Folding Stars - Taylor Lautner - Chapter 1 - Story

~Eleanor’s P.O.V~

You signalled for the bus to stop, it did, you hopped on and sat on one of the nicotine stained benches. You sighed as if a large weight on your shoulders had gained weight. What is it now? Four Hundred and Fifty pounds? You asked yourself irritably, your habit of commenting on my own thoughts was a recent acquirement and even that was annoying you.

You impatiently tucked a lock of yourbrunette hair behind your ears as your too-long fringe got in your eyes.You thought back to your birthday, it had been about a week ago. For any other teenager, their fifteenth birthday party would be a massive celebration and a chance to get hammered but, for you, the twenty – third of August passed just like any other day. All you had done was go round your best friend’s, Helen, house with a couple of DVD’s and some popcorn.

You started to hum the mind-numbing melody that had played in the lift of the department store you had just visited, stocking up on stationary etcetera for the new school year which started tomorrow on the second of September.

You frowned slightly as you thought of school, not sure whether to dread returning to school or not. It wasn’t like you were one of the “populars” as you and Helen put it, which consisted of the cheerleading squad, the jocks, some of the sluts and bimbos and surprisingly none of the members of the chess club. You definitely weren’t part of that group but you weren’t part of the “extra-curriculars” either, you were just surviving through the school year trying not to disturb the delicate physics of the classroom. Obviously, some of the Populars would pick on you, but you weren’t the type to fight back, normally you would have to bite your lip and continue.

It confused you when they called you "emo", the stereotype mainly seemed to consist of a hairstyle (which neither you or Helen had) and atastein music and you only like a bit of "emo" music, but that hardly made you hardcore "emotional". Your nose twitched, something it did when you were irked by something. Why did they have to group everyone into groups, it was so much more subtle than that. There were the ones that felt better by putting others down and were followed by the others, a natural leader, there were the ones which were really nice but still tried to keep up with the populars and there was the unpopular on that thought they were awesome and that everyone secretly liked them and there were the ones that trulypreferredstaying by themselves but was still perfectly nice. It was sofrustratingthat they thought if you weren't smiling one hundred percent of the time that you were wishing to die and attempting to jump off a cliff.

You wished that you were the type of person that would breeze past snide comments or would say something equally snide back. You and Helen even more so, were the sort of people that couldn’t help but care if someone thought bad of you and , especially you (this time), tried very hard to impress even if you didn’t show it. Inside you were dying to make a good impression.

The corner of your mouth twitched as you remembered Helen’s Eager-to-please expression. She was the only one who had befriended you when you had moved, she always found a way to make you smile, even when you were in one of your moods, which were occurring more and more recently. But for all Helen’s good qualities; kindness, loyalty, determination...she was very dense and she didn’t notice what you were doing to yourself. You shuffled uncomfortably in your seat and looked out the grimy window.

With a start you realised the bus had stopped on your road so you muttered a hasty “Thanks” to the driver and hopped off the bus. Immediately the typical Californian summer heat set in, your pulse throbbing through your whole head making you slightly dizzy. You always felt so more at home in the miserable weather of your native England, where you had lived until you were eleven. You remembered exactly what had happened when your father told you that you were moving, a year after your mother died;

“What’s wrong with staying here?” Your ten (almost eleven) year-old self exclaimed.

“My decision’s final, I’ll be getting the promotion and I think it’s about time we start a-fresh.” He said, demanding as always, his voice coming out just as loudly as he wanted it to. Too loud.

“Oh yeah, cover up your past then. Not looking good on your CV? A widower?” You asked with faux incredulity, “It doesn’t matter though, you can just tell them the truth – You never loved her so there’s not a problem.”

You tried to turn and exit the room but he caught your wrist and spun you round to face him, his face almost purple with anger and frustration.

“Eleanor Ivy Roker, don’t talk so dis-respectfully to me ever again!” He yelled, each consonant he spat tiny flecks of spit on your face, his hand tightening even more on your wrist.

“Bite me.” You glared, your wrist was numbing your mind and the pain was obvious on your face but you tried to inject as much venom into the words as possible.

He smacked you smartly and hard around your cheek, he let go of your wrist and you fell to the ground in a heap.

You let out a “humph” as you remembered the bad memory. Your father hit you quite often, most of the times you saw him, sometimes it was an argument, sometimes it was alcohol influenced or sometimes he was just in a bad mood. His work normally kept him away until you had fled to your room and his drinking kept him out later. You kind of got used to it and you expected that more families than everyone else thought did this as well. A method of disciplining a child, a way that is memorable and one they are likely to listen to. You could very almost slightly understand that but you had no idea why he hit you when you hadn’t done anything.

You lazily kicked the door open, of course he would hate that but at least he doesn’t get in from work yet, you pondered mischievously. You threw your unused keys into the bowl you used to hold your keys. You trudged up the stairs and lolled onto your studying chair by your computer desk, you allowed it to spin around on its small plastic wheels.

Sighing, you emptied the contents of the bag of shopping onto the desk and jumbling through them. Pens, pencils, notepads, a calculator...you snorted impatiently looking for the one item you were seeking. Finally you found them, a pair of scissors, slowly you rolled up the right sleeve of your jacket and looking at the underside of your fore arm.

It was covered with thin lines, some white from age and some of them still slightly scabbed. They varied in length and depth, some of them about an inch long and some almost three. There was a particular cut, which was especially savage and deep, it had been a bad day and one of the girls at school had purposely tripped you.

Slowly you took the scissors and quickly slashed another cut in your arm, you closed your eyes, almost relishing the pain. The blood immediately appeared, healing the damage. You spun around on your chair again, slowly exhaling through your nose.

You weren’t sure why you did it exactly. Part of you was curious as to whether anyone would care or if anyone would try to stop you. It wasn’t that that you didn’t want to stop but you couldn’t until someone noticed, it was pretty obvious if you pieced the puzzle together. What about Helen? She would care. You contemplated, But, she’s never going to notice is she? Your mouth twitched.

But what if no-one notices? The small voice at the back of your mind asked, How far are you willing to go?

Rate and message if you want. I would really like to know if you think the chapter's too short!!

URGENT !!- DO'NT READ THE NEXT "CHAPTER TWO", JUST SKIP TO THE NEXT ONE. THE CHAPTER AFTER THIS IS THE SAME AS THE ONE AFTER IT BUT IT'S NOTEDITEDFULLY. SORRY, I KNOW THIS IS CONFUSING; I'M GREAT AT MESSING THINGS UP ON QUIZILLA!!!!!!!

Btw, this is you :-