I, Death

Wednesday January 18, 2006 - 10:23 PM

2005-01-31T23:37:00.000-08:00

It’s over. I can’t believe it. Sarah won’t speak to me. It’s as if she blames me for her father’s death sentence.

I can’t say it’s a new feeling, though. It’s like all my life death has consumed the people in my life. First my parents, then my best friend, now Sarah’s dad.

I’ve been where Sarah is now, but she won’t let me help her -- hell, she’s not even talking to me.
Ever since her father announced to the family that he had an inoperable cancer so far advanced that the doctors were giving him a 50-50 chance of living beyond one more month, she stopped talking to me, refused to see me and ignores my phone calls.

It’s been four weeks now. Four long, painful, horrible weeks. I think I’m going to die. I wish I was dead, actually, like so many of the people I’ve cared about.

Our school’s guidance counselor suggested that I start this blog in order to try dealing with it.

So here I am, typing, trying to come to terms with it. But I don’t want to write about how I feel -- I keep stopping and just sit here smashing my fingers down on the keyboard. I want to smash my fists down on the keyboard. I want to break something, smash something, throw my computer monitor through the fucking window.

This is bullshit.

Thursday January 19, 2006 - 9:27 PM

2005-01-30T17:49:00.000-08:00

Sarah’s still not talking to me.

She wasn't at school today, either.

I must have called her place half a dozen times just today. She has her own private line - I keep leaving messages. But she won’t answer.

The bitch.

No, I take that back. She’s not a bitch. I love her. She’s my soulmate. That’s why this hurts so fucking much, that’s why it feels like somebody ripped my heart right out of my chest and started stomping on it.

We’re studying Shakespeare in school right now - Hamlet, actually. I can’t concentrate on much, but this is something that caught my attention. It’s the scene that everyone has heard without having seen Hamlet -- the one where he’s standing there talking to himself -- it’s called a sol-something. Sounds like a sol ill query or something like that.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that the monologue our teacher, Miss Hamilton, explained to us in proper modern English -- I normally don’t pay all that much attention to the old bird, but this time, I couldn’t help but hang on her every word -- it spoke to me.

To Be Or Not To Be.

Wow - what wild crazy shit. I mean, what made him put it into such a bizarre term? Who would have thought that that’s what Hamlet meant -- that he was considering committing suicide. I find myself reading and re-reading the quote over and over again. I think I have a lot of it memorized now, because I can recite it.

To Be or not to be. That is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.

“And by opposing, end them” -- what a wickedly cool statement.

To die - to sleep no more. And by a sleep . . . to end the thousand heartaches, the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. To die -- to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, there’s the rub.

Ay, yes, “the rub”

For in that sleep of death what dreams might come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.

I know this Shakespeare dude lived hundreds of years ago - but he knew, man. He knew exactly how I feel. I don’t know how, but he does.

Fucking strange.

Friday January 20, 2006 - 6:04 PM

2005-01-29T18:09:00.000-08:00

Okay, so the guidance counselor was right. I actually slept almost the whole night last night.

Fucking shrink. Who’da thought?

I actually felt better after writing the last blog entry. I even went a whole day without calling Sarah. A whole freakin’ day.

It’s actually helping, I think.

Saturday January 21, 2006 - 10:02 AM

2005-01-29T18:00:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought I was getting over this, that the guidance counselor’s therapy was working, it all fell apart.

The elated feeling I had yesterday seems to have slipped away. Because I fell back into the old pattern again after a day. I woke up this morning with an urge to talk to Sarah. It was like this burning itch that I couldn’t control.

I just wanted to talk to her. That’s all.

Just talk to her.

But like an itch that you can’t reach, I kept trying to scratch it, but it was no use.

All morning I just kept calling, leaving my messages on her machine (she has her own phone line - have I mentioned that already?) But she never calls back.

She never calls back.

Damn, that whole therapy thing was a temporary fix -- it helped me for a very short time. But now, now I’m right back where I started. Or maybe even worse off, because for a day or so there I actually started to feel better.

Damn.

Saturday January 21, 2006 - 3:44 PM

2005-01-29T17:10:00.000-08:00

I was thinking about how I felt after writing about Hamlet and my thoughts about his little monologue and how it made me feel. It actually did help, and I think I need to get back on track like that again.

I think I need to express a bit of my pain. But not just today’s pain, the pain that I’ve lived with my entire life.

I think in order to understand this, to come to terms with what’s happened, I need to go right back to the beginning.

Right to the first person that was taken away from me.

