by Cat Clarke
So yesterday sucked. Today’s better, but not much. For one thing, my hands hurt like a bastard. Beating your fists to a pulp is not such a great idea when the only thing you have to occupy your time is WRITING. Stupid cow.
Before I get back to The Tragic Story of Grace Carlyle’s Supposed Last Night on Earth, I thought it might be a good idea to describe my room/cell/ whatever. It really is kind of nice.
My room/cell/whatever – a list in seven points
1. It’s nearly double the size of my bedroom. The walls, ceiling and floorboards are all white as white can be. It smells newly painted too.
2. The bathroom. White again. Toilet, sink, shower. Two white towels (which Ethan takes away each day and brings back alpine fresh). There’s even cleaning stuff under the sink, but he’s got another think coming if he reckons I’m going to use it. Surely this is the one time a girl can skive off her chores without repercussions?
3. The window. Ah, the window – my least favourite thing. Boarded up (with white boards, of course). Unfortunately Ethan’s done a pretty good job of that. Even if I press my body up against the wall in a most attractive fashion, I can only see a tiny chink of light in the bottom left-hand corner. It’s easy to lose track of night and day, but I’m doing the best I can.
4. The bed. White again (sensing a theme yet? Maybe Ethan’s got some kind of complex or something? Purity. Innocence. Virginity? Sorry, you’ve got the wrong girl). Two white pillows, white duvet cover, white sheets.
5. The table and chair (white and whiter). In the middle of the room, facing the door. The paper and pens were on top of the table when I woke up that first day. There are forty-seven pens. They’re Bics. I really would have preferred pencils, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers and all that. And if beggars could be choosers, this beggar would have chosen a slightly more comfortable chair to sit on. Numb bum. Anyway, there’s also three massive wodges (reams?) of paper.
6. The light. There’s a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, right above the table. It really lets down the rest of the decor, to be honest.
7. The door. Well, it’s the way you come into or go out of the room, but I wouldn’t know much about that. There’s no keyhole. Sounds like there are a couple of deadbolts on the other side though. It seems a sturdy sort of a door.
Nap time.
Just woke up. Thought I was at home in my own bed. And then I crash-landed back to Earth with an almighty thump. Worst feeling ever.
It’s the not knowing that’s really getting to me. I’m not saying it would be better if Ethan had actually done something to me by now, but at least then I’d have some idea of what I’m up against. I could at least try and fight some perverted rapist. I can’t fight Ethan …
So I sat down on the swing next to this guy and said hello. And he looked at me in that weird way of his. I said hello again. He whispered a hoarse hello, then cleared his throat and said it again, louder. It reminded me of those mornings after a night on the piss. The ones when I lounge around watching kids’ telly in a kind of hazy post-alcoholic stupor, and then the phone rings and I find that I can’t speak properly cos I haven’t said a word for twelve hours or something.
I introduced myself and reached out to shake his hand. He looked at my hand like he wasn’t quite sure what to do, and then just as I was about to take it back, he reached out and shook it. His hand was soft and strong, and his grip was firm. Forgot to mention before, but Ethan has perfect hands too. Like he’d be awesome at playing the piano. God, he has beautiful everything. It’s really quite sickening.
He told me his name and I was surprised. Mum once told me that if I’d been a boy, I’d have been called Ethan. I’ve never met an Ethan before.
I asked if he wanted a swig of my gin. He shook his head slowly and looked at me strangely, cocking his head to the side and looking kind of quizzical, as if to say, ‘Are you sure you should be drinking that?’ Since he hadn’t actually said the question out loud, I thought I was perfectly within my rights to ignore it. I took a few gulps. It was starting to taste pretty good.
So far the conversation wasn’t exactly flowing smoothly, but I wasn’t going to let that put me off. I asked him where he was from, which is when he said ‘around’ (the suspicious-to-anyone-who’s-actually-paying-attention-and-cares-whether-they-live-or-die ‘around’). Anyway, I started babbling about nothing: the park, the irritating guy in the off-licence, the weather (yeah, the weather – can you even believe it?). Then I moved on to other stuff. Proper stuff. And somewhere along the line I forgot that I was supposed to be getting him to leave. I drank more, and soon got that oh-so-familiar feeling of the words that I wanted to say being very slightly too big for my mouth, so that I had to be careful to EN-UN-CI-ATE VE-RY CLEAR-LY.
Ethan didn’t seem to mind my onslaught of chat. Occasionally he’d smile at me, or ask a question about something I’d said.
Come to think of it, he asked a lot of questions. But whenever I asked him a question he evaded it neatly, either by being Master of Vagueness, or by chucking the same question right back at me. That’s cheating.
I didn’t feel wary of him at all. In fact, I felt strangely safe. I wasn’t happy exactly. I mean after all, I was still planning on topping myself. How happy can a girl be in that situation? It’s just that I felt that talking to Ethan really was the right way to spend the time I had left. And I felt like we had some kind of connection. Urgh. That looks even lamer written down than it sounded in my head.
