Broken Fairytale

by Nikola Jensen

  Clearing my throat to alert him to me being here, I realise that Dr McGrath looks slightly mad. He has completely white hair, which is crazy long and tied in a ponytail. He’s wearing a crumpled old suit with a mis-matched shirt and a tie that has a huge coffee stain on it. But his eyes, his eyes are the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. They look at me, so intense that I feel like he’s reading me and knows.

  “Umm…my name is Izobel, Izobel Jerome,” I stutter, feeling completely stripped under his scrutiny.

  “Yes, Izobel, I remember your application,” he replies with a shrewd look.

  I can’t help wondering if that’s supposed to have a hidden meaning? Does he know? Surely he can’t, because I’m no longer seeing Dr Beckett and anyway, patient confidentiality and all that, there’s no way he should know.

  He starts rooting around the papers on his desk and finally finds my schedule. For someone who has eyes as perceptive as his, he comes across as the exact opposite. Almost Granddad like. Not that I know what one of those actually is. I never really had one. Well I did, but mine were not your usual stereotypical cuddly Granddads.

  Mum’s Dad never stopped living his youth. Yes he got older but he never acted that way. He still went to strip clubs until the ripe old age of seventy-five and he owned a porn shop. Yes, that’s right…a porn shop, in which I used to sit out the back having my lunch when we went to see him during the day.

  He lived in an apartment in the city centre in a nicer part compared to where his shop was. It was never what you could call homely, rather it was stark and cold. The only colourful room was the “clubbing” room. This room had a big dance floor, a bar and a huge disco ball hanging from the ceiling. On the walls were posters of half-naked women in various suggestive poses.

  As kids we’d sit in there and think this is magic, watching the colours spark off the disco ball and listening to whatever Granddad had playing on the stereo. Mostly it was The Rolling Stones or The Beatles. As far as being a Granddad though, there was no way he’d ever qualify for that title.

  My other Granddad was nice, I really did love him, but he never spoke, unless he had something important to say. He grunted, a lot, fiddling continuously with his pipe. My brother and I spent many weekends with him but he’d sit in his chair in the corner of the room and would only move when it was time to eat.

  So yeah, when I hear about the amazing bond my friends have with their Granddads I can’t help but feel jealous and like I’ve lost out somehow. I feel a lump in my throat at my thoughts. Silly really I suppose. Both my Granddads have now passed away, leaving me with just one Grandmother who I never speak to. My face must reflect my emotions as I get lost in the memory because I’m startled by Dr McGrath clearing his throat. I quickly pull myself together.

  “Right Izobel, here’s your schedule and a list of necessary books. You’ve also got my contact details and the hours I keep; contact me at any time for anything.” He smiles at me reassuringly. I wonder what he means and if he says this to all his students. Shit, I really have to stop reading more than I should into what people say.

  “Thank you,” I mumble and just about run out of his office. Why I’m freaking out like this I don’t know, but I’m adding this episode to the series of bad first impressions people have gotten of me so far today. So much for the confident new me I sigh loudly.

  Aiden’s in next and before I manage to run off, he grabs my hand and puts something in it. He gives me a wink and closes the door behind him. I look at the note; it has his mobile phone number on it with a funny face doing a “call me” sign. I burst out laughing. I think Aiden could be good for me. No one’s made me laugh like he has in a long time.

  I walk down the hill to the bus stop, take the bus back into the town centre and start browsing the second hand book shops hoping to find the books I need for my curriculum reading list. I could just ask Dad for the money for them, but I don’t want to. I need to do this myself. I hate having to ask him for anything. Almost two years ago it wouldn’t have been an issue, I had a good job saving up for Uni and things were a lot different.

  I find what I need and walk to get the bus back home. As I get closer to my stop I see the guy from this morning. Great. He’s standing there chatting to a really pretty girl, who must have said something funny, because he’s laughing and not the kind to be polite, more like the proper belly kind of laughter. For reasons I don’t want to admit my face drops and I feel unsure of myself.

