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the ballad of nicola gunning by ~thexhystericxeskimo:iconthexhystericxeskimo:

Categories Literature > Prose > Fiction > General Fiction




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Sometimes you just can’t control your eyes. Have you ever been in a similar situation? You can pin-up a smile like your face is a noticeboard, have your expression glued on so perfectly that your face could tell a story as though the words were written in inch-high writing across your forehead and cheeks. However, your eyes say something different, unwillingly, telling a story of their own which slaps your convincing mask off your face and onto the ground. This is exactly how I felt standing in front of Nicola not so long ago. I told two different stories that day, and I know which one she believed.

Before I can tell you the story and Nicola Gunning and I, I have to introduce myself. My name is Kylan Kwasi McKenzie. I have a strange name; I know this all too well; sometimes ridicule teaches you. The lesson I’ve learnt is to never tell anyone anything more than they need to know, in my case, my shameful middle name. My parents have mentioned the origins of my name only once, Kylan is the Irish form of Kyle and Kwasi has two separate meanings: it can be Afrikaan for ‘born on Sunday’ and Swahili for ‘wealthy’. Six years after I was born, my little sister was bought into the world. After this, I maintained that my parents were crazy, also that they have a liking for unusual names; maybe because they were christened with such plain overheard monikers as Peter and Judith. In turn on the 12th of October 1995, my baby sister was born and christened Jasleena Mumtaz McKenzie; a name possibly worse than my own.
I guess you could say I was popular, liked by many, envied by some, admired by a percentage and hated by a fraction. I’ve gone through all the stages during my five years at high school, where we are exposed to the pressures and trends of secondary education. I followed trends, detested them and sometimes even started them. I was never too different but sometimes just that one step ahead of the rest. Maintaining that thought, I have friends that live by these trends, base their dismal lives around them; however, they are by no means true friends or even best friends. These people are acquaintances; I see them mostly everyday, talk to them, spend time with them, and joke with them, but if you asked me a personal fact about their life I wouldn’t be able to tell you.

I first saw Nicola Gunning in a supermarket. She was tall, tanned and teeny back then, she maintained and successfully pulled off a denim mini-skirt and a summer-print shirt, even in winter. She was a typical seventh grade girl, in love with no one and cared for no other male except her father who sheltered her and protected her like a burly bouncer protecting a night-club. How things could change. By tenth grade she was dark, gloomy and lonesome; her long night sky hair reached the smooth curve of her lower back and trembled with every twitch or turn of her head. I was convinced that she had not talked in three years and that she no longer knew how. Sometimes she seemed like an empty shell, her face always devoid of any expression and her eyes always shadowed with shades of sleep. Nicola always looked delicately sad and lonely, but she always had an air of beauty.

In April of eleventh grade was the first time I talked to Nicola Gunning. Her voice was husky like she had not talked in a long time; however this could actually be a palpable explanation. I traced the most southerly shelf of the library looking for something to read, nothing fantastical, but something raw and real. I needed meat in the words like every letter was a bone and all the valuable cuttings had been removed. Nicola’s eyes ploughed through a Bryce Courtenay book at the end of the row, her shady eyes delicately traced with eyeliner and her lips glossed-up. Suddenly it all dawned on me: I was awestruck by this girl.
“I never through you would speak to me, of all people,” she replied when I voiced my greeting.
“Of all people, Nicola?” I replied slightly taken aback by the sopping malice in the emphasised word. I turned and walked away to search other shelves as she said “I can’t even remember your name.”
I kept walking and Nicola went back to her book, thinking I didn’t hear.
A few months later in August, I sealed an envelope and wrote an address on the front: 56 Coffey Street, Craigslea, it was paired with the name Nicola Gunning. I would post it tomorrow. The lined paper inside, which was folded only twice, said only five words: My name is Kylan McKenzie.

Two weeks later she found me, walking back to my form room with an armful of books and oblivious to the fact that she was approaching from the front. She was walking with a slight spring in her step and a red bandana was entwined into her new haircut. I didn’t stop and bumped into her quite forcefully. I looked up and let my books fall to the ground.
“New haircut I see,” I said, noticing the new shortness, the absence of the black and the blonde under colour that blended harmoniously to the sapphire blue of the top, finally she replied with “I could say the same for you.”
“Nope, you lose. Two weeks old,” I said, stroking the back of my rockhawk and breaking up the clumped strands of hair that had been fastened that way with hair gel. There was a pause and she finally replied “I know. I noticed.”
There was tension, however, not the bad kind. We stood for another couple minutes until I announced that I had to leave for home, scooped up my books and walked away. She called after me “Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock, far shelf of the library. Be there, Kylan McKenzie.” I just smirked, I kept walking and so did Nicola, while she wondered if I even heard her.

I walked through the bush track from my address in Bolan Court on the way to meet Nicola. I had never had butterflies in my stomach before, but I guess there’s a first for everything. Nerves weren’t usually my thing. It was about seven-thirty and everything in the scrub had a thin film of dew covering it, which looked like frost. By the time I was half way to school I had broken seven spider webs and madly struggled to search every part of me for an eight-legged fit of arachnophobia seven times also. Juniper College, commonly known at ‘school’ was quite a long way away, and since it clock was stomping into the sevens when I was due to leave home, walking was my only option. I reached school at five past eight and entered the library; the librarian gave me a firm look as though to say ‘school children are not permitted in school libraries, especially with mohawks and gold bits in their hair’. I traced the library rows with signs saying ‘100-200’ and ‘200-300’ hanging from the roof in the empty void between the ceiling-high shelves. When I got to the last row, I turned the corner to see Nicola sitting on a small library-step which was generally used to reach the high shelves for people who were vertically challenged. Before I could say anything she looked up from her book and said “Put some pants on Kylan.” I looked down, expecting so notice that I’d walked several kilometres in my boxer-shorts. Relieved I noticed I was wearing my rugby shorts; in turn I laughed and replied playfully “Shut up, I have Phys this morning.”
“You just like how your legs look in those things Kylan McKenzie.”
”I won’t deny that,” I said plainly.
I pulled up another library-step and sat down beside her, I looked at her, she smiled sheepishly and that’s when the moment started. We kissed and the deal was signed and sealed. Later that day, it became official. Kylan McKenzie was dating the lonely girl.

We were happy for months until Nicola started to become cold, distant and ravenously jealous in even the least envy-provoking situations. This is where the problems started. She started to push me away as though I was a broken down car that needed to be taken to a mechanic. I was being phased out, or at least kept and arms length. Nicola would ignore me every chance she had and avoid me at school four days out of every five. Our situation got to breaking point. I had no intentions on the unimportant spring afternoon to kiss the girl that lived at 8 Bolan Court, Craigslea. I had no intentions to cheat on Nicola in the way that I did. It just happened, however cliché it may sound. I was sitting on the lawn of 6 Bolan Court with the girl next door, Tammy Jones. I’d known her since I was as small as the hideous gnomes my mother insisted to keep in the front garden to scare away the religious callers. We could talk about everything and anything for hours on end, about memories of our childhood at Judith Park at the end of the street, where she pinned me down on the concrete many-a-time at that age where girls are stronger than boys. In one electrified moment, I threw in the towel on the complicated relationship that had conjured itself between Nicola Gunning and I.

The butterflies were cutting at my stomach again while I made my way to Nicola at the edge of the quadrangle, I saw her making an attempt to move but stopped her. “Nicola, wait. We have to talk.” She tried to dismiss me, “I have to go to class early, oral…teacher,” she trailed off. “Nicola,” I started. Sometimes you just can’t control your eyes. Have you ever been in a similar situation? You can pin-up a smile like your face is a noticeboard, have your expression glued on so perfectly that your face could tell a story as though the words were written in inch-high writing across your forehead and cheeks. However, your eyes say something different, unwillingly, telling a story of their own which slaps your convincing mask off your face and onto the ground. This is exactly how I felt standing in front of Nicola on this day. “Nicola, I don’t think this is working.” Her eyes blazed, “Is there someone else, Kylan?” Her voice plagued with jealousy, like it was a disease that collects around your vocal chords. “No.” I said plainly. I told two different stories that day, and I know which one she believed. She said “I loved you Kylan,” I felt a crash in my chest “I really did.”

Three weeks later, it’d been made official. Kylan McKenzie was no longer dating Nicola Gunning. If you were to believe rumours you could be provided with several different scenarios in which I was involved. According the common knowledge, I was dating up to seven people at once including a girl called Matilda Weston, who left in sixth grade and Abelia Gunning, Nicola’s fourteen year old sister. However, in all reality, and something no one knew except Nicola, was that I was now dating Tammy Jones. Over the next month, I was plagued with criticism and anger. Overnight, I had gone from normal Kylan McKenzie to the manwhore who thinks women are worthless. I knew who was behind this ridicule.

One Tuesday morning, while Tammy and I were making breakfast I got a call. Nicola Gunning’s voice was heard on the other side of the line: “56 Coffey Street, nine o’clock. Be there Kylan.”
Tammy urged me to go, patch things up with Nicola. It was easy for her to say. Nicola was like a punctured tyre, no matter how many times you replace the patch, it never lasts forever. I had never been to Nicola Gunning’s house; it was a less than quaint three-story chamfer board house with shuttered windows. It was built next to a park with deciduous trees that littered their crumbly brown leaves over the grass every year in March and posed a risk for fires. A deck extended from the side of the house on the third story and looked over the park. I knocked on the door and a short fair-haired lady answered the door, she was dripping with gold jewels and spoke in a fake posh voice.
“Yes?” she said quite rudely, “I’m Kylan McKenzie, I’m here to see Nicola,” I replied.
Her eyebrows raised in Nicola fashion. As she paused she looked me up and down, pausing at my short rugby shorts before looking at my face with malice in her eyes and disgust in her voice
”I’ll just get her for you.” She tottered away.
Nicola came to the door and instantly said “Put some pants on Kylan.” I replied quite firmly, still slightly peeved by her mothers response after hearing my name “These are pants, Nicola, now what was it you wanted?” She invited me in, and then up to the top deck which extended from her and her parents rooms. Nicola did not seem angry or upset; she seemed calm, collected and ready to talk it through. We started to talk, but I did not sit down.
“I think this talk is needed,” said Nicola, “I'm going to throw it all out there Kylan. I know you're a liar, a sneak and you broke my heart.” I was taken aback by the abruptness of her words.
“I see, you had the intentions of bringing me here to fill me with guilt. Nicola, you were cold and distant. We were supposed to be dating. That means you show affection.” I retaliated. The fight continued until I was fed up and left. I walked down the spiral staircase and out the front door, slamming the screen door with suprizable force. I heard the whisps of Mrs. Gunning yelling “...have some respect...”
Right then I did not care. Some things were said that are just not meant to be said.

