Daily Archives: May 22, 2013

Wednesday Write-In #40

This week’s words were:

blogging  ::  redhead  ::  golden days  ::  explain  ::  storm


Posted February 20
Best Days of Your Life? Yeah, Right!

Okay, peeps. Hold tight. It’s been one of those days again. Batten down the hatches, whatever that even means.

School! It should be banned! Right?!

And, by the way, if my gran tells me one more time that I’m living through my ‘golden days’, the best years I’ll ever have, I think I’ll literally swing for her. Literally. Ugh! I don’t know what sort of school she went to back in the seventeenth century or whenever, but if she had to cope with what I have to cope with, on a daily basis, she’d probably just crumble right away. She’d end up like a little pile of dust on the pavement, and the rain would wash her down the drain. Gone, end of, dead.

But that won’t happen to me.

So, anyway, she started her usual nonsense again today just before lunch (if you’ve been here before, you know who I mean, so I won’t waste blogging space by naming her again), her stupid hair and her stupider earrings wobbling up the corridor towards me. Her ridiculous shriek of a laugh sounded even more like someone smacking a cat off a wall than normal. I mean, seriously!?! Why am I the only one who notices how irritating she is?

Oh, yeah. I forgot. It’s because I’m the only one she makes a show of, day after day. After day.

Anyway, I just put my head down and hoped to sneak past. She was surrounded by her usual crew, and they were all hanging off her every stupid word, so I thought I’d make it.


One of them – I’m not sure who – stepped into my way, and wouldn’t move. Whenever I tried to get around her, another one of them would box me off. We probably looked like we were dancing, or something, to someone who didn’t know any better. If only.

‘Oh my God. Guys, do you get a smell? Like, an unwashed sort of smell? Like, dirty clothes and stuff?’ she said, sniffing the air like some sort of rabid, eyeshadow-wearing dog. ‘I wonder what it is?’ All around, her cronies starting throwing up suggestions. Sewers, said one. The gym, said another. Someone wearing dirty socks.

‘No, that doesn’t explain it,’ she said. Then, she turned to me, and pretended like realisation was dawning over her big, thick head. ‘Oh, now I get it! It’s the stink that hangs around the flats. That’s what I’m smelling!’ She smiled down at me, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was a smile that tells you how stupid and small and ridiculous you are, and pretends to be nice about it.

Then, she reached out a claw – I mean, a hand – and she patted me on the head.

‘Maybe you should go home and ask your Mummy to show you how to wash properly,’ she said. ‘You do know you’re supposed to wash everywhere, right? Not just the places people can see?’

I felt a growl start deep in my stomach, and I wanted to clench my whole body up into a huge fist and just pound her into the tiles. She knows about Mum. Of course she does. Everybody does! Then, it was like the inside of my nose was on fire. I swallowed, and the hot pain travelled down my throat and into my lungs. I wanted to puke, but I didn’t.
I let the pain give me an idea, instead.

‘I’ve always wanted to be a redhead, like you,’ I said, taking in her long, loud locks. ‘Is your hair – you know – real?’

‘What are you on about?’ she said, with a frown. I’d been counting on taking her by surprise – so far, so good. She stared at me with her cow-eyes, and before she could laugh again I took a jump for her and grabbed a handful of that stupid hair, and pulled as hard as I could. She didn’t know what to do besides yell her head off. I yanked my fingers right into her scalp, and when I pulled my hand away a load of her hair came with it, and it was like there was a storm of red-gold mist, all the way up and down the hall. Her mates just stood around gaping like a bunch of goldfish, keeping well out of range of my fists.

It. Was. Brilliant.


But who am I kidding. You know I’m lying, right? What gave it away – was it the concept of me taking any sort of initiative, that word Mrs. Willoughby loves to bleat on about in Business Studies, or was it the idea of her mates standing around and just letting me hurt their precious goddess? I bet, as you read it, you were thinking ‘What a sad little loser, lying to herself on her own blog which nobody ever even reads, anyway.’

Gran always says, when I try to talk to her about this stuff, that walking away with your head held high is better than fighting back. Turn the other cheek, and all that. I’m not so sure. What does she know about anything, anyway? She just doesn’t get it. Not at all.

Sometimes, you know, I really wish Mum would just find this blog, that she’d just Google my name and find it. And that she’d read it, and come home.

Whatever, right? It’s ridiculous. I know.

She wasn’t able to cope with me when she was living here, so why would she care now? It’s not like a stupid blog can bring her home, but there’s always a chance. Isn’t there?

Anyway, so, goodnight. Goodnight, Mum. Goodnight, whoever.