  I’m still a fair bit away so I automatically slow down so I can study him as I’m walking over. He really is too good looking, absurdly so, almost like he should be on the cover of a fashion or music magazine. He’s wearing faded and snug worn jeans, but I’m guessing not the kind you can buy, these are worn to perfection. His t-shirt is fitted and white and has a very faded 30 Seconds to Mars logo on it, and on his feet are a pair of very beat up black all-stars. A guitar case is strapped to his back and is scrunching up the arm of his t-shirt which means I get a glimpse of a black tattoo.

  Okay, now this is where I freak out on the inside. Whenever anyone’s asked me what my ideal man looks like, I always answer with a much repeated and rehearsed answer; he has to be able to play an instrument, he has to have dark hair and he has to have at least one tattoo. Shallow me? Yeah, probably…actually most definitely.

  But this is the kind of guy I continuously crush on, always have. I’ve read books about him, I listen to his music, I see him on the TV or in the cinema. I know he’s what I want. However, he’s not what I’ve had in the past. Don’t get me wrong, they’ve all been great looking lads, sure, but none have made me feel like this, like I absolutely need to know who he is. I can actually count on one hand the number of boyfriends I’ve had that have lasted more than a week. Is that many or not? I’m not sure.

  Compared to my best friend Sofia it’s a lot. But then she met Taylor when we were all sixteen and they’ve been together ever since. Kind of sweet really, though they joke that they are in their seventh year which is always ominous, it’s not called the seven year itch for nothing. Despite their relationship being on and off the first few years they still count the seven-ish as they’re almost there. I’ve always been more of a, let’s have fun for a few weeks and at the first sign of anything more I bail. I guess it’s because I never wanted anyone to find out. I never let anyone close enough to the other ‘me’ and the signs of my ‘other’ life.

  As I get closer to my bus stop I look down, I don’t want him to see me, I want to slip onto the bus unnoticed. Fat chance of that, I should’ve guessed really. As soon as I get to the bus line a woman and her dog come out of no-where, literally. She’s clearly lost control of her dog which is running off, dragging his owner along attached to the lead. The dog crosses my path, I trip over the lead and take a spectacular nose-dive. Ten out of ten for effort I’m sure.

  Again, before I fall flat on my face I feel an arm grab me and pull me up against a very hard body. I don’t even want to look, I know who it is. I hear the laughter first, then the voice that gives me goose-bumps for the third time today.

  “So, is this you and me from now on? You fall, I catch?” he laughs.

  If only, I think to myself. I open my eyes, look up and pretty much drown in those dark amazing eyes. I’m speechless. I’m sure my face is the colour of the bus that’s just turned up to take me home. Red….

  “Sorry about that,” I laugh nervously while cringing inside. He’s looking at me with a knowing smile on his face. That’s it; I think to myself, no more, just let me go home with no more painful and embarrassing moments to share. But for some reason he won’t let go of me and before I know it, the bus has closed its doors and driven off. It’s just him and me left at the bus stop.

  “Right, seeing as though I’ve now saved you twice from a face plant, I deserve your name in return.” He still has me locked in his arm, looking down at me. I’m staring at his mouth thinking how it’d feel to kiss and taste it. I forgot what he said. What did he say?
<
br />   “Sorry what was that?”

  He starts laughing, never breaking eye contact. “Okay, I’ll start then shall I? I’m Declan, my friends call me Dec.”

  I can’t stop thinking about his lips on mine and I tremble slightly when I finally manage to stutter “Izzy.”

  “Well Izzy, you’ve obviously missed your bus so how about we go and get a coffee while we wait for the next one?” he says more of a statement than a question.

  “Umm…okay.” I drop my eyes and pretend to be mesmerized with my shoes. As we walk to the nearest coffee shop he takes my hand and looks down at me.

  “Just in case you encounter anymore random dogs and puddles…right.” He winks at me pulling me along. My hand feels so small in his, it makes me feel safe, which is strange as I don’t even know this guy. His hand is warm, his fingers calloused from, what I’m guessing, is playing guitar. We order our coffee and go sit outside as the rain’s stopped and it’s now turning into an unusually sunny and warm afternoon for this time of year.

  “So Izzy, let’s play twenty questions, we each get to ask whatever we want, what do you say?”

