Gemma's Blog

One of my assignments this year for the Professional Writing Unit has been to write a short story with the challenge of a 1,000 word limit.  There was no brief but we were expected to conjure a gripping and original plot. The idea for my story came from my  flatmate who is also a student at Bournemouth University studying BA (Hons) Television Production.  She recently wrote and directed a short drama tackling the controversial subject of assisted suicide and mercy killings. After watching the clip, which can be found on the BATV archive, I was intrigued by what families in these situations must feel and started to develop my plot on this basis. Hope you enjoy…

The Box- Part One

As I walk up the cracked steps to the green front door, I think of the last time I came to this Victorian structure known as Auntie Gayle’s house, it wasn’t very long ago but how things have changed. Well, the house hasn’t changed at all, I’ve always been boggled by the way that homes in London are so tall and narrow, I’m glad ours isn’t, I wouldn’t like to deal with all those stairs.

“You’re looking very thin.”

I was barely through the door when the comments started. I managed to conjure an agreeable nod as Auntie Gayle expresses her concerns. I hadn’t actually lost weight, it was probably her way of making herself feel better because clearly she had been over indulging these past few months. I suppose everybody deals with grief differently.

“It really is kind of you to have us for lunch”

“That’s a lie” I thought to myself as I glanced over at dad and registered what I could tell to be a fake smile on his face. We all know why we are here, we’re going to ‘talk about how we are doing’, this is the most frequent topic of conversation recently and I’m getting quite fed up with it. We walked through to the front room and Dad placed a comforting hand on my lower back before perching on one of Auntie Gayle’s 70’s-style patched armchairs. I hadn’t actually taken the time before to appreciate how bad her decorative taste is. Her lounge looks like something you would see on one of those home make-over programs, pre make-over of course. I looked down behind me to check for cats on the area of sofa I was about to land on. Gayle loves her cats, in my 14 years she must have had at least 20 of them, and the names she would give them; Pooky, Percy, Lala – a few of the worst. I realise that I have stereotyped Auntie Gayle as a lonely, crazy cat lady, but that is generally what she is like. Her kooky sense of style accompanied by her now bulging belly make for an interesting ‘lonely hearts’ column…

“So Jessie tell me about what you are doing in school.” Auntie Gayle enquired. I looked up almost embarrassed as if she could hear my thoughts. “Well we are reading this book in English called ‘Of Mice and Men’ which is pretty good but I don’t like what we are doing in maths.”

“Your mum was never a mathematician either. I think Grandma used to try and tutor her, I’m not sure how successful she was though.” She let out a little giggle and stared into my eyes a fraction longer than necessary.  Why does everyone do that to me recently? It’s as if by looking into my eyes they are trying to catch wind of how absolutely distraught I am. And I am distraught, I am mortified and hysterically beside myself but why must I remind myself I wasn’t there and torture myself every minute of every day. I prefer to keep my feelings in a box. A box which I can control and which only opens when I want it to open.

Part two