Neptune and Cassidy

Chapter 1- Neptune

I throw things into a suitcase at random: deodorant, underwear, books, even a statue of the Roman God, Neptune carved out of blue Bristol glass, which I nearly shatter against the side of the case as I chuck it in carelessly. My dad bought that thing for me when I was eleven, telling me that "Everyone has a beginning, and Neptune was yours." What a load of bull. Unlike the God of the Sea, I'm not powerful or a water bender- although both of those would be cool, admittedly. 

I pick up the statue and turn it over in my hands, running my finger along Neptune's trident. I stare at the God's bearded, scowling face and wonder what possessed my dad to name me after him. My older sister, Persephone, has a name which actually makes sense, because she turned out to be beautiful. But she also turned out to be found dead under a Manchester bridge, so I don't even know what to think about that.

Whatever compelled Persephone to jump, I'll never know. But then again, maybe when I move back in with my mother I'll find out.

So here's the deal. My dad died when I was thirteen. Road accident on the M2, I didn't exactly want to know the details. His funeral was held in the center of Manchester, where he grew up, and most of the family were there. Even Persephone- she was still alive and well then. Only one person was missing: My mother.

Every time I think of my mother, I feel... Nothing. Sounds harsh, I know. But when she hightailed it to Bristol in a haze of red wine and some sort of psychotic breakdown five years ago, all I could think of was how stupid it was. How she must have not cared about any of us at all, because who leaves a middle-aged father to raise two kids by himself in a small village ten miles away from any major town or city? A psychopath, maybe.

Or maybe I'm being too harsh. I don't know. I haven't seen the woman in years.

Anyway, back to my dad's funeral. My gran- Mum's mum- was there. Surprising seeing as her only daughter refused to turn up, but she'd always loved my dad like a son. She was my only grandparent left, at least in England; Dad's parents had died before I was born and Mum's dad was living in Cyprus with his third wife. She said that she was marked down as something or other on Dad's will, and that she was now Persephone's and my legal carer. As a result, she moved us in with her in her little bungalow in the same village we'd lived in with Dad. 

Everything was normal for a few years. Until two years ago, when Persephone jumped off that bridge.

From then on, Gran became... stoic. She didn't cry all the time, but she never seemed to be happy again. She'd loved to sing random songs from BBC Radio 2 as she cooked dinner, but she even stopped doing that. 

Until one day she stopped cooking dinner altogether. She just stayed in bed for hours on end, refusing to get up. I'd end up shoving ready meals from Tesco into a microwave for myself while she lay there eating absolutely nothing unless I brought it to her.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I woke up and went to make breakfast for myself. Toast with blueberry jam, by the way- it's my absolute favourite, and it was a Monday, and I was miserable as hell. I made some porridge for Gran, carefully sprinkling on some of her favourite cocoa powder. She hadn't eaten anything since the morning the day before, and I thought, She has to eat something, else she won't talk all day.

When I walked into the bedroom, Gran was sleeping, as per usual. But this time, it was the final sleep, the sleep from which you never wake up. I just stood there stupidly, porridge in hand, thinking: Wake up, Gran. Wake up! I made porridge for you!

But deep down, I knew she'd gone. Her face was deathly pale and her lips were blue. I had touched her cheek to confirm what I'd suspected, and it was stone cold. She must have passed away in the night. Not knowing what else to do, I'd called 999 and asked for an ambulance crew to drive out to our village in the middle of nowhere.

I remember the paramedics gently carrying Gran away on a stretcher. I watched them out of the window from the kitchen table as a redheaded nurse offered me some of her coffee, to take away the shock. 

I'd accepted her offer at the time, then regretted it. Coffee is way too bitter, and the moment was bitter enough. I didn't need any more.

Since then, I've been looked after by a social worker, Kath, who visits the house twice a day: Once at ten a.m, once at six p.m. Today, however, she'd arrived early- eight thirty- and told me to pack all my belongings by the time she returned at six.

"Why?" I'd asked her.

"We've found you a suitable relative to live with."

"Who is it?" I couldn't think of anyone who would willingly look after me.

"Your mother," Kath had replied calmly. "She seemed very eager to take you in."

I had just stared at her in shock as she'd got up and left the house, locking the door behind her. But now my mind is buzzing with thoughts as I shove my belongings into a second suitcase.

Kath told me all about the town I was moving to. It's called Bradley Stoke, and it's a medium-sized town about twenty minutes away from the centre of Bristol. Apparently there's three secondary schools nearby that'll take me in, which sounds horrifying to me. I've been homeschooled my entire life, and heading into an environment with hundreds of other sixteen-year-olds sounds like hell. 

Kath's also given me details of the neighbourhood my mother lives in. She lives on a cul-de-sac somewhere. I can't remember the name of the street, and I don't really care. A house is a house.

Well, yeah, I think to myself sourly as I slam my second suitcase shut. Duh. But living with her, it'll never be a home.