- Uncategorized
- 30 Apr 18
A self-confessed ‘typical 16 year old’, Laura’s hobbies are watching Netflix and procrastinating over doing her homework. At 12, she had a story published in Bliss: she sincerely hopes that it never again sees the light of day. She plans to study journalism, sociology and politics. Her interests include dogs, painting, Billie Eilish and The 1975. At the weekend, she can usually be found with her friends, or re-reading Louise O'Neill's novels for the umpteenth time.
And now for Laura’s WRITE HERE, WRITE NOW entry ...
Living Through The Lens
Mam’s head pokes around the door; grey roots and tired eyes. “Come in,” I croak, in a voice that isn’t my own; a voice like ancient paper that crumbles in the daylight. She crosses the room in three strides before perching tentatively on the edge of the bed, so as not to disrupt the precarious pile of plates stacked on the duvet beside me.
“Niamh, love, the sun’s splitting the stones today, so your sister and I thought we might take a walk down on White Strand.” Her words tumble out clumsily, bashing into one another. I can tell that she’s nervous, trying to gauge my reaction before she proceeds, but I remain deadpan. “Well, since you’ve been… been cooped up, sure it’d be no harm for you to come with us, get a bit of fresh air?” I want to tell her no, that my bones are magnets binding me to my bed, but I notice a thin watery stream of sunlight slipping through the gap in my curtains. Good lighting for pictures.
“Ok, grand, but just give me a few minutes to finish up what I’m doing and then I’ll get dressed,” I say, gesturing at the laptop perched on my knees. Mam’s eyes flood with optimism and assumption. “Ah, is it history or biology today?”. It’s neither and she knows it. My textbooks are gathering dust in the corner where I left them a month ago; where they will remain for the next month. “History”. She nods but doesn’t risk checking the illuminated screen as she walks out of the room. “History” is technically not a lie – I’m trawling through pictures of the last time I went on a night out, which was over two months ago. She is unrecognisable, the girl who claims to be me –thin, blonde, beautiful; smiling.
I post an old selfie on Instagram and wait for the likes to roll in. They come instantly; ten, twenty, forty in five minutes. My elation is infinitesimal, but it’s enough to lift me from my bed and into the bathroom to brush my teeth. The girl who stares out at me from inside the mirror is not the girl on Instagram. Her eyes are bloodshot, her cheeks gaunt and her lips cracked. She is lying to herself and to others and she knows it. The lies, the illusions; they’re all that stop the girl in the mirror engulfing me completely.
At White Strand, Mam takes a picture of me at the water’s edge, face turned away from the camera. The sun casts a pleasant golden hue onto my skin and reflects off the ocean. The dark cloud above my head isn’t visible on camera, nor are the icy droplets it bleeds into my flesh. I will post the picture on Instagram later; I will count the likes and comments.
They will see me: golden, radiant, glorious.
The cloud will evaporate soon enough.
Readers’ Choice Award
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