Katherine's Scrawlings.

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 21:54:18 GMT

Lol I was planning what I was going to write (Yes, I'm that sad lol) and I thought they sound like excuses, so I'll just name it that.

I've found myself changing recently. I'm turning more the stereotypical teen girl, which has sort of come really suddenly. I never used to truly fit in, always used to be different with my tastes and stuff. I still am, really, but I'm more popular.

That sounded vain, and sounds like it's something I've been aiming for, but it isn't. It's cool I guess, but because I seem to have 'changed' I've been spending more time on things like MSN, Facebook and stuff.
So anyway, this 'changing' process has meant I've completely abandoned other stuff. Mainly the AA, and LiveJournal :P

I haven't been on the AA (any AA) for about 4 months, if more, and no doubt I'll have lots of catching up to do with how much goes on, lol.
New people to meet, new stories to read ... yeah.
I hopefully will be on these sites more during this week. But yeah, that's my excuse. Lol :P

Life in General ...

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 20:09:41 GMT

This is truly a pointless entry, but y'know. that's me.

Life at the moment ... could be depressing, if you look at it from different angles. Sometimes, during those mood swing things, I feel like the world's collapsing around me, I'm stuck in a crap school with no whisper of me ever getting the job, man, LIFE I want, feeling completely alone despite my gang of wonderful friends.

I don't know how my mother did it, went out and met the perfect man for her and he loved HER. I turn on a completely false identity when faced with *dun dun duuuun* boys, and I really don't know if I could ever be myself in front of a guy.

By ALONE, I suppose I mean my friends don't understand me. What I like, how I spend my time, etc. Is it possible for you ever to be truly understood, or is that something only God can do? I guess everyone's mental in some shape or form.
The really bad thing that happens is when I get depressed over life, thinking 'when am I going to getout of this routine? Life a little?'
I know I should be content with my life, and most of the time I am. But I do get sparks of doubt, doubt about myself, my abilities, religion, everything. The world's in a state really, where you can doubt everything. It's pretty scary when you take a step back and observe it.

ANOTHER annoying thing is when people underestimate you. Surely if you don't know someone well, you shouldn't underestimate them? Age is a major concept in this, probably. 'I am a minor, I do not understand "these things", I can not acheive my wild dreams'. You get the idea. That really has nothing to do with life, just a point I thought I'd make.

and after that I shall return to my corner and eat M&m's.

The Status Quo of life.

Sun, 07 Dec 2008 17:52:08 GMT

Everywhere you go in life, there's a status quo. And some are pointless and tend to rule some peoples lives.

An obvious example of this is school, especially comprehensive school, and it can rule peoples lives. It once ruled mine. It was a big change for me, with hardly any 'populars' at primary school, then a load of them in secondary school. What led me to write about this was reading from an old diary *yes, I was a typical diary writer* and I got all excited because popular people had talked to me, or laughed at a line I'd said, and I'd even fallen out with a friend because she was a nerd.

Yeah, I seemed a real B*tch. But when I realised (in year 9ish) that populars were real prat's that weren't worth bothering to impress, only living for bebo, boys, sex (yes, sex!) and picking on the nerds, I started actually being me. And I found out I was more popular then then when I was trying to be.

Hell, I'm still a real nerd! Anyone could tell you, but I'm accepted as a nerd.

And I'm sure you get judged and measured at work, on websites, school, and basically everywhere. But unless they really know you, who cares?

Better Sooner Than Later

Thu, 04 Dec 2008 18:15:02 GMT

I did this story for some English coursework. It's a short story, set in the 1900's, America. I thought I'd share. :)

Better Sooner than Later

Why does he always do this to me? Margaret Millerton asked herself, with both impatience and pride. ‘He’ was the first person to give her a glimpse of maturity in all her 17 years. Why does he always tell me to meet him at the busiest times of my day, just because it’s convenient for him? She went on asking herself.

A few hours earlier, a maid had led Margaret to the telephone in the foyer. She swallowed her annoyance at the interrupting call, and raised the piece to her ear.

