Heartless ( 1D Fanfiction)

4) Pfffffffffft! Date One Direction? Um, EW!

Song of the chapter: Hate on Me

Hello my friends! Not much to say, Just vote, comment and fan like usual! J I’m feeling rather happy today, what about you? Also, a bunch of you guys were like: What’s fairy bread?

OMG YOU GUYS HAVE NOT LIVED! It’s basically just bread with butter on it and A TON of hundreds and thousands! Next time you’re shopping at Woollies or Coles or whatever you call it in England.. Check it out!

X Gwen

Song of the chapter: Kelly Clarkson - Breakaway

.

.

.

.

.

.

For some reason, And I have no idea why. I’m nervous. And this makes me curious, it shocks me too, slightly. Because I’m never nervous, I’m straightforward, brutally honest, fearless and heartless. I’m not afraid of anyone, So why am I nervous? The last time I was nervous was the day my mother left me. I can still remember it now, Although it’s slightly fuzzy and I can no longer remember her face, the way she smiles or how she talks. All I have is the old photographs. I was four, too young to understand that she was going forever, too young to understand that Mummy wasn’t coming back.

“She just… couldn’t.” My Dad said eight years later, when I was twelve and finally confronted him about it. “She hated being tied down, and as much as she loved me and you, She just couldn’t. She needed to be free, she needed to travel. She needed to feel young again.”

I never really quite understood this, why my father never said my mother’s name, Maria, or why she left. Surely she could have just gone on a holiday? But whatever, I tell myself, It doesn’t matter anymore. This is just a regular, stupid, normal, average interview.

And whatever they say, I am NOT dating one of those boys. “Kayla Blue?” The receptionist calls, scanning the clipboard. I stand up, and her eyes flicker up and down my dark blue silk skirt and white blouse, which is neatly tucked in. I smooth the wrinkles out of my skirt automatically. 

I slip my hand bag over my shoulder and make my way past the receptionist into the small office slightly behind her. I knock on the door and the hesitantly push it open.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Come in.” a thin, high voice says.

I push the door open all the way, to find myself in a rather rectangular room, with white walls and dark wooden floorboards.  There’s a desk and two chairs, and a lady sitting behind the desk. I perch myself on the chair, and  begin to tap my fingers in a nervous way.