Friday 7th June 2019 – Morning
GCSE (9-1) English Language [Paper 2]: J351/02 Exploring effects &
impact
Section B, 5. ‘Alone.’
Wed 8th June 2022
5. ALONE
[545 words: raw type up]
You always wondered what it would feel like to not be the third friend, the
leftover, the unwanted yet previously unacknowledged strings attached. It
was impossible for you to escape that thread of thought, especially at the
sleepovers you somehow found yourself in, always in attendance but
never really there.
“Like a ghost,” they whispered theatrically, as if you wouldn’t, couldn’t
and certainly shouldn’t ever hear. That hurt didn’t it? Oh yes, almost as
much as the “I’m not free this weekend” followed by countless, careless
party paraphernalia circulated by the whole world that seemed to revolve
around, but always avoiding direct contact with your head.
Your body, your neck, that you couldn’t care about quite so much.
“You sold yourself after *that* party – you know the one I’m talking
about,” I can clearly see reverberates rounds within that now drying
cavern that they call your skull. They don’t know that now; all they
remember is that one time you – no, I won’t bother writing it, because just
like you always knew in that cosy abyss of a mind, nobody cares. Past,
future and present, I would be the only exception to that. I’m immortal.
Did you know that before? And I also really, really care about you.
Genuinely, I do.
Can you see me right now? Hear me? Use that kinaesthetic awareness you
always proclaimed to possess to sense my presence? Or, is it as always
the chaos around you that absorbs every synapse inside you? Well, if you
ever bother to sit up inside your coffin, I pinned a little note for you to
read. Do you reckon dead people can read? I do wonder. I hope so,
because it took me a lot of effort to print those words – you see, I was
illiterate before.
Will you see that burnt crimson lid? Will you smell your acrid flesh and
appreciate that long-yearned for sight of bones upon bones, veiled by no
skin, no fat nor muscle either? I’d resent it, if I were perfectly honest with
you. I mean, no one else is actually going to visit your grave and bother to
dig up your coffin, open it up and take a whiff and pic. But as I’ve told you
before, I really care about you. I really, rather extremely do. It’s a pity I
don’t really have much of a body of my own to animate to take a photo
and post online, #NoFilter. You look ravishing, darling. Everyone that
knew (as far as that went) would be amazed: not that you’re finally dead,
of course; they forgot about that even being a possibility before it even
happened; no. They’d be astonished by your newfound beauty in
superficial aesthetics and the deeper sentiment surrounding it too. Oh, to
be romanticised so by your peers! I could envy you.
, Well, I hear something summoning me now, so I guess I must be off. I
won’t leave you on a jealous note though, so before I depart this once
restless mind, I’ll read you that note I left you. Just as a precaution, you
know? I wouldn’t want my efforts to go to waste after all. Alright, here
goes, hear ghost’s: “from your dear un-imaginary friend, whose name is
pride. I’m leaving too.”
GCSE (9-1) English Language [Paper 2]: J351/02 Exploring effects &
impact
Section B, 5. ‘Alone.’
Wed 8th June 2022
5. ALONE
[545 words: raw type up]
You always wondered what it would feel like to not be the third friend, the
leftover, the unwanted yet previously unacknowledged strings attached. It
was impossible for you to escape that thread of thought, especially at the
sleepovers you somehow found yourself in, always in attendance but
never really there.
“Like a ghost,” they whispered theatrically, as if you wouldn’t, couldn’t
and certainly shouldn’t ever hear. That hurt didn’t it? Oh yes, almost as
much as the “I’m not free this weekend” followed by countless, careless
party paraphernalia circulated by the whole world that seemed to revolve
around, but always avoiding direct contact with your head.
Your body, your neck, that you couldn’t care about quite so much.
“You sold yourself after *that* party – you know the one I’m talking
about,” I can clearly see reverberates rounds within that now drying
cavern that they call your skull. They don’t know that now; all they
remember is that one time you – no, I won’t bother writing it, because just
like you always knew in that cosy abyss of a mind, nobody cares. Past,
future and present, I would be the only exception to that. I’m immortal.
Did you know that before? And I also really, really care about you.
Genuinely, I do.
Can you see me right now? Hear me? Use that kinaesthetic awareness you
always proclaimed to possess to sense my presence? Or, is it as always
the chaos around you that absorbs every synapse inside you? Well, if you
ever bother to sit up inside your coffin, I pinned a little note for you to
read. Do you reckon dead people can read? I do wonder. I hope so,
because it took me a lot of effort to print those words – you see, I was
illiterate before.
Will you see that burnt crimson lid? Will you smell your acrid flesh and
appreciate that long-yearned for sight of bones upon bones, veiled by no
skin, no fat nor muscle either? I’d resent it, if I were perfectly honest with
you. I mean, no one else is actually going to visit your grave and bother to
dig up your coffin, open it up and take a whiff and pic. But as I’ve told you
before, I really care about you. I really, rather extremely do. It’s a pity I
don’t really have much of a body of my own to animate to take a photo
and post online, #NoFilter. You look ravishing, darling. Everyone that
knew (as far as that went) would be amazed: not that you’re finally dead,
of course; they forgot about that even being a possibility before it even
happened; no. They’d be astonished by your newfound beauty in
superficial aesthetics and the deeper sentiment surrounding it too. Oh, to
be romanticised so by your peers! I could envy you.
, Well, I hear something summoning me now, so I guess I must be off. I
won’t leave you on a jealous note though, so before I depart this once
restless mind, I’ll read you that note I left you. Just as a precaution, you
know? I wouldn’t want my efforts to go to waste after all. Alright, here
goes, hear ghost’s: “from your dear un-imaginary friend, whose name is
pride. I’m leaving too.”