“Margaret Millerton here.”
“Maggie, it’s me!”
“Jeremy!” The young woman cried with delight, and then warily looked around. “How did you get to a telephone?”
“Sweetie, its 1908 New York. How did I NOT get to a phone is the question. Look, Mag, I need to see you. The usual place, at about at 6?”
“Ermmm ... Yes, OK.”
“OK then Maggie, see you then!” The telephone engulfed the sounds of street life, and Margaret was left with the silence.

Margaret’s clanking heels were covered with the sound of millions of others. Though it was 5:30 in the evening, roads were crammed with the newest models of motor cars, the traditional horse drawn cabs, and the New Yorkers that flooded across the road when the rare gap appeared. Before the amount of life on the street became suffocating, she turned down an alley which was virtually empty except for the tabby cats.

The familiar feeling of discomfort came over her, and she hurried her pace, weaving in between garbage cans and remains of meals. She was running when she came out into sixth street, facing Silvirweiss cafe that men and women in every class gathered in to argue, laugh and complain. Margaret scanned the various characters, and not spotting Jeremy, looked down the neighbouring alley.

Shadows played on the wall; curiosity made her freeze, as she watched their hosts appear. Jeremy was a rugged yet handsome man, with brown eyes, harbouring a spark that was often mistaken for either intelligence or kindness, both traits he did not have. But his companion would call it greed. His companion was a man in his mid thirties, in a cheap but presentable suit. He stroked his moustache, as he scrutinized Jeremy.

“You’re lying.” The man concluded. Jeremy’s hands dug deep into the pockets of his suit, most likely from the same shop as his friend. His face remained impassive.
“C’mon Abraham.”
“No, Jerry! Get me my money!”
“Ok, listen. I can give $5 to you a week.”
“You earn more.” Abraham ejaculated.
“I need to keep myself fed and clothed, Abraham.” Jeremy laughed, no doubt a dangerous action. Abraham threw himself at him, pinning his arms to the wall.

“$40. Tomorrow.”
“No can do.” Jeremy sang, not a note trembling.
“Jeremy!”
“No, seriously.” He leant his head towards Abraham. “I can’t pay dead men.”

A knife plunged into the man’s shoulder, and Jeremy landed neatly on his feet as his captor released him. His blank expression didn’t waver as Abraham fell to his knees, incapable of even cursing his murderer. Jeremy smartly pulled the knife from the dying man, observed the man writhing in agony for a few more seconds, then went in the direction of Margaret. When his eyes met her innocent green ones, finally the passive face flickered into life. Fear and guilt twisted his attractive features.

“Margaret.” She took a shaking breath, and backed out of the alley. He pounced at her, and held her hands tight. His grip was more than a passionate outbreak.

“You ... k-killed him!” She stuttered, struggling against her lover. He held her closer, and looked into her face. Her perfect face looked up to him, trying to find the mysterious Jeremy she had just witnessed. Magnificent blonde curls cascaded down her back, and thick almost black eyelashes framed her eyes. Jeremy had been told that a woman’s eyes were the window to her soul. He had never understood his romantic father, until that second. Her once naive eyes had been poisoned with the remorse and guilt of his.

“You won’t tell anyone, right?”
“What?” She gasped in disbelief, “You aren’t going to DO anything? You’ve just ...”
“I know, I’m just righting a few wrongs in my life before ...”
“Before what?” She demanded.
“Before we start our own life, as Mr and Mrs Black.” he finished tentatively. Margaret was speechless. Jeremy smiled, and unwound his fingers from behind her shoulders.

“Just promise, you won’t tell anyone.”
“Promise.” she reluctantly answered, almost out of habit of robotically obeying Jeremy.
“Good.” He kissed her boldly, then released her and made his way to his middle class apartment.

Margaret took a sip of tea, and resumed her anxious pacing. Her hair was unruly and uncombed, and her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. The latter prompted her to collapse into her chair, and envelope herself in a guilty silence. She almost fell off her chair when a maid appeared, a trusty duster in her worn hands.

