i n

F

BIGGER

SMALLER

COURIER

GEORGIA

TIMES

VERDANA

COMIC

l

RECENT

POPULAR

e

u

 ^{(it's beta!)}

My name is Amberine. Everything is awful now. Hate until I have no soul Scream until I lose control Dancing fingers down my neck 'Till guilty kisses soon race back Then fumes intoxicate my head My dreams all poisoned Eyes like lead. Black tar fills my heavy lungs Forgetting with each joint: I'm young. I'll drink so I don't know my name Then find a nice boy I can blame Count the press ups! Set my free Through twisted highs from ecstacy Then back to Earth I guess I've crept My body paying every dept Ignoring bruises on my thighs With laughter I can only cry Bleeding tears so I can't see You'd think I want to punish me.

My name is Amberine.

It has nearly been a full year since That Day. A lot can change in a year.

Before That Day I was what some may refer to as a normal person. My hobbies were going out with friends, challenging the status quo, arguing with my spiteful mother and saying JD was my favourite drink ever in the whole world even though my head went light at the smell of it and my stomach would turn to the taste that reminded me of nail polish remover and sugar. Although others would say I was a typical teenager, I resented this label.

I never really agreed that there was any stereotype that fit this idea of a normal teenager because I was always pretty pissy and philosophical, biting back with witty comments oh so full of substance. I liked to think that we were all different with intricate life patterns and roads in our mind that no other person could possibly level with. These thoughts excited me because I thought I was one of a kind and if I’m honest with you, I was just quite excitable about everything.

Looking back, I was normal then.

Now I think I’m kind of the girl that everyone says their sentences slower for because they don’t think I can quite understand words in NORMAL speed like NORMAL people should usually understand. I’m a bit of a recluse. Misanthropist. But I’m not the kind that is shy or picked on because I look after myself and nobody dares to question me. People just watch. I roll my eyes when people make a social effort and look away when boys talk to me. Megan thinks it makes me look more mysterious and just damn sexy.

I don’t want to be mysterious, and it worries me how often she emphasises on the sexy part. Not because I assume she’s a lesbian, I’d have no problem with this. It’s just her excitability with almost everything in the universe. I can’t do that anymore, I’m tired.

Now I want to be inanimate. There’s just no point in anything. How could I tell her that without her winking and reiterating her notions about how males would love to unwind the codes of my brooding thoughts? Jesus Christ.

She still drags me along to her parties though, so I was sat at the bottom of the stairs on my own with gross bits of sick from an anonymous owner splattered across the step above me and a pink key ring in my hand. A couple stumbled up the stairs, sympathetically smiling at the loser whose only company was a souvenir from Annecy. Not phased, I looked down to my purple t-bar shoes. Seeing as I wasn’t about to have the night of my life I took the time to cross examine the rest of my attire: the grey pop socks that gathered above my bony knees, tucking into the t - bar patent leather shoes that I colour co-ordinated to match my ragged strapless purple dress that puffed out at the waste and the deep colours on the array of beads that tangled around my skinny wrists. The blonde tousled hair falling in messy curls on my shoulders was almost highlighted with white streaks. I looked at my reflection in the window opposite, analysing the athletic figure that blinked back at me. Quite tall. My skin was so pale that it would have clashed with the shades of white on the walls had they not been splashed with mixtures of vomit, beer, blessed JD and an unexplainable amount of cigarette burns. I’m sure whosever this flat belonged to would get a decent bollocking from their parents on return from, er... wherever they were.

In fact, I didn’t even have a clue whose flat this was.

I was just so glad I wasn’t sober. It still felt a bit grim solving my problems with drugs and vodka because I was pretty disciplined and I had to lie to others, pretending I was on the edge. I ran five miles every night - unless I didn’t have my Ipod. I was the fastest runner in my college and I could easily overlap most of the boys, but I refused to run even for the county because we weren’t allowed our ear plugs in whilst we ran. I never wanted to hear myself breathing in and out heavily. Never.

So: drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes. The truth is, I could take them or leave them. Tonight I just chose to take them, so I opened the little compartment in the pink key ring and popped a small, delicate pill whilst averting my eyes from the scene that was Luke and Megan sucking each other’s faces off of each other. They weren’t so shy anymore.

A lot can change in a year - I told you.

People were dancing in the living room so I joined the group of wasters.

“Hey”, a girl just about managed to slur, welcoming me into the group and pressing her body close to mine before dipping to the ground and then back up again, some sort of pole/body dance on me. Everyone was like this at Megan’s parties. So attention seeking. I took the drink from her hand and gulped it down before gluing my eyes to the boy in the corner and un-sticking him from his lonely seat. He stood up and I dragged him within my reach, passing him the drink from my hand.

I smiled. “Amberi-”

His lips found my shoulder blades then made their way up to my neck as his hands relaxed my hips and he stood behind me, the music booming through our intoxicated lungs.

I turned to face him and let my hips swing from side to side, bending my knees and dancing whilst closing my eyes softly and biting his lip, my body looser and lighter, depending on him to hold me up. Pulling away he indicated for the stairs and I told him I would be back in a minute, that I was just going to get another drink so did he want one as well? Nodding, he left me as he went to find an empty room.

A lot changes in a year, doesn’t it?

Not enough for me to ever forget what happened.

In the kitchen were more obliterated adolescences but these were keeping themselves occupied instead with drinking games, dares, spliffs and some bag whores were shooting la glass (one of them proudly told me this meant the meth was pure - had no cuts.) He was disappointed when I nodded that I already knew what that meant and promptly educated him on how much more experienced I was in this department than him.

Freak.

I found the base with various spirits left so invitingly on its surface, and I casually let my fingers traced the bottles as I swayed and staggered, leaning against the kitchen worktop for support. What time had I started drinking? What had I drunk? Shit, who cares.

“You don‘t want to be here either, eh?” A voice came from behind me.

Sighing, I turned to expect that stupid meth shooter again, trying to spark up a conversation, but I was surprised to be faced with a different, more sober looking boy who was smiling...weirdly at me. I mean, a boy looking at me wasn’t a surprise but he wasn‘t looking at me greedily or crudely. He was studying my posture and state disappointedly, tilting his head in surprise for some reason. Who the hell did he think he was?

“And just who exactly are you?” I mumbled unkindly, voicing my thoughts aloud and turning away from him to continue with my business, picking out the bottle with the largest volume on it.

“Nice to meet you too” he said sarcastically.

“Look, this is a party. I‘m getting wasted. Do you mind?” I let the unsubtle impatience in my words offend his ears, although he didn‘t appear to notice it, and even if he did he didn't let it show.

“Yes I do, actually.”

My eyes widened in surprise at his matter-of-fact tone and I looked at him once more. He was a little taller than I was and he’d chosen to dress smart for this occasion. Sweet. A red shirt complimented his skinny black tie and my eyebrows raised at the sight of his skinny jeans and black leather shoes. He was clean. He was hot. His short hair was a different blonde to mine, a little more yellow and cartoon like, sticking out at edges, framing his chiselled cheekbones. What got me were his eyes. They were the lightest pigments of blue with flecks of brighter shades and they looked so kind, so focused. I shook my head in confusion.

“What?!” Why couldn’t he just leave me to get wasted and go away if he didn’t like the party? Why couldn’t he complain to another girl who was more sober than myself and probably in a fitter shape to hold a good conversation? Why me?!

“I do mind. Because you‘re being selfish” he blurted. Realising he still hadn’t explained himself, he carried on. “I mean, you‘re beautiful. You come here looking all nice and I‘ve seen you in college. You‘re smart. You don’t need this. Then I see you waltz in here and help yourself to ale as that disgusting guy with no respect waits upstairs for you? Pull yourself together, you’ve no excuse for this.” Then, firmly, he leant back against the counter and stared at me. “I won’t let you go upstairs.” I choked in shock and outrage as I launched into an upright position. I had to fight the small part of me that was secretly a bit flattered by his persistence, though.

“WHAT?!” I repeated, a little louder. “And just who the hell are you to tell me I have no excuse for this? Why are you here if you are so fucking above it?”

Then it was his turn to look defensive. “I was trying to forget.”

I don’t think he needed to say anymore. He'd empathised with my same predicament and this sent an avalanche of oxygen through my blood cells until my heart beat stopped still. He’d still been right though and I could never be wrong in any situation, let alone with a complete stranger who was preaching the way to live when all I wanted to do was lose the the whole sum of my past on a Saturday night. Ah, shit.

A tear fought its way down my cheek and our eyes locked for so long. His gaze was forcing my throat to knot itself, letting me choke. Letting me sob. I stormed out of the flat without telling Megan or that slimy idiot upstairs. Sitting down on the cold cement I kicked a stone, burying my head in my hands.

“Look, I‘m sorry. I didn‘t mean to upset you.” His voice was behind me again. It was gentle, kind. He looked at me, then at the pavement next to me and I shrugged, so he knelt and sat down a few inches to my left, squinting at the night sky. We waited for a while. It was quiet, but not an awkward silence as such. It felt nice; neither of us had to say anything.

