Breaking Dawn (8 page)

When we get back home, I go straight up to my room. I am too exhausted to do anything other than merely exist. Hell, I don’t even want to do that. As soon as I close my bedroom door, I start taking off my black mourning clothes, dropping them onto the floor. I’m not even kicking them to the side. I lift my heavy dressing gown off the hook of my wardrobe door and slip it on. Wrapping myself in the comfort of its warmth and tying the sash tightly about my waist, I drop down onto my bed and lay back, closing my eyes. Inhale, exhale. All I need to do is breathe.

Inhale.

I have to clear my mind.

Exhale.

Don’t think.

Inhale.

Don’t remember.

Exhale.

Just don’t.

I want to fall asleep, but it seems like no matter how long I lie here, I just can’t slip away. My eyes keep opening. I don’t want them to open. My body just isn’t ready to call it a day. For some reason, I think of Perry’s bag sitting in the corner. It’s been in the house for days and I have yet to rummage through it. Should I even
be
rummaging through it?

I sit up and look at the bag. There is nothing special about it; it’s just a blue and grey bag full of school books. I get up and walk over to it. Kneeling down on both knees,
I touch the zipper. I shouldn’t do this. What might I see?

I pull the zipper and open the bag. There’s a maths book, a social studies book and a few notebooks and folders. I finger through the notebooks until I find one that catches my attention. Written on the cover in black marker is: JOURNAL – GRADE 10 in large bold letters. Somehow this is morbidly enticing. I pluck it out and take it back to my bed.

I’m holding the notebook. Why did I take this damn thing? What does it matter now what Perry wrote, who knows how long ago? There can’t be anything written in it that I wouldn’t already know. Recollections, memories, feelings – all just words on paper of things that have already happened. I keep telling myself that it
is
just words on paper. But then, why am I so afraid of it?

I sit on my bed with the notebook on my lap. What I’m about to do would be a serious violation of privacy had Perry been alive. He had never dared to peek into my diary and
I had always shown him the same respect. But if I took it back to his house, would his mom read it? Who should read it – a person who loved him for who he was or a
blood-relative
who couldn’t care less?

I open the notebook, turning the page to the first entry, and skim the page before reading it through. Perry always had such nice handwriting. I read through the pages; some entries are a sentence or two, others are a page long. I am familiar with most of the happenings, good and bad. I remember them. There are, as I’d suspected, few surprises. That is, until I come to read the last few entries:

I’ve read it. I’m sitting here. I stop breathing – I don’t know for how long. My eyes start to dry before I realise I’m not even blinking. It’s like my whole body has just ceased to function. Breathe in… out… blink, breathe in… out… blink…

Why didn’t I see this coming? All the signs were there. Why couldn’t I have done something?

Perry was just so angry with me. I did try to talk to him, didn’t I? Think, Dawn, think! Maybe if I’d tried harder, put more effort into finding him, pounded on his door harder, called his house more, busted out his bedroom window to crawl inside and force him to talk with me… There were so many things I could’ve done. Should have done. Why didn’t I do them? Why didn’t I tell Perry that I loved him back?

Maybe if I’d never got involved with Brian or never brought home Perry’s personal life story and laid it on my desk out in the open for Brian to see. Brian. What a dirty word his name’s become to me now. I can’t say it any more without it leaving a foul taste in my mouth. Everything is because of Brian. If only it had stayed just the two of us, Perry and me, none of this would have happened. We were happy. We could have stayed happy. Damn you Brian!

I grab the notebook and fling it across the room. It flaps through the air and slides across my desk and onto the floor along with some other papers that were on my desk. That isn’t enough though.

In a rage I grab handfuls of my quilt and pull it off the bed. Then my pillows, throwing them across the room. My bed sheets, the clock radio, the lamp and everything else I can get my hands on – are all thrown across the room. I tear the posters down from my walls and shred them, crushing them in my fists and throwing them to the floor. I pull out dresser drawers and fling them, with all my strength, against the wall, cracking the wood and the plaster.

Still, it isn’t enough.

I grab all my perfume bottles, ceramic and glass knick knacks and shatter them against the wall. Almost. Then as I grab the chair from under my desk and lift it as high as I can to take out my frustrations on the dresser mirror, the door swings open and my mom and dad stand in the doorway
with their faces frozen in fear and shock. I stop. Suddenly I feel weak, and I drop the chair.

