Inspired by escapism

The Many Faces Of Skye McKinty (part 1)

I am twenty one, and will be for the next two hundred and twenty six days. The celebrations that took place for this supposedly momentous occasion were mediocre at best. There were plenty of guests, that wasn’t a problem. Sending hand-made invitations out two months before meant few could deliver believable excuses for not attending. It gave the impression of being special and unique, perhaps echoing what my parents thought of me.

The atmosphere was just wrong though. It was awkward, confused. Like a children’s clown turning up to a fortieth birthday and performing anyway. I felt false and exposed. People came from afar expecting an amazing event, when really it was the same party as every year, except with an upgraded cake and a forced thankyou speech. Even then the cake was still shop-bought, just from a specialist bakery, it’s not like it was made with love and effort like a real birthday cake should be.

Everyone bought me a gift, and it was a pretty good haul, I just felt slightly guilty at not providing the chrysalis to butterfly transformation that my guests seemed to want from me. It was as though old family friends, not heard of for a decade, thought I would have changed from the gawky, not-quite-pretty teenager into a beautiful woman. I hadn’t.

I stood there, warm white wine in hand, telling people of my plans for the future after university, when a voice in the back of my head was simultaneously shaking my brain, saying, “Why are you doing this?” I ignored it.

I am an only child. This is a fact I came to accept gradually, after years of praying for a brother or sister to play with had not come to fruition. There was to be no comrade in the fight against the pair in power. I actually quite like it now that I’ve got used to it. I never had the annoying older brother to play pranks on me, or the younger sister stealing my makeup. Having a mum and dad in the house was enough company for me, a girl who ultimately enjoys spending time by herself.

I can wile away the hours just lying on my bed thinking, or with my nose stuck in a book; a dreamer, some have said. This is always regarded as a negative trait, the explanation as to why I haven’t done my work, or how my hamster died from starvation, but I think it has benefits. I can shut off when in the midst of an argument, and if I forget my book on a train, I’ll amuse myself. That’s how it all began actually.

I was travelling home for Christmas after another term at university, armed with a suitcase of dirty washing and not much else. It was a commuter train, and I was sat next to a middle aged woman. She had pearl earrings in. Whenever we went through a tunnel, the last glimpse of light caught on the one nearest me, so it looked like a mini crystal ball. She must have caught me staring and felt uncomfortable, so she started a conversation to ease the tension.

“Busy today, isn’t it?” She smiled, and I saw remnants of coral coloured lipstick on her teeth.

“Yeah.” I looked down at my tray table where a can of coke stood. I started following the can’s lettering with my eyes, but it made me go cross-eyed, so I gave up. The woman gave a small sigh, and I got the impression she had mistaken my short attention span for ignorance. Willing to give me a chance to redeem myself, she continued.

“On your way home are you?” She glanced over at my suitcase that was so full it looked bloated- a clear indication that I had packed in a hurry.

I could have just told the truth, but at that moment, it seemed too predictable.

“I’m moving back to my mums.” I sniffed pathetically and began twisting my hands in my lap. “My boyfriend told me he’s met someone else, and I had to leave his flat.” I suppressed a smile at the look of surprise on the woman’s face. “It’s this woman called Stacey who works in his office. I cooked us all dinner when she got divorced a few months ago.” Another sniff. “Turns out the reason they got divorced was nothing to do with her ex not wanting kids. And I sat there and lapped it all up, thinking I had the perfect relationship.” Then I brought out the big guns. I mustered up a few tears, that promptly slid down my face, painting faint lines in my makeup.

I don’t really know why I felt the need to spin a fanciful story, and perhaps if I had been sat next to somebody else, I wouldn’t have bothered. I think it was the crystal ball earrings that did it. Their combination with a sneaky peer into her bag to reveal a Tupperware container of pasta salad and a copy of Red magazine had told me that she was the mumsy type, even with her city slicker suit on. Mumsy types love a good sob story, and a young girl to comfort. I had a journey to fill, and couldn’t be bothered talking about my own uneventful life, so it seemed a fun idea to make one up. Being an only child means my acting skills are impeccable- after all, there’s only one person to be the dragon, the princess and the knight if you’re playing pretend on your own.