The Manifesto on How to be Interesting (33 page)

“I can't believe you're doing this,” she said, a bit of anger in her voice now. “I've not done anything wrong.”

“Bree. Let's leave it now.”

“No I will not leave it. So I had sex with someone…big deal. What about your wife, Logan? What about your fucking wife? Don't you have sex with her? Why is that okay? And it's not okay for me?”

“Bree, stop,” he pleaded.

“No, I will not stop. You can't do this. You can't just let me fall in love with you and tell me you love me back and then do this. Not when everything is so wrecked. Do you really love me? Did you ever?” She sounded hysterical now but she didn't care. Her voice was so high it was almost a squeak.

He looked at the carpet instead of her and she knew then that she'd lost him.

“No, I didn't. I don't…I don't know what I was doing.”

Trauma. It doesn't eke itself out over time.

It doesn't split itself manageably into bite-sized chunks and distribute itself equally throughout your life.

Trauma is all or nothing. A tsunami wave of destruction. A tornado of unimaginable awfulness that whooshes into your life – just for one key moment – and wreaks such havoc that, in just an instant, your whole world will never be the same again.

Bree didn't know there could be hurt like this. It felt like her ribs were breaking. Snapping open with the explosion of her heart. And with the hurt came rage. Rage at school, rage at being a stupid pointless teenager, rage at Hugo, rage at life, but, most of all, rage at Logan.

“You're a disgrace,” she said, clenching her fists.

He didn't respond so she picked up his book and threw it at the wall.

“Do you hear me? You're a sad pathetic disgrace. I could tell everyone, you know? I could tell your wife. The school. Everyone. I could ruin you in a moment. Tell everyone what a pervert you are. Give me one reason why I shouldn't do that. Give me a reason not to, Logan…please…”

This was the moment when she hoped, despite it all, that he would say: “Because I love you and I'm sorry.”

Hope. A silly word. A David of a word against the Goliath of trauma. A David with no slingshot.

Instead, in this reality of realities…on this day of all awful days…

All she got was…

“No one would believe you.”

His eyes were still fixated on the carpet. The eyes she knew so well, the face that had looked at her with such adoration just the night before.

“Yes, they would.”

“No, they wouldn't.”

“Well, let's see then, shall we? I'll go and tell them now.”

Logan rolled his eyes. He actually rolled his eyes. In that moment she understood why love and hate were considered such close mates.

“They won't. They'll just think you got a sad, pathetic crush on the only person who showed you kindness.”

She closed her eyes, like the act would shut out every bit of hurt that pierced her.

“I hate you.”

Words were all she had left to fight with.

Words. Her friends. The only friends left.

But Logan didn't want to fight.

“Bree. Just go. Stop embarrassing yourself.”

If there'd been any hint of regret in his expression… If there'd been even a glimpse of bittersweetness behind his stretched smile… If there'd been anything, anything at all, left in him that even betrayed an atom of care for her, she would've forgiven him.

There was nothing.

Bree, apparently, was nothing.

Bree went home.

Bree got inside her house without her mum hearing.

Bree went up to her bedroom.

Bree ran straight to her en suite.

Bree opened the bathroom cabinet.

Bree took out what she needed.

Bree huddled against the wall, rocking her body back and forth.

Bree thought about the look on Jassmine's face.

Bree remembered how the whole school cafeteria had turned to look at her.

Bree replayed the video footage in her head.

Bree thought about Logan.

About their day in London.

The time in the stationery cupboard. Meeting for coffee. And all the brilliance in between.

Bree heard his words echoing round her broken brain.

We're nothing.

Bree didn't even wince when the razor met her skin.

Bree made it all go away.

“Bree, oh my God, my darling, what have you done?”

“Bree? Bree? Can you hear me?”

“Hello? Yes, it's my daughter. She's done something. There's blood everywhere. I can't…I don't know…help me…what do I do?”

“Bree. Come on, darling, stand up, we're going to the hospital.”

She was moving. Her body was moving. Step after step after step.

Inside.

Outside.

Inside again.

Car engine.

“Bree, stay with me. Let's talk, shall we? Bree, darling, I love you. Come on, it's nearly Christmas. Bree? Bree?”

Shouldn't it be hurting more than this? All she felt was calm.

“Almost there, darling. Come on, keep your eyes open.”

Blurs were happening outside the window. Blur after blur after blur into one big smudge.

She closed her eyes. The sky was too bright.

“No, Bree, open them, keep them open. BREE, KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN NOW, DO YOU HEAR ME?”

The Darkness engulfed her. It hugged her up and swallowed her whole.

And Bree smiled.

Reality doesn't wait for you to be ready for it. It doesn't go away when you tell it to. It's like a persistent mosquito, determined to suck your blood and leave you with a bumpy itch that you can't stop scratching.

Bree wasn't ready to face reality yet. But it was ready for her.

“Bree, nice to see you with us.”

It was a doctor. She could tell by the uniform and the folder of notes clutched in his hands. If he was a doctor, then she must be in some kind of hospital.

She looked down at her body.

She was lying down, in an uncomfortable bed, wearing the ugliest gown known to man.

Yep – Bree was in hospital.

Why?

She looked round the sterile bright ceiling for triggers.

And it all came back to her. The bathroom, the cutting, the blissful feeling of it all going away. Then, her mum's voice. Her mum's frantic voice.

What had she done?

Her body erupted into trembles, like ten million earthquakes were hitting her at the same time. What had she done? What had she done? What had she done?

“Where's my mum?” she asked urgently. Her mother. Her poor, poor mother. How much more could she fail her?

“Shh, Bree, they're outside,” a doctor said, trying to calm her. “You're okay. Your parents are outside and they're very worried about you, but you're okay.”

