Onsra Chapters 2 and 3

 

5^th December

 

  

 

I just want to say that first off, this was my guidance councillor’s idea for me to do this blog, not mine, to ‘get all my feelings off my chest’ or whatever she said. My mum backed her up also, so I was kinda outnumbered. Secondly, it will probably not work and I won’t be here long, so please don’t get attached to me.*

 

   So, yeah.

 

   Anyway, you’re probably wondering why you should listen to me out of all the people who write blogs, and what makes me so special? I thought so.

 

   To be honest here, I’m not special. I bet you wouldn’t look twice at me if you saw me on the street. And I’m not forcing you to listen to me. Leave if you want, I’m just doing this because I have to.

 

   But for those of you who are sticking around, this is my version of your typical love story of Boy Meets Girl and Boy Breaks Up with Girl. No clichés, no happily-ever-afters. I’m sorry to disappoint you.

 

   But if you are going to read on, I hope you enjoy my messed up life.

 

 

 

*Please do not judge me by what I will say in this blog. It is a personal experience and I am talking from the heart. It is the hardest place to talk from, but I will try.

 

 

 

I press the ‘publish’ button before I can overthink or change anything and take a deep breath, running a hand through my hair. Will this stupid thing actually help me? I really have no idea.

 

   I start thinking that I could perhaps just make half of it up – which is actually not a bad idea because, one, it would make for a much interesting life, and… and, two, I will have to relive what happened to me, whether I like it or not. Relive what she did to me. All over again. And to actual people, albeit people that I will never see. But still, people.

 

   However, if it’s any consolation, I am no longer Matt Turner, but Breakupblogger16 with a profile pic of two hands shaped as a breaking heart, as cringe-y as that is. But that’s good, right? It means I’m anonymous; I can blog about my feelings without anyone knowing it’s me. But so what if I use my name? It’s not like anyone will know it’s me. Oh, I really don’t know! I bang my head slowly off my desk. Why did I tell Dee I’d do this? Was I completely mad?

 

   I flick my elastic band against my wrist to calm myself, another thing that Dee has told me to do. Calm down! I take a breath slowly. Just tell this thing, I instruct myself. From start to finish, like Dee said. Just pretend nobody’s actually reading it, which nobody probably will anyway.

 

   I added the disclaimer at the bottom anyway, just in case.

 

   Breathe – I can do this.

 

   I. Can. Do. This.

 

   Just write about the first thing you saw that day you met her.

 

   Well, here goes nothing.

 

 

 

6^th December

 

  

 

Her shoes were pretty cool to be honest.

 

   They suited her, her black Doc Martens; and paired with her flowery skirt they looked slightly out of place but still matched somehow. I liked it. She looked like a pretty cool girl, edgy but still feminine with her lacy t-shirt and tattoos, her hair tied with black ribbon in a messy bun. I wondered what her name was, what her hobbies were.

 

   One of them I could only presume was kissing her boyfriend, who was also decked out in tats and wore a floppy beanie over his shaggy brown hair, as that was all she was doing. It was slightly awkward, like whenever you walk in and see your parents kissing. I felt like I shouldn’t be there, like I was invading their privacy even though they obviously couldn’t care less about engaging in PDA in public. But it was a line in Starbucks so I was kinda stuck where I was. Anyway, PDA in public is gross.

 

   I looked around me at the already packed coffee shop, anywhere but the two people sharing saliva right in front of me. There was a man wheeling a pram round the tables whilst reading something on his phone, a pensioner and his wife sharing a bun and drinking coffee. But the majority of the people there were from my school, clustered here and there in their cool groups that I wouldn’t be invited into; one side was girls and the other side boys, corners of rowdiness that was earning harsh looks from people who wanted to drink their coffee in peace.

 

   I wanted to tell them that they were creating a bad image for my already disreputable high school, but they would’ve just laughed in my face. It’s hardly like they care about school.

 

   I felt fidgety; the line needed to hurry up so I could get a move on. I needed to distract myself with something to pass the time in the massively long queue – it’s always busy in the afternoons after school – so I took out my phone and checked my texts. I didn’t expect anyone to have texted me, and I was right: nobody had. Yet, I still had a sinking feeling in my stomach, that nobody feeling.

 

   I looked over again at the crowds of people in their blue and black blazers, foolishly hoping somehow that one of them might notice me and call me over to join them.

 

    Just to make it clear, no one did.

 

   So, in an attempt to seem busy – popular – wanted – I wrote out multiple drafts to my mum, brother, dad – anyone – that I didn’t obviously didn’t send. Half of them didn’t make sense. But let’s be honest, I wasn’t fooling anyone; the man behind me must’ve thought I was some indecisive moron, so, with reddened cheeks, I put my phone in my pocket, keeping my eyes on the floor.

 

   Suddenly a child’s cry, which sounded very much like a World War Two air raid siren, erupted, from a splutter to a full blow wail, out of nowhere. I spun round in shock, like the rest of the coffee shop, to see what was happening. It was a baby, no more than one, who was crying for Britain – literally, she couldn’t stop, no matter how much her dad was shushing her, bouncing her on his hip or singing a song under her breath. He kept looking around the faces of annoyance and, looking apologetic, he mumbled a flurry of sorrys to the people near him. This included me, and I nodded at him in an attempt to acknowledge his forgiveness, unlike most of the people (most noticeably the man who was standing behind me before this commotion started – he’d left in a huff and a grumble).

 

   I felt sorry for him, I really did – the dad, I mean. If it was me with the baby I would’ve turned right around and escaped the menacing coffee shop as quickly as I could. I would’ve wanted the ground to swallow me up; I couldn’t handle the judging glares of the old people, school kids and baristas. But he didn’t do that, so he had more guts than me. He continued to bounce her and sing to her, but all attempts to quieten her were unsuccessful; it seemed he was determined to get his coffee.

 

   But the more she screamed, the more his embarrassment turned to frustration. It was a little obvious even to me that he didn’t know what was wrong with his daughter. Obviously his wife took more care of her than he did. He looked at me once more in a plea for me to tell him what she needed, but I didn’t know why his baby was crying any more than he did.

 

   I looked around Starbucks once more to see a room full of people trying to continue their conversations to a soundtrack of a crying baby, but nobody helped the poor man. And there were at least three prams in the room, as well as mothers and fathers with their little kids, none of whom helped whatsoever – you’d think that people who’d done it for a couple of years would step in and take the reins?

 

   But that’s when I saw it.

 

   Lying there, discarded on the floor, was a little stuffed animal. It was too far away for me to distinguish was type of animal it was, but I felt that it belonged to the girl behind me. It just had to (because otherwise I’d look pretty stupid just coming over with a random teddy and giving it to the kid).

 

   ‘Sorry,’ I said, a little louder than usual, ‘could you keep my space in the queue?’ because I needed my coffee just as much as him. The man looked slightly confused, no doubt not hearing me fully, but nodded, so I slipped out of line, focussing on the stuffed toy. But then a laugh that I knew so well came from nowhere, penetrating through the wail, and broke me out of my concentration. I looked round the room, spotting his ginger hair immediately. The sight of him made me stop in my tracks – panicking – seeing that the toy was three tables away from the group of boys where he was included.

 

   What was he even doing here with his stupid friends? Usually he goes to football practise every Wednesday. My heart fluttered, but not in a good way, when he shifted in his seat as I was sure he was going to turn around and see me. I couldn’t move. What if he saw me with the toy? No doubt I’d be even more mocked and ridiculed than usual.

 

   I was aware, by the way, that I looked like an idiot, half out of the queue and standing randomly in the middle of the room. What to do? I could leave the toy where it was, couldn’t I? Just bare the pain of the wail that was almost deafening? No – I had to make it stop, so I continued gingerly but then stopped once more, seeing that there were two ways I could go about getting this teddy. One way was to go the longer way, around other tables to avoid his particular one, grab the teddy and go. The other way involved me walking directly past them, enduring their jagged remarks and ‘jokes’ about me, to a few tables behind, pick up the teddy and go.

 

    Let’s be honest here, this is me we’re talking about. I took the former.

 

   So I went in almost a full square to get to the toy. I couldn’t face walking past the group of boys from my school to get to it, mainly because of the stupid ginger.

 

   As I came closer to it, found that the toy was a lion, its fluffy red mane slightly snot-ridden but overall it had the wooliness of a new toy. A yellow bowtie was around his neck, with an M stitched on it in red thread. It was literally the cutest thing ever! I bet that it had been given to the little girl by a doting aunt or someone and that she loved it so much and couldn’t sleep without it tucked in beside her.

 

   I smiled at the thought of my own cheesy daydream, and was about to pick it up until someone beat me to it. A blue and black blazered arm, no less, that cradled the small lion, and I looked up in surprise to see who my sudden rival was.

 

   I really wish I hadn’t looked up.