“Telephone for you, miss.” She squeaked, and shooing the woman away from her, she went to the telephone

“Hello?”
“They’ve found the body, Maggie. Keep quiet.”

He hung up. Margaret placed the phone into its cradle, and sank to her knees, tears pouring down her face. With every gasp, her body racked with emotion. She couldn’t do this. Her conscious wouldn’t allow her. She struggled through the small yet intimidating queue to the lift.

She tumbled out the lift, into the foyer, and elbowed her way through the crowd of business men making their way to work that day. She blinked, letting in the first rays of 9 o’clock sunshine for 24 hours. Pain shot through her head, but still Margaret ran across the path of the legendary angry drivers of New York, and with her last ounce of consciousness, threw herself through the spinning doors of fifth street’s police station.

“Hey, Miss!” The policeman at the desk exclaimed, and deftly leapt over the desk, and helped Margaret to a chair. A young constable dropped a file, and ran back with a glass of water, dripping off his thin fingers.

“Who the hell ...”
“I don’t know Jed. She just came running through into here, like she was dying or something.”
‘I am, on the inside, I’m dying with guilt!’ Margaret screamed inside her head, thoughts clouding her head like a swarm of bees. After a gulp of water, the cold liquid soothed her buzzing head, and allowed her to concentrate. ‘What am I doing here? Of course I’m not going to tell them. We’re going to get married ...’

“How can we help you, Miss?” The policeman asked gently.
“The man ... Abraham ... the dead man ...” A look of shock and surprise fluttered over their faces, as well as hers as she voluntarily produced the statement.
“Yes ...”
“I know who killed him ...” The bees engulfed her thoughts, her head pounding with unnatural intensity. She loved him! She couldn’t ... she wouldn’t!

“Who? Who Miss? She’s going Jed, she’ll forget!”
Only one name circled her head. She felt sleep seep into her body, and opened her perfect lips as she whispered it, before her relentless love would close them again.
“Jeremy Black, sir. My Jeremy Black.” With that, she slumped into unconsciousness, her torture ended.

Margaret looked out of the window of her new suite, sighed, and went back to unpacking. 3 days since she had betrayed the love of her life. A new torture had made itself welcome.

Unable to stay in New York, Miss Millerton had fled to Philadelphia, inventing the excuse of visiting a friend of hers. A dark veil, spotted with stars, covered her small world. The rest of Philadelphia was preparing for bed, but Margaret couldn’t even think of sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, an image of Jeremy would form, before her brain could shut them away.

A knock on her door brought her to reality. She abandoned her trunk, and opened the door.
She blinked. Then again, just to make sure.
Jeremy.

“Oh my goodness ...”
“Hello Maggie.” As always, not a hair was out of a place, a speck of dust on his suit.

Margaret hurriedly slammed the door, but Jeremy stuck his foot in the way, and it sprung back, catching her on the arm. She let out a yelp, and Jeremy’s eyes turned darker.

“Oh, my darling, I’m sorry! What shall we do? Not tell anyone? Or go running to the cops?”
She slapped him, and leapt towards the door, but he gripped her waist, and threw her with ease against the wall. A crack when her shoulder struck the wall. As she stabled herself, her arm remained limp at her side. Jeremy gripped her wrists, and pinned them against the wall. Wincing, Margaret shrunk away from him, but he shoved his face in hers.

“Well here’s an easier way for me to deal with my life, which you ruined.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a knife, and pressed it onto her neck.

“I think it’s necessary for me to say a few a words at this moment. We’ll start with the fact that I don’t love you.” As well as a stab of pain in her heart, the knife punctured her pale flawless skin. Beads of blood poured down her neck.
“Never have, never will. I suppose you’d call me a ‘gold digger’. Yes, don’t look so shocked, I wanted to marry you for your money. No doubt this would have happened to you sooner or later.” Jeremy put pressure onto the knife, strangling her whilst cutting her.
“Better sooner, I say.” He took away the knife. She took a relieved gasp of air, but then took another sharp intake of breath as Jeremy prepared his final strike into her chest.

“Better sooner than later.” Jeremy toyed with the knife, flicking it so specks of blood landed on her face. “Isn’t that how you rich cows say it?”

Margaret screamed, and squeezed her eyes shut. A few seconds passed, and she tentatively squinted at Jeremy. His face was frozen with shock, and he looked like he was debating whether to kill her, or run. She soon found out why.

Police sirens wailed outside the hotel, and voices drifted up to the ninth floor.
“Jeremy Black, the hotel is surrounded. Put down your weapons, or we will be forced to shoot you.”

He hesitated only the smallest amount of time, before he thrust the knife at Margaret’s chest, but she struggled out of the path of the weapon, screaming as it plunged into the wall millimetres from her body. As the scream left her mouth, a shower of inaccurate bullets rained down on Jeremy, but accurate enough to wound his heart and certainly kill him. Blood began to seep through the pristine shirt. He fell to his knees.

“Maggie ...” Jeremy laughed. “What are your last words then, sweetie?” A sinister smile was on his face.

“Better sooner than later Jeremy.”

Emilia Rochester

Thu, 04 Dec 2008 18:10:33 GMT

Days passed, the house growing less homely and more formal as the week grew older. Emilia’s foster father had kept himself to his bed chambers, only to be attended to by Nancy and Maria.

Maria herself was no doubt falling apart. She had dutifully stepped into her mother’s shoes, and tried to take control of the situation as best she could. But, unlike her mother, she had only 16 years of experience in life itself, only the last 6 of them years used helping the family run smoothly.

Emilia caught her one day about a week later, when Maria was sat on her mother’s sofa in her Mother’s sitting room, reading her mother’s bible. She looked up and smiled at Emilia when she saw her come in.

“Maria, I want to help you and your family.” Emilia began,
“You are family. Closer than blood related sisters we are.” Maria argued, sensing the fight in Emilia’s voice rise.
“But we are NOT blood related. You but showed pity on me. I am twelve years old, and have never met my Mother! Do you not think such matters burden me? Every day, they grow with intensity. Now your family is in troubled waters, and this is the only way I can repay your kindness ...”
“We do not want to be repaid! We have felt nothing but love and friendship with you, whatever your past or predicament. Whatever way you want to repay us, you can dismiss it.”

“But I don’t want to dismiss it! I am just another mouth to feed, another daughter to marry off, another nonsense filled child! I want to go Maria. I want to go find my mother.” An awkward silence followed, where Maria examined Emilia’s determined face.

“What if your mother is not alive? Another burden to bear? Another reason to cry yourself to sleep?” Maria finally asked voice hardly above a whisper. Was she cowering from Emilia’s presence, or was that just how she was sat?
“Another burden rid of. If I have no mother, or she is not interested in recovering me, I would dutifully return to the Linton family.”
Maria sighed. A moments consideration.
“Maybe.” She finally concluded, curling herself back into the crevices of the sofa with the book on her lap.

“Thank you.”

* * *

Elizabeth straightened Branwell’s jacket, and tied Anne’s bonnet. Emilia got in her place behind Charlotte’s place in the procession, and sombrely marched to the church, where Maria Linton’s coffin lay ready for burial. The Linton family dressed in dark colours was a rare event, and the happening of the latter only increased the importance of the event.

The whole of the thriving town seemed to gather at the small chapel as the coffin made its way to the table laid out. Maria Linton’s kind actions didn’t go unnoticed.

The family gathered into a pew at the front, sobs already exploding from all around as the priest opened the service. Emilia sat, her heart feeling numb. What was going to happen to her?

“ And now, we come to our prayers for Maria Linton.” The Priest’s raspy voice reverberated off the wooden pews.

Would she even be allowed to visit her mother?

“Lord, we pray that thy caring hand will settle on the people who have gathered here today, to witness the safe deliverance of your daughter to thy kingdom ...”

What had her mother been like? Why had she left her with the orphanage?

“... Those left behind on earth are left with more burden than those in your heavenly presence ...”
Who was her mother? Rich, or poor? Young, or old? Gentle, or harsh?
“ ... In thy name, Amen.”