So, moving on to the Main Event, which I remember surprisingly well. The time passed, the gin dwindled, and my head became more than a little bit fuzzy. I realized that I wanted to kiss Ethan; I wasn’t loving the idea of Nat being the last boy I ever got to kiss. I knew I would go for it eventually. It was just a matter of timing …
We’d been sitting in silence for a few minutes (a nice, friendly silence, I thought) when I scooted my swing nearer his. Ethan turned to me so our faces were really close. He looked at me through the bits of hair that fell in front of his eyes. I gently touched the scar above his lip, and asked him how he’d got it. He shrugged. And that’s when I kissed him. It seemed to take him by surprise – not that I’d hidden my intentions at all. His lips were warm and soft and comforting. But he didn’t exactly kiss me back.
I asked him what was wrong, and he shrugged. Again. ‘I don’t think it’s such a good idea. Sorry.’ Ouch.
I did what any self-respecting girl would do in the face of a knock-back like that: I started to cry. Pathetic. But how was I supposed to know that I was trying to pull a boy who was planning on kidnapping me?
Ethan put his arm around me and made comforting ‘shhh, don’t cry’ noises. I was confused as hell, and drunk, and probably starting to remember that there’s-something-I-have-to-do-tonight-so-I’d-really-better-get-on-with-it-if-it’s-OK-with-you.
And that’s when I puked down his vest.
Well, there’s not really much more to say about that night. Post-puke, it gets even more hazy. What I do remember is that Ethan didn’t react like I would have done if some random had vommed on me. I was apologizing like crazy (still crying, I think) when he just whipped off his vest and chucked it in the bin behind the swings. He said something like, ‘Time to go,’ and held out his hand to me. I must have mumbled something about wanting to stay in the park, but I was feeling so dog-rough that I let him haul me up from the swing and lead me away. I remember seeing the van. I remember him leaning over me to buckle my seat belt. And then … not a lot. I think I remember that we were headed towards my house. Damn that gin – such a bad move. All I know after that is that I must have fallen asleep. And I woke up here.
day 7
No change. Nothing.
day 8
Today is dark.
day 9
Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine.
day 10
Ready to write’n’roll. The last few days have been pretty crappy. Not much to tell; a lot of pacing back and forth. It
’s driving me insane, not being able to move around. I need some space. Or at least a treadmill. Ethan has washed the bed sheets, and he’s replaced my surgical gown with some new clothes – I now have two pairs of bright white pyjamas to choose from. Might be progress.
He’s hardly said a word to me for four days. Pretty much every time he’s come in I’ve been lying in bed. He often glances over to the table hopefully, and he seems disappointed (deflated?) that I’m not there, scribbling away. If he comes in and sees me now, it’ll probably make his day. Don’t want that happening. Sometimes I glare at him, just daring him to say something. And sometimes he looks as if he’s about to speak, but then thinks better of it. What is his deal?!
The longer this goes on without anything happening, the more confused I get. I don’t exactly feel scared any more. Maybe there’s only so long you can maintain that level of fear, before it gets too exhausting.
I’ve been here ten days now. I wonder how Mum is doing. Frantic, probably. Maybe engaging in a spot of retail therapy to distract from her trauma. Or sitting on the sofa next to a policewoman, like a character in a TV drama. Acting like a good mother – one who cares. I wonder if the police are still looking for me. Maybe they’ll have given up by now. Maybe there’s only so long you can maintain that level of hope too.
I keep thinking about Sal. Does she feel bad? Does she feel anything? Are her insides writhing and twisting in guilt and shame?
Sal. I don’t even know where to start. The beginning seems like as good a place as any. She moved here from Edinburgh with her parentals and annoying little brother just over a year ago. Before Sal arrived, I was sort of good friends with Those Girls at school – the ones who think they’re better than everyone else. I was always on the fringe though, never too close to anyone. I never thought I was missing anything by not having a real proper best friend.
The first time I saw her, I knew we’d end up being mates. I just knew it. She was sitting in the corner of the common room, frantically scrawling in a notebook. None of that self-conscious new-girl air about her. She had awesome hair and good clothes. Not that I’m superficial, but these things help when you’re trying to decide whether or not to make an effort with someone. OK, so maybe I am superficial, but so is everyone else.
I slumped down on the seat next to her, asked her what she was writing. It was a story. Something we had in common – we both liked to write. So that was how we got talking. I’d never really talked to anyone about my writing before. English teachers don’t count. From then on Sal and I gradually started hanging out together at lunchtimes, break times, free periods. It seemed like every day we spent a bit more time with each other, until I barely bothered talking to anyone else. I stopped hanging around with my usual crowd and they barely even noticed.
After we’d known each other about a month, I felt ready to take the Next Step. It’s a big deal when you make the leap from seeing someone at school to hanging out with them in your own time. But I was ready. I invited Sal round to my house one Friday when Mum was in London visiting a friend.
We ordered pizza and vegged out on the sofa. I found out some more about her: pepperoni was her favourite; we both thought social-networking sites were for losers; she wanted to be a lawyer or a writer or a marine biologist or star in a West End musical; she was totally in love with Chris, a boy from her old school, but she’d never done anything about it and he didn’t have a clue and now it was too late cos he lived 200 miles away. Which was sort of lame when I thought about it, but I let her off. Just cos.