Mom walks in with her arms reaching out to me. Her eyes are red from crying all day and her face is worn and tired. She has never looked as old as she does right now. I just stand there, knowing that as soon as those loving hands touch me, I will break. And then I fall into Mom’s embrace and I cry. I cry until it hurts. I cry harder when I feel Dad come up behind me and wrap his arms around me and Mom. Yet, even in the loving arms of my mom and dad, I feel alone.

Shortly after the funeral, Mom booked my first session with a therapist.

Therapy is a load of rubbish if you ask me. Dr Reed reminds me of a fake talk show host who thinks he has all the answers to everyone’s problems. I’m not even going to try to remember his name. He sits across from me with that serious look on his face, his bald head catching the glare of the fluorescent lights.

With his notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand, he asks me the dumbest questions. How did I feel when Perry and I fought? How did I feel when he died? What did I feel when I saw his body on the bed? Am I having suicidal thoughts?

All I can think of is that this man is an ass. Mom is paying him good money and what for? For me to learn how upset I am about losing my best friend? To learn how it was my fault that Perry took his life? She needs to pay money for me to discover this?

I had four sessions with Dr Reed before I went back to school. Four wasted hours that would have been better spent staying home in bed or on the couch, brooding. Nevertheless, he has convinced Mom that we are making progress and that I should return to see him twice a week.

So, here I am, hiding in a toilet cubicle at school. I’m sitting here, and my legs are numb from sitting. I’ve been here for what, hours? I’m not even sure what time it is and I don’t really care. I just know that I need to get up and get some circulation back into my legs. All I can do is stand for a few minutes, my legs are feeling so dead. Then the pins and needles come, thousands of them pricking my legs from thigh to toe. And although I cringe in agony at the sensation, I realise this is the first time in weeks that I’ve felt anything at all.

Slowly, I make my way out of the cubicle, and walk to the sinks and back. I’m walking
in circles just to keep my legs moving, to get rid of this discomfort.

I avoid the mirrors as I take this repetitive path from the sink to the stall. Back and forth, back and forth. I wonder, briefly, what it would be like to see myself in the mirror. It’s been a long time. How would I look? How would I feel? But I’m still not ready to face myself.

Once the pain is gone, I go to collect my books and step out into the hall. The hall is empty; the school is quiet and half the lights are off. It’s all rather eerie.

I walk over to the nearest classroom to peer in at the clock. Quarter to five. I’ve missed the bus and most of the students and teachers involved in extra-curricular activities will be on their way home by now. Looks like I’ll be walking.

I make it down to my locker undisturbed. I drop my books into the bottom and reach out for my parka, but my eyes are drawn to the brown bomber jacket hanging opposite.
I lift the leather jacket off the hook and slip it on. Although it fits loosely on my slender frame, it is warm and comfortable. The scent of Perry’s cologne still lingers. I close my eyes and take a deep whiff. I smile. God I miss you Perry.

Standing there in the hall, I realise that I don’t want to go home. But where do I go? I shove my hands in the jacket pockets and begin walking down the hall. I come across the staircase that leads down to the gym. No one will be there now. I walk along the hall, past the locker rooms. Half the lights are on. The school never turns off all the lights. At the end of the hall I come to the pool entrance. I walk along the edge of the pool, peering down into the still, blue water. It looks cool and peaceful.

Inviting.

Almost hypnotizing.

Quiet.

This is nice. This is what I want. This is what I need. With one hand I grab the collar of Perry’s coat and raise it to my nose, just enough to take in a big scented breath. Perry.

I smile.

Without hesitating, I step forward, plunging into the cold, blue water with a loud splash. I relax, letting the water soak my clothes, adding weight, dragging me deeper below the surface. My eyes are open as I sink to the bottom. And with the cold, hard bottom of the pool against my back, I think of Perry. His scent. His laugh. I am holding my breath, but I really want to let go.

I let go.

I open my mouth and breathe in the water and all its chemicals. My body jerks from the force of the water filling my lungs. I can’t breathe. My body wants to stay alive. Survival is a natural instinct. I’m fighting against it. I start to black out. This is it.

I hear a noise. A splash. Something is coming down towards me. A figure.

Perry?

I open my eyes. There’s a light, a face. I’m wet, lying on a hard floor. Am I still in the water? I cough, expelling liquid from my lungs, and try to focus on the face floating above mine. There are voices. Then darkness.

‘Can you hear me?’ A voice is calling to me through the blackness. ‘Dawn! Open your eyes!’

