Wren

A note from the author


I could create Wren as a fixed woman. The world going for her. But I’m not going to because that’s not how life works, right? Wren is real. She fucks up. But she makes the right choice sometimes. And she has a purpose. We all fucking do. I’m going to show you that you are far from alone in this mass world and that Wren is you. Wren is me. Wren is all of us. All of us have a Wren within us. The small songbird. Simple and strong, just like her brow. This is the unfinished story of us all.


This is Wren.

And Wren is you.

Wren Daniels: Size: Normal/Healthy. However, following new job at liposuction company, Blake & Co Body Mod, size at work: Questionable/Mouldable? Mid-brown, mid-length hair. Pink and other experimental colours occasionally included in the form of streaks. Simple, yet strong, brow game. Subtle make-up, but it’s enough. Dark, and I quote, ‘chocolate button eyes’. Mostly healthy complexion, prone to stress related breakouts. Comfortable clothing with no necessary style.

Beautiful heart. Poetic. Fascinated by the thought of world travel. All cliches of the standard 23 year old. Way to wise for her age. This may complicate things. Easily satisfied at the little things. This too may complicate things. Wine enthusiast. Because wine’s not complicated.

Emotions/wellbeing: Loves love. Had love once and misses it. Won’t admit it. Strong minded lone wolf. This may also complicate things. Worried about others. This leads to worrying about self (subconsciously). Not good for mental state. Had to seek medical help. Citalopram. Sad, confused and untrusting. Due to being fucked. Due to fucking up.

Wren is fucked.

I’m sorry Wren.













Chapter 1

‘Take a deep breath, I’m gonna put it in you now.’

FUCK.
I think I might scream.
Oh crap, I am screaming and I can’t stop.
‘See Wren, that wasn’t so bad was it?’

I stand up, sweating my tits off and lift up my tee.
I like what I see.
It’s perfect.
But holy crap that WAS bad, and I just wanna head home, get my happy pants on and caress my stomach.

I pay ‘Crazy Razor’, I mean really, his name says it all, and head to the train station.
I fucking hate trains. But that’s the price I have to pay when living in a place that’s in the middle of nowhere; a place that constantly smells like shite. Trains are a god-send to us rural folk that work in the city I guess.

Just making it in time for the 6:10 train, I grab a seat, and slowly descend into my chair, unbuttoning the top button of my pants, avoiding all contact of belly button to skinny jean waistline. I bet I look a right buffoon. I can already see Snoopy Judy, from the local pub, sitting across from me having a right good stare. We call her Snoopy Judy after one year at the Annual Pub Quiz, she decided she’d ‘help collect glasses’ during the interval, only to go and look at everyones answer’s and win the £350 jackpot. I’m sorry Jude, your 89 years on this planet and cute little perm may fool some people, but it ain’t fooling me. I throw her a sarky smile and she quickly looks away. Be gone Snoopy.

I look down at my new belly button piercing with admiration. This shit is more painful than a bee sting to the arse, but I feel good. In-fact, I feel glowing.


‘Well well well, if it isn’t Miss Wren Daniels…’ I quickly look up, my fly popping wide open revealing today’s horrific choice of pants, hand-me-down white granny panties.

‘Mr Blake,’ I suck in my stomach and gently fasten my fly.
There’s no redeeming myself from here. I’ve just purchased a first class ticket towards black-hole-of-doom-ville. Slightly sweating with embarrassment, I move over to the window seat and Haiden Blake, my new boss, sits beside me.

I throw him a smile and bob my head down, tucking my fringe behind my ears.

