I’d like to share a piece of prose written for one of my
assignments. I hope you enjoy. I’d love
to know what you think.
The
Girl Who Used To Be Me.
by Shelley Fallows
She stands in the
doorway; the girl who used to be me. The
memory is hazy, like looking through the veil which covered my face on that day
all those years ago.
Everything
is in place. The guests are seated and
the groom is waiting. Suddenly the organ
begins and the sound of Wagner’s Bridal
Chorus fills the small church.
Everybody stands and turns to look at the bride.
Dad
is standing at my side. He is proud and
handsome in his hired tails, his arm through mine. We begin the slow steady
walk down the aisle. Tears fall down my
face. After all the planning, all the
organising, we are finally here. Yet
something isn’t quite right, something is missing.
Only a few weeks earlier I’d tried to mention it. It felt unreal, like a game I’d played as a
little girl but didn’t know how to stop.
It wasn’t fun anymore. The
realisation dawned on me as I was walking with my family after Sunday
lunch. The general topic of conversation
was of course about the wedding. The sun
was shining and it was warm.
‘Fingers crossed the weather’s like this on the big day.’
someone said, I don’t remember who. My
mum walked ahead, I was desperate to tell her I didn’t want to do it. The words wouldn’t come. I swallowed and kept on walking.
*
When I was young we
used to play name games. One being that
you take the name of your first pet and the street in which you grew up to
create your ‘porn star’ name. I’m not
sure I understood what a porn star was then but my name was Sadie Downland. Sadie was a black mongrel we chose from the
local RSPCA and we grew up together on Downlands Drive in Tilgate, one of the
nicer parts of Crawley. Mum and Dad had
moved down from London back in the late 60’s and I’m sure it seemed like a
little piece of suburban heaven back in those days compared to the East End.
I was a typical girl who dreamed of Prince Charming and
all things romantic. I would dress up in
a bridesmaid dress I once wore to an uncle’s wedding. It was a deep burgundy full length gown and I
wore a hoop underneath so the skirt floated out and around me. I even had a pair of dainty white
gloves. I would dance around my parents’
bedroom pretending to be Truly Scrumptious in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, waiting for Caractacus Potts to come along
and fall in love with me. I felt
extremely grown up and glamorous.
At
some point I stopped believing my Prince Charming was going to appear. Sometime in between being a girl and a woman
I decided that I was rather dull and maybe a little bit stupid; in fact someone
of no particular interest.
*
There is a point in
your life when you realise that the carefree years of fairy tales and adventure
are gone. I think this happened around
the time of my thirteenth birthday. Here
I was standing on the precipice of my childhood, looking down at those long
carefree days, eager to move on to adulthood but still wanting to be in the
safe cocoon of make believe.
I had a party just a few weeks before the new school year
began. It was a warm; summer’s day and all my class mates were there. We danced to Madonna’s Papa Don’t Preach in the garden; giggled and drank copious amounts
of fizzy pop whilst eating crisps, sausage rolls and sandwiches with edges that
curled slightly where they’d been sitting out too long.
The
cake was brought out with thirteen candles burning brightly and everyone joined
in to sing Happy Birthday. Then I was
grabbed from all angles. Fingers dug in
as I was heaved into the air. I heard
them counting as they bumped me high and my stomach flipped and I felt the
whoosh of air as I came back down again; my body tensing against the possible
collision with the ground. Relentlessly
they continued, dozens of hands gripping any available part of me as they all
crowded in to assist. Gradually my
trousers began to edge down over my hips, slowly creeping lower and lower with
each bump.
‘Stop!’ I screamed
in panic as I realised what was happening.
No one heard, so intent on their counting they were, laughter filled the
air as they threw me up and down. Eventually
it stopped and there was silence. With a
howl I ran towards the house pulling my trousers and knickers up, desperately
trying to undo what had been done. The
sound of laughter chased me up the stairs and in through the open window as I
slammed the bathroom door shut. A little
while later mum came to find me.
‘Come out love.
What’s the matter? Everyone’s
wondering where you are.’ I couldn’t
face them, I just wanted to disappear and never see any of them again. I couldn’t be consoled. The party was over. I wonder now if it had all been in my head
more than anything but I always found school a little bit harder after
that. I began to shrink back inside
myself like a tortoise retreating into the safety of its shell. Shyness spread over me, absorbed into every
pore. I began to feel like the odd sock;
never quite fitting in, never one of the crowd.
*
So, just over six years
later I am walking down the aisle and I put the tears down to nerves. Vows and rings are exchanged and we walk from
the church as husband and wife. All our
family and friends gather round us in the small churchyard. How many times has this old church witnessed
this very scene? The characters may
change but the story begins in the same way.
It is a beautiful June day and as I look up at the clear, blue skies I
realise how blessed we have been with the weather. The church bells should have
been ringing but all I hear is the sound of laughter and voices’ congratulating
us. Relief floats in the air like
confetti and for a while I put my doubts to one side. Once the photographer is done we drive on to
a small local pub where the celebrations can begin. It is only a few days later when I am
watching a video of the day that I realise the bells were silent.
*
‘So, do you think I’m pretty?’ I ask him one day. My cheeks burn as I speak, my eyes looking
anywhere but at him. After all that
we’ve shared I am still self-conscious, still wanting to believe that I am
beautiful.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ he replies. ‘Quite plain but you are pretty.’ My heart sinks. Again I feel ordinary, invisible. I wonder why he has chosen to be with me but
there is also something awakening inside.
Maybe I am worth more than this.
Maybe I was wrong to give up on the fairy tale.
*
A year to the day after
our wedding we are sitting in one of those places which doesn’t quite know if
it’s a pub or a restaurant. It doesn’t
really succeed with either but is cheap and therefore full on this Sunday
evening. The band of gold sits on my
finger and we should be celebrating. For
some reason though he has picked a fight; suddenly his words are cruel. I understand of course; it’s frustration, not
knowing what to do. How to say the words
that need to be said, to voice what we both feel? People look and stare as tears fall down my
face. The man opposite me is suddenly a
stranger and I feel very, very alone.
*
It’s hard to explain how
that first moment feels when you suddenly lose your innocence, when you realise
that nothing lasts forever. I’m still
not sure if it happened for me on the night of my thirteenth birthday back in
1986 or when I realised that someone who has promised to love me forever can
suddenly stop.
She’s still there, the girl who used to be me. Every now and then she’ll appear, especially
in times of stress or when I’m doing something out of my comfort zone. She’ll always try and tell me that I’m dull
and not smart or pretty enough. I remind
myself that I’m not that girl anymore; maybe I never was.
April 2013