To the beginning of this chain of death and misery.

If I had to pick a place to start it would have to be with my birth.

My mother died during my delivery. As the story goes, apparently there were some complications. The umbilical chord had wrapped itself around my neck and nobody had noticed. My mother was told that her baby had died in the womb, but that she had to give birth to me anyway.

She was screaming hysterically -- it took everything that my father had just to calm her down, he’d said. The doctors then talked her through delivering her stillborn baby. Although she did what they told her, she kept screaming through the whole process.

At one point, in the middle of the final push, she let out a gut wrenching scream, what happened to be her last mortal contribution to this world, and my head finally cleared her cervix in a huge rush of blood. Pushed down on the full flow of blood, the rest of my body came out so fast that the doctor and nurse who’d been ready to receive me didn’t catch me. I landed on the floor with a wet slurpy thud and the strangest thing happened next.

I started crying.

The labor room staff were mystified.

Somehow, I’d come back from the dead just as my mother had breathed her last breath.

I’m told that my father didn’t even know, even as the staff scrambled to pick me up, cut the umbilical chord, clean my eyes, ears and mouth of the amniotic fluid. Despite the loud and unwavering crying I was making, he didn’t even know.

He just held my mother and cried -- his own crying much louder than my own.

Welcome to the world, Peter.

Monday January 23, 2006 - 9:10 PM

2005-01-28T08:11:00.000-08:00

Damn, I hate the fact that the guidance counselor was right, but I felt even better after getting the first death, my mother’s, off of my chest.

Sarah returned to school today, and, while I did keep an eyes on her whenever possible, surreptitiously glancing at her in class when she didn’t realize I was looking at her -- I have managed to not stalk her or approach her. And it’s been two days since I called her. Sure, last night, before going to bed, I picked up the phone and started dialing her number. But I put the phone down before I finished.

Who knows? If I keep up this journal type writing, maybe I’ll get completely over Sarah.

I guess I should share the second death in this lifelong chain, then.

My father.

He died when I was about seven years old.

I can barely remember the man, but I do have these vague memories that play back to me like an old movie reel in my mind. One of my favourites is this memory from a time in which I think I might have been four or five years old. I’m standing, leaning back against the refrigerator, and my father is standing in the kitchen, talking to me but looking out the window at something outside. And he’s reflecting on something, like he’s sharing a deeply personal memory or experience with me. I can’t remember what he’s telling me, but I remember being very interested, enraptured by his words. All that comes back is this memory of him talking to me and the musky ripe scent of his pipe.

To this day, I cannot smell a pipe without thinking about my father and about that early kitchen memory -- and, though most of what I know about him is through stories told to me by relatives, I always have this image of him, standing near the window, talking to me and looking off into the distance, as the main picture in my head of him.And just like I have few memories of my father, I don’t have many memories from when I was seven. But I remember this.

All too clearly.

We were fighting. I was playing cops and robbers with a couple of friends, and my father wanted me to come in -- it was time for my bath and I needed to get ready for bed. It was early summer and I remember being so angry that I had to go in when there was so much light outside. I thought I should only have to go in when the sun was down. It just wasn’t fair.

I ignored my father, even though he was standing at the top of the steps and I was in the driveway. I remember wishing that he’d just shut up, wishing that he would go away, die, whatever, just leave me the hell alone.

When he came down the steps, I ran across the street, toy gun in hand, looking toward my buddies who had already crossed the street and were pretending to shoot at each other over and around a hedge. I wanted to be over there with them, back in the pretend world of cops and robbers, engaging in the mystery, the fun, not running from my dad.

He followed me across the street.

I didn’t even see the car -- but I heard it.

My dad must not have seen it either.

The impact killed him instantly.

Tuesday January 24, 2006 - 3:58 AM

2005-01-28T05:14:00.000-08:00

I can’t fucking sleep now.

I’ve been tossing and turning for several hours -- been thinking about my dad getting hit by that car ever since reliving it a few hours ago. I never realized how guilty I felt about the whole thing. I mean, just moments before he was killed, I’d been wishing that he’d go away, die.

And I suddenly had this memory of standing over his dead body and laughing a bit. Laughing, because when I looked at his dead body I was thinking that this couldn’t be my father. He didn’t have a pipe sticking out of his breast pocket and I couldn’t smell that musky pipe scent on him at all.

So I just stood there laughing. And that’s how they found me -- standing over my father’s dead body and laughing.

I never realized that I must have repressed the whole thing. I only remembered it after regurgitating the memory of my father getting hit by that car.

