(no subject)
Okay, am working on my new story for creative writing, and being that I'm rereading my Poe book, I wanted to go for a scarier fiction this time. I got some EXCELLENT critiques from my classmates, but I must have more. Pleeeeeeeease???? It's not the entirety of the story, but it's what I have thus far for the assignment, and I think I want to make this my main story.
*Edit: Changed the name back to Rowan once again (Yes, Aussie, it IS your fault that I cannot write about a blonde haired, blue eyed girl without automatically thinking of the name 'Rowan'!) and added much, much more. The story is so very complex by now; I've told Annie about the majority of what's going to happen. I am thrilled about this thing!
For all intents and purposes, Rowan’s story is one common to those who have reported problems with an unwanted visitor that cannot be driven out. The accounts Rowan gave to others later seem all too familiar to those who spend their lives collecting similar stories, right down to her usual insistence of surrounding herself with a tepid enthusiasm for anything supernatural. Anything mysterious or arcane always had a completely logical explanation to this young student. She was so intimately in love with her mathematical equations and surface areas and science and took pleasure in incinerating the theories of supernatural activities to others, implying that there can be nothing supernatural. “I see no point in arguing,” she would state with finality whenever the subject was brought up, “as you will come to find that even though this is not clearly defined by the academic world, there is an abstract way to explain it.” Rowan found this intangible counter to be more preferable than ceding to a power that was above nature by definition.
It came to pass that Rowan was accepted to a small school to study her dearest subject: psychology. This tiny school, Arthur Cloverdale’s Institute of Liberal Arts, was not well-known, but seemed to attract students of a more serious and studious nature. Being a girl of such practicality, she didn’t care for prestige from the place she obtained a higher education, she was more interested in the array of classes and lectures that the course of study promised. When it came time for her to leave her Floridian home, she bade good-bye to her old friends and journeyed to something she hoped would be the opening to a fantastic and inspiring future.
Rowan reached Savannah on that cold night in late August, and only having a mere quarter-hour more of travel, she stopped to give herself time to relax from a mundane day’s drive. She pulled into what looked like a small park-a large grassy area with crude wooden tables by an inky lake. The dimmed echo of twilight painted streaks across the sky as tiny stars tried to poke through gathering clouds. In the lake, there were few reflections, as the moon ducked behind the passing clouds, peeking out occasionally over the waters. Rowan walked against the shore, as the sound of softly lapping water rushed through her ears. Platinum streaks of hair danced in a breeze that caressed her cheek. The night was absolutely intoxicating.
To her left, just by her foot, she saw something most peculiar in an instant of moonlight; it appeared to be a large stone with the weathered details of a female face. She kneeled to the ground; her customary curiosity took over as she inquisitively examined the stone with quickly moving blue eyes. As usual, she went through a process of studying the object, taking in the size, color, and distinct shape of the stone. The pristine white that seemed to catch pieces of twinkling moonlight and hold captive her gaze in an almost unnatural appeal (if she were to believe such things could happen). She then focused her scrutinizing stare on the finer details; the worn ridges and fissures seemed to come together to form a pair of weary, haunted eyes that looked up from their mineral encasement. Finally, she pressed her thin index finger against the abrasive surface of the stone.
The physical world seemed to be blotted out violently as an image blazed to life from within her mind, flashing right before Rowan’s eyes like a theatre screen. A young woman, thin and pallid, dangled above a molded wooden floor, a silk rope tied tightly around her neck. Rowan felt her stomach turn as she noted that the bloated skin surrounding the rope had taken on a curious red and blue color. The woman’s thin black hair hung lank and raggedly around her gaunt cheeks and fell past scrawny shoulders to her bony elbows. Her white, faded dressing gown billowed loose over her malnourished frame and fell just above tiny ankles. The most prominent piece of the image, however, was the young lady’s eyes; their periwinkle color was muted and glassy, but did not seem at all lifeless-they seemed to be unquestionably fixed on Rowan in a penetrating gaze that froze her body so much the whimper fighting to escape from her throat seemed to be painfully caught. The corpse-like figure’s wine-red lips suddenly twisted into a thin, wicked smile.
Just as quickly as the image appeared, it vanished. Rowan felt a burning sting across her neck and shoulders, and she suppressed a shudder. Her hands burned strangely and it took her a moment to realize that she had fallen backward onto a rough patch of ground.
