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My clothes smell like him again. I remember the first few months that we were going out. I was lovesick; happy. I spent every day with Jason and pretty soon, my entire wardrobe smelled of his cologne. He lent me his sweater one night. I slept with it as a pillow, pressing it against my face so I could breathe him in, keep him with me. Those first months are the best. Most people don’t make it past that. After the initial happy shock of being loved by someone new, it usually ends. The prospect of ‘eternal love’ fades and they end up crying over it until someone new arrives in their life.
Jason and I have long passed that point. We’re the couple that people talk about. We are the couple that people say are the high school sweethearts most likely to get married. It’s not completely typical, of course, because not everyone knows about him and I. They’ll find out next year, naturally. I am too much of a flirt with other guys at this point. My best friend is my ex-boyfriend, and my other best friend is jealous of me because her boyfriend likes being with me more then he likes being with her. Jason comes to my school next year, and then everyone will know. Everyone will see him and I together, and either roll their eyes in disgust or smile longingly at our closeness.
Closeness. Togetherness. Companionship. Relationship. We get closer every month. I’m not the good girl I used to be, though. I used to be the Sunday School teacher at my church. Everyone knew that I wasn’t a trouble maker, and I was referred to as ‘teacher’s pet’ more often then not.
I’m not sure when the change began. Perhaps it was back in the time of being best friends with Sandy, sneaking out to a young adult ‘teen night’, which happened to be full of drugs and alcohol, to meet my eighteen year old boyfriend. The thrill of walking in the night with her was exhilarating. Guys honked or whistled at us, offering rides and dates. We always laughed or just rolled our eyes. We always went to Teen Night, a place that my parents did not allow me to go to. We always went to see Erik, a guy my parents did not allow me to communicate with.
Perhaps it was before that, when I was dating Peter Sepalla? He and I always went to the movies together. We were 13. He kept trying to make me go farther and farther with him. First the kiss, then the touching, then the making out, then more touching – skin to skin. I suppose it was good that it was always in the movie theatre that he attempted this, because the public area allowed me to hinder his efforts. He broke up with me because I was ‘too Christian’ and ‘too square.’ I was heartbroken. I rebelled. I became as I thought he wanted me to be.
Eventually, I stopped teaching Sunday School. My grades dropped. I stopped communicating with my friends from church. Sneaking out with friends became habitual, along with skipping school and smoking. A cross between gothic and punk became my clothing style, infecting all my clothes with a black stereotype. I flirted with more guys then I knew what to do with and toyed with their minds. The world was mine to mold and decapitate.
I was dating Jason Smith for a little over half a year when we went to our first real party together. He and I stayed sober. I ended up cleaning up the eventual puke and helping people into the bathroom to cradle the toilet. I caught glasses that the intoxicated knocked over, and helped them up and down the stairs. I put pillows under the heads of those who had passed out. I gave water to those who asked, subsequently cleaning up the quantity that dribbled out of their mouth.
I passed out from exhaustion and hunger on the couch and woke up to Jason making me dinner, as he had figured that I must be hungry. That was the point at which I figured I would be with him for as long as he would have me.
Resident girl in his group of friends, I hung out with his companions who were drug dealers, drop outs, smokers and loners. Jason would accept anyone as a friend, hence enlarging my group of friends. I was one of them, and they treated me as they treated Jason, mocking, yet with respect.
Unfortunately, I became too close with one of them soon after, and it was one of my biggest of bad decisions. Luckily for me, Jason forgave me easily and our relationship continued, yet my life continued downhill. I smoked for a while, my grades turned from A’s to C-‘s, my depression overruled my happiness, and I even began cutting, using blood as my sedative.
I was always cold. I didn’t eat much, and when I did, it was always unhealthy. I increasingly grew thinner. I blamed it on metabolism. I stayed up into all hours of the night, writing in notebooks, looking on the internet at pictures of suicides or bloody murders, or reading books about mentally imbalanced people. I hated my life and a lot of people who were in it.
Since I had started to swear again, I wrote down my thoughts using foul language.
Tyler is a fucking asshole. I’m sick of his holier-then-thou attitude and he should get over himself, or get the fuck out of my life.
What the hell is Skye’s problem? She’s such a ditzy fucking diva. Bitchy as hell, yet stupid beyond all common sense! But then again, stupidity doesn’t contain much common sense, now, does it?
It would be better if I were dead. I thought I could act. I thought I could sing, dance, play piano; write. But I was dreadfully wrong. No one knows the trouble I’ve seen or can imagine the lies I’ve created as excuses for my depression.
I’ve been forgotten. I’m completely and utterly alone right now. I had a panic attack last night. I slept in the forest under six blankets and a sleeping bag. They’re getting worse. I can’t tell anyone. I’m too much of a burden already.
