by Cat Clarke
I was sure I wanted to die. There didn’t seem to be any other option.
Every day I woke up thinking that today would be the day, and every day I found some excuse not to do it. Every day Mum nagged me about going back to school, and every day I told her to leave me alone. Since I refused point blank to leave the house she even got the doctor to make a house call and she somehow persuaded him to sign me off school for longer than he wanted to. The school was fine with it as long as I kept up with my work, because (as everyone and their dog kept reminding me) it was GCSE year. Like I cared.
A month to the day after Kai’s death, I was finally ready. There was something poetic about the timing, I thought. I tried not to think about Mum or Dad or Noah, telling myself they’d get over it, in time. They’d understand. It’s amazing, the lies you can tell yourself. Even more amazing, the lies you can believe when you’re desperate enough.
I wrote a pretty standard sort of note: I said I was sorry, how much I loved them, told them they shouldn’t feel bad. It was painfully inadequate, but it was the best I could do. And it was better than nothing. Marginally.
For the past few weeks they’d been taking turns staying home, using up their holiday days in a vain attempt to make sure I didn’t kill myself. But their bosses were losing patience, so they’d eventually resigned themselves to leaving me on my own for a few hours a day.
Mum and Dad were at work and Noah was at school and I was going to be dead by the time they got home. I would get a glass of water, or maybe a bottle, because there were a lot of pills to be swallowed. I didn’t want to be ten pills down and suddenly realize I couldn’t swallow them because I was out of water. It would be disastrous if I passed out without finishing the job. That would mean being rushed to the hospital, having my stomach pumped, having to face my parents, having to face Noah.
Thinking about Noah hurt the most. He wouldn’t understand. He was only ten, and for some reason he still thought his big sister was awesome. He had yet to discover what the rest of the world thought of her. Emo. Loser. Goth. Freak.
Noah would be better off without me though. Mum and Dad would pay him loads of attention to compensate for the trauma of having a dead sister. He’d get spoiled rotten. He might even be allowed that mountain bike he’s been after forever. Those were the kind of lies I told myself.
After a long hot shower, I raided the fridge to make a sandwich. My last meal. I would have preferred something like Mum’s lasagne or a Chinese takeaway, but Mum hadn’t made lasagne since Kai died and it seemed crazy weird (even for me) to order up a Chinese banquet before I topped myself.
The sandwich was dry and tasted terrible, even though it had all my favourite things and plenty of mayonnaise. I didn’t even manage to eat half of it, probably because I couldn’t shake the image of what it would look like in my stomach – all chewed up and partially digested. There was a good chance that I would choke on my own vomit. That’s how you die, sometimes. The drugs knock you out, your stomach revolts against what’s in it, you spew, but you’re still knocked out, so you choke and drown in your own sick. Pretty disgusting, really.
I was regretting not considering this sooner, and carefully washing the chopping board, knife and plate, when the doorbell went. It was probably the postman; our stupidly small letter box means that only the slimmest of envelopes make it through.
The doorbell rang again and again. Go away! Go the fuck away! I covered my ears with my hands to try to block out the sound. Why won’t they leave me alone? Why won’t everybody just leave me alone? I felt like stabbing myself with the knife then and there.
Then whoever it was started banging on the front door with their fist. The banging interspersed with the ringing made me reconsider stabbing myself and think about stabbing the mystery caller instead. Then there was a voice. A voice I recognized, shouting, ‘Jem! I know you’re in there so just answer the fucking door, OK? I’ve got better things to do than hang around here all day. Jem!’
I froze. It was Louise. Shit.
I couldn’t ignore her. No matter how I felt about her, she was still his sister. Kai wouldn’t want me to ignore her. Kai would probably want us to reforge a friendship based on our mutual grief.
I trudged towards the front door to find her peering through the letter box like some kind of crazy stalker. As I was opening the door I heard her mutter, ‘About bloody time.’
I was slightly lost for words at the sight of her. It was like looking in a mirror. A strange sort of mirror. Of course we looked worlds apart – she hadn’t gone and dyed her hair black or anything. It was still way blonder than the natural, beautiful golden colour she’d shared with Kai. But she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up, which was pretty much unthinkable to the popular, slutty girls she was friends with. But there was something in her face that I recognized – something I’d seen whenever I’d looked in the mirror since Kai’s death. There was something hopeless about us both. Like we’d disappeared into a place that no one else could reach. I almost wanted to hug her (and wanted her to hug me). But that would probably have freaked her out. I’d steered well clear of her at the funeral to avoid a potential hugging scenario. And because I’d started having some kind of weird panic attack, which meant Mum had to escort me out of the church halfway through the service.
‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ This was more like the Louise I knew.
‘Sorry, of course, yes.’ I stepped aside to let her pass. She was carrying a big brown envelope.
She rushed into the living room and sat down on the sofa. I couldn’t get over how different she looked with no make-up on.
‘Um . . . do you want a cup of tea or something?’ I hovered in the doorway to the kitchen.
Louise shook her head and didn’t even bother to say, No, thanks.
