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Extended Work
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| Lorraine Part 4 | |
| By amy456 | ||||||||
| 04 July 2006 | ||||||||
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I love this piece. I hope you do too! By the way, before you all shoot me, it's MEANT to seem a bit immature. How many eighteen year olds write like Dickens? Megan’s diary I hate her. HATE HER!!!!!! Kirsty, I mean. She’s my sister and a big fat pain in the ASS. She’s only fourteen, but she’s a bitch. A complete and utter BITCH. Mum prefers her to me, and even to Emma. Emma’s my other sister, and even I think she’s sweet. Bless her, she’s only seven. But Kirsty!!! My mum has some sort of deluded mental block over her. Can’t she see what an evil, twisted little minx she really is? Apparently not; her ‘angel-girl’ can do no wrong, after all! You know those stupid tags kids get given by their thick parents – the brainy one, the pretty one, etc. Now thankfully, we don’t have labels like that in my family, probably because none of us is particularly smart and none of us is particularly pretty (except Emma when her hair’s all done in ringlets for a party or something). No, what we have is far worse. Kirsty is the GOOD one and I’m the – you guessed it – NAUGHTY one. How shocking is it to be labelled the naughty one when you’re eighteen years of age?!? Actually, you’d have thought mum would have learnt by now. It’s not as if the counsellor didn’t tell her that pigeonholing is unhealthy and negative. I WAS THERE!!!! But then again, mum doesn’t listen to anything anyone says, apart from Kirsty. That’s one thing I can’t stand about her. She wants people to listen to her whinging and moaning, and yet she won’t shut up long enough to take anyone else’s opinion on board. Which is sort of silly, because why is she paying for counselling when she’s not even going to listen to the counsellor? She may as well buy a doll or a kitten and confide in that. At least then they can’t interrupt her. But I digress. I was telling you all about my charming, wonderful little sister Kirsty, and how much I hate her. I know I’m meant to be the mature one. I also admit that I hit her. But her tears were blatantly for effect, so I don’t regret it, and what nobody knows apart from you and me is that she hit me back, pretty hard. Now, Kirsty is not exactly a small girl. I’m not saying she’s fat, but she’s definitely bigger than me, despite my age. I happen to be exceptionally skinny for my height (I’m 5 ft 6). Did I tell mum that Kirsty hit me? NO, I DIDN’T! I wouldn’t dob anyone in, not even Kirsty. Besides, what would have been the point? She would certainly have denied it and mum would certainly have believed her. And for that, I hate them both. The reason that I was arguing with Kirsty is her fault anyway. I was lying on my bed reading I Capture the Castle with the door open, because it was sooo hot. And guess who came prancing in? Kirsty. Now, that’s no reason for me to hit her. She comes ‘trespassing’ all the time – although I don’t see why, given as she’s made no bones about making it quite clear that she hates my guts as well as I hate hers. It was what she was wearing. Mum had bought me a beautiful top, really expensive and gorgeously embroidered and at the same time cool and perfect for summer. That was about two or three months ago. But I couldn’t wear it. The plunging neckline was a no-no. It would be like advertising my deformity. Oh, why do people complain about being flat-chested? I would do anything to be without any chest at all. Anyway, the long and short of it was that mum had bought me a gorgeous top hoping it would make me happy, ‘cos after the counselling when she found out how unhappy I was, I think she got a bit guilty. And it was meant to be a treat but it made me feel worse than ever. I loved that top, as pathetic as it sounds. People think I’m not into clothes, but I am. It’s just I can’t wear a lot of things so most of the time I look pretty drab. Still, better that than that they think something else . . . Fortunately, the top was a bit too big for me anyway. If I hadn’t had that other problem, then probably I would have just worn it anyway and acted like it was supposed to be baggy. Or taken it back and exchanged it. But I couldn’t do that because mum had the receipt and if I told her it was too big she’d want to see me with it on to see for herself, and obviously I couldn’t wear it. So I acted like it was perfect and told her I was saving it for a special occasion. Phew. Panic over. I had put the top away in my wardrobe and every so often I would get it out and wistfully look it over, stroking the soft fabric and the embroidered flowers and occasionally even trying it on and examining myself in the mirror. But you’ve guessed it, haven’t you? Kirsty was wearing this top. She doesn’t usually borrow my clothes, firstly because they wouldn’t fit and secondly because they’re not her style. As you can imagine, I have to dress pretty conservatively. But this top, that was too big for me, fit her perfectly. As perverted as it sounds, she had a beautiful cleavage. I don’t mean that in a disgusting sexual way, but in the sense that a woman enviously notices something she hasn’t got herself. I was speechless with horror. “What the **** are you doing?” I demanded hotly. “That’s my top!” “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Kirsty replied sweetly, breezing further into my room. “I think I may wear it to the cinema later.” “Go to hell!” I cried. “Take it off right now. You’ve no right taking my things!” “Why not? It’s not as if you’re ever going to wear it yourself. Besides, it looks far better on me.” “I’m saving it for a special occasion!” Kirsty looked me in the eye. “Get real, Megan. You never go out. And this is a summer top. If you loved it that much, you’d have worn it already. And like I said, it looks far better on me.” She giggled, and gave a little twirl in front of the mirror. And that, dear diary, is when I lost it. It was just too much. I had so much jealousy and hatred for her that at that moment I can quite sincerely say I wanted her dead. More later. Megan
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