Casimir?

Casimir?

Casimir, come on, please do what you're bloody told for once and pick up your bloody phone...

I don't - this message doesn't make any sense because, well, none of it makes any sense, and I don't know why I'm calling you. You should know but that's not why, I'm not the one to tell you at all, it's just, I was there, and there was blood and I can't - Johnny's not...an option. Right now. You've been gone, I didn't know, I'm sorry, but Cas - wherever you are, please *breath* Please call me and tell me you're safe, tell me you're alright and ok and being a bloody obnoxious cunt to everyone in a fucking - in a fucking five-mile radius like always because - because. *shaky breath* Oh, bloody fucking hell -

*pause*

Just call me. When you get this. Something's happened and you have to. Call. I - please.

*click*

Sometimes you find things. Hidden away, whatever, locked up where someone who doesn't want to see them can't get at them. Noah's got these albums, it turns out, among all his dad's old things (which, by the way, someone might encourage him to get rid of as it was hard enough to walk around in his firetrap of an apartment before the boxes started arriving, and yes, Noah, I know you will get rid of them soon, but since you don't seem to know what that word means, I'm suggesting you maybe need a bit of a push).

Where was I?

Right, albums. Noah's got them and there are pictures in them. Me and him, a long, long time ago, and I can't remember anything, except for one in particular that's made its way in. Old photo from a holiday we took once to the beach somewhere.

But that's the thing, you see. You're looking at pictures and you're thinking, 'it was all so simple back then' before you knew what death meant or divorce and it was just you and mum and dad and holidays to the beach and maybe chips every day and ice cream and stupid seagulls who managed to shit in your hair from miles up.

But it wasn't really, was it? It wasn't simple. I remember how much I cried about that stupid seagull and how the shit smelled and how we went out to eat later and I could still smell it in my hair despite the fact that my mum'd washed it twice herself, and how I played that up so much because whenever I was hurt, mum was herself and she could get up and do things. And they had already started fighting and the whole time it was like holding my breath against this coming storm, only even then I knew that I had no control over what they did no matter what it did to me in the process.

You may not believe it (I barely do and it was me) but there was this time back in - God, back when I was 7 or 8, when I used to spend entire days not speaking, trying hard not to even move because I thought if I disappeared they'd stop fighting all the time but it didn't help. And I should have learned you can't run from anything and still be alive, can you?

It doesn't get any easier. It never was any easier. And I don't know what to think about it. Because it makes life all seem very long, but I suppose you've got to get on with it. And there's no way to brace yourself for the next hit, is there, since you've no way of knowing what it's going to be. So all you can do is die away quietly like Ophelia or keep on going and just hope, hope that when you get to whatever it is that's waiting for you, you have the strength to deal with it and the courage to keep going 'till you find that strength. Because I suppose that's all that courage really is; trusting what you know when all there is to know is whatever it is you believe. About yourself and about every person around you. About everything

Tiff's dead. It's funny the way that doctors can talk and talk and talk but the sum total of it all is just one more dead body. They thought she'd make a full recovery but they didn't count on her falling and the staircase, and her mother called one day ago and dad dropped the phone so I picked it up and she told me Tiff was dead and added in some choice names for my dad until I hung up. He's been quiet; I don't think he wants to fly out for the funeral for the stir it might cause but he also doesn't want to stay here for the stir it might cause so I've no word yet on whether he'll be leaving or not.

I've been trying to cry, but I can't. It's my fault, it's all my fault, I can say that now, and maybe at some point I will cry for Tiff. She was young, not yet thirty, and she was meant to live many years more and now she's dead because of me and it'd make me...awfully heartless if I never cried for her. But I was sitting in my room last night, staring at this picture of her trying to feel something when I realized we haven't got much time down here and the space between what ought to be and what is may be enormous. but closing it won't give me any more time or make things all that much better. Tiff's dead, Tiff is dead, and while, maybe it shouldn't be the case, I'm still here. And people are in comas, people are disappearing, and other people may die before it's all over. So what do we do, all of us who are still here? What are we going to do and where are we going to start?

Been at school now for two days, though it feels more like a lifetime. The food's not so bad in the evening as it is in the morning, which is a good thing because you can always have cold cereal for breakfast. It's sort of difficult to fuck that up.

My roommate's name's Araceli, which I'd never heard of, but I think it's pretty. She was crying the first night, and I couldn't sleep because of it. So I asked and she told me she missed her cat Captain Codswallow. I sort of answered without thinking, which I don't think I can be blamed for, it was 3 AM. Anyway, I told her that I thought it was the most ridiculous name for a pet I'd ever heard and after I said it I expected that to be it, we'd never get on, but she looked at me a moment and then laughed, so I suppose we'll be friends.