Her breath kept catching in her throat and she struggled for air. “What happened?”

“Do you remember, Bree?”

Not really. Then… Oh God, the video. The awful, horrible video. And Logan. Logan! Her heart shattered all over again as the memories whizzed, one by one, back into her brain. She rocked herself back and forth in the hospital bed to try and soothe the trembles.

“I did something stupid, didn't I?”

“I'm not sure if stupid is the right word…unwise perhaps?” He gave her a nice, warm smile and she felt a bit calmer. Like his smile was medicine.

Bree took a breath and lifted her gown. Yep – it was real. There was a huge white bandage across the top of one leg and there wasn't one bit of her that wanted to write about it. She gasped, and more earthquakes erupted through her blood.

“You're very lucky to be here, Bree. You almost hit a major artery.”

“I did?”

That hadn't been the plan. The plan wasn't to…was it? No. No! Okay, maybe, on her worst days she'd considered it…but that was so different to actually doing it. What if her mum hadn't found her? What if her mum
had
found her, but too late? She had to make this doctor understand.

“You don't think I tried to kill myself, do you? I didn't. I wouldn't…”

The doctor perched on the side of her bed, and again, there was something about him that soothed her.

“What do you think happened, Bree?”

“I wouldn't…I don't think…I just wanted it to go away.”

“What's that, Bree? What did you want to go away?”

“School.”

“School?” He looked surprised.

“Don't you remember being seventeen, doctor?”

She won a small smile.

“Yes, and it wasn't
so
bad. Now, I'm going to need to ask you some questions.”

She rolled to make herself more comfortable and as she did she saw the doctor's ID tag. She ground her teeth.

Dr Karl Thomas, Psychiatric Unit.

For once, Bree realized she couldn't smart her way out of this one.

“So,” she said, and her eyes filled with wetness for the first time in for ever, “what do you want to know?”

So Bree talked to the doctor. She talked and talked and talked. She told Dr Karl Thomas absolutely everything, after checking ten million times about his confidentiality obligations. She told him about her book being rejected, she told him about the blog idea, her makeover, losing Holdo, sleeping with Hugo, falling in love with Logan, and then all the horror that had happened most recently. It was liberating really, being able to tell someone all about it. And psychiatrists are such good listeners. He let her get it all out, nodding only occasionally and making notes on his pad, his eyes sympathetic but not in a patronizing way.

“…So, yeah, after all of that, I just maybe took the whole self-harm thing a bit too far. I guess.”

Dr Thomas gave her a small smile.

“Do you have
any
idea of the potential severity of what you did?”

“I do. But I didn't mean to…” She paused, biting her lip. “Why do people do it, doctor? You must see young people like me all the time. And maybe you see some that don't have mums that find them in time. But why?”

Dr Thomas sighed, a sigh filled with sadness at having heard that question asked so many times before. “We don't know yet. They're usually just very sick and see this as the only way out…and then…”

“And then what?”

“Nothing.”

“Please?”

He mulled over his words, staring into some vacant nothingness just over the frame of his glasses.

“Well, sometimes, in cases like yours for example, they just do it,” he said, and looked up at Bree. “They weren't planning it and they don't think about what it really means. They do it out of anger, to prove a point usually. You mentioned school – school really is hell for some people. I don't doubt that. Ever. But what they don't get is that death is permanent. Whereas every other problem in their lives usually isn't. And if they're trying to make a point, they won't be around to see the point being made. There's no coming back from…that. I wish I could make them understand it before. I wish I could tell them. This is for ever…you're never coming back. You'll never have this chance to live again.”

Bree winced as she pulled the blanket further up her shaking body.

“I will always try to live,” she told him, and her voice stopped shaking and rang out clear around the curtained walls. “From now on, I promise, I will always choose to live.”

A nurse came in and checked a chart at the end of her bed. Bree waited until she'd left, then she asked the doctor her next question.

“You're not going to lock me up in a padded room, are you?”

He turned over a page on his clipboard. “No…we're not. But, what you've just told me…are you going to tell anyone else about it? Open up a bit more?”

“I am telling people. Sort of. I write a blog every day.”

“What about telling real people? Like your parents? Or that nice friend Holdo?”

Bree pulled a face. “Holdo will never speak to me again, and he's right not to. I treated him like crap. And my parents…” She stuck out her tongue. “Are you kidding me? I doubt they care. Especially my dad.”

“You'd be surprised, Bree… Both of them were in quite a state when you were brought in.”

“Dad's only annoyed he got called home from work early.”

Dr Thomas noted that down on his pad, then flicked all the sheets back to the front and stood up, holding it against his chest.

“Maybe I can talk to him about the importance of spending more time together, if that's an issue. But, tell me, do people always live up to the awful expectations you impose on them?”

That was a question and seven eighths. Did she really do that? Bree stuck out her lip.

“Anyway…” His voice switched to breezy and Bree knew the worst was over. “What bits can I tell your parents? I really suggest you tell them everything, but I understand it may take some building up to. Whatever you decide, I'm not going out there and telling them their daughter hacked her leg to pieces for no reason.”

Bree started to panic again. “Not the blog…they'll make me stop and it's all I have.” She'd come so far, she couldn't stop now. Plus, if they took away her writing, what did she have left?

“That's not true—”

“Shh,” she interrupted. “I'm bargaining. And not Logan…my dad will go mental.”

“Quite rightly…”

“You promised not to tell.” Part of her still hoped she'd be able to sort things out with Logan after Christmas. Even after what he'd said. Her heart didn't have an on/off switch – maybe his didn't either.

Dr Thomas held up his hands. “I know I said I wouldn't tell. Though the guy has broken the law and, personally, I feel should be held accountable. But, come on, your parents need to know something. You can't shut everyone out, Bree.”