Onsra Chapter 1

Hi! I've started writing a new book - not historial fiction this time, but a contemporary love story. I'd love to know what you think of this opening chapter, whether it grabs your attention and/or there are things I could improve upon.

Talk

 

Mum’s face is the picture of worry. ‘I think you should see Dee,’ she says, sitting down beside me at the kitchen table. Her voice reflects her face.

   I don’t look at her and eat my breakfast. ‘No. No way. No way am I seeing Dee.’

   Mum holds my hand, as if to reassure me. I can tell she is searching my face with her eyes to get me to look at her. ‘I think she will really help you, give you some advice on how to cope. She’s helped you so many other times!’

   ‘But that was different,’ I say through a mouthful of toast and Nutella.

   ‘Oh, come on. It would do you good to get your feelings off of your chest. Talking helps, Matt, it really does.’ She sighs. ‘If you won’t talk to me, you can talk to her. Bottling up your feelings is not good.’

   I say nothing, so she lets go of my hand and puts her hands on her hips. ‘You’ve been acting strangely ever since–’ she breaks off, seeing me turn my head away. I don’t want to talk about what’s happened to me. She holds my hand again. ‘And I know it’s been hard on you, but you can’t hide away. You’ve been in your room all weekend.’ She pauses, as if building up enough energy to say the next set of words. ‘You’re going to see her.’ She says this forcefully, pulling my plate away so I have to look at her. But I don’t want to look at her; I hate seeing her worry over me.

   I can sense that the forceful stage is breaking through the persuading stage. If I’m not careful, the shouting stage will come next, but I don’t care today. She can shout ’till she was blue in the face, but I’m not going. Dee’s not going to fix the problem I have.

   ‘I heard you crying last night,’ Mum says softly after another pause.

   I have to look up at her this time. She heard me? I was sure everyone was in bed before I let the tears fall, tears that I had kept hidden from everyone but myself. 

   The kitchen door opens and we turn to see who it is. It’s my brother, thankfully not my dad, who would tell me to man up and get over it. Boys don’t cry, he’d say. My brother’s dressed in his dressing gown even though it is eleven o’clock in the morning – a time when reasonable people would be up by now – engrossed in his phone, and sits beside Mum at the table. I want to be like him today – any other day I would not – to stay in bed for as long as possible, not wanting to come downstairs and face my family and pretend like everything’s normal. But I can’t today of all days. Usually I’m up at nine every morning on a weekend.

   Mum and I fall silent and all we hear are the clicks of his fingers on a virtual keyboard. ‘And a good morning to you too,’ Mum says indignantly.

   ‘Morning,’ Cameron says, clicking off his phone. He gives her a smile, but then he sees me and his face falls solemn. ‘Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry about what happened the other day. She doesn’t deserve you – you were too good for her, the slut.’

   I look at him in slight shock. ‘But she wasn’t,’ I implore. He doesn’t look like he agrees. ‘She was just not the girl for me.’

   He gives me a look that says I know what I’m talking about. ‘Trust me, she was. I go to the same school as her and you don’t know what she was like there.’

   It also doesn’t help my esteem to see my brother all in love with his girlfriend. It’s funny how envious I am now, when only a few days ago I felt like him, laughing, kissing, and cuddling. How I want that back now!

   My mum must’ve seen the look on my face because she says as firmly as she can, ‘Get your teeth brushed. I’m ringing Dee; we’re going.’

   Great.

 

‘So, how are you? How are things?’ Dee’s voice sounds overly chirpy and usually I would find it reassuring, but today I want to punch her in the face. I’m not aggressive in the slightest, don’t get me wrong, but today I’m not in the mood for happiness. I look around at the room at the sickening primrose-yellow wallpaper, the out-dated striped curtains and the dirty plastic building blocks, dolls and action figures that are dispersed around the room. This place really needs redone. How long have I been coming here for? It seems like forever.

   ‘Good,’ I say, even though I’m completely the opposite. I look around the room, anywhere but not at Dee. I don’t know whether she believes me or not, as that’s what I say every time I see her. She writes something in her red notebook and then looks up at me and smiles. I feel suddenly very self-conscious and rake back my hair even though it’s not in my eyes, just for something to do.

