I live in a fucking trashcan (madraykin_x) wrote in thewritersclass,
I live in a fucking trashcan
madraykin_x
thewritersclass

This is the first chapter of a story I have written about an 18 year old girl called Anna Lucia. It contains language which some may find offensive and is about 2000 words long. I'm really looking for help regarding the fact that its written in the form of a biography. Should I change this? And is the idea looking to be a good one, or should I just quit while I'm ahead? Comments of any kind are appreciated.
Thanks :)


Anna Lucia –
Bird-nest Hair


Analyze and interpret
Anallyse and interrrrrpret
Annnnzyle and Itterpretnl
Anal sex and Interrrrrpetgyu
Danny Vinyard- American History X


PROLOGUE

My name is Anna Lucia. I’m 18 years old and this is a book about my life.
God, I’ve only even started and already I sound like a six year old, but it’s a good a beginning as any. My life… well, I used to have one –or at least, I’m led to believe that I did. Now I have nothing. Believe me. I’m a total recluse; never leave the house, don’t open the curtains - married my computer - that kind of thing. I suppose I’m writing this book (well, at the moment, paragraph. If the visualization actually lives long enough to be worthy of that title, I’ll be impressed – ok back on track) book, to kill the boredom. Fight the feelings. Positive thinking, (Yay. Go me.)
Notice just the little bitty pinch of sarcasm there. Fighting the feelings and thinking positively is something that’s an impossibility for me. In fact positive has almost been completely depleted from my vocabulary.
My one hope is that at some point during this project, I may have a light bulb moment and be able to exclaim triumphantly:
“YES THAT’S IT! THAT’S WHERE IT ALL WENT WRONG! WOO CLARITY! NOW I CAN FIX IT!”
…if only I could be so lucky…
I presume that it would be the mannerly thing to try and explain a bit, so let’s go back a bit– not a long way – but long enough….

