The story of Laura (1)

Laura Tucker stared at the hole in her ear lobe, puckered from years of pushing pins in and out, in and out. Pins with gems on them, pins with strings of diamonds dangling from them, pins with flowers on them (in her more abstract days there were pins with owls on them, skull and crossbones, noughts and crosses). There were four all together, 2 in each ear. Only one had shrivelled though, instead of a neat hole there was a withered 5 pointed star, minute wrinkles fanning out from a sunken point, like veins on a leaf. As steam billowed gently around her head, the bathroom filled with the sultry aroma of Herbal Essences "Tousle Me Softly" shampoo, Laura continued to stare at her reflection and wondered where it had all gone wrong. So distinctly did she remember the day she went and had her ears pierced it felt like it could've been minutes ago. She remembered the hours that her 8 year old brain had meticulously deliberated over the numerous ways in which to persuade her mother to allow her to be like all the other little girls. She reminisced how the conversations started off diplomatic, sensible, and as the weeks went by with no success, she began to get more and more frustrated.

"It's not expensive and it won't hurt or take a lot of time." "We'll see, we'll see."

"They all laugh at me because I look like a boy!" "Well don't listen to them, they're just jealous, you don't look like a boy, you look cute with short hair."

"Mum ! I'm 8 years old now, don't you understand ?! I'm nearly a grown woman!"
"I'm a grown woman too and I don't have my ears pierced, wait until you're older."

"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaase. Please please please. I won't stop asking." "I'll just put my earplugs in then, you can carry on if you like. Just make sure that you don't talk when your mouth is full."

"I won't ever ever ever ask for anything ever again, ever. Not even for a hamster or another action man or a storybook or a trip to Skegness with Daddy."

Elizabeth Tucker's patience was straining, the unbearable whining so unlike her daughter was hard to ignore. She had no choice but to give in, her daughter was persistent and she had to give her credit for that. Laura had the blossoming skills of a killer journalist. In good spirit she had decided to have her ears pierced too because, although Laura wouldn't ever admit it, she was nervous. She didn't like pain. It was all over very quickly.

John Smith the Goldsmith was a very nice man, showed the women all of the gemstones that they could have. The little one, who he thought must've been the daughter, was firmly decided on having her birthstone; Topaz. What a boisterous little girl, how vivacious. She leapt up onto the chair and sat there, straight as cardboard, a stone of confidence. When the piercing gun clicked and punched a hole in her ear, she winced and almost fell of the chair. The hole ripped a fraction, but John didn't say anything, the blood could be passed off as normal, he'd seen much worse.

Laura pulled the hole around, pushed it out from the back of her lobe and revelled in how her skin turned deathly white, watched the colour rush back into her thumbprint when she let go. It was a good day, that day. Her mother and she had crossed a boundary, she was finally old enough to get her ears pierced.

Laura habitually looked at her sallow face in the bathroom mirror, the dark strokes of ash swept beneath her eyes by the fingers of insomnia, the cracked lips that were dried from too much nervous licking. In the dark recesses of her mind she remembered the ray of sunshine that raced into the baker's shop that day and felt like she was looking at someone else, someone else's daughter (or son, as was often mistaken). A plump little ball of fluff, unaware of how many calories were in an iced finger bun (the white ones of course, because pink was just too girly) or how babies were made or how to ride a bicycle. It is like being in a parallel universe, having to shave, having to count calories, having to think about how to dress. How is it that the same person can be so different? Living in this world where being unusual is a taboo, but being «hipster» equates to likability. The «likability» factor, how quaint.

Sometimes she would try and write it down, like a history of childhood memoirs, but always came to the conclusion that it was utterly boring and barely readable. After all, bad experiences with older boys, self-harm, loathing, inspiration and despair – they're all textbook. Nothing can be written that hasn't been said before. Laura didn't (couldn't) believe in that theory for one second, no matter how many times the words rolled around like an iron weight in her mouth. Her ideas were becoming heavy and cold, these thoughts, they needed to come out and see the sun. They needed someone to smile down on them, read them and be filled with the same emotion that choked her throat every time she relived her life. Laura wanted to make people's ears tingle, make fleshy goosebumps rise on their arms, see tears in their eyes. That's what it was all about, making people feel the memories, not see them.

In a rush, a fit of haste and delusion, she dropped the towel from around her shoulders and swept naked through the house. A pink and white spectre flashed before Elizabeth's eyes, now slightly blurred with age, making her heart leap slightly as her hand flew to her bosom. She never questioned her daughter these days, University had made her cynical, there was no use trying to "talk". Laura fell into her chair, the plastic a sharp, bitter cold bite on her skin and pulled a wad of paper towards her. Change her name, change her hair colour, intersperse fantasy with reality and create a fictional character, an alter ego. She began to write about someone that wasn't real and yet flourished, alive, in her brain. Haunted by souvenirs of her past, Laura began to scrawl down her ghost story. People will know, and they will listen.