The Many Shades of Ella's Hair

Chapter 1

*Author's note - First few chapters is a bit slow, sorry, as I tried to make it very real but please bear with me. Lot of love. And happy reading. * 

My eyes skim the gauzy room, with a kind of petulant reluctance. My foot fell forward, as I realized I was walking and I staggered a little – still looking. I grunt as someone stops me, "Callum," she calls out. My eyes meet hers, fleetingly. Shit. Too late to turn back now – her soft fingers, firm on my shoulders, holding me in place.

"Callum are you drunk?" she says, eyes widening. I laugh, because it reminds me of more a school teacher scolding a child for not doing their homework. Her eyes bulge, even more slightly. I miss those eyes, I sadly reflect.
They are big and brown, and when she is mad – and this, is a lot – her eyes go huge and sad.

A memory comes to surface of us lying down, and her looking at me from the side – her eyes wide and meandering, searching my face, my expression. I remembered that day so well, it was the day her parents had gone out of town, and I had told mine I was at a sleep over and we had just lied together. Not saying anything, not speaking, unmoving - just looking, studying, watching. How beautiful she was. How lucky I was. And our fingers intertwined, and there was the hum of soft, music in the background curdling a gorgeous melody, and she started giggling when the chorus came. And then we started singing, together, loudly, when it did. And I remembered the most detail, funnily enough, of the blanket around us – it was her grandmother's, and it had all sorts of strange squares and geometrical patterns.

"Callum," she says worriedly, snapping me out of my reverie, "Maybe we should get you to sit down." I balk, swaying as I stood. Somehow even though she was slightly shorter than me, it felt as though she was leaning over me – and now I really felt small.

She looked pretty, still. There were flowers in her hair, yellow ones, bright and vivid. She had never worn those, when we were together. And she wore bright orange stockings, showing her thin legs, underneath her black plaid dress. Was this a new style? A make-over?

Her fingers tightened quickly, "Callum, I think we should sit down."

"I – " I began to say, before someone arrived. I felt the blood drain from my face, anger hot in my blood, as I swallowed harshly and tried to move away. I was reminded of the reason we broke up – and the reason, or him, was standing next to her smugly smiling, two cups in his hand. "I should go," I finished, curtly, glaring hotly between them both.

In the split second – I felt the potential. He was there; I could hurt him. Badly, this time. I felt ready, energetic and I could do it. But then I saw her eyes, and they were wide with worry, at my condition, at apprehension of me seeing him. And they looked at me silently. I wanted to scream at her, tell her I didn't want but I had to, to get some peace. To prove I wasn't okay with him – with the way he came in. That I still loved her and was willing to fight for her. That I – all these reasons swam in my brain, which felt fuzzy. Would she want me back? Would it matter? I slumped my shoulders, tired. And seeing his arm snake around her waist, I almost lost it, which was when I looked at her and her eyes – then I walked away, fast.

Everyone seemed to be having a good time – chatting; laughing privately. There was enough people that walking across the house, was task, and I had to push past many people who cast me irritated glances, and some drunk, threatening ones.

Outside the patio, they were people – just where I was about to go. They smoked, and regarded me warily. I turned on my heel, walking out the front door.

The house was very strange. Most people had a back yard, but the garden here ran alongside the front lawn and in the night, with the sharp pines and winding, scratchy branches of thorn trees and bigger, oak ones – it seemed more like a forest, than somebody's front lawns.

I controlled my breath, which expelled in erratic fits of burst. I wasn't having a panic attack was I? My eyes stung, as I tried to see blindly in the dark. I could make out the vague outline of someone kissing – one leaning on a tree, then another on top of that person. My breath came again, shallow and demanding. I couldn't go back inside the party – lest she try to find me, or worse saw me alone. All my friends had gone home.

And I couldn't go to the patio either. I was left here. I retired myself on a boulder, head in my hands, breathing deeply.

A tiredness consumed me and I sniffed, looking up at the sky with none of the stars in sight. What did I expect? This was the bloody city; there were no stars for miles. My breathing became better, and gulping, I let my eyelids close for just a second. An action that felt so good. And I hugged myself, arms wrapped around my chest – because in my loose black top, and rough-cut demin jeans it was cold, even freezing. And swiftly, in the split second of a decision, I considered the danger or the strangeness – but it was overpowered by my dull senses, and I allowed myself to sleep.