Aallotar [Good Omens]

Five - On the Brink Of Truth

"Are you all set, dear?"

"Yes, I'm--"

"Have you your books and pencils?"

"Yes, I've--"

"And your coat? The weather looks down-right miserable today."

"Gran, I--"

"Oh, dear, I'm so very excited for you! Oh, goodness, look at the time!"

"Grandma!" Olly managed to keep at least half of her body from exiting the house. "I don't need to leave yet. I still have 15 minutes."

"Oh, quite right. My mind's a little jumbled, at the moment. Well, then." Olly's grandmother brushed off her apron and closed the door. "I'm sorry. I'm just excited, is all."

Olly watched as her grandma tucked the same strand of hair behind her ear four times.

"Excited or nervous?" Olly asked, her brow raised. Her grandma smiled sheepishly and walked to the kitchen.

"Yes, you're right. I am quite nervous," she said as she filled her teacup with warm water from the stove. "You can understand why."

Olly knew this went much deeper than simply the first day of school. She thought of America--a chapter in her life cut too short. She also knew that her parent's death did not only affect her. She felt the room sink, and suddenly the sky looked just a little bit darker. She met her grandmother's eyes and saw her father staring back.

"Tea?" Grandma offered, slipping into a cheerful mood as quick as lightning. Olly collected herself.

"No, but thank you." She smiled politely. She had never liked tea even though her father practically bled it. Perhaps it was a crime to live in London and not like tea. Perhaps there was a death penalty to such a heinous act. Well, Olly wasn't really a Londoner, anyhow, so it didn't really apply to her. Perhaps she'd grow to like it one day.

Olly glanced at her wrist watch. "I should go now."

Her grandma pulled her into a strong, breath-taking bear hug, and refused to let go.

"A minute ago, you were throwing me to the curb like trash. What changed?"

"Oh, hush," she said, a soft smile on her face. "You've got your father's humor, deary. Don't ever lose it."

"I'll try not to."

"Okay, sweety," her grandma chirped and fell back into nervous-mode. "Have a lovely day. I'll see you soon!"

"Thanks, Gran!" Olly said, forcing herself out the front door. "Oh, sweet lord," she muttered once on the sidewalk. Her first minutes awake were driven by five or so hours of sleep. She had spent most of the night writing. Always writing. It was a sudden break in her writer's block--one that she was not going to pass up. A night filled with crumpled papers and scrapped ideas produced the drowsy yet optimistic girl that stood outside the tall houses. But the first breath of London air hit her like a semi-truck, and the realization that it was her first day of school on an entirely different continent was barreling toward her at an uncontrollable speed. Suddenly, she was no longer as sleepy. Her legs felt week and the cement under her feet seemed to dip unnaturally. Olly pulled at her collar at an attempty for more air, and she cursed school uniforms for being so uncomfortable.

Suddenly, Olly thought of Mr. Fell and his neat suit. In fact, she hadn't stopped thinking about the two since that rainy day... they may or may not have found their way into her writing.

"Writing is a way for our minds to unleash all that we refuse or can't express through our voices," her therapist had said one evening session while she dug through his candy bowl. At that time, he could have sprouted a spare head and started singing the national anthem whilst tight-rope walking, and she still wouldn't have cared less. It wasn't until after the Accident when his words began resonating in her. When she started to care.

Olly hadn't told Gran about Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley. It didn't feel right bringing up the marvelous bookshop when Gran was updating Olly on the cheaters the local church's bingo club had. Also, her food was just begging to be eaten, so Olly wasn't really thinking much about anything else.

It definitely didn't feel right telling her about the strange feeling Olly experienced when she was around the strangers from the bookshop. The only way she could describe it was like this: there's a door between her and the two. She can hear that they're speaking, but the words pass through the door like paper through a shredder, and it's all a big mess of syllables. But she knows what they're saying is a secret--a doorway to something much more complex than her short life.

In the story she wrote, she was trapped in a box, and smoke was seeping through the little holes that were once meant for oxygen. It was Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley who saved her.