Rowan’s sharp mind began its frantic search for a logical explanation. Surely she was just tired, exhausted even. And perhaps stressed. Yes, she must have been stressed and exhausted-moving out surely did that.
She quickly rose to her feet and walked away from the stone, rubbing her neck. Why was it hurting? What could she have done to bother her neck when she fell on her hands? Perhaps she could have hit a nerve just right. Yes, it just simply had to be like hitting your elbow just right and feeling the effects in your hand.
She climbed into her car, twisting the key a little rougher than she had intended to; the machine responded with an angry buzz of the engine, awaking her from her ponderings. She shook her head a little; she needed to concentrate on the drive. She gently pressed against the gas pedal as she began to navigate back to the road, checking her review mirror as she switched lanes. Her eyes traveled back to the road for a moment, but darted toward the mirror again.
She could have sworn she saw periwinkle eyes watching her from the backseat.
****
Rowan awoke late the next morning with a dull throbbing in her head. She pushed her body up from the lumpy hotel mattress and gazed around half dazed as she realized slowly that the throbbing was her bedside alarm, warning her that it was 10:30-and hour and a half before she planned to be at the school. She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt so groggy, as she had fallen asleep somewhere near the three o’clock hour; seven hours was often a perfect amount of sleep for Rowan. She sat up and threw her legs over the edge of the bed, trying to remember if she had dreamed anything. She was usually very good at remembering what she had dreamt the night before, but now nothing was coming to mind. Just strange sounds in the form of a cold, high voice . . . helve mirror.
The words were nonsensical to Rowan, but the chill and the foreboding malice in the voice made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She pressed her palms firmly into the mattress as though to ground herself, then stood to advance toward her overnight bag against the wall. She pulled out her clothes for the day; a simple green t-shirt and blue jeans that were long enough to bunch over her blue clogs. She sat the clothes on the foot of the bed and rummaged for her shampoo, soap, and razor. Finally satisfied with her findings, she went into the bathroom to shower before leaving. The sound of the water spray and the warmth of it against her skin pushed the memory of the eerie voice out of her mind. After she was done, she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Rowan dried off and dressed, no longer groggy or fatigued, but alert and ready for the day. She picked up her hairbrush and wiped a portion of the mirror free of condensation. Her eyes looked down at the countertop, but, as they did the night before, they suddenly shot back to the mirror, widening as her mouth opened in surprise.
Looking over her shoulder was the same black-haired skeletal figure that she had seen last night. Periwinkle eyes stared at Rowan from over her shoulder, and thin lips pressed into a grimace. Rowan quickly leapt and turned to look behind her as her breath refused to come out of her mouth.
The shower curtain swayed from the force of her movements, but the bathroom was completely devoid of any life aside from her. Nobody was behind her.
She took steadying breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. She tried to think of something logical to explain the incident, but for once, nothing would come to soothe her frantic mind. She stood trembling with her hairbrush still gripped in her right hand, and her legs started to tremble. The pains along her neck and shoulders were back, as though something was tightening around them, cutting off her breath. Slowly, she turned back toward the mirror against her rational desire to leave the bathroom and hotel. She lifted her eyes to the mirror and her heart seemed to stop in her chest. The blood felt as though it left her shaking hand and the hairbrush fell from her loosened fingers, clattering to the tiled floor next to her bare feet.
The figure was still behind her, eyes focused on Rowan’s. Its lips were now twisted into the same cruel smile that Rowan had seen the night before, as though amused with the girl’s reaction. But before Rowan could react again, the figure stretched its arms out, clasping bony ice cold hands on Rowan’s elbows, stealing her voice with fear. She heard the words from her memory this morning-helve mirror. It came from behind her this time, though the figure never moved its lips from the twisted smile.
Rowan screamed and ran from the bathroom. She quickly gathered her things and grabbed her keys from the bedside table, slipping her clogs on as she pulled the hotel keycard from the desk. She was just opening the hotel door, pushing wet locks of hair from her eyes, when she stopped.
Her clothes, her soap, her shampoo . . . there were still some of her things in the bathroom. For one wild moment, Rowan considered leaving them, trying to convince herself she could replace them.
However, a familiar voice scolded her; you’re being childish. There’s a perfectly rational explanation for this, even if it’s unclear right now. Go back into that bathroom like an intelligent adult and get your things.
Rowan hesitated, but she knew it was useless to try to argue with that part of her brain that she had been so dependant on the majority of her life. She slowly walked back to the bathroom and opened the door gingerly. She peered around inside, and almost against her will, she peered into the mirror.
Nothing.
Rowan breathed a sigh of relief and quickly grabbed her things out of the bathroom. She rushed into the bedroom and threw everything in the overnight bag, zipping it up and slinging it over her right shoulder. She opened the door and stepped out into the breezeway of the hotel, seeing the sunlight filter through the corridor.
She gave one last look around the room before closing the door behind her.
****
The dorm room was not too small, especially since it would only be shared amongst two girls. Rowan sat her things down on the bed far side of the room, right next to the window overlooking the green campus grounds. Judging by the piles of loose clothes, books, papers and a couple stuffed animals strewn about the bed closest to the door, her roommate had already been there. Rowan felt bad for the girl; that bed was going to take forever to clear off. The desk next to her roommate’s bed was no better; food, more books, pens, notebooks and a thick leather laptop case covered the pine surface.
Rowan gave a small smile and moved her things to the foot of the bed, wanting to rest only for a moment. Her room-277-had not been an easy one to move her suitcases and her own laptop to from the lower floor. Before she lay down, she opened her windows, listening to the soft rustling of passersby and idle chatter. She leaned backward, grabbing her pillow that rested on top of the suitcase and placing it under her head as she did so. There was a soft breeze as she let her eyes close slowly, more content than she could remember feeling for a long time. For once, there was nothing to do; no homework to worry about, no applications to schools to turn in, no job to demand anything of her; she was free to just enjoy the serenity of her new surroundings.
She let her eyes close completely now, feeling a sort of drowsy stupor wash over her.
The images of the corpse-like figure this time flashed quickly in the second that her eyes closed. She was standing in the middle of Rowan’s room, her bony arms hung at her sides and the swollen red-blue area around her neck very visible under her pointed chin. Her head was tilted just a little, letting the raven clumps of straw-like hair curtain those periwinkle eyes. This time, a freezing mist seemed to encompass both the woman and Rowan.
Rowan’s eyes snapped open to reveal her dorm room, though a figure still stood in front of her. This girl, however, was much more normal than the other; large, frizzy, auburn curls fell to her shoulders and framed a round, pale face. The eyes weren’t periwinkle, but rather deep green, and surrounding by the thin, blue wire frames of small, square glasses. The dark pink lips were neither grimacing nor smiling wickedly, but grinning sheepishly. The girl wore a long, ruffled black skirt and a forest green tank-top, both being very wrinkled. Her shoes were worn and old tan sandals. It was quite a contrast from the figure that still seemed to follow Rowan’s imagination.
“I’m sorry,” the girl said hesitantly. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Rowan gave her a confused frown, and then shook her head. “No, I was awake. I didn’t hear you come in. You must be . . . er . . . .”
She tried to remember the name on the paper that the school had sent Rowan with her room information. It had been an uncommon name, much like her own, but it eluded her at the moment.
The girl tilted her head at Rowan. “Fauna?” she offered. “And judging by the fact that you’re pretty comfortable over there, you’re either Rowan or lost.”
“Rowan,” she said, with a somewhat amused smile. She watched as Fauna turned around to her own bed and shoved her things onto the ground. Fauna then grabbed her pillow and pulled it under her as she lay on her stomach in order to see Rowan.
“So, eh . . . what’s your major?” she asked slightly nervously.
Rowan shrugged. “Psychology. You?”
“History,” Fauna answered quickly. She looked around, the room at the plain white walls and multicolored carpet. “We need some decorations in here,” she observed, reaching over the side of her bed, into a backpack thrown there. She fished around a little and pulled out a yellow box. Opening it, she removed some large cards with strange red symbols on a yellow background. Flipping over to her back and staring at the ceiling, she began to shuffle, occasionally pulling out a card, making soft comments, and then replacing it into the deck, repeating the process.
Rowan watched her curiously. “That’s an . . . interesting game,” she said. “You play cards, I take it?”
Fauna grinned up to the ceiling. “Yes, I guess you could say that,” she said, still shuffling her cards. “These are oracle cards. I’ve been using them since I was about seven.”
*Edit: Changed the name back to Rowan once again (Yes, Aussie, it IS your fault that I cannot write about a blonde haired, blue eyed girl without automatically thinking of the name 'Rowan'!) and added much, much more. The story is so very complex by now; I've told Annie about the majority of what's going to happen. I am thrilled about this thing!
For all intents and purposes, Rowan’s story is one common to those who have reported problems with an unwanted visitor that cannot be driven out. The accounts Rowan gave to others later seem all too familiar to those who spend their lives collecting similar stories, right down to her usual insistence of surrounding herself with a tepid enthusiasm for anything supernatural. Anything mysterious or arcane always had a completely logical explanation to this young student. She was so intimately in love with her mathematical equations and surface areas and science and took pleasure in incinerating the theories of supernatural activities to others, implying that there can be nothing supernatural. “I see no point in arguing,” she would state with finality whenever the subject was brought up, “as you will come to find that even though this is not clearly defined by the academic world, there is an abstract way to explain it.” Rowan found this intangible counter to be more preferable than ceding to a power that was above nature by definition.
It came to pass that Rowan was accepted to a small school to study her dearest subject: psychology. This tiny school, Arthur Cloverdale’s Institute of Liberal Arts, was not well-known, but seemed to attract students of a more serious and studious nature. Being a girl of such practicality, she didn’t care for prestige from the place she obtained a higher education, she was more interested in the array of classes and lectures that the course of study promised. When it came time for her to leave her Floridian home, she bade good-bye to her old friends and journeyed to something she hoped would be the opening to a fantastic and inspiring future.
Rowan reached Savannah on that cold night in late August, and only having a mere quarter-hour more of travel, she stopped to give herself time to relax from a mundane day’s drive. She pulled into what looked like a small park-a large grassy area with crude wooden tables by an inky lake. The dimmed echo of twilight painted streaks across the sky as tiny stars tried to poke through gathering clouds. In the lake, there were few reflections, as the moon ducked behind the passing clouds, peeking out occasionally over the waters. Rowan walked against the shore, as the sound of softly lapping water rushed through her ears. Platinum streaks of hair danced in a breeze that caressed her cheek. The night was absolutely intoxicating.
To her left, just by her foot, she saw something most peculiar in an instant of moonlight; it appeared to be a large stone with the weathered details of a female face. She kneeled to the ground; her customary curiosity took over as she inquisitively examined the stone with quickly moving blue eyes. As usual, she went through a process of studying the object, taking in the size, color, and distinct shape of the stone. The pristine white that seemed to catch pieces of twinkling moonlight and hold captive her gaze in an almost unnatural appeal (if she were to believe such things could happen). She then focused her scrutinizing stare on the finer details; the worn ridges and fissures seemed to come together to form a pair of weary, haunted eyes that looked up from their mineral encasement. Finally, she pressed her thin index finger against the abrasive surface of the stone.
The physical world seemed to be blotted out violently as an image blazed to life from within her mind, flashing right before Rowan’s eyes like a theatre screen. A young woman, thin and pallid, dangled above a molded wooden floor, a silk rope tied tightly around her neck. Rowan felt her stomach turn as she noted that the bloated skin surrounding the rope had taken on a curious red and blue color. The woman’s thin black hair hung lank and raggedly around her gaunt cheeks and fell past scrawny shoulders to her bony elbows. Her white, faded dressing gown billowed loose over her malnourished frame and fell just above tiny ankles. The most prominent piece of the image, however, was the young lady’s eyes; their periwinkle color was muted and glassy, but did not seem at all lifeless-they seemed to be unquestionably fixed on Rowan in a penetrating gaze that froze her body so much the whimper fighting to escape from her throat seemed to be painfully caught. The corpse-like figure’s wine-red lips suddenly twisted into a thin, wicked smile.
Just as quickly as the image appeared, it vanished. Rowan felt a burning sting across her neck and shoulders, and she suppressed a shudder. Her hands burned strangely and it took her a moment to realize that she had fallen backward onto a rough patch of ground.
