Status: Currently editing to make a better story. =]
Ghosts Never Sleep: The Diary of Alice Barrows
April 19th 1962
APRIL 19TH 1962. CLOUDY.
Dear Anne,
Sometimes I believe you are my only true friend, even though I haven't wrote in you as much as I would have liked. I'm sorry for that. So much has been happening recently. Miriam hardly says a word to me anymore; she hangs around Valerie most of the time now. That's really upsetting...oh who am I kidding...it's depressing as hell because she's been my best friend for so long now. We went to the same primary and middle schools and now here at Ashgrove. My parents and her parents get on rather well and they often go to restaurants and to those god-awful cheese-and-wine parties. When it's the holidays, Miriam and I often accompany them, like an afterthought. They even have twin villas in Portugal. I hate it there, so much sunshine and other damn language to contend with. Mother's fluent and even Papa can say some phrases whereas I only know three things: "Hello", "Goodbye" and "Yes." I still haven't got my head around saying "no" which is bad, as you can tell. I wonder what I'll do this summer. The scent of summer is lingering all around the Yorkshire dales and it's making everyone crazy with spring fever. That's why I think she's flounced off with Val.
Well, it's actually more than just a plutonic relationship between them. I'm not wrong, they never leave each other's side. At first I thought it was just my imagination being very hormonal and perverted but I have evidence. Promise not to tell? Wait you're a diary, who the hell are you going to tell? That'd be interesting of you did tell someone. Anyway, I digress. I felt faint on Sunday and went for a lie-down and I found them looking hot and flustered. I didn't say a word and I slumped on my bed. I don't particularly give a good goddamn if they want to love each other and all that...I just want my best friend back. Maybe that's selfish. It is selfish. I don't care to be honest. I need advice about him, Professor Tennant.
Well, it's actually Professor J. Tennant. I found that out by giving a casual glance at a letter on his desk during one of my special French lessons. I think I'm getting better at French. See?
Je m'appelle Alice. J'habite a York en Angle-terre. Je suis grande et mince et je pense que j'aime mon anglais Professeur. Mon Dieu...
Whenever he speaks, my mind not only listens but also cherishes every letter of every word. It sounds prissy but I am just being honest, I suppose. I wish I could get him to teach me everything, it'd make me a true "Star Pupil".
I keep dreaming about him too, small cameo roles in the usual dreams of mine: Winning Wimbledon, being a film star, being the next Clara Ward or whatever. Every goddamn time, he's there, waiting for the winning slam, movie or song and he runs up and kisses me. I sometimes wake up with my lips still tingling pleasantly. God, I sound like a nut. I would actually dread actually kissing him, though. I've never had so much as a date, let alone a boyfriend.
Diane's had dozens of boyfriends. She sometimes slips out at the weekend to meet up with one of the village boys. Miriam used to say that Diane was a lousy harlot but I don't seem quite sure. She's had experience with it all; crushes, infatuations, romances, affairs, love, lust and the physical side of things. It's rumoured that she's lost her virginity but it just seems to be utter rubbish. Diane may be a fool for love but she's not thick. She knows that if she got pregnant at sixteen, her family would murder her. Although, she could have a backstreet termination. It always makes me sick whenever I think about it. The whole affair seemed dirty but not in a moral sense. The risk seemed too great that you might as well top yourself to get rid of it. I don't think I could ever go through with it, myself. I don't think I could just lie there while someone came at me with some dirty instrument. How many had they performed before coming to me? Ten? Five? None?
Charlotte won't shut up about babies. As if she's ever pull a guy to get pregnant with. That was uncalled for - especially coming from me, Jesus - but sadly true. Guys go for the Dianes of this world, not the Charlottes (and as it's looking, nor do they like the Alices). I tried to make Charlotte my friend so I could get help from her. She was busy reading 'Wuthering Heights' by Emily Bronte. That's another thing, if she's so clever and intelligent, why does she want babies? She could be the next Marie Curie if she put her mind to it but she'd rather reproduce. How stupid. Perhaps she isn't so clever then, wasting her mind of booties and bonnets when she could be focussed on particles and fusion. Anyway, I sat on her bunk and gave her a grin. She glanced up nervously and slid a bookmark into the dog-eared pages.
