You are Definitely Going to Hell by Bamo68..,

This story is a stand-alone tale about a lad called Rob that I have been writing in between other stories.

Rob, you are definitely going to hell is the first to feature Robert Johnson, but it won’t be the last. Other stand-alone stories will follow in time.

All sexually active characters are over the age of 18 years.

Please score me and leave a comment if you have one.

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I am sitting in the Biology lab waiting for my lift home with my neighbour and Biology teacher Mrs. Jill Peters. In my hand, I have a pink envelope with my name and address on it. It arrived on Saturday, but I still haven’t opened it. I read my name and address written on the front for the one-hundredth time, Robert Johnson, 8 Sunset Heights, Ashford, Kent.

The year is 1985, and I am in Sixth Form at school. It is the middle of October, and I have just had my eighteenth birthday party at a local pub. I am your run-of-the-mill 18-year-old, a very average person. If you look up the states of an average man, that is me. 5ft 10 inches tall, size nine feet, and medium build. My other peculiarity and my claim to fame is my tongue. I am the only person I know in my school who can lick their nose.

I am just staring at the outside of this letter because something has happened. I usually write a letter a month in secret to my best friend. Her name is Jenifer Lake or Jenny. She and I were best friends through most of primary school and the first two years of secondary. Then one day, she just disappeared. I didn’t find out what had happened until she wrote to me three months later explaining. We were inseparable up to that point inside school. This will be the third time her parents have found out we are writing to each other, each time she leaves it a couple of months and then resumes.

We talk about everything from what celebrities we like to what’s happening at school. We talked about our fears and have no secrets, and we even talked about what was happening with our bodies through puberty. I even told her when I discovered masturbation. We have even have our own language or code. We can both write and speak it. She finishes every letter with, ‘Bur, uuy ire yifonotild guong ut lilh.’ See if you can work it out.

Her parents are devout Catholics and very religious. They found out about our friendship and thought the worst. They moved away from the area and enrolled Jenifer in an all-girls school, but she manages to send letters through a friend on the sly. We knew her parents would find out, and this time we got away with it for one and a half years, but today is that day. Her friend Debbie has written to me to explain, but I’m too chicken to open it.

I live with my parents in a small dead-end street. Where I live was supposed to be a large estate, but they found that the land had old unrecorded chalk mines and was unstable to build on further up the hill.

So our street is just off a dual carriageway, which was supposed to be the works access and not the actual resident’s access. It had caused a number of accidents until they put a set of traffic lights up. So now we have a nature reserve in my back garden, literally because it’s so overgrown, which was heaven for a boy growing up.

When I was young, the problem with living where I do was that none of my school friends were allowed around to play. Their parents deemed it too dangerous, and for the first ten years of my life, I was forbidden to leave the house, garden, or the two fields that backed onto my parents’ house. Of course, I have my friends at school, but I am on my own once three-thirty hits. Now I am older; I am forbidden to bring anyone home.

My mother was the one to stay home and watch me up until my tenth birthday, when everything changed. After that, my mother went back to work as a lawyer full time and with an accountant as a father; you can guess that my home life was one laugh after another.

Now don’t get me wrong, I had quite a good childhood. I wanted for nothing and always was first in my class to get whatever was out or the thing to have. I was first to get a digital watch, an Atari, and whatever else I wanted. I had a Hornby train set and Scalextric, but my pride and joy is my Marcano set. It is huge, and I could build anything that came to mind. My parents, though, were intelligent in the way they gave me things. With them both working, I earned my toys. I would keep the house clean and make sure dinner was at least on the go when they got home.

I was cooking from the age of eleven, most days, they were back home around six o’clock, and I had devised a little routine every night to make sure everything got done, and I had time to play or do any homework that I had. Not as though we had much before secondary school. My mother would pay for a taxi at first to pick me up from the school gates and drop me at the front door. She then decided that I could cycle my bike as long as I returned along the footpath and not the main road.

“Are you ready to go, Rob?” Mrs. Peters asks as she walks through the lab’s backroom door. When it’s raining, I cadge a lift.

“Ummm, yes, Mrs. Peters,” I reply, still staring at the envelope.

“What’s that. another letter from Jenny?” She asks, looking over my shoulder to see what I have in my hand.

“No, it’s from Jenny’s best friend.”

“Oh, should I ask?”

“Well, it looks like Jenny’s parents have found out about me again,” I say, getting up from my desk.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Rob.” Mrs. Peters didn’t know what to say other than, “shall we go?” I get up, tuck the envelope into my bag, and follow her out to her car.

Mr. and Mrs. Peters moved into the house across from us the year before Jenny disappeared. When she first moved in, I must admit that I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She and Mr. Peters, in my eyes, have the perfect relationship. They seem so in love, kissing each other and always happy together in contrast to my parents, who hardly talk and only seem to be together because they have nowhere else to go.

Home life has never truly been happy. My mother had postnatal depression when I was a baby, which seems to affect her ability to bond with me. My dad is a typical man and thinks the children are the woman’s responsibility. So I envy the Peter’s for having such wonderful life.

As we park on the Peter’s driveway, she turns to me, “do you have any homework you need help with tonight?”

“Only yours,” I say with a smile.

“Wanna come in and do it here?”

As an 18-year-old virgin, I smile to myself at the double meaning. Not as though I would if I had the chance. I just don’t see her that way and view the Peter’s relationship as the perfect love.

“Yes, if I can. I always struggle with Biology.”

“You do seem to be slipping a little. It is getting to the point where I will need to say something if you still want to get into Edinburgh University.” Mrs. Peters says as she opens the door to her Ford Fiesta. She pauses, “would you like some extra tuition in the evenings?” She asks with a frown.