In all honesty, today couldn’t get any worse. I think it was the sitting on a McDonalds tomato ketchup this morning on the train that set it all off. Although I could be wrong. Who knew the stench of a tomato is so overpowering? Even my Thierry Mugler ‘Alien’ perfume couldn’t compete with it. It’s safe to say that an early morning dash to Primark for new pants was my mission. I swear, I was like a blummin’ bullet getting off the train. Leaving a scented trail of Heinz ketchup, and a seriously red bottom, I darted to primarni and found my way to the trouser section. No work pants in my size, typical. With time ticking, the only black pants I could find was a pair of size 6 high-waisted skinny’s. Immediately regretting last night’s bourbon feast, I just about managed to squeeze into them, my size 12 stomach suffocating. Looking down at my belly, I felt it was only right to apologise…“Oh tummy, it’s just for today. I just need to get my first day over with, but I shall bless you with happy pants and jaffa cakes tonight.”

So here I am, sat on a train, with the worlds smallest pants on, that are aggressively digging into my newly pierced belly button and oh, did I mention, whilst sat next to my new boss who I’ve just flashed my undies to. Ace.

‘Heard about your little piercing, Razor said you’re quite the screamer,’ Haiden turns to me with a smirk.

I’m so embarrassed. How does he know Crazy Razor? I bet he thinks I’m weak. I feel like I need to do something to show my strength and power, like a tiger does in the wild to frighten deer.

Everyone wants to make a good impression on their first day in a new job, and I have to say, revealing severe muffin roll all day in a pair of ridiculously in-humane sized pants, was not the best way to start my new job, and of all places, in England’s leading liposuction company: Blake & Co Body Mod.

I let out a sigh, ‘I guess you could say that I don’t really cope with pain very well, Mr Blake.’

He laughs, ‘Please, call me Haiden.’

I didn’t really plan on people knowing about my new piercing and I didn’t plan on showing it off. I only got it to make myself feel more confident in this new job, my idea being that it would make my stomach look and feel a bit more appealing without having to have bloody liposuction. Just seeing a day’s worth of patients having check ups a few months after their surgery was insane. All of them presenting small, flat, toned tummies, each beaming their faces off. They say money can’t buy happiness, but I’m not so sure anymore, these women looked confident, glowing and yup, very happy.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know Razor?’ I ask him, intrigued at how people’s pain threshold’s fly so quickly around this city. It’s one thing that has always fascinated me about Manchester.

‘We grew up together, went Uni together, and now live together. I guess he’s ‘the best mate’’.

Haiden pulls out his phone and begins to scroll down his contacts, ‘I saw you heading to Piccadilly Piercings after work and rang him telling him to be gentle to you. I know what he’s like, he tends to like making people cry.’

My face drops, fuck, this Razor guy sounds like a mad man. Sensing my panic, Haiden shoves my arm and laughs.

‘I’m having you on, Wren. He’s dead sound, honestly.’

He puts his phone towards his ear and after a short while a female voice answers, “Honey, hi….”

Well this awkward. There’s only so long that I can stare out of the window, and look as if watching the city slowly fade into countryside interests me. I’m just gonna have to play the ‘scroll down Facebook’ game and look busy. I whip out my phone from my back pocket and suddenly find it flying out of my hands, landing right under Haiden’s legs. I look at Haiden in panic. He hasn’t noticed and is chatting away, to who I’ve now learnt is ‘Jane’. I don’t want to break-up his conversation with this ‘Jane’ woman, so as quietly and smoothly as I can, I begin to slide down the seat towards the floor.

Yes! I can see my phone but…oh no.

Crap.

I’m stuck. I’m genuinely stuck. My piercing is jammed in the zip of my pants. I look up in desperation at Haiden. He’s still oblivious and in deep conversation with Jane.
I literally can’t move in any direction but figure I can’t just stay here like this, so I reach for my waist and unbutton the top of my pants again releasing the trapped piercing. The showing of knickers is non-important anymore, mission: ‘get your feckin’ phone Wren’ is a-go. Now fully out of my seat and on floor level, I slide my hand underneath his legs and reach for my phone with
success. Little did I know that the mini table attached to the seat in-front had fallen down whilst I was down there, and as I get back up, I whack my head on the underneath of it.