I hear the voice, but I can’t respond. Is it Perry? Am I dead?

‘Dawn, open your eyes.’

I open my eyes. There are people around me. I am strapped to a stretcher inside an ambulance. I have to focus. I look up into the soft, blue eyes of… Brian? He is leaning
over me, dripping wet. I’m struggling to understand what is going on.

What’s happened?

Where am I?

My mind is all muddled. It is hard to think.

‘There you are.’ Brian smiles. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’

I find some scrubs in a cupboard inside the hospital room and change out of my gown. Perry’s coat is on a hanger. It is still wet, but that doesn’t matter; I slip it on. There are a few bus tokens inside the hidden inner breast pocket. I can get into so much trouble for this, I know. No one seems to notice me as I walk pass the nurses’ station. Brian is in the waiting room, speaking to the police.

I walk out of the hospital, unchallenged, into the cold and down the stone steps. It’s a
short walk to the corner, to the bus stop. All the time I’m feeling… something – I don’t know what. I know I shouldn’t have left the hospital. I should have waited for my mom and dad.

At the bus stop, I brush some snow off the bench to make a clean spot. It is cold and getting colder as the night starts to come down. There is a light, crisp wind, and it lashes bitterly through Perry’s wet coat. I wait in the cold, thinking any minute now someone will come to take me back to the hospital. Any minute now. Where is that damn bus?

Then the bus arrives on time, opening its doors onto a semi-heated interior and the few passengers it is transporting. I walk to the back of the bus and settle into a seat away from the other passengers. I have a specific destination in mind and I want to be alone.

I get off the stop nearest to Perry’s house. The cold through the wet leather jacket is crippling, making me feel sick.

I trudge along icy pavements and approach Perry’s house, sitting back from a snow-covered yard. I imagine the path the paramedics had taken to get there. I imagine them pulling up in front of the house, followed by police cars. I imagine them rushing up the path and in through the front door. I see Brian and me sitting on the couch in the front room. And Perry lying dead on his bed.

I stop in front of Perry’s house and stare at the red door.

Perry is gone and I’ll have no reason to come to this house again. All of the time I’ve spent in this house over the years, coming to know it inside and out; all the summers, the winters, the days and the nights. All of that is just a memory now. Those times have become my past, however much they will help to shape the person I’ll become. And I realise that I will have to move on.

I walk on past the house, and it feels like a weight is lifting from me. I force myself to look forward and fight the urge to look back,
fight the urge to relive that horrible day. I won’t look back. I have to keep walking.

It is dark by the time I get home. I walk through the door and Mom comes rushing over. It’s obvious she’s been out of her mind with worry.

‘Are you okay?’ Mom asks, kneading her hands together. ‘Dad’s been out driving around, looking for you.’

I stand there taking off the wet coat and look at her and for the first time in weeks, I speak one short sentence to her. ‘I’m okay, Mom.’

Mom just hugs me for a while. And then, just like she has every day for the last couple of weeks, Mom tells me that she has a plate for me in the oven. Tonight, I think I’m going to try to eat something. It will be another step forward.

In the kitchen I pull the still warm plate of meat and mashed potatoes from the oven and set it on the table. I grab a fizzy drink
from the refrigerator and set it down in front of my plate. I’m still not hungry and I know this food will lie heavy in my stomach, but I have to try. I never thought a person could forget how to eat, but I have to concentrate on every aspect of getting the food into my mouth and chewing and swallowing.

As I begin to pick at my mashed potatoes, I hear the front door open and close.

‘She’s here,’ I hear Mom say from the other room. ‘She’s in the kitchen… eating.’

I watch the kitchen door, waiting for one of them to appear but they don’t. They give me my space and allow me to go at my own pace.

My plate is barely half-empty by the time I call it quits. My stomach is feeling a burden it hasn’t felt in weeks and my jaw muscles are tired of working. I put my plate into the sink and go upstairs to change into some pyjamas.

I am about to get into my bed when I
remember Perry’s manuscript, still in my locker at school. Perry had asked me to do something for him.

I search around underneath my bed and pull out my notebook computer. I haven’t used it for months. I hope that I can remember how. I find all the chords and plug everything in and switch on the power.

I go online and check my mail. Nothing but spam. I put my cursor in the search bar and look for publishing houses. Finding a few, I go to their home pages, looking for their information and submission guidelines. I find a few and bookmark them. Then I begin to compose an email to the first company on the list: