The Other Me

Chapter Two

Chapter 2

“Rosy, you got the wrong milk!”

This was the first thing my mother said to me as I stepped into my house. No hugging, no crying, no shouting, no hysterical “Darling! I thought I lost you!”

Okay, she didn’t know I was almost killed. But you would have thought she could have sensed something. Aren’t mothers supposed to have psychic bonds with their children, so they know instantly when their beloveds are in danger? And who cares whether we drink skimmed or semi-skimmed milk, I can’t tell the difference anyway. Milk is milk surely.

Whatever. The rest of the evening, I just lazed around and watched TV. I felt too shaken up to do any homework or coursework or any of that crap at all. All I could think about was my mysterious hero. I was sure, so sure that someone had pulled me back. I hadn’t imagined it. I hadn’t imagined that strong grasp, that heavy breathing and that feeling of knowing when someone is beside to you.

But who could it have been? It certainly wasn’t that old man, I was sure. No doubt if it was up to him, he would’ve let that car squash me to death. Plus, there was no way he could move that fast.

But what really scared the hell out of me was that no one else was around. The street was empty. Apart from the old man, no one else could have done it. Unless whoever did, somehow vaporised themselves or has an invisibility cloak. But surely if you saved the life of a human being, you would stay to hang around. Get some credit. Some publicity. Fruit baskets even.

That night, I couldn’t sleep at all. My mind pondered and pondered, exploring every single possibility it could think of. But no reasonable explanation was sought out.

When my alarm clock rang at 7 o’clock the next morning, it took every bit of my will not to lob it out the window. I was ready to fall back to sleep again, when I remembered. I had school.

By the time I staggered down the stairs, my mother was waiting for me in the kitchen; her unattractive night gown which was very matted in places, was wrapped around her tightly.

“Did you buy the right milk last night?” Mum asked me. She held a different bottle of milk, unlike the one I brought back.

“Nooo,” I said, confused and still dazed from sleep. Did she really think I would bother to do something like that? I hardly drank milk anyway.

“It was probably your father then. He did come back late last night.” Mum smiled to herself as she put the milk down on the breakfast bar and lowered herself onto a nearby stool. “By the way, I’m going to see your Gran this morning, so don’t be surprised if I am late back.”

Dad rarely returned before 10pm these days. He worked extra hours now, since a lot of his colleagues have been made redundant because of that infuriating recession. I hardly saw him much. Mum didn’t work at all. Her only job was to look after the house, make sure Dad and I didn’t starve and to entertain those non-working turkey friends of hers.

Despite what Mum thought, I severely doubted that it was Dad who got the milk. He was the type of person who really doesn’t give a flying monkey about anything, unless it’s to do with one of his clients or football. I bet if you asked him what type of milk we drink in this house, like me, he wouldn’t have a clue.

After I had got ready and had finished breakfast, I reluctantly made my way to the bus stop.

Unfortunately, I was an ecstatic member of Grayfield Upper School, completing sixth form; doing my first year of A-levels. The school was a terrible, rundown place, with grey walls, bad smells and crap plumbing. The teachers weren’t bad and most of the kids weren’t tiresome, idiotic idiots; though I did often ask myself why I was here and not in some at least half-decent college. Perhaps it was because I had already attended to this dump every single day of my sorry life for 3 years, so why should I stop now?