I need a smoke. I need a fucking smoke. I don’t give a- if it’s a dirty habit or not. I need something, and if it’s not a smoke, then give me a gun to blow people’s heads off their shoulders and then blow myself to bits. Take your fucking choice, assholes!
Attempt 2
April 19th 2006
I am a fifteen-year-old freak. Of course, it is difficult to tell this by looking at me. Sure, my hair is not the straight hair of the popular girls. Sure, my glasses are round, rather then the popular rectangular style. Sure, my skin is pale, despite the two weeks I’ve recently spent in Mexico, but I’m certain that it is difficult to make inferences just off of those tedious facts. The truth is that I am a freak inside. My mind is too philosophical, my heart too compassionate, and my soul too tortured. I’m sick of it all.
I think it all started when Shane Applet harassed me out of any friends I could have had. He bullied me into unpopularity, and he ruined my life. I was broken, unsure of anything, and alone. I was eight years old.
Chapter ONE – The Bully
I hate the word ‘bully’. It makes me sound like a little kid, but I’m going to be intermediate next year! I’ve outgrown the primary field and the big toy. Sure, I still am not tall enough to swing myself onto the top of the monkey bars, and I can’t swing upside down and sing ‘Genie, Genie, Tumble-eenie. How I’d like to be a genie.” But that’s not the point. The point is that the word ‘bully’ is for little kids, and I’m not a little kid.
If you were to look up that kindergarten level word in the dictionary, a picture of Shane Applet would be there. He’s mean, lean, and totally obscene. I don’t know why he is so mean to me, but it’s stupid. He calls me ‘four-eyes’ more then I know what to do with, and I can’t find a good reply. I like my glasses, they are a part of me. Without them, I’m blind as a pickle, and that’s pretty blind. One day I’ll find something to say back, and that will put him in his place!
I have two friends who are cool, unlike Shane. Greg Jackson was my boyfriend in grade one, along with Frankie D’nucke and Kris Blevins. Greg is still my very best friend. Then there is Becky Comers, who I don’t like, but she needs friends, so I will be one.
Becky is actually quite mean to me too. She is fat and hits me over the head when I won’t dress-up Barbies in duct tape and make them Amazons. I hate Barbie, but if I don’t play with them, she’ll get all sulky. I put up with her because she’s my friend, though.
“Karmen, the Four-Eyes, is in the forest! DUTY TEACHER!!” He’s told on me again. He’s fooey, and yet he calls me a teacher pet when I point out something that he’s done wrong.
“Karmen, get out from behind the trees and be where we can see you.” It’s always a game, of course. I hate having them watch me just to try to get me in trouble. I like going off alone, without them, but if I go onto the intermediate field or to the front of the school, they get mad at me.
I talk to Frankie a lot. People say he’s my invisible friend. The thing is, I know that he exists. He can hear me talk because we’re attached in the brain. I will never meet a better man and I will always love him. I talk to him about everything, mostly about how I miss him. I really do miss him. I miss holding his hand and crawling behind the desks in grade one to give him the answers to whatever work we were doing. I was the smart one, but he didn’t mind. I remember getting the extra project to do, because I already knew how to read and everyone else was having troubles.
Frankie knows about how much Becky hits me. Frankie knows about how much I love him. He knows about how much I don’t like my sister. I used to like her, but she tells me what to do too much, just like my mom and dad. I hate it when they yell at me. I never listen to them anyways, because I don’t want to encourage their negative violence.
Snow Attack
January 6th 2001
On a cold night in the winter, when it is 50 below or so, way off north of Nunavut here in a cardboard box, a freezing cold kid lay here shivering. Her parents had abandoned her on a trip there. She was eating snow and syrup. The syrup and a cup were the only things she had made by the hand of man. Her name was Ali. No one even new she was missing. Her parents were too busy playing poker and going to fancy parties to notice she was away.
Wild winds blew over top of Ali’s box and she felt she should be somewhere far from there. In a place where the sun is shining and people are swimming in pools, people are laughing and screaming and all around her is a mass of swaying palm trees. Instead, she was here in a cold place with snow all around her and no one was there.
Ali suddenly heard a cracking sound. She stepped out and saw it was thin ice. Oh no she was on top of a pond and the ice was cracking! C-C-CRACK it split. She closed her eyes tightly.
When Ali opened her eyes, she found she was not in the water, but floating on an iceberg in the middle of the pond. She started jumping from iceberg to iceberg, she was freezing cold, but she still went on jumping. By the time, she got to the last iceberg it had floated to the middle and all the other icebergs had floated to the side.
