Disentangled

I cried out softly as my shoulder blades and the back of my head were slammed repeatedly against the blackboard. 

“What did you do to her?” screamed Rose, specks of spit flying into my face. “What did you do to Ella? What have you done to my sister!”

I was silent.

“I hate you!” Rose’s body seemed to go weak and she crumpled into a sobbing, shuddering heap on the gum-stained carpet. 

“What did you do to my sister?” This time I could barely hear her choked whisper. I, too, sunk down to the floor. I drew my knees up under my chin and hung my head so that my hair fell limply over my eyes, disguising the tears streaming down my face. The salt of the tears stung my dry, cracked lips, but I couldn’t feel it, didn’t notice. Inside I felt as though my heart had been torn out, leaving me hollow and cold. It hurt to breathe. 

The other students in the class filed in, staring. Rose and I were still on the floor when Mrs Daniels, our Form Room teacher, walked in for morning assembly. She took the scene in quickly, her green eyes narrowed, revealing nothing of her concern. She picked a couple of girls from the front row to help us to our seats. No, not our seats. Before, we sat next to each other. Rose and Belle. We went everywhere together. Sophie, the girl guiding me, sat me down in the front row, at the battered desk beside her own. The other girl, Christina, took my seat beside Rose. I hated the front row. My skin prickled as I felt twenty three pairs of eyes staring intently at the back of my head, trying to piece together what may have happened. Mrs Daniels went ahead with morning assembly just like every other day, reading out notices and leading us in our daily prayer. I sat frozen the whole time, hearing none of it, my sweaty palms tightly clutching the roughly polished desk top.

When the bell finally rang, I began robotically collecting my books. I was surprised when Mrs Daniels’ hand fell on my shoulder. I turned to face her. Her expression suggested I had missed something. The classroom was empty except for Rose, who hadn’t moved, Mrs Daniels and I. The teacher was waiting for an answer to something.

“Sorry?” I mumbled, turning my gaze back to my shoes. 

“I asked if you’d mind taking a seat.”

“Oh.” Still clutching my books to my chest, I moved, dazed, back to the desk in the front row. Time was lucid, shifting around me while I remained motionless, detached. Rose was crying again, her eyes swollen and glazed behind her glasses. Mrs Daniels was staring at me, waiting for me to say something. I stared back blankly, my ears filled with the hot, fast rush of my own blood. Even thought had stopped. 

“I said, is there something the two of you would like to share with me?” she repeated patiently. I hung my head and began prying at a brass pin someone had shoved into the cheap wooden desk. Mrs Daniels sighed. I guessed Rose hadn’t said anything. But then, how could she?

“No one is going anywhere until I find out what that was all about this morning.”

Rose whimpered and buried her face in her hands. Her body trembled, silent sobs still plaguing her. I clenched my jaw and rested my head on the desk, studying the grubby streaks on the glass window in the classroom door. My distilled consciousness was in awe of the angular, grey shadows strangling the warm, orange light even as it tried to fight its way through the glass. My arms hung limply by my sides, feeling thick and clumsy, curled fingers gently brushing the coarse, grey carpet. 

Mrs Daniels must have seen that her strategy was failing. Her eyebrows drew together, a small frown appearing on her modestly lined face. 

“You two were best friends last week. Belle, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you as happy as you’ve been in the last few weeks.”

A few weeks, I thought, that’s all it’s been.

“Is it a boy?” asked the teacher, setting her eyes on each of us in turn. 

Rose snorted, then broke out in loud, hiccoughing sobs. With vague surprise, I felt tears burning down my own cheeks and watched as they splashed lightly onto the desk. I didn’t think I had any tears left. 

Mrs Daniels looked puzzled and her frown deepened. 

“Girls, I’m your Pastoral Care teacher. I’m here for you to talk to. You know that. You also know that what you tell me will not leave this room. I’ve been teaching a long time. Whatever you have to tell me will not be something I haven’t heard before.”

I thought the offer sounded sort of tempting. Momentarily forgetting myself, I glanced back at Rose. My gaze was met with a very dirty stare from between glistening lashes as my oldest friend regarded something that was totally repulsive to her. I remained silent. 

Mrs Daniels sighed again.

“Okay, look. I’ll give you some time to think about it, and I’ll see you both in here at lunch time. Okay?”

She stared at us until we nodded, then scraped back her chair. 

“Whatever it is, girls, we can work through it,” she said, locking her eyes on me again, for an instant. Yeah right, I thought, gazing back into those eyes and willing her to know what I could never tell anyone. Rose just ignored her, her body still quivering slightly. 

