... Then one day we just were. I would text him as much as he would text me, and I looked forward to seeing him, he actually cared. He would come over and we would watch Avatar and listen to music like Obviously and Teenage Dirtbag, laughing about the kids at school, the politicians on TV, the bands who didn't get what music truly was, like Gangnam Style and Uptown Funk – how do they class as music? Where's the soul and depth of them? Where's their true, hidden meaning? He was my best and only friend. Knowing all of my secrets and all of my deepest dreams, he was the friend I had needed, and he helped me through a lot. Stories would be told about our social deprivation, about how we're not cool enough to fit in with those orange people. That is, until he became cool. Then the stories would be told about my social deprivation, about how I'm not cool enough to fit in with those orange people, to fit in with him.

There was this girl, Katrina Mellis. Gorgeous golden hair flowed from her head as if she was a movie star, she had eyes that shined like she was some princess, the bluest blue, and he had a crush on her. Every guy did. Even the girls wanted to be like her, and sometimes they tried too hard. That's how all the rumours started, everyone would spread the words she spoke, so that she would like them, so that she would let them into her world. It never worked though. Unless she gained something from it. Money, popularity, clothes, she was happy with anything like that. As long as it classed as beneficial.

And last summer, for some reason, she decided that the fifteen year old mophead who dressed like a skater boy would be beneficial to her. She changed him. Adopting the ways of the cool kids, my Brendon abandoned me, left me for dead. Occasionally I would get the odd 'hey, u ok?' text from him, or the random insults from when Katrina got hold of his phone, a flirtatious game they liked to play; who can get the phone. Huh, that used to be our thing. Moments with him used to be the times that I felt alive. My very soul would sparkle like a firework, dancing around the moonlit night. Now it's like the sky.

Empty.

Years of being alone should have predicted that company was not welcome in my life, and that no matter how hard I tried, fate wanted me alone. Acceptance was my only option. Brendon was a great guy, and he did grow up to be very hot. Mountains of mop hair had been styled like that of the 2015 Dougie Poynter, green eyes shone with all the love and hope of his future plans, like an emerald lit up in the light of the sun. Becoming every teenage girls dream guy, he even made it to the hottest guy status for the Year 11's Leavers Book. I guess Katrina saw his potential. Saw exactly what he could become if she worked her magic. Either way, he abandoned me and everything we lived for, and threw who he was away for some girl. I'll never understand it. They were together for a long time though: he would put up with her and she would use him, for money, for company, for everything. I don't know how he did it. Rumours went around about the kind of things they got up to, the amount of times he kissed her, the charming things he would say, and I'm not going to lie, I was jealous. Memories of the things he used to say to me, before we were friends, when he wanted to win me over swallowed me, I guess I must've liked it. I guess I must've liked him.

But now it's too late.

These days, Katrina floats around Jason, the school's footballer. Didn't take her long to get over Brendon. Cuddling myself I stared through the blurred window of my tears at the pictures of me and him. Glancing through scrapbook pages full of the days we'd spent together, the inside jokes we'd shared and the world as we saw it then, I began to get ready. Carefully putting the irreplaceable memories of my only friend aside, I looked in the mirror. Fashion was less important now than it ever had been, but mum said I had to look nice. Brendon would have wanted me to look nice. As I left the room I quickly grabbed the orchids and lilies and ran out to the car. I was going to be late to his funeral.