Queen on England

okay...so this is the very first chapter of my oldest and longest story. And I'm not going to lie-

it sucks. I need to keep the introduction of all the characters in here but seriously...the descriptions are needless and I basically ramble the whole way through.

Any advice for a sixteen year old?


Queen of England
Chapter 1- In Which Lily is Introduced

The sun was not shining. In fact, the graying 7:00PM sky told me that there was a slight chance of unbalanced showers. The wind was blowing enough to make the air unpleasantly cool, the type of weather that usually required homemade wooly sweaters and fabric gloves that were never intended to wear when making snowballs, but perfect for those who desired to chuck handfuls of leaves at each other. The trees, naturally, turned colours, and many leaves had already made their descent to the ground; scattered in random patterns in places, but raked into piles in others, making it very appealing to children who wished to plunge head first into an unhygienic mound of slightly decaying foliage.

It’s a very good thing I am no longer a child, because from the corner of my eye, on the way home from the Half Moon coffee shop, I spotted the small park that I visited on a close to daily basis and almost squealed with a piggish delight. For tonight was the type of night I loved most. It was the sort of night many people would call ‘sluggish’, for spells like this always seemed to drag on at a torturous rate, but Tuesday, October 12th was, if truth be told, was my favorite day of the whole damn year. It was the very middle of the autumn, when nature finished shedding off last year’s style in layers, when the suns rays became less precise on the city of London, and when students such as myself got settled into their school year. I had just finished a round of homework at the Half Moon, where the regulars there all pitched in to help me with my Algebra bit and laughed as I struggled with my Physical Science, the one class in which Finger (as I lovingly call her) and Monsieur Jacque did not get. Finger lent me $2.50 for a vanilla chai and a strawberry frosted donut, and told me to ‘Hurry my cute derrière home before the stalkers came out to prowl the streets.’ Finger, a forty year old, senile woman missing her left ring finger, (it was cut off by her husband two days before their divorce) still believes that Jack the Ripper is somewhere in London. She is the closest thing I have to a mum and I desperately wish she would marry my dad (I need another woman in the family), but my chances of that were slim; not because of Finger’s insanity, but because if you compared my dad to a circle, the circle would be straighter. In fact, my father is actually in a ‘domestic partnership’ with a man named Mr. Gregory Higganes, who is incredibly slender and tall, not remotely handsome as would be excepted, and who now lived in our two bedroom apartment with us. I despised the man, and I could not see what my father found even vaguely attractive in him. Gregory is what I referred to him as considering: the title of ‘dad’ was taken by a man who deserved it, I would not offend my ‘mum’ (wherever she may be) by calling him that, ‘step dad’ made their relationship official, and ‘Greg’ made it sound like I was talking to one of my friends, and however…chummy in bed my dad may be with him, I found his haughty air annoying and snotty as compared to attractive and friendly.

With Finger’s advice, I decided that it was time to return home, no matter how unpleasant the thought of seeing Gregory was, and to pick out an outfit for school tomorrow before retiring to my Chamber of Hell, as Gregory nicknamed my space almost momentarily. So, I packed my sea green and black messenger bag with my school items and waved goodbye to Monsieur Jacque and gave Finger the ‘finger’, which was not at all a rude gesture to her, but simply like a secret handshake. In return she raised her whole hand, spreading her phalanges to show the gap where her finger once was; with her right hand, she raised her coffee cup (which was spiked with something that distinctly smelt like vodka) and took a large gulp saying, ‘To your good health, deary.’

