I told you it was coming..... read and comment please =]
I sit in the window seat staring blankly out into the rain. Watching it fall gracefully to the earth below then shattering like glass as it hit’s the passing cars. I close my eyes. The rain disappears, the cars stop moving and I’m lying in a poppy field. I look in to the blue skies above and watch the occasional passing cloud. The poppies whisper in the breeze “Annabelle, Annabelle.” I sit up. The breeze catches my hair making it fly into my face. I brush it back with my hands and hear my name again. This time it’s louder and louder and louder, reaching a final screeching crescendo. I turn to look all around me. Nothing. The poppies are still dancing the breeze.
The roar of an engine startles me. I look up into the heavens. Like some ungodly beast a bomber sails overhead.
Green eyes cautiously The rain has passed, for now at least. The phone begins to ring incessantly . In my haste to answer it I forget where I’m sat and hit the floor with a dull thud. The sky clouds over, still allowing some specks of blue to show through the grey shrouds. I look around myself and find that I’m in a sea of crimson. As I walk it brushes my legs and I inhale the heady scent. I stumble. As I look down I see a guitar. German made in 1942. It looks eerily familiar. I think nothing of it and promptly decide that it’s coming with me. I can hear the distant chimes of a lullaby, walking towards the sound I realise that I’ve left the comfort of the field and wandered out onto the burning concrete.
A white flash catches my eye. Glistening in the sun is a white Cadillac, tearing through the country lane. As it draws closer I gaze into the car. In the driver’s seat is a slim woman with long black curls cascading in the wind. The frames of her yellow sunglasses dazzles me for a moment, causing me to trip and fall into the road. Lying there I begin to panic as the cars hurtles closer and closer. Goosebumps erupt all over my body as I realise I can’t get up. Why can’t I get up? She can’t see me. She won’t stop.
I sit bolt upright, eyes wide with fear. The usually cold and uninviting walls of this grey, dreary prison suddenly seem homely and warm. Even though I’ve lived here for two years now, its just not the same. Unopened tins of paint sit in the corner glinting like the Cadillac. The telephone sits there blinking relentlessly. Little red specks of light taunt my eyes. I sit and looking at it in some kind of vain hope that it will stop. I pick it up off the concrete. I want to throw it against the wall. I want to the calls to stop. I jab at the buttons until the machine blurts out “You have one new message.” It pauses and bleeps a few times before I hear a woman’s voice “Hi Anna can you please call me back...” There’s a woman’s voice. I don’t much care for her.
There’s a strange feeling about today. I wake up as usual. Six o clock dead on. My phone vibrates against the wooden floor amplifying the noise. I switch on the TV, I left it on Channel 4 the night before and now there’s some kids’ TV programme on. I walk out of the room and there’s a strange high-pitched ringing. I’ve become used to it now. It’s just electromagnetic noise. It seems to grow louder and louder as I get closer to the kitchen. It dies quite suddenly and I feel relieved, as the pressure decreases. I can hear my phone ringing. I run across the hallway and fling open my door, just reaching it before the final ring. “Hello is this Annabelle Crosse?”I don’t recognise the voice. It sounds hushed, almost old. “Who’s speaking please?” I reply. “I’m not giving a name until I get an answer..” I think. “It’s just that I need your help”. The voice rasps. I don’t answer and another thought crosses my mind “Yeah… of course you do. “ I hear coughing at the other end of the line “help with what?” I say instantly regretting it. It was too late. They had already hung up. I throw the phone down on the bed and finish getting ready for work.
I never thought I could hate a uniform as much as this one. I work as a PCSO, just temporarily until I get enough money for my band to take off. “Another day of babysitting drunks and chavs…. Yay.” I wouldn’t say I hate my job. It’s just not that great. As I reach the bottom of the staircase a strange mood washes over me “maybe I should just ditch work and do what I want for a change”. I run back upstairs and change into something a little less government authority and a little more Anna. I release the mane of crimson red hair that’s been protesting worse than Greenpeace at Drax. It springs out and returns to it’s natural state, messed up ringlets with more volume than Tina Turner. I decide to check my Myspace, I haven’t been on it in god only knows how long. “Welcome Tallulah-belle” it reads. I see that I have a new message in my inbox and check it. I don’t know who it’s from and it’s an audio clip. “Oh for chrissakes not more little boys crying down a mic” I click it anyway, expecting it to be along the lines of “rarrarar I’m going to shoot myself..”
