KS3 Gothic Storytelling #1

I think it’s fair to say that everybody has bad days. But when I have bad days, I don’t just mean that I felt a bit grumpy or upset. I mean bad. Really bad. I mean so unbelievably bad, that I would willingly and in full conscience take out a dagger and pierce Them. Not deep enough to kill, but just enough to put them through as much pain as you feel inside. Then everything seems like it would be all better. But I know it won’t, so I keep my blood-rushed, tear-streaked, disgusting head down; hide my clammy, shaking hands under my desk; and think about the one Thing I know will take me away from this world.

Well, I was having a reasonable day one Thursday – that’s as good as it gets at my school – until They had to come and ruin it. Oh, and before I start, I do have some regrets, but there are some incidents that I would gladly see to again. But I don’t want to spoil the story, so I’ll let you decide. Back to the story – I was in a history lesson (so boring by the way, I don’t know why so many people want to write essays, it’s absurd) which was droning on about back to back houses that didn’t meet the guidelines and public loos that were just holes filled with poo and factories and money and the government, etcetera. And while It droned, I thought.

I thought about being completely and utterly alone. Just me and the darkness, forever. Free to wonder and speculate about anything and everything but cesspits and disgusting pipes. To think about colours and shapes and textures and adventures and fantasy. I love fairy tales. I love legends and folklore passed down simply by being told from a parent to their children. They can be so different because of this, and get sculpted and founded because one father decided he was going to add a fisherman, because his son had always wanted to be one. Daring stories of heroes and mer-people and elves and gnomes and wise old oak trees and dungeons. I imagine myself as a character, even if I don’t even have a name. Maybe I’m selling sultanas, olives and spices in a marketplace in Agrabah. I’m wearing a thin creamy two-piece outfit, and an embroidered scarf from my mother (a gift before she passed) around my head to protect me from the sun. I came early that morning to set up my stall in my nice nook I found last week that people can’t help but stare at because the light filters through the many twisted street paths and falls in that spot so perfectly. I spent precious time arranging the display today, because we were going to have some special guests. I think about how that is the tiniest fraction of that story possible, and that story is one of many thousands more. If I were alone, I’d never be bored, because the stories call me…

Rosetta…

“Rosetta.”

“Rosetta?”

“Rosetta!”

“ROSETTA answer me this instant!” It screeches. I was rudely dragged out of my head and into the classroom, back to boredom. If I were alone, I would never be bored. It starts ranting on and on about how I glossed over, and I need to get my head down from the clouds and into reality. I start thinking about how so many characters in the stories are wrongly accused: such as the beast, when Gaston wants to kill him. But that’s life, just a lifetime of suffering as payment. I just keep thinking about when I am older, and I can do whatever I want. Surely there will be a time when I can read as many books and tales as I want, with nobody to tell me that ‘they are not real’ and ‘that can’t happen’. What do they know anyway? “Ooh look, Rosetta’s mad! Quick run, before she gets us with her chubby red face!” someone hoots while gasping for breath.

It’s Them, of course. With their stupid face all hunched over, They sneak a nasty grin at me when It’s not looking. “OUT! Both of you!” It shrieks. We leave – me, chucking my stuff on my desk and slamming the door so loud it breaks the mechanism, and Them, strutting out like there’s a parade waiting to congratulate Them. In the corridor I start thinking: I did nothing wrong, so It chastised me, and I stood there and took it. Then, They have the cheek to joke about how embarrassed I was. I stop dead in the middle of the hall, my brain wired for one thing and one thing only. My hands are trembling, and my body is clammy and cold. I can feel the sensation overwhelming me, controlling me. I’m guided – pulled – on by it, and I let it pull me on. My jaw is clenched tighter than a clamp and my icy blood rushes to my head, spilling into the skin – it becomes a dark shade of crimson. Is it a crime to have an imagination? These people will never understand me, “NEVER!” It wasn’t until I heard the sirens wailing that I realised They were dead.