This is something I’ve been writing in the journal my mum bought me a few weeks back. It’s the first thing I started writing when she gave it to me, after someone I know showed up trashed one night. I don’t think it’s very good, in fact, it’s very basic and cliched writing in my opinion, but any practice is good practice yes? Yes, ok, good.
There is a bit more to it, actually, a lot, I sort of spent that whole evening just writing my butt off, despite the ridiculous hand cramp (typing is so much easier/quicker/less painful right? Though maybe more-so on the eyes?), but I’ll see what happens and decide later whether to type the rest of it out or not. There’s still no ending or title, which I absolutely hate (like, it’s driving me crazy to the point of deleting the whole thing…. stupid huh?), but one thing I do have (or like to think I have) is self control.
So here goes:

“With candle wax matted in her hair, shoes in hand, she stumbles through the kitchen door. 

I force an awkward smile. I hate it when she’s in this state.
I notice some wax crumble off her collar-bone and fall to the floor as she drags herself to our ancient ‘will-collapse-any-minute-now’ bar stools.

I try not to pay too much attention to her incoherent mumblings as she slumps down on the bench. When she does manage a sentence of actual words, they’re more often than not directed at the space a metre to my left, or two to my right, and then back. She can never stay focused on me.

“I, I’m mmm… a-seein’ double” she chuckles.
Our new hot water jug (“boils in only 3 minutes!”) seems to take 30 agonizingly awkward minutes as I wait, alone with her in the kitchen. I just really need a cup of tea….

After helping her upstairs, I finally settle into my own bed with my (cold) cup of tea. Somehow, for the umpteenth time, I push the image of her; smudged make-up, drowsy-eyed, that little clump of wax dangling in her fringe, to the back of my mind and snuggle into the covers with a book she lent me: Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. One thing I can say for her, is that she has a great, yet unique taste in literature.

Here we go again, I think to myself. Putting my dressing gown on seems ridiculous at this hour, but who know how long I’ll be up now…

I get up the stairs to find her in a pile of pajamas and blankets on the floor beside the bed. The expensive, luxurious, king size bed, I might add. Why bother spending so much on a bed if you never bloody sleep in it?
Take two: We’re both safely back in our own beds, and this time she’s tuck in tight enough to stay that way.

I’ve always found it hard to sleep after an evening like this, but tonight feels different. Dozing in and out of consciousness for only 20 minutes before falling into that deep REM sleep coma is like a miracle for me.

There are no dreams tonight.

And suddenly I am awake.
My cell shows 9:54am. I’ve slept in, for once!You could not imagine the relief I feel in this moment. Relief with a hint of nausea….
Something isn’t right. The sun violates my entire room through the cracks in the drapes. The house is far too quiet for this time of day….

Small beads of sweat start breaking out all over my body and suddenly I’m panicking. I hear no noise in the kitchen. No gooey baby-talk to the dogs. No jug boiling, no coffee machine milk foamer steaming away unattended as always.

She’s always the first one up. Always. No matter how rough the night before had been, she was always the one to start each day fresh, as if upon each morning she was re-born with the same happy, organised, and positive attitude I grew up with.

Not today.
Today I race upstairs.
Today I find her, still tucked under the covers.
Today I phone the ambulance.

Besides the patchy yellow bile half soaked into her t-shirt, and her pupils rolled up, she could still look just as peaceful as when I left her at 2am. It’s a hideous sight really. I love her, but I am also disgusted to the point of vomiting.
Why the fuck did I leave her like that?

I don’t bother shaking her, the verdict is visible, even to the dog who huddles in the doorway. My mouth is dry and all I want to do is scream. However all I manage is a pathetic gasp of horror as I fall back against the dresser.

I am still on the floor when the people from St Johns arrive. I didn’t even hear the bell, but they marched straight upstairs to the bedroom. Their reaction tells me there’s already a foul smell filling up the room. Soon the entire house will reek of nothing but a tragic death.
I already know I can’t stay here…

Someone’s hand is on my face, and a bright light pierces through my pupils, scorching my brain awake.
That’s when the tears come.

I don’t remember much after that.
I was barely present at the funeral; just spent my time gazing at the ground, catching glimpses of people’s shoes as they paused in passing to apologize.
It’s not their fault, but I can’t tell them that.

I let my eyes focus on the grass, zone in on the way the blades bend, almost to the point of breaking, but continue to grow anyway. That is until they get mowed by the City Council.

I feel someone leading me away by the elbow, and among the hushed voices I recognize only a few particular words. “Sorry” is the most popular, but I notice words like “hospital” and “professional help” are also being thrown around. In such a state as mine, I take no notice, and let myself be put in a car.

Somewhere on the drive home, alone in the backseat, I fall asleep…..”


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