American Dream?

Home Is Where Hell Is

New York City. The City where dreams come true, the city that never sleeps. The traffic was roaring, cars of every description queuing up the roads, angry drivers shouting at other cars. Horns going wild, coming from every direction. Pedestrians don't turn their head; this is just a typical day. Shops crammed to the brim full of people, shop assistance trying to force the latest perfume, bag, t-shirt etc. on anyone who dared cross paths with them. I would do anything to be there. ANYTHING.

"Alex! Alex? ALEX?!" someone hissed next to me. I was shook back to reality. I looked around me confused. Beside me was a beautiful girl looking at me quizzically, her piercing blue eyes boring through me and her immaculately make-upped face screwed up to achieve this expression. Her long perfect flowing blonde hair draping down by her shoulders and face which heavily tanned, not a hair out of place and the strong smell of expensive perfume burning my nostrils. She also happened to be my best friend, Whitney Everlong. She is the kind of girl every girl wants to be and can make guys (and even some girls) melt just by smiling at them with her blindingly white teeth. In a word, she was gorgeous.

How I am friends with her I will never know. I am the complete opposite. I am invisible, the kind of girl who can walk right passed you and you wouldn't even notice. Not to say I don't have friends, I just like to keep to myself. I have mousy brown hair, you know that colour between blonde and brown, but mine is not in an attractive way. I have muddy brown eyes, so pale I could be mistaken for a ghost and a tom boy. I don't wear make-up; I'm just not good at girly stuff. If I so much as attempted to use mascara, I might end up blinding myself. Last time I tried to put on eyeliner, my sister, Serena, was on the floor crying with laughter, screaming for me to take it off.

"Huh" I kept scanning the room I was in. The beige walls, the adult glaring at me at the end of the room, the 40 pairs of eyes staring at me and a blank piece of paper in front of me. I felt my cheeks burning up.

"Alexandra, would you like to tell the class what the answer for question 4 was in your homework?" I winced at the mention of my full name, it just sounded too formal and posh. I looked down at the blank page in front of me. The only words written on it was my name and the title 'Homework'. Damn.

"We're waiting." The teacher, Mr Jefferson was getting impatient. I looked round at Whitney with a pleading expression. She gave me a sympathetic look and I turned slowly back to the Mr Jefferson. "Um, what was the question?"

"What, if anything, is Hamlet's fatal flaw and why does he hesitate to act after promising his father's ghost that he will avenge his murder?" He may have just said that in Japanese. I had no idea what he was on about. I hesitated. I started at the clock, it was also time to go home. I watched, mesmerized by the seconds hand ticking round the clock face.

BRINNGGGGGG!!!! Everyone jumped from there seats, gathering their books and running. I came to my senses and ran before Mr Jefferson had a chance to stop me. Phew. Saved by the bell.

Whitney came out of the class room with a massive grin on her face and burst out laughing on seeing me waiting outside the class room, still bright red for the whole incident that had just gone on. "Thanks for saving me in there, Whit!"

This just made her laugh harder.

"That was classic!" she managed to squeak between her fit of laughter. I shot her the best evil look I could do. As we walked down the corridor of the English block I could feel the watching gazes of jealous eyes, I felt a bit self conscious, but Whitney loved the attention. Once she felt she had an audience, her walk suddenly gained a catwalk strut. Her hips swayed more than usual, her chin was slightly raised and her chest pushed out.

As we left the school, a horrible feeling churned in my stomach. Time to go home and you know what they say: home is where hell is.

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As I walked closer and closer towards my house, it became harder to listen to Whitney's moaning about Trinity, Taylor, Tiffany or whatever the name is. To me, they were all the same person, indistinguishable due to their lack of personality and similar looks. Each step came closer to hell.

I looked towards the almost cloudless sky, drinking in the beautiful shade of blue. The sun's rays were warm against my skin. I intended to get to most out of this weather as possible; we're in England after all, this is a rare sight!

I could see my front door, the lion door knocker glistening in the sun light, daring me to enter the mad house. I reluctantly reached into my trouser pockets and dug out my keys. I said goodbye to Whitney and inserted the correct key into the key hole, hands shaking. I stood there for a few minutes preparing myself. I could already hear my sister shouting her head off. 

'Ready as I'll ever be' I thought before I gently pushed the door open. The immaculate interior of my house made we want to throw up. Anyone would have loved it, but I saw it for what it was, an illusion to make others think we had the perfect life.

As I dragged myself up the stair, my little sister, barreled into me, knocking me clean off my feet, and tumbling towards the bottom of the stairs (thankfully I had only climbed two steps so I wasn't seriously injured). "What the fuck, Serena!" I yelled as I hit the ground. I looked up to see my sister in a fit of tears and wailing.

Mum came next, running down the stairs screaming at Serena about homework. This was my welcome. Sadly, I'm used to it. Every since dad moved out to flaunt off with some twenty year-old yoga instructor, are family has fallen to pieces.

We used to be perfect you know. There was a time where we were one big happy family, Serena was polite, shy and painfully girly. Mum was perky, took ballroom dancing lessons, was carefree and sporty. Dad was handsome, stylish, charming and good looking. The mistake of going on a mountain retreat holiday and picking to do yoga four years ago. We don't talk about it much.

Serena handled it in a the only way her teenage mind could think of: rebel. She wears make-up (too much if you ask me), very short skirts, low cut tops, and refused to do anything that has nothing to do with her concept of fun. Our Mum has aged about ten years in the space of four years and has reduced from a once happy and powerful woman to a worried, paranoid, angry mess. She's quit dancing and sports; she just doesn't see the point in it. Her smile has become a distant memory.

Since dad left, mum has had a steady string of boyfriends, each one equally as bad as the next and each leaving there mark behind. I have some extremely disgusting curtains in my room all thanks to Phil, mum's 15th boyfriend. The grotesque china dolls I have the misfortune of having to see every day from Robert, mum's 13th boyfriend. Sadly, the list goes on.

I was so used to my mother's screams that I didn't realises that she had turned her attention off Serena and started to shout at me. God know what about. I didn't want another argument over vertically nothing. This is why I never wanted to come home.

All I could think of is my bed. The pillowy cloud I could just be engulfed in and forget about everything. But alas, I was stuck at the bottom of the stair surrounded by the daemons of hell that were my sister and mother.