The sunlight was still in the horizon, and it fought an ongoing war with the clouds to stay into view. With a breeze that whipped through the trees and my hair in gusto like a firing cannon, the sun seemed to have been fatally shot by the precipitation as it faded into the darkening sky. Another reason I was passionate about fall nights was the fact that the sky was not pitch black like winter, and it was also not reddish, like summer. It was a deep, navy blue that can never be described with justice. I would give anything to sit outside tonight, at my secret park, and sleep underneath my huge sky, admiring the beauty of something so big that it seems endless. But, alas, I can’t. I’d most likely get soaked to my skin from the foreboding rain and Gregory would have an epileptic fit if I wasn’t home at eight o’clock. Not to mention the fact that I hate lightening and would be scared senseless unless I was home in my room. Speaking of my secret park, I gave a quick glance to my side to see if anyone was lurking around it. One thing I’ve come to learn about London, everywhere you go, you have your ‘regulars’ or devotees. I myself was a fan of being a regular. I love familiarity in everything I did. My secret park had two regulars, one of which christened the plot ‘Midnight Dwelling’, the other of which smuggled a trunk full of useful things for a teenager such as: a fluffy blue blanket, a small radio, flashlights, an assortment of 6 different brands of rum, and two silver goblets, neither of which were of much value, but were absolutely gorgeous. I was obviously the one who thought of the name. The other was my best friend who I just hoped was at the dwelling. And not to my surprise, he was there. I walked over towards the land, as quietly as possible as I looked at him hunched over a book, furiously reading and taking notes, and noticed that he was sitting on the blanket with a goblet most likely full of his and my favorite alcohol of choice, Captain Jack. He gazed up at me, flashed me a handsome grin, and then moved his books aside so I could plop down on the blanket. I opened up my bag and offered him my History homework, noticing that it was what he was working on.

“I worship you.” He said, amorously. He gestured towards his book bag, telling me to take whatever homework I needed to copy. Him and I had a system. I was particularly good at History and English; he was immensely good at Science and Maths. We were both in high honors classes, so we just traded homework whenever we needed. I could have never made it into 11th year without his help in my math classes, the one subject which I loathe with the passion that Romeo and Juliet shared. I was pretty damn sure he never would have learned the words ‘adore’ or ‘worship’ without my assistance in English. I waited a few seconds in silence as he finished copying down my answers, pausing a small quantity of times to take a drink from his glass. When he was finally done, he raised his goblet in a toast to me, and downed the rest of his rum before drying it with a napkin and sticking it back in the trunk. He ran his fingers through his long, natural sleek black hair before he stretched out his body and gave a great yawn that greatly resembled a whooping; rubbing his eyelids which concealed his green eyes that reminded me very much of world’s finest emeralds that were meant for royalty. He pulled himself across the blanket until his back leaned up against the one large oak tree, spreading his legs so I could sit between them and prop against his chest. He then proceeded to pat his stomach, signaling for me to come. For a second I was pensively reminded of that old trick were you rubbed your stomach and patted your head, and chuckled at him, amused. He raised his eyebrows at me. “Dirty thoughts?”

“You wish, Sirius Hamilton.” I stated sarcastically. “Would an English gentleman such as yourself really care to take advantage of me like that?”

“For you, darling Lily, I will never be a gentleman.” I giggled, not in the little girlish, being asked your age, type of way, but in a way that meant what he was saying was true. Sirius was very different around me then other people, and it wasn’t exactly a bad thing. Sirius was, and always be, a smart lad, no matter how clueless he acts in times of peril and pleasure. He knew that politeness got you somewhere in this world; for instance, holding a door open for a teacher may get you an excuse for being late to your next class (although this may give questionable results if you were not as handsome as Sirius). Also, complimenting your headmaster by feeding her/him a story that they do not look a day over 35 may result in a sudden forgetful frenzy when your name is brought up about leaving…questionable remarks about your gym teacher’s sexuality on library books. Those things, compliments, manners, etc. were expected from a gentleman. From Sirius, I never expected those things, although they always came. When Sirius was polite towards you, it benefited him in some way, whether it be; it saved his neck with the school authorities, or it stopped me from backhanding him across the neck for being a jerk. But if he truly liked you, he’d treat you with respect, the way he did with me; if I was cold, he’d do anything to make me warm, including take off his shirt in 30 degree weather though this only happened once, for I was too smart to forget a jacket after that incident. ‘There are only 2 people I respect like that in the world…’ Sirius once stated. ‘My mother and you.’