Emilia jumped when the thick dusty bible was slammed shut, and the priest looked her over in disapproval. The coffin was lifted and taken outside into the church yard, where a grave was readily dug out, and Maria Linton was lowered into the abyss below, never to be seen again for as long as they all should live.

* * *

Emilia tapped on the mahogany door. A tinkle of crystal and china as it was moved, and rustled as the evening paper was swiftly thrown under the chair.

“Come in.” Emilia pushed the huge door, and managed to close it, as she stood opposite Patrick.

“Ah, good evening Emilia.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“Is there something I can assist you with? Perhaps you feel ill after today’s events?”
“No sir, I am quite well, thank you. I have come to ask your permission for something.”
“Ah! Well you’d better sit down and ask me then.”
Emilia did so, putting her words into a suitable order.

“Things are ... certainly not easy, after the ... ermm ... passing, of Mrs Linton. I am hoping with this proposal I can help you out.” Patrick leaned back, entwining his fingers on his stomach.
“Go on.”

“Sir, if you let me find my mother, not only will you have another child to spend money on, some responsibility is lifted from your shoulders ...”
A sigh. “Emilia. Maria has already approached me on the subject. I must force myself to not allow you permission.”

“... I am 12, and have never seen my mother, sir! If you can’t appreciate anything else, at least appreciate that!”
“That does not mean you can leave us. I do acknowledge that, but it’s better for everyone if you stay away from this temptation.”
“So now I have no right to see my mother?” The young girl felt the anger well up. Patrick stood up before she could let it out.
“Emilia. Your beloved mother left you on a charity school’s doorstep, with £50 for you to live on! She left but her name and the memory of her face, if you think you can find her from that, then you belong in the realms of insanity! My girl, she may be long dead, or she may be the richest woman in England. Either way, she does not belong in your life!”

They lapsed into silence. Emilia blinked.
“I am not your girl.” She stood slowly, and turned to the mahogany door. A sigh escaped from Patrick.
“Emilia, I am sorry. Let us sit and talk civilly.”
“No, sir. I understand this was not the best time for the proposal. I’m sorry.” Emilia curtsied and exited the room. Patrick Linton seated himself, poured some whiskey into a tumbler, and took a few hesitant sips.

“Whoever that girl’s mother is,” he said to himself between sips, “I’m sure I would like to meet her.” He resumed reading his newspaper.
"What a woman she would be."

* * *

Emilia Rochester

Fri, 14 Nov 2008 18:23:44 GMT

The girl’s eyes snapped open.
The nightmares and visions dissolved almost immediately after she touched consciousness. Emilia sat up in bed. Her five foster sisters in the bed surrounding her peacefully remained in undisturbed slumber. How perfect people look when they sleep, she mused. She settled back into her nest of covers, whilst looking into the serene face of her youngest sister , Anne.

Her unblemished face consisted of the usual 6 year olds features. Round, chubby face, blonde curls falling about her heart shaped face. Her small chest rose and deflated deeply, free of the baggage that seemed to accumulate when you began to question your existence and situation. The girl’s own baggage was too much for a 12 year old orphan.

The first ray of sunlight lit up Anne’s face, as the pink fingers of dawn reached to touch the isolated house on top of the hill in Derbyshire. Reluctantly, she got up.

***

The girl slowly brought the spoon of porridge to her mouth, thoughtfully tracing her finger around her glass of water. She seemed to be enveloped in her own solitude as her six foster siblings loudly proclaimed their every thought and wish.

Not that the Linton children were self indulged. They were the most selfless siblings you could wish to meet. They just adapted the tell tale habits of self indulged children.

“Elbows off the table please.” Maria, the eldest of the Linton children at 16, scalded. The orphan jolted upright, and removed her elbows. She glanced up at Maria’s ever stiff grave face, and when she caught the young girl’s slightly rebellious glance, and her smile softened her handsome features.

