A Guide To: Isla

How to: Hate

THE BOY WAS so far up his own arse, Isla thought, that it was a miracle that he didn't shit through his teeth. Though, to be fair, she hadn't yet heard him talk, so it could very well be likely.

His black hair shone in the glare of the flood lamps surrounding the race track; the light seemingly bouncing of him. He wasn't even smiling, just pushing his way through the crowds of people screaming his name (towards where she was standing, but she was too busy hating him to focus on that). Her boys had scattered - even Chris - so she was standing alone in the field, to cold to be worried about them. Who knows where they have disappeared off to? Who cares?

Shut up, Isla thought subconsciously. Stop being such a drama queen. The boys will be back soon and then you can go home. She was still distracted by this thought when she was suddenly shoved backwards, her feet struggling to get a grip on the muddy floor. She could feel herself falling, like it was happening in slow motion; her right leg stepped back about a foot, but it landed on a muddy patch where some one had probably slipped earlier (fucking thanks, you bitch!) and she was crumbling, her hand slipping into the mud as gravity caught up with her. She landed hard on her butt, her head hitting the floor (she just thought about the mud. God, the mud).

Isla looked up.

It wasn't some sort of "the moon shone on him and I finally realized I loved him". How could it have been? She was already in a bad mood and the fact that she couldn't see his face just somehow made her irrational anger double. And she knew who he was anyway - the people around her had begun crowding and the screams were directed at her, so it wasn't hard to tell. This also wasn't going to be some sort of "oh, Jesus, he is fit, yum." Because she was pissed. She was cold, she was muddy, and she was pissed.

How dare the boys drag her out tonight? She had a class tomorrow. She had an essay due in tomorrow. And they bribed her - with vanilla milkshakes and a night with Chris - Chris, who wasn't even her boyfriend; was she bought that easily? Sugar and sex? Obviously, the voice in her head whispered, criminally. All those strong women in her stories had taught her nothing. Still, even if she didn't have her dignity, at least she had her anger.

"Uh, do you need a hand?" At least he seemed like a gentlemen. She swatted his arm out the way. She will not accept help from an arrogant wanker, who is too into himself to even smile at the people (literally) yelling his name.

"No. Not from you." In hindsight, this could have been slightly personal. Isla stuck her hand in the mud, and pushed. But it was mud, and she slipped. Because that's what she needed - because there was someone up there who seemed to hate her! And he laughed. That wanker laughed at her! It seemed as though, even above all the noise, all the yelling ("Abel! Abel! Abel!"), all she could hear was his chuckle. That patronising sound reverberated through her and, God, did she hate it.

"Look, you're not going to be able to get up on your own. Just take my hand." She wouldn't even look at him. Her pride was to great and it was all she had left. "Mate, it's not like I just stepped on your dog, I'm trying to be nice."

Isla sighed. This was not how she wanted her night to go. What she would give to be wrapped up in her duvet in her room, a steaming cup of tea on her table and an episode of Doctor Who playing on her computer. She was still thinking of this when she felt water seeping through her jeans and she thought "fuck it. I'll never have to see him again anyway." The people around them had began to disperse, finally realising that "Abel" was not worth their time.

She reached up and grabbed his hand, still not looking at him, at that dumb grin that would be plastered on his face now that she had succumbed to shame that was taking over her.