Echodante's Blog

the hated english story

September 24, 2009 at 11:01 pm (stories)

well i love it but my teacher didnt

Nobody ever suspects the good girl. The happy girl who never does anything wrong, who never tries to hurt anybody, who tries to help everyone she can. Yeah right. In movies, maybe. But maybe that’s why they blame me. They suspect the good girl because everyoneelse trusts her. I guess it makes sense. I mean could the good girl really be hidingsomething behind that sweet helpful smile? But I’m not hiding anything. Well nothing bad,nothing sinister. I might be hiding myself from the world, but in a world as cruel andunloving as this, it takes a brave soul to show who she really is. It’s just so much
easier to hide behind the smiles, to laugh at the thought of fear. When deep down inside you’re shaking with it. Fear of what? The dark shadows? Or of death? Or are you really scared of living, of being yourself and stepping out of the shadows.

These were my thoughts as I sat locked in my cell. What did I do this time? I’m not really sure. I don’t know what I did or even if I did anything at all to deserve this punishment, this pain. And what is pain? Pain, sadness, suffering. Those words are used so freely these days. Is it worse to be living like this? Or is it worse to watch someone else live and suffer and then eventually die in my place?

No. it would be more painful to be forced to watch someone else in this pain, the sadness would be overwhelming. I’d rather it be me. But for them to stop, to leave me be, I would give almost anything. If only they didn’t want something I can’t give them: perfection. I try, no doubt I try but something good is never good enough. Perfection is everything. Perfection is nothing. Perfection. It is a mythical concept that is more widely believed in than ghosts and aliens, but with even less proof of existence.

What scares me most is not pain or perfection. Not shadows. Not even fear itself. What scares me is that the people inflicting this pain are the ones I love. The ones who are supposed to love me. But I am unloved because I didn’t, couldn’t, can’t catch that ghost that is perfection.

And so I sit here, and cry.

I hear them come now, to question me. I know that I am not a murderer but I don’t know if I can convince them of my innocence. The tears slide down my face, dissolving my words like acid. How do I convince them it wasn’t me without words? Why do I have to prove my innocence anyway? Shouldn’t it be “Innocent until proven guilty”, not “Innocent until blamed”? Shouldn’t it be evidence, not opinion?

What does it matter now they are wrong? That he is wrong. He should know I didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t. Yet still he accuses me using his fabricated evidence. My own husband, my supposed true love, accusing me of murder. I’m not sure why but without my own proof, his lies become the truth. So do I accept it or not? Do I hide or do I fight? Hide or step out of my cage and fight with all my soul.

I was never a perfect person, never a perfect wife or mother. But I loved my husband and my daughter, my only child. After only 2 years my baby girl was ripped away from me. Killed. Murdered. My child, murdered. By who, I cannot imagine. But; as if a higher power decided that to lose my darling baby was not enough; they claim I filled the role. Now everything is lost. My child, my husband, my pride and dignity. Washed away in a flood of tears. My soul is too broken, my spirit too weak. I cannot fight anymore.

“Guilty.”

I used to feel beautiful before all this. I would see myself in the mirror and smile at my reflection. But now all I see is my own sadness reflected in the deep blue eyes of an ugly, empty shell. That is all that’s left of me. I’m no longer me. I am really trapped deep inside, in a dark room with no doors or windows. I used to feel beautiful. I used to feel. It is in this safe bomb shelter that I slowly suffocate. In a room built to cage my soul. I suffocate.

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the start of a story with no end

September 20, 2009 at 10:31 pm (stories)

as the tears slide down my face  i worry about the pain that im causing not only to me but to everyone around. the paranoia is getting worse. so much worse. im finding it too hard to even walk home at night. even in the middle of the day. true its worse at night, when its dark. people associate being afraid of the dark with little kids but it’s not just young kids who are scared. i was always scared of the dark, afraid of the unknown. i was, am convinced there is always someone hiding out there, ready to attack. convinced there was always someone following behind. after all who can tell the difference between a scream of fear and agony and that of a playful one between friends.

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a story this time

September 19, 2009 at 5:49 pm (stories)

“Henry Scott Holland, a professor of divinity at Oxford University said:
“Death is nothing at all-I have only slipped away into the next room.  I am I, and you are you.  Whatever we were to each other, that we still are.  Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way you always used.  Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.  Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.  Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.  Let it be spoken without the ghost of a shadow on it.  Life means all that it ever meant…There is absolutely unbroken continuity.”

