What Does Blue Feel Like?

by Jessica Davidson

  I’m left with the feelings of regret, and shame, bloodiness,

  and what-if.

  This feeling.

  Is driving me insane.

  Jim

  Jim doesn’t understand what’s wrong.

  He’s relieved.

  It’s all over, for him.

  Wasn’t his body.

  Isn’t his head.

  He thinks we should be partying.

  Celebrating.

  I tell him to go ahead.

  He leaves.

  Goes to a mate’s party.

  Goes to get drunk.

  Washed away

  The booklet the nurse gave me,

  derisively,

  on after-care,

  says I’m not allowed a bath for two weeks.

  I’d give anything for a bath right now.

  I turn the shower on,

  up,

  let the water pound into my neck and shoulders,

  piercing,

  like needles.

  The shower floor

  is covered in blood.

  I watch, slightly horrified, as blood

  trickles down my thighs,

  calves,

  ankles,

  onto the floor.

  Gets diluted by the water pounding down,

  and swirls away down the drain.

  Most of it, anyway.

  It doesn’t stop

  until I turn the water off.

  And even then,

  the blood keeps flowing.

  It feels like my whole body will be

  washed away.

  The next day

  Jim comes back the next day,

  ashamed

  at having left me alone.

  He stands at the edge of my bed, indecisive.

  I know I look bad.

  I’ve been crying all night.

  For a minute I think he’s going to turn around

  and walk back out the door,

  but he comes in,

  sits on the bed,

  pats my hair.

  I don’t go to school for a week.

  My parents aren’t at home, so they can’t bug me.

  I bleed every day of that week.

  It’s coming from the place in my heart that’s breaking.

  I don’t really sleep.

  Don’t really eat.

  I just cry.

  I didn’t even care that much that I was having a baby

  and now I feel like shit.

  On the Sunday before I go back to school,

  we get drunk.

  Drunken talk

  I feel like shit, you know? Like I feel guilty for what I did and then when I don’t feel guilty I feel guilty for not feeling guilty. It’s like my brain is so messed up and like you don’t seem to care. Well not that you don’t seem to care, like, you’ve been good, but you’re OK, you know? Like your head isn’t going crazy and you’re not crying and it was like yours too. I just feel like so empty inside and I wish this goddamn bleeding would just stop. Seriously, girls have it so much harder like, OK, my bank account wasn’t hit like yours was but — fuck, I dunno. Yeah, give us another drink ...and a shot too, while you’re at it. Let’ssss waaassssstttteeeeeeeed. Oh holy fuck that shot was strong, what the fuck was that, metho? Oh fuck I feel sick. Do you realise that we were going to have a baby? Like that wasn’t just a little blob, that was like half you and half me and we would have had a baby. Like, I know it was bad timing and stuff but do you realise that? A baby. A kid. God, stop giving me these shots ...what the hell are you putting in them? I want that baby sometimes you know? Don’t you? OK well I knew that you wouldn’t because you’re a guy and you don’t understand these things and you’re probably just with me for the sex anyway. That’s our relationship in a nutshell isn’t it, sex and alcohol? What the fuck will we do if I get pregnant again? And don’t bloody say that it can’t happen again you know that it can. I’m not going through this shit again, Jim, I feel like I need to be put in, like, a mental hospital or something. Oh just give me another fucking drink.

  World falling down

  I have to write an assignment

  before I go back to school.

  It’s for Maths,

  something about a house — bricks, carpet, wood.

  I don’t really understand it

  and it amazes me how

  I can sit so calmly

  and write an assignment

  when I feel like my world is falling

  down around my feet.

  Rumours

  When I go back to school the next week

  I hear rumours about Jim.

  Rumours about what happened at that party I didn’t go to.

  Rumours about him and another girl.

  He laughs them off

  but I’m not so sure.

  Girls at parties don’t care what they do with other girls’

  boyfriends when they’re drunk.

  And the boyfriends don’t care either.

  But this is Jim, my Jim.

  And I do care.

  The girls in Maths giggle behind their hands

  and look at me.

  I know they’re talking about me.

  The boys at lunchtime

  give Jim sly looks.

  I know they’re about me.

  It takes him a week.

  To confess.

  Jim

  So, I got real drunk right?

  So, I got with Hill.

  So, it doesn’t really mean anything.

  So, I still want us to be together.

  So — hey, you’re crying.

