Labyrinth

Labyrinth

The last words of Simon Bolivar were “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?” Since finding out, I have often wondered this myself. How do I get myself out of this web of grief? Please tell me because I have yet to find a way.

Up until that point, everything in my life was lucid and understandable. It is frightful how much one moment in time can shape how you perceive things. I thought I had everything. I had perfect parents. We had an enchanting house. The grass was emerald green and the roof was thatched. It had a charming apple tree in the centre of the front lawn and beneath laid a pool of apples and crisp, browning leaves. Over the doorway hung vines full of autumnal colours. This was a picturesque house, but it fell into the wrong family.

Us.

The house was one you would expect to see on a greetings card, made of terracotta bricks but built on utter lies.

As I gazed into the mirror, I noticed my flaws. I admired the way my auburn hair fell just slight of my left eye. I wondered why my hair was this colour as parents both had ebony black hair but I overlooked this fact and passed it off as an unfortunate splash in the gene pool. My eyes were cat-like, bold and piercing, hazel with a hint of deep blue. My nose did not fit on my face, it was too small. It did not belong. I pulled my hair back to examine my ears. I am certain I inherited these from my mum. I was so tired of the sight of my face.

I backed away from the mirror, trying my hardest not to catch a glimpse of my stupid reflection. I sit down and gather my thoughts.

My mind flashed back to Christmas in 2009. I was at a family party at a local function room. In my opinion, it was beyond me why anybody would want to party here. It was vile. The walls were mustard yellow and the carpet almost matched but with patches of damp which did not give out a pleasant smell. On the outside, the bricks were coated in horrid graffiti ‘art’. This place was, to say the least, bleak. So, I wasn’t having the best time, however I thought I ought to try and have fun as it was still quite early in the evening. I stepped onto the dance floor, I saw my extremely drunk uncle dancing alone so I decided to go and talk to him. He was slurring his words which made him difficult to understand, but there was one thing he said that I heard loud and clear.

“He’s not your real dad.”

Looking back, I should have questioned this statement but I didn’t. It was swept under the carpet like it had been forgotten. And until know it was, but suddenly I began to second guess the fact that my uncle could have been right.

He could have been right.

But surely he wasn’t.

I started to put the pieces together but something was stopping me. I needed more proof and I was determined to find it. I rushed out of my bedroom and began to climb the ladders which stretched up into the attic. I knew the attic inside out; it was my safe house, my retreat. It didn’t matter how I was feeling, these walls could always reassure and comfort me. But today, it felt unfamiliar, like I had never been in here before. I wanted to stop and think about what was happening in my mind but my body wouldn’t let me. I had to find out the truth. I pushed through the beams of dust to find what I was looking for. I hurried to the stack of cardboard boxes in the corner of the room. There had to be something in there. I rummaged for my life; old news paper covered the floor as I was getting closer and closer.

One box left. This had to be the one. I picked up the box and carried it over to the window seat, it felt important.

It was.

I pulled open the box to find shoebox labelled ‘Joe Scott’, I ripped the lid off in the blink of an eye and there it was. The truth.

Certificate of birth

Name:Date of birth:Mother: Father:

Bethany Francis26th October 1991Catherine FrancisJoe Scott

That was not my dad’s name, I was so confused. This must mean my uncle was right. The room was spinning; I could barely see a thing. My mind was the deep sea being sucked down and I was the black hole.

What I did next did not surprise me, I had to do something.

Anything.