“Why do you care?” I inquired after a long pause.

“Huh?” This seemed to confuse him.

“Well, you don‘t know me, why do you care about what would happen to me?”

He still appeared blank and said simply “well, that guy was a prick and you‘re not. I can tell. I was just looking out for you and I thought it would help. I didn‘t realise you would get so annoyed by someone who actually looked out for your best interests. But it‘s not your fault I guess. I don‘t know why you‘re here but I do know you can do better, whatever the reason you‘re doing this." He gestured at my state. He looked to the ground. "You‘re pretty and I just know when someone is in the wrong place...that‘s all.”

I was trying to maintain my bitter tone but what he said made me feel so weak that when I eventually spoke my words came out apologetically “It was me, I- I‘m not used to guys looking out for my interest. God, I- I‘m sorry.” Did I really say this aloud? I didn’t even know I thought it. Of course he knew there was something deeper and this suffocated my facade of pleasing people and acting emotionless. More tears began to roll down my lily cheeks and before I could turn away his hand lifted up my chin, wiping one away. I caught my breath and met his eyes once more.

Standing, he didn‘t lose my gaze. “Jason,” he smiled, offering his hand. I looked down at the key ring that was still lacing its way through my fingers, held tight as not to be forgotten. Putting it back in my pocket I took his hand weakly and he pulled me up.

“Amberine,” I replied hearing the feminine pitch in my own voice echo through my exhausted thoughts. We hesitated.

“Wanne walk home?” He was a little shy requesting this, but I stepped forward onto the road and he did too, not looking back at the scene we had just left.

I didn’t want him to leave my side.

Shit.

Shit.

Walking briskly between market stalls and slow old women I made a neat path for myself as I hauled along bin bags and shuffled uncomfortably as my heart leapt guiltily in and out of my poor ribcage like a ball on string attached to one of those ping pong bats going back and forth and back and-

“Amberine!” A pleasant cheer frightened the sodding ball so it jumped right up into my throat.

“Jesus! Jason? Sorry. Jason, hey” I half distractedly choked as I kept my eyes on the prize. Or on the cobbled path. God, did my mind really think like this? Eyes on the prize, what the hell is that? I looked up politely to Jason and, well, he looked different in the day time. He stared at me open mouthed for a second and then interrupted my daze. I stared down and carried on walking.

“Here, let me help you with them,” he beamed, despite my persistent thanking but no thanking and he lifted the three heaviest bags, making it look effortless as he asked me where I was going in such a rush.

I made my answer sound like a sigh that could shower a passing fly with spit and blow away most of the ants nearby trying to build respectable homes on a sticky, muddy road. “Work.”

He looked at me, then smiled.

“Why do you look so surprised?” Did he not think me fit to work or something now?

He laughed “Why are you taking all this stuff to work? What is it?” He weighed them out in his arms as if he would guess what the contents was by how heavy the bags were. Then his genius brain cells kicked into gear and he used his eyes to look inside, not his toned biceps each with a visible vain poking out and screaming in my face about how athletic he obviously is. Which is also something my thoughts shouldn’t think about. “Wow. Where did you get these babies?” He practically guffawed and did a little dance with a faded green dress. ”Amberine, are these old women‘s clothes? This looks like cardboard got stuck in the herm or something.”

I tried not to punch him in the face. “They‘re mine. And that’s going to be a corset. And I think you mean hem, not herm.”

“Oh, they‘re yours?” He bowed his head “I was only joking”

“Well, they‘re going to be mine. I‘ve taken textiles at college and I work on weekends at the Boutique just on the corner there,” I pointed. “but I‘m late, I forgot a few zips and threads so I had to run home. God I‘m late. Are you laughing at me?”

“You‘re going to wear this green dress, in public?”

I nodded defensively. I watched him closely for a bit to work out what mechanical processes of thought were going on behind his lock of blonde unstraightened hair. God knows I waited with patience. Eventually it came, with a smile and glint of mischief in his eye.

“I bet you three drinks that you can‘t make that look good. Even on you.”

“Gee, I didn‘t get the impression you were an ass the other night.”

“What, in between all of that gin and vodka you thought you had the correct judgement of me?”

“So you‘re saying you are an ass then? And that I was wrong to think otherwise the other night?”

“You thought otherwise?” He was grinning quite broadly now.

“The alcohol must have impaired my thoughts, yeah?” This road seemed so long all of a sudden.

“Well okay then, three drinks says I‘m not an ass and you will look beautiful tonight then” he held his hand out to seal the deal.

“Tonight?”

