midnight.
i'd never seen a dead body before. i tell laura all about it, no doubt waking her. she agrees: this was not unexpected, but incredibly shocking nonetheless.
three am, hour three.
garden state has never been a more perfect movie to watch. i've got sweet tea, a huge bowl of popcorn i'm really just playing with, sheets that should have been washed a week ago and i'm comfortably numb.
five am, hour five.
my eyes are constantly blurred. unable to sleep, i reach for my ipod and it shines with white hope. shuffle. beck has never made less sense. my old friends nick, bob and john keep me company as i watch the sun rise.
nine am, hour nine.
wake-up text from laura. i'm okay. it hasn't hit me. i'm okay. i'd like to get some sleep, but i need to wash my hair first. i'm okay.
one pm, hour thirteen.
high heels should be fucking banned from the house. i can hear them walking up and down and up and down the tiles. i would have thought that today of all days, people would appreciate our need for privacy, but i guess without any witnesses we might all top ourselves. three calls in succession from three girls, all of whom i have at one stage or another considered to be a bestie, all of whom are in tears. i guess the bomb's dropped at eltham high, then.
two pm, hour fourteen.
i can hear the tears and know badly that i should be out with my family, or what's left of it, but i can't. the thought of escaping my warm tangled nest of doonas and polar fleece jumpers is frightening. i can see the crack of light under the door, and i know that if i walk out people will throw cliches at me and it will take more strength than i have not to spit swear words back at them. if i stay in the darkness, it's still a dream. it can still be okay tomorrow, if it remains tonight.
one message recieved: someone from an unknown number says to say they love me.
three pm, hour fifteen.
belinda barges through the door and is a wet mess of mucous and tears. i welcome her into my cave but think it's slightly wrong that i'm comforting her, a capable fifty year old woman. 'cry,' she tells me. 'let it out!' my eyes are dry as a bone.
one message recieved, eltham high: i'm so, so sorry. if there's anything i can do.
one message received, eltham college: you haven't been at school for a while, are you okay?
five pm, hour seventeen.
laura is here. thank christ. we don't know what to say. vikki calls, not me but laura - 'is it true?'. i wish i could go to school tomorrow, just make an appearance and tell everyone the right story and not the over dramatised version that is already getting around. although, most of my friends probably assume i'm on holiday or something. only half of them have been informed of anything, and in hinesight that probably wasn't the best move. by monday everyone will know. i guess it will be nice to be able to tell everyone that i've had a reason to be upset for these past two years, tell everyone that yes, she was actually really sick, i wasn't making it up.
it's amazing how nosy people are. they're jealous they couldn't get closer to the tragedy.
no, i wasn't there.
when it happened. no. i wasn't there. none of us were.
yes, i saw her. no, she was still warm. yes, she was very grey looking. yes, it was scary. no, i didn't cry.
no, this isn't any of your business, but i'd rather you know the truth.
seven pm, hour nineteen.
i know i should leave my room. the longer i say here, the harder it will be. i can hear my uncle's deep voice resonating through the walls, i can hear my dad struggling to sound carefree. laura goes out first and i follow. i eat some of her mum's cannelloni.
eight pm, hour twenty.
we're watching trash tv on foxtel and bitching about it. it could be any other friday night, a quiet one in. we aren't even drinking. i haven't had a cigarette for at least two weeks now, i think i've quit, finally, without even realising.
nine pm, hour twenty one.
it's not any other night. dad forces me into a conversation you shouldn't have to have. i want to make it all better for him but i can't get over myself enough to stop being a bitch, changing the subject, turning my back on him and cutting up various slices and lasagnes people have brought.
ten pm, hour twenty two.
it's been almost a day. time doesn't seem to be working at the moment. my brother is out getting drunk, my dad is sleeping or at least trying to. i have itunes, myspace and humblevoice...hardly comforting. but i'm okay, it hasn't hit me yet. i don't need comfort. i could easily carry on my life, with no fear of breaking down in tears in a supermarket or the middle of a class. i do not feel at all how i thought i would feel. i almost hope i crack one day and some emotion runs out of me, because at the moment, i'm so unemotionally okay that i fear i'm a robot.
