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Authors: Lisa Procter

Behind the Locked Door

BOOK: Behind the Locked Door
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Behind
the Locked Door

A
re-write of a classic tale

 

By
Lisa Procter

 

Digital Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Lisa Procter

All rights reserved

 

I was given the name Goldilocks when I was a little girl because
my hair fell in long waves of golden threads down to my waist. Coupled with
bright blue eyes and a permanent blush on my otherwise pale face, I made quite
the impression.

Of course that soon got very tiresome, constantly
being told how sweet and angelic you look isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. When
I was fourteen, I took my mother’s sewing scissors and chopped it all off. I
ended up with uneven lengths and ratted ends. But as I looked at myself in the
mirror, I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face.

I looked a mess, but I couldn’t give a shit.

Of course, when my mother found me still sat in
front of the mirror, the fallen strands of my hair surrounding me, she went
ballistic. I was marched to the hairdresser, who struggled to right my hair while
keeping it as long as possible – as per my mother’s request. What was
considered my best feature was gone and man was she pissed, but I was only
getting started.

About a year later, my hair hadn’t gained much
length. I would never admit I was secretly trimming it - that would just cause
more trouble than it was worth. Mother swore that I had cursed myself and I
found myself tuning out when she went on her rants. When I came home from
school on my sixteenth birthday with freshly dyed black hair with pink and blue
highlights I had gone too far. From that moment on, my relationship with my
mother deteriorated to the point that we barely spoke.

All because of hair!

Of course she told all her friends I was a wild
child, that I couldn’t be controlled – the ultimate teenage rebel, but the
truth was I just hated a nickname given to me as a child. But I digress.

It was around this point the
Bere’s
moved in to the village. And that is where my story really begins.

They had caused quite the stir, The
Bere’s
. There were three of them. A middle aged couple and
a kid. My age I think but with twelve year olds looking like adults these days,
there really was no telling. It was privacy that caused the air of mystery
about them. We live in a small village, everyone knew everyone else’s business
– the Wisteria Lane of Britain. The
Bere’s
had
shunned every single offer of hospitality that the mother hens had offered.

They were pretty pissed.

I on the other hand found it quite amusing. So they
liked privacy. The way the gossip was spreading though you’d think they were
keeping a deep dark secret, something terrible,
something
nightmares were made of. But that was just the environment I lived in.

I had only seen a glimpse of them - the older man
retrieving the paper in the morning, the son mowing the lawn, the woman
arranging the flowers in the window. They seemed like a normal family, reserved
maybe, but respectable enough. To be honest, they seemed like they had it
together, more so than most of the families in the village.

My own family for example – from the outside looking
in, we represented the perfect family, aside from my own wild streak of course.
No one would know from my parents gentle kisses as they bid each other farewell
each morning that their marriage was a sham and my father was screwing a girl a
little older than me. No one would realise from his bright smile and straight
A’s that my brother was actually out dealing drugs during his pizza delivery
job. No one would guess that with her gentle laughter and sickening kindness
that my sister was actually an evil bitch.

But that’s appearances for you and I’m getting side
tracked again. The point is, their privacy wasn’t an issue and to me, they
posed no threat.

But I have been wrong before.

Now let me fast forward to the main story. It had
happened on what would have otherwise been a normal day, but isn’t that always
the case? Mother and father made their daily show of affection and then got in
their separate cars, leaving for work.

Only five minutes previously, my mother was calling
me out for wearing too much make up and I’m presuming she didn’t appreciate my
eye roll as I walked out of the door – without dramatics of course, appearances
remember? I walked through the village with no real purpose, I had a day off
college and although there was a small pile of work that needed doing, I knew
in this mood I had no chance of concentrating properly.

And so I walked, aimlessly meandering through the
village, ignoring the faces I passed as I kicked at a stone. As I passed the
Bere’s
I looked up for the first time, my curiosity
spiking. I checked the driveway for cars, watched the windows for any sign of
life and then before I knew what I was doing, I climbed the wall to the back
yard and crept towards the door.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking – I had a
reputation as a rebel and I wasn’t helping the case but I couldn’t help myself.
Maybe the
Stepford
wives were rubbing off on me but I
felt an overwhelming urge to go explore the house and find out more about my
mysterious neighbours.

I tried the backdoor, quite surprised to find it
unlocked. As I entered the large kitchen, not much different from my own, the
smell of porridge greeted me and my stomach growled appreciatively. I crept to
the table and saw three bowls laid out in a family arrangement – the biggest
bowl at the head of the table and two smaller bowls at either side. An
unexpected rush of affection for the
Bere’s
washed
over me as I looked at the setting – I couldn’t remember the last time I had
sat down for breakfast with my family, or any meal for that matter.

I walked over to the table, running my finger over
the rim of the bowl as I sat on the head chair. All rational thought left me as
I dipped my finger in to the remnants of the porridge, quickly spooning it in
to my mouth and immediately regretting it. The salty taste hit my taste buds
and I cringed. Curiosity got the better of me, and I repeated the process on
the second bowl, tasting the overly sweet oats and pulling a face. An insight
to the family, a strange one, but an insight all the same.

