Shadows of the Pitch- a Virgil Van Dijk Fan fiction

Chapter 1: Life before it all.

DISCLAIMER!

I really hope readers enjoy this, and feel free to give some feedback privately or publicly! It helps me a lot with my Creative Writing degree x

-

Every night, I lay pressed against one of the worlds most famous football stars. But no one knows who I am.

I have everything a girl could possibly want. The most perfect life, the most perfect boyfriend. But no one knows who I am.

At first, it was fun, a secret to the world, no judgement, no shame. Now, I worry this is what he prefers, he wants me to be hidden. I have dozens of photo albums, full of memories. Of us from holidays, Christmas, birthdays. Sometimes, I look through them and think 'Would I be happier if I faced the cruelty of the world, letting them know I am, and will always be,

the other half of him.'

I moved to Liverpool three years ago. Packing up my entire life back home in the South Coast to have dreams of opening my own cocktail bar, make it big. Honestly, I wanted to live in Liverpool to be close to the sea, so I could feel at home still. I kept busy, I enrolled on a business course at a local university to broaden my horizon of knowledge, at least I wouldn't be going in completely blind. I saved up, gradually, through student loans and minimal wage bar work to buy an empty lot on Concert Street. It looked awful; the ceiling was caving in, walls stained with god knows what, rat droppings on the floor. But to me, it was perfect.

I would have loved to say that me, and a massive group of friends demonstrated perfect team work and created the most popular bar in the entire city, but it was just me.

I would start my days at 5 in the morning, functioning barely off of a microwave meal from the clearance section at the corner shop the night before. My studio flat full of cans of paint, wooden beams, there was a literal tarp hanging over my wardrobe. Eyes puffy, I would go to my lectures in the clothes I wore to sleep. I don't really know why I continued to attend the classes, I hardly learnt anything at all. The lecturers didn't care, teaching simple maths and the importance of stocks. It didn't interest me, but I needed that degree if I wanted my dream to work.

When lectures ended, I would catch the first bus home, briefly shower, put on some paint splattered clothes, and took my tools to where would have been MY bar. I worked for hours, scraping, painting, spraying, holding my shirt over my nose. I saw people walking past, staring into the large window into my work in progress bar. They'd stop, briefly, giving me a look of sympathy, before carrying on with their day. I would remember checking my phone for the time when my bus stopped at Concert Street, it would be 1PM. The next time I would pick my phone up, it would be 8PM, sometimes later.

Waiting at the bus stop, I would watch other students stagger along in groups, drunk, laughing. I wouldn't feel jealous, if anything it made me more determined that they would come flocking to my bar, one day. It didn't bother me that I wasn't living 'the university experience.' I didn't care for getting wasted, having one night stands, I would be too embarrassed to bring even family to the state of my flat.

The bus ride home would always feel therapeutic. Headphones in, not paying any attention to the homeless man arguing with the driver or the teenagers smoking at the back of the bus. I was in my own little bubble. I would watch the world blur by, the endless bars already having queues out the door, smoking areas overflowing with people. Or the local pubs, playing whatever football match was on that day. People still swarmed them. I dreamed for that, I wanted that. I lived for the nighttime.

Coming home, I would flick on the light switch semi expecting the flat to have miraculously tidied itself, and I would be able to relax. But of course, fairy tales aren't real. The same paint cans were still piled up in the corner, the tarp still hung from my wardrobe, wooden shavings still scattered over the paint stained carpet. I pulled open my curtains and turned the light off. The distant lights from the moon and the nightlife dimly lit my box of a home. I slumped down onto my single bed, exhaling. My body ached. My dream felt so close but still so far out of reach. I thought of calling my dad, telling him I failed, I couldn't do it on my own, to pick me up and take me back home.

But that would involve giving up.

I fell asleep, clutching onto my phone, as if I was almost going to call him.

A couple months went by, and the bitter winter had swamped Liverpool entirely. It was November, a lot of students had gone home on break. But I stayed. The day had finally come where I could paint the walls of my bar. I had gutted the place out, there was no more stains, no more rat droppings, just a big, grey room. This was special to me. I had a theme in my head. I wanted dark, royal blue walls with golden trimming, gold wall accents, photo frames with white tile floors. I had stayed up many nights making countless Pinterest mood boards to help give me the best inspiration for my dream place. I was excited.

Grabbing the bar keys, I finished wrapping a scarf my dad had bought me for Christmas a couple of years ago over my shoulders and neck. I had my mind set on the paint shop. It wasn't far from my flat, the cold air numbing my cheeks as I walked, holding onto my scarf.

The door swung open, letting off a little jingle. A man in his 70s greeted me, warmly.

'Good morning, Miss Constance.' He smiled, hands pressed politely on his tweed sweatshirt.

'Morning, Mr Khan.' I replied, giving him a smile back before wandering around the shop. I was on a mission to find the most perfect shade of blue.

'You seem to have a spring in your step. Is today the day?' He asked, observing me around the shop, flicking through paint catalogues, before putting them down and picking up another one.

'Yes! I am finally painting the walls. It's all going to come together soon, I can feel it.' I had my head down, still searching.

'My dear, I am very proud of you for making it this far. Your bar will brighten up this place well.'

Mr Khan had always been the man I went to for advice, tools, and the best chai tea I have ever had. He always looked after me, and always offered to come help me with the creation of my bar, though I always declined. He was getting on a bit, he couldn't stand without a cane. I didn't want to be the reason he would end up in hospital one day.

'I think this is the one, Mr Khan.' I showed him a particular shade of royal blue, that I thought was the most mesmerising, mysterious shade. It was beautiful.

'I think its perfect, Jaan e Bahaaraa'n.'

Carrying the cans up to the till, I watched Mr Khan's face shift to an uncomfortable frown.

'Miss Constance... These are quite expensive. I don't want you to struggle to feed yourself just for some paint.' He said, my heart dropped when I saw how much it was for just one can.

£60.

I shook it off, this was what I needed, this paint had the opportunity to shape my entire future. I had to have at least one.

'Can I have just one? I will be okay, I promise.' I held his hands, giving him a false reassuring smile.

'My wife and I will have some food prepared for you to pick up when we close today. I cannot bare the thought of you struggling.' He smiled to me.

Paying for the paint, I waved goodbye to Mr Khan and left.

That was my last £60.

I had no money for the bus to Concert Street, so I walked.

Admittedly, I wasn't paying attention to anything. I just wanted to get to my bar, and get started.

Then, it happened.

I walked into the back of someone; the can of paint slipped out of my hands and went crashing onto the pavement. All I could do was watch the spill of blue spew out onto the road, the can rolling downhill.

I was in shock.

The person turned around, it was a man. A tall man. Wearing an all grey tracksuit, his deep black hair slicked into a small bun. He had a stern stare, intimidating almost. But his gaze softened immediately when he saw me bent down, practically hyperventilating at the fact my last amount of money was now halfway sprawled over the road.

He bent down to try and help me, but at that moment, I didn't care.

'I am so sorry, are you-'

'Fuck you, asshole! I spent the last of my money on that paint! Oh god.. What am I gonna do?' I panicked, my breathing becoming shaken.

In a state of panic, I barged past the man. My eyes felt hot with tears. I hadn't even made it 5 minutes from the paint shop and at that moment, my dream felt completely crushed. I had no money left. It was done.