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Being told I was terminal wasn't so much of a shock; more of a deeply ingrained knowledge, taken by the neck and wrung from a dream. A mute reverberation, ripening in my bowels, brushing the bottom of my stomach, pumped through my vessels, and into my heart poured the wicked truth, a wicked truth I had secretly hidden, furrowed in the darkest place, but which I had known all along; I was going to die.

I turned from the placid scene before my eyes and smiled. The persistent drumming in my brain which singed every nerve had ceased, and I felt utterly pleased with myself. It was not the first time I had experienced the sensation; from the ashes of pain flames a feeling of satisfaction; a combination I do not wholly understand. The room, currently flitting with over-excited, pretentious nobodies, who, after injecting you with a condemning look and a crooked brow, then swept you away in one mighty blow; under the carpet and beneath the feet of naïve prospective pretentious nobodies, meticulously trained to glare and pout at any rich-looking person in the room. I, as you may have guessed, am neither of these. The room itself certainly reflected its occupiers. Rich mahogany furniture was plastered everywhere for the effect of wisdom and class, attempting to cover up the trashy nature of this gathering but having quite the opposite effect. A large table in the centre of the room, with sharp corners which jutted out excruciatingly, displayed an array of unusual foods; battered squid, blackened sea bass and some kind of green, fish-orientated soup which looked suspiciously like bile, filled the room with an awful stench, which I found quite fitting. The brownish panelled walls made lines shoot up to the ceiling, boxing me into this repulsive scenario. I moved from my current position next to the bookcase, and glided, unnoticed towards the large bay window, and wished myself a world away.
'So, your mother tells me you no longer wish for your current situation here at Starlen to continue. Is this correct miss?'
A bitter, poisoning voice projected, loudly enough for the nearest eavesdroppers to rejoice in this humiliation. I did not move.
'I cannot imagine anything that could please your more I'm sure Mrs Knattle.'
I relished the words as they played around my mouth, left to linger for barely a moment, and then disappear into the past.
'You can make no such assumption my dear; I am merely inquiring why this is so, after such a brief time with us. And, after your initial'objections, you were just starting to catch up with the other ladies here. It must have been excessively challenging for someone of your- well your unfortunate situation.'
Her words were drenched in sarcasm and dripping with distain, as if the sea had plucked them from her ancient lips and then spat them back out into my face. I remained staring blindly out of the window, as though a falling grey leaf had caught my attention. I could feel stinging in my eyes. How dare she? I could hear two girls stood next to the bookcase sniggering joyfully at my pain. I looked down ay my hands and knew what they were capable of. It was enough to abate the festering anger inside of me. God I hate this fucking place. So conformed, so respectable, so utterly anxious to stomp every last thought out of your head so they could iron it out into a mat which the cat pissed on. You could see simply by looking at each and every girl's vacant eyes and empty face what being here did to you.
'Aspire to nothing; you will never be disappointed.'
'What did you say?' Snapped Mrs Knattle, her sarcastic drawl replaced with a sharp bite, which smelt metallic; a whiff panic.
'Nothing,' I replied swiftly, to soften the blow. I didn't mean to say it aloud. Sometimes that happens when my temper rises. Things that should really be kept within the confines of my own mind have a singular tendency to smuggle itself upon the electrical signal from my brain to my mouth ' a stowaway. I could feel sweat beginning to dampen my shirt, my pores determined to push out all the impurities as quickly as possible. It is another problem I have; my body's ability ' more desperation to be constantly purified. And to my great distress, a simple bath, unfortunately, does not suffice.
'Would you please turn around and face me young lady ' it is irretrievably rude to have your back turned from someone who is addressing you.'
I stifled a guffaw. Since her husbands death I had caught her receiving many addresses whilst her back was turned.
'Come now, surely we can come to some kind of ' understanding?' She laid her hand on my right shoulder. I let her wheel me around, her grip tightening at every second that passed.
Before me was a tiny woman. Tiny in that she was thin, unnaturally so, but it was common knowledge that her husband (deceased) forced this regime upon her. 'How ironic' I thought. Her skin was taut and papery; I had a sudden urge to touch it, to feel it under my calloused fingers. Her hair which was apparently 'strawberry blonde' was more like a sickly ginger, stuck between two identities. It hung at shoulder length, sleek and straight, good heavens it be otherwise. Her face was blank ' it could have been the first time we had met. It was a fuzzy blur, like when you have an excruciating migraine, and you feel like your dreaming except you know you're awake, because you know you can die. My eyes must have lingered too long.
'What are you staring at?' Hissed another woman who had slinked next to Mrs Knattle, she being young, willowy and smelt potently of boiled sweets.
'Matilda, surely you've learnt by now ' you will never get a husband talking to people that way. Your R.P is utterly dreadful.'