This is a story I wrote in preperation for the Mid-year exams. My teacher had failed it, saying that it didn't build up or lead up to something. And that the theme of loneliness (which was the question of the one word essay) was not particularly outstanding. And that it was too long, despite the fact that I wrote it in the same time as everyone else. Well now, I write it again, editing it a little bit, tying up some loose ends, for a competition hosted by my drama school. I was inspired by the book Cut by Patricia McCormick which is an amazing book that you should go and get and read right now. This is for Mr Lee, my english teacher, who without him, would not have made me re-write this and perfect it until I was completely and utterly satisfied with it and, of course, my Wallflower friend, whom I dedicate every story and every book I write to.

With much love.

Fourteen

I remember once when I was four, my mother had brought me to the beach. I remember standing waist-deep in the shiny blue-green ocean, arms outstretched as if the vast azure blue expanse overhead were to fall into the tiny palms of a child. I tried to stare as far out into the ocean as possible, the glittering specks of sunlight danced across the water and into the horizon. Then, all at once, a particularly strong backwash pulled me into its waters face-first.

But that was fourteen years ago. A lifetime away. In fourteen years, I had broken my voice, liked a girl, got a girl and lost a girl. In fourteen years, thousands of people had drowned in the ocean, millions of mothers had been worried for the safety of their children and millions more, minus one, had seen their children grow up. And now, remembering that day at the beach was like trying to recall a dream. Sketchy in events but vivid in actual presence.

In our previous meeting, you had asked me to think of the greatest memory I could recall having. I took a deep breath, long enough to make a person hyperventilate, let it go like a bird out of a cage and knocked on the shiny oak door of your office. When your voice told me to come in, it sounded muffled through the thick heavy wood. I chose to stay outside for a few moments more, staring at the shiny plaque on your door that read 'Dr. A Kause, PhD in Psychology'. You told me to come in again, this time, your muffled voice peppered with impatience. After finding that I could not procrastinate any longer, I twisted the brass doorknob and entered the near-perfect circle that was your office. I once asked you why your office was circular. You told me that your patients found the lack of straight lines calming. I remember getting agitated instead, because of it. When I first visited your office, I had to imagine that your room was a perfect square, equal on all sides, before the concave walls started to square and appear straight and cornered. Immediately, the dizzy feeling I felt as though I had spun around in circles gradually faded.

I came into your office cautiously, almost hesitantly, as I had always done. I stared around the office, mentally transforming the round room into a perfect square. My tense shoulders loosened a little and finally, my travelling eyes came to rest on you. You had been staring at me. Not like other psychologists I've seen, rather, like you had all the answers instead of all the questions. You asked me to sit down, gesturing to the big brown plush chair that I have always feared would one day swallow me whole if I had leaned too far back into it. I noticed that even as you gestured towards it, your eyes never left me. You eyed me like a cat would eye a cornered mouse before pouncing on its hapless prey. I shuddered unintentionally and forced myself to put away the horribly macabre image in my mind. I carefully lowered myself into the chair, aware that your eyes were still on me.

Casually, you asked me how my day was, but I was not fooled. Your casual tone had strains of eagerness in it. I was immune to the snares of relaxation techniques of psychologists, after being familiarised when the previous psychologists had used them. Instantly, answers to your question bounced off in my head, resounding off the walls of my mind. Where would I begin? I could tell you about the three boys who had deliberately 'accidentally' thrown a ball at my head to see if I would get angry and explode in a furious stream of words. It was an ongoing game at school. Get the freak to speak and win. Alternatively, I could tell you about the pretty girl in my class with beautiful dark brown hair that would swish back and forth in a neat ponytail and how it reminded me of the dancing waves fourteen years ago. However, I chose the easiest answer and answered with what I hope was a nonchalant shrug. You raised an eyebrow, seeing through my facade and asked me bluntly if I was going to cease speaking to you too. And then you went on to tell me how I needn't come back if our subsequent sessions would be as futile. Oddly agitated by this, I grudgingly promised that I would talk and answer your questions. You leaned back in your chair, a satisfied glean in your eye and a pen raised above your clipboard - ready to pounce.

You asked me if I had spoken to anyone in school. I answered with no, confident with where the conversation was going. I carefully explained how I had stopped talking to everyone in school three weeks ago, scrutinising your expression. But like a gifted gambler, you had a poker face painted over your emotions, not letting a single one slip away. Exasperated, I gave up. As I thought about school, words formed on the tip of my tongue as quickly as they formed in my head. Teachers were wise enough not to expect any answers from me. I no longer spoke to my own brother and was on the brink of following suit with my father. You seemed immensely satisfied with the answer I gave, your mask over your emotions finally cracking. I stopped talking and look expectantly at you. You were frowning slightly, as if in great concentration, like a scientist would look over the results of a experiment that tested his hypothesis.

