FIRST IMPRESSIONS

INTRODUCTION

“And for todays exercise…”

My mind barely registered a word the teacher said. My mind was far away. Tonight, I was packing to leave this hellhole, to go live with my Dad in London.

I watched as the minutes ticked away, counting down in my head until the sound of the bell would set free the math teacher’s ‘Captivated’ audience. More like captive…

I found myself carving my name into my desk. I jumped as a ruler slapped down in front of me.

“And what, exactly, do you think you’re doing, Rhiannon?” the teacher asked, a note of submissive boredom in her voice, like she knew nothing she said would affect me.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Miss?” I replied, raising and eyebrow as I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms, a smirk on my face. We had played this game many times before, and I always won.

Well, that is if you consider frustrating the teacher so much she decides to pass the task to the principle a win.

“Answer me, Rhiannon.” Miss Markson asked.

“Why waste my breath? It’s pretty fucking obvious.” I laughed. Her mouth formed a horrified ‘O’.

I covered my mouth in mock horror. “Oh dear! Did I say a naughty word? I’m ever so sorry.”

“Out!” she hissed between clenched teeth.

My bag was already packed. I swung it cheerfully on my shoulder, sauntered out the door, stopping only to poke my head back through to blow a kiss at the teacher.

“See ya Miss, great lesson.” I grinned, winking.

I slammed the door, waiting outside for a second to hear the class burst into hysterical laughter. I bowed to my imaginary audience.

“Thank you, thank you.” I muttered.

And without a look back, I walked out of the school for the last time.

*****

I shoved open the door, my previously happy mood darkening. The break for freedom wasn’t over yet. I still had to escape Mum…who I nearly tripped over on my way to the stairs.

The miserable woman was passed out in a pool of her own vomit.

I walked to the fridge, grabbed some water, and poured it over her face. She shot up into a sitting position, and then staggered to her feet.

She squinted at me. “Oh…Consuela, I haven’t seen you in a while. Pour me a shot, will you?”

“Fuck you.” I sighed; stalking up the stairs as she stumbled off to her room, muttering something about a budgerigar and slippers.

Ever since Dad left 4 years ago I’d been living with this sorry excuse of a mother in Australia, while my Dad lives the high life in London. It had taken a long time to get out of this place, but I was finally escaping. I finished stuffing the last of my few belongings into my suitcase and sunk down onto the floor letting a large sigh escape my lips. I rested my head against the edge of the bed, and started to drift off when I heard a large smash from downstairs.

“Stupid… painting…. Fucking…. Vase” Mum muttered as she chucked yet another thing against the wall.

“Freaking hell Mum, stop it all ready” I screamed whilst trying to restrain her from throwing more things around.

She turned and looked at me and slowly raised her hand. I stood paralysed. She wouldn’t slap me… she couldn’t hit her own daughter…could she?

 I squeezed my eyes shut, ready for the impact of her hand against my skin; I waited but only heard a thump, I opened one eye and found my mum fast asleep on the floor.