  I don’t

  get hysterical

  yell

  scream

  hit.

  I don’t

  say anything.

  Jim starts to look worried. ‘Char?’

  I get up,

  take him by the hand,

  walk with him out of my bedroom.

  I

  drop his hand,

  go back into my bedroom

  and lock the door behind me.

  He knocks

  bangs

  says my name

  apologises

  tries to explain

  swears.

  Then he leaves.

  I go to my window.

  Watch him walk down the driveway

  get into his car.

  Slam the door.

  Drive away.

  Then I

  cry

  scream

  yell

  kick.

  When my parents come home

  I’m sitting on my bed.

  Not crying, just sitting.

  They hug and kiss me and I smile and act happy.

  I’m good at that, especially in front of parents.

  Replay

  That night,

  I can’t sleep.

  In my head

  runs a tape, of what I should have said to Jim.

  I thought we had something good together.

  I trusted you.

  You left me, after I’d had an abortion to kill our baby, and

  went and slept with someone else?

  And you think that’s OK?

  Do you know how much like shit I feel?

  I hate you.

  I don’t want us to be over.

  I don’t want to picture you kissing another girl, sleeping

  with someone who isn’t me.

  I don’t want you to ever come near me again.

  I love you.

  I can’t believe you did this to me.

  Am I worth anything to you?

  Were you just with me until you found someone better?

  Did you really like me? You must have, because you kept

  coming to be my soft place to fall.

  You held me so gently, and I really thought that it was only

  me you would hold like that, only me. Did you hold her like

  that? Did you stroke h
er hair and whisper in her ear and

  kiss her like you kiss me?

  Was everything I thought you felt only my imagination?

  Was she better than me?

  Did you care about her?

  Do you want to be with me?

  Are you going to do it again?

  Why didn’t you stay with me that night?

  Have there been other girls I don’t know about?

  Why the fuck did you do this, Jim?

  That night,

  I can’t sleep.

  In my head

  runs a tape,

  of what I should have said to Jim.

  That class

  I turn up to Health class one day.

  It’s the most talked about class all year.

  A middle-aged woman with curly hair, pudgy stomach and

  a plastic banana

  talking about sex to a bunch of high school kids.

  Wonder how she ever chose that as a job.

  Joyce unpeels her banana,

  a plastic penis pokes out where a banana should be.

  That doesn’t happen too often.

  She gets us to call out all the slang words we’ve heard

  about sex.

  She doesn’t blush, or get embarrassed.

  She tells us she’s heard them all before — except for the

  one that Henry just said.

  She says she’ll add it to her list, and he grins,

  famous,

  in his head.

  It’s mildly entertaining, watching a bunch of boys trying to

  make a woman with a banana and condoms in front of the

  class blush.

  I’m only half listening when she starts talking about

  pregnancy options — keeping the baby, fostering,

  adoption and, oh no, abortion.

  The boys in the back of the class are cracking jokes, but Jim,

  sitting with them, isn’t laughing. They elbow him in the ribs

  and repeat themselves until he laughs convincingly enough.

  His eyes are frozen onto mine, watching my reaction.

  I’m OK. I’m not going to cry. I’m OK.

  Cry baby

  I hide on the oval by myself that lunchtime,

  and weep.

  Haemorrhaging tears.

  If this were blood

  I’d surely need a transfer.

  I’m whimpering as I’m crying,

  I don’t recognise the noises as coming from myself.

  The tears are coming from a big deep void

  that seems to have a never-ending supply.

  I wonder if it will ever stop.

  Will I cry forever?

  It hurts so bad

  that I wonder if they sell painkillers for crying.

  At this moment

  all I want

  is to have back the baby

  I so readily gave away.

  Cry,

  baby,

  cry.

  English Assignment #4

  Yes, I’m fine thanks.

  So fucking fine.

  But if you looked, you’d see that lie.

  See how much I’m dying inside.

  But you don’t know

  what goes on inside my head.

  It’s not a nice place to be.

  Would it shut up if I was dead?

  Labels

  At school, Char is alone.

  Jim won’t look at her. She thinks,

  Cheating Bastard.

  The girls in Maths are still giggling behind their hands.

  Hill sits with them.

  Smug Bitch.

  Char starts crying,

  walks out of class,

  sits against a wall somewhere.

  She gets found

  by the principal.

  He doesn’t yell, or scream,

  or even ask why she’s not in class.