Dear Meg, I am I, and you will always be you.”

Best friend- Charlotte

This is all too much for me. I need a break. I need some time out to accept whatb has happened. What the hell has happened? I need my best friend back. I cant believe this would ever happen, she was so happy. There was never a moment when she wasn’t her bubbly self. She was always fun, always happy. Like that time, in Science when we sat laughing hysterically at everything the teacher said because Meg twisted it all into a joke or some sort of sexual innuendo. She had a brilliant mind for that sort of thing. Could always make me laugh.

Boyfriend-Peter

I never thought I would cry in public, I always thought I would want to hide my tears but now I don’t care. I miss her. And she wont come back. Its over. Forever. I feel so alone, so afraid. So confused. How could this happen? How could this happen to her? Meg. Meg. My Meggy. I loved you more than you knew I did.  How could this happen? I always thought “it will never happen to anyone I know”. I was so sure. But now.  Who can tell the difference between a scream of fear and agony and that of a playful one between friends. Who can tell the difference between a happy girl and one who hates life? I guess it turns out I couldn’t.

Mother- Joy

My heart. It hurts. It aches. She’s gone. Ohh she’s gone and its all my fault. My fault! I should have known if my own daughter was depressed. She was suicidal and I didn’t know. What kind of mother am I? I deserve to die. I deserve to suffer. I deserve this pain. This pain in my heart. It hurts. It aches. And I deserve it.

Father-Darcy

It’s hard to think these days. Hard to speak. Its hard to force myself to think of all that has

Happened. It’s terrifying and confusing. My life has never been so plagued by love, confusion and loss. How are people meant to get over this? Do people ever really move on? My old life is now an irrelevant shadow. I cant think of anything but Meg, and at the same time I can’t even think of her. I should have been there for her more. I should have been helping her though this, not sitting here at her funeral. My poor Meg. My poor Joy. She is taking this so badly, blaming herself, not eating. Its not Joy’s fault. She was always there, the perfect mum. I should have spent more time with her. I should have made sure she was okay. I should have been able to stop this. I should have. I should have. I should have….

Little sister-Ella

What’s Happening? Why is everyone crying? And where exactly did Meg go? I know she ran away from me. She doesn’t like me. Now she is making all these people sad because she wont come back. I want u to come back Meg.

Charlotte

I miss u Meg. I’ll  always remember you as the best friend a girl could ever have.

Peter

I will never love anyone as much as I loved you. That’s the truth. Forever Meg. Forever.

Joy

I’m sorry Meggy. You were wonderful, Perfect. I don’t think I ever told you that. You were amazing. I’m sorry.

Darcy

I wish I could have done more to help you. I wish I had realised earlier that you were one of the greatest things that ever happened to me.

Ella

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill your goldfish. I just wanted you to like me. Please come back.

Meg

You thought I loved life. You should have. You should have thought I was happy. I tried so hard to make sure you thought I was happy, even though I wasn’t. So do not blame yourselves. Blame me. You could never have known but my life was an act.

Everything in this pretend life was perfect. I loved it all. I loved you all. But I still hated me. I was constantly scared. Terrified of what you thought. I knew you all knew how fake I was, how stupid I was. Such a failure. I knew what you thought so I did my best to hide it, to hide me.

I was an actor, prancing around centre stage, trying desperately to remember my well rehearsed lines. It was hard to begin, but once masked, when the act was firmly in place and known by heart it was easier to hide. The physical torture was harder to hide. I was getting thinner and the slits across my leg gleamed red but still I hid it all. I planned so that you would never know this. I planned with perfection, because without perfection I was nothing. Without perfection I would fail. All this would have been obvious to the world. That I really was a failure. I am sorry, this time not for what I have done but for what I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything right. I couldn’t be good enough. I couldn’t be perfect. And because of these things I couldn’t live. Hiding a life is more than a secret. It must become an obsession, a fear or it won’t become anything. It will be found, and then, as if you had already killed that person, the questions will start.

“Are you okay?”

“Can we help?”

People begin to watch and when they watch they notice all your mistakes and imperfections. I could not stand that. That’s why I hid myself. I didn’t want you to know how terrible I really was. But now that I am gone, please do not blame yourselves and do not blame each other. I was not really me. I was hidden behind stage make-up and costumes. This is the final act, the curtain is closing. there will be no encore.

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