What Does Blue Feel Like?

by Jessica Davidson

First things first

  She tells me that there’s no point wasting my parents’

  money if I don’t want to be there — won’t do anybody

  any good.

  If I don’t want to be there, I should leave,

  because you can’t help someone who doesn’t

  want to be helped.

  She says that sometimes you have to hit rock bottom

  before you can start going up again.

  I know what she means.

  I tell her that I want to be here,

  can’t live like this much more.

  I wasn’t planning to say that.

  It just slipped out.

  She must be good.

  But

  I still don’t say anything, waiting for her to give up and tell

  me to go away like the school counsellor always did.

  But she doesn’t.

  She waits.

  Suppose I’ll have to talk.

  I ask her if she’ll tell my parents what I say.

  ‘No. What is said in this room stays in this room. But if you

  tell me you’re going to go and do something that places

  yourself or other people at risk, I’ll have to act on that.

  Deal?’

  I guess.

  This woman must be crazy,

  wanting to listen to my problems.

  Wonder what she’s getting paid to do it?

  Drug of choice? Life

  I don’t tell Mum and Dad what we talked about,

  even though I know they’re dying to find out.

  Tim asks if I’m mentally stable yet,

  and I thump him,

  then grin.

  Mum’s bought me a box of wax strips for my legs,

  a peace offering I guess.

  She shakes one out of the box,

  rubs it between her hands,

  and puts it on Dad’s chest ...then rips it off.

  The scream brings the neighbours running.

  But Mum, Tim and I grin like Cheshire cats.

  I know

  it’s a temporary high,

  but it feels good.

  That night we sit on the lounge room floor

  watching telly,

  eating pizza and drinking Coke.

  That’s happened about two times in our house.

  Mum and Dad are big on table manners and health food.

  It feels good,

  doing something so different and yet so normal.

  After dinner,

  I have a bath,

  with heaps of bubbles.

  I make bubblemen, sitting on the edge of the bath,

  and give myself a Santa beard.

  Then I sink into the steamy water,

  and chill.

  It feels so good, it should be illegal.

  I’d forgotten

  about natural highs.

  Greetings

  Jim knocks at the door

  and Char’s dad answers.

  Before he lets him in,

  he gives Jim a warning.

  ‘Despite appearances,

  Char isn’t better yet.

  So, go gentle.

  And if you hurt her,

  you’ll rue the day.’

  Holds her tight

  Jim walks up the stairs,

  knocks on the bathroom door.

  He goes in,

  takes off his clothes

  and gets into the bath with Char.

  Water splashes over the sides as they adjust themselves,

  bodies settling against each other,

  slippery as fish.

  Eventually,

  Jim sits with his legs straight out

  and Char’s back rests on his stomach.

  He holds her tight,

  kisses her neck,

  tenderly washes her hair with bubbles and water.

  He’s clumsy at the hair washing,

  not so good with long hair,

  but he’s gentle.

  He thinks about what his dad said.

  And he holds her tight.

  And then

  Jim doesn’t sleep over

  and I’m lying in bed, feeling

  relaxed

  sleepy

  calm

  peaceful

  almost — good

  when my phone beeps

  with a message

  from Guy.

  In an instant

  that feeling is gone.

  I’ve basically done to Guy what Jim did to me.

  The knot in my stomach is back.

  With a vengeance.

  What am I going to do now?

  How can I tell Guy

  that I had a bath with Jim?

  That it didn’t mean anything?

  That it meant everything?

  At least,

  I suppose,

  I’ll have something to tell the shrink.

  Biting the bullet

  The next day

  I visit Guy.

  His mum looks at me with undisguised curiosity.

  I vaguely wonder what Guy’s told her about me.

  She’s about to show me baby photos of him

  when he comes downstairs and tells his mum off,

  tells her to leave me alone.

  She likes me,

  I can tell,

  and I wonder how to tell her

  that Guy’s probably going to hate me soon.

  I don’t even know how to tell him.

  Guy/I know she has bad news

  I take her up to my room,

  hug her,

  kiss her,

  but she pulls away.

  I can tell

  that she’s about to tell me something

  that I’m not going to like.

  My guts clench up

  and my throat closes.

  She’s looking scared.

  I can tell she’s working herself up to it.

  How bad can it be?

  Suddenly

  she blurts out,

  ‘Jim washed my hair.’