“When I take you out.” He handed me the bags, opened the door of the Boutique shop and smiled. Before I had a chance to reply he told me he’d pick me up at seven and he already knew my house because he’d walked me home and oh Lord what was I getting myself in for.

I watched him as he walked in the opposite direction. Sandy blonde hair flicking out at unruly angles, black shirt, shoulders back, tight dark blue denim hugging his knees as his skinny jeans just about made his ankle and tried to touch his smart shoes. He was wearing real shoes, smart shoes.

I hadn’t even asked him what he was doing walking around alone at eight in the morning and where he was going.

His walk was funny, too.

Six pm.

I smoothed down the waistline of my dress and rechecked my appearance in the mirror for the thirty fifth time. God, its not as if I really am trying to impress him, but I do want those free drinks. My brother used to always say he could tell I was crushing on someone if I checked and rechecked every hair on my scalp and crease on my dress before I left the house. He said I always had a sadness in my eyes, as if I expected something to go wrong. Then he would fix my lucky corsage and make sure it was neat, and we’d trade stories about how the opposite gender was a mystery and how, when he was old enough to admit girls didn’t have cooties, I should make it my duty to help him woo the ladies. Which was fair enough, seeing as he spent most of his hours listening to my problems. I closed my eyes for a moment and gave a hearty sigh of comfort, remembering the days when Sam was there to listen to my stories.

Back when my problems weren’t problems, but petty pessimistic outlooks on my previous life.

Six fifteen pm.

Then I looked around me.

My one bedroom apartment was not even a one bedroom apartment, but just one big room. If I shouted ‘hello’ it would echo for longer than a soap commercial break as it was not what you might call a place of fancy furniture and needless domesticated household objects. No, I liked to keep it simple. Bed. Fridge. Shower. Wardrobe. Bookshelf. At least it wasn’t hard to tidy up, not that I had many visitors who would notice my cleaning skills. My bed was covered in sharp stray bed springs trying to escape the dust on my sheets, and Megan would always laugh at how I lived two very different lives.

One in which I was a neat freak perfectionist who would only chose the best buys concerning vintage clothes or material and fabrics to improve on at work, and my obsession with fiction and fantasies which lined my book shelve like a hit parade of Prince Caspian’s favourite bed time stories.

Then there is my other side. For example, there’s the fact that I haven’t made my bed once since I arrived at the flat six months ago, when things started turning worse. Oh and the fact I experiment with drugs on a daily basis and only manage to survive work nowadays with an incredible amount of drugs. Not illegal ones, they’re too expensive to over use, but caffeine, tobacco, taurine, sugar, anti depressants and any form of energy I can cram down my throat before nine in the morning to calm me and wake me at the same time. Megan cringes at the state of my bed, then giggles and laughs with me, but she doesn’t know and will never understand that the reason for this is because I never want to accept that I am staying in this shit hole for good, and making my bed would be like making it home.

She also doesn’t understand that I cry myself to sleep most nights, read the same book over and over, fall unconscious at around four in the morning in a drunken state of drowsiness then rush to work a few hours later to continue my nocturnal life with Mrs Green, the shop owner of the Boutique, who is the kindest woman I will ever know and Lord knows that I am yet to repay her kindness. We sit and talk about books and how I would like to escape into each beautiful plot. She goes out into the shop to turn the kettle on behind the till area and fetch some food for us, but when she returns I am usually asleep on the mattress she has set out for me. She lets me sleep with a few tears leaking down on the soft blanket, waits for me to wake up, then we get straight to sewing without another word. All she asks for in return is that I attend work five days a week without fail and keep my life with some sort of structure to it. Basically, she won’t let me fall apart.

The two Amberine's don't clash though, and Megan's favourite is the free for all night at the cabaret Amberine, who plays the entertainer much more impressively. Exhibit one: my more daring approach to fucking my life. Say, how well I can manage trying every drug under the sun with complete nonchalance whilst proving I have enough will power to never become dependant on it. And my drinking is a little excessive, although you cannot blame me as without that I am just the quiet recluse that sits alone and looks like a recovering AA member who is suffering withdrawal symptoms.

Six forty five.

Grabbing my over sized teal clutch bag I checked my phone and realised I had time to run down the block and wait by Megan’s house for Jason to pick me up. Checking in the mirror again, I laughed to myself quietly as, for the first time, I saw the sadness that Sam had always been speaking about. But hey, the reflection adds lbs onto you anyway so who’s to say its right about your feelings? I laughed forcedly and breathed for a while, lost in a daze of silence, then shook my head and winked at my sulky reflection and told it to lighten up and enjoy the free drinks tonight!