  He just directs her to the school counsellor’s office.

  She says

  ‘Char. You have two options. You can either sit there in

  silence like you do every time you come in here and leave

  the same way you came. Or you can talk. It’s up to you.’

  And then

  Char sniffles, and gulps, wipes her face with the tissue.

  She opens her mouth

  closes it again

  and she can’t seem to make it open again,

  she can’t seem to make any sound.

  Eventually, the counsellor sighs,

  and tells Char to go back to class.

  Just eat something

  I can’t eat any more.

  Nothing tastes good, and it’s not worth the effort.

  Mum starts to get worried.

  She cooks all my favourite foods.

  Begs,

  ‘Just eat a little bit of something, Char. Something.’

  She buys really tasty treats, leaves them in my schoolbag,

  on my bed.

  They go untouched, unnoticed.

  Then she gets mad.

  One night, at dinner, I don’t even touch my food.

  Just sit there staring at the wall.

  She yells,

  screams,

  like she can’t stop.

  And she doesn’t.

  Tells me what a pain I’m being, how stupidly I’m behaving.

  What a fuck-up I am.

  I don’t blame her.

  She’s still screaming

  as I walk out the door.

  I can’t go to Jim’s.

  Not any more.

  I walk around the neighbourhood,

  getting colder,

  getting scareder.

  I never used to like the dark when I was little.

  I start to get scared of what will happen to me,

  out here, like this.

  I go into the park, sit on a picnic bench, wrap my arms

  around myself.

  Mum’s words are still ringing in my ears.

  I pull out my wallet, to see how much cash I’ve got,

  see what I’m going to do.

  It’s getting colder, it’s winter now.

  And I can’t stay here all night.

  There’s not much money in my wallet, about twenty bucks.

  There’s not much more in my bank account.

  This whole thing doesn’t even feel real,

  like I’m watching someone else,

  that it’s not even me.

  It’s like I’m looking down on another girl.

  Watcher (watch her)

  I watch the girl down there shiver, rub her hands over her

  arms, hug herself for warmth, curse herself for wearing

  a singlet.

  I watch her look in her wallet, play with the cards in there.

  I watch her pull out a photo of her and a guy, and just look

  at it.

  I watch her start to cry, nose red from cold and tears. She

  fumbles in her pockets for a tissue, eventually emerging

  with a grubby one. She swipes her nose, her eyes,

  smudging eyeliner all over her face.

  I watch her rip up the photo, scattering pieces on the

  ground like confetti.

  I watch her fumble through her wallet, for something to do.

  I watch her pull out a little mirror, the kind you carry

  around just to check your make-up. I know she’s thinking

  about smashing it, not for seven years’ bad luck, but for

  something to slit her wrists with.

  I know she doesn’t actually want to die, she just feels so

  much like shit right now.

  I watch a car full of leering boys drive past, slow down, and

  stop completely.

  I watch her back away.

  Step back and run

  I’m backing away from the car, away from these boys.

  I know what can happen to girls alone in a deserted


  playground after dark.

  I try to act tough, unafraid, but I’m backing away and

  sniffling.

  Then one of the boys gets out of the car, says something

  to the driver.

  The car takes off, and I’m wondering what’s going to

  happen next.

  I look around for something I can hit this guy with,

  wondering how I can overpower him.

  I’m scared.

  He’s stepping forward, one step forward for every step

  backwards I take.

  I can’t see his face, he’s wearing a hooded jumper

  and that scares me even more.

  I can feel my heart pounding, hear the ragged breaths I’m

  taking.

  It’s some kind of crazy dance, I’m thinking

  still looking for something to smack him in the head with.

  I’m stumbling, backing away, fingers seeking the mobile

  phone I’m hoping to find in my pants pocket.

  Shit! Where is it?

  All of a sudden I feel so little, and he seems so big.

  I know I don’t stand a chance if he decides to grab me.

  Shit.

  What am I going to do?

  I’m backing up, backing up, forcing myself to breathe.

  I’m backed against the wall as he steps into the light.

  I’m remembering a story of a girl who got raped and

  remembered her attacker’s details so well that

  they caught him.

  Her revenge.

  I don’t want to look at this guy, but I force myself to,

  force myself to look at his face, memorise his face.

  Jim!

  Step forward

  Her whole body

  sags

  with relief

  that it was Jim

  not an axe-murderer,

  or worse.

  He steps forward,