In January, I started a Future learn, Start Writing Fiction course, in the hope that it might get my mojo back and it's worked. I've written a short story based on an idea I've had for a couple of years, but couldn't seem to get it started. But I've finished it and I'm planning on entering it in the writer's magazine competition, where my story, A twist of Fate, was shortlisted. I'm not sharing it here yet as one of the conditions is that it hasn't been published anywhere else.
But, just as a taster, here is a short story I've written for the course I'm doing. I hope you like it.
Don’t
Tell
Rhona slowly approached the cold, dark structure that was her home. She took a deep breath and put her key in the lock. She walked into the lounge. The familiar smell of booze assailed her nostrils and made her heart sink.
‘What time do you call this?
I told you to be home by ten.’ growled her mother.
Rhona said nothing. All that
could be heard was the ticking of the clock on the old fashioned mantelpiece. She
just chewed her nails, and stared at the empty gin bottle on the floor.
‘Well! What have you got to
say for yourself?’ her mum hissed.
What could she say? It
wasn’t her fault that the bus had broken down. But when her mum was like this,
red in the face, a pulse beating above her left eye, nothing was going to stop
the inevitable.
Suddenly, Rhona’s head
snapped back as her mum grabbed her by hair and started pulling her across the
room. One of the dining chairs fell as she stumbled into it, biting her lip as
she tried to stop the tears that would only make her mum angrier.
‘I’m sorry mum. I couldn’t
help it the bus broke down and my phone’s out of credit so I couldn’t call,’
Rhona gasped.
‘Don’t answer me back, you
little slut. I know you’ve been with that Ryan,’ Rhona’s mum screamed, lashing
out with her hand and striking Rhona so hard that she fell to the ground.
Rhona moaned as her mum’s
right foot connected with her stomach.
‘Take that you little bitch,
and don’t think that you’ll be allowed out again anytime soon.’
Rhona lay on the floor
holding her stomach, softly crying. Her mum had passed out on the sofa and was
snoring loudly, her mouth wide open. Rhona had been with Ryan, but the bus
really had broken down. Most eighteen-year olds were allowed to have a boyfriend
and could even talk to their mothers about it. But not her. Rhona understood
that her mum had been badly let down. But surely, she shouldn’t take it out on
her own daughter? Something needed to be done, but as a memory from her
childhood popped into her head, she knew that she couldn’t ask for help. That
would only make things worse.
******
Rhona was seven years old. It was the first day back after the school holidays and the teacher had asked them to write about what they’d been up to. Rhona had written about the week they’d spent with her aunty on the island of Arran. She’d been very excited, as she’d never been on holiday before. The weather was perfect and she’d spent her days happily building sandcastles and paddling in the cold water of the Firth of Clyde. It did seem strange that her dad hadn’t come with them. But her aunty had explained that he had to go away for work. Her mum and aunty spent a lot of time talking and Rhona was sure that she’d heard him mum crying.
Her teacher had been very
pleased with Rhona’s account. But when she told her mum, she became very angry.
The next morning she’d stormed into the classroom and started screaming at the
teacher.
‘You lot think you’re so
clever,’ she screamed. ‘You should mind your own business and stop poking your
noses into others. What goes on in our house has nothing to do with you.’
Rhona would never forget the
shocked look on Miss Galbraiths’ face. It still made her cringe when she
thought of her classmates turning to look at her, not even trying to hide the
smiles of amusement on their faces.
Rhona had learned a valuable
lesson that day and she wasn’t about to forget it. If things were to change, it
was up to her to make it happen, but how?
A week later, Rhona sat in the lecture theatre idly doodling as the guest lecturer droned on. He was a novelist, who wrote psychological thrillers. It was a hot day and the stuffy room was making her feel soporific. Her stomach was still tender and this was making it hard for her to get comfortable. Suddenly, her ears pricked up as something he was saying caught her attention.
‘There are many techniques
for making someone think that they’re losing their minds,’ he said. ‘But
writing about it can be tricky. But there are certain techniques that I’ve
found work well.’ Rhona felt excited as sat forward in her seat and paid rapt
attention as he described ways to convince someone that they were going mad.
Strange things began to happen around their house. Books which hadn’t been touched for years would be found lying on the floor in the morning. The crockery in the cupboard moved, the plates ending up on top of the bowls instead of the other way around. The back door, which her mum had been convinced she’d locked, was found wide open. Her mum would look at her suspiciously.
‘It wasn’t me mum. You did it last night. Don’t you remember? Rhona would say, staring directly at her mum, until she turned away, a worried look on her face.
One Sunday morning after a particularly heavy session, her mum, stepped out of the shower and saw the words, ‘I’m coming to get you,’ scrawled in the steamed up glass of the mirror. Rhona had smiled at the sound of her mum’s piercing scream. She’d had fun doing that one. Not all of her tricks had worked. Her mum hadn’t even noticed when she’d set the pictures on the walls at the same strange angle. But the mirror incident was the one that did the trick.
‘This is it, Rhona,’ her mum had sobbed. ‘I’m losing my mind. I need to stop drinking. I know I’ve said it before, but this time I mean it.’
‘I’m sure you do, Mum,’ Rhona said, a smile hovering around her lips. ‘It’s probably for the best.’
Isabel Johnstone 2020 ©
