Emily J. has never been a reasonable girl. You see, I adore self-criticism. But what else can be said, if at the age of sixteen I climbed out of my bedroom’s window right at midnight (for I wanted everything to look as romantic as possible) and caught the first train that arrived at the deserted station at 4 a.m. and took me to London. A little comment on this – my parents didn’t have the slightest notion of my most spontaneous change of place. I had left them a note on the windowsill:
Had a quarrel with Rob. Set off in search for a better boyfriend. Love, Emma. ❤
Note: Yes, my given name is Emily. But it has always sounded too soft and lady-like for the currently rebellious me. Therefore – Emma. Deal with it.
It is quite obvious that Rob was an imaginary alien, that I had never had a boyfriend, and, as a result, no guy could be brought to responsibility for quarreling with me. Neither did I have any intention to find one to quarrel with.
I was just fed up with everyone and everything, especially my schoolmates who kept on calling me a Crowned Bookworm.
It is strongly believed that love for books equals arrogance. At least here. I couldn’t go on like this. But I left for London not to throw out all my brain and prove I am one of those common glamorous blondes guys usually fall for. To start with, despite having long fair hair, luckily, they are darker. As to my eyes, my friend Eliza, one of the few adequate people of my acquaintance (gosh, I really DO sound arrogant, I’ve caught their virus!), used to say: “Emma, no matter what a nice singing voice you might have, blue-eyed soul is forbidden to you from the start.” True. They happened to be brown.
I was aware I was pretty enough for London (arrogant again, no?), but what really bothered me was – how the hell was I going to dress up all that sufficient beauty? You see, my style could be defined as dark-blue jeans and a loose shirt. Usually checked. If I want to look like a stylish bitch – tied up with a belt. That’s what I really loved. It gave me the feeling of a childish country freedom.
But, becoming a sixteen-year-old with a bitter sense of humour and somewhat poisonous manner of leading dialogues, you suddenly begin to understand that one freedom can be greater than another. An illogical thought, but very true. You throw yourself into this controversial discovery just to prove that you CAN. What exactly – it’s very unclear, especially to you. But it’s too late to pull back – one leg is already hanging from a windowsill, your backpack falls onto the wet grass, you are balancing yourself with a great difficulty to leave a genius note for your parents (leaving a note of any kind in such a moment is a sign of great affection, believe me), then you jump down next to your backpack, make sure the belt you have tied up your shirt with is in the right place… and you are already having a nap in the train which is taking you to places you have seen only on the map or in the movies. It’s a great step. And great steps are usually absurd. At least for me.
P.S. All persons and events portrayed in the story are fictitious. The only real name here is London.
Image taken from She Scribes