Friday, June 17th, 2005, 1:41 pm

1 hour, 40 minutes after

The nice firefighters offered me a blanket maybe a half an hour ago? I discarded it, of course. It's far too hot for one, what with the June heat and the smoldering ruins of my childhood home.

"Hermia."

The social worker walks over to me with this unnatural posture, this charisma that can only come with doing something like this five hundred times before. She's young, maybe in her late twenties, and she's pretty, with dark hair and a long, sloped nose. She crouches in front of me with these sad fucking eyes, this expression that tries to be understanding but comes off as… not.

Fuck, I'm not a writer. I'm just a dumb high school kid who uses too much red hair dye.

"It is Hermia, right?"

Yes, it's Hermia. It's always been Hermia since I escaped the womb kicking and screaming. I don't know why she's so confused. Everyone in Veronaville has weird names. I feel like Hermia is honestly a distinctly unweird name. Just go see Bottom Summerdream if you want to see a weird name. Rest in peace and all that, Bottom, if you're reading this.

Maybe she's not confused. Maybe she's just concerned. I guess I get it. I would be too if I was a social worker and not a fifteen year old kid.

I say nothing, though. I make eye contact with her, though. Us Capps are not rude, no matter what anyone says. Aloof, yes. Impolite, no. God forbid we're rude. My granddad would always yell at Jules and I for shit like that. Stop talking with your mouth full. Sit up straight. You're eating too much. Never Tybalt, but I guess he didn't need to worry about Tybalt. Only Tybs ever worried about Tybalt.

Silly old man. He meant well, though, I'm sure. May God rest his soul, or whatever. I guess I've never believed in stuff like that, in an omnipotent God or anything. I think, if a God exists, He wouldn't have let something like this happen to me again. There's no way I deserved this. I don't know what lesson this teaches me. I'm at a loss, honestly. If He's trying to say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, I think I'd rather be dead right about now. I'm tired of being strong.

"Hermia," the social worker says. She's forging ahead. I almost feel kind of bad for her, you know? Like, what can she do with a traumatized kid sitting in front of a flaming mansion? Hug me? Give me advanced copies of the rest of The Series of Unfortunate Events? Make me feel better because a fictional character went through the same tragedy I did?

I choke out a laugh. What else can I do, cry? Too bad I'm already an orphan. Have been since I was a kid when my parents died in another confusing, undisclosed tragedy. I'm starting to think living in Veronaville is bad luck. Maybe I should move or something. I highly doubt that's what social workers are for, though.

Miss Sad-Eyed Social Worker won't help. I can promise you that. I'm sitting here, a flimsy fire blanket at my feet, sweating my ass off watching my childhood home burn to rubble. A social worker is not going to help me.

"I know this must all be such a shock to you. I'm here for you. We all are. All of Veronaville is here for you."

There's those eyes again. Her well-intentioned I'm here for you. I have a feeling I'm going to get real sick of that phrase soon. I kind of want to reach out and slap her. I hold back, though. Wouldn't want to be rude. Besides, she's just trying to be nice. It's her job and all. It's not her fault there's nothing she could say to make everything better. Nothing anyone can say can make it go away.

Because there's really not a lot of Veronaville left to make go away, is there?

"Everyone's dead, aren't they?" I finally say. My voice cracks a little bit. It's kind of pathetic, but then again, I've always been a little pathetic. It's the territory that comes with being the youngest sibling, I think.

I sound like a babbling idiot, I know. But a lot of fifteen year olds are babbling idiots. I don't pretend I'm any exception to that rule. My grades at school are average. I'm not that talented. I dance, I guess, but I've never been that good, you know? I don't have a lot going for me in the grand scheme of things aside from my family's fortune. Overall, I'm pretty damn normal, save for the surrounded-by-tragedy, everybody's-dead, poor-me shtick.

Oh, I know what you're thinking. Melodramatic, much? What is this, some kind of Shakespearian tragedy? So you'll be surprised to know that the social worker agrees with me.

"Yes. It appears so."

I nod, once, twice, and then I get up. Because I cannot stay anchored to this retaining wall for one more second, talking to this stupid social worker for any longer. I get up, and I walk. I don't know where I'm going. I just go.

She calls after me, of course. She doesn't say what I expect. "Don't you want to know how they died?"

I don't answer. Because I know how they died. I got to watch it, helpless, from the outside. Front row seats and everything, you know? I wonder how much money granddad would have to pay for that. A good chunk of the Capp fortune, I'm sure.

I start laughing. I'm walking away from the heat, from Miss Sad-Eyed Social Worker, from the fire blanket, and all I can do is laugh like an absolute maniac. I know the social worker is looking at me, and I know what she's thinking: I've lost it. This is it for me.

You know why I'm laughing? Because I'm going to have to stand up at so many funerals the next few weeks and give so many eulogies. I hate public speaking. I hate funerals, too. I hate dead people. They're creepy and have these weird glassy eyes and I don't think I can take it. I can't take seeing another dead person or another casket or having to sit in those little receiving lines or eating casserole after casserole because granddad is too sad to cook anymore. I can't. I can't do it.

I keep laughing and I keep walking and I get lightheaded. I fall to my knees and I start dry-heaving on the hot pavement. It bites into my knees and it burns, but I don't really notice.

I know. I know what you're thinking. Take a chill pill. It's all good. Calm down, sister. It can't possibly be that bad. Why are you laughing instead of crying?

Maybe you're smart. Maybe you're asking why I watched everyone die? All in due time, dear reader. Maybe you think that's an unsatisfactory answer. And maybe you're right. But honestly? It's because I have to figure it out.

Hey. Maybe it's my fault. Maybe you're talking to a murderer. A serial murderer, as the case may be. Because they're all dead. Tybs, granddad, aunt Goneril, uncle Albany, Regan and Cornwall, all my cousins. Mercutio, Beatrice, Benedick, Antonio, even Isabella and Patrizio. Romeo and Juliette. They're all gone.

I'm not, of course. Not a murderer or anything. But how would you know that?

Guess you'll have to keep reading to find out.