‘SHI…SUGAR!’

I am now fully aware that Haiden’s call has finished and he’s staring at me in a clump on the train floor. I push the table back up, and sit into my seat.


‘…dropped my phone…haha…’ I do an imaginary face palm in my head and shove my phone back into my pocket.

‘Wren…erm your pants have…um…’

Balls.
I’ve done it again.
Fastening my pants for the final time this train journey, my stop approaches.

“Next stop, Torleigh.”

‘Well, this is me,’ I say, in the quietist voice ever heard to the human ear. Haiden stands up and lets me out of my seat.

‘See you tomorrow Wren.’

I smile and nod and just as I begin to walk down to the doors, Haiden adds, ‘Oh, and get some new pants would you.’







Chapter 2

I don’t think I have ever been so happy to see my front door.

Heading inside, the TV and kettle both lure me simultaneously and I fall into the sofa, armed and ready with tonight’s choice of weapons - the remote control and Yorkshire’s finest tea. This is what Monday’s do to you. They corrupt you and make you weak.

I lay there and begin to think. I mean really think. Thinking about everything.

In all honesty, I’m struggling. And I mean I’m not just struggling with the typical loneliness, depression, stress: I’m struggling with living. I find it blummin’ stupid how there are no manuals or instructions on how to live in this life. No step by step guide, recommending you to ‘start with piece 1a, followed by 2a’. I mean what is that all about? You’d think that when human life was created, someone must have written down somewhere a very basic How To guide. It’d go a long way that’s for sure. There’s just something about this whole living malarkey that tires and drains me, and I shouldn’t be feeling this way at my age.

From the outside looking in, my life seems like any other ordinary young adult’s. I have the flat, the job, the boyfriend, the best friend, the arch nemesis and even the feckin’ iPhone. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m like every other 23 year old, but even with all this, I’m struggling. I realise tons of people my age are struggling and I’m not alone, however, I can’t help but feel like this is beyond struggling, beyond recovering, beyond asking for help, and beyond talking about. I mean where in the hell would I start?

Snapping out of my thoughts, the flat buzzer rings vigorously throughout the hallway and into the living room. Opening the curtains I have a quick gander to find my mother sending a cute wave, asking me to let her in.

‘It’s open momma,’ I shout to her, and she lets herself in.


‘My baby!’ my mum exclaims, embracing me with one of those warm ‘Mum’ hugs, a mass of shopping bags hitting me in the back, as she continues, ‘So, how was it? How did your first day go? Do you like it? Have you met any nice people? What’s Manchester like? Tell me everything!’ She begins placing the food shopping down and starts unpacking. My god, I love my mum.

‘It was great momma! Different…but nevertheless, not bad for a first day.’ I send a big grin towards her and take in all of her positive energy. I have no idea how she does it. She is the strongest woman I know.

‘Manchester is brilliant mum. I’ll have to take you and give you a mini tour, it’s much busier than any of the villages round here, and I think dad would like it too.’ I can see sadness swallow her eyes. Immediately I retract my words, ‘He would have liked it, I’m sure.’ I feel for her, she’s in a hard place at the moment. That’s why I don’t argue with her coming to my flat most evenings, finding any excuse to ‘pop over’.

Everyone believed that Hetty and Harry Daniels were one of the most perfect definitions of the word couple ever, and I have to agree with them, as mum and dad were the type of parents you only ever see in Hollywood movies and shitty American sitcoms. They were the real life Homer and Marge Simpson. It was amazing growing up in such a stable, strong and loving family, and it’s only as I’ve got older that I have realised the value of this. I was extremely lucky. In all my 23 years on this earth, I have never seen any two people love each other as much as my mum and dad did. I can’t wait to experience that one day.
They met back in the 90s, the glorious grunge years, gigging in rival bands, only to produce, a few years later, lil’ old me. They say that having children brings partners either extremely closer to one and other, or, pushes them apart. Mum and dad managed to keep up both their musical careers and their relationship, whilst raising another mini human/crying alien.
There was always something special about mum and dad’s love that I can’t quite put my finger on, but whatever it was, maybe I would find it, and maybe mum could again too.