13
Age thirteen was an interesting time for me – as I’m sure it was for everyone, but at the Emily time – this and the following year receives the brunt of the blame for how crappy my life has turned out.
At the time, my posse consisted of myself and two other girls; Sam and Emily.
We spent most of our time at Emily’s house. We watched scary movies, ate toast, had sleepovers and floated around in that happy fluffy pink world that most pre-pubescent girls do. Sam and Emily had been best-friends since they were little, plus, both were a year ahead of me in school. I only came along after my fellow female class mates mutinied** mutinied, [verb] - Open rebellion against constituted authority, especially rebellion of sailors against superior officers. Also known as when one bitch who was your best friend for 11 years decides you’re no longer worthy. Open rebellion ensues, usually resulting in locker-side cat-fights and name-calling. See also: Handbags-at-dawn. against me and left me for dead. Entering into a relationship as a third wheel nowadays would leave me as a gibbering wreck but, at the time; I didn’t care. To me, emotional insecurity didn’t even exist in 2001; the thought that they could possibly despise me, even if only a little, never came a-visiting the grey matter. Bad things that happened were always someone else’s fault. I was the good guy, everybody else sucked. All in all, life was nice – it was satisfying, almost offensively uncomplicated and included many flatulence inducing giggling fits.
I was happy. But for some reason, this wasn’t gelling well with God, the Devil… whoever. Somewhere in-between going to Marks and Spencer’s to buy your first bra with Mammy, spots, periods and suddenly realizing that you’ve grown so suddenly that your arms now reach your knees – something rotten, other than adolescence, spawned within my sub-conscious and to date has refused to budge. It probably wouldn’t even come out with a spatula if I had the guts to stick one up my nose and wiggle it around for a bit.
Emily was the first to turn. She was now a prisoner of an ancient war, and there was no sight of a white flag of surrender on the horizon. For too long they had plagued us, stolen our Barbie rubbers and written naughty words on them, pulled the pigtails and plaits which although we secretly loved, had caused many a crying match in the morning while our mammies seemed to yank our the very hair out of our heads…… Ok, so I’m being a bit dramatic, but for me; boys were boys. They were there. They had different bits and they smelt funny. That was it, conversation closed, next question please? I’ll admit that I pretended I liked them, (imagery of 5 year old Anna-Lucia asking some guy… Danny? To marry her… eugh) but only because I knew I had to. At this stage they were still an alien species to me.
Sam was next to go – without warning, she was constantly blabbering on about someone of the male persuasion called Thomas who was in her class at school. Emily was long gone – she was by our standards – a down right dirty scut*.
* At this point, I would like to thank one of my maths teachers, the fabulous Elsie McLean for the teachings of the use of the word scut instead of slut. Without you Elsie, I would have delved into unthinkable areas of profanity and dammit, scut just sounds better.
Even still, I was entirely nonplussed by this silliness. They were just trying to be cool and would soon see the stupidity of their ways. But, then, it happened. I was happily (well as happily as a total loner could be), making my way to class one sunny morning when it hit. I saw Kieran ahead of me in the corridor. Nothing new there, I saw Kieran every Monday to Friday, nine to three-thirty. But, something was different and then it hit me.
“ohmygodKieran’saboy!!!!!KIERAN’SABOYANDI’MAGIRL!!!!”
I realized I was gawking. Dodging through gargantuan sixth formers like a professional rugby player, I made my way to the junior toilets and barricaded myself into a cubical. Surrounded by the scrawlings of fellow students: ‘KELLIE LUVS DARREN 4EVA’ and the like, I suddenly realised what it was all about.
No longer did Kieran look stupid and smelly and immature, he had become cool, sophisticated and suave to my poor confused brain all in a matter of seconds. It had happened to my friends; and now it was happening to me; I too was nothing more than a dirty scut. The bell marching us all along to first class jolted my senses. But, unlike the cheesy American sitcoms I bounced out of bed for at 9am on a Saturday morning, I was not, ‘Saved by the Bell.’ I was more doomed if anything. Was my hair ok? OH GOD. I had a spot, must cover! MOVE STUPID HAIR- COVER SPOT!
I sauntered into my form room five minutes later looking like a not too distant cousin of cousin It, and of course the laws of physics and scrutiny being exactly what they were: laws; I tripped whilst walking straight in front of Kieran’s desk. The whole class burst out laughing (I wasn’t exactly miss-popular if you remember), but none of the catcalls were as loud or hurt so much as Kieran’s.*
*Oh-woe-is-me. I know, I know. Don’t worry. The sappy stuffs almost over. Good if it’s putting you in the similar position of: this = gag + me. Bad if you’re into a devilishly drippy story darling.

I might as well have battered myself to death with my Eeyore file-o-fax there and then for all life was worth.