Branwell, the only son of Patrick Linton, looked up at his father who was intently scanning the local newspaper for any news of road congestion. It wasn’t uncommon with only two roads leading to the thriving town that their house lay near to.
“When is Mama coming back?” he demanded. Without glancing from his paper, Patrick mumbled: “Soon.” Branwell sulkily crossed his arms, under the icy glance of Maria. She sighed, tired of dealing with the eight year old as of late.

“Branwell, Mother will be home soon. You’ve just got to be patient.”
“You said that yesterday! I have been patient! She was meant to be back three days ago!”
“Well you’ve got to be patient for a bit longer. Mother won’t want to return to a whining son now, will she?”
The doorbell rang seconds later, and a burst of relief appeared on Maria’s face.
“There, see. I told you.”
The family turned expectantly to the door, and Nancy entered, bobbed a curtsy, and took a letter to Mr Linton at the head of the table.

“Thank you, Nancy. My wife wasn’t at the door just now, was she?”
“No sir. That was the boy who brought the letter.”
“But I received my letters for today an hour ago ...”
“This is an urgent letter, so he said, sir.”
“Oh. Well thank you, Nancy.”

The portly woman bobbed another curtsy, her warm features still smiling and twinkling when her face was serious and straight. Patrick slit open the envelope, as the children settled back down to their breakfast.

Suddenly, there was a clatter as pots and cutlery hit the breakfast room floor. Elizabeth, the second eldest, set to work tidying the spilt porridge, whilst Maria gripped her father’s elbow.
“Father, what’s wrong? What does it say?!”

Patrick, with trembling hands, passed the sheet of paper into Maria’s steady ones. Maria read out loud the letter, beginning confidently.

“My dear brother Patrick,

I would like to inform of you of a grave matter that has been laid on our doorsteps, as is the will of God. On the 6^th of August, at around 6 o’clock in the morning, your dear wife Maria Linton ...”
Maria paused, and re-read the next passage. The fostered girl read the despair in her desperate eyes as she searched for the window to escape from the bad news. There was none.
“...passed in her sleep to join our creator in heaven. She did so peacefully, with no pain or suffering, and now sings in the choir stalls with angels (as I have no doubt, she will be an angel as she was here on at her temporary place on Earth). I can not express in words how it burdens me to tell you this.”

Maria took a breath, unable to continue due to the tears cascading down her cheeks. Anne, Branwell and Emily (the three youngest) wailed into their elder sisters arms, the only comfort they could provide as their wet faces shook in disbelief. Charlotte looked up from Anne’s head when Maria stopped.

“Go on. Please.” She begged.
“But as the duty falls on myself, I shall take the duty at hand and dedicate myself to it. I truly have never felt such a loss. She was a great sister, wife and mother. You may expect me within the next week. My prayers are with you all.

Your loving sister in law, Eleanor.”

The table seemed to lapse into silence, though the children never ceased their crying. Stillness reigned in the orphan for a few minutes, until she got up and fled from the house.

She ran down the hill, ignoring the sky as it darkened. Raindrops fell onto her young face, and dampened her thick black curls as she continued down the hill. She didn’t stop.

Mud ran up the side of her dress as she skipped lightly over the stile. The whole world seemed to be feeling her mood and portraying the millions of colours in her mind. Clouds thickened, as the rain strengthened. Her pace did not falter. She should of felt tired by now, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. The same thoughts echoed inside her young troubled mind. My mother is dead. My mother is dead.

As realisation dawned, the girl stopped and thought again.
My foster mother is dead. But my real mother is still alive.
I have no Linton blood in me. My name is not Linton.

My name is Emilia Rochester.

First post ...

Thu, 13 Nov 2008 21:02:50 GMT

First post, so I just thought I'd give a little note.

I'm tackling the techy side of LJ as best I can (not such a techy person if you've guessed ...)
And also, I'm hoping to put up the start to a small story I'm writing. Formerly named Jane Eyre's daughter, but the names taken, so I'm sticking with Emilia Rochester. A clue in the name really. A little daydream I invented afer watching Jane Eyre 2006.

So yeah. Thanks for reading! :)