Past? What Past?! [ F I N I S H E D ]

Past? What Past! Part1

Past? What Past!

I shivered at the icy glares being thrown my way. I tried to ignore them, but they froze me from the inside out. I hated being hated... It really sucked. And all I had done was park my car. Seriously - that was it. I parked my flaming car in a flaming parking space! Little did I know that parking space was reserved for someone. And I was such a fucktard for asking WHOM exactly the space was reserved for. I could still hear the mocking tones of the blonde that gave blondes a bad name.

"Like, oh mi gawsh! The silly bitch doesn't even, like, knoow!" she had whined, "I mean, who, like, doesn't knoow? That parking space is, like, totally reserved for Brant Hutson." I had thrown her a puzzled look - who was Brant Hutson? "OH, MI, GAWSH! She doesn't even know who Brant Hutson IS! That's like, soo gay!" I could see gay people hating this cow if she said things like that. She was clearly the 'it' girl of the school with her faux blonde hair, and nearly non-existent black skirt that was so unflattering. You'd think that most of these plastic fake twats would at least work on their weight and TRY to be skinny, but no, not this one. She had that amazing muffin-top look to her.

I laughed as I remembered the time my mother told me I had a muffin top when I walked out my house to go to the beach with my friend, Nadine. I had wittily replied, "I'll muffin YOUR top!" Funnily enough, Nadine had burst out laughing, and I couldn't see why. I was naïve back then. But not now. Yes, it was only three days ago. I was naïve three days ago. Three days ago, I was quite happily living in the small, but undeniably amazing little village of Dunbar, Scotland. Three days ago, I went to Dunbar Grammar School and was liked by all my teachers and fellow students. Three days ago, I was happy.

Now? Not so much. This sounds like a totally clichéd story about a girl moving to the US and thinking she's plain and clever, but tonnes of blokes flock around her and she ends up falling in love with the hard, player of the school. But I didn't go to the States; I went to somewhere far worse.

I went to England.

Now, that sounds pretty bitchy and mean, but I don't mean it like that. I like the US, and England was great, really. But it was just... Scotland had been independent for five years, and leaving SCOTLAND to go to ENGLAND was unheard of. It was like going to Middle Earth or... Or an American moving to the USSR in the height of the Cold War. It was weird.

Sure, the transition from the Scotland five years ago and the Scotland now that was independent was smooth and went well. SNP were eternally grateful for the Tories being so understanding, but really, they didn't have another option. Alex Salmond owed David Cameron big time. But the prospect of living in England wasn't right. They had completely different laws from Scotland now: we couldn't drink until we twenty-one, but we could learn to drive at fourteen then a year after passing our test, we were tested again. If we got a thing wrong we had to start from the beginning. I passed first time, and didn't have to re-sit when I was fifteen.

However, I was here, so I had to suck it up and move on. It wasn't right, but it wasn't like I could change it. I would gladly move back to Scotland and play golf for the rest of my life, but that wasn't a feasible option seeing as my evil auntie had stolen my passport from me, telling me I didn't need it.

Oh, Auntie Harriet. Also known as Auntie Beelzebub, or Satan. What wouldn't I give to smash her massive face in and send her crashing down to Hell so she could carry out her job as Satan in Her own land. Auntie Harriet had it in for me. She had hated me since the day I was born, and I had no idea why! Maybe it was because I ruined her wedding day. It wasn't my fault mum went into labour half way through the service and all the attention was thrown on her! But at least she could never forget my birthday!

Don't ask me why I'm in England, saying at my evil Auntie's. Just, don't. It's not something I want to go into, right now, in this frame of mind. When I'm already so pissed off with Blondie. And this mysterious Brant Hutson guy who seemed to have some weird control over Blondie when he wasn't even present. Or maybe he was just some fit English bloke.

I imagined the look on my dad's face if I married an English guy. I'd be disowned. Well, it would serve him right if I did fall for one of them. Serves him right for concocting this plan to send me away from my friends and family in Scotland. Serves him right for being a total arse-wipe. He's a gimp: once a legend, now a complete and utter gimpy fart hole. I hate him. And my mother and brother, actually. It's mainly Andrew's fault I'm here, but I refuse to go into it now.

"Like, aren't you going to move your car?" the blonde girl asked as I walked into the main building of the school I was now attending.

"No," I muttered too quietly for her to hear, or for anyone to hear, for that matter. I didn't want to let anyone hear me speak unless it was a life or death situation. That's why I had a pad of paper in my arms and a pen protruding from my high up ponytail. I wouldn't let anyone hear my thick Scottish accent. If I did that, I could imagine how much I'd get teased. Not that I'm saying the English are racist to the Scots or anything, I'm just saying that I didn't want to get teased. As previously mentioned, I hate being hated.

Walking into the school, I looked around at the people milling around. I could hear music from a room bursting with hyper morning people, and also depressed non-morning people, and then the average not-morning-but-not-non-morning people. I blended into the latter category. My best time of day was eleven until six, and then I got bored with being awake, so would mope about and go on facebook and MSN and such until ten, when I would finally switch off my computer and sleep. Unless someone interesting was on and then I could stay up until five in the morning, just chatting to them. I had done that once, but that was when HE was abroad, and I hadn't seen him in two weeks. Two weeks away from Stuart was pure agony and it took all the will power I owned to prevent myself from rushing to Germany (where he was holidaying with his family) and talk to him. Just two seconds would suffice.

Finally, I spotted a receptionist (or what looked like a receptionist) at an office-type space with one of those glass sliding window things that amused me. I loved to just open and shut it, and hope that each time I did, there would be the same person with a different personality on the other side. I walked to the small line formed and waited for my turn. When I got there, the grumpy old woman barked: "what?"

What I did next was utterly stupid and rebellious of me, especially on my first day. Guess what it was I did. I closed the sliding door, looked at the grumpy, frumpy old coot and then slid the glass window open again.

"What?" she repeated. So I swore, using the king of sweary words, breaking my promise to only talk if it were a life or death situation. Did I honestly think I would keep to that? Nope, I couldn't shut up to save my life!

"Aww, fuck! Well, that didn't work very well."

© Zoe A Proudfoot.

--------

Just a wee teaser for you from something i'm working on. the next part should be coming your way soon :)!

xxxx