Enjoy and review (or else I will hunt you down and - oh wait, that's not appropriate, is it? Review my story or else I will smother you in hugs, chocolates, and flower. Happy now managers? Disclaimer: I'm not Jenny Nimmo. 'Nuff said
Disclaimer: I'm not Jenny Nimmo. 'Nuff said.
Emilia Moon suddenly felt very small.
The looming doors dwarfed her tiny frame until she felt like a mere ant, overpowered by the anthill in which she was now standing. And it didn't help that her "father," was 6' 2".
It was only a matter of time before she was dragged through those sinister portals and into Dr. Bloor's office.
The smell of alcohol hung in the air. Mr. Moon must have noticed it as well because he muttered something under his breath about rehab, but Emilia didn't pay attention. Instead, she eyed her surroundings.
The gloomy walls downsized her even further and the ceiling seemed beyond reach. A bug, a pebble, an atom - yes, an atom on the very bottom of the Eiffel Tower, that's what she felt like.
It was the floor, however, which unnerved her the most. It was cluttered with a multitude of things: crumpled up wads of paper, a half open box of cheerios whose contents had spilled, and what appeared to be shards of glass. In the epicenter of the room sat a very majestic-looking desk. Emilia wished she could say the same for the person sitting behind it.
Dr. Bloor looked rather worse for wear. His lips were tinged bluer than usual and both of his eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark eye circles. While one of his hands absent-mindedly leafed through a pamphlet of some sort, the other was running through his uncombed hair and occasionally stroking his unshaven chin. He seemed to be lost in thought.
The tension in the air intimidated her. The atom shifted uncomfortably, bearing, it seemed, the weight of the world on its shoulders. If anything, this atom was confused. Confused and scared; confused of why they were here; scared because they felt a sense of foreboding passing down through it. Who knew what the headmaster would do? She didn't, that was for sure. Or did she? Yes, she was confused. Confused beyond all hope, beyond all repairs. She didn't even know whether she had ever been in this office before. What she did know, however, was that her heart had now risen into her throat. Its melodic pounding brought on a wave of sickening feelings. Guilt, fear, anger, and amongst all other things, a gnawing sense of de ja vu. She had never been here before. Never set foot in the west wing, never even seen any of the Bloors before. Right? To her memory anyways. . .
But, was she certain, dead certain? A lump rose in her throat; she wasn't. In fact, she wasn't even certain of what she had for breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner- wait, she hadn't had dinner. Had she? The atom felt its position shrinking to quark.
Mr. Moon, if anything, seemed pleased with himself. "You told me to notify you if she did anything strange. I found her drawing this." he thrust a sheet of paper practically under Dr. Bloor's nose.
Emilia felt a jolt running through her body as her mind took her back several weeks back.
It had been a chilly winter morning and she had a cold. Confined to her bed, she did the only thing she could do to waste time: draw.
Before she knew it, she found her petite hand sketching herself. Or, at least, what had begun as herself. Subconsciously, her hand began adding subtle details. A nose more bridged than hers, eyebrows farther apart, a shorter hairstyle. The face visibly aged, growing more matured with each stroke of the charcoal pencil. Until, at last, she had completed her drawing. What had started out as herself, had morphed into the face of a much older woman. She had titled her work with the first name that sprung into her head: Nancy Tolly.
Why she had come up with that, she didn't know. Maybe it was random, maybe she had read of it somewhere before, maybe she had seen that person. No, she decided, while the first two assumptions were probable, the last one definitely wasn't. She would remember meeting someone like that, wouldn't she?
The brooding part of her which hid behind the shadows of her ignorance ignited itself in her mind. She would remember, unless she forgot. Had she? Her brow furrowed as she struggled to evoke a reply. But it was impossible to revoke what you no longer remembered, and she was forced to relinquish her quest.
