The one and only reason

Hi. Here is a story I have been working on all term. It is about a girl who has the worst life ever but she still thinks of herself as lucky in the end. (Don’t worry, not all of it is based off my life.) I really hope you like it and please leave your thoughts in the comments section. Hope you enjoy :):):)

Blurb: She was a girl. Just a girl. No mental issues, no medical problems. Just your average teenage girl. The only thing that was not average was her social life, her positivity. A lot of things she thought mattered. She had life hard. Not time-out hard. Death hard, friend hard, self-doubt hard, anxiety hard. She thought she was the definition of hard. But she realised something, something big…



What is the meaning of life? Is it to raise a family? Is it to find your gift or purpose? Is it to love one another? Could it be to see a peacock spread its tail, or to touch a Picasso original? According to Google, ‘life has no meaning, each of us have a meaning and we bring it to life.’ Could that be possible? One thing I am sure of is that I, Jessica Gibson, for as long as I live, have no meaning on this planet. Not one acknowledges me, not one remembers me, and not one cares for me. I, Jessica Gibson, am no one.

For years now I’ve received dirty looks on the busy streets, mothers holding on tightly to their children as they pass me, people pointing and saying, ‘ that’s the girl that had him as a father.’ They don’t think I can hear, they don’t think I know, but the truth is… I do.

I live in the Gibson manor. It used to be the best house in town. Our town used to be lively, exciting. All we have now are old, grey houses and sad, miserable people. We have 4 shops, the florist owned by the 100-year-old man who always has a cigar in his mouth, a grocery shop owned by the 20-year-old woman who is obsessed with going green and saving our planet ‘for the better’, there’s the convenience shop, owned by the psychopath 30-year-old man who ran around town at 12.00 every night screaming ‘everybody down, the aliens are coming.’ There’s also the hardware store owned by the 60 year old woman who files her red, fake nails all day. She doesn’t even take care of the store, ‘it’s all about the money,’ she says. We have a normal town, with normal people, with normal habits, so why does no-one treat ME normally. I’ve never known.




My father left me when I was 11 years old. It has been 5 years now since that has happened, but I still remember it, every single day. I remember it when I wake up late and recall him clanging pots and pans at my door frame until I woke up. I remember it when I sit down for dinner, by myself, and I remember it when I go to bed, where he used to tuck me in and read me stories. I miss that. I miss it all. But I’m kind of glad he left, he turned from a nice, loving father into an alcoholic 58 year old man who called me a brat and regretted staying with me every second of every minute of everyday. I miss mum too. She died when I was 7. I remember crying for ages without stopping. My dad (when he was nice) tried to get the whole family to help me calm down. It got to the point where I was going therapy once a week. But it still didn’t calm me down. I was a mess for years but when dad left, I forgot all about it. The only person I can go to now is my grandma. She is a nice and understanding woman, but she has dementia so she never remembers who I am. So I guess I’m on my own.

I go down to the grocery store every day at 12.00pm to get one thing and one thing only. Mac and cheese mix. Sometimes on Wednesdays, I get a triple chocolate muffin but only if they’re on sale. I have a budget of spending £13.74 a day. No more than that. I do have a job as well. I work at the hairdressers shop in the next town. I love it there, it’s just like escaping my horror film of a life. All the staff there are really nice too, they don’t even know about my reputation. I wish I could move there but houses around there aren’t cheap. I’ve stayed there a couple of nights with my friends at work but that’s it. I work on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays.  I get exactly £40.00 per week. Not much, but enough.


My house. It’s big, too big. No company at all. It is just me in my big house. Actually, I can’t really say it’s mine. It belonged to old man Greg in the 1920’s. My grandfather, Greg’s best friend was given the house after he was left homeless. My dad lived in it with my grandfather and grandmother until they both went missing, no one knew how, but now everybody does, even me. My father killed them. He wanted the house to himself. For years he claimed to be my grandfather until he was eligible to own a house himself. I didn’t know until he left. Until he left me.

It gets cold in England. Except for in summer all it does is rain. On some occasions it hales and even thunderstorms. Sometimes, every 5 years or so, it snows. Not like a light snow but heavy snow. Snow when kids make snowmen, snow when people have snowball fights, snow when everyone is happy and all tucked up in scarves, gloves and lots of jackets. Mum used to love the snow. She’d always get me out of the house and rip buttons of her jackets for me to put on my snowman’s nose and eyes. Whenever I see snow these days, real snow, I think of her. Dad never came out in the snow. He was qualified to be a doctor, he never took it up though. “You’ll get the flu,” he always said, well, before he went mad.

I loved how on cold nights, mum used to put on the fire and sit in the big brown leather chair. She would brush my hair for hours. She had a brown box full of gourmet chocolates. She always gave me one of the caramel delights. I’d always gobble it up in a matter of seconds. I felt a feeling I hadn’t felt in ages when I was around her, happiness. Happiness is a feeling when your body fills up with big yellow bubbles and when you try to wipe a smile off your face but just can’t. It’s the feeling when you laugh for no reason. Mum was the definition of happiness.



Death. I hate that word. It just reminds me of her. She was the best thing that had ever happened to me and then she was gone, like a puff of smoke. I don’t remember a lot of that day, just the doctor feeling too sympathetic, dad weeping in a corner and mum laying on the hospital bed, as stiff as a log. She looked so cold. I wanted to lay a blanket over her body but I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. She would still be cold, still be stiff and still be dead. We walked home that afternoon, dad didn’t talk, neither did I. We were too sad. Actually sad is an understatement. You know when you are hysterically happy, when you just can’t stop laughing, well I was hysterically sad, I couldn’t stop crying. That night I sat on the brown leather chair, wondering where on earth she was but then it came to me, she wasn’t on earth, she was in heaven. I have always wondered  what it looks like in heaven. Is it a big white room filled with angels and passed souls. Or is it a room, just a room. Nothing to do or say. Just a room. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again, in heaven. I hope I do. I really hope I do.

100 people in our town. 53.5 million people live in England and only  100 of them live in our town, Wakefield falls. It’s named that because of the big waterfall in the centre of the shops. I guess you could say it’s our landmark, what we’re known for. We rely on it for water supply, good luck etc; I think it’s a load of rubbish. There is no such thing as luck. If there were then why did she die, why did he leave, why am I by myself. In the town where I work, they are known for their great hair, thanks to me and the others. We even went to an awards ceremony for greatest hair salon, I was in the middle of making the speech when we accepted the golden curler when someone yelled out “That’s her, it’s a Gibson.” I was normal in that town, I was just like everyone else. They all know, they pretend they don’t but they do. I’m always assigned the dangerous, deluded customers because the manager doesn’t trust me with the others. It’s annoying.

Last year I went to high school. Not normal high school. Special school. The government thought it was ‘for the best.’ I disagreed and wanted to kick them until they bled. I remember that day. I did kick them. Hard. The security man put is big arms around me, picked me up in to fireman’s lift and chucked me in the black room. How can I describe the black room. It’s black. I imagine it’s what hell looks like but devils would replace the big guards guarding the door.

My special school was the worst. The teachers all treated us like babies. There were about 11 of us. 12 if you include the Siamese twins as 2 people. Their family was too poor to go through with an operation. I felt sorry for them. They had to do everything together. I wouldn’t mind that. I would do anything to do something with someone else but living the life of Jessica Gibson is a challenge.  I can’t walk around town un-noticed, I can’t talk to someone without them taking a step back to ensure they are safe from any danger. I can’t even buy anything without the shop owner giving me a long hard glare right in the eye while they scan the item I am buying through the scanner and put it in a plastic bag.or a cardboard bag if you count the supermarket lady.  If I had one wish it would be to be someone else entirely. It wouldn’t matter if I was the ugliest person in the world or the most annoying person in the world. I just want to be someone or something different.


I met a girl when I was 14. She was from Australia. She had a funny accent and a great sense of humour. Her name was Susan. She was my best friend for a few months until she moved to Switzerland. I liked her. A lot. She was very kind to me and didn’t care about my history. She always said ‘what’s in the past stays in the past and what’s in the future is yet to be discovered.’ Whenever she said that she said it dramatically. It was funny but I didn’t believe her. Not one bit.


Susan called me a couple of times when she was in Switzerland but I never answered. Just seeing her name flash up on my phone was enough pain to be put through but hearing her voice wold just send me to tears. Not normal tears, not weeping tears but REAL tears. Can you imagine having a friend, your only friend and then she leaves you. Just like that. After about a year we messaged on Christmas;



Me: Hi Susan, just wanted to say Merry Xmas.

Susan: Hey, though u had forgotten me.

Me:  No way!! Anyway gtg.

Susan: Oh. Well gr8 talking to u.






A lot of kids have pets. I remember my first pet. It was a goat. It was chubby and sat down all day. He died within the first 3 days of old days. I re-read the adoption form and it said may die in the first week. Oh. I was planning on naming Herbert but I guess that dream was dead. After my un-named goat I didn’t have another pet. I couldn’t bear to see another goat.  Until the next day, I was better then. Kids do stuff like that they are worried about getting an injection but then 1 minute later they get a lollipop and BAM… all better.


In 2015 I was voted towns prettiest brat. I know what you’re thinking, and yeah, that is an award category. I have long caramel coloured hair, dark chocolate brown eyes, a blanket of freckles covering my nose and cheeks. I have long thick eyelashes and soft pink lips. My teeth are white and perfectly in line. My eyebrows are proportioned and my figure is nor too thick or too slim. My looks are perfect so I get the pretty part of the award, but the bratty part. I just don’t understand. My attitude may be a little negative but bratty is just plain rude. When the mayor gave me my medal she held her hand way out to shake it. She then dropped the medal on the floor so I could scurry around and pick it up. Embarrassing. I was the front page of ‘Wakefield What’s?’ our town’s newspaper. I went for my daily food shop and the newspaper stand was empty. A big red sign spelling ‘SOLD OUT’ was plastered across the lonely cardboard stand. I know my award nomination category for next year, towns biggest fail. Maybe they’ll change the name of the award, I can just imagine the mayor saying ‘And now, the Gibson award goes to…’

I really have to move.




I have been described in many different ways, normal wasn’t one of them. People call me abnormal. I guess I am. I don’t do normal things teenagers should do.
1. Slumber parties- I could have one but it would just end up being a night where I’m expecting friends to come but I just end up watching a movie and eating popcorn with my teddy bears.

  1. Have over 5 social media accounts- just another place for strangers to see how unpopular, weird, lame, strange and dorky I truly am.
  2. Drink coffee, a lot- I would but it’s gross
  3. Sleep in- I’ve got a job.
  4. Get Pimples because they wear way to much make up- Our town has no beauty shop plus I can’t afford it anyway.
  5. Get 7 sores because they trip over in 5 inch high heels- Flats all the way.



I took a quiz once to see what people think my best quality is, the quiz said people think I have no qualities. They’re not wrong. I mean I think that I’m… yeah I have no qualities. I’m like a ghost. Invisible and unheard. But I can be chaotic and dramatic. That’s the thing about introverts, we wear our chaos on the inside where no one can see.



My birthday is on the 29th of February. I have a proper birthday every 4 years. So I guess you could say I am 4 and ¼ years old. I don’t act like a four year old. I don’t look like a four year old but I am. I’m four years old.


I used have a social media account. No surprise I bet. I got rid of it after 5 days. It kept asking me to refill my personal details:

Name: Jessica Gibson

Age: 4 years old

Fav book: War and peace
Fav movie:
 The hunger games

Fav colour: Teal

Ph. Number: dont have one 



I soon realised that it was a scam. Someone low-life was pretending to be me. I tried to contact the creator of the website but they didn’t believe me. So I decided to quit.






I have 3 bedrooms in my house, 3 bathrooms, 2 kitchens, 2 living rooms, 2 television rooms and laundry. And my house is one story. And each room is the normal room size… x5. And only one person lives there. Me


10 years later

I am now 6 and ¼ years old (27) and I can’t believe how much my life has changed from 10 years ago to now. I live my friends. I have a new job at the hardware store after the old woman unfortunately passed. I now get heaps more money and buy 5 mac ‘n’ cheeses a day and can get a chocolate muffin every second day. I have moved towns. I now live in Switzerland with Susan. Life is now great. Really great. I have actually been interviewed on a international  news show. I even released a book ‘A story of an unfortunate life.’ It’s about my journey, my ups and downs of life. Here is the blurb: ‘People think everyone is lucky. People think that everyone is lucky. Well, they’re not. This is about my family, struggles with them, my friends, well lack of them and me. A no-one. Even though it took me my whole life to realise, I now know that I, Jessica Gibson, am someone.’

100W- Week 9


I stared at the cold, stone hands gripping the tight and torn rope. Arthur Songman, founder of our town. He went on quite an adventure to get here and all he had was his trusty rope. The statue commemorates him. I can’t look at it. it just reminds me of the horror I had to face that day. In our town we have to groups, the rich and the poor. They treat us like slaves , like we aren’t even human. Although he may seem like a god, Arthur started it all. Rich, adored, inspiring Arthur. All with one basic move.

100WC- Week 8

Prompt: but what colour should it be?
Purple?Blue?Green? I couldn’t decide. It wasn’t like I could draw a colour out of a hat and go with it, this was a BIG deal. You probably wouldn’t get it because you aren’t in the middle of having a sculpture built for you because you are your town ‘s hero and the artist sculpting it has no idea what art is. I’m hoping that the colour with be a distraction from the lumpy, ugly sculpture. I think I’ll go with orange. That’s it orange.