Darkthorn’s Blog

“So what’s happening this weekend?” said Leah, turning towards the girl.
The girl mumbled. This weekend would be just like all the others, stuck at home with her father, trying to avoid him. He would have forgotten what had happened earlier anyway, lost in that drunken abyss. The computer in her room was too old to interest her, the new one would be in use. It always was, whether it was 1 pm or 9 am. Her father was “using it”, even while he was asleep. It made no sense.
“Oh come on, you know you really wanna go to that real cool party Matt’s having. It’ll be a blast. You might pick up or something.”
The girl couldn’t figure out why she was being asked. Everyone knew she was useless at parties, more likely to sit in a corner than dance. There wasn’t any point in drinking either, it didn’t have the same effect on her as on others, and she didn’t have any money anyway.
“I really want you to come. It’ll be fun. Please? I need someone to go with.”
“No.” said the girl.
“Come on, you know you want to.”
The girl was losing patience. Why couldn’t that stupid bitch understand she didn’t want to go? There was no point, she’d just sit there all evening, feeling sorry for herself, wishing she was alone.
‘You’re not thinking of doing THAT again are you? Remember the last time? That was a bloody mess, and I had to clean up.”
Yeah, thought the girl. It was a bloody mess. Pity she’d missed that time. Next time she wouldn’t. She was getting sick of this one-sided conversation.
The girl walked away from her friends in the noisy, roaring cafeteria and went down past the hockey oval where all the druggies congregated. She had tried that particular escape from reality last year. Meth had afforded an escape, but she knew that it was too good to be true. Her best friend had died, purposely overdosed on heroin. She wasn’t ready for death like that, choking on her own vomit, messy and undignified. People had just said it was an accident, she didn’t want people to think that about her. She wanted it on her own terms, in her own time.
She passed the stadium and followed the road as it meandered past the school. She was short for her age, but years of running and eating disorders had taken chubbiness from her which was all that would have remained to remind her of her mother.
Her shaggy black hair was tangled in to a ponytail, swinging this way and that as she broke into a loping run. The girl just wished they would understand why she didn’t care about them anymore. Deep in her heart, she knew she had a better chance of reaching America with the twelve dollars she had tucked away safe in her bag than getting them to understand.
Two years ago, when the girl first discovered the family secret which had tormented them all to the point of death, she had thought that this was something that could be treated, something that would fade with the years after puberty. The girl’s beloved mother, Anna, had died in a car crash six years before that, taking not only her own life, but that of the girl’s grandfather, who sat in the front seat with Anna. The authorities said it was an accident, caused by the slipperiness of the road covered with the ice of winter, but the girl found the truth in one of the many arguments she had had with her alcoholic father. Tom had shouted that it was the girl’s fault that his wife was dead, and that he wished that she had never been born. The truth had hurt that time, but the girl had sworn after that she wouldn’t feel anything again. His rough, bulbous hands had grasped at her neck desperately, wanting to strangle the life out of the one living thing that was left to him. The girl had wriggled away from him, thanking the strength of her legs as she had kicked out at his groin. From that moment the girl would watch him from a distance, eager to avoid close proximity with those murderous fists.
As the girl ran, her hands clenched into fists at the injustice served to her by God, if He even existed. That was the problem, running made her think. She kicked up dust on the path, breathing steadily through her nose. Going to school was so mind-numbing, going running brought her brain back to life. She loved it anyway. There was nothing to do at school, she was already ahead in her class work in preparation for the days when the sickness would strike her down and leave her helpless at home in bed. Her friends were so pathetic, tedious just like school. All they wanted to talk about were superficial things, like who was going out with whom, which boy they had a crush on this month. The girl wanted more than that, she wanted to be free from the curse which plagued her, to practice her music, to draw and paint, to live her life as she wanted to.
She stepped out from the curb, crossing the road into the park where the pines grew. The traffic roaring past did not disturb the girl, instead she revelled in the minor danger that she was facing.
Once she entered the park through the big, brick archway, she slowed her hectic pace and walked calmly past the mother’s group that was surrounding the playground. Her long sleeves hid the scars that would show, gleaming whitely on her flesh, revealed by her traitorous flushed skin. The girl walked towards the brick building, rummaging though her bag with one hand for the comfortable black clothes. She had stored them in the smallest pocket with her other necessities, hidden from the prying eyes of others. Her hand brushed against something sharp just as she entered the toilet block. It drew a gasp of pain from the girl. She withdrew her hand quickly, not wanting to get the bright blood which spilled unheeded down her finger on her new bag, wincing slightly at the throbbing. She inspected the cut, and then bound it with paper towel. It was only a little one, but it had cut dangerously close to a vein. The girl sighed, that would be hard to explain to her friends when they asked. Maybe it would just be easier if she never went back to school or home. The girl saw her reflection in the dirty cracked mirror, and sighed again. Her hair was falling every which way, jolted from its ponytail by her jogging. She held her bag between her knees, avoiding contact with the floor, and ripped out the hair tie, cursing when it broke. She shook her hair down over her eyes, marvelling at the colour of it. It suited her mood so well.
The girl dropped her bag carelessly near the door, coming to an abrupt decision. She turned on her heel and left the toilets, swinging her loose hair. This time, as she passed the playground with reckless abandon on her face, the mothers held their children close and turned their own faces away from the girl. She walked on, passing back though the archway.
The girl laughed.
She stepped out onto the road.
The truck hit.
The girl was free.