With some trepidation, I dipped my finger in to the
third bowl and hesitated before sucking the porridge from my finger. With an
appreciative moan as my mouth watered, I went back for another taste. This was
perfect, just right. I smiled as I realised I had something in common with one
of them. Somehow I knew it was the youngest, the son. Instinct perhaps.

Feeling emboldened, I pushed back from the table and
left the kitchen, finding myself in a beautifully decorated living room.
Smaller than my own, it was cluttered with various ornaments and knick knacks
but each one looked as though it belonged there. I walked along the
mantelpiece, completely devoid of any dust and looked at each of the object
there, placed in-between various framed photographs. The
Bere’s
smiled at me from behind the glass, at various points during the years and
I
smiled back.

The room was dominated by three chairs, one for each
of them – clearly they never entertained guest. The first chair was a typical
lazy boy style, brown leather covering with the television remote on the arm. I
sat on it, and made a disgruntled noise as my ass met a hard seat.

I stood and looked at the second chair. This was not
to my taste but I could tell it was Mrs
Bere’s
. With
a floral covering, and deep
plushy
cushions, it
looked as though it would swallow you and as I sat in chair, immediately
sinking in to the softness I was proven right. I struggled to stand, my legs
kicking in the air as I tried to free myself from the chair.

The third chair beckoned me and I knew I would love
it. It wasn’t remarkable in any sense, just a normal cream armchair with a
battered brown cushion squished in to the corner but as I sat on it, feeling
the perfect balance between firm and soft, I sighed in relief. This was a good
chair, a perfect chair, just right.

I felt like I was pushing my luck but as I glanced
to the wooden staircase, I felt a pull and I reluctantly rose from the armchair
and crept to the stairs slowly, inspecting each of the photos as I went. The
smiling faces of the
Bere’s
looked down on me,
watching me as I explored their house.

As I stepped on to the first step of the stairs it
creaked loudly and my heart leapt as I froze. Suddenly every sound I had
previously missed seemed magnified. A clock ticked somewhere, each one
measuring how long it took for my heart to slow, the pipes under the flooring
gushed and groaned and a tap slowly dripped in to the bowl of a sink. I listened
to each one, the hairs on my arms standing on their ends as I finally started
to relax, letting out a nervous chuckle which seemed unnatural in the empty
house

I climbed the stairs slowly, prepared for any more
creaking steps, sighing in relief when I got to the landing without any more
mishaps. The light streaming through the small window gave everything an almost
surreal glow, small dust particles flying through the air only adding to the
effect. A door was open directly to my right and I popped my head in, finding a
very clean bathroom. Like the living room it seemed cluttered, but everything
appeared to have its own place and even the toilet paper was folded into a
triangular point. My mother prided herself on our ‘show home’ but even she
didn’t go that far.

As I left the bathroom, I tried the handle of the
door opposite the stairs, frowning when I found it locked. I rattled the handle
as though it would magically open but with a sigh, I gave up. Just another
mystery of the
Bere’s
. I walked down the landing and
tried another handle, smiling as the door opened easily and walking in to what
could only be Mr and Mrs
Bere’s
room.

A huge bed stood in the centre of the room, each
side reflecting a personality. Judging by what I had seen so far, the left side
belonged to Mrs
Bere
. Plush pillows and cushions
littered her space, an extra comfort blanket folded neatly on top of the bed
sheets. Her bedside table had a beautiful vase with an arrangement of flowers,
a pair of reading glasses and a book. I walked over to see what she was
reading, a small smile playing about my lips as I saw the familiar figures of
Romeo and Juliet smiling at each other.

Mr
Bere’s
side was another
matter entirely. He had one pillow and I could tell by looking that it wasn’t
something I would like to lay on, I could see a perfect rectangle in its shape
rather than the softer curves of his wife’s pillows. His own bedside table was
devoid of any objects, save for an old fashioned alarm clock.

I glanced around the rest of the room, but nothing
really popped out at me, more family pictures, and the same cluttered theme. I
left the room untouched and walked back in to the hallway, facing the last
door. With a nervousness I didn’t expect, I slowly pushed down the handle and exhaled
as I entered the room.

The
Bere’s
son certainly
had his own style, completely different to the rest of the house. The walls
were a pale blue, the upholstery a darker blue. There were no posters on the
walls, no family portraits. The only insight to his personality was a cooking
book on the bedside table. The room was devoid of clutter, in fact it was
completely neat and tidy, unexpectedly so.

What really had my interest was the bed.

Not quite a double, I was itching to know if it was
as perfect as all his other choices and without waiting for my brain to catch
up with my body, I was across the room, my fingertips brushing over the bed
covers. I sat down on the mattress and was not disappointed.

The sheets had been warmed from the sunshine burning
through the window, the mattress, like the armchair, had the perfect amount of
softness while still supporting my weight. I laid back and felt my head sink
deliciously in to the pillow. Oh this was heaven, just right. I closed my eyes
and enjoyed the feel of the sun warming my skin.

BOOK: Behind the Locked Door
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