One thing was for certain, after she had neatly printed the last y, she felt something she had never felt before. Emilia couldn't quite grasp what it was - liberation, freedom maybe? Don't be silly, you are free, a little voice inside of her whipered. She had it all, an education, food, shelter, and a family. There was nothing she needed, nothing she wanted, and nothing she had been deprived of. Multiple voices in her head screamed out how lucky and loved she was, but none of them were adequate liars.
Her heart skipped a beat. She wasn't free. She did want something. Like a puzzle with a missing piece, she was hollow, empty, and devoid of a certain thing. It wasn't a craving, it was a need. If her wish wasn't fulfilled, she would continue being the feeling-deprived marionette she had always been.
Where was the missing piece now? Lost beneath the sands of time?
But to capture it on paper, to name it. . . That was as if a great stone was lifted from her chest. Now it felt real, not just a figment of her imagination. As if that woman was real. She didn't care if it was a hallucination; it was a good one, and she wanted - no - she needed that woman around. It was her safe haven, where she sought refuge from the perplexions of the world. They bore a close resemblance to each other. As if she was a relative. As if she was her mother. Maybe, just maybe, Emilia had been adopted. Maybe this was her real parents wanted her back. But that was never to happen. She knew it was just a mind game. But then, why do I believe it so much? Why does my heart race whenever I see her? Why do I desperately want this to be true?
The headmaster seemed more than a little irritated. Emilia noticed that he was rubbing his left temple, no doubt from a headache. He briefly skimmed over the sketch, pausing momentarily on the name which was neatly written in the corner. His brow furrowed as he struggled to decifer the miniscule cursive.
He briefly tilted his head, as if to ponder on the next course of action before commanding, "Sit down." It seemed like he had trouble thinking clearly.
Emilia practically fell on the bench, confusion flooding her head. It was a picture, a simple picture. It wasn't lewd or explicit, what did she do wrong?
An explosion of subdued emotions overwhelmed her. She suddenly felt so sick of herself. Her life, what was it? What was she? A mere hollow shell. (Ignorant. Worthless. Stupid.) Something was stirring inside of her. Something was beginning to breathe again.
How could I have not noticed how dull I was? Who was I? Who am I now? She could have had a family. Was it mourning for her still?
The first tear made its appearance, followed by another and another. It became a free-flowing torrent. Did she have a mother? Was she still alive? Her eye caught the now crinkled sheet of paper lying on the table. The girl could take it no longer. A wail escaped her thin lips until her entire body shook with sobs.
All her life, it was all a lie.
So yeah, Dr. Bloor's an alcoholic. I've seen several other stories use the "abusive Dr. Bloor" card so I'm thinking of turning this into an "abusive Mrs. Bloor" instead. Should I do it? Please review and tell me what you think of this story. I don't want any "you must be so messed up because you only write about depressing things" type bullcr p. I'm not the happiest person and I have a lot of problems, but nothing mental made the list. Anyone who uses this story as a basis for a psychiatric assesment will be locked in a room with Dr. Bloor for the rest of their lives. Big thanks to everyone who spent some time reading either this or my previous story "Control". (Really creepy one that doesn't have anything to do with Bloors Academy as of now.) I swear I'll update it before March. Also, I'm planning to make a happy story, but I need a good topic. I don't want to do a Tancred/Emma because it's really common. 3 and a big mwah to all reviewers.
Please review and tell me what you think of this story. I don't want any "you must be so messed up because you only write about depressing things" type bullcr p. I'm not the happiest person and I have a lot of problems, but nothing mental made the list. Anyone who uses this story as a basis for a psychiatric assesment will be locked in a room with Dr. Bloor for the rest of their lives.
Big thanks to everyone who spent some time reading either this or my previous story "Control". (Really creepy one that doesn't have anything to do with Bloors Academy as of now.) I swear I'll update it before March. Also, I'm planning to make a happy story, but I need a good topic. I don't want to do a Tancred/Emma because it's really common.
3 and a big mwah to all reviewers.