A rational person would have blamed the fuse box. Others would blame the national grid. Some may even call it a return to the 70’s power cuts. Not me. “Bloody fuse box!” I yell glaring at the box on the wall. I look at it, and nothing’s fused. “What the hell?” I try to switch the TV back on but it clearly was not happening. I pick up the old phone perched precariously on the dressing table and listen for a dial tone. Nothing. Just silence. I give up and lay on the bed. In the corner I see reams of crumpled paper. Picking it up I read the writing on it;
I don’t need you
This grey town streets
These kids I hate
And then there’s you
Dead wings hang on
Flesh that peels
And worst of all your in my head
I wish you’d stop
I wish you dead
The beginnings of lyrics that I’d written. They’re not that great but it’s a start.
As I try to think of more lyrics I close my eyes and search for inspiration. I feel rain pouring over my skin and my clothes are sticking to me. I look up and see bolts of light headed for the ground. Where has the road gone? Am I still alive? There’s squelching underfoot and I realise I’m in another field. Pallid hay bales surround me, their once golden glow sapped by the thunderstorm. A jolt as sharp as any lightning bolt takes hold of me. I feel almost possessed and feel the urge to sing at the top of my lungs and dance like never before. I climb one of the sallow bales and nearly overstep the top of it. I’ve always had a passion for dancing, this takes me back to my ballet days. Today I am Margot Fontaine, I am Brody Dalle. No, I am Annabelle Crosse and nothing can stop me. As I wrap up my act I hear whistles and clapping. I look down and see a man stood there. He looks up at me “You wanna hand gettin’ down from there?” I did. “No I’m fine thanks.”
“You sure? That was one hell of a show just then.” He smiles as the words leave him. As stubborn as I am and no matter how much I despise chivalry I just can’t say no to him. “Could you help me?” I ask , knowing what the answer was going to be “Of course I can.” He smiles holding his hand out. I lose my footing as I climb down from the hay and he catches me with almost inhuman timing. I notice his eyes, brilliantly green and sharp. In the blink of an eye, he disappears leaving me in the barren field. Tears begin to sting my eyes “Don’t be stupid you didn’t even know him” I mutter sharply. Black streams roll down my doll-like porcelain skin. A bitter taste reaches my mouth “Why?” I scream across the dull landscape. I choke as I try to fight my sobs “I don’t even know you!”.
I run, my feet barely touching the ground. Sharp stones bore into the soles and my legs are torn by the barbed points of roses. I don’t care. I feel abandoned, but I have no reason to. It was a fleeting moment. I sit amongst the roses and contemplate where I should go now. I can’t go back, only forwards. A loud ticking noise hits my ears. Every tick grows louder still and I can’t bear the noise. I curl up willing it to fall silent. Through my hands I see silver buried in the mud. I want to reach out and grab it but my instincts tell me otherwise. “Stop being so scared of everything. You’re so pathetic Anna!” my sister’s cruel tone resounds through my head. I can picture her now.
I was 5 when it happened. She was 14. Our mother had told her to look after me while she went out to work. Angel by name but most definitely not by nature. She was never home, or if she was it was for a few brief moments to tell our mother, or Isabelle, as she known to my sister that she was going out. That night mum was in luck. She’d managed to collar Angel and keep her in the house. “Angel, you’re looking after Anna while I’m at work.”
“Oh why can’t you just dump her on Dale like yesterday?”
“Because madam, she is your sister and I want you to spend some damn time with her! That’s why!”
“But I didn’t even want her!” She growled, scowling in my direction. By this time I’d gotten used to my sister’s surly, selfish demeanour and carried on playing with Alfie, the tattiest bear on the face of the earth. Giggling I made him imitate Angel waving his arms in the air and moving his head from side to side. She saw me. Towering me she snapped “Its not funny you silly little bitch”. I curled up on the stairs with my head against the railings.
“Mum don’t leave me with her.” I whimper. She hears me and picks me up.
“What’s the matter little Belle?” she says soothingly.
“Angel. She’s so mean to me. She hates me mum!” I cry burying my face in her neck. “Angel, apologise to Anna please.”
“No. She started it.”
“She’s also just a little girl. Grow up Angel, I expected more from you.”
