Forbidden perfection(student/teacher)

forbidden perfection(student/teacher)-chapter 3

My head was spinning as I dragged my exhausted body out of bed the next morning. I despise Thursdays; they're just another bloody day in front of Friday. I hardly even drunk last night, like Sarah and the guys went nuts, but I'm personally not much of a heavy drinker...the majority of the time anyway. Probably because of the way my mother was killed.

She was in a car accident, hit by a load of selfish drink-drivers. I remember that day so clearly it haunts me. I wish I could forget sometimes, it sounds disgustingly selfish but the memory makes me want to be physically sick. I still sometimes get recurring nightmares that wake me up with panic attacks, and it seems this anxiety would never end. It was 9 years ago; I was 8 years old, and my dad was surprisingly late from picking me up from school. I remember one of the teachers strangely giving me a lift home, we went a different route home and passed this huge ice cream van. Next thing I know I'm seeing my distraught father curled up on the doorstep, screaming 'NO.' I guess he couldn't make it down the driveway. It was the first time I'd ever seen him cry properly, he was usually my strong, brave daddy who could conquer anything. Not this though, I knew he loved my mother more than life itself. Even at such a young age, I saw it. The way he held her hand in public, how he brought her cute little presents and flowers all the time, he'd always tell her how beautiful she was and just the mention of her name made him smile. They spent Fridays watching movies together, or sometimes he'd take her out for a meal, and he even thought his constant goofy jokes would impress her.

Anyway, later that same, brutal evening, when I had finally got my baby brother Matt off to bed who wouldn't stop crying-although he was a baby he knew something was up, I sat on the steps, hoping and pleading my mum would walk in, just so I could see her one more time. Hear her voice. Have her smile at me and give me a hug, stop dad hurting, stop me hurting. I knew the police were still here, but that didn't bother me, nothing did. I wanted my mum to tuck me into bed. I sat there crying my eyes out.

'YOU DON'T GET IT. YOU DON'T FUCKING GET IT DO YOU.' My father yelled. 'NONE OF YOU POLICE DO. YOU THINK YOU'RE HELPING BUT YOU'RE NOT. YOU WALK INTO MY HOUSE, AND SAY SORRY MS PAYNE IS DEAD. BUT IT'S NOT THAT SIMPLE, IT'S NOT THAT FUCKING SIMPLE. THAT WOMAN WAS MY LIFE, FROM THE DAY I MET HER 23 YEARS AGO I KNEW IT. I KNEW SHE'D MEAN EVERYTHING TO ME. WITHOUT HER I'M NOTHING. SHE WAS PERFECT, FLAWLESS AND BEAUTIFUL IN EVERY WAY. JUST KNOWING SHE WAS MINE MADE ME WANT TO RUN AND SCREAM AND JUMP, EVEN IF I AM A MIDDLE AGED MAN. SHE WAS MY SUNSHINE, MY BACKBONE, MY HAPPINESS, MY STRENGTH, MY FUCKING QUEEN AND NOW- '

'Mr Payne, please calm down we're tryi-'

'What do I do now? What am I supposed to do? I-I need her. I just want to hold her one more time. Tell her how much I love her, how amazing and precious she is to me. To see her smiling at one of my jokes, or maybe just at me, I want her to know...she was the best thing to ever happen to me. She lit up my world, everyone's world. She was so incredible. I can't cope without-' and his whispered voice turned into hard, painful tears, as he curled up on the floor in agony

I raced down the stairs to him, and we spent the night together curled up on the kitchen floor, praying it would all end. Reading her old books, listening to her old music, and breaking.

My mother was beautiful, she truly was. She had gorgeous long, blonde hair, and her smile lit up a room. When I was younger, she used to comb my brown hair, and told me 'hair is a woman's beauty.' She used to read to me every night, most of the stories were fiction of her own, her wild imagination had been passed on to me, perhaps why I adore literature now so much. She loved writing. She'd stroke my forehead until I fell asleep, or sometimes she'd too fall asleep in my bed, cuddling me. I remember her buying me lots of colouring books, microphones and dolls, telling me I could be anything I wanted to be. Nothing could stop me; I had my father's strength.