Facade

It wasn't me who found her.

I was at school when it happened, and if the timings I was given were right it took place in the middle of my biology class. I was at the back, my bag on the seat next to me – I was antisocial even then – struggling not to fall asleep. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. It wasn't like it is in the books or movies: I didn’t get a horrible feeling, chills didn’t erupt down my spine and I didn’t ‘just know’. I carried on with my mundane existence as if nothing was happening. I should have known though, that’s what kills me. She’d been getting even worse than usual, I just chose to ignore it. Sticking my head in the sand seemed like a much better alternative to facing reality, and everything that it entailed. Most days I hate myself for it.

It would have been me, if not for my Gran. She knew that everything was getting to me and had invited me to stay over for the weekend. My protests amounted to nothing, Gran had always been stubborn and when I’d voiced my concerns to her she’d just waved them off, insisting that I stay. I’d already gotten my bag packed, I knew that if I went back to get my stuff I wouldn’t ever be able to leave. It could so easily have been me. I’m not sure I’m even glad it wasn’t.

We were not a social family, to state the least. We never had been, always enjoying our own company but of course recently it had gotten much worse. Whenever I was home a sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach wondering if someone would come to the door – a postman, concerned community member, whoever. They would see the unkempt front lawn growing at shin length, the unwashed windows. And God forbid they actually come in the house. I tried my best but the mess had a way of creeping up on top of me then launching itself at me when I least expected it. I couldn’t keep up. Mass piles of dirty dishes, laundry, rubbish had taken over our house. It was very rare that someone did come though, and all times since it had gotten bad had I managed to prevent them from actually entering the house… So it was entirely by chance that she was found.

We hadn’t been paying our gas bills, so the company sent a man out. Without myself there to use my deterring techniques, he walked straight up to the front door. She’d left the front door open and so he just walked straight through. Maybe if he hadn’t got there so close after it happened he wouldn’t have heard the music playing. He wouldn’t have gone upstairs into her bedroom and wouldn’t have seen her lying on the bed: pale and still, surrounded by empty bottles and the CD player blasting David Bowie on the bedside table. Pills. Of course she would choose pills, the cowards way out. She was always rubbish at dealing with pain. If it wasn't for the music…Maybe it would have been me that found her after all. I don’t know what I would have done, I don’t know that I want to. Such a small collection of small details that would normally be considered unimportant had prevented me from being the one to find her. I would say it was fate, if I believed in that kind of thing.

After she died I found it hard to believe in anything anymore. It’s hard to explain, and it’s doubtful you’ll know unless you’ve been there before. It’s as if the whole universe had been ripped out from under me and I was left floating in empty space, a drifting insignificant speck. Unfeeling and cold. I don’t know how long I drifted like that but it took me a while before I could come back to anything that felt like earth.

But it wasn't any earth that I’d ever known before. This was an earth full of drugs, wild nights that I never remembered the morning after, strange guys with strange faces, bloody lines against my pale skin. For a while, I drowned myself in it all and managed to forget. But it never stays away for long. No matter how long you try and put it off for, reality always wins. It fucks you up, plays with you for fun. It may leave you for a while but only so when it comes back you’re going to be even worse than before. Running doesn’t help, and the drugs and partying can only hold it off for a while.

For a while after I was numb. I wondered if I’d been drinking and partying to distract myself from the fact that I couldn’t feel anything, but really I just think it was the shock to my system. I’d gone to my Gran, told her I needed help. I was on house arrest until she and I both knew I’d be able to resist, college was a distant memory by this point and neither of us cared about me missing it. It took a while, and I don’t think I was even fully recovered when she told me. At first it didn’t sink in properly and I only got snapshots of what she was saying.

Father. Cornwall. Contacted. Move in. It’s time.

My brain slowly put the pieces together as if it already knew what she had said but wanted to spare me from ever finding out. Gran had tracked down my birth father and had contacted him informing him of the situation. She thought I needed a fresh start, and I was going to go and live with him in Cornwall. I had no choice in the matter. According to her ‘it was time to say goodbye’. And so began the slow process of preparing my life to be moved to a new location. Packing, shopping, more packing. A new car, selling the old house with the shin length grass and filthy windows, saying goodbye to anyone that I had to – no one I cared about, but Gran made me. Again I was numb throughout all of this, refusing to acknowledge what was actually happening. That I was leaving and it was unlikely that I’d be back again. Finally I was ready and it was the night before I was going to leave.

I don’t dream. But that night, I did. Grass brushing against my legs, turning the door handle as if in slow motion. The slow walk up the stairs, each thud sending jolts right through me. Knowing what I’m going to find but not being able to stray from my path at all. The bedroom. Her lying there, pale and still. David Bowie. Pill bottles. An ear splitting scream as her eyes shot open.

I find it interesting on the night before I was to meet my father, I dreamt of my mother.