But, in a convent school life continues. Especially when you have P.E straight after the aforementioned event and an obviously lesbian teacher screaming at you to ‘buck up’ and ‘get on form!’
Fucking star jumps, I swear to God.
P.E was never really my thing anyway. Its not like I was bad at it, I was a pretty good Goal Shoot in my day. But, I’ll admit it I’m a lazy shite, and I didn’t enjoy being picked last for teams. Well fuck them all. During netball, I intentionally missed catching the ball, lobbed it at peoples face (I never said I was entirely innocent in this whole situation; now did I?) and always made sure I was off-side. Honestly, if I could have stood there smoking a ciggy, I would have. The only time I was even a touch enthusiastic about P.E was when we were playing hockey. Hockey, now there’s a real sport. I’ve never seen the point in being all nicey nicey about competition. Badminton is a perfect example. Two bats and a, ha-ha, ball, (or whatever it’s called), which altogether make up the weight of an anorexic two year old. You could play proper dirty in Hockey and, (perk!) get away with it! The number of intentional bruised knees and shins that came about due to me playing that game was phenomenal.
I may have been naïve in the areas of sex and other indoor sports, but playing dirty in the outdoor ones was another matter altogether. Well, I can’t be blamed; parents and educators alike love to see the kiddies claw their way to the top. (All casualties to the Guidance Councillor please.)
However, at some point during the year; I lost all enthusiasm to keep fighting back. I found that not only had the sexual side of my brain woken up, along with it came the area that managed confidence and self-esteem. Well, would have managed, if I had had any that is.
No longer could I saunter into the lunch hall, imperturbable to the fact I had to sit on my own. Inconsolable torment had taken hold,
“What if they’re laughing at me? Oh my god, I’m such a loner I can’t go in there!”
So, many a lunch time, I found myself sitting, eating my cheese sandwiches, in the little chapel that came along with the St.Johns School package.
For a while, I prayed that things would change. Maybe God would see that I was spending every lunch time with him. Maybe he would change things for me, make them better; make my friends talk to me again… But, He never did; and it was at this exact time that I lost my faith. God was no longer there, looking out for me, showering beams of love and happiness and contentment in my direction. He was dead. He had to be dead. The idea that he just didn’t give a damn would have probably fried my mentality to the point of no return.
School became even more of a chore. I lost focus, my grades slipped; I never handed in any homework and was in constant bother with teachers.
My parents tried everything they could to make me feel better.
‘You have other friends!’
‘They’re obviously not worth bothering with if they don’t want to be friends with a person like you.’
‘We love you. That’s all that matters.’
I appreciated their efforts, but adolescence had taken hold. They were parents, they were wrong. They didn’t have a clue. But, the gauntlet really dropped when despite night after night of constant begging and crying to be moved to another school, they always declined. I never forgave them for it, but now I can see that they were right. Things would have been no better anywhere else; people fall out with me and hate me regardless of where I am.
This was the beginning of a five-year war that went on between my parents and myself. I screamed at them at any opportunity, told them I hated them at least twenty times a day. My brother always got offside. He was the ‘golden-child.’ Popular, never forgot his homework, never argued with anyone. I hated him, I hated everyone, I hated everything.
During this time however, Emily was blooming. She had started wearing makeup, had highlighted her hair, was tall and thin, wore cool clothes and everybody suddenly thought she was majorly fun to be around.
Sam and I, well mostly I, took every opportunity to show our contempt for her behaviour.
“Emily you’re acting like a slut!”
“No I’m not, they’re only boys. I’m just hanging around with them,”
“And let them feel you’re arse.”
“Weeeeeeeeell…. It’s only in good fun.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. My mammy wouldn’t let me get highlights or wear makeup, still made me shop in Dunnes, and boys; even though I would have let them at any opportunity, showed no interest in wanting to feel my arse.
Many a time I had been dragged along to the cinema to see some stupid film I didn’t want to see, just so she could snog her current boyfriend without having to worry about her mammy finding out about what she was doing. The last thread of that relationship fell away when she started skanking up my brother. I called her up and told her she was a bitch, a slag, a whore, a slut; the works.
She replied that I was an ugly bitch who would never get a boyfriend and was just jealous. I slammed the phone down and that was that.
I’ll give her some credit though, I was jealous. Insanely jealous. At the beginning of our relationship, I thought that she, Sam and I, were forever united together in geekdom and loserness. Things had changed again, and the odds were not all stacked in my favour. Sam had known Emily way longer than she had known me. Nail-biting fear took hold. Was I going to be left on my own again?
But Sam stood strong and stayed on middle ground (no easy feat if you can comprehend the bitchyness of thirteen year olds). She refused to take sides, and worked her diary around both Emily and me.
Even still, Sam’s loyalty to both of us wasn’t fairly rewarded. Either because Emily was angry at Sam for not taking her side, or it was because I was right and she was just a bitch; Sam ended up being kicked into the gutter and forgotten.
I knew just how she felt; my long time friend had left me just a few months before. Now we truly were united together in geekdom. We were both unpopular, loners in school and had the equivalent of chess-club cool. As badly as I felt for her loss, I was in a way; happy. Here was someone who’s entire life was a mirror image of mine; nothing could ever tear us apart.
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic
  • 2 comments