Dykopath – Preview

AN: I am so so excited to say that my first novel is now available for public purchase.
For now, here’s a sneak peek of the first chapter. If you like what you see, feel free to find the payment button below and support my work!

Chapter 1

I used to write songs. I don’t know when exactly I stopped doing that; it’s not like I woke up one day and decided to never write a song again, but one day was the last. I have a feeling it was somewhere between person eight and twelve, that’s when I noticed the numbness. You would think it would have come sooner than that, but I guess I held on to my one person too tightly, and for far too long. I suppose that’s a side effect of infatuation, especially the degree of infatuation with which I was poisoned.

* * *

We met at school – she was a friend of a friend and we had classes together, pretty soon we were good friends, best friends, even. Before I knew it, I’d fallen for her, while she was in a relationship with Rose, one of the other girls in our inner circle. Crap.
I thought I could just push past it, move on, act like it never happened but then Helena noticed. Of course she did: she was endlessly intelligent and my closest friend, and she could read us all like books.
One night, during a residential school trip to France, Helena and I were killing time in my room after dinner and she sprung it on me.
“You’re not straight, are you?”
“Yes, I am.” I spoke too quickly for credibility, damn it.
“But you fancy Amy!” She teased,
“No, I don’t!”
“Then why are you smiling and going bright red?” Helena grinned,
“Shut up!” I laughed, actively trying to bring the corners of my mouth back down.
The day after that conversation, during the end of trip dance (I didn’t go because I hated dancing and my awkward gangly body), Amy’s relationship with Rose came to a very sudden end, and all eyes were on me. The last thing anybody wants at an all-girls’ school is the attention of the entire student body. The scrutiny of teenage girls can be crueler than some torture methods.

 

Dykopath

Izzy Mehmet tells the tale of her first teenage romance, which takes a turn unlike most first love stories.

£2.50

 

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21

I turned 21 today, and I have a lot of thoughts about that.
Stranger Things season 2 also came out today and I also have a lot of thoughts about that but I’ll discuss those with my friends when everybody’s had a chance to watch it.
Today, I have legally, in the view of every country in the world, become a free adult, and boy has it been a journey.
I’m not going to write about what I’ve learned in the past 21 years, because I wrote a whole book about that (pls buy it when it’s ready I worked really hard on it and cried a lot), so I’ll just discuss this past year alone.

As I approached 20, something shifted in me, and everybody around me felt it, mostly my boyfriend at the time. We’d been together almost 5 years, but it had to end, and when it did, I was afraid. This was the first time since I was 15 that I’d been alone, and I didn’t know how to be alone in a world that wasn’t populated by bored teenagers. Instead of growing up and learning how to be a single 20 year old woman, I reverted back to being a 15 year old girl with the confidence, experience and perceived knowledge of a 20 year old woman, which was a recipe for disaster, to say to the least.

In the past year, I have learned a lot. About how the world works, and about myself. I have fallen in and out of love at the drop of a hat, numerous times, in the last 365 days. I went through some shit, like, loss, on multiple levels.
I lost my arrogance, in that my beliefs were rocked to their very core and I had to overcome things I never thought would happen to me.
I lost my definition of myself, and had to start creating a new one from scratch.
That meant that I also lost friends, because this year is the year I finally started becoming the person I want to be, and that person refuses to be walked over or disrespected.
I lost my dignity a number of times, but I also lost my fear of losing my dignity.
I have been hurt so many times in the past year alone and yet I’m not afraid of opening up anymore. When I was 15, I was terrified of people, and of the mere idea of love, because all I had known was betrayal and heartbreak (buy the booook). I have experienced those things thrice over in the past year, but here I am, still willing to let people in.

I also gained a lot, though.
I gained the most incredible friends I could have hoped for, and a new appreciation for life – in the past few months I’ve literally only thought about killing myself once which is an insane record for me. (I’m not going to sugarcoat what it’s like to live with depression and PTSD, if that sentence made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry but I wont partake in the brushing under the carpet of mental illness anymore.)
I gained confidence in my abilities to do whatever I set my mind to, and this year was the year that I did what I’m passionate about.
I organised a music festival (with the help of said incredible friends), I wrote a book (ahem), I started writing music again and for once I’m actually proud of it, and I gained the ability to stand up for myself, to push for what I want, and to say no.

20 was the year that I followed my dreams, and I’m hoping 21 will be the one when I chase my aspirations.

Six Years

Here’s the thing about emotional abuse: the scars are invisible, but they run deep. Real deep. And somehow, despite how long it’s been, they remain fresh, always.

On New Year’s Eve, it will be six years since the end of my romantic attachment to the person who abused and manipulated me. Unfortunately, that date doesn’t mark the end of my suffering at their hands and words, but it’s all I have to hold onto as a milestone.
Six years, and yet, I am sitting in my room this morning, six days from turning 21, sobbing silently, as I recall nothing but the good and happy memories of that relationship.
I am furious with myself for remembering the good times so fondly. I am full of anger and bitterness but none of it is towards them. It’s all for me, for allowing myself to fall so low.