"Hey Charlotte, how are you?" I said jovially, as if Professor (J.) Tennant had taken over my personality as well as my imagination. She gave me a small, awkward smile.
"I'm splendid. Just been thumbing through "Wuthering Heights" again. I can't get enough of that Heathcliff fellow. He's terribly enigmatic and so sullen. How about you?" she muttered, widening her eyes every so often.
"I'm alright, mustn't grumble. Except..." I trailed off, wondering how to continue with my next sentence. "Except, I think I have a crush on...someone." Her eyes widened further, her eyes seeming ready to plop out of their sockets.
"Ooh! Who is it?" she asked, her voice aching for scandal.
"It's...just...someone. But the thing is, how can you tell you are in love with someone?" She sighed a little at this, deep in thought.
"You can't stop thinking about them, even in a negative way. You dream about them. Your heart explodes everytime you brush against them. Why?" She looked genuinely concerned. She lowered her voice significantly, even though we were alone. "Is it that new, dishy English Professor?" My throat dried up, have I been that obvious? Have I made myself out to be a fool? Terrible thoughts fluttered through my brain like an awful swarm of butterflies.
"No! Why did you ask that?" I snapped; trying to sound mortally offended. "He's in his late twenties for God's sake! He's...well...old." I pretended to wrinkle my nose in disgust. She just shrugged.
"Just because he's a new guy I suppose. Sorry if I upset you...” She said sadly. I felt guilty and gave her hug.
"It's okay." I said softly, even though in reality it was far from okay.
It's hard to even meet eye-to-eye with Professor Tennant now. He's off into a poetry kick, wanting us to experience some modern poetry. He picked up a poetry book and opened up to his favourite poet - besides Shakespeare - TS Elliot. The poem he chose made me nervous. It was dubbed "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock." I took it personally to be a sign; did he have feelings for me? One line in particular struck me for any reason God only knows.In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
That line spoke to me, but as if it wasn't in a language I could understand. I have the message in my hands but it might as well be in Urdu or Swahili or even that godforsaken French. I do not understand it at all.
Perhaps, one day, Anne, I will.
Alicex.
Dear Anne,
Sometimes I believe you are my only true friend, even though I haven't wrote in you as much as I would have liked. I'm sorry for that. So much has been happening recently. Miriam hardly says a word to me anymore; she hangs around Valerie most of the time now. That's really upsetting...oh who am I kidding...it's depressing as hell because she's been my best friend for so long now. We went to the same primary and middle schools and now here at Ashgrove. My parents and her parents get on rather well and they often go to restaurants and to those god-awful cheese-and-wine parties. When it's the holidays, Miriam and I often accompany them, like an afterthought. They even have twin villas in Portugal. I hate it there, so much sunshine and other damn language to contend with. Mother's fluent and even Papa can say some phrases whereas I only know three things: "Hello", "Goodbye" and "Yes." I still haven't got my head around saying "no" which is bad, as you can tell. I wonder what I'll do this summer. The scent of summer is lingering all around the Yorkshire dales and it's making everyone crazy with spring fever. That's why I think she's flounced off with Val.
Well, it's actually more than just a plutonic relationship between them. I'm not wrong, they never leave each other's side. At first I thought it was just my imagination being very hormonal and perverted but I have evidence. Promise not to tell? Wait you're a diary, who the hell are you going to tell? That'd be interesting of you did tell someone. Anyway, I digress. I felt faint on Sunday and went for a lie-down and I found them looking hot and flustered. I didn't say a word and I slumped on my bed. I don't particularly give a good goddamn if they want to love each other and all that...I just want my best friend back. Maybe that's selfish. It is selfish. I don't care to be honest. I need advice about him, Professor Tennant.
Well, it's actually Professor J. Tennant. I found that out by giving a casual glance at a letter on his desk during one of my special French lessons. I think I'm getting better at French. See?
Je m'appelle Alice. J'habite a York en Angle-terre. Je suis grande et mince et je pense que j'aime mon anglais Professeur. Mon Dieu...