‘…yes, well…that sounds lovely dear. I’m so proud of you.’ As mum begins emptying the two Sainsbury’s shopping bags in a fidgety manor onto the dining table, I re-boil the kettle. It looks like

mum has raided the reduced isle, producing a ton of 19p pasties from the bags, ready to throw in the oven for tonight’s dinner. There’s no problem too big or too small, that can't be solved by a pie.


After an hour, mum and I are cuddled up on the sofa together, holding our food babies with extreme content. We have eaten the 19p pasties and watched a documentary on ‘The Hidden Mysteries of the Tomato’, which I must say, turned out way more interesting than it sounds. Nevertheless Channel 4 have seriously ran out of programme ideas.

‘I best be off sweetie, you don’t need me hanging around with your second day of your new job looming in the morning. Thanks for this evening, I’ll see you tomorrow?’ Mum kisses me on the head and stands up from the sofa, heading for her coat hung on the back of one of the dining room chairs.

‘Actually mum…’ I begin saying, knowing that I had been dreading this moment all evening, ‘I won’t be able to have dinner with you tomorrow evening, I promised I’d stay at Ivan’s, we haven’t seen each other in a few weeks, I hope you don’t mind?’

‘Not to worry love, hope you have nice time.’ Folding her chocolate brown hair into her hood, she zips up her coat and adds, ‘Do be careful sweetie, I know you really like this one, but you’re still my little Wrennie and I don’t want my girl getting her heart hurt again. I love you.’ She gives me a huge hug.

‘Love you too,’ I muffle through her lion’s mane of a hood.

She releases me, and tucking my hair behind my ears, she whispers, ’Love, but love just enough. Night darling, I’ll see you soon.’

Mum makes her way towards the door and I buzz her out of the building.








Chapter 3

It was as if evening hadn’t have even existed. I peel my right eye open slowly to find myself looking back at a dormant alarm clock ready to blow at any minute. I don’t want to do today. I always thought the Kaiser Chief’s put it right in Ruby with their line, “due to lack of interest, tomorrow is cancelled”. I was kind of wishing that today would be cancelled. Peeling my tired, heavy and slightly hungover body from my mattress (a few glasses of wine fell into my mouth after mum left last night), I sit up to set my alarm to tomorrow morning, and then grab my notepad and pen from the bedside table and begin writing.

Wren’s Commit to 3:
Eat healthy. Today is not a cheat day.
Ring Ivan and check plans for this evening.
Wear pants that fit you to work. Do not show kickers to boss.

This whole, ‘Commit to 3’ thing is only a recent addition to my life, having stumbled across it on Google one (slightly tipsy) evening. I struggle to prioritise the important things in life, not just the serious, but the fun and laid back aspects too. Like, for example, seeing the boyfriend and spending time with just the two of us. This is an area that has been struggling recently. It may seem perfect having a fantastic partner, but when you hardly see them or speak to them, it can become an issue. But anyway, thats number 2 on today’s ‘Commit to 3’. Number 1 is the important one. I feel like the last 4 months have been a cheeky downward spiral into eat-crap-everyday-central and I don’t particularly fancy heading there. Being skinny has it’s pros for sure, but the moment you put on weight, you can see the different a hell of a lot more. Over the last couple of months I have gained a stone and my mission is to get rid of this bastard. So yes, today is NOT a cheat day. And yes, this includes wine, Wren. Fuck.
Number 3 is also quite an important one, as I can confidently say I don't really want to be flashing my granny knickers to anyone, never mind my boss. So, note to self, must wear proper fitting pants, with the addition of decent looking underwear, just incase.