“Stop it, Lils. You’re scaring me.” I shook my head slightly and realized I had been staring at Sirius for a long time. It more confused him then scared him, because he knew that whenever I stared at something it meant I was thinking about it. “You okay?” He asked after a few seconds, as I buttoned up my white shirt, preparing for the cold of the night to kick in. I nodded and stretched out my body much like he did, although I could bend backwards a little farther and looked much less attractive. He grinned at me, and I smiled back before moving closer to him and taking the spot he had created. I found it funny how he could wrap his arms around my waist and I could lean my head back on his body to listen to his heartbeat, like we were doing now, and nobody, not even the owls in the trees or his mom and my dad, thought we were romantically engrossed in each other. I felt his lips brush the top of my head, and then looked down at his wrist to see the time. 7:45. I sighed and pulled myself up, noticing how my once warm back now chilled from the loss of body heat. After brushing a considerable amount of leaves off my long prairie skirt, I turned around and reached a hand towards Sirius. He took it, and heaved himself up, using me for balance. After he brushed off his vintage old blue jeans he purchased from a thrift store, that had much less foliage clinging to them, he folded the blanket and put it in the trunk, then took the keys from his back pocket to lock it. When done, he pivoted towards me and goes, “Would you like to walk or would you like a ride?”

“A ride, preferably.” I wanted to annoy Gregory as much as possible. He smiled at me before lacing his hand with mine and dragging me over to his motorcycle and handing me his second black helmet.

“Well, you know what to do.” He said, jokingly. I rolled my eyes, but smiled, and straddled the bike, waiting for him to position his helmet and sit down before grasping his belt loops with my fingers. “Ready yet?” I chuckled and poked his side. He squeaked, and then started his engine. “Dork.” He said, before switching gears and pulling out of the abandoned alley.

***
“Do not tell me that nasty boy gave you a ride home on his bike.” Gregory crossly spat at me, as I waved goodbye to Sirius before coming into the house and taking off my Converse. “You let her date him?” He directed towards my father.

“She doesn’t date him, and if he asked her too, I’d completely support it. Sirius Hamilton is a very nice guy, and I’d trust him with her life.” I smiled at my father before stomping up the stairs into my bedroom, dumping my bag onto my floor, diving onto my bed, burying my face into my purple pillow, and listening to the soft sounds of my father’s shuffling feet across the kitchen floor and Gregory’s large boot heels clicking against the tile of the mudroom, no doubt complaining about my ‘dirty sneakers’. After a few seconds of deep breathing and composing myself after my anger I felt for Gregory, I opened my dresser drawer and took out a nightgown, then walked over to the loo to change. I was annoyed to see it was already taken. I knocked raptly on the door.

“Be patient, Lililena...” I growled at the mention of my full first name and felt my cheeks flush. I punched the door in fury which I regretted in a few seconds as the tips of my knuckles automatically turned a very pale shade.

“Take your bloody time shaving, Gregory! Please note the stress on the word bloody. Goodnight.” I countered, as I took the use of my first name as a personal offense. I trekked back to my chamber and slipped on my pajamas, then walked downstairs into the kitchen to say goodnight to my father. I found him at the table, sipping coffee with a noted happy look on his face. He looked up as I walked in, sprang from the table, and wrapped me in a large embrace, something I hadn’t felt from in a long time. Whatever the news was, I felt I wasn’t going to be too happy. If dad was this excited, it usually was over some passion we didn’t share.

“Lena! Marriage! It becomes legal in December! And oh! Greg proposed!” I gasped. Definitely the biggest passion we DIDN’T share: Love for Gregory. I groaned almost silently, but because my dad had defended Sirius before, I felt the need to be happy for him and not ruin his night. So I changed my groan to an over-the-top high pitched squeal as my father pulled me tighter, cracking my already shattered ribs, as my lungs inhaled so much air to stop me from screaming that they almost exploded inside of my body. I felt like throwing up my intestines, as grotesque as it sounds, when I heard Gregory’s oily voice slipping out from his face, which I noticed, had not been impaled with cuts.

“Isn’t this great, Lililena? We’ll be family.” I couldn’t control myself. The next thing I knew, I was clutching my father’s coffee mug and dumping the contents onto Gregory’s bald head. He screeched as the liquid started to burn his cranium, but I was unsympathetic. I glowered at him before tearing up the staircase and slamming my bedroom door, ignoring the angry yells of my father and the whimpering of Gregory as his pale skin probably turned dark red from the burns and his allergic reaction to the Folgers’s coffee.


I know, I hate this story too...but it's kind of like a child. I'm sure you understand. Comments and critics, please! :sick: