Wild Thing 9/9

So, this is the last section... Now, I am both aware of a) how few people have actually read this blog and b) how much time and effort would be involved to comment on everything you read. So, I'm not asking/demanding/extorting comments. However, if people could find it in themselves to just tick the response boxes, which will just take a couple of seconds, that'd be golden. Thanks!

28/09/2013

So that’s the whole story. If you were expecting it, you’re sicker than me. And hey, I’m a murderer!

Or not even a murderer, really. I mean I didn’t shoot her or stab her or poison her. All I did was swerve a bit into her lane. It’s scary really, how easy it was. All I had to do was turn a wheel and I snuffed out my best friend’s life.

And everyone is talking about it, comforting me. Trying to help me, reach me, when I don’t even know if there’s a me to reach. I feel like part of me will always be stuck in that moment. Like part of me died with Rach.

And you want to know the funny thing? All these people, they want to help me. I mean they might not know me, their efforts might be clumsy and ineffectual, but they are trying. I act all superior, I openly despise them, but if they knew… they would hate me. Despise me. Feel superior.

But I won’t feel guilty. I don’t feel guilty. It was self-defence if you think about it. She called her boss to arrange to have me killed. What else could I do? So I blackmailed her first. That’s not a crime, is it? Or… maybe it is, but not a hanging offence, surely? Not something that gives a lifelong friend an excuse to try and kill you.

I guess there is one question left. Why’d I start it all? Why did I blackmail my best friend? Here’s the thing. I was going to be there at the drop. Just a little disguise and she wouldn’t even recognise me. I didn’t want any money. That’s not what I blackmailed her for.

All I wanted was for her to kiss me.

Wild Thing 8/9

27/09/2013

Okay so now you know almost everything. The operative word being “almost”. See, there’s just one tiny detail. Hardly worth mentioning really. The thing is, I know who killed Rach. I wouldn’t exactly call it “murder”. Self-defence maybe?

But the reason why I know who killed Rach, the reason I’ve been thinking about suicide and death, the reason why I started writing this damn thing at all was that I was there. Right there when it happened.

I was there because I drove my car into her lane and caused her to turn and smash.

Wild Thing 7/9

26/09/2013

I don’t know where to start. Well, I lied to the police. If that shocks you, then you better leave. That’s the least of it.

I told them a few of fibs. Remember I said I didn’t know she was a drug dealer? Fib. And I said I only saw her in school? Fib. I also said she hadn’t been acting oddly. Half-truth. Almost anything Rach does could be classified as “strange” but recently she was acting extra, I don’t know, nervous?

I also might have mentioned something about this new creepy guy she was hanging with who, one could argue, doesn’t exist. And never has. And I kind of just made him up.

What? You think that’s more serious than “a few fibs”? I’ll tell you what fibs are, they’re lies, only posher. So that’s all it was; a few fibs.

You want to know why I said those things? Well, I guess there’s a little more I should tell you first.

As well as knowing Rach was a drug dealer I also had a vague idea she was a murderer.

And she could have known that I knew. But only ’cos I gave her some anonymous letters that could’ve given the impression I was blackmailing her. If you’re extra paranoid or something. And thought it was suspicious to mention incriminating photos and drop-off points.

Okay in one entry I’ve gone from grieving best friend to traitorous bitch. Yay!

You’re appalled, wondering how I could be so cruel to my best friend. She’s the murderer, remember?

The night she died she was at a bar. And a guy was talking about blackmail. He was saying the blackmailer usually knew the victim personally. Was often even trusted. And that’s why they aren’t suspected and often how they obtain the blackmail material in the first place.

I was sitting there spying and I watched, as they say, the penny drop. See most of the stuff I had on Rach I got from her computer. Only she and I know the password (we share it) and from a secret draw in her room which only she and I know the location of.

It was really kind of obvious. But she didn’t want to believe it, I guess. People see what they want to. Anyway, I watched the shock, disbelief, pain, anger and resignation cross her face. Then her look turned cold and she excused herself. I saw her call someone saying they had a “problem” and she thought that once they arrived and gave the details they should “take care of it”.

Yeah. And I’m the betrayer.

Wild Thing 6/9

25/09/2013

I know I’ve missed two days. I just… I was thinking about suicide… again. And I know when I wrote about it last week I didn’t explain it very clearly. I wasn’t thinking of killing myself, I was just thinking about how easy it would be, all your troubles gone.

I guess I was considering killing myself. And I felt like that again. Wait, you don’t care about that. You want to hear about my sociopathic, drug lord best friend. Yeah, I heard the rumours. They’re not that far off though. So far no one’s said “murderer”. Doesn’t mean they don’t know. Man this is screwed up.

I feel sick. The police think Rach was getting scared and her bosses had her “eliminated”. What a euphemism. You probably use worse ones though? I’ve heard the old biddies going “Poor Danielle, what a way to lose a child”. Please. If Rach weren’t dead she’d die from indignation.

Sorry, was that callous? Awfully sorry. I just can’t keep this up anymore. I can’t keep lying. Starting tomorrow you’re getting god’s honest truth.

I swear.

Wild Thing 5/9

22/09/2013

The cops came yesterday, wanted to talk to me about Rach. I know what you’re thinking – why did I ramble around yesterday talking about “the whole story” instead of discussing current and important issues? Now you’re “catching up”. (Note use of sarcastic quotation marks.) You’re going: “Poor dear, they must’ve told her something horrible, she was in shock.” So great to have someone who understands. You’re so right.

No, wait, that’s wrong. Shut up! Geez, let me tell my story.

Or is it her story? Right, you want to hear the juicy, shocking information the coppers gave me yesterday. Sorry for thinking of myself first.

You know what? I’m not sorry. I’m sick of this crap. I’m sick of everyone giving me “sympathetic” looks or telling me they “understand how I feel” when they have no idea. And then after five minutes they’ve already moved on. Talking about schoolwork or jobs or some party.

It’s not like I’m asking for much. Just some… Time? Space? Consideration? My best friend died. Fake concern or some meaningless platitude isn’t going to make it better. Do you offer a band-aid to someone who has lost a limb?

I guess I feel like a wreck. Like I’m crying for the first time in ten or so years. Like I pick up the telephone and halfway through Rach’s number I remember she’s gone. Like I’m the only real person left and everyone else is a mindless drone. And like even I am disappearing bit by bit. Stuck on autopilot. Forever.

God, I’m a piece of work. A nut job. I need a break, a few minutes to… gather my thoughts? Just… wait.

I’m back. Right. Police. Questioning. You want a story? Want to hear a revelation? Coming right up.

They asked me all this stuff they already knew: “You were close friends with the deceased, Rachel Longclast?” “You saw the deceased the day of her death?” “You only saw her at school?” etc.

Then they asked if she acted strangely (No) and if I knew she dealt drugs (No again). I asked what was going on. They told me two pretty shocking things. 1) Rach was probably murdered and 2) She was probably a murderer.

What? Not what you were expecting? Not some hot goss you can spread around without remorse? Guess I live to disappoint.

Wild Thing 4/9

21/09/2013

I remember when we were younger Rach and I would have these elaborate sleepovers. There was only ever the two of us but we’d dress up in our favourite clothes, organise some special dish and cook it together. Rach couldn’t really do much other than chop or mix but I enjoy making up new recipes and experimenting. We’d play some games. Rach loved board games and we both excelled at truth or dare.

Later we would tell ghost stories. Rach is an impressive storyteller and often I would lie awake, long after Rach had drifted off, telling myself I wasn’t scared of the images she’d conjured up. During such nights I would hear Rach talking in her sleep. Not once or twice. Every time. I might be the only person in the world who knows that. And now no one else has the chance to find out first hand.

You know, I bet you think you’ve finally got this all figured. At the start you were jumping the proverbial gun, grabbing conclusions out of nowhere and trying to make your preconceived ideas fit. But now you think you know better, think you’ve got the story figured out.

You’re not even close. You haven’t got the barest inkling of the whole truth of this story. How could you when I’m not even sure? What I do know is that neither of us (whoever you are. I write as though to a specific person though I don’t intend to show this to a soul. I think I’m picturing my mother) will ever know the true significance of the events I narrate between these pages. What, don’t believe me? Trust Shakespeare – ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Hamlet. (I put that reference in for your benefit; you don’t strike me the type to read Shakespeare.)