I perched on Dad’s chair in the corner. As far away from Louise as it was possible to get without actually leaving the room. Trying not to show how antsy I was about her eating into my valuable suicide time. ‘So . . . how are you doing?’ It was a stupid question, but that’s what people do – ask each other stupid things they don’t even want to know the answer to.
She gave me a scathing look. The same look I gave Mum or Dad whenever they asked me that very question. ‘I can’t stay long. There’s something I have to give you.’ She waved the envelope. ‘I don’t want you freaking out about it or anything, OK?’
I nodded. Anything to get rid of her so I could get on with the business of getting dead.
Louise hauled herself up from the sofa, which seemed to take considerable effort. She came over and handed the envelope to me. I turned it over to see the front. Oh God.
She saw the look on my face and said, ‘You promised not to freak out, remember?’ A vague nod is hardly the same as promising, but I said nothing. I had lost the ability to speak. ‘It’s from him.’
I knew that, of course. The handwriting was almost as familiar to me as my own (and a hell of a lot neater).
Louise’s words spilled out, answering all the questions swimming around my head. ‘He left me a note with strict instructions to give this to you today – exactly a month after . . . He said if I didn’t do it he’d come back and haunt me . . . I think that was supposed to be funny. Anyway, I don’t know what’s in it, so don’t even ask. And he didn’t want me to tell Mum and Dad about it. Or the police. So you probably shouldn’t either. Um . . . so . . . I’ve done what he wanted and that’s it.’ Her face crumpled like a scrunched-up piece of paper. ‘I have to . . .’ She practically ran from the room. I heard the front door slam.
I should maybe have followed her to check she was OK, but all I could think about was the envelope, which I was holding like it was the most precious, fragile thing in the world.
JEM (in big purple letters, underlined three times. Purple was his favourite colour).
In much smaller letters underneath was: If Lol hasn’t delivered this on 23rd November, you have my permission to tell everyone at school that she g
enuinely believes that one day her and Mr Franklin will get married and have babies. And that she’s started working on a top-secret scrapbook of wedding ideas for the occasion. (Mr Franklin’s one of the youngest teachers at Allander Park. He wears his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie’s always loose. That’s how you know he’s supposed to be cool. I could easily believe that Louise might fancy him or something, but the wedding stuff was clearly bollocks. Kai was always making up silly stories to make me smile.)
Then: If there’s any sign that Lol’s opened this envelope and read the contents you have my permission to tell everyone at school that she once let Barney Jennings kiss her for five seconds as payment for copying his maths homework. (Barney Jennings has horrible teeth, a greasy plate-face and a definite problem with personal hygiene. There was no way Louise would let him anywhere near her.) And then: Laters, Kiddo. xxx
I traced the three kisses with my finger. My throat tightened.
Laters, Kiddo.
chapter three
I sat cross-legged on my bed with the envelope in front of me. I fought against the instinct to ignore it and get on with taking the pills.
I had to see what was inside. I opened it up and tipped the contents onto the bed. There were lots of smaller white envelopes. Twelve in all. Each was marked with a month – the same fat purple pen he’d used on the bigger envelope. The one marked ‘November’ also said: ‘Open this one first . . . obviously!’
I checked inside the big envelope in case there was anything else, and sure enough there was something lodged in the crease at the bottom. A perfect origami bird made from lined notepaper. Written on it in tiny capital letters was: ‘I AM THE TINY ORIGAMI BIRD OF JOY. I AM NOT, I REPEAT NOT, A TOY! I’M HERE TO MAKE YOU SMILE WHEN YOU ARE BLUE. SO CHEER THE FUCK UP, YOU SILLY MOO’. I couldn’t help but laugh. It was so typically Kai.
I brought the bird up to my nose and sniffed it. A silly thing to do, but I was hoping for a tiny reminder of Kai. He always wore this stupidly expensive citrussy aftershave that I adored, and I was suddenly desperate to smell it again. The thought that it had faded from my memory forever made me panic. Unsurprisingly, the origami bird smelled of paper.
I lay the bird on my pillow and picked up the November envelope. There was more writing on the back: ‘Sealed with a big fat slobbery snog – with tongues and EVERYTHING.’ I winced when I broke the envelope’s seal – ripping his words apart.
Inside were two sheets of creamy paper filled with Kai’s impossibly neat handwriting.
I closed my eyes to steady myself and then started to read.
My dearest Jemima,
Hey! Don’t look at me like that! It’s your real name and it’s about time you got used to it, missy. First things first: you’d better be reading this... because if you’re not. ther’s a chance you might have done something stupid. If that’s the case, I’ll be so cross with you. I mean, really bloody cross. I’m pretty sure you WON’T have done that, but you never know, do you? And it’s not like you never talked about it before, Little Miss Morbid. Anyway... I’m here (well, not here exactly) to tell you that you CAN and WILL be perfectly fine without me. So you’d better not be dead, OK? I’ll feel pretty stupid for wasting my time with this little endeavour, and you wouldn’t want me to feel stupid AND cross, would you?
Second things second: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I can’t begin to explain it. People say sorry all the time for the silliest little things. But you have to know this: I’m sorry in the biggest, hugest way it’s possible to be sorry. I hope you can find a way to forgive me one day. I know you’ll be angry and I can’t blame you for that. If things were the other way around, I would be so furious with you for leaving me behind. So I guess what I’m saying is, I think I understand how you feel right now, but I don’t think you’ll always feel this way. You’re just going to have to trust me on that. And if my words aren’t enough to convince you, might I suggest conjuring up an image of my rakishly charming simle? I think that might help. Or just look at that photo on your phone. You know the one – don’t pretend you don’t. ‘Devilishly handsome’ were your exact words, I believe. (If this was a text message and I was not so vehemently opposed to such nonsense, I would probably be going for a winky-face emoticon right now...)
Don’t worry, this isn’t a suicide note. I’m not going to be all ‘Woe is me!’ or anything. You know why I’m doing this. There’s nothing to be gained from going on about it. What’s done is done. At least, it will be by the time you’re reading this. Unless I chickened out and couldn’t go through with it. In which case, you won’t be reading this, because I’ll probably have put it through the shredder in Dad’s office. But I really don’t think I’m going to chicken out. I’m sorry. I’ll stop apologizing in a minute, but God, Jem, I’m going to miss you so much.
You are my favourite person in the world. You KNOW that, don’t you? I love you more than I love the History Channel. I love you more than I love my sunglasses (and you know how much I love those aviators). I love you more than I love Tim Riggins. I love you more than all of these things combined. That’s a whole lot of love. Infinite in fact. Please forgive me for being a tad sentimental, but I think the circumstances warrant it, don’t you?
Jem (That’s a serious Jem-listen-to-me-very-carefully sort of Jem, in case you were wondering.) You have to get over this. Move forward with your life and go Kick the world in the balls, just like we always planned.
Right, let’s cut to the chase. I hadn’ intended to be quite so long-winded, but you know me - I’m not exactly known for succinctness. You’ll notice that there are eleven more envelopes - one a month.
Today’s the 23rd, so I think it makes sense if you open the next one on 23rd December (just in time for Christmas!) and the following one on 23rd Jan, etc. etc. You get the picture. Please, please, PLEASE don’t open them early. That’s cheating, and nobody likes a cheat. (Confession time: I cheated at Monopoly every single time we played. You really shouldn’t have let me be the banker ... all that power went to my head. So you only have yourself to blame, really.)
That’s about all I’ve got for November... except for a couple of favours. Please could you look out for Lol for me. I know she’s not exactly your favourite person, but she’s my sister. She needs someone to keep an eye on her. That should be my job, but I’ve failed. I’ve well and truly failed at being a brother, Jem, and it breaks my heart. I’m not quite sure what I’m asking you to do exactly. I suppose maybe you could just BE there. Just in case.
The other thing I need you to do is not obsess about what happened. It’s done. It was unfortunate and I wish to God it hadn’t happened, but it did. You need to forget about it, ok? I don’t want you playing girl detective or anything. It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. The only thing that matters now is you. You need to look after You. You’re going to do good things in this world, I just know it. Speak to you next month, my little pickle.
Kai
xxx
p.s. I think you’d look ravishing with blonde hair. Always have. Why don’t you give it a go ... for me? I believe the technical term for this is ‘emotional blackmail’, but that doesn’t sound very nice. Maybe a dare would be better? I DARE you to dye your hair blonde - just for a little while. (Yes, I’m fully aware that this is an incredibly immature thing to do. Oh well.)
chapter four
Every word was a needle pricking at my heart. I read the letter five times, crying harder and harder so that it got really difficult to see the words.
Then I lay curled up in a little ball, my thoughts tumbling round my head. Monopoly. Kai’s face in that photo. Kai didn’t know (obviously), but I used to look at it every night before I went to sleep. There was something about it that made me think that even though life seemed bleak, maybe it could all turn out OK. With Kai in the world, it was a brighter, friendlier place. I hadn’t looked at the photo since he died.
I couldn’t believe Kai had gone to all this trouble, but at the same time it
was such a Kai thing to do. Even at his lowest, his life in tatters, he was thinking of me. He didn’t have a selfish gene in his body. I know people think suicide is selfish, and maybe sometimes it really is. But what happened to Kai was beyond what anyone should have to cope with. I didn’t blame him, not really. It just broke my heart that I wasn’t enough to keep him here. That he couldn’t hold on a couple more years until we could get out of this godforsaken place and go seek our fortunes in London. That was the plan. That had always been the plan.
Kai was right. I had been angry with him, but not right away. The first week or so was pure grief – raw and ugly and dark. But then that morphed into something else. The sadness was still there and still huge, but suddenly I felt abandoned. I kept on having this ridiculous thought that Kai was the only person who could possibly comfort me. I needed him to hug me and hold me and tell me that everything was going to be OK without him; how dare he not be here for me? He’d always been that person for me. That one person I could go to and know that he would make me feel better. And now I needed him more than ever and he was gone. For good. I wanted to punch him and shake him and shout, ‘HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?’
I was angry, and confused about the fact that I was angry with someone who was dead. But that stage didn’t last long either. That was when I knew I was going to kill myself, and I felt better as soon as I’d made up my mind. It gave me something to focus on and, weirdly, something to look forward to. But the letters changed everything.