I had avoided Kesha’s latest album for a long time, knowing that a lot of the songs were about overcoming similar experiences to the ones I’ve had. I didn’t want to have to confront these feelings yet again, as I am wont to do at least once every few months when something in my brain makes me have a dream or a nightmare or a memory of some kind, and reminds me that I am still not over it. But I decided to listen to ‘Praying’ this morning. I’d heard it on the radio but only ever absentmindedly, not really paying any attention, but today I really listened to it, and something in me snapped.
Aside from a single vengeful line, this song perfectly encapsulates my feelings towards that person and about halfway through the song, it felt as though a jolt of electricity had erupted from my heart, ran through my spine and was spreading out like spider-leg tendrils, into my gut and up into my head and it felt cold. I lay in my bed shivering from this internal coldness, letting my mind flick through snapshots I didn’t even know I had, and sobbed until the shaking made me warm again.

I live in constant fear of other people because it was so easy for me to give all of myself to someone who I shouldn’t have trusted. I have major control issues because I can’t stand the idea of ever letting myself be controlled again. But I’m alive and breathing, and I am loved, and I am looking forward.

Part V – Burning

I tried so hard to get her out of my system. I tried to get as far away from home as possible and start fresh where nobody would know me, but life is a cruel bitch and I’m not the only one who wanted to start over. She seemed quite pleased by this, said that she was finding moving so far a bit scary and she was glad there was a familiar face. 

She’s sitting on the kitchen counter, singing terribly, only stopping to giggle at her own wailing; my hands are shaking, trying to unwrap the stupid stock cube. I end up chucking it in so awkwardly that boiling water splashes onto my hand, it scalds me, I wince. She stops singing and jumps off the counter, her eyes widen, she brings my burnt hand to her mouth and kisses it. Her lips are as soft as I’d always imagined. 

I pull my hand away and turn back to the pasta, finding myself leaning back against the counter she was sitting on, my knuckles white from having to clutch it so unexpectedly. Her arms have snaked around my waist and she’s looking directly into my eyes with an expression I don’t recognise. Her lips are as soft as I’d always imagined.
Fin.

Part IV- Leaving

I’ve literally had it up to here with mum. So what if I was five minutes late home last night? Five minutes is hardly the difference between life and death, is it? Okay, that sounds stupid, a lot can happen in five minutes but it’s not like we live in the bloody slums. Surely they should just be grateful that I’m not an idiot who comes home literally off her face like my sister.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about this whole Ben situation, I can’t believe I kissed him. Well, no, I can believe that, but I can’t believe he thinks I’m his girlfriend now – it was literally just a silly kiss at a party! I don’t care how much you look like a Ken doll, I don’t want an actual relationship, especially not now as we’re all about to literally disperse across the country.

I can’t wait to get to Dundee and finally start the rest of my life. I know it’s far and that’s a bit scary but what’s the point in leaving home and literally only going half an hour down the road?

Ben’s just sent me literally the hundredth message this morning, it’s not even eleven yet…I need to speak to Holly, like, now.

Part III – Shame

I hate the bit just after you’ve put the slice in, waiting for it to pop out again. I always set my toaster to two minutes (I only found out those numbers were minutes and not a heat thing a few months ago, my whole life’s a lie, I swear!). You can go through everything from the night before in two minutes. I just want to hide in the house for a week, is that too much to ask?

If I write this down I can’t forget it because it will be physical and tangible, does that make sense? Even if I burn this page, it’ll be written into the ashes for all eternity. 

Bloody hell, that was pretentious.

Alright, here goes, my disgusting confession: I got off with Stephen. In my defence, it was his birthday and I was drunk and…fine. I’m a “slutty drunk”. Whatever. I just regret letting down a mate. Poor Paige, I didn’t even notice her leave. I left her on her own all night, the poor sod. I was meant to be her wing-woman.

And now I’ve burnt my toast. For fuck’s sake.

Part II – Blank Canvas

I’m not sure why I’m sat here in the dark, the lights work perfectly – not all of them, the bulb in the kitchen’s bust but otherwise there’s no real excuse. I’ve got painter’s block, you see (is that a thing?), and to get rid of painter’s block you’ve got to sit in the dark, apparently.
Tom’s making a right racket upstairs putting all his stuff in the drawers I called dibs on, probably, and I’m sitting here, in the lounge, in the dark, writing out my thoughts like they’re worth anything to anyone.

There’s a nasty orange light coming in from the streetlamp; it’s not nice at all but it’s the only thing stopping the room being pitch black. I appreciate street lamps more than most people. I find myself in this situation far too often. I suppose you think I’m a nutter, “just get up and turn the light on”, but I don’t want to, honestly. I don’t want to move at all. All I want is this bloody barrier between my thoughts and all my creative bits, wherever they are, to piss off so I can just get on with it.
Tom’s coming downstairs now, I know how this is going to go “why are you sitting in the dark, Jen?”, I don’t know, Tom, why am I sitting in the dark? Does anyone know why I’m sitting in the dark, because I certainly don’t. All I know is that I don’t want to be the one to turn the light on, I wouldn’t mind if you switched it on, Tom, but I can’t do it myself. For now, I suppose the streetlamp will have to do.