  This must be some kind of sick joke.

  Why would Jim be washing her hair?

  Ohhhhhhhhh.

  ‘Last night, he came over, and I was in the bath, and he got in

  the bath with me, and he washed my hair, but we didn’t have

  sex or anything like that it wasn’t even remotely sexual it

  was tender you know and that’s all he just washed my hair

  and then he left and I went to bed and that’s what happened.’

  ‘Were you naked?’

  I don’t want to know

  but I have to.

  It’s like watching a car crash in horrified fascination

  but not being able to turn away.

  She gives me a puzzled look.

  ‘Of course I was naked, I was having a bath.’

  There’s a knife in my guts now.

  I deal with it the only way I know how to as a man.

  ‘Slut.’

  She’s started to cry now,

  looking guilty,

  and she reaches out to touch my cheek.

  ‘Don’t touch me, Char — just don’t.’

  Then another thought jams into my head.

  ‘Did you kiss him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you kiss him?’

  She doesn’t say anything, but the look on her face

  tells me enough.

  ‘But it didn’t mean anything, honestly.’

  ‘Well I guess then neither did we.’

  I must be a sick man,

  getting pleasure out of the pain on her face,

  knowing I’m making her feel as terrible as she’s

  making me feel,

  knowing that increasing her pain decreases mine.

  ‘Oh, Guy, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Go on, get out of here. Go back to Jim.

  You two deserve each other.’

  She hangs her
head, sniffles.

  I can’t stand seeing her any more.

  I want to wrap her into my arms and breathe in her scent

  but

  I also want to smack her against the wall for

  making me feel this way.

  And I’m scared I’ll do it soon.

  I tell her to leave.

  And this time

  she does.

  I’m walking home, crying,

  thinking about what just happened,

  thinking about what the shrink told me.

  That someone can hold a gun to your head

  but they can’t make you do anything.

  You always choose how you behave.

  She also said

  that because of that

  no one is responsible for how another person acts.

  Although we can pressure them (which is wrong),

  Guy chose to react the way he did.

  If he goes nuts and hits something (which he might do

  from that look in his eyes),

  it’s not my fault.

  Don’t believe everything you read

  I’m on the internet,

  doing random searches,

  when I come across an interesting site.

  It says that when people experience an emotion,

  certain chemicals get released in their brain,

  a different chemical for every emotion.

  It says that people can get addicted to specific chemicals

  so that they keep experiencing that emotion

  to get the release of those chemicals

  and that’s why some people are perpetually happy

  and some people are always sad.

  So I must be addicted to sad chemicals in my brain.

  Uh-huh.

  Yeah, right.

  Seeing Jim

  I see Jim at school the next day.

  He’s got a split lip and a black eye

  and he doesn’t want to tell me what happened

  but I can guess.

  When teachers ask him about it,

  he says that I bashed him, that I did it.

  I suppose that’s true in a way.

  I’m just about to feel guilty

  when I remember

  he didn’t have to get in the bath with me,

  he didn’t have to kiss me,

  and he definitely didn’t have to cheat on me

  in the first place.

  I don’t think he deserved the shiner,

  but it’s not really my fault.

  Second time around

  The next time I visit the shrink,

  she tells me that she’s not giving me antidepressants

  until I’ve tried a few other things first.

  She tells me to concentrate on my diet —

  ‘For a month, only eat lots of really healthy food

  and see how you feel.

  And make sure you get plenty of sleep.

  Cut down on your caffeine,’ she says, eyeing my Red Bull.

  ‘And do some enjoyable things —

  hang out with your friends

  do something for yourself that you haven’t done in a while.

  Nurture your body.’

  Yeah, right.

  My body functions quite well on Maccas, grog and sleep.

  I lie in bed that night,

  hands on my stomach,

  remembering what it felt like

  to be pregnant.

  The feeling is starting to fade and blur

  but pieces remain.

  Enough to convince me

  that there’s a hole inside,

  threatening to engulf the whole of me,

  take me over and swallow me up.

  Sometimes I think I’m nothing inside,

  just a hole.

  Sometimes I feel

  so goddamn empty

  I think I could scream, tear out my hair, fall to the ground,

  but my mouth stays shut,

  my hands stay obediently by my sides,

  and my knees are locked rebelliously.

  I keep walking.

