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The Journal (Part 13)
The door opened. Jack, Monty, and icy blue eyes walked in. Sadly, he was fine. Jack reached for Yoda. The man with icy blue eyes reached for me. Monty stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. Zelda screeched in anger, lunging at the icy blue eyes. He was caught off guard. She managed to take him to the ground. I watched in surprise as she then dove for Jack, a fierce anger in her eyes.
She refuses to be beat, I’ll bet.
He was ready, but she still managed to gain a few shots and do some damage before Monty pinned her arms behind her back and Jack stood in front of her, almost as angry as she was. Almost.
He hit her in the stomach. Her feet lifted off the ground with the blow. I could hear the air shooting from her lungs, and I could tell she was in a lot of pain by the way she had her feet positioned. I forced myself to my feet, ready to go help her. Jack hit her in the same spot again. Once again, her feet weren’t on the ground. I stumbled towards them, only to face-plant when the man with icy blue eyes grabbed my ankle.
Yoda, who had stood frozen until now, tackled him off of me. I spun around, already starting to crawl away from Yoda and icy blue eyes, towards Zelda, Jack, and Monty. My eyes swept over the scene in front of me as I went forward.
Zelda was on the ground in a corner, unconscious. Blood flowed from a wound in her head. The bleeding would have to be stopped soon, or she could die of blood loss.
Jack had a gun out, pointed directly at me. I closed my eyes.
Suddenly, I heard bodies hit the ground. I looked up to see Monty and Jack on the ground, Yoda amongst them. I didn’t want to know what happened to the man with icy blue eyes. The gun sat near me.
Monty and Jack both pulled out knives. I reached for the gun as Jack reached for Yoda and Monty lunged for me. I swung the gun around and pulled the trigger. The force sent me flying backwards and the gun flew from my hand towards Jack and Monty in my weakened state. I couldn’t see whom I hit. I couldn’t see anything as my head hit the floor and my vision blacked out. Still, I heard the door crash open. When my vision cleared, my eyes fell on a confusion of blue and black and random glints of light. I could hear screams and orders and crying and rattling metal. I could hear someone speaking softly to me, telling me that it’ll be alright. I fought to sit up, to see. Monty, Jack, and the man with icy blue eyes had their hands against the wall. They were getting searched. Police surrounded us. A policewoman was leading Yoda out of the room. And in the corner, I saw red.
I broke through the policewoman’s arms and crawled over to where Zelda lay, crumpled in on herself with an entrance and exit wound from a bullet clear in her chest. She wasn’t breathing. She had lost too much blood from the wound, a wound created by a bullet shot from a gun, by me.
I stared, and then I let out a scream that made every single policeman and woman around me wince. Even Jack, Monty, and the man with icy blue eyes flinched. My hands clenched around my chest. I grit my teeth, tears streaming down my face, choking on my own sobs, unable to breath, unable to think, unable to see or hear. Everything around me disappeared as I found myself falling into a pit of despair so deep there isn’t any possible way I could ever climb out of it.
I clawed at my scabs, welcoming the pain, welcoming the sense that something else was out there besides the pain inside of me. The pain inside of me was enough to make me wish I were dead, along with my best friend, who shouldn’t be dead. If anyone, anywhere, loved me, she wouldn’t be dead, because I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. But I did.
I killed Zelda.
I acquired the poison from someone who won’t be named.
I’d like to say to everyone that I’m sorry. This is something I have to do.
I put on the sweater I got from the Wolf Pack Olympics last year.
I’d like them to continue the tradition.
I’d like Mickey to choose who takes my place as team leader.
I’d like my epithet to be “The Circle is Unbroken.”
Or if not, “Pure Poetry.”
I went to the cemetery at eleven, skating there.
I spread flowers around Zelda’s tombstone, the epithet on it being “Follow Your Heart.” It was taken from her necklace.
I pulled Zelda’s necklace from around my neck and set it on top of her tombstone.
I sat down in front of it, my back against it, my knees pulled to my chest.
Then, I picked up my pen and started to write.
Time moves fast, doesn’t it? I mean, it seems as if just last week I was skating alongside Zelda. It seems as if it was only a few days ago I was scaring her in a cemetery. It seems only a couple days ago we were sitting around a campfire talking about Encyclopedia Horrifica. It seems as if it was only yesterday when Don first appeared in person. It seems only about five minutes ago that I pulled the trigger.
Before my experience last summer, I didn’t understand how fast time moves. I didn’t understand that we humans don’t stop and enjoy time with each other, before it’s too late and someone is in front of you, lifeless, and you finally realize you’re never going to see them again. People say horrible things to each other and then part, not even knowing whether they will see each other again and not considering that they won’t. For instance, the last thing my mom said to me was that I was the worst daughter she could possibly have.