  I chew on my bottom lip in worry and apprehension at what he’s going to ask me, but I nod, staring into his warm and friendly eyes.

  “Don’t look so scared,” he whispers whilst tucking some loose strands of my hair behind my ear and very slowly freeing my lip with his thumb. Unfortunately at the exact time he does that I lick my lip and catch his thumb at the same time. I hear a sharp intake of breath and look into his eyes, eyes that are now staring at my mouth. My body suddenly goes on high alert and I feel every hair stand on end. The moment’s rudely interrupted by the waitress arriving with our coffee. I’m both disappointed and relieved so I quickly pick up my coffee and take a sip as a distraction. Shit it’s too hot. I stick my tongue out and chant, “Hot, hot, hot.”

  Declan bursts out laughing but it doesn’t last long. Becoming all serious he suddenly reaches over, grabs my head with both hands and puts his lips to mine. All the while keeping his eyes open to gage a reaction. I’m stunned, I wasn’t expecting this. His lips are firm yet so soft. His tongue licks my lip where I burnt it. It’s so gentle, soothing even and it makes every inch of my body tingle. He moves away but keeps his hands on my face whilst looking into my eyes.

  “Does it feel better now Izzy?” His eyes burn tracks across my whole face. I can’t look away, I’m lost in his eyes.

  I’ve got no idea what to say or do. I feel completely out of my comfort zone for the umpteenth time today. I just sit here, probably looking stupidly gobsmacked until he finally lets me go, perhaps sensing my embarrassment. He curses and looks annoyed when his mobile phone starts playing ‘Different People’ by Biffy Clyro. Declan’s got nice taste in music I think to myself with a smile.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” I ask him feeling a bit awkward. He looks away and picks it up immediately becoming animated in conversation with whoever is on the other end, I really want to listen but instead I’m thinking of a way I can sneak off.

  My heart is pounding and I feel like any minute I’m going to pass out, I feel trapped and strangely exposed. I check the time, shit, my bus is in two minutes; so I pick up my bag and run to the bus stop without looking back cursing my own stupidity.

  Once on the bus I realise we’ve hit commuter hour and there’s no seats left. I move as far back as I can and stand holding on to the nearest seat. As I’m putting my iPod on, the bus takes a sharp corner, the driver obviously thinking he’s at Silverstone. I stumble and would’ve fallen but for a hand on my waist steadying me. Without looking I’ve got no doubt who that hand belongs to. I know it too well by now seeing this must be the third time today. But who’s counting right? Yep, it’s Declan; he’s managed to slip onto the bus somehow unbeknownst to me. I wonder where he’s going, he doesn’t look happy, in fact he looks quite pissed off. Not knowing what to say I settle on a nervous stupid smile. I can guess why he’d be pissed though, can’t say I blame him really. My stop is coming up soon and I have an inner debate with myself. Do I say something, but if I do, what do I say? I decide I’ve been through enough weird and embarrassing situations for one day so I press the stop button. Before walking to the front I take one last look at Declan and give him a genuine smile. After all, the butterflies in my stomach haven’t forgotten their crush. He picks up my hand and places a cheeky kiss on it. Seriously, who is this guy? Blushing and feeling like a teenager, I step off the bus and watch it drive away catching one last glimpse of him.

  Chapter Two

  Standing out the front of our house, I feel so reluctant to walk inside. It’s such a pretty house, clean and crisp white cottage style with a thatched roof. It looks idyllic, the garden at the front has that luscious green grass you normally only see at manor houses or golf courses. There are pots everywhere with luscious intentionally colour co-ordinated flowers. In spring and summer you can smell our garden from the road. Sweet, almost cloyingly so.

  We’ve only lived in this house for eighteen months, we moved in after the accident. We had to leave our old house and town because of what happened and ended up moving closer to London. I stand looking in, not wanting to enter my ‘other’ world but knowing I have to.

  Unlocking the door, I’m met with silence. Silence scares me; it’s always meant the calm before the storm. I check each room as I move through the house. The kitchen’s empty and looks like how I left it this morning. The Iiving room and lounge is empty too. This must mean Mum’s still in her bedroom.