All in all, I was more than a little bit excited (secretly, of course) to have a New Best Friend. Not that there was an old one for her to replace. Sal was good for me. She was always so happy, and not in an annoying way. Just the right level of shiny. She was so damn optimistic about everything. Always sure that tomorrow would be better than today. So sure that we’d both get exactly what we wanted. Should have known that wasn’t possible.
Sal and I became pretty much inseparable. I practically lived at her house at weekends. Mum didn’t seem bothered. I think it suited us both: she got to pretend she was childless and carefree and I got to pretend I had a mum who actually liked me. And a dad too, just for good measure.
One night just before Christmas, I was staying at Sal’s house (Chinese takeaway, wine, Skins on DVD). We were getting ready for bed, brushing our teeth in front of the bathroom mirror. I reached across Sal to grab a hand towel. She caught me by the wrist and said, ‘What’s this?’
My stomach did that horrible flip-flop motion, like a washing machine at the start of its cycle. I made a big deal of spitting out a mouthful of toothpastey foam while I thought hard. I don’t know why I was surprised; it’s not like I thought the scars were invisible or anything. I tried to play it down – it’s nothing, just some scratches I got when I was a kid … from my grandma’s cat?
It was hard to look at her. And even harder to look at myself. She put her hand up to my face and moved my chin so that I had to face her. ‘Grace, you know you can tell me anything. You’re my best friend.’ I’d never been anyone’s best friend before. No option but to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the bloody truth. I followed Sal into her room, sat down on the bed and talked.
I’d just turned fifteen the first time I cut. I was in my room, writing an essay. My music was blaring, as usual. It was a pretty normal night. No more depressed than any other day. That’s the thing: I was never happy, not really. Kind of just existed from day to day, on a weird plateau of feeling nothingness. That’s not to say I didn’t feel happy at times – of course I did. But they were fleeting moments, gone before I could even begin to appreciate them.
I was looking around for something to distract me from my essay. I drew round my hand and coloured in the fingernails with a red biro. Opened up my desk drawer and rooted around a bit. I found Dad’s old Swiss Army knife. I opened up all the blades, and found some tweezers that I hadn’t realized were there. The last blade I opened was the knife. Sharp and shiny and strangely appealing in a way I couldn’t quite understand.
I pressed the blade against my thumb, applying just a little pressure – not hard enough to draw blood. Huh. Unsatisfactory.
I drew the blade across my forearm – hard. For a millisecond it looked like I hadn’t really done anything. There was just an indentation in the skin. But then the blood welled up so fast. It was so red. And there was so much of it. Better. Much better.
It was mesmerizing. I held up my arm and watched the blood drip drip drip down into the crease of my elbow. One or two drops splashed onto the desk. I felt slightly floaty and weird – but mostly good.
A little pain. But it was a good pain, a clean pain.
That first night, I only cut myself once. No one noticed. I don’t exactly go around holding my arms out for people to inspect.
After that night, I cut more. Amassed a pretty serious collection of scars.
I got better at choosing where to cut, finding ways to hide the angry red slashes from the world. And later, hiding the silvery scars. I hadn’t really thought there would be scars. Hadn’t really thought.
To me, the scars are obvious. They stand out like they’re screaming, ‘Look at her! Look at what this freak does to herself!’
It’s more like a whisper though, to anyone who’s listening.
Sal was listening.
She sat opposite me, her legs crossed like a seven-year-old’s in school assembly. I knew she was looking at me with a mixture of worry, pity and maybe something else (horror?). I didn’t look at her to check though. Just concentrated really really hard on the duvet. Red stripe, white stripe, red stripe, white stripe. Red. White. Red.
When I’d finished my inadequate explanation and answered Sal’s questions (also inadequately), she took my arm in her hands and looked. Really looked. My forearm was exposed in the harsh overhead light. The scars seemed to stand out more than ever before. She touched them with her fingertips, murmuring, ‘What have y
ou done to yourself?’
I had no words. Not even a smart-arsed joke. Just tears.
I cried more than I had ever cried in front of a real live person. Sal hugged me and stroked my hair and told me everything was going to be OK. I cried myself beyond red blotchy puffy-facedness and into sleep.
When I woke up, the room was dark and Sal was lying next to me wide awake. I apologized for making such a scene, tried to make light of it. I was embarrassed, big time. I’m not used to losing control like that.
Sal propped herself up on one elbow and looked at me all serious. ‘I think you need to get help, Grace,’ she whispered. I was horrified by the idea. We went back and forth for a while, until she realized that she was getting nowhere.
She made me promise that a) I wouldn’t do it again, and b) whenever I felt I wanted to do it, I would pick up the phone and call her. She said she would come to me any time, day or night.
I actually believed that a) and b) were entirely possible.
I was sort of glad I’d told her. It was good to share the secret. But I felt stupid and ashamed and pathetic at the same time.
Sal and I were closer than ever after that night. Bound together by my dirty little secret. That was just over nine months ago.