“That’s your problem you always want more. Always want what you can’t have. Including that.” She snarls pointing to a picture of my father. My dad died when I was just three. I don’t remember much about him, only that his eyes were green and he had red hair just like me. In the picture is Angel, my mother and I. We were visiting my grandparents in Ayr, Scotland. We’re sat in the garden, that was full of red roses. My mum always said that they were dad’s favourite flowers. I don’t remember the trip or even taking the picture but thankfully they’re still alive.
My mum doesn’t say anything. She just stares into space and sits on the floor, with me still in her arms. I’d grown used to wiping away her tears after her rows with Angel, when she missed dad, or even when there was no reason. I held Alfie at arms length, offering him to her. She took him gently from my hand “Thanks Belle” she smiled weakly. My sister was nowhere to be seen, probably out again. Whenever my mum was sad, she played her guitar. It was a dark rosewood acoustic that her father had given her. She could have been famous. I’m sure of it.
Bright lights rain down on me. Carefully, I open my eyes. “Perfect timing” I laugh. The computer, ancient as it is springs into life whirring and clicking. Slowly the screen shows signs of life, dimly at first then brightening until it reaches a blinding luminous glow that threatens to burn out my eyes. The brightness was probably amplified by the multitude of lights scattered around the room. When I finally deemed it safe to look I saw the audio clip, still beckoning me to listen. “Oh ok then, I’ll listen but I’m not promising anything.” All it took was that one click. How I wished I hadn’t.
After a few seconds of static I heard harsh, deep breaths and coughs. Just like the phone call. “Anna I need you, Anna help me, pick up the phone, anything just help.” It grows higher and higher in pitch until it becomes indecipherable. To be honest, it scared me a little. I read who it was from “LesserknownANGEL” with crosses either side. I want to look at it, but what if I see something I don’t want to ? That’s always been my biggest problem. Over-thinking. “Its not going to hurt you.” Cautiously I mouse over the name. Oddly the display picture was just black, a black box in fact. I feel numb as I wait to find out who the mail was from.
“Angel, 27, Taken. I travel a lot so don’t expect me to be on here too often.” I read on. Surely not? I mean, it can’t be. I haven’t seen my sister since she walked out when I was seven. I had always been told that she had died of an overdose when she was 21 and that she’d been buried with my dad in Newcastle. It can’t be that Angel and I have no way of proving it either way because she doesn’t have a picture. As for the audio, that can’t be her, the person speaking was obviously quite old and as far as I could tell really ill. “All you need to know” it carried on “Is right here, no questions asked.” Sounds a lot like my Angel. “Full name: Angel Maria Crosse-Armstrong, Siblings: one but we don’t speak, Parents: Isabelle and Matthew (deceased).”
That word. Deceased, the polite word for dead. I hate the way there’s so many ways to say one terrible thing. The worst was “I’m ever so sorry but I’m afraid your mother has passed.” Passed? That could mean anything. For all I know passed could mean passed exams, but no, this meant passed to the “Other side”, if indeed there is anything after this life. I believe there is. There has to be. I remember exactly where I was when she told me. It was September 6th 2005, I was sixteen and about to start college on the 8th. It was a pretty normal day really, raining in sheets and throwing down thunderbolts that threatened to collapse the sky itself. I sat on the balcony, gazing down at the concrete floor below. It was as though the earth was attempting to reclaim it. Yellowing grass bled through the grey and blackbirds darted between the fat drops of rain. It didn’t touch me though. That was the only good thing about living on that estate, you always had a balcony above you.
Mum was at work. She’d kept the same job since she was sixteen. It was factory work but it got the bills paid. Things were bad, Angel had left and mum’s new boyfriend was less than a sound character. He didn’t hurt us its just that he always seemed a bit edgy, like an addict. I desperately wanted to get on with him, for mum’s sake. I go back to my room and lie on the bed. I started thinking “I wonder where mum is.” I look at the watch on the table. It was old, very old. A silver pocket watch that had been passed down through my family for god only knows how long. I carefully open the clasp, almost fearful of breaking the hinges. As it opens a picture falls out. It was my favourite of me and my mum. We had it done professionally in November last year. My hair had at least five fluorescent streaks of pink, blue and green and my mum’s black curls fell past her shoulders. She was wearing glasses too. We were smiling but we both secretly knew there should be two more people standing in the picture.
It was 5.55 “mum should be here in five minutes.” I say aloud. Alfie my faithful childhood teddy sits looking at me with his big sad eyes that glint in what little light there is. I pick him up and reminisce about all the times he’s helped me. Something’s missing. He used to have a little blue ribbon but its since disappeared. I can hear sirens but it doesn’t register. I usually ignore them because they never come round here. I’m so bored. I switch on the TV and it’s the end of some kids programme. Blue lettering flashes across the screen and an accent- less voice announces “Welcome to the six o clock news. Today’s top stories…” A large picture appears on the screen. There’s been an accident near a factory. It looks horrific. “A car and a fuel tanker were involved in this fatal collision that killed all parties involved…” I felt sorry for the families of those people. “It’s thought that the tank driver lost control on the wet road and crashed through the central reservation colliding into a blue Corsa…” My mum owns a blue Corsa. I begin to worry. Mum should be home by now. “Stop worrying she’s probably stuck in traffic.” I tell myself. “The collision took place near the Ferry Bridge Industrial estate, Berwick upon Tweed in the border region. The families of the deceased have not yet been informed.” My stomach turned. That’s where my mum works, that’s her car, that’s where we live. I can’t take it in. There’s a knock on the door. I answer it, keeping the chain across just in case. “Hi” I murmur, still reeling from what I’d just seen.
“Hello, I’m PC Mulberry, can I come in?”
“Yeah course you can” I reply, more confidently than my first utterance. I open the door fully and allow the PC to come in. I lead him into the living room and sit down. “I’m sorry for calling at this time, but I have inform you of something.”
“Of what?” I enquire, my tone a little too sharp than I had intended. “It’s about your mother Annabelle.” My heart sinks. I know exactly why he’s here and what he’s about to tell me. “I’m ever so sorry but I’m afraid your mother has passed.”
“Passed?”
“Passed away Anna, I’m so sorry.” Tears swell around my eyes. It was true. I know this is almost evil but I wished it was someone else’s mum that had been in that car, not mine. “Why me?” I whimper. I already lost one parent and now I’ve lost another, I have no family now. No one. “The team have already begun arrangements for you to live with your grandparents in Ayr. They will be your legal guardians until you reach the age of 18.” The rest of his words turn into background noise as I become consumed with my own thoughts.
“I’m not going to Ayr. I’ll live here. On my own.” I tell him coolly. He looks at me uneasily “Anna, you can’t, your only 16 and you need a guardian until the age of 18.” I didn’t need anyone. Not anymore, that died out with my mum, they can’t force me to go live with my grandparents, besides I don’t really know them, all I know is that they are my dad’s parents. That doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean they’re good people and I don’t even know what they look like.
“Goodnight Anna.” The officer says as he leaves. I scream, I cry, I punch inanimate objects. It doesn’t help. I find the watch and somehow in my angry haze it shatters at my feet. The pieces scatter across the carpet. Each spring, every cog and a number of other brass workings lie still, shining in the orange glow of the street light that pours through the window. Sitting in the middle of the floor I can’t calm down, I can’t feel anything but anger. Tears still stream down my face. Regret is an awkward emotion. It’s like a little voice saying “You shouldn’t have done that and now it’s too late to fix.” I scoop up the broken watch, the glass cuts my hands to ribbons, drenching the once perfect silver in lashings of vermillion. I put it down on the table. There’s nothing I can do to save it. There’s nothing I could do to save her.
I have to find out if this is my Angel. I look at her pictures. The girl in the picture has black hair in a messy bob and her jade eyes are framed by black makeup. She looks like my Angel. Exactly as she’s always looked. The next picture is the same girl but with pink hair. I go back to the albums. There’s one called “My sister”, I look through it. Part of me was expecting to see pictures of one of her close friends but as I flick through them I see the same little girl with red hair and green eyes. One really catches my attention. It’s her with the girl in her arms, in my flat. It hits me. That’s me, I’m in that picture, why does she have these? The caption read “My baby sis Anna- I miss her so much”.
“I miss you too Angel”. She doesn’t hate me. I want, no, need to find her. Somehow. I decide to mail her back “Hi Angel, its Anna” I type almost instantly deleting it. “Angel, I want to find you. Please tell me where you are or how I can find you, Annabelle.”
It feels like I’m clutching at straws but at least I’m trying, trying to hold on to the only family I have. But I still can’t figure out what the audio was about. I should have asked her about it.
I look around the room and almost laugh at the irony in front of me. All my brightly coloured junk sitting in the most miserable hole on planet earth. It saddened me to think that at one time these walls were plastered with photographs and kids’ drawings. Now they’re just bare and empty. A blank canvas. A smile breaks across my face as I plan how to return it to a wonderland with every colour under the sun and reinstate the millions of photographs that lie face down on the floor.
Before my mum died she bought paint in every colour imaginable. We were going to decorate this place properly, hence why it’s so bare now. I pick up the first tin I see and I want to throw it over the walls, bathing it in the magic of colour. I know I shouldn’t, so I go in search of brushes. I rifled through a musty old bureau. Rolling back the shutter I expected to find a few old scraps of paper, maybe a few ink pens, mum loved those, perhaps even undelivered letters, what I found was indeed a letter, but it was addressed to me. “Why would she write a letter to me?” The oddest part was seeing a full address.
Miss Annabelle Louisiana Crosse
St Agnes House
Flat 74b
Berwick-upon- Tweed
Border Region
I rip it open, ensuring that the letter stays in one piece. Part of me dreads seeing what it says but this is quickly quashed by an overwhelming curiosity that rips through me faster than wildfire. It’s open, breathing slowly I calm my nerves, “how can one letter make me so nervous?”. Yanking it out of the envelope I unfold it and start to read “Dear Anna, I know you may not get this for days, months even years after this is written but it is important that you hear what I have to say. I disappeared before we had any real chance to get to know each other, that’s not your fault, it’s mine. I’ll admit I’ve been selfish but I saw it as the only way out..” What does that mean? “You may not know who has written this letter, but I’ll tell you that we could have been so close…” I notice something inside the envelope, it’s shiny and smooth and I have to be careful as I prize it out. It’s a photograph. There’s my dad on the far left of the picture standing with a red haired woman. She looks oddly familiar but I don’t question it until I see a little girl also with red hair. It’s strange how this whole family, if it was a family, all have the same red hair and green eyes. Even the way they stand, the way they smile, the clothes they wear are exactly identical, so much so it’s almost unnerving. I flip the picture over to see if I can find anything else on the family. “Armstrong family 1994” That means the girls in the picture are the same age as me. But how? “Anna and Ellen’s first holiday” I look at the picture. I look in the mirror hanging above the bureau. I look down at the picture again. That is me. But who’s the woman? Surely I would know about her?
As I read on I grow tired and see the blackness of the skies outside. I don’t know what time it is but fall quickly into the depths of sleep. There’s a mirror standing in the middle of an emerald field I stand and look into it. At first I see nothing but the vast expanse of corn fields and immense blue skies above me. Children’s laughter circulates around me. Its safe here. I see a figure in the glass, blurred and strange. As it comes into focus I see a girl around the same age as me with brown hair and soft green eyes. She smiles and for a moment my eyes are drawn to her teeth, not that there’s anything wrong with them, in fact they’re perfect, each and every one gleaming like a pearl. I don’t understand why she’s here, what is she doing?
Snow begins to fall and the temperature drops. Flinching as it touches her skin, its apparent that she’s real and not just another imaginary character in this never ending dream. Holding her hand out she seems to be saying something but I can’t hear it or anything at all for that matter. I grab her hand and instantly feel a corpse like chill around her. It makes me shudder and she laughs. It’s so surreal, I’m standing in a blizzard in summer clothes with a girl who is potentially my double. There’s also a possibility that I’ve lost my hearing.
Looking back, hoping to see the mirror, a sudden wave of disappointment drops through me like a rock. It isn’t there anymore. In it’s place stands a wall of flames teasing the snow flicking at it, spitting sparks and scorching the sugar- coated landscape. There’s no panic, no rush to get away from the searing heat, just a longing to go back to how things were before. When I turn to look again, the girl is gone and only the acrid black smoke that billows into the sky gives any sort of comfort. It fills my lungs but I don’t care. I can feel weakness creeping through my being, I can’t stay awake any longer.
Daylight breaks through the curtains bathing my skin in white light and I wake with a jolt. The letter sits on the floor, folded over where I had stopped reading it. The air feels heavy, making it difficult to breathe. I get up and look in the mirror. Panda eyes and grey skin looks back at me vacantly, contrasting sharply with the vivid red hair framing the sad sallow-skinned girl. The frame of the mirror is charred. The once ornate silver has been replaced by brittle, black remains. Below the mirror is a pure white feather surrounded by burnt out matches.