You told me you were going to try something a little more challenging and asked for my consent to do so. Out of all the psychologists I've seen, I have always respected you the most. The others were either bored old men who just wanted the nice fat pay checks or overenthusiastic fresh university graduates. You, on the other hand, were a no-nonsense, brusque perfectionist. You did not beat around the bush and from the occasional gossip from the receptionist, notorious in bringing your patients to tears. It was probably because of this that I consented, feeling either foolishly reckless or immensely brave.

You leaned forward, a determined grin on your face. You asked me whether I ever felt lonely in school. No. Lonely when I was alone? No. Lonely at home? Silence. I closed my eyes. Was I? After barely speaking to my father and brother, was I? I detested my brother for reasons that would make every boy yearn for such an older brother. He was popular, updated in the latest trends, experienced in the romance department and caring. He was frequently worried about me, but I loathed his poor unfortunate soul that was consumed by the superficial world I hated even more. I looked up. Your face was kind, patient. And for once, I wondered if that was really your intent or a disguise that masked your eagerness. After what seemed like an eternity, you asked me gently, in a voice I never heard you use before, about my mother.

Slowly, I relinquished a deep breath that I realised I had been holding for a very long while. My mother had been a subject that I never allowed my mind to stray to for fourteen years. Occasional brushes with the subject would leave me with a tearstained face I was determined not to let anyone else see. I took several deep, shaky breaths - a telltale sign of the tears that would come. You called my name and touched me, very lightly, on my arm. Hell broke loose and you became the only person in fourteen years that has seen me cry. I heard my father's voice ringing in my head, telling me that men were meant to be strong and not cry. He wasn't a bad father, not entirely lacking in paternal guidance. He was just incapable of making up for the maternal attention I longed for. Nor did he provide the necessary comfort I needed. Not when I needed it, fourteen years ago. Not now, either.

While trying to avoid looking at you, I stood up, turned my back to you and walked out of the office that had turned back into the circular room it was. You didn't try to follow me as I did not think you would. It felt surreal. I was not aware of what I was doing, where I was going or what I wanted. I found myself walking for miles and miles and finally, coming to a stop when I got to a beach. The beach. The same beach my mother had brought me to when I was four. But now, I was eighteen. Standing waist-deep in the ocean, deeper than last time because I had grown so much taller. Undercurrents were stronger and again, I looked as far out in to the sea as possible, arms outstretched, but the blood-stained sky still would not fall into my hands.

It was so similar to that day, fourteen years ago, yet in ways, unlike it. The sun still danced across the waves, but it was setting. Disappearing. Losing. Again, a particularly strong backwash came, wanting to take me with it once more. I thought about how afraid I was when I was four, struggling to try to escape the strength of the receding wave, powerless against it. Now, I could have withstood the current, but I didn't try to resist now and this time, there would be no mother to wade into the powerful waters, that even her petite self found trouble to fend off, to save me. It caught me, my knees buckled and I slipped under the dark blue waves once again.

5:

It wasn't my fault you know. It just wasn't. I don't waste my time with sad choir boys like him. Insecure, having to spend every waking moment seeking approval and wasting time in insignificant things. I barely brush fates with people like him. I don't.

And yet, here you stand, ultimately guilty. Probably because of his very insecurity that he finds himself making the futile attempt to seek your approval.

Did he now? How flattering it is to be worthy of some emotionally unstable, untainted little life. Let me assure you, no love was lost between us. Between me and the world. Me and life.

Then again, there never was any to begin with, was there?

Touche.

Let's try a little experiment shall we? Let's say we try gaining love for a change. Wouldn't that be interesting?

Impossible.

Well let's just see how impossible love is.

1:

I am extremely patient. So as patient as I am,. I will sit back, relax, and wait. Patient, naturally. Until, of course, it is my turn.

Then I will not be as patient.

2:

It is raining. And I'm doing absolutely nothing. Except staring at the rain, falling, drop by drop, onto the window sill. And breathing. And trying to stay alive. The window doesn't close properly. The gap between shut and almost shut let's the droplets collect on the corner of the window sill. I wonder if it the puddle of water will grow, grow until it spills over the side of the sill. But then I close my eyes. And try to forget that I had wondered.