  I slowly open her door and sure enough, there she is, sitting in front of her mirror. A mirror that reflects the naked truth whenever either of us looks in, catching the eyes of the other, she does this often. I wonder if she sees her truth or mine, or whether she sees our truth exposed by the deception that surrounds us? The deception he’s caused us to embrace. Mum’s brushing her hair and putting on her make-up in her own meticulous way. Her face is devoid of any emotion as she continues her daily routine; frozen as opposed to mine which looks upon her in sadness and defeat. It’s very late in the day so I’m guessing she hasn’t left the house today, she never steps a foot outside looking anything but immaculate.

  “He’ll be home soon you know,” she says without looking at me; staring disconnected at herself in the mirror.

  I go and sit down on the bed looking away from the haunting sight of detachment. “I know.”

  “I’m making fish pie for dinner tonight, it’s his favourite after all.”

  I nod and not knowing what else to say I leave her. I walk to my room, close the door and lie back on my bed, annoyed and saddened by the fact that I don’t know what to say to my own Mum anymore.

  She never used to be like this. She was happy, fun to be with and always laughing, over silly stuff mostly. Everyone says I look exactly like her, I wonder if people still think so. I hope this isn’t true anymore but I have a feeling it might be. Our eyes will always look the same because we’ve both seen pure horror and tragedy. I turn on my stereo, my hand stilling on the button. I hear Myles’ voice again and I feel the tears before I realize I’m crying. What are the odds of Alter Bridge, my brother’s favourite band playing twice today, of all days. I think it’s a sign and I think it’s telling me to get the hell out of this house before it’s too late for me as well.

  Time stops and I can’t move. I used to love their songs before the accident, I think I still do but for very different reasons. I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to listen to ‘Watch Over You’ without remembering my brother from now on. I can still hear his voice every day in my head. I shudder. Just stop it Izzy, I berate myself. I’m not there yet, far from it.

  I can smell the dinner cooking from my room so I go set the table in the kitchen. Laying the third plate and not a fourth still feels like a knife twisting in my heart, a heart that starts to pound as I hear Dad’s car driving over the gravel in the driveway. I wonder which side of him is coming home tonight. It all depends on
what sort of day he’s had, whether he’s been drinking or whether he just feels plain guilty.

  I count to five, take a deep breath and as he walks into the kitchen, I greet him with a nervous smile as he starts to walk over.

  “Izobel, how was your first day at University?” he asks me, putting his briefcase down.

  “It was good Dad, I met my tutor, got my schedule and books, ready to start my first term in a couple of days.” The straight to the point ramblings of a nervous and intimidated daughter who knows to stick to the relevant facts only, yeah I learnt my lesson at an early age.

  Mum has by now placed all the food on the table and asks us to sit down and eat. The seating arrangement is odd. It’s been like this ever since my brother left us. Mum and Dad sit on one side, I sit on the other. The pressure is intense. I feel like I’m sitting by myself as my parents sit in judgement across from me. The silence is heavy, uncomfortable even and I squirm in my seat. Mum’s eyes never leave her plate whereas Dad always has that stern calculating look on his face as if wanting to find fault in someone or something. Another typical dinner time. I’ve never lost the nervous fidgeting that started when I was little, even now in my early twenties I have it, it’s a habit, a nervous tick I suppose.

  “Will you sit still for God’s sake, eat the meal your Mother’s cooked and stop annoying the hell out of me,” Dad yells.

  I cringe and taste bile in my throat as his hissing words spit at me. I immediately try and do just that, but know it’ll only get worse as I now know which side of Dad has come home putting my nerves immediately on edge. The only way I can get out of this unhurt is if I placate him with meaningless questions that stroke his ego, then I’ll be safe. I decide to concentrate on my food and wipe all emotion of my face, it seems to work for Mum. Who knew that despite being in my early twenties, I’d still feel like a child under his roof? As soon as I walk out the front door of our house I become me, I feel confident, well as much as is normal for me. But at home, not so much, I’m like a scared child, I hide in the shadows and I know an innocent remark can have dire consequences. My confidence gets knocked out of me almost daily and I’ve read enough psychology reports to understand my behaviour and the home I live in.