Anyway putting aside my philosophical ramblings there’s one big problem with you understanding the story. You’ve only heard the end. Not even that. The aftermath. So you want to know the rest? The whole truth?

Wait. There are a couple more things you need to catch up on. Why can’t I tell you now? One word: homework. Believe me this makes me no happier than you. I guess the world really doesn’t stop spinning when you’re best friend dies.

Wild Thing 3/?

20/09/2013

We were friends when we were little, playing with glitter and dolls. So we did some girly stuff. That mess up your worldview? Take us out of our nice, neat, stereotypical boxes? Sorry, world doesn’t work that way.

Sometimes we’d play with “boy” toys. Lego and toy guns, video games and robots. As we got older, Rach got into drawing; she started off with colouring books, then she drew her own stuff to colour. Then she skipped the colour all together. I was never good at that stuff.

Neither of us got into horses or fairies. Our favourite colours weren’t pink or purple. But we did do some dumb kids stuff when we were dumb kids. Maybe we still are. Or I am. She can’t be a dumb kid anymore.

When we got older still, she started attracting boys. She had classic looks; olive skin, green eyes, tall and voluptuous. She had strings of guys who’d follow her around but she never went steady. I didn’t pay much attention. I’m not really into guys. But we were both cool with what the other did and got on with it.

We were each the closest, most important person in the other’s life. I didn’t tell her everything. And she didn’t tell me her darkest secrets. But that’s not that important. Or it usually isn’t…

Wild Thing 2/?

Here's part two.

19/09/2013

Wow. I’m actually writing again. Huh. I thought I’d got that out of my system. Oh well. Guess I better tell you some more. What do you want to know? My friend’s name? The one that haunts my house and lives in the graveyard? What? Grave humor not your style? Don’t want to hear the one about the skeleton and the midget? Oh, don’t look so scared! I’m not having a breakdown, trust me.

I lack credibility, huh? At least I’ve still got a pulse. Rachel doesn’t. That is, was, her name. She used to change it a lot. Not officially, just go to a party or nightclub (I know, we’re not eighteen, show me a place that cares) and introduce herself as Roxanna or Cheyenne or Brianna.

Her hair was caramel brown but she’d dye it all the time. Black or dark blue, with funky coloured streaks. She’d drink heavily at parties then make me skip school with her to nurse her hangover. Or cover it up by getting drunk again. She’d copy my homework and cheat on tests. She’d sometimes smoke a joint at lunch and jig at least once a week. She’d get into crazy dares and crazier guys…

I knew all that. I didn’t really mind. I was happy enough knowing she always confided in me.

Hah.

Wild Thing

Okay, so there's a story I've been writing and I've decided to post it in instalments here. Tell me what you think...

Wild Thing

18/09/2013

I thought about committing suicide today. Oh no – not seriously. But I thought about it. I know you’re already writing the script in your head. Some poor little girl no one understands, bullied at school, ignored or abused by her parents. One day it’s too much and… Or you’re some cheesy, Hollywood/Disney romantic and I’ll get true appreciation of my worth from some unlikely source and turn into a happy princess from a fairy tale.

Get over yourself. You don’t know me, or my story. Heck, I don’t really know myself – so how could you? I know I don’t sing aggressively cheery pop music or talk all night with girls on the phone or write initials in love hearts in sparkly gel pens. I’m not some stupid, little schoolgirl. Which is why, until today, I had never considered keeping a diary. But look at me now, right?

I just thought if I was thinking about death. Thinking about it rationally I mean – I’m not a vampire wannabe, sex ’n’ death chick either. Then, well, a diary might be the right place for suicidal thoughts.

But you still want to know the score, right? Why am I thinking about this kind of stuff for a start? Well your best friend’s death will do that to a girl. Oh she didn’t suicide. No, she was your classic sob story. Just another kid who got screwed up on booze and drugs and one-night stands. Left some club and drove herself into a wall.

So now you think you’ve got me figured? Some wild piece of trash, lives life to the extreme until she decides not to live at all? You don’t know anything. Stick around, and you might be surprised…