I didn’t care. It was over. Everything was over. I stayed in my seat for a long time. I felt totally removed from the body that had plagued me. I don’t remember the feel of the unforgiving wood against my back, or if there was anything chalked on the blackboard I had been staring at for ... how long? The bell rung a few times and a chorus of distant voices filled my ears for moments at a time, then vanished. I was glad that there were hardly any classes held in my form room.

Then I scraped back my chair, leaving my books, including my diary, in a neat pile on my desk. As I stepped into the corridor, the doors of the other classrooms opened, and the hallway erupted with noise. Must be lunch time. I pushed my way through the crowd, trying to ignore the odd stares people were shooting at me. Little beads of sweat popped up all over my body, chilling me. Anticipation cast its icy net around my stomach. A fearful panic was nesting itself at the base of my throat and I could barely breathe. I felt my face grow hot and tried to convince myself that they didn’t know, not yet, how could they? And even if they did, it didn’t matter any more, anyway. 

When I reached the top of the stairs I hesitated. My right hand dropped and I lightly brushed it against the small pocket of my cotton school dress; inconspicuously, I hoped. The blade was still there. My racing heart began to slow. The panic loosened its hold and my breathing became less ragged. I felt calm, confident almost, for the first time since Friday night. Only three days ago.

I proceeded down the dull, linoleum covered stairs, pushed open the heavy toilet door and locked myself into a cubicle. I pulled up the sleeves of my jumper, then changed my mind and pulled the whole thing off over my head, bundling it in my lap. Rose is right. I have done something to Ella. Apparently it was wrong, although, it hadn’t felt that way. I know Rose is right because Rose is hurt, and Ella would never hurt Rose. Now Ell wont see me, or even speak to me when I call. It must have been my fault. 

I looked down at my left arm. There were old, fine, white scars, from before Ella, and a couple of jagged, freshly scabbed new ones from Sunday night, criss-crossing the pale flesh of my inner arm in a weird, textured web of hate. I had hoped for the euphoric sense of relief I used to get from cutting, but it hadn’t worked. I knew what I had to do. This was a big thing I needed to set free, the biggest ever, so I needed to release more blood, much more blood. I needed to take control.

I pulled the razor out of my pocket and with little ceremony I pressed it into the white skin of my wrist. I dragged the shinning blade along the veins slowly, over and over, until the blood was flowing steadily, pulsing out of the fresh openings and spilling onto the cool flesh around them. Leaning back, I let the sensation of warmth dripping down my hand fill me. It felt thick, real. Release. The blood pooled on the tiled floor. I began to feel light headed and almost giddy; a faint smile touched my lips. My hand relaxed, allowing the bloodied blade to clatter lightly to the floor. 

* * *

Mum’s body is shaking with suppressed tears. Dad is hugging her, so I can’t see her face. I sit on the arm of the couch and rest a tentative hand on the blanket over her legs. She doesn’t move away from me, so I relax, aware of her warmth through the soft fabric. Anxiety, provoked by uncertain awkwardness, cinches my throat. I think of the Valium in my bed room, then flinch from the selfishness reflected in my wandering attention. I wait, jaws locked, while dad rocks my mum in his arms, still obscuring her face. Helplessness compresses my belly. Tightening stomach muscles remind me, with vague, nauseous regret, of the schnitzel sandwich I fixed myself for dinner. My heart is beating too fast, though I haven’t moved in minutes, as I sit, waiting. Across the room, the television blares, emphasizing our silence. A sob breaks through from between my father’s arms, my mother’s sob, escaping from her silent well of expression. I frown, for a moment. But then, frothing up from my core, the corners of my mouth twitching, I am possessed by the terrible humor of the situation. Appalled, I press my lips together, drawing them into my mouth and biting down. Laughing is the worst thing I could possibly do. I turn away, my eyes drawn to the oversized wooden rosary draping the wall above the mantel. As quickly as my desire erupted, it evaporates; I feel my eyes burning, my stomach acids rising. This is dread, heating my heart. I have never seen my mum like this before. 

“Rose called,” my father tells me. I nod. I know this already, I was there, with Rose, when she called, screaming that she was going to tell my parents, that she hated me. I had stood, watching, frozen. She called. 

“She said ... Rose called, she said - you. You and her sister. Ella. You -” he stopped. “Your mother answered the phone,” he finished. From between his arms, another sob escaped.

* * *   

Rose had been on a date; her and Johnno go out every Friday night. To a movie, she said. Ella had wanted to stay home, had the house to herself. So I went around, after Rose left. As soon as I arrived, Ell took my hand. Her fingers were cool, but her touch; bursts of bright heat burned through me. My breath caught. She pulled me through the house, into her room, onto her narrow bed. Then she was on top of me, her hot, urgent kisses leaving a cool, wet trail up my neck, my face. 