Dad sent me sweets and they got here before I did, so that was a nice surprise. Mum's still in the hospital and I have no idea when she's getting out again. I think she knows I'm here. Pretty sure, anyway.

They've got a policy about boys and when they can visit, but I can leave at weekend after the first month's over. I've also got a window and a boyfriend who can hopefully figure his way through it, although I suppose I should check with Araceli first. Or something. That could be awkward.

Otherwise, I've got a ton of homework and a detention for chewing gum in history class because the teacher's got eyes like a hawk and a nose to match. :P That's tomorrow night. And well...suppose that's it. Oh, and I hope everything's alright with you lot. Tell me.

I dunno, it sort of makes you wonder. Is that what they all think? I'm not angry at him about it, I don't think, because I know he didn't mean it that way, he was just as angry as I was and it's not like I was that nice.

But it does make you think. I never thought it was bad that way. I never thought - it was just what people do. They have sex and...what's so terrible about that if they both want it? Who cares how old they are or how many times they do it - if they're together it shouldn't matter.

I hear things all the time about Briana and I know I'm not like that. I mean, that's just completely fucking ridiculous. *laughs* That wasn't even why we broke into the locker rooms it was just a joke and. Well, we knew people would be in there but I never thought anyone would think - or say...

They can't be saying things about me. They can't, it wouldn't - it's not like people ever care that much and if they do, they should really just get lives, and anyway it's not like I've done things other people haven't done with loads of other boys. Loads, I hear about it all the time from everyone.

It wouldn't make sense. It wouldn't.

I've something to tell you. And then I want to go out tomorrow night. D'you know about anything? If you don't, we could just...hang out somewhere. There's this place, up on Mulholland that I heard about. Do you have your license yet?

And if you do...you think we could go somewhere at weekend sometime? My cousin's got a flat up in San Francisco he doesn't live in. Get out Friday afternoon and just go; it shouldn't take more than 6 or 8 hours, accounting for traffic. What do you say?

How do people do it? How do they just waltz into other people's lives without caring, without listening, without knowing where they're stepping and just wreck them? Well, I guess she's a singer, she's used to the sound of her own voice, fuck what anyone else has to say.

Well, I hope she's happy. I bet she will be. I bet she'll be very, very happy, having done what's best for little Elle and little Johnny. God, it'll never be the same. It'll never be the same again.

Where are you? I want to see you. Come over? I think I've got something you might like. *wink*

Skive off class and go out with me today. :)

I don't like this. I don't like this one bit.

Honestly, I think Sal's got the right idea about things. Because something's clearly not right here. And whatever it is, it's got to stop immediately.

It's all fucked to hell.

My host says I should warn for weirdness. I told her to fuck off.

( The greatest love story ever told )

So, here's the thing, here's the really fucking fascinating thing; I can really do practically whatever the hell I want and no one's going to take any notice. At all. Estelle goes home at six, after all. Think she figures mum can take it from there. Or doesn't, I don't know.

I mean, I realized that tonight, you know. This afternoon. Whenever. What time is it? Guess it doesn't matter. But - and it's - every other kid would think it was fucking wonderful, just the greatest thing ever. But it's terrible, I really can't tell you exactly how terrible it is. I mean, how it feels, how it really, really feels. Because I hate it, that's the thing, you come home and it's like no one's there, except, well - except someone is, someone is always there they're just not -

And it's bloody frustrating and stupid and it's not - you know, you can't complain. Everybody's got problems and, it's like, even if they did have the time to deal with yours, they probably wouldn't want to. And anyway - who wants that? When you come right down to it, who really wants help with their problems? No one, no one at all, because we're all supposed to be - or try to be -or just bloody are so independent all the time so. No. So, no, I don't want - I just want. I just want her to do one or the other, piss off completely and just leave me with my dad or just actually be...around when she says she will. Or. Whatever. I don't know, whatever.

If anyone has any sort of connection to the Powers that Reign over Navel Piercings and The Like, could you ask them what I've done to offend them and see if they could maybe piss off and bother someone else for a bit?

Thanks.

Alright, so tell me you've never made a salsa smoothie for someone. It's not like I would have made him drink it, it was just a stupid joke.

A really dumb one at that. He was right about that. Silly idea, Elle, you aren't nine anymore. Whatever.

But it's not like I would have forced him to drink it. And you don't get sick from one sip, that's just paranoia. IT WAS JUST A JOKE. And now he's downstairs going ballistic about it. Maybe now was a bad time, but still, he's always...

It's this stupid divorce, it's driving him utterly mad. And stupid mom and her stupid...problems.

This isn't even a real punishment, he's not going to hold it. He only has three months with me. He won't waste them.

Or, he better not.