Twisted Passion

Twisted Passion

By Siobhán Kingston

It happened in the spring of 2008; my accelerated transformation from a bubbly blonde beach loving bimbo to the deep dark and devastatingly depressing daemon of my own demise. My parents accepted what they considered a ‘phase’ and chose to ignore that I was a stranger walking a mile in my own shoes. By the time the summer ended I was changing schools and had returned to what they viewed as my normality. They’d never admit it but were relieved not to introduce a Goth as their daughter or an opinionated rebel as their child. It’s because of this relief though that they seemed to forget instantly what caused the fire in my heart to burn out. My summer of 2008 is a distant memory swept under our designer rug, hidden with every other failure or disapproved action that my brothers and I have made.
That summer began for me on the 21st of May. The air was hot and my throat was dry. Ms Glen’s voice droned without interruption about the Irish uprising as she spoke through her hooked nose. The blue and yellow clock behind her matched my uniform. It read twenty past one. Mondays always dragged but this was torture. I leaned with my head on my ripped sleeve. ‘Ms. Kingston, do you have an opinion on the subject?’ I shrugged unsure what subject she actually meant. ‘Was the policy an encumbrance to the people?' She snapped.  I answered honestly saying I had no idea. I didn’t even know what encumbrance meant. She smiled slowly showing her sparkling false teeth. She informed me that if I no interest in her class I could leave and to wash the mess off my face. I pushed out my chair and walked towards the door. I no idea then that it would be the last time I’d ever see her, hear her or wish I could punch the smirk from her orange face.

Hot tears of anger plummeted down my face as I stormed from the school. I ran through the children’s play ground near to the school towards the litter filled river. I descended down the path beside the swimming pool to where a mangled rusty gate lead to the back of the pitch and putt course. I climbed over it catching my already torn jumper on the briars. The weak looking thorns ripped my skin with no mercy. I watched as the little dots of crimson blood rose to surface but I couldn’t feel anything. It was as if I was watching someone else bleeding. I continued down the path slower now. My heart raced and my anger felt like a pulse in my throat. When I came to the end of the path I saw four teenagers all my age sitting on the grass. Looking back I realise I will never depend on a group of people as much as I did them. We were a minority in a narrow minded institution of sheep. They saw beyond my makeup and raven black hair. They were then my life in its entirety.
The passion that fuelled my continuation of this abstract way of life stemmed from the love of art my mother had subconsciously given me. Her laid back hippy way of life evaporated when she married into my father’s upper class family of old money and potent snobbery. Despite her greatest effort her love for colour shone through in her fashion choices and her eccentric musical taste was where my love for what the media dubbed ‘Emo’ or ‘Grunge’ grew from. I hated that she had changes her beliefs for someone else. I was repulsed by the idea of conformity. I was different, maybe by choice and maybe because I feared that people wouldn’t like the real me any more than they did me the ‘Goth me.’ Of course I never questioned my motives at the time. I was certain I couldn’t live any other way.
A week later I still hadn’t returned to school. I hadn’t been home either. My mother was under the illusion I was staying with my overly sensible and sickeningly boring cousin. The only thing dangerous she had ever done was lie for me. (I wish now, she had been as honest as she had boring) I was staying a little a flat with my best friend Jeff, the place I considered home. That Tuesday the 29th of June we sat together snorting D.M.D.A. A candle flickered and created dancing shadows on the walls. I laughed at the pictures it made. I felt safe in the forgiving pale red candle light. I felt as featherlike as misty rain tumbling gracefully on a sunny day. I exuded pleasure and contentment in my unique normality I was convinced this was the life people dreamed of. The thought that I had it all was bliss. This in its self was ecstasy.
We did this for days. Money wasn’t an issue; one advantage of being a ‘trust-fund-bunny.’ We listened to music quietly. The drugs caused the drum beat to feel like a living heart beat and I was drawn to it like a fly to light. However just like the nasty end that comes from the fly there was also always a price for the feeling that I was invincible .A price all the money I had couldn’t pay. As the effects wore off the sounds put a pressure on my aching head. I felt cold but would sweat like a fever. Voices caused a static in my ears. People sounded as if they were miles away. My chest became tight, my eyes blurry and my mind foggy. I would cough put my throat never cleared. Finally exhausted I’d curl into a ball and sleep for up to 24 hours at a time.
  On the 7th of June I dashed home for new clothes and to see if a letter had arrived from Australia.  There was no letter or anyone at home. I had two slices of Mum’s vegan bread enjoying the lingering smells of her baking that morning mixed with that of her wild lily’s on the table. She always had lilies ever since I told her they made me happy. My cousin Lily had died that April. Flower’s made me remember how perfect she was. We had been best friends for 15years. I replaced her huge vacancy in my life with Jeff. I left home slightly reluctantly that day. I hadn’t realised how much my mother cared about me even if she didn’t always understand me.
When I pushed out the flat door I smelt mould and dampness. I stepped over clothes thrown on the floor and caught a glimpse of Jeff lying on the bare carpet. I rushed to his side pushing back the glass coffee table. On it was his next line of cocaine ready to be snorted. His eyes were white and empty. I squeezed his hand so tight my nails cut semi-lunar shaped lines in his palm. His breathing sounded like his throat was full of fluid. He tried to speak but he couldn’t. He winced in pain and for one second squeezed my hand in return. The pain left as fast as it came .It brought was it a silence. A dead silence. He lay motionless on the floor as a trickle of blood ran so slowly from his nose like lazy an old river meandering on his snow white skin. He was instantly cold. I knew he was dead but I didn’t move. No one came. No one knew where we were. No one really cared.
For the two months that followed I ran. I ran from the past; the truth; anyone who could make me talk and most of all from myself. I walked around the city from dawn to dusk in the anonymous crowds. I didn’t have to explain my dress sense or random out bursts of tears. I felt like I moved through time and space differently to everyone else. I had no idea where I was going or if the world I had come from still existed. I bought CDs though. I was searching for a message of how to survive. Each however praised the ‘free’ way of life I had been living. Each left a nasty taste in my mouth like I had eaten too much of the world they idolised.
My passion for wild parties and the accompanying rock star way of life had dwindled. The fire for finding the adventure within every day was dying. The idealism of this fantasy I had lived in propelled by a misguided passion for art and music was evaporating around me. I realised my mother had not changed her believes for money at all. She had simply grown up. She became an adult, a wife and a mother. I went home. I washed away inches of eye liner and waited with anticipation for the black dye to leave my hair. My parents know what happened but don’t mention it. I realised the rug my mother hides everything from my grandmother under isn’t because she’s embarrassed of us. It’s because she wants us to live without the judgment of grandmother’s upper class tolerance. Our mistakes are our own. Finally the summer ended, I sixteen years, eight weeks and three days old. However I aged a life time in that summer of twisted passion and cruel realism.