Chapter 1: Daisy
Chapter 1: Daisy
Life sucks. There is no other way to put it. No other way I can describe my life to anyone without saying those two simple words. It just simply…sucks. Not in the way most people would describe their life sucking because they didn’t have time to get their coffee or when traffic made them late for their meeting with the other soccer moms. The type of suck that makes you want to curl into a ball and ignore the persistent knocking from the welcome party that currently has taken up residence on my doorstep.
Small town southern women with hair perfectly coiffed and makeup so thick it reminds me of the cake batter I would sneak bites of when my mother baked. I haven’t been able to conjure up a smile wide enough or a sentence convincing enough to get them to just leave the berry cobblers and biscuits on my front step. This is the fifth day. The fifth day I have had to pretend to be out of this rundown house so that I didn’t have to pretend. How long did cobblers last anyway before it gets soggy anyway? Where they baking fresh ones everyday in the hope that they could present it too me like some kind of fucking British baking show.
“I’m not fucking Mary Berry assholes” I mutter under my breathe glaring at the door as it rattles. Damn these bitches can’t take a hint.
How did I even find myself in this situation? In a different country, in the middle of buttfuck nowhere with the epitome of small-town southern hospitality breaking down my door and following me around town.
Oh yeah, when I caught my fucktard of a fiancée balls deep in his work colleague, shoving his uninspiring dick into her tiny, petite body. Must have been an ego thing. Any dick would look big whilst fucking a tiny women compared to my chunky arse. I love doggy style as much as any other women but when only a couple inches make it past my backside, it lacks the purpose of being fucked on your hands and knees. The depth, the feeling of being full and impaled, the depravity. I shake the thoughts out of my head, knocking the side of my head like when you get water in your ears after swimming.
My phone pings like clockwork. The classic 9am good morning baby from the fucktard. Even after 6 months and ignoring every single text, call, flower bouquet and gaudy teddy bear, he still isn’t getting the screaming neon sign flashing ‘LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE’.
“I wonder if I leave out the back door, will they notice” I say with a grimace, rolling my eyes at the idiotic idea. Not that it’s the first one. I can’t even leave the sofa for the worry of them having their ears pressed against the door waiting for the floorboards to creak under my weight; boy do they creak. Maybe the high pitches southern drawls will soon fade from my crumbling porch and leave me to wallow in my self-pity.
Buying an unseen house in a tiny town might not have been my smartest idea but it was the escape I needed from nagging parents telling me to forgive and forget. To move on and accept that he made a mistake, everyone needs some forgiveness and he was simply skewed from the correct path by being seduced by an attractive slim woman. I mean who could blame him, who wouldn’t skew from someone like me. Round, plump and dowdy. Not desirable or wanted by societies perfect standards; obviously times have changed in the past ten or so years but it always comes back to the same thing. All men want is a pretty little thing to parade around on their arm and show off how delicate and perfectly proper they are. Its hard to do that when the woman on their arm is a size 18, covered in tattoos and isn’t afraid to show off their figure in colourful clothing; even though norms say black and peplum tops are my best friend. God, forbid I wear a horizontal stripe, strike me down Lord.
I relax into my seat, pleased by the little bit of peace and quiet that surrounds me. Wait, did I just say peace and quiet? The knocking. The noise. Its disappeared and it’s been replaced with cawing birds and crickets chirping in the long grass out front that I have yet to put any effort into manicuring. I smile and let myself melt. Perfect. This is what I escaped my old life for.
The shrill ringing of my phone breaks me out of my relaxed daze and I reach out, grabbing it off the pillow next to me, jabbing the accept button and bringing it too my ear without opening my eyes.
“Hello mother, to what do I owe the pleasure?” I answer expecting it to be the only person who ever calls me these days. After months in seclusion and suffering from the breakup backlash, I slowly lost all the people I held dear to me through my own fault. Everyone I knew also knew him, spoke to him, met with him for coffee or late lunch breaks; all of them suffering from tedious work days and looking to unwind in good company. It was no surprise that they chose him in the breakup, I would have too in that position not matter how it would have weighed on me if I’d have thought about it long enough.
Unfortunately, instead of the dulcet tones of my mothers’ southern British accent, all I hear is the whiney Geordie voice of my ex-fiancée to break me out of my stupor.
