Chapter 17 "Desperate Times"
Rachel Greene
My funeral outfit hangs ominously on the front of my wardrobe, a hellish reminder of what
I went through yesterday. I'm keeping it there for now, to keep this whole nightmarish
reality in focus. It keeps the pain real, and I need that. Otherwise I wouldn't believe this
had happened to me.
I look at it, and it sears into my memory like a branding iron, all the pity and all the
sympathy I saw yesterday. Everyone would like to think they know what I'm going
through, but they don't have a clue. I glance down at the blade in my hand. It gleams in
the pale light, a cold sharp wicked glint.
I'm alone in my room. Elizabeth is through in the nursery with Ella, who's been fractious
at night recently. She knows something is wrong, but she just can't ask. I can't even bear
to hold my baby sister. She's so painfully innocent. Elizabeth doesn't cope well with being
by herself, so she's focussing all attention on Ella. She's using her child to get through
this. Her daughter needs her, and through that she lives. I don't even have that. I don't
have anything to keep me going. It doesn't feel that this is worth fighting through. It just
doesn't feel worth the struggle.
I don't have any tears left to cry anymore. I know that sounds like a cliche, but I've cried
myself to sleep every night since it happened. I didn't cry at the funeral yesterday. People
looked at me strangely, as if they expected me to be weaker than that. I don't like public
outpourings of grief. It would have embarrassed me. This is a private emotion, this is a
private time.
I'm glad in a way the pressure of the funeral is off us now, but it still leaves me with a hell
of a lot to cope with for a 15 year old. His face is still the first thing I see when I close my
eyes. His picture is tattoed on my eyelids - accusing me every night, torturing me again for
all the things I never said. It makes everything all too stark. Everything I did have and now
don't.
I can't believe it's been three weeks since the building blew up. That's exactly what
happened, I've talked to Elizabeth about it. They didn't get a warning or anything. No-one
stood a chance. I hate whoever did this to me. I hate the person who inflicted this on me.
Their reasoning, their motives don't matter a jot to me, or to the families of the other
innocents they killed. But truthfully I don't think that they will catch who did this.
They had to identify dad by his dental records. That alone is a hard enough picture for me
to deal with. He wasn't found for 6 hours after the blast, and they later told us he'd been
at the epicentre. He'd died instantly. All that time I was hoping, praying he'd live so I
could tell him how much he meant to me, he was actually dead and gone. I lost him long
before they pulled him out the rubble, and that was harder to swallow. Those 5 hours now
seem horribly lost, horribly pointless.
My whole life has become this same black hole. This pit that's swallowed me up. I look up
and I can see light again, but it's only a pin prick. I know that's a stupid analogy, but I
can't think of another way to describe this without using the dreaded word. Depression.
Elizabeth's suffering from a form of it, I'm sure, but she's denying it.
I haven't been back to school yet. I don't think they're wondering about that yet though,
because they haven't called. Kate left, two days afterwards when Elizabeth was released
from hospital, she went back to her family in New York. I think she realised the brevity of
life and I don't blame her for not wanting to be around this empty family home at the
moment.
I hated my life the way it was before this happened, but now I'd give anything in the world
to have it back. Anything's easier than this. I would give anything to have another row
with him, because at least then I knew he was alive.
My thumb traces along my forearm gently, and I imagine what I would feel if I used the
razor. I wonder how it would feel, whether it would hurt, or whether it would just be the
outlet I didn't have through tears anymore. Closing my eyes, blotting out the shame just
for the second it takes to slice into my skin, it's just like letting go.
I don't look down at the gash, but I can feel the warm liquid running from the edges over
my skin and down onto the blanket. I want to know where all this went wrong, Dad, I
want to know why you've driven me to this. My body is weeping for me, and I don't have
to cry anymore.
Rachel Greene
My funeral outfit hangs ominously on the front of my wardrobe, a hellish reminder of what
I went through yesterday. I'm keeping it there for now, to keep this whole nightmarish
reality in focus. It keeps the pain real, and I need that. Otherwise I wouldn't believe this
had happened to me.
I look at it, and it sears into my memory like a branding iron, all the pity and all the
sympathy I saw yesterday. Everyone would like to think they know what I'm going
through, but they don't have a clue. I glance down at the blade in my hand. It gleams in
the pale light, a cold sharp wicked glint.
I'm alone in my room. Elizabeth is through in the nursery with Ella, who's been fractious
at night recently. She knows something is wrong, but she just can't ask. I can't even bear
to hold my baby sister. She's so painfully innocent. Elizabeth doesn't cope well with being
by herself, so she's focussing all attention on Ella. She's using her child to get through
this. Her daughter needs her, and through that she lives. I don't even have that. I don't
have anything to keep me going. It doesn't feel that this is worth fighting through. It just
doesn't feel worth the struggle.
I don't have any tears left to cry anymore. I know that sounds like a cliche, but I've cried
myself to sleep every night since it happened. I didn't cry at the funeral yesterday. People
looked at me strangely, as if they expected me to be weaker than that. I don't like public
outpourings of grief. It would have embarrassed me. This is a private emotion, this is a
private time.
I'm glad in a way the pressure of the funeral is off us now, but it still leaves me with a hell
of a lot to cope with for a 15 year old. His face is still the first thing I see when I close my
eyes. His picture is tattoed on my eyelids - accusing me every night, torturing me again for
all the things I never said. It makes everything all too stark. Everything I did have and now
don't.
I can't believe it's been three weeks since the building blew up. That's exactly what
happened, I've talked to Elizabeth about it. They didn't get a warning or anything. No-one
stood a chance. I hate whoever did this to me. I hate the person who inflicted this on me.
Their reasoning, their motives don't matter a jot to me, or to the families of the other
innocents they killed. But truthfully I don't think that they will catch who did this.
They had to identify dad by his dental records. That alone is a hard enough picture for me
to deal with. He wasn't found for 6 hours after the blast, and they later told us he'd been
at the epicentre. He'd died instantly. All that time I was hoping, praying he'd live so I
could tell him how much he meant to me, he was actually dead and gone. I lost him long
before they pulled him out the rubble, and that was harder to swallow. Those 5 hours now
seem horribly lost, horribly pointless.
My whole life has become this same black hole. This pit that's swallowed me up. I look up
and I can see light again, but it's only a pin prick. I know that's a stupid analogy, but I
can't think of another way to describe this without using the dreaded word. Depression.
Elizabeth's suffering from a form of it, I'm sure, but she's denying it.
I haven't been back to school yet. I don't think they're wondering about that yet though,
because they haven't called. Kate left, two days afterwards when Elizabeth was released
from hospital, she went back to her family in New York. I think she realised the brevity of
life and I don't blame her for not wanting to be around this empty family home at the
moment.
I hated my life the way it was before this happened, but now I'd give anything in the world
to have it back. Anything's easier than this. I would give anything to have another row
with him, because at least then I knew he was alive.
My thumb traces along my forearm gently, and I imagine what I would feel if I used the
razor. I wonder how it would feel, whether it would hurt, or whether it would just be the
outlet I didn't have through tears anymore. Closing my eyes, blotting out the shame just
for the second it takes to slice into my skin, it's just like letting go.
I don't look down at the gash, but I can feel the warm liquid running from the edges over
my skin and down onto the blanket. I want to know where all this went wrong, Dad, I
want to know why you've driven me to this. My body is weeping for me, and I don't have
to cry anymore.