I never saw Nicola again after that night. She did not turn up for school the next day, or the day after. Her absence crept into the months and eventually the years. I never knew what happened. Some say she killed herself, some think she just left. Her sister says she saw her glow bright orange, turn to tendrils of smoke and fly out the window into the early morning sky. Some say she just couldn't take the pressure anymore, packed her bags early one morning and left for somewhere better. The one many people maintain is that Kylan McKenzie broke her heart so much that she couldn't stand to be around here anymore. You can tell as many stories as you can, and I know which one I'd beleive




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©2006-2009 ~thexhystericxeskimo
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Submitted: October 20, 2006
File Size: 13.9 KB
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Resolution: 500×375
Comments: 11
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Make: FUJIFILM
Model: FinePix A345
Shutter Speed: 1/33 second
F Number: F/2.8
Focal Length: 6 mm
ISO Speed: 100
Date Picture Taken: Oct 17, 2006, 4:33:38 PM

Author's Comments

Desparate for critique on this one.
I have proofread it, however, if you pick up a mistake I've missed please tell me.

Word Count - 2408

Edit [22 Oct] - Changed title and re-wrote ending.
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Devious Comments

love 1 1 joy 0 0 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0

Comments


~skeletal-stars:iconskeletal-stars: Oct 20, 2006, 10:49:13 AM
"he shady eyes delicately traced with eyeliner and her lips glossed-up."

should be her not he?

very good, hun! i like your new prose writing! there seemed to be a few awkward sentences, but otherwise, lovely. ♥♥

sad story, btw... i could feel it. :( made me think.

--
even the angels desire to look upon these things.
~thexhystericxeskimo:iconthexhystericxeskimo: Oct 20, 2006, 5:36:03 PM
fixxxxed.

could you possibly point out the awkward sentences?

just a few questions:
did you think it ended too abruptly?
and did you think the ending was an anticlimax?

♥

--
I hope you choke on a cardboard cut-out of Julia Roberts. x
~xtaintedxromancex:iconxtaintedxromancex: Oct 20, 2006, 7:47:18 PM
AH! whoa my i could feel my stomach going up and down :S

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There's a fine line between feeling alive and living a lie <3
~skeletal-stars:iconskeletal-stars: Oct 22, 2006, 12:21:17 AM
maybe a little abrupt, but i think it adds to the harsh irony. and i wouldnt say anticlimatic, just not what the readers would expect.

hrm... the awkward ones:
Six years after I was born, my little sister was born. (two 'borns')

Walking with a slight spring in her step, a red bandana entwined into her new haircut. (i think that its an incomplete sentence?)

thats all for now..... i am sleeepy.

--
even the angels desire to look upon these things.
Mood: Love ~xThexSarahx:iconxThexSarahx: Oct 22, 2006, 5:18:10 AM
OMg,, effing rad.

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Sarah, SNAP
~thexhystericxeskimo:iconthexhystericxeskimo: Oct 22, 2006, 5:47:53 AM
<#<#<#<#<#<#333333333333333333333333333333

ily

NOT CHEETING
JESSUSFUCK

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I hope you choke on a cardboard cut-out of Julia Roberts. x
~xMuRdErXScEnEx:iconxMuRdErXScEnEx: Oct 22, 2006, 10:47:57 AM
o.o Strange but still good. ^0^b

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N0 o.N.e L<3v3s m3....f0r I aM i.n Lo\/3 wiTH tHE W0rLd. <x3
~SarcasticxPoetess:iconSarcasticxPoetess: Nov 19, 2006, 4:48:00 PM

Finally got around to reading this.

You have quite the talent for prose. Quite the talent, I am so envious. I really don't know what could make this better or more interesting, other than you should re-edit. I found quite a few mistakes [sorry, too lazy to go back and find them all x.x] that you won't find in Microsoft Word -- the words are correctly spelled [except tyre, somewhere?] just not in the right context.

Other than that, wonderfully amazing.

+fav


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[if it looks like i'm laughing, i'm really just asking to leave this alone.]
~thexhystericxeskimo:iconthexhystericxeskimo: Nov 19, 2006, 11:38:51 PM
Editing is my weakness. I need a proof-reader. n.n

...and tyre is spelt tyre? In Australia anyway.

--
I hope you choke on a cardboard cut-out of Julia Roberts. x
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