My mom was having a bad day, and I assume she forgot that I was a wonderful daughter before last summer. I guess she’s just embarrassed, you know? Anyway, I forgive her. I love you, Mom. Remember that. I know you love me, too. Don’t feel bad about what you said. I really can’t blame you for saying it. Plus, Mom, you’re just a living person.
Just as they say in ‘Our Town’, the living just don’t understand.
I don’t include myself in that group, not really. I mean, my heart’s been beating. I have been inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide. I have been processing sugars and making amino acids. I have been using enzymes and burning calories and using muscles I can’t even name. I have been thinking. I have been dreaming. I have been talking, and singing, and listening, and smelling. I have been able to feel every hug, every raindrop, every blanket, every shirt, every sock, and every snowflake to touch my skin.
And yet in the midst of it all….
I feel as if I’m just along for the ride, reliving last summer over and over and trying to stay in the moment. I don’t care about anything anymore. Well, I care about Mickey. That’s about it. My parents don’t seem to be the people I thought they were, now that I’m looking at them as people and not simply my parents. My teachers seem different somehow, as well. They’re people now, not just teachers.
Some of my closest friends are different now, too. They’re meaner or more obnoxious or…well, they simply just aren’t people I like anymore. I don’t know why. I guess my eyes have opened with the death of anything in me that might want to live.
Anyway, whenever anyone leaves, I imagine them dying. What’s the point of living in a world where everyone is dead to you?
So, I include myself with the dead. I understand. There’s nothing I can do about it, but I get it now. Humans don’t pay attention. Heck, I have been paying less attention than everyone and I know it. But, at least I know it.
I admit it; I probably should’ve gotten help. That might’ve changed everything. Oh well. I’m gone now. There’s no help for me. It’s too late.
The moon’s so pretty tonight. It’s less than full, waning. Even so, it’s pretty. It’s really, really pretty. I could sit here and stare at the moon all night, letting the light touch my skin. It easily mixes with the cold stone at my back, and for some reason, the cemetery is a peaceful place to me. Even when I imagine ghosts around me, waiting for me, it’s peaceful. Maybe that’s another side effect of feeling so dead inside.
Or maybe I was always meant to be in a cemetery. Maybe I was meant to live here, not die here. Oh well. I’ll never know. I plan on dying here. It’s a fitting place, don’t you think? All anyone really has to do is open a hole in the ground and drop me in. Let the worms eat my skin. Let the worms eat everything. Let me decompose slowly, rotting away and returning to the ground.
Even that thought doesn’t make this scene foreboding. I don’t think anything will.
In the sweat of your face you shall eat bread ‘till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for dust you are, and to dust you shall return.
That’s Genesis 3:19. The term “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” came from that, you know.
I’m getting all serious. I apologize. Truth is, I’d love to crack a joke right now. However, I’d also like to truthfully say, “Well never again and never again, they gave us two shots to the back of the head and we’re all dead now….”
By the way, let me make it clear that I don’t want anyone following me. So, no suicide pacts. This is and was always meant to be a solo endeavor.
I just realized it’s taken me three-quarters of a year to write a suicide note.
Well, time to finish preparing my return to dust.
Calling Bloody Mary in a tree house, Fort Bruno,
Running towards a cemetery, they didn’t know,
Vibrations in the ground, fear took hold among the trees,
Darkness around, roots abound, tripping, falling to their knees,
Get up, get on, adrenaline high from pursuit,
Break the trees, gravestones, a terrible truth,
Frozen and captured, tied up and carried,
Over coffins, passed tombs of many a Mary,
Black car reminds of SSC Ultimate Aero,
Though more a black van, the ground dark below,
One small girl, brave, and one average height,
Admitting to her weakness, the absence of might,
Want to fight, can’t fight, it’s something to be rued,
Go with no fight, what else can they do,
Stay calm, keep cool, air heats as horror cooks,
Unknown who they are, with no want to look,
The girls took, taken, plopped in a horror book,
There’s a hum, with a shock the whole world shook,
Rolling hills, bumpy roads, pierced by sinking valleys,
Voices in their minds giving speeches, throwing rallies,
Can’t see, no sounds but footsteps on a rough street,
Cold metal, locked doors, pulse a non-rhythmic beat,
Turns to a month and a half of bad things and torture,
Coming to an end, the brave girl’s average friend put her,
Took her from her own personal Hades,
From pain, from hunger, from thirst, and maybe,
Threw her deep into darkness, forever, for now,
The average girl’s nightmare, to that she bows,
Back to normal, back to places she knows,
With books, with numbers, with room to grow,
Bloody Mary by her side, at school, at home
Reminding her of memories, of muscle and bone,
Of icy metal, sharp edges, copious homicides,
Drowning in memories, nothing left inside.
PS- So long, loves, forever.
Zelda Simmons: RIP August 22, 2009. Sheik Wolf: RIP April 1, 2010.