Rowan’s sharp mind began its frantic search for a logical explanation. Surely she was just tired, exhausted even. And perhaps stressed. Yes, she must have been stressed and exhausted-moving out surely did that.
She quickly rose to her feet and walked away from the stone, rubbing her neck. Why was it hurting? What could she have done to bother her neck when she fell on her hands? Perhaps she could have hit a nerve just right. Yes, it just simply had to be like hitting your elbow just right and feeling the effects in your hand.
She climbed into her car, twisting the key a little rougher than she had intended to; the machine responded with an angry buzz of the engine, awaking her from her ponderings. She shook her head a little; she needed to concentrate on the drive. She gently pressed against the gas pedal as she began to navigate back to the road, checking her review mirror as she switched lanes. Her eyes traveled back to the road for a moment, but darted toward the mirror again.
She could have sworn she saw periwinkle eyes watching her from the backseat.
****
Rowan awoke late the next morning with a dull throbbing in her head. She pushed her body up from the lumpy hotel mattress and gazed around half dazed as she realized slowly that the throbbing was her bedside alarm, warning her that it was 10:30-and hour and a half before she planned to be at the school. She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt so groggy, as she had fallen asleep somewhere near the three o’clock hour; seven hours was often a perfect amount of sleep for Rowan. She sat up and threw her legs over the edge of the bed, trying to remember if she had dreamed anything. She was usually very good at remembering what she had dreamt the night before, but now nothing was coming to mind. Just strange sounds in the form of a cold, high voice . . . helve mirror.
The words were nonsensical to Rowan, but the chill and the foreboding malice in the voice made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She pressed her palms firmly into the mattress as though to ground herself, then stood to advance toward her overnight bag against the wall. She pulled out her clothes for the day; a simple green t-shirt and blue jeans that were long enough to bunch over her blue clogs. She sat the clothes on the foot of the bed and rummaged for her shampoo, soap, and razor. Finally satisfied with her findings, she went into the bathroom to shower before leaving. The sound of the water spray and the warmth of it against her skin pushed the memory of the eerie voice out of her mind. After she was done, she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Rowan dried off and dressed, no longer groggy or fatigued, but alert and ready for the day. She picked up her hairbrush and wiped a portion of the mirror free of condensation. Her eyes looked down at the countertop, but, as they did the night before, they suddenly shot back to the mirror, widening as her mouth opened in surprise.
Looking over her shoulder was the same black-haired skeletal figure that she had seen last night. Periwinkle eyes stared at Rowan from over her shoulder, and thin lips pressed into a grimace. Rowan quickly leapt and turned to look behind her as her breath refused to come out of her mouth.
The shower curtain swayed from the force of her movements, but the bathroom was completely devoid of any life aside from her. Nobody was behind her.
She took steadying breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. She tried to think of something logical to explain the incident, but for once, nothing would come to soothe her frantic mind. She stood trembling with her hairbrush still gripped in her right hand, and her legs started to tremble. The pains along her neck and shoulders were back, as though something was tightening around them, cutting off her breath. Slowly, she turned back toward the mirror against her rational desire to leave the bathroom and hotel. She lifted her eyes to the mirror and her heart seemed to stop in her chest. The blood felt as though it left her shaking hand and the hairbrush fell from her loosened fingers, clattering to the tiled floor next to her bare feet.
The figure was still behind her, eyes focused on Rowan’s. Its lips were now twisted into the same cruel smile that Rowan had seen the night before, as though amused with the girl’s reaction. But before Rowan could react again, the figure stretched its arms out, clasping bony ice cold hands on Rowan’s elbows, stealing her voice with fear. She heard the words from her memory this morning-helve mirror. It came from behind her this time, though the figure never moved its lips from the twisted smile.
Rowan screamed and ran from the bathroom. She quickly gathered her things and grabbed her keys from the bedside table, slipping her clogs on as she pulled the hotel keycard from the desk. She was just opening the hotel door, pushing wet locks of hair from her eyes, when she stopped.
Her clothes, her soap, her shampoo . . . there were still some of her things in the bathroom. For one wild moment, Rowan considered leaving them, trying to convince herself she could replace them.
However, a familiar voice scolded her; you’re being childish. There’s a perfectly rational explanation for this, even if it’s unclear right now. Go back into that bathroom like an intelligent adult and get your things.
