Lost Apostrophe – the Diary of a Writing Group
by Rosalie Warren
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE ELEVEN: February 2015 – Becca
Swearwords: None.
Description: EPISODE ELEVEN: February 2015 – Becca
No. Can’t write, not after…
Must write. Must make myself do it. If I don’t write, there’s nothing left of me. Nothing real, only the me he sees, the ugly horrible stupid me.
Tonight was awful – the writing group. I hate going anywhere with Sam. The way everyone looks at him, all full of admiration when he speaks. Or even when he doesn’t speak. They all think he’s wonderful.
Perhaps he is. Perhaps it’s me who’s got him wrong. Maybe anyone would hate living with me.
And then afterwards, at home, when I tried to tell him, when he asked me why I was so quiet. His scathing voice. He hates me, I can tell. He regrets ever marrying me. Of course he does, who wouldn’t?
I caught sight of myself in the mirror, coming in. You wouldn’t believe – anyone who’d never seen me wouldn’t believe… Yet when I look at old photos, I look OK. Why? What’s changed? It’s like the mirror is coated in something that reflects back his view of me. A Sam coating. No, that’s crazy. Why do I think such stupid things? The fact is, I’ve always had this face, these eyes, this repulsive nose, this horrible sticking-out stomach. Not always, of course. But since I reached my teens. I suppose my friends tried to warn me, but in those days I had a silly kind of confidence – I thought I was OK. Not beautiful like Elise, but OK. At least as OK as Sara and Jenna. And better than Clare. No, I shouldn’t think that, it’s wrong to think like that. Clare can’t help her scars. But somehow, alongside those girls I felt all right. Acceptable. Long before I met Sam.
Uni was hard at first. Really badly homesick from the start. Could hardly speak to anyone. Made no friends in my first two terms. It was Sam, I have to say, who helped me out of that. Taking an interest in me in the science lab. Weird, I thought, at the time. Then I thought he was just a really nice guy. Friendly and kind. Made me laugh. Those lovely eyes (used-to-be lovely eyes). When he used to look at me like he cared.
And then… God, I’ll never forget, when he asked me out. Couldn’t believe my luck. Gorgeous Sam, interested in me.
Of course, it was too good to be true, as it turned out. But why? Why did he pretend? Or was he truly taken in? Did he really think, for a while, I was OK? Did he really, truly, fancy me?
I actually thought, those weeks, those months of seeing Sam, that I was OK. He made me think I was. Told me I made him laugh, that I had hidden depths, there was lots more to me than most people saw.
I’ve just read this back. It’s written like a ten-year-old. I’ve regressed to a stupid little girl. Which is what he often says I am, of course.
Stand up to him, Becca. Argue back. I tell myself this, when he’s not here. And, just occasionally, I try.
But oh God, when I do. That coldness. Those sulks. The refusal to speak to me for days.
Maybe if I had friends, it wouldn’t matter so much. Other people to talk to.
I tried with Katy in the shop the other day. Tried… what? Not sure. To say something? But it didn’t come out right and poor Katy, of course she wasn’t really listening… too many troubles of her own. I should be asking about her, not moaning about myself. Bet if I’d been Sam I’d have been all warm and friendly and she’d have been crying on his shoulder, so grateful.
But I can’t do that, because I’m not warm. I’m not nice, I’m not kind. I’m a self-centred brat, full up of jealousy. If you cut me, I bleed green bile. Really, I’d be better off dead. But I go on, just living my life as best I can, because I can’t do anything else.
Mum loves Sam. Dad thinks he’s OK. My friends think he’s a catch, or they did, before we lost touch. They don’t know what he sees in me. No one does.
Thank God that baby was never a baby at all.
Must write. Must make myself do it. If I don’t write, there’s nothing left of me. Nothing real, only the me he sees, the ugly horrible stupid me.
Tonight was awful – the writing group. I hate going anywhere with Sam. The way everyone looks at him, all full of admiration when he speaks. Or even when he doesn’t speak. They all think he’s wonderful.
Perhaps he is. Perhaps it’s me who’s got him wrong. Maybe anyone would hate living with me.
And then afterwards, at home, when I tried to tell him, when he asked me why I was so quiet. His scathing voice. He hates me, I can tell. He regrets ever marrying me. Of course he does, who wouldn’t?