“Baby, I’m so glad I finally managed to get you on the phone. I wanted to talk to you about the venue we booked for the wedding next month. Also, your mother mentioned that you didn’t like the flower arrangements we originally picked out as the centrepieces so I thought…” He continues on speaking about what was meant to be our wedding and how him and my mother have got everything covered waiting for me to come back from ‘holiday’. Please notice those very obvious quote marks around the work holiday. Maybe I need to emphasize it again for the people not listening at the back of the room. ‘HOLIDAY’. I used to love his accent and how it was so different from what I was used to hearing growing up. I mean sure, Brighton is as diverse and multicultural as a British city gets but having that voice being a part of my everyday life and not just one, I hear in passing in The Lanes is a completely different story.
I found it soothing, comforting almost but know all it makes me want to do it slap anyone who mentions a love of Geordie Shore. Fucking Geordie Shore. “….so, what do you think darling? Sounds like a great plan right. I knew you would think so. I can always tell what you are thinking”. I can practically hear him smiling and how he is probably sat next to my nodding mother as she swoons over how perfect her soon to be son-in-law is. What a joke.
Feeling a little contrary, I thicken my voice into a sugar sweet tone and ask him to repeat what he said. Leaving my phone on the sofa, I walk away and leave his voice speaking through the tinny speaker of my phone. I should have time make myself a coffee before he realises, I’m no longer listening to a word he says. Hearing the churning and grinding of the one item I didn’t get off craigslist calms my nerves and aggression from hearing his voice again for the first time in six months.
I search the cabinets for the mugs that the previous tenants left for me as what I hope was welcome gift and not a ‘I put poison at the bottom of these mugs, fuck you’ gift. Finding the chipped white porcelain mug, I place it underneath the spout and wait for the addiction to fill my veins.
I really did make a mistake coming here. Why couldn’t I have moved to some remote island in Scotland, made friends with a few sheep or cows; who are my namesake after all. It is kind of ironic how my mother named me after a cow and I grew up to be the size of one. I chuckle to myself and think of my mother’s face if I ever said that directly too her. Oh no, it wouldn’t be the expected response of ‘don’t be silly’ or ‘you are perfect as you are’. It would be the slow sweep she would make of my appearance and the slight nod. The ‘well you made yourself this way’ or the classic ‘you never did use that gym membership I got you’. Ah, great memories.
Picking up the steaming cup, I plod my way back through the house and to the phone still talking from the living room. I mimic his words, pulling funny faces and playing with an imaginary puppet to help myself tune him out.
“You are still on that diet I put you on, right? I would hate to have to pay to get the dress altered this close to the wedding especially considering I already had to pay to have it let out in the first place. Then again, it was the best dress we could get to hide all those tattoos and rolls you have on your back. Unsightly things to have to see on such an otherwise perfect day ammi right baby?”
I pause dead in my tracks. What the fuck did that motherfucker just say about me? I must be hallucinating, remembering all the things he has said to me in the past and mixing it up with what he is saying about some fucking centrepieces. I should hang up. I should just ignore the comments and pretend they weren’t said but I can’t help myself. I never could back down from fighting words before I met him and I sure as fuck am not going too now.
“What did you just say to me?” I shout from across the room storming towards its location on the pillow, clutching the phone to my ear and repeating it as calmly as possible. “What the fuck did you just say to me you motherfucker?” Okay well maybe that wasn’t as calm as I could have been but oh well, we live and we learn.
“Oh darling, please don’t do this again. You know I only want what’s best for you and our wedding and your body as it currently is, is not what this wedding needs. You understand that don’t you baby” he tries to cajole me the best I can but my face turns red and I feel like my hair is standing on end. Like I’ve been struck by lightening and the energy is still coursing through my veins and threatening to electrocute him through the phone. I shake my head in disbelief and I can’t help it. It builds in my chest until I can’t hold it any longer. The shaking. The trembling. Then I break. I let out a guwwaf and a snort at the same time. Unladylike at best but at this moment in time I couldn’t care less.
Over my laugh and the tears streaming down my cheeks, I hear a knock at the door. Quick and sharp with no high-pitched giggles attached to it but that means nothing. If those women want a show, they will damn well get a show. Crying, laughing and shouting; all parts of a great play.