   Mum takes over the conversation like she usually does and speaks on ‘my behalf’. ‘Doctor Lutton, Matt has been rather… withdrawn in the last few days. He hasn’t interacted much with us as a family, and I’m starting to feel concerned about him. Yes, he likes to spend some time in his room, reading and listening to music – don’t you, Matt? – but it isn’t like him to spend the whole weekend by himself.’

   ‘What has exactly happened, Matthew?’ Dee asks me softly.

   ‘Well,’ says my mother, ‘He’s recently been–’

   ‘Mum, please.’ I cut her off now because I can’t let her say what’s happened to me. I have to say it myself, speak for myself. But yet, I don’t want to, because admitting it out loud with people listening makes it even more real.

   I wonder why everything has to be so formal, with Doctor Lutton instead of Dee, Matthew instead of Matt. Doesn’t it make the whole situation all the more pressuring in a formal environment? Dee looks at me patiently, waiting for me to continue. I hesitate to say something, and I look around the room and then at Mum. I don’t know why, but I don’t want to admit anything to my mum, not just yet anyway. I’d much rather say it in a confidential place. Perhaps she’ll not take my side and take my brother’s point of view, I don’t know.

   ‘Mrs Turner,’ says Dee, knowing telepathically what my look means, ‘could you perhaps wait in the waiting room whilst Matthew and I have a discussion in private?’

   Mum looks at me and nods slightly, ‘If that’s what you want, Matt?’

   I don’t know whether she’s hurt or not. ‘I’m sorry, but I need to talk to Dee first, then you. You’re right; I can talk to her better than I can to you.’

   Mum nods once more and then grabs her handbag and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

   So it’s just me and Dee in the room together.

   As soon as Mum leaves the room she asks me, ‘Matthew, how long have I been your guidance councillor?’

   Is this a trick question or something? ‘Five years?’ I ask hesitantly even though I know it’s true.

   ‘Exactly, and I think I know when you’re lying. You don’t look at the person you’re lying to, do you? You’re not good, are you Matthew?’ Well, my previous hypothesis was disproved then.

   ‘No,’ I answer after a pause, ‘I’m not good.’

   ‘What’s wrong, honey?’

   She looks so concerned for me, and her voice is so soft, that I can’t help but cry. The tears that I’ve been hoarding from everyone have finally escaped and big tears roll down my cheeks and my shoulders shake from the effort. Yes, I am conscious that I am crying in front of my guidance councillor and how embarrassing that is, conscious of the fact that my dad would be mortified at his sixteen-year-old son crying, and I feel foolish somehow, but I can’t stop myself.

   Somewhere in the process, Dee’s come to my sofa from her own armchair that she usually sits in, separated by a coffee table, and she’s got her arm around me and she’s making comforting noises in my ear. I don’t know whether she’s allowed to do this because of child protection or whatever, but I lean back into her big, soft frame. She’s like a giant teddy bear. ‘Take your time, honey, let it all out. You’ll feel better afterwards.’

   Gosh it feels good to cry! I don’t try to talk over the process, or try to make excuses for why I am crying because one, Dee would know I am lying, and two, I would be incomprehensible because of the tears. I thought there would be no tears left in me after last night, but I’m wrong. I cry until there are no tears again, and all that’s left is a sore, hollow hole in my chest. Again.

   I grab a tissue or two, or five, from the box on the coffee table and blow my nose. She’s right, I do feel better. I feel lighter almost, as if all the tears have been weighing me down. I start to awkwardly laugh a little and Dee smiles warmly at me. She goes back to her own chair, and I find that I miss her being next to me as her presence is so soothing. ‘Now, what’s happened?’

   I go to open my mouth, but she puts a hand up to stop me. ‘Don’t tell me; it was a rhetorical question. I know what’s wrong with you: you’ve been so joyous the past couple of months, and now here you are, as solemn as anything. It’s a girl problem, isn’t it?’

   I smile despite myself and what’s happened; amused at the fact that Dee knows everything when I told her so little. ‘Yes, Dee. It is a girl problem.’   

   All she says to me is, ‘Tell me what’s happened. I’m here for you, honey.’