She waited a while to see where the iceberg would move next. She saw the wind had stopped blowing so there was only a slight breeze. With less wind the iceberg couldn’t move so there the girl lay colder then a shaved lamb in the arctic.
One hour later she heard a faint cry in the distance “HELP”. She was frightened by the noise, but she saw a little figure by the edge of the pond hiding behind an iceberg.
“HELP” she heard the noise again. Was it coming from the figure by the edge of the pond? The wind started blowing again and slowly the iceberg started toward the figure. She hid behind the cold, mushy box. Was it a kid?
She didn’t know. As she got closer she saw that it looked like her friend, Rachel. Oh how she longed for at least a kid with her. Rachel, her best friend would be the best person to be with her.
“HELP ANYONE” it even sounded like her.
“Ali, is that you?” the figure spoke more quietly than before. Ali looked more carefully at the body. It WAS Rachel!
“Yes it’s me, are you Rachael, I-I m-m-mean Rachel” Ali asked. Her voice shivered in coldness.
“Y-y-yes i-i-it’s m-m-me” she shivered in coldness and in surprise. They suddenly felt warmer; perhaps their friendship that warmed them up.
“What are you doing here, how did you get here?” asked Ali who was feeling very shy right now, even though she was talking to her best friend from her original home, Shahansa.
“I fell out of a snowmobile” Rachel replied with a big sigh of half sadness and half regular sigh.
“Why didn’t they stop and wait for you, weren’t they friendly?”
“I was actually glad I fell out of the horrible contraption (in one way is horrible because it makes too much noise), because those men where poachers and they said they were ‘animal trainers’ as if, I’m not that dumb! They had guns and cages in their noise machine. Why are you here in Nunavut?” said Rachel finishing her speech.
“I went on a trip here and while we were dog-sledding across this territory, my dogs made a sharp turn and I fell off along with a bottle of syrup, a big box and a cup. ” Ali said taking a deep breath of cold, icy air at the end.
“REALLY! I thought you said you have never been out of Shahansa,” said Rachel with a confused look on her face.
“This is my first time,” said Ali while staring out into the cold snow millions of miles ahead.
“Get inside the box to get warm, it’s at least warmer than out there”. Rachel had her suitcase hiding behind her.
“ I have my Ducky and a big one in my suitcase” Rachel said. Ducky was her small, but big enough for her , Blanket.
“Can I use half of the big blanket?” said Ali hopefully
“Of course you can silly, why do you think I told you I have blankets?” said Rachel in her perfectly perfect fake British accent.
“Than hurry up, and get inside here” Ali laughed. The box was really big, like five big boxes put together.
Quite cozy, but that means that more wind could get in, so Ali closed the bottom flap and the two side flaps so it could be warmer. Ali got out of the box; Rachel spread the blanket than they both scurried inside. Ali sneakily inched the big blanket toward her until she had the entire blanket.
“Hey save some of it for me” said Rachel. Noticing her mischievous mistake, she gave half of the blanket to Rachel.
“Hey look!” Ali suddenly said. For she had seen a shape of a person, a person who, hopefully, would save them.
“Look where?” said Rachel quickly when she did not see anything.
“Over there” she said and pointed to where the figure was, but she saw whatever it was had disappeared. She quickly pulled her hand in. “Never mind it’s not there anymore, I saw a figure moving just over there by that huge-trunked tree, but it isn’t there any more” said Ali sighing a hopeless sigh.
“Oh, too bad it is not there otherwise we might have been helped,” said Rachel with her eyes fixed on the tree. Rachel suddenly heard a tiny little noise. Coming from the tree. The branches were moving.
Into the Attic
September 15th 2002
I was looking for an adventure the day we moved into the new house. All my books were packed away in boxes, my posters each rolled into a large tube. My dad had lost his job and my mom didn’t work because she had to look after my little sister Karen, so we had to move. I hadn’t seen our new house yet so I was excited. I didn’t have any friends back in my old town Courtenay, because I was home schooled. So I was looking forward to making friends in my new PUBLIC school. Dad said our new house would have a basement, two more floors and an attic. I had read books about musty old attics with surprises galore. We arrived at our new house with excitement. My dad opened the door and I raced inside and ran up the stairs. I looked around for the attic door. I found none. So I claimed a room that had rose wallpaper that smelled like roses. I then went to claim the bathroom because of that long drive. The bathroom was large. It had a big, deep, black bathtub, a sink, a small window and magazines that the other people who had lived there had left. Afterwards I explored the house. The first floor had two bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room (with a large fireplace), a kitchen and a dining room. The bedrooms were quite large and I liked the one with the seat by the window. The living room was also quite nice. It had a wooden floor that smelled like cedar wood. I leaned against the wall, taking in my new home. I stepped back and looked at the wall. The wall opened and revealed a door.
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