Rowan hesitated, but she knew it was useless to try to argue with that part of her brain that she had been so dependant on the majority of her life. She slowly walked back to the bathroom and opened the door gingerly. She peered around inside, and almost against her will, she peered into the mirror.
Nothing.
Rowan breathed a sigh of relief and quickly grabbed her things out of the bathroom. She rushed into the bedroom and threw everything in the overnight bag, zipping it up and slinging it over her right shoulder. She opened the door and stepped out into the breezeway of the hotel, seeing the sunlight filter through the corridor.
She gave one last look around the room before closing the door behind her.
****
The dorm room was not too small, especially since it would only be shared amongst two girls. Rowan sat her things down on the bed far side of the room, right next to the window overlooking the green campus grounds. Judging by the piles of loose clothes, books, papers and a couple stuffed animals strewn about the bed closest to the door, her roommate had already been there. Rowan felt bad for the girl; that bed was going to take forever to clear off. The desk next to her roommate’s bed was no better; food, more books, pens, notebooks and a thick leather laptop case covered the pine surface.
Rowan gave a small smile and moved her things to the foot of the bed, wanting to rest only for a moment. Her room-277-had not been an easy one to move her suitcases and her own laptop to from the lower floor. Before she lay down, she opened her windows, listening to the soft rustling of passersby and idle chatter. She leaned backward, grabbing her pillow that rested on top of the suitcase and placing it under her head as she did so. There was a soft breeze as she let her eyes close slowly, more content than she could remember feeling for a long time. For once, there was nothing to do; no homework to worry about, no applications to schools to turn in, no job to demand anything of her; she was free to just enjoy the serenity of her new surroundings.
She let her eyes close completely now, feeling a sort of drowsy stupor wash over her.
The images of the corpse-like figure this time flashed quickly in the second that her eyes closed. She was standing in the middle of Rowan’s room, her bony arms hung at her sides and the swollen red-blue area around her neck very visible under her pointed chin. Her head was tilted just a little, letting the raven clumps of straw-like hair curtain those periwinkle eyes. This time, a freezing mist seemed to encompass both the woman and Rowan.
Rowan’s eyes snapped open to reveal her dorm room, though a figure still stood in front of her. This girl, however, was much more normal than the other; large, frizzy, auburn curls fell to her shoulders and framed a round, pale face. The eyes weren’t periwinkle, but rather deep green, and surrounding by the thin, blue wire frames of small, square glasses. The dark pink lips were neither grimacing nor smiling wickedly, but grinning sheepishly. The girl wore a long, ruffled black skirt and a forest green tank-top, both being very wrinkled. Her shoes were worn and old tan sandals. It was quite a contrast from the figure that still seemed to follow Rowan’s imagination.
“I’m sorry,” the girl said hesitantly. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Rowan gave her a confused frown, and then shook her head. “No, I was awake. I didn’t hear you come in. You must be . . . er . . . .”
She tried to remember the name on the paper that the school had sent Rowan with her room information. It had been an uncommon name, much like her own, but it eluded her at the moment.
The girl tilted her head at Rowan. “Fauna?” she offered. “And judging by the fact that you’re pretty comfortable over there, you’re either Rowan or lost.”
“Rowan,” she said, with a somewhat amused smile. She watched as Fauna turned around to her own bed and shoved her things onto the ground. Fauna then grabbed her pillow and pulled it under her as she lay on her stomach in order to see Rowan.
“So, eh . . . what’s your major?” she asked slightly nervously.
Rowan shrugged. “Psychology. You?”
“History,” Fauna answered quickly. She looked around, the room at the plain white walls and multicolored carpet. “We need some decorations in here,” she observed, reaching over the side of her bed, into a backpack thrown there. She fished around a little and pulled out a yellow box. Opening it, she removed some large cards with strange red symbols on a yellow background. Flipping over to her back and staring at the ceiling, she began to shuffle, occasionally pulling out a card, making soft comments, and then replacing it into the deck, repeating the process.
Rowan watched her curiously. “That’s an . . . interesting game,” she said. “You play cards, I take it?”
Fauna grinned up to the ceiling. “Yes, I guess you could say that,” she said, still shuffling her cards. “These are oracle cards. I’ve been using them since I was about seven.”