  Partially because I have to

  and partially because I’m scared

  of what will happen

  if I stop.

  Party girl

  I get invited to a party on the weekend.

  My parents don’t want me to go

  now that they know I drink.

  They don’t want me to go.

  How fucked up is that?

  I bitch to the shrink.

  I tell her what I said to my parents —

  ‘Now you want to police me? It’s too late for that.’

  She says that even though it’s hard to believe,

  parents really do want the best for their children,

  mine are probably worried about my safety,

  not to mention my liver.

  When she starts talking about parents and kids, I try to

  keep my poker face on but I can’t.

  She sees the twinge on my face

  and tries to probe

  but I clam up.

  None of her goddamn business.

  Power trip

  I tell my parents I’m going,

  whether they like it or not.

  They threaten to lock me in my bedroom

  so I don’t come home after school on Friday.

  I go home with Bronwyn instead.

  As we get ready, I explain to her

  that I don’t really care whether or not I go to this party

  but I am not letting my parents win this power struggle.

  She understands.

  If I had stayed home,

  they would have won.

  They ring my mobile

  but I don’t answer.

  At Bronwyn’s insistence I send them a text,

  saying that I’m alive,

  that I’ll be home in the morning.

  My father leaves a message on my voicemail

  telling me that if that’s my attitude

  not to come home at all.

  And then about half an hour later

  he rings back

  and says that, of course, he didn’t mean it,

  that he wants me to come home.

  Of course he does.

  I’ll have to stay out tomorrow night as well.

  Just to keep him guessing.

  Hello, Jim

  Bronwyn and I stick together at the party.

  We’re drinking cocktails that other people

  are making for us,

  with not a worry about what’s in them.

  As long as they’ve got plenty of grog, they’re fine with us.

  When I’m starting to feel more than mildly drunk,

  a bunch of guys that none of us knows shows up.

  Apparently they’re someone’s cousin’s friends.

  They seem friendly enough,

  and they’ve brought more alcohol

  so they’re allowed to stay.

  One of the guys takes a liking to Bronwyn,

  and he and his friends come to sit by us.

  The one wearing a cap is about to chat me up

  when Jim comes over, drink in each hand,

  and says, ‘Here’s your drink, babe.’

  As he kisses me quickly on the lips,

  I give Bronwyn a look.

  The don’t-say-anything-and-play-along look.

  I’m glad he’s come over.

  He puts his arm around me and gives me a squeeze.

  And the guy with the cap goes off in search of another girl.

  Just another drunk girl at a party

  Bronwyn is drinking like her usual self.

  A few drinks here, a few there.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen her have more than

  ten drinks in a session.

  But she drinks everything New Guy hands to her.

  Suddenly

  she clutches at New Guy’s hand


  and whimpers,

  ‘I don’t feel so good.’

  She leans forward,

  retches,

  and vomits, continuously, for the next five minutes.

  No friend of mine

  New Guy says he’s going to take her home,

  put her to bed,

  but I childishly insist that she’s my friend

  and wherever she goes, so do I.

  Bronwyn isn’t looking so good.

  She’s pale and miserable.

  New Guy is insistent on taking her with him.

  I tell him to fuck off,

  he got her drunk in the first place.

  I would let him take her,

  but there’s a funny look in Bronwyn’s eyes.

  I don’t even know this guy,

  and there’s a funny look in his.

  He tries to pick her up and take her

  but Jim and I stand in front of her.

  Eventually, he leaves.

  I’ve seen Bronwyn drunk a lot of times

  and right now she’s acting like just another drunk girl.

  She grabs at Jim and says, ‘Jim, I feel really sick.’

  He laughs,

  pats her hand,

  takes another swig of rum,

  and says, ‘Well, you’re drunk, so no wonder.’

  No one pays her much attention.

  Just another drunk girl spewing at a party.

  Even when she passes out

  we don’t worry too much.

  We make sure she can breathe OK

  and leave her be.

  Hell, who hasn’t passed out from drinking before?

  We’ve all done it.

  She’ll be fine, we know,

  so we keep on drinking.

  Eventually, we’re ready for bed.

  I go to get Bronwyn up.

  She can’t sleep on the grass all night.

  She stands up,

  passes out,

  and won’t wake up.

  Jim calls the ambulance.

  It seems to take forever but it’s probably only a