Shayla

Hello! It's Shayla here! Ada wanted me to write a quick post to let  you know she will be updating as soon as possible, but she has no access to the internet right now. I believe she has a lot to say, so.... Yeah.

The Old Man and the Young Girl

My feet pounded against the pavement. My heart rushed. My knees ached. My head began to spin, but I forced myself to keep moving. 'Just until you reach the next tree' I'd coach myself, 'Just until you reach that next light post'. The constant stream of little goals kept my feet hitting the pavement, one after the other. It was an uphill battle, literally. The minor slope it appeared to be during the five minute drive turned into a mile long hike. So maybe I was somewhat less fit than I should be, appearances are deceiving. The incline was steeper than it appeared. I don't care what you say.

I had less than an hour. One hour until the familiar red car pulled into my driveway and I was supposed to be at home. So I kept running, despite the protests of every tissue, every fibre, every molecule of my being. You think I'm exaggerating? I'm not. I've never wanted to be anywhere more than I wanted to be at this destination. And then, finally, the familiar two storey building loomed in front of me. Nostalgia swirled in my stomach as I approached the oldest home I had. 

He sat in his chair. He always sat in his chair. He could barely move any more. It takes him ten minutes just  to answer the door these days, so he leaves it unlocked. He didn't even notice when I walked into the room. I kissed him on the cheek. He was thinner than I remember. His skin was paper thin and drained of colour and the smile I had remembered was turned down at the edges. It had been years since I had seen him, the result of s family feud that had very little to do with me. I rested my head on his shoulder, sitting on the arm of his chair. My short black hair sprawled across his chest. My hears was racing, my chest heaved and my nose bubbled with sweat. but I could hear his irregular heart beat, I could feel the slow inhale and exhale of his breath. He would die. I would miss him. He refused medical treatment. So we sat there for a few moments. I was unsure of how much time passed. I just rested against him, eyes turned towards the television, watching the golf ball roll alone a field. 

And then I left. 

A girl sat on the curb across the street. He brown hair covered her face. He head was in her hands. She doubled over. Her shoulders shook. She was sobbing. I ran over to her, and placed my hand on her shoulder. She jumped, startled and glanced up at me. There was a black circle around her left eye, purple splotches dotted her cheeks and blood and tears streamed down her face. 

But my dears, that is a story for another time. 

I love you, dear reader, just for clicking on my blog. And I promise I will try not to leave you in suspense for long. 

Thanking you

Ada xxx

What a great time to start a blog...

"Miss, we would like to ask you a couple of questions."
It's not a request, nor a statement. It's 'come with us, answer our questions or you're screwed'.

This may seem insensitive, given the circumstances,but do you remember me telling you that drama was attracted to me (You should, it's in my last/first post.)? Well that has already proven to be true... kinda.

It was an ordinary morning and we slowly dawdled through the school gate at the class bell rang, having meaningless conversations with our peers that seemed oh-so-important at the time. Then the bell rang again. The chorus moaned. The dreaded double bell always equals the dreaded impromptu school assembly. So we dawdle on towards the goddamned hall, which was, in my experience, never a happy place. Never (it also doubles as a gym).

The bell rings a third time. Triple bell? Everyone stopped, looking around at each other, wandering around in random directions, like blind sheep in a strange room (so maybe that's not the best analogy, but it was almost comical, and I couldn't think of any better way to describe it.) Then the principle's nails-on-a-chalkboard voice came over the P.A system (which I didn't even know we had. It makes me wonder why administration sends "school service" students on errands to collect other students). Three words: "To the hall." So the sheep went back to dawdling towards the hall.  Another word: "Now!". Yeah... we still didn't hurry.

The usual chairs that are set in rows (turning the gym into a hall) were still packed in their cupboard. The students weren't forced to sit in their usual 'house' seats. We sat on the floor. A great big glob of students, chattering to our friends and staring, neck craned, at the sombre principle who stood behind the microphone. He cleared his throat. Students continued chattering. And then they walked in. Six police-people, four women. A stern looking lady (who was kinda like an American Julia Gilard) took the microphone. One sentence: "If any students have any information regarding the young lady who was sexually assaulted last night, we will be in administration." It was not a question. Last night was the night of the quarterly fundraiser Disco.

Apparently nobody did come forward. Because before final period we were all being filed back into the hall, seated in alphabetical order and told that each one of us would have to answer a few questions. Or maybe someone did talk. Turns out everyone was at that disco (unsurprising as participation was compulsory. It was either that, or clean-up duty), all 200 year 12 students. Finally they got to me: "Miss, we would like to ask you a few questions." It was not a request, nor a statement.

I'm not going to reveal who the victim was, but I do feel for her and her family. And I really hope they find the son-of-a-bitch. I will keep you all updated.

Thanking you, My lovelies, 

Ada xx

The Very First Post

I'm not a Drama Queen. I swear that I'm not. Drama appears to be attracted to me, not the other way around. Why have I started a blog? Because I need somewhere to post all that teen angst (Duh!). Isn't this that we do in the new world? We don't keep notebooks of journals (secretly in the hopes that someday they will be found -hopefully after death- and published as a memoir). No. Now we can post things on the internet for the world to see as our stories unfold.

So I guess in writing this I am becoming some sort of cliché teenage girl? Or is keeping a blog some indie and/or hipster thing?

Is this the part when I introduce/describe myself? Well, I'm a white bunny in a snow storm. I'm a shadow in the dark. I'm in the background of even my own story. Is this considered teen angst yet? Does every teenager feel like an outsider? It's the underdeveloped brain, isn't it? Are we really all outsiders? (More importantly, do I ask too many rhetorical questions?). Honestly, I'm seventeen. I'm in the final stretch of my high-school career. I have absolutely no fashion sense. I'm definitely not sporting inclined (also somewhat anti-cheerleader). I like writing (but suck at it). I read more than I probably should, considering the proximity of exams. I excessively buy nail polish. Also, just to extend my embarrassment  further, I still keep my childhood teddy bear (aptly named Pinky). So take that world. (Also I appear to be rather fond of brackets)

My mum named me Adelaide and my father was apparently too whipped to challenge her, (but apparently not whipped enough to avoid cheating on her 4 years later). It was not a coincidence that we lived a couple of hours from the city (Adelaide) at the time of my birth. Thankfully we moved to Sydney, New South Wales before I reached school age (the only good thing that came of my father's infidelity). For the record, I prefer Ada, and I suppose this is as good an introduction as any. I'll post as often as possible because... Why the hell not?

Until Next Time, 

Ada xx