What Does Blue Feel Like? (10 page)

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

few minutes.

The ambos tell us they're sick and tired of helping

drunk kids.

They ask us if she took any drugs.

I shake my head.

They tell me that it's better to tell them now so they

can save her, rather than finding out later when she's

past saving.

But I insist that I'm telling the truth

Bronwyn wouldn't touch drugs — ever.

They ask if she poured her own drinks,

and I say, ‘No, we never do.'

I tell them about New Guy,

how he was insistent on taking her home,

how I wouldn't let him.

Jim tells me to shut up.

They don't need to hear my drunken shit.

But the ambos ask if he's still around.

They want to talk to him, but he's long gone.

I go to the hospital in the ambulance with them.

Bronwyn is sometimes awake,

sometimes not.

There's people in emergency with what I'm sure are

stab wounds,

and I remember being in emergency years ago,

when Tim was sick.

And Tim telling me that the early hours of the morning is

when they move the dead bodies around.

 

So I'm watching for them too.

Bronwyn wakes up, cries,

says she thinks something got put in her drink.

The doctor asks her if she's just saying that because she'll

get in trouble with her mum and dad for being drunk,

and she cries some more.

He says he'll do a blood test,

even though we all know what it's going to say,

that she's just drunk,

and that's all.

He brushes me aside

when I tell him that she probably only had ten drinks

over five hours

and jabs the needle into her arm,

telling me to get a coffee and sober myself up.

 

I hold her hair

as she spews

and tell her it's going to be all right.

Hours later,

a woman doctor sticks her head around the curtain.

Her photo ID says her name — Aimee West.

Apparently Nasty Doctor has finished his shift.

She smiles as she says hello, but her eyes reflect

how tired she is.

I'm wondering how much she must like doctoring people

to start a shift at five am

when I realise she's still talking.

The results of the blood test show

that Bronwyn's drink was definitely spiked.

She tells us with sympathy in her eyes