“I love you,” I breathed. Our mouths met, tongues probing, eager bodies trembling, her every curve pressed hard against me. It was like this every time, quick and desperate. Hot, heavy breaths escaped me as I lifted her away, tugging her shirt up over her head, fumbling over her bra. Her breasts, pale and taut; I hesitated, trapped, for a moment, between desire and uncertainty. She took my hand and led it to her chest. Desire won; massaging, licking, enjoying the satisfying stiffness of her dark nipples against my tongue. I moved my attention down, running unsteady fingertips over her lightly freckled, smooth belly. Ell pulled my face back up to hers, hard, desperate kisses forcing hot blood to swell my lips. Biting, kissing, busy hands pulling urgently at her jeans. Blue undies, Bonds, damp. I groaned, heart racing, as I slid my hand beneath the fabric, cupping her soft curls, beads of moisture drawing my fingers between her lips. She gasped, lifting her hips to meet my hand. I massaged gently, seeking, listening for that desired response. Through locked lips we inhaled each other’s expelled, ragged breaths. Bucking and shaking beneath me, Ell came. I lingered, fingers unwilling to move away. Little sighs escaped her lips, her whole body trembling and hot against mine. 

“I love you,” she said.

“Ell?” a whisper, from the door. Shocked, I disentangled myself and stood, half dressed and panting, before my best friend. 

“Belle?” Rose’s voice, still a whisper. “What ... what ...?” 

“Rose -” I started, taking a step closer. 

“Don’t touch me!” she screamed. I flinched back. 

“We wanted to tell you,” I said, glancing at Ella. She stared down at her lap, cloaked still in her sheets. She didn’t speak. 

“You wanted -? Tell me what? Tell me what?” Rose’s voice was rising, becoming shrill. I didn’t know what to tell her. 

“I -” 

“Shut up! Shut up shut up! You’re disgusting, disgusting!” 

Ella didn’t move, Rose didn’t look at her. 

“I’m calling your parents, go home. Do they know what you are?” She reached for the phone, dialed. I couldn’t move; I watched, frozen. She called.  

A Ball or, I Feel You, in Blood

A Ball or, I Feel You, in Blood

“Goodbye. I love you.” Is that what I said, when you left? I can’t remember, I can’t remember much, anymore. You’ve been gone a year. I try and fail; I can’t fill the void that is you. And what did you say, when you left? 

“Goodbye.” I hear you say it, but your voice is only in my mind now. I like it, when you speak to me like that, but there are no new words, only echos, half remembered. You always knew so much, much more than me. I think about you, what I do, without you here, and I know I’m flailing, and I wonder, how are you? I want to cry, right now, as I write this. The tears are waiting for permission to fall. People say ‘my other half,’ but that’s not what you are. You’re my middle, my filling, my heart, I guess you could say. You prop me up and I move, and everything is okay. Now you’ve gone, and I am hollow. Nothing to hold me in place, to keep me from caving in, on myself, and I do. It is slow, but they will notice soon. I forget a lot of things, now. 

I have a ball called anxiety. It lives in my chest. I don’t always see it, or feel it, or notice it at all - it is at home, and I’m at home with it. But we meditate, and when we do, it is all that I see, all that I feel. A golden ball, so pretty, so cold and hard and pretty. It chokes me. The doctor gave me antibiotics for the ball that he could see, but glands aren't what make it so hard to swallow. 

“Valium?” I asked. He looked upset and shook his head. 

“You see your normal doctor.” My normal doctor! A joke. I have none, she is gone, too. I have eight little yellow pills, and when I eat them the ball starts to melt. It shrinks and I can take big breaths again. It was like that when you were here, too.

Time passes in skips and jumps. I get mixed up, a bit, but there is no one left to notice that. I like to sleep; alone and warm and not really here at all. One day, I sat at the computer. She started talking to me, a she, a girl, from before. Just one of them, a no-one, to forget. 

“Hello,” she said. 

“Hello,” I said. I didn’t want to talk. Who are you? I knew her but so long ago, for such a short time. “I have to go get something to eat,” I told her. I just wanted to get away. I wandered off into the yard. The sun was out and I sat in a puddle of it, on the grass, near Peter. Did I tell you, when he died? I smoked cigarettes and the sun went away. When I went back to the computer, she was still there. Belle. I looked at the name, flashing, something else to say. I thought I might use it in a story. I might still, if I do that sort of thing again. 

“You always go away when I talk to you. I have something nice to tell you. Next time, I guess,” she had said. But she was still there.

