IT’S BEEN SEVENTEEN HOURS AND SIX WHOLE DAYS
DECEMBER 31ST 2004 AOIFE
WITH MY WORLD shattered around me, and my heart splintered in my chest, I somehow managed to make it through the next week by committing myself to three methods/modes in order to survive the un- survivable.
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Work mode.
THROWING myself at the mercy of my boss, I snatched up every available hour of work at The Dinniman. Desperate for the distraction, and the mundane anonymity that came with waiting tables, until I could crawl back into bed at night and cry myself to sleep.
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Revise for the leaving cert mode.
BECAUSE I WASN’T the scholar that Kev was, I quickly found that this method, as optimistic and productive as it had seemed in my mind when I conjured it up, was a complete bust. I would have to inhale our books if I had a hope of passing our leaving cert. He only had to hear the teacher say
it once and it remained in his big old brain forever. Me? The teacher all but had to force it in and stick sellotape over every orifice in my head to stop the information from falling back out. That’s how sucky I was at the academic side of school. Unfortunately for me, there was no exam on socializing, which, unlike Kev, I excelled in. Therefore, I swiftly moved on to the third method.
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Take a bottle of vodka in the bath with me mode.
YEAH, when I had hashed up my three-step survival guide, I really hadn’t thought it through, because similar to method number two, it sounded like a fantastic idea. Then I remembered that Mam had switched our tub out for the fucking power shower.
SEE? Nothing was going my way.
Regardless of my methods, I found myself going through the motions. On Sunday, I was numb.
On Monday, I was empty.
On Tuesday, I was hysterically optimistic that everything would miraculously work out.
On Wednesday, I was filled with deranged obsessiveness, which in turn, had caused me to fill his voicemail with needy messages that made me hate myself, and then angry ones that assured him that I hated him much more.
On Thursday, I was back to being grief-stricken.
And by Friday, I had resigned myself to the fact that I would never willingly celebrate another New Year’s Eve again.
Last year had been horrible enough when I had to sit back and endure the knowledge that Joey was upstairs fucking Danielle, but tonight, as I sat
alone in my house, I knew that I felt a million times worse.
Sure, I was technically with Paul last year, and Joey was happily servicing half the school, but we still had each other.
Because last year, as messed up and as blurred the five year long precipice of our friendship had become, at least I still had him.
But now, this year, I was utterly alone.
My parents were gone to the pub, and even Kev, who rarely left the house, had gone with them.
Fresh from a shower, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, and took a long, hard glance in the mirror.
My eyes were puffy and bloodshot, my lips were red and swollen, and my cheeks were tearstained.
I looked like shit.
I felt worse.
Sniffling, I reached up and pulled my damp and knotted hair into a make-shift bun on top of my head.
Dressing in a pair of black leggings, ballet pumps, and a chunky, oversized pink jumper, I batted the tears still trickling down my cheeks away with the back of my hand.
My hair was a wet mess piled on top of my head, and my face was void of makeup, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t have any plans for the night.
To be fair, it wasn’t as if I didn’t have offers. I had received countless texts and invitations from school pals, not to mention a dozen or so colorful voicemails from Casey. She was begging me to go with her to a Tommen party that Katie had snagged us an invite to, courtesy of her rugby playing lover-boy.
According to Casey, the boys were fine, the drink was free, and she had every intention of snagging herself a fancy-pants, private-school-attending, built-like-a-brick-shithouse rugby-playing ride for the night.
Good for her.
She could have all of the rugby-obsessed boys of Tommen she wanted, because the only boy I wanted to spend tonight with came with a hurley, a BCS uniform, and a truckload of trauma.
Pulling the sleeves of my jumper down over my hands, I shivered from the cold as my gaze raked over my bedroom floor, eyes searching for the familiar keyring.
Don’t do it, my pride warned, don’t be so desperate.
Oh my god, do it! my heart encouraged, you know he still loves us.
Eyes landing on my car keys, I quickly snatched them up and hurried out of my room.
Yay, you’re going to do it, my heart cheered.
You can leave me at the door, my pride declared, checking out on me,
this is beyond pathetic.
I knew that I was taking one hell of a risk in doing what I was about to do, and there was a good chance that I would break my heart further, but I would never forgive myself if I didn’t get the words that were burning me from the inside out.
He needed help and I needed to be heard.
And even if he refused to let me help him, then he damn sure would hear me.
