Excerpts from my upcoming Movella, Oliver James

I have started to piece together a book about a boy called Oliver James. Things keep changing about the plot so I can't tell you much about it yet but I hope to have something more solid up soon.


3. Cuts. (Part 1: Amelia's point of view)

I didn't usually knock, he would always be standing there, waiting, that huge, stupid grin on his face. I hated that fucking face, always fucking smiling when he's just dying inside. 

I don't care if he's upset, I don't care if he's a messed up kid with messed up problems. Doesn't he know he's not the only one? He's a shitty little liar. Oliver James, I never saw you as he lying, cheating bastard everyone else did, but now I get it. You're a fake.

He opened his front door. His grin was there but his eyes looked like they had been crying and then forced in to work. 


"let me in, Oliver" he could tell I was angry. Good. He should know.

"What's going on?"

"Fuck, Oliver. Just let me in" He just stepped to the side. His grinning stopped when a tear crept its way on to my cheek. This is not the time to cry, Amy. I walked straight past him, up the stairs and in to his bedroom.

His room was the same as always: messy, but not enough to be disgusted by. The perfect balance. From his top floor window you can see an old abandoned swing set in his back garden, a cemented over pond and the neighbor's rusted BBQ, but nothing further, That's what you get for picking the back room, the other houses block the view you have every right to see.

"What's wrong? Do you want to talk about it?" He spoke timidly managing to look uncomfortable in his own room, awkward and out of place.

"No, I want you to talk about it!"

"Talk about what?" he must have been confused, but this was his fault. He should know.

"Just talk about you. The real you." He just laughed, like I was being a silly little girl.

"You know the real me, Amelia."

I've never hated someone so much in my life. "Just take your fucking jumper of, Oliver"

"No. Why?"

"Just take it off."

"Where's this going, eh?" That stupid grin was back. I felt like a kid again and I'm sure if I had a sibling this may have reminded me of some nostalgic childhood memory. I pounced from my perch by the window and bee-lined to his waist. His stupid, skinny little waist.

Before he knew what had hit him, his jumper was over his head and lying crumpled by his ankles. I was still angry. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me?!" And all of a sudden, I felt mean. Like a bully who had just gone too far with their punches and knocked their victim out. 

He stammered for an answer "I...I...you didn't ask" He tried desperately to cover up his left arm but it was no use. His thin, pale arm was ruined by long, red lines slashed across his irritated skin. Each one spelled out 'help me' but his face said otherwise. He looked guilty, like he had done something wrong. He had done something wrong.

"You should've fucking told me, Oliver. You lied. You his the real you. I can't trust you."

"Why, 'cos I cut? That's rich coming from you, little miss 'this-world-is-shit' Everyone gets a bit depressed sometimes." He was getting all defensive, and so was I.

"I don't care about you cutting, I care you didn't tell me!"

"why?! Why should you care? Only one person knows about this and he's positively dying to un-know"

He was starting to cry. I was starting to cry. Crying wouldn't help anybody. 

"I can't tell you why." I was defeated.

"Really, Amelia? And why might that be?" His spit of a tone had reduced me into a whisper. I didn't want him to hear me anymore, I didn't want him to know I exist.

"because Liam would kill me" The regret hit me as soon as I said it. No way was he going to let this one go. 

"Liam? The fuck has Liam got to do with this?"

"More than you know" I was barely audible now, but he sure heard.

"Amelia, care to explain?"




This game was immature and childish but I knew that to be an adult I would have to tell him. Everything seemed so pointless no and he must have felt it too because he let go the tight grasp he had on his poor, battered arm that seemed to get all the blame.

"Please," he reached out his hand, the one that was stuck on the end of all his pain and touched my wrist "please". I just wanted to hold him. I was still angrier than I probably should be but I just wanted him to know that everything was okay. "I'll tell you, but you can't judge me."





** Part two coming soon **

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