Categories > Original > Fantasy > Escapology
1.
It started in Ireland.
Which was surprising to say the least.
Ireland was usually the last to be affected in every situation.
Ireland was like the dorky kid at the party. All the other countries picked on it and left it out because it wasn’t as big or strong as the other countries and also not very good at sports. When it came to anything of global importance Ireland was the last to hear about it. Just an inconsequential rock on the periphery edge of Europe who weren’t much use in a fight.
Inconsequential or not at least it was safe. Or it was before. Not warm enough for any dangerous, venomous animals to thrive. No tropical storms or earthquakes. No volcanoes. No evil wizards or ghouls. Just drug and drink dependencies, some hushed church based scandal and the increasingly ominous presence of The Recession.
The Recession seemed to be on everybody’s lips that year (and the 3 years previous to that) but for some it was just an abstract concept like air and gravity: You know it’s there but you don’t dwell on it. The Recession held a likeness to fairies in the mind of Laura Naughton so much as she didn’t believe in it so as far as she was concerned it did not exist. But then again she didn’t really need to believe in it. She had a seemingly endless supply of money and her every desire was catered for and had been since she was born. Laura Naughton never had to worry about the economic downturn because she lived in her princess bubble which no amount of interest rates and income taxes were about to burst. The Naughton’s basically owned their small rural Irish hometown and Laura adopted her aristocratic status with extreme ease. She was a walking cliché. Blonde and beautiful with sparkling baby blue eyes, perfect skin, perfect body, perfect everything. If Barbie had pulled a Pinocchio on it and crossed into the land of the living she would be Laura Naughton. (Almost) all the boys wanted her and (almost) all the girls wanted to be her. If this had been a couple of thousand kilometres across the Atlantic she would have been the prom queen and head cheerleader and she took advantage of her seeming perfection at every given opportunity. She was the closest thing to an angel that earth could facilitate. The only thing that ruined the illusion was the ever gun metal grey Irish sky hanging above her head and the distinct lack of any tall, dark and handsome athletes or blonde tanned surfers. She had to content herself with a handful of red headed hurlers and the odd leather clad musician: but at least she was guaranteed the cream of the slightly limited crop.
At the time when everything started going on a one way trip to hell the flavour of the month had been Declan Johnson an angst ridden “poet” (he had never recreationally written a word in his life but he won a school poetry competition when he was 10 and had never quite managed to let go of the glory days 7 years later) with a fast car and a taste for tight jeans.
The night it began at around midnight Laura could be seen expertly hopping her back gate after another night in lack lustre throes of passion with Declan. She climbed onto the wheelie bin by her room,grabbed the rope she had tied to her steel bed frame from the gutter (four years of sneaking out of her room had made her a touch wiser than your average rebellious teenager) and hoisted herself through her open second floor window. She grabbed a carton of cigarettes from her pocket lit up and inhaled deeply (lung cancer was for poor people) staring out her window into the deep black night. She had been contemplating the great mysteries of the world (like trading Declan in for a newer model) when she noticed a faint glow coming from the field behind her house. “Back for round two Declan?” she smirked. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Hating to disappoint she shimmied down the rope once again cigarette pursed between two perfect pink lips. She jumped from the bin to the ground below and was soon vaulting the back fence with the grace only she could have managed. The field was empty devoid of the glow of headlights she had been sure she had seen. All that was there was the darkness and the sound of the wind rushing by. Laura shivered from something other than cold. Muttering under her breath about late night hallucinations she headed back to the fence.
And that’s when the darkness swallowed her.
It started in Ireland.
Which was surprising to say the least.
Ireland was usually the last to be affected in every situation.
Ireland was like the dorky kid at the party. All the other countries picked on it and left it out because it wasn’t as big or strong as the other countries and also not very good at sports. When it came to anything of global importance Ireland was the last to hear about it. Just an inconsequential rock on the periphery edge of Europe who weren’t much use in a fight.
Inconsequential or not at least it was safe. Or it was before. Not warm enough for any dangerous, venomous animals to thrive. No tropical storms or earthquakes. No volcanoes. No evil wizards or ghouls. Just drug and drink dependencies, some hushed church based scandal and the increasingly ominous presence of The Recession.
The Recession seemed to be on everybody’s lips that year (and the 3 years previous to that) but for some it was just an abstract concept like air and gravity: You know it’s there but you don’t dwell on it. The Recession held a likeness to fairies in the mind of Laura Naughton so much as she didn’t believe in it so as far as she was concerned it did not exist. But then again she didn’t really need to believe in it. She had a seemingly endless supply of money and her every desire was catered for and had been since she was born. Laura Naughton never had to worry about the economic downturn because she lived in her princess bubble which no amount of interest rates and income taxes were about to burst. The Naughton’s basically owned their small rural Irish hometown and Laura adopted her aristocratic status with extreme ease. She was a walking cliché. Blonde and beautiful with sparkling baby blue eyes, perfect skin, perfect body, perfect everything. If Barbie had pulled a Pinocchio on it and crossed into the land of the living she would be Laura Naughton. (Almost) all the boys wanted her and (almost) all the girls wanted to be her. If this had been a couple of thousand kilometres across the Atlantic she would have been the prom queen and head cheerleader and she took advantage of her seeming perfection at every given opportunity. She was the closest thing to an angel that earth could facilitate. The only thing that ruined the illusion was the ever gun metal grey Irish sky hanging above her head and the distinct lack of any tall, dark and handsome athletes or blonde tanned surfers. She had to content herself with a handful of red headed hurlers and the odd leather clad musician: but at least she was guaranteed the cream of the slightly limited crop.
At the time when everything started going on a one way trip to hell the flavour of the month had been Declan Johnson an angst ridden “poet” (he had never recreationally written a word in his life but he won a school poetry competition when he was 10 and had never quite managed to let go of the glory days 7 years later) with a fast car and a taste for tight jeans.
The night it began at around midnight Laura could be seen expertly hopping her back gate after another night in lack lustre throes of passion with Declan. She climbed onto the wheelie bin by her room,grabbed the rope she had tied to her steel bed frame from the gutter (four years of sneaking out of her room had made her a touch wiser than your average rebellious teenager) and hoisted herself through her open second floor window. She grabbed a carton of cigarettes from her pocket lit up and inhaled deeply (lung cancer was for poor people) staring out her window into the deep black night. She had been contemplating the great mysteries of the world (like trading Declan in for a newer model) when she noticed a faint glow coming from the field behind her house. “Back for round two Declan?” she smirked. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Hating to disappoint she shimmied down the rope once again cigarette pursed between two perfect pink lips. She jumped from the bin to the ground below and was soon vaulting the back fence with the grace only she could have managed. The field was empty devoid of the glow of headlights she had been sure she had seen. All that was there was the darkness and the sound of the wind rushing by. Laura shivered from something other than cold. Muttering under her breath about late night hallucinations she headed back to the fence.
And that’s when the darkness swallowed her.
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