I caught sight of myself in the mirror, coming in. You wouldn’t believe – anyone who’d never seen me wouldn’t believe… Yet when I look at old photos, I look OK. Why? What’s changed? It’s like the mirror is coated in something that reflects back his view of me. A Sam coating. No, that’s crazy. Why do I think such stupid things? The fact is, I’ve always had this face, these eyes, this repulsive nose, this horrible sticking-out stomach. Not always, of course. But since I reached my teens. I suppose my friends tried to warn me, but in those days I had a silly kind of confidence – I thought I was OK. Not beautiful like Elise, but OK. At least as OK as Sara and Jenna. And better than Clare. No, I shouldn’t think that, it’s wrong to think like that. Clare can’t help her scars. But somehow, alongside those girls I felt all right. Acceptable. Long before I met Sam.
Uni was hard at first. Really badly homesick from the start. Could hardly speak to anyone. Made no friends in my first two terms. It was Sam, I have to say, who helped me out of that. Taking an interest in me in the science lab. Weird, I thought, at the time. Then I thought he was just a really nice guy. Friendly and kind. Made me laugh. Those lovely eyes (used-to-be lovely eyes). When he used to look at me like he cared.
And then… God, I’ll never forget, when he asked me out. Couldn’t believe my luck. Gorgeous Sam, interested in me.
Of course, it was too good to be true, as it turned out. But why? Why did he pretend? Or was he truly taken in? Did he really think, for a while, I was OK? Did he really, truly, fancy me?
I actually thought, those weeks, those months of seeing Sam, that I was OK. He made me think I was. Told me I made him laugh, that I had hidden depths, there was lots more to me than most people saw.
I’ve just read this back. It’s written like a ten-year-old. I’ve regressed to a stupid little girl. Which is what he often says I am, of course.
Stand up to him, Becca. Argue back. I tell myself this, when he’s not here. And, just occasionally, I try.
But oh God, when I do. That coldness. Those sulks. The refusal to speak to me for days.
Maybe if I had friends, it wouldn’t matter so much. Other people to talk to.
I tried with Katy in the shop the other day. Tried… what? Not sure. To say something? But it didn’t come out right and poor Katy, of course she wasn’t really listening… too many troubles of her own. I should be asking about her, not moaning about myself. Bet if I’d been Sam I’d have been all warm and friendly and she’d have been crying on his shoulder, so grateful.
But I can’t do that, because I’m not warm. I’m not nice, I’m not kind. I’m a self-centred brat, full up of jealousy. If you cut me, I bleed green bile. Really, I’d be better off dead. But I go on, just living my life as best I can, because I can’t do anything else.
Mum loves Sam. Dad thinks he’s OK. My friends think he’s a catch, or they did, before we lost touch. They don’t know what he sees in me. No one does.
Thank God that baby was never a baby at all.
About the Author
Rosalie Warren was once a university lecturer, specialising in Artificial Intelligence and Natural Language Processing. But her earliest love was books and stories, and since taking early retirement ten years ago she has been following her dream of writing and publishing. For details of her publications for adults and children, including science fiction and romantic suspense, see http://srg521.wix.com/mybooks and https://www.facebook.com/RosalieWarrenAuthor/
Rosalie has been an exile from Scotland for the past fourteen years, but still has many happy memories of the wonderful city of Edinburgh, where her children were born and raised, and of the equally amazing Dundee, where she worked for a further three years. Going back even further, she was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and regularly returns there to visit a seaside place not so very different from the town of Castlehaven in her serial.
Rosalie is also a qualified proofreader and editor and (under the name Sheila Glasbey) her editing services can be found at http://www.affordable-editing.com/
Rosalie has been an exile from Scotland for the past fourteen years, but still has many happy memories of the wonderful city of Edinburgh, where her children were born and raised, and of the equally amazing Dundee, where she worked for a further three years. Going back even further, she was born and brought up in Yorkshire, and regularly returns there to visit a seaside place not so very different from the town of Castlehaven in her serial.
Rosalie is also a qualified proofreader and editor and (under the name Sheila Glasbey) her editing services can be found at http://www.affordable-editing.com/