Yes. “Repressed” -- It’s a fun word -- the guidance counselor at school has used it a few times when I’ve been speaking with him. I’ve been visiting him regularly lately -- gee, I think I’ve been repressing those visits, although I do find them helpful. We don’t often talk about Sarah or the whole “death” thing, he often helps me just by listening to me talk about my day. Occasionally, the conversation will drift towards Sarah or the many different people in my life who have died. But mostly it’s distracting conversation.

I’d never admit this to him, but it’s actually helpful.

I wish that I could talk to him about this feeling of guilt, this repressed feeling that I just uncovered.

But instead I’m stuck with the coping technique he’d suggested -- write about it in my journal.

So much happened so quickly after my father died. I was moved away from most of my friends in Sudbury, sent to live with my Uncle Bob and Aunt Shelley in the small town of Levack. They’ve been raising me ever since -- they’re really good parents, actually. Maybe they’ve always been extra nice to me because they couldn’t have kids of their own and they felt sorry for what had happened to me. But in any case, it’s been good being their son.

Uncle Bob taught me how to fish, how to hunt -- we often went out in his boat, on camping trips. And Aunt Shelly has always been good to me. Loving and supportive, but not at all imposing or restrictive. She’s been protective, but also gave me my space when I needed it, let me have my freedom.

Of course, I’d never admit to them how good it’s been. It’s been years since we’ve been able to talk to each other, years since Uncle Bob and I have gone on a hunting or fishing trip together.

I miss that closeness, but I find that they annoy me and get on my nerves so easily these days.

Tuesday January 24, 2006 - 10:15 PM

2005-01-28T02:42:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if it’s the lack of sleep from last night -- I finally fell asleep shortly after 4:00 AM and had to get up maybe only 3 hours later (I need to be up early to catch the bus to Sudbury, which is where my high school is) -- but I’ve been a real wreck today. Made a huge ass of myself, too.

I waited for Sarah in front of her locker. Skipped a bunch of classes to. Just planted myself there and waited for her. For hours. I think she’d seen me a few times and purposely avoided heading down the hallway. But it was in the early afternoon, when the hallway was busy and I guess she couldn’t see me through the crowd that she approached.

She was startled, I think, to see that I was still standing there.

She stopped, just a foot in front of me and stared.

Then she turned, without saying anything, and started walking away.

“Sarah!” I called out after her, my voice breaking, tears flowing freely down my face. “Please, don’t ignore me any longer! Please talk to me! Sarah!”

She just walked away and I sank down on my knees, my face in my hands and cried.

I didn’t look up again until the hallways were cleared. I just couldn’t face all the people who’d seen me break down like that.

Damn Sarah. Why does it hurt to love her so much?

Wednesday January 25, 2006 - 4:58 PM

2005-01-28T02:05:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I can't believe that I never noticed this before, but apparently there are people who have been reading my journal entries, and even leaving comments.

I guess I never paid attention to the comment feature (I'm kind of new to the whole web-log thing, so wasn't really sure what I was doing -- I just picked a template, loaded an image, filled out a few personal details and got started. I never realized how big this whole blogging community is, or even that there are other people out there doing this very thing).

It's kind of freaky, actually, knowing that there are people out there reading my words and deepest thoughts.

And this Furzl guy who has made several comments seems to really get me and what I'm going through. Love does hurt. Funny, in his comment to my last post, he mentioned a quote from this old porn movie that he saw once. Have I mentioned that my Uncle Bob is a huge movie buff? I wonder if that extends to porn films. I mean, we've never talked about that genre, but I'm sure there must be classic porn films that are studied and discussed, all while these academic types sit there stroking their goatees (rather than stroking other parts of themselves -- HA HA)

But this Franny person, the one who commented that I should back off Sarah, that I'm being a creep, well she just doesn't get it -- she doesn't get what true love is. She has no concept of the passion and love that Sarah and I felt for each other before she stopped talking to me. No fucking clue. How the hell can people go online and judge other people like that without knowing it? Sarah and I are soulmates, destined to be together. She just can't see that right now.

Comments like that just piss me off.

Thursday January 26, 2006 - 2:10 AM

2005-01-27T10:45:00.000-08:00

Can’t get to sleep again. Dammit, it took me several hours to fall asleep because I was tossing and turning, and thinking about that comment this Franny person left about me being a creep. But when I finally did fall asleep I had a damn disturbing dream. So I decided to write about it, see if that helps me sleep. It worked the other night.

I had this vivid dream. An erotic dream. About Sarah.

Damn.

