Let Me Go

Prologue

GRACE

Happy. No, not happy, this wasn’t a strong enough emotion to depict the feeling behind the flutter in my stomach or the electricity that shook my whole body with excitement and joy. Ecstatic, maybe? Oh I don’t know! I don’t get all this artsy fartsy word stuff – that was more Connor’s thing. Connor could string a chaos of creative words into an elegant sentence in seconds, it was incredible. He was incredible.

Connor and I had always been best friends ever since we moved in next door 7 years ago and he kicked his yellow, spongy football over the wall. I was 6 years of age and he was 9 (which he never let me forget!) and I had been playing on my new swing when the ball came bouncing over. Intrigued, I ran towards the bright object and squeezed it tightly in my small but careful hands before carrying it sensibly under my arm towards the fence from which it had flew over.

I called out politely, “Excuse me, I have your football!” and then stood by the edge of the garden waiting patiently for a response. After a few minutes I was abruptly startled by a round face with a bronze flop of hair and bright green eyes staring right at me… “BOO!” I jumped up, threw my arms into the air (causing the ball to dive into the nearest rose bush) and screamed using all the breath I could muster before sprinting through the open glass door that lead to the kitchen and slamming it shut behind me.

I cried for the rest of the day, explaining through sobs what happened to mother. At first she listened with sympathetic eyes but after an hour of tears she began to shout, calling me ‘stupid’, ‘pathetic’ and ‘immature’. I did not really understand these words then but I knew that they were bad due to mother’s sharp tone and frustrated glare. So I cried harder, sobs louder, tears hotter until 5 o’ clock when the doorbell rang, an unfamiliar ring echoing through our new home.

It was Connor. His unruly mane was covering his eyes that stared down at his worn sneakers. The bottom of his jeans were frayed and slithered aimlessly along the floor as he shuffled towards me, blushing. “I’m sorry.” He mumbled, not diverting his intense stare from the ground. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Even at a young age, I have always been stubborn. I glared at him expectantly, crossing my arms defensively across my chest. Irritated, he let out a brief sigh and looked me in the eye, “Can we be friends?”My eyes widened as he put on an extremely artificial grin. I pretended to stifle a laugh before smugly replying, “I don’t think so!” and grabbed the large, oak door and swung it with great force to result in a dramatic bang!

However the door was silenced by Connor’s smooth fingertips slipping in between the door and its frame. Instantly he removed them from the scene, holding them protectively against his chest, struggling to not reveal the pain in his eyes, he hopped around clumsily chanting curses and swears which seemed extremely naughty at the time! Suddenly I burst out into a fit of giggles causing me to cripple over in laughter, clutching my sides to prevent my lungs from breaking out of my collapsing rib cage. He glanced at me for a moment through his scruffy fringe and dropped his arms to his side, a wide, cheesy grin spreading of his face and without warning our laughter joined in a delightful harmony. We have barely been parted ever since.

Now I am thirteen and Connor is nearly seventeen. I look much the same; slim, ‘petite’, my bright auburn hair hangs in loose curls down my back, my cheeks still slightly plump and dotted with coffee- coloured freckles. Connor has changed; his face more slender, his eyes were now full with knowledge and understanding, his skin glossed with a delicious, caramel tinge and his bronze hair; short, thick and perfectly untidy, leading off in all directions and turning golden in the sunlight.  His shoulders are broad; strong and safe, his body toned and muscular creating lines across his chest and stomach. Most of all, he is a lot taller – 6 foot while I am only about 5 foot 7.