Whenever he speaks, my mind not only listens but also cherishes every letter of every word. It sounds prissy but I am just being honest, I suppose. I wish I could get him to teach me everything, it'd make me a true "Star Pupil".
I keep dreaming about him too, small cameo roles in the usual dreams of mine: Winning Wimbledon, being a film star, being the next Clara Ward or whatever. Every goddamn time, he's there, waiting for the winning slam, movie or song and he runs up and kisses me. I sometimes wake up with my lips still tingling pleasantly. God, I sound like a nut. I would actually dread actually kissing him, though. I've never had so much as a date, let alone a boyfriend.
Diane's had dozens of boyfriends. She sometimes slips out at the weekend to meet up with one of the village boys. Miriam used to say that Diane was a lousy harlot but I don't seem quite sure. She's had experience with it all; crushes, infatuations, romances, affairs, love, lust and the physical side of things. It's rumoured that she's lost her virginity but it just seems to be utter rubbish. Diane may be a fool for love but she's not thick. She knows that if she got pregnant at sixteen, her family would murder her. Although, she could have a backstreet termination. It always makes me sick whenever I think about it. The whole affair seemed dirty but not in a moral sense. The risk seemed too great that you might as well top yourself to get rid of it. I don't think I could ever go through with it, myself. I don't think I could just lie there while someone came at me with some dirty instrument. How many had they performed before coming to me? Ten? Five? None?
Charlotte won't shut up about babies. As if she's ever pull a guy to get pregnant with. That was uncalled for - especially coming from me, Jesus - but sadly true. Guys go for the Dianes of this world, not the Charlottes (and as it's looking, nor do they like the Alices). I tried to make Charlotte my friend so I could get help from her. She was busy reading 'Wuthering Heights' by Emily Bronte. That's another thing, if she's so clever and intelligent, why does she want babies? She could be the next Marie Curie if she put her mind to it but she'd rather reproduce. How stupid. Perhaps she isn't so clever then, wasting her mind of booties and bonnets when she could be focussed on particles and fusion. Anyway, I sat on her bunk and gave her a grin. She glanced up nervously and slid a bookmark into the dog-eared pages.
"Hey Charlotte, how are you?" I said jovially, as if Professor (J.) Tennant had taken over my personality as well as my imagination. She gave me a small, awkward smile.
"I'm splendid. Just been thumbing through "Wuthering Heights" again. I can't get enough of that Heathcliff fellow. He's terribly enigmatic and so sullen. How about you?" she muttered, widening her eyes every so often.
"I'm alright, mustn't grumble. Except..." I trailed off, wondering how to continue with my next sentence. "Except, I think I have a crush on...someone." Her eyes widened further, her eyes seeming ready to plop out of their sockets.
"Ooh! Who is it?" she asked, her voice aching for scandal.
"It's...just...someone. But the thing is, how can you tell you are in love with someone?" She sighed a little at this, deep in thought.
"You can't stop thinking about them, even in a negative way. You dream about them. Your heart explodes everytime you brush against them. Why?" She looked genuinely concerned. She lowered her voice significantly, even though we were alone. "Is it that new, dishy English Professor?" My throat dried up, have I been that obvious? Have I made myself out to be a fool? Terrible thoughts fluttered through my brain like an awful swarm of butterflies.
"No! Why did you ask that?" I snapped; trying to sound mortally offended. "He's in his late twenties for God's sake! He's...well...old." I pretended to wrinkle my nose in disgust. She just shrugged.
"Just because he's a new guy I suppose. Sorry if I upset you...” She said sadly. I felt guilty and gave her hug.
"It's okay." I said softly, even though in reality it was far from okay.
It's hard to even meet eye-to-eye with Professor Tennant now. He's off into a poetry kick, wanting us to experience some modern poetry. He picked up a poetry book and opened up to his favourite poet - besides Shakespeare - TS Elliot. The poem he chose made me nervous. It was dubbed "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock." I took it personally to be a sign; did he have feelings for me? One line in particular struck me for any reason God only knows.In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
That line spoke to me, but as if it wasn't in a language I could understand. I have the message in my hands but it might as well be in Urdu or Swahili or even that godforsaken French. I do not understand it at all.
Perhaps, one day, Anne, I will.
Alicex.