Hi everyone, this is my first chapter of my first FanFiction.
Hope you enjoy!
Sam's thoughts are in italics.
Please read and review, and if you notice any mistakes, please correct me as I'm hopeless at proof reading! :D
Be the best you can be
Chapter 1- A day in the life of hell
It wasn't even the thought of school that made me groan at seven o'clock every morning. It was merely having to prove my existence in this world and drag my useless weight into society. I lay awake, last night's make-up still heavily painted on my face. Suddenly the memory of yesterday came flooding back as I caught sight of the open wound slashed across my forearm and the blood-stained pillow that used to be a crisp white. That familiar lump grew in my throat as I put on my average clothes in my average bedroom. Nothing special, that was what my life was.
I headed downstairs to what seemed like an abandoned shack. The wallpaper ached as it slowly fell to shreds and the cold air hugged my faded jeans. I slipped though the kitchen door, only slightly ajar. Mum was already there, draped over her luke-warm cup of coffee. I cleared away yesterday's paper and saw the broken glass sitting at the base of the bin. My eyes slowly wandered to the cut on my arm and then to the floor. I established that the memory was too painful to dwell on; I had never seen Mum so mad. Ever since Dad left, I was waiting for the breakdown, she had done well as a single mother until yesterday. I awoke from my thoughts, still gazing blindly at the floor. I closed the bin and with it, the thought of yesterday.
"I'll see you soon, Sam," Mum called as I picked up my school bag.
"Yeah, see you," I replied, my voice not quite able to become louder than a whisper. Our eyes met in an awkward stance and I gave her a hesitant kiss, not sure if she deserved it. I left through the front door and began the walk to school.
School was school, not much more to be said. I study art and design, I was never gifted with academic talents and I still wasn't sure that I was gifted with artistic ability. We had recently had a new teacher and that idea had never appealed to me, I've always hated change. However, Miss Watkins had immediately set a good tone in the classroom and for that I was grateful. She sat down with me that lesson and leaned over my portfolio, we talked for what felt like hours. I tried so hard to fight the fact that I wasn't in a 'creative' mood, hoping she couldn't read me but secretly knowing that she could. We finished talking and just as I was relieved she hadn't said anything, Miss Watkins brushed her arm against mine. I lunged forward suddenly from the sharp pain running through the gash in my arm. I let out the breath I had been holding onto for too long. After I had composed myself, I looked up and saw the vast sea of worried, staring faces including Miss Watkins's. Despite being bombarded with questions: "What's going on Sam?", "Are you alright?" my voice had shrunk into that whisper again. My fight or flight instinct kicked in and without a word I ran to the toilets down the corridor, praying I wouldn't be followed.
Drat I thought to myself, why had I forgot to bandage this up this morning? The cubicles in the toilets were as bland as my mood. I began to unbutton my blue, now bloody blouse, too busy to realise the tears filling my eyes until it obstructed my vision. Then I merely perched myself on the toilet seat, beginning to notice the bruising on my chest and torso. I heard a quiet but unmistakeable voice accompanied by a small knock on my cubicle door.
"Can I come in?" It was Miss Watkins's voice with its slight accent. I quickly began to button up my blouse as I reached forward to the lock. I twisted the knob but couldn't find the extra strength to pull the door open. She came in anyway, immediately setting eyes on my red-spotted sleeve.
"What happened?" she asked with more of a serious tone to her voice now. I made an excuse that I had caught my arm on the side of a kitchen cupboard at home and hadn't had a chance to bandage it up yet. Just at that moment, the bell rang and I could hear the voices of my classmates. I gazed up as if in search of the noise when I realised Miss Watkins's gaze had moved to the missed button on my blouse. Shit, the bruises. My hands fell to my stomach and casually covered the gap in the blue fabric. That's when her soft hands took mine and guided me back to the art department.
Thankfully there was a first aid kit in the art room. Miss Watkins sat me down in my normal seat and propped my arm up onto the table.
"Maybe you can explain to me how this really happened? Sam?" she asked as she cut a length of bandage long enough for my arm.
"Honestly, Miss Watkins,' I replied hoping the appropriate answer would come to me eventually. "The kitchen cupboard hasn't been sanded down in a while; I was just clumsy and stupid." She finished tying up my bandage and offered to drive me home. I declined her offer and began to head for the door. I could still feel her stare on my shoulders, weighing me down like a balloon under bricks. I closed the door behind be and was relieved to be making my way home.
I was constantly thinking of excuses to explain my bruising away. Did Miss Watkins even notice them? My key clicked in the front door. I already knew I had to cook for myself and go to bed alone. That's the way I liked it most of the time. I was starving already, so I headed to the kitchen and opened the cupboard I supposedly 'cut' myself on last night. A couple of bags of rice fell out onto the floor and as I looked down, I noticed that one was misshapen. I was secretly hoping that it contained that large sum of money we desperately needed, but that's what they call 'wishful thinking'. In fact, it was very wishful thinking. Instead I found small packets of a fine white powder. Heroin.
The thought of Mum being on drugs didn't bother me much. Maybe she was high yesterday and it wasn't really her that broke Grandma's vase and threw it at me. Perhaps it wasn't her who pushed me down the stairs last night because I 'wasn't the daughter she wanted'. I didn't want an action replay of yesterday's events, so I took the drugs and slipped them into the back pocket of my bag.
I turned to leave the kitchen, finding myself no longer hungry when I saw a small piece of paper with my name on it. My phone began to buzz in my pocket; the note would have to wait. 'Unknown number' appeared on my home screen, but I picked it up anyway.
"Hello? Are you a relative of Charlotte Nicholls?" It was a young female voice. "Yeah" I replied. Mum? She had named me after herself, Samantha Charlotte Nicholls.
"I'm calling from Holby City ED, Charlotte Nicholls has been in an accident and this is the only contact we have for her..." My mind went blank and my brain refused to maintain the rest of the information. I looked for bus money and slumped my way out of the door.
That night was hell. I spend four hours in A and E and intensive care until my Mum was pronounced dead. They never concluded the whole reasoning for her death or how her car ended up in the bottom of that ditch. The drugs seemed to crop up in my mind, was she high when she was driving? Did she have another load of heroin somewhere else? It was strange, despite the fact that my own mother had just died, I was not sad or worried or lonely. Perhaps I was heartless just as she used to describe my father. This day had been one of the longest days of my life. A day in the life of hell.