Paper Houses

Chapter one

On this day 2 years ago I kissed a girl for the first time in my life. In my opinion there was absolutely nothing wrong with this, apart from the fact that I didn't actually love her. However, in accordance to the popular beliefs of the public, friends and family, it was the worst sin that anyone could possibly commit, to kiss someone of the same gender.

Before that day I was just a normal kid of 16 who liked books pop-punk and YouTube, not to mention food.

It was the 21st of October, the day when I got fed up; Fed up of the fact that you had to be size zero to "look good"; Fed up that you had to have perfect hair to even contemplate being in a relationship with anyone; fed up that you had to look beautiful to be beautiful.

"Beauty isn't what your face resembles but how your soul develops as a person." That's what my wise old Grandfather, Papa Forrester, said to me. In fact, it was the last thing he said to me before he died. I will never forget that moment. As I kneeled by his death bed holding his once fair hand tightly as if I could physically pull him away from the gaping hole that was death .His pale blue eyes looked deep and hard into mine; it was almost as if I were looking into a perfectly clear lake at my own reflection, in the future. He saw into my soul then. It was like he could tell my future. He smiled knowingly, and lay back on his once fair and blonde hair that was now grey and ruffled. That old, wise man's smile was still etched into his face as he was carried off to the morgue and laid to rest. I was always told by my mother that I looked like a female version of him when he was young. My shoulder length, wavy, dirty blonde hair resembled his completely and his skin was as soft as a breeze of autumn air just as mine was when a single tear rolled down it so slowly it tickled. We even held our heads up together as if we were soldiers on the front line of the last battle ever to be fought. The day after that dreadful day I self-diagnosed myself with depression.

I skipped the next week of school to try and recuperate. Instead it just gave me time to dwell on the inevitability of oblivion and death. Overall the week of no school ment no distractions and as a result no rest from the relentless sorrow I was buried in. My recurring dreams of Papa and I running through trees and flowers ended with a sudden outburst of rain and a tree falling on Papa and crushing the air out of his lungs. Every book I tried to read to take my mind off the torture of living without someone you hold so close to, through up a memory of him. I had to accept that he was gone but I couldn't let go of what he ment to me. I couldn't understand that people could just be, *poof*, gone.

All those depressed in year 11 of the Dunmow Academy Secondary School (not that academy meant anything apart from more money) congregated in a miniscule and gloomy room called the ocean centre at lunch times. It was a place which really inspired everyone, at least that's what the teachers thought. Really it was just a place that we all went to because everywhere else was packed to the absolute brim with idiots, not that the ocean centre wasn't full of idiots, just that the idiots here had the same idiotic symptoms as I did. Every now and then someone would confess something about their life to the whole centre. It was a truly depressing time for all: It was depressing for the person doing the confessing because of what they were going through, it was depressing for the kids there because they had to pretend to feel sorry for them even though we were all really feeling sorry for ourselves, and lastly it was depressing for the staff; Mrs Gringott and Mr Humphries had to act all sad for them and try and make them feel better. They do put on quite a good show actually but everyone could see through their act really.

My favourite lesson was by far was physics. What is the point in talking about how God made everything like you do in RE when you can hear about the atoms and space, supernova's and black holes, stars and moons and planets that he made. A big help for that was my teacher, Mr Garfield was an utter legend and genius of his time.