There we were, in my Uncle Bob’s truck, like so many times before. Sarah’s favorite album by Evanescence was playing, but neither of us was paying any attention to it. We’d just finished talking around the issue of University, neither one of us wanting to admit that after graduation it was likely possible we’d be heading to two different cities. The frustrated conversation ended the way it always had when we started talking like that. Us telling each other that we loved each other and that’s all that mattered -- we’d be together forever.

And then we completely avoided the whole issue by getting hot and heavy.

Within seconds of our lips and tongues melting together, I’d been able to get her shirt pushed up to her shoulders. As I rolled her bra down, revealing taut firm nipples, I slipped down in the seat to let my tongue swirl around them in small circles. She tasted like candy, and as she moaned beneath me, I felt myself strain uncomfortably against the denim of my jeans.

Her hands quickly found my zipper and fumbled with it while I darted back and forth, unable to settle on a single breast, but instead wanting my hands, my lips, my tongue to explore every inch of them.

By the time her hand slipped past my underwear and she took hold of my stiff cock, my lips stayed focused on a single nipple, sucking it in, flicking it with my tongue, swirling around and around My hands began working her shorts down, my finger poking, exploring the hot moist warmth of her sex.

It was always a struggle as to who would go down on the other one first, and this time Sarah moved faster than me.

Knowing she’d won, I laid my head back against the seat, letting her take me in her mouth and just relishing in the moment, but still able to reach and rub one breast with my right hand, the nipple stiff against my palm and still damp with my saliva.

She worked my pants midway down my legs as she bobbed her head up and down. She moaned in pleasure, and the sound of her muffled voice, stuffed full of my hard-on brought a heightened sense of arousal. Every so often she’d stop, look up at me with a devilish glint in her eyes, flap my cock against her cheek and let out a girlish giggle.

Then she’d alternate between pumping her fist around my aching shaft and taking me full in her mouth, her head bobbing madly, impossibly fast, up and down, up and down.

“I’m going to come,” I gasped and closed my eyes as she switched again from pumping to sucking . . .

A sudden noise, a throat clearing, startled me. When I opened my eyes a moment later, there stood Sarah’s father, silently staring at us through the passenger window.

Unable to stop myself, I shot a load of come deep into her throat as her father looked on.

I woke with a start at that point.

I can’t believe I relived, through that dream, that horrible night.

Well, it’d been a wonderful night until Sarah’s dad showed up.

Man had he’d ever been pissed.

But he didn’t say anything, he just stared at us as Sarah and I scrambled to get our clothes back on properly. When Sarah had her clothes back on, he pulled her out of the truck.

I sat there, stunned. I didn’t know what to do. So I followed them to his car which was waiting just a few parking spots away. I can’t believe we hadn’t seen him pull up -- well, I can believe it -- we’d been too deep into the moment, hadn’t noticed anything around us.

After putting Sarah into the car the way you see cops put suspects into the back of a cruiser, he whirled around and faced me. But instead of yelling at me, accusing me of having my way sexually with his little baby, his little angel, or punching me, kicking me, spitting on me, all things that I’m sure he must have wanted to do, he just stared me down and the words he spoke hurt, struck me harder than any physical or verbal assault could have at the moment.

“I trusted you, Peter” he said. “I trusted you with her.”

The words struck me deep. I wanted to tell him how much I loved Sarah, that she was the only girl for me, that we would be together forever, that I wanted to marry her -- that there was nothing wrong with what we’d done because we were everything to each other.

But I just stood there, wishing he’d go away, that he’d just die, drop dead on the spot -- whatever it took to relieve the guilt and shock that he’d just inflicted.

Wishing that he’d die.

And now, he’s going to die.

I can’t help but think that it’s my fault.

But who the hell would believe me?

Maybe Sarah would -- maybe that’s why she’s avoiding me. But I never got a chance to speak with her since that night. The next time she spoke to me, it was to tell me about the results of her doctor’s appointment -- the death sentence he’d been handed.

Sunday January 29, 2006 - 9:24 PM

2005-01-27T10:30:00.000-08:00

I haven’t been sleeping much since that last nightmare a few days ago.

The worst part about it, of course, is the fact that it’s not just a nightmare -- it’s a nightmare in which I relived everything that occured that night exactly as it happened. That's almost worst, I think.

Every time I close my eyes I see Sarah’s father staring at me; his hurt, painful eyes. Dammit, why couldn’t he have just been pissed off with me and taken a swing at me? Why did he have to come off like that? All “I trusted you, Peter” and shit. Man, that’s what really gets me.