i'd never seen a dead body before. i tell laura all about it, no doubt waking her. she agrees: this was not unexpected, but incredibly shocking nonetheless.
three am, hour three.
garden state has never been a more perfect movie to watch. i've got sweet tea, a huge bowl of popcorn i'm really just playing with, sheets that should have been washed a week ago and i'm comfortably numb.
five am, hour five.
my eyes are constantly blurred. unable to sleep, i reach for my ipod and it shines with white hope. shuffle. beck has never made less sense. my old friends nick, bob and john keep me company as i watch the sun rise.
nine am, hour nine.
wake-up text from laura. i'm okay. it hasn't hit me. i'm okay. i'd like to get some sleep, but i need to wash my hair first. i'm okay.
one pm, hour thirteen.
high heels should be fucking banned from the house. i can hear them walking up and down and up and down the tiles. i would have thought that today of all days, people would appreciate our need for privacy, but i guess without any witnesses we might all top ourselves. three calls in succession from three girls, all of whom i have at one stage or another considered to be a bestie, all of whom are in tears. i guess the bomb's dropped at eltham high, then.
two pm, hour fourteen.
i can hear the tears and know badly that i should be out with my family, or what's left of it, but i can't. the thought of escaping my warm tangled nest of doonas and polar fleece jumpers is frightening. i can see the crack of light under the door, and i know that if i walk out people will throw cliches at me and it will take more strength than i have not to spit swear words back at them. if i stay in the darkness, it's still a dream. it can still be okay tomorrow, if it remains tonight.
one message recieved: someone from an unknown number says to say they love me.
three pm, hour fifteen.
belinda barges through the door and is a wet mess of mucous and tears. i welcome her into my cave but think it's slightly wrong that i'm comforting her, a capable fifty year old woman. 'cry,' she tells me. 'let it out!' my eyes are dry as a bone.
one message recieved, eltham high: i'm so, so sorry. if there's anything i can do.
one message received, eltham college: you haven't been at school for a while, are you okay?
five pm, hour seventeen.
laura is here. thank christ. we don't know what to say. vikki calls, not me but laura - 'is it true?'. i wish i could go to school tomorrow, just make an appearance and tell everyone the right story and not the over dramatised version that is already getting around. although, most of my friends probably assume i'm on holiday or something. only half of them have been informed of anything, and in hinesight that probably wasn't the best move. by monday everyone will know. i guess it will be nice to be able to tell everyone that i've had a reason to be upset for these past two years, tell everyone that yes, she was actually really sick, i wasn't making it up.
it's amazing how nosy people are. they're jealous they couldn't get closer to the tragedy.
no, i wasn't there.
when it happened. no. i wasn't there. none of us were.
yes, i saw her. no, she was still warm. yes, she was very grey looking. yes, it was scary. no, i didn't cry.
no, this isn't any of your business, but i'd rather you know the truth.
seven pm, hour nineteen.
i know i should leave my room. the longer i say here, the harder it will be. i can hear my uncle's deep voice resonating through the walls, i can hear my dad struggling to sound carefree. laura goes out first and i follow. i eat some of her mum's cannelloni.
eight pm, hour twenty.
we're watching trash tv on foxtel and bitching about it. it could be any other friday night, a quiet one in. we aren't even drinking. i haven't had a cigarette for at least two weeks now, i think i've quit, finally, without even realising.
nine pm, hour twenty one.
it's not any other night. dad forces me into a conversation you shouldn't have to have. i want to make it all better for him but i can't get over myself enough to stop being a bitch, changing the subject, turning my back on him and cutting up various slices and lasagnes people have brought.
ten pm, hour twenty two.
it's been almost a day. time doesn't seem to be working at the moment. my brother is out getting drunk, my dad is sleeping or at least trying to. i have itunes, myspace and humblevoice...hardly comforting. but i'm okay, it hasn't hit me yet. i don't need comfort. i could easily carry on my life, with no fear of breaking down in tears in a supermarket or the middle of a class. i do not feel at all how i thought i would feel. i almost hope i crack one day and some emotion runs out of me, because at the moment, i'm so unemotionally okay that i fear i'm a robot.