“I am still here,” I told her. “What is this nice thing?”

“It’s not like me to say this,” she said, “but I am going to put it the way it is...”

“Ok.”

“I like you ... just a wee bit. Just could not stop thinking of you lately and you keep putting a smile on my face.”

When she said that, I got scared. I lent back in my chair and reached over to turn the computer off. Why had she said that? But then you were there, time and space evaporated, in my ear, talking, telling me, telling me, and you were right. 

“You’re afraid of commitment,” you said. I felt your breath against my ear when you spoke. I turned around but there was no one there. You always could see what was inside me. You always knew more than me. I stared at the words Belle had sent. My golden ball of anxiety was pulsing and I though of you and I thought of my little yellow pills, and how they make me feel like you make me feel. How do I make you feel? 

“We will go out for a drink, when you come to Melbourne,” I wrote. Then I turned away, and walked away, but you were still there, I could smell you, your shampoo, right beside me. Why can’t I see you?

I am the imitator, the great illusionist. I see the way they live and that is what they see, when they look at me. I don’t have to do anything, to live this way. The outside of me knows how to look, how to talk. Knows the words, it is a script. I sit on the inside, alone, in the space that you once filled. You moved out and now I can see this space, but I don’t know how to fill it or use it, like you knew how. It is big in here, and I can’t imagine how you filled it. When you were here, you were like me. But now you’ve left, and every day I am smaller, smaller, and I wonder, how, once, you filled this hall, my heart? I miss you. What did we say, to each other, before? And what will happen, if you, when you, come back? I hope I am still here, when, if, you do. I am holding on, holding on tight, and I think of you. Waiting. But I am getting smaller, and your voice, it only whispers now. 

I lay in my bed. I feel time pass. A car door, a dog. The night is not a quiet one. But I am  quiet, where no one can see me. I think of you, but I can’t feel you, anymore. I feel my ball, it glows, and there is nothing else, nothing else at all. The room is dark but my eyes wont close. I think of those pills, my little yellow pills. Only eight. Eight. I feel so empty, now. Just me and my ball, in the dark, in my bed. I sit up and my motions are fluid. Sleep has not begun its search for me, though I waited. I have a light by my bed. You were here, when I bought that light. I turn it on; it hurts my eyes. I open a draw and begin my search. Why am I so empty? I don’t know where you are, where are you, and there is nothing inside. I am cold, separate. I am watching, my own fingers, my head, bent low, as I search. My hand closes over cold steel that I can’t feel. I am a watcher, now. My knife. I wonder what is inside, in that hollow space, without you. My body searches. The blade sparkles, so pretty in the light. It shines like my ball. It is cold, and with gentle motions, as I watch, my fingers guide its tip to my leg. Up and down, so careful, not a scratch. My knuckles whiten, clenching tight, arm taught. The steel presses into my knee, bites down hard, and with the fluidity of detachment, the knife follows my hand my arm, through my skin, meat, flesh, air. I feel nothing. I watch. My knee opens, but there is no blood. I watch. Small spots appear in the hole, they grow, drop. The new hole fills. This is blood. This is what is inside. It overfills, spills, trailing down my shin, to my foot. Tickles. Tickles. I feel. I feel. Is this you, that I feel? You have no answers for me, now. Did I say “I love you,” when you left? 

“How did you feel, then?” Hannah asks me. I don’t know the answer, but I try, I try. 

“Scared?” I say. I’m not sure, was that it? I don’t know, the questions she asks me, I can’t answer. 

“Where did you feel it, in your body?” Difficult, difficult. 

“My chest.” That is the only place I feel, now. Have I lost you? I tell her about my ball, how pretty it is, how it shines and pulses and hurts, hurts to breath. She writes something down, the notepad is on her knee. Her hair, it glows too, catching the sun, from the window. It shines like autumn. I like her hair. I look at her and I see you, laughing, the sun, on your hair, shinning. We got so burnt, that day. That day, I remember that day. We drank beers at sunset and I know I said “I love you,” then. Hannah wants me to tell her about you. I tell her about how you laughed, how red we got, in the sun, and you shone, your hair. I don’t tell her ‘like yours.’

"About the Author"

Following a discussion in class on Thursday, I am experimenting with an untried, untested* method of 'getting my writing out there,' so to speak. That is to say, Hello! Welcome! This is a blog of my writing - stories, I write stories! - a forum where I can share and you, if you are so unlucky as to have found yourself here, may comment (or, perhaps, rather pointedly not comment, if that is your preferred reaction) on what you read. I would love to know what you think. 

*By me. Until now, obviously.