I also spent a long time reading and re-reading the three comments on my last post. It’s funny that Furzl should mention me being a writer. That’s what Sarah wants to be. A writer. And she’s going to be a damn fine writer, too.

But that’s her. Not me.

At least Furzl gets me. Fuck, the guy lives in South Africa (I followed his comment post to his own blog -- what a fucking awesome thing this whole blogging thing is), and he gets me. I don't know how he found my online journal, but at least he fucking gets me. Yet people I know, within my own town, they just don’t get it.

There are a couple of other comments from this Michael dude and Kimberly chick (Yeah, they seem to be bloggers, too, and from Ontario -- man, this whole blogging thing is huge -- I never really thought about it much before). Yeah, okay, I see the advice, and I hear you. Blah, blah, blah, fresh pain, if you love something set it free. Gee, you think I haven’t heard these things from my friends?

Well, I guess I would have heard these things from my friends if I was hanging around with them. But I haven’t been. I’ve been avoiding them since Sarah dumped me. You know why? Because I don’t want to hear all that bullshit from them. And now I’m reading it here. Jesus. You just can’t escape people and their unsolicited advice. Even if they're complete strangers and you haven't a fucking clue who they are.

I did let Sarah go, dammit. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve tried to call her or approached her at all? It’s been almost a week. Fuck. What do you want? Want me to move to another town? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to just “back off” anyway? It’s not easy -- not at all easy.

If only I could fucking sleep. Just a little bit.

Tuesday January 31, 2006 - 7:40 AM

2005-01-26T10:50:00.000-08:00

Couldn’t sleep again last night.

Still haven’t been able to sleep properly.

Keep having these erotic dreams about fooling around in the truck with Sarah that always end with some horrifying image of Sarah’s father dying.

I’ve been a wreak at school.

Can’t concentrate on anything -- except Sarah.

When she passes in the hall, I stand there staring at her. Like a big dumb jackass, I guess, standing in one spot, the crowds of students moving all around me, just staring at her, and, after she leaves, at the spot she was last in.

A big dumb, tired and horny jackass.

And I noticed that I've got more comments, more advice, more people concerned. I don't know. I don't want advice, but it's nice to know that at the very least there are strangers out there who seem concerned enough. At least somebody cares.

I'm so tired, I just want to sit down and fucking cry.

Wednesday February 1, 2006 - 11:47 PM

2005-01-26T08:51:00.000-08:00

It’s always the same, now.

I know that I’d previously said that dreaming of exactly what really happened that night in Uncle Bob’s truck was the worst kind of nightmare. But I was wrong, because these new nightmares I’ve been having the past few days are far worse. I can’t get rid of these maddening dreams.

To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye there’s the rub.

It doesn’t matter what time I fall asleep, whether I stay up late or go to bed really early -- it always starts the same -- hot, heavy and frisky, then the blowjob, then Sarah’s father shows up all of a sudden.

But it ends differently each time.

One time he’s standing there and he starts to fall apart. Chunks of his face start dropping off in bloodless pieces, like some sort of animated 3-D puzzle, until there’s nothing in front of me but a pile of his pieces all quivering on the ground like some strange new flavour of Jello.

Another time, his eyeballs start bleeding, then his nose and blood starts gushing out of his mouth and ears. I stand there in front of him, unable to move as these rivers of blood quickly rise up around both of us.

Yet another time he’s staring at me with that hurt look in his eyes then starts sweating profusely. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he starts melting. His flesh starts crawling down the sides of his face like giant beads of sweat or tear-drops, until his head caves back in on itself, and he melts like some Dairy Queen cone that’s been sitting in the sun.

This last time -- the thing that woke me just a few minutes ago -- he starts aging in front of me. His hair starts going grey, like some sort of mad time-lapse photography, then his skin starts to crease, wrinkle, and sag. In less than a minute he’s standing in front of me like a goddamn zombie, his flesh all dried out, completely devoid of colour and cracked, and I can’t look at him. Instead, I look down into the car where Sarah is, and I see her zombie face staring back at me, my come dripping down the side of her face from a huge crack in her cheek.

“Peeeeeter,” Sarah says, her voice like the whisper of wind through crusty dried leaves, “I want you in my mouth again.” And when she moves her tongue out to lick her lips, a sad pathetic echo of the way she used to do so when she was trying to turn me on, her tongue falls out of her mouth and lands with a sickeningly loud slap onto her lap like some piece of thick raw meat landing on a cutting board.

It was the slap of the meat that