My Name Is Jonathon Carter.

A short story I wrote at the tender age of 14.

"I knew what I'd done as soon as I's closed the door. I'd raced down the stairs. "Raced" - what exactly was I racing against? Time? My conscience?
My heart pounded and I could feel the cold of the wall I was leaning against. I flinched as the light of a passing car flashed through the window. The darkness had become a blanket, protecting me, keeping me out of sight. I was close to tears. Tears of sadness? Guilt? Fear, I think.
My heart followed the pattern of my fear fiercely; I could feel it hammering against my chest, throbbing inside my ribcage, as I carefully tiptoed out of the front door. I still have no idea why I tiptoed; she wouldn't have heard me, not then..."

I looked up at the young journalist, hanging onto my every word, desperate for a story. I shook my head in disappointment, in utter disbelief that something I had lived - no - struggled, through was just a pay cheque for her.
"Mr Carter?" her prying voice instilled disgust in me. I guessed the readers would be the same. They didn't actually care, just wanted something to read, someone to pity whilst drinking afternoon tea, to make their own lives seem somewhat rosier. But I had to do it. I had to prove my point. I had to justify myself to the world, myself, the journalist, and her ...
I sighed and carried on;
"I stumbled out into the street, no idea what to do next. I ran my hands through my hair, clenching my fists around clumps of it, hoping it would help me think clearer. The cold wind raced down our street, in between houses and shaking up trees and grass. It's icy cold slap hit me square on, whipping my face and neck. My hands were clenched into tight fists. I was so cold that I wouldn't have been surprised if the tears escaping my eyes turned to icicles, freezing in their tracks instead of completing their journey down my face.. I could see my breath as I panted, exasperated. Desperate for clarity, I knew I had to take one of two options; I could go and face up to what I'd done and also face the consequences, or I could run ..I had no idea where I would run to."

I looked up at the journalist and paused as her phone rang. She really did seem to have absolutely no interest in me or my story, which showed when she answered her shiny pink mobile, flicked back her blonde hair and proceeded to chat to the anonymous person the other end of the line. I obviously made my impatience clear as after a while she made her excuses and hung up and gestured for me to carry on.

"I ran, but I ran back. I just couldn't go. I knew I had to see her again. Just one more tim. My desperation had made me weak but reckless. I sat on the bed and ran my hands through her soft, chesnut hair. My tears decided to spontaneously defrost and poured drom my red rimmed eyes. My sobs racked my body and I felt like they's never stop.
This, unfortunately gave me time to reflect, and think - torturous. I should have just run."

The journalist, whom I'd learned was called Lizzy, took a sip from her glass of water and gestured for me to stop for a moment as she gets it all down on her pad. She told me to carry on and recall exactly what had started all the misery that had lead to this moment - that she was earning from.

It all started with the argument ...
"You're being irrational!"
"No, I'm really not!"
"Well, I can't back out now, I've already said yes!"
"Don't even consider my feelings then! Hell, I'll just up and move, quit my job, move away from my family and friends!"
"Don't be childish, Jenny. It's a great opportunity for both of us!"
"Childish?!"
"Yes, lots of people re-locate to different countries, but I guess it's generally when they're both grown up, so maybe we should wait a while, huh?"
"PULL OVER! Stop the car. This conversation is over. Over."

And it was over, just like that. The screech of brakes, my screams, her screams, the crash of metal ...
I felt a jolt of pain in my left ankle, but apart from that and a couple of cuts and bruises, I had escaped unscathed.
"Jenny, Jenny, are you OK?" My voice was barely audible.
The reply I was anxious for did not come.
"Jenny?" I repeated, panic setting in.
I turned my head slowly and carefully to the right. She looked so pale, her eyes closed, and a substance that instilled a stab of fear in me trickled down her forehead.
I tried to get out, but it was impossible, we were trapped. I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted and took her hand.
"It'll be OK, Jen, they'll come soon."
I heard sirens and saw the flash of the blue lights that symbol help through the fog and a wave of relief washed over my tired body and I rested my head on my seat.
They got us out - me practically unharmed... Jenny on a stretcher."