 

   ‘Dropped something, Matt?’ said that annoying Welsh accent that I know intrinsically well, with a smirk on his stupid thin freckled face.

 

   Anger rushed through me at the sound of his voice, but also fear as I noticed that my heart sped up a little when he came near me and my whole body tensed, ready to move if need be.

 

   Two words: Devon Henley.

 

   I really didn’t want to see him today.

 

   I kept my face neutral, my eyes to the ground, but in my head a different scenario was playing: I was already grabbing the lion from his hand and punching him in the face for good measure. He deserves it, the two-faced prick. He’s nothing scary to look at, except if you’re scared of the thin, freckly, ginger type boy who slightly lacks in the looks department. But it’s more his personality that makes him intimidating; his two sidedness, the fact that he’s manipulative and wily under his goodie-goodie act that he plays in front of the teachers.

 

   ‘Didn’t know you still carried round your teddy bear,’ he continued, smirking fully now as he looked down at the lion and then to me. He glanced back at his group of mates with a laugh, who were also sniggering and whispering to each other. ‘Does Matty boy want his little teddy-weddy bear back?’ he asked me like he was speaking to a baby.

 

   I clenched my jaw together. It’s actually a lion you dumb-ass, I thought, but I didn’t say that to him for my own sake. ‘It’s not mine.’ Oh my, my voice did not sound like my voice, even to me. It sounded pathetic and weedy.

 

   He dangled it in front of my face, frowning in mock sadness. ‘You sure about that? It does have your initial on it after all. Don’t you see: M for Matthew? And it’s just the right colour to match your face! Who’d have thought! What would I call that shade, now… Guilty Maroon? I-Know-I-Still-Sleep-With-A-Fucking-Teddy Red? Hmm?’ he spat. I said nothing, hoping inside he’d walk away. But he didn’t. He stood there, relishing in my awkwardness and embarrassment. ‘Yeah, I thought so.’ 

 

   It’s also the same colour of your hair, you retard, I thought, smiling at my own comeback.

 

  ‘What are you smiling at, you dickhead?’ he hissed, squaring up to me so suddenly that I could smell his rank breath. I willed myself not to flinch, but of course I did; I stepped back in shock, my heart palpitating.

 

   ‘I was just giving it back to the man over there with the baby,’ I explained as expressionless as possible, yet surprised at my own strength to make a rebuttal. I pointed over to where the man was still standing in the line with the baby in the pram.

 

   I was suddenly aware of some people looking at Devon and I and the whole situation that was unfolding, and my cheeks reddened a little more. I think he was conscious of it as well, as he said reasonably, ‘Sure you were,’ putting a hand on my shoulder and smiling at me like we were best mates, like he’d never said that dig to me. ‘Sure. Go on then, get back to him; I’m sure his kid is missing his lion.’ And with that, he pushed past me to his table and continued chatting to his group like he’d never seen me.

 

   I looked at the never ending line of people, searching for the man and his daughter. The baby had stopped crying I suddenly heard, probably tired out, as everything was stunningly quiet; even the chatter of the customers seemed to be whispers compared to their usual rowdiness. My eyes skimmed past them all when I saw him chatting to the barista, waiting for his coffee.

 

   My eyes were glued on him. I had to get to them before they left the shop.

 

   I walked the quicker way without realising it, which meant past Devon and his crew. But I couldn’t stop now as I’d look like even more of an idiot, so I carried on, praying they wouldn’t do anything like throw coffee in my face, or something else.

 

   I should’ve seen it coming, though. It’s the oldest trick in the book really. But I was hell-bent on getting that silly lion to its owner that I didn’t see one of one of Devon’s mates’ feet sticking out as casually as anything.

 

   I didn’t see him lift it slightly as I walked past.

 

   Until it was too late.

 

   I didn’t see it until I was stumbling on air, until I grabbed onto the nearest thing to me to steady myself, which just happened to be a barista cleaning up a table. I clamped one hand on her waist, another on her shoulder, and with my unsteadiness I managed to knock her down as well, the plates falling from her hand and smashing on the tiles. In the process I managed to have lukewarm coffee spilt down my shirt, and land awkwardly half beside her/half on top of her.

 

   I’m pretty sure the entire Starbucks was staring at us, and in that moment I was acutely aware of how close I was to a girl, how her chest was pressed next to mine, and how I could hear her sweet-smelling breaths on my cheek. And, in the background, how I could hear multiple laughs and snorts from everyone and shouts of ‘Get a room!’ from Devon.

 

   I think my scale of mortification can’t get any higher.