   And so I do exactly that. I tell her how we met, out first date, how much fun we had together, our second date, third – all of them – and I tell her everything I loved about her, and, most importantly, but most painfully, I tell her how we broke up. It takes about an hour, but it was worth it. A weight has been lifted from my shoulders and now at least one person knows, in detail, why I’m so sad.

   But what Dee says next is not something I was expecting.

   ‘I think you should write a blog about what you’ve experienced.’

   ‘Wait, what?’ I ask. I’ve misheard her, right? She can’t be serious!

   But Dee’s face is anything but joking. She’s serious alright. ‘I think it’ll be good for you! It will do you good to share your experience with others, to someone other than me. And you never know who’s going through the same thing as you; it may help someone.’ So she wants me to use my breakup – my personal experience – to help people? She’s the one who’s supposed to be providing the help! Help me, woman!

   ‘No, I can’t do that! How would that help me whatsoever? I’m helped already, that was what today was for, to talk to you to get my feelings off my chest!’

   She looks unyielding. ‘Matthew, do this. Please? Even if you do it for a little while, you never know – it may help you.’

   I try to look unyielding like her, but I don’t think it works as Dee chuckles at me. ‘Matthew, you’re looking more petulant than stubborn.’ This then makes me blush at the thought of what my stupid face is doing.

   ‘But I don’t think it will help me,’ I say, looking at her defiantly – or at least hoping I look defiant.

   ‘You know nothing until you try,’ Dee says, folding her arms and looking at me with a knowing glint in her eye. She knows she’s beaten me when she comes out with wise comments like that.

   I’m determined not to lose this time, so I cross my arms over my chest like her and say, ‘But I’m no good with words and writing and stuff.’

   ‘You don’t have to get an A* in English to write a blog. It’s just about getting your feelings out there! Anyway, don’t you write songs for the band that you’re in?’ She’s got me there. That part is true. And she knows it.

   I sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll try it. But it won’t work.’

   ‘It’ll only not work if you make it not work, Matthew.’ Dee says this calmly but patronisingly and I growl in annoyance and slump down the sofa.

   There’s a silence whilst she writes in her notebook. I study her; I wonder what she thinks of me. Am I her favourite client? Is that even the right word?

   Her dark skin is smooth and plump, and she wears multiple bangles and bracelets on her wrist that jangle when she moves her arms. She flicks a strand of her dark brown hair away from her eyes irritably with her index finger, which – like the rest of her fingers – is heavily loaded with rings which glitter in the light. She even has rings on her wedding finger, but I don’t know if they’re symbolising marriage or not, and I only know her as Doctor Dee Lutton so I don’t know if she’s Miss or Mrs.

   If she is married, is she happily so? I wonder what her husband is like. Is he the stalwart type who’d stand by his wife through thick and thin and love her dearly? Or is he a noncommittal idiot who’d cheat on her with another woman?

   As if reading my mind, Dee asks me gently, ‘How are things at home, Matthew?’

  ‘Good,’ I am about to say, but, again; she will know I’m lying. ‘I dunno… it’s alright. I just get tense when he comes into the room, like he’s a ticking time bomb and will explode at the smallest thing. Sometimes he’s ok with Mum, but I get irritated because it’s all false, and I just think, like, does he mean any of the kisses he gives her, or does he feel like he just has to because that’s what a husband does to his wife. When we’re alone in the car driving home from Tesco or something it’s good ’cause it’s just the two of us and we can talk normally, and I can forget what he’s done to Mum.’ I sigh and support my head on my hand. ‘I don’t know.’

   Dee knows it’s a tough subject for me to talk about so she doesn’t press any further. But the strange thing is that I suddenly feel more at ease after talking about my family. It’s as if the twisted ball of string that’s inside of me has finally unravelled fully, pulling loose even the tiny knots that I didn’t know was contributing to my unhappiness.

   This is why I like Dee: she gets straight to the point, asks the questions that need asking right away. We get on well, too, in a weird sort of way: I try not to answer her questions but she coaxes me into answering them with soft words and reassurance, and, no matter how much I say otherwise, she helps me. And I need her to help me.

   But she’s wrong about the blog. It won’t help me.