The journalist hesitated and stopped writing. She looked up at me as if seeing me for the first time, newly found emotion in her eyes - I couldn't decipher whether this was pity or whether she understood me at last. It was a surreal moment, abruptly cut short by them, marching me out by handcuffs. I wasn't too fussed, it would carry on tomorrow, but then, I had another night to reflect.

She returned the next morning, a look more of kindness and understanding replacing the old one of care-free and uninterest in my case. I carried on ...

"I waited and waited in the white clinical room.
"Mr Carter?" I was called in to where she was lying. She looked so fragile and pale. My heart missed a beat, this couldn't be Jenny? My strong, independant, fiery Jenny? That woman, lying there unconscious and helpless? What had I done? I was about to find out.
"Your wife has suffered severe brain damage due to the impact of the crash, I'm very sorry ..."

The journalist hesitated again, and took another sip of water. I wondered what was going through her mind right then, which is ironic as this is what a nation of people are wondering about me.

They soon found out. Tears again haunted me as I read the article the following Monday. It read:

"Jonathon Carter, 31 years old, jailed for life."

The title:

"My name is Jonathon Carter, and I killed my wife ... twice."

Reality TV.

6.00am and Bob is making himself some cornflakes. 6.15am and Bob has successfully finished his cornflakes. 6.17am and Bob is sitting on the sofa staring into space, obviously exhausted from the cornflake eating, and picking at his feet. Riveting. Definately worth staying in for.

Monday, 12th August, and Amy had "exclusively" revealed (on national television) that she is not going to end things with John.
Well that's a relief, wasn't it? We were all so very worried for John.

Reality TV. From the sublime and ridiculous to the mundane everyday occurrences in peoples' lives - it's pretty much all broadcasted.
Whether we like it or not, we will be hearing, reading, seeing, talking about our favourite Cockney girl, Mandy's, new bunion. In fact that very bunion and its tragic tale will probably have enough air-time to fill an entire episode. Excellent! Oh c'mon .. would you rather watch Bob eat more cornflakes? Although it's been rumoured that tomorrow he's holding a bit of a revolution .. porridge! How exciting! Just think, we'll be able to be with him every oaty step of the way.

Okay, enough. You get the idea. You probably get the above storylines rubbed in your faces every single day. A classic example is that of the case of Peter and Jordan. A story to divide the nation. Never have we seen such loyalty to people we don't even know. Actually, scrap that - we probably do. Their obvious need for attention and their slender grasp on privacy, sanity or the concept of "dignified silence" has led to the entire population knowing far more about them and their everyday 'adventures' (riveting scenes of them both sleeping, eating) and their bodily functions come to think of it - than we'd ever have cared to have known.

Programmes like Katie & Peter, Katie & Peter do U.S.A (yes, really - their daily routine was riveting enough to go international!), Big Brother, X Factor and god knows what else - all take up too much of our TV schedules these days.
Personally, I am sick to death of watching idiots play up to cameras, then get bored of playing up to cameras, then just going about their mundane, tedious daily lives - still being filmed because apparently that is what is classed as entertainment. Oh. Dear. God.

Then we are told we are becoming mindless TV-watching machines with not a thought for culture or education - is it any wonder?! Put something on our TVs that is stimulating, interesting and entertaining! I'm not even talking about making every channel a carbon copy of the Discovery Channel or Animal Planet, i'm just suggesting something a little more productive. Instead of some bunch of idiots on a show, telling us they've got what it takes, then telling us about their single Mum of three with kidney failure, one leg, three fingers and no eyebrows, then winning the competition after millions of viewer's spending money on voting, and then we never hear about them or their unfortunate mother again. Something to make us think, question things and absorb knowledge.Rather than just learn the obviously ground-breaking knews that Bob made the decision to stop feeding his cereal habit and switch to toast. (Yes, really! You didn't hear? Shame on you!)

Get rid of pointless Reality TV, thank you very much. Or would you rather we carry on the descent into a society where all we have to talk about is Katie Price and Peter Andre's split? No wait, hang on ...

Age.

I have been thinking lately about the ridiculous age guidelines set by the government. How we are allowed to raise a child at 16, care for an ACTUAL human being, but not drink/purchase alcohol legally? Doesn't that sound stupid? We can bring into the world and nurture a child and have sole responsibility for said child, but not vote and have a say about who runs our country or drive a car?



So are the government saying that at 16 I am more than responsible enough to handle the pain of labour, the looking after, feeding, providing for and emotional drain of a child? I can cope with all that but I can't handle making a sound judgement on who I want running the country? I can cope with ensuring the child gets the best education it can, I can inspire and ensure said child has hopes, dreams and aspirations, and do everything in my power to ensure that this child reaches it's ambitions, but I am not responsible enough to drive a car or conduct myself responsibly around alcohol?



That makes a whole lot of sense.





Love a slighty miffed,

Poppy

x x x

Well.

I feel all uninspired. There are lots of things I could blog about, funny anecdotes about how my 'hilarious' mother had friends over at the weekend and how they got drunk and started a competition to see who could juggle for the longest amount of time *sigh* whilst I entertained our Spanish 'lodger' with the only decent thing on TV in the next room, having absolutely no excuse for the insanity of the household in which I live. I could also tell you about my day today, which has been eventful, how Tesco's have decided they may have a vacancy for me (joys!), how Dunnelm Mills has just this second (as I was typing) called me and asked if I am available for an interview on Saturday (actual joy, I love their candles, and furniture actually), how I was asked out by a co-worker of my Mum's for a 'coffee' after his shift tomorrow (not joy, I don't want to date him, he's very funny and nice, and i thought we'd be great friends, obviously not) and how I had to explain to four quite angry/confused Spanish 14-15 year olds that as the bus routes have changed, they would have to walk an extra two minutes to catch the bus home. Their reaction was a moody "Thanks much." Even though I had got up at 6 to make sure I had them there in time for college, so their gratitude was overwhelming, quite obviously.
I could tell you about how I got a phone call that made me kind of reflect and cry a bit. But I am glad I got that phone call, concerning something I have been wanting to fix, but haven't known how. I hope very much that it can be fixed now. I know the person who phoned me reads my blogs, and I very much hope that person is reading this one, and knows that you kind of made my day. I very much want to fix this.
Well. That was meant to be a brief update. Haha, but it's not so brief, so i'll take this opportunity to stop typing and rambling and go and do something productive.

much love from a very surreal and dazed feeling,
Poppy
x x x

ps. also reading a very good book. called the Memory Keeper's Daughter. it's about a doctor who when delivering his wife's twins, discovers one of them had Down's Syndrome and tells his wife that the baby has died, when he actually send her away with a nurse. It's very good.

Blossom.

you gain something with every risk you take.

this shall be a rule i will apply to my life as of now.

x

ps. this is not MY arm, or tattoo.

Who's Baby?

Haha. The joys of a seven year old sister.


Me: ooooh, she's pregnant! Who's baby is it? (watching Eastenders, haven't watched in awhile)
Rosie: Er, it's her's. Stupid. (muttered under breath)

:L


x

Old & Senile.

i saw this and it reminded me that for the next week i shall be spending all my time with my relatives.
half of which deserved to be sectioned.


One of these relatives is my Great Uncle who everyone calls "Uncle Diz" or "Dizzy". And no one knows where this originated from, as his real name is Harry.
One of Uncle Diz's many hobbies is chasing any relative he can find around with his false teeth. He even chased my Mum on holiday once, false teeth in his hands.
It's all very quaint.
Wish me luck.
I'll be needing it, luck . . and a bone or something for Uncle Diz . . .

x



EDIT: actually his name is Henry? wtf. the over-use of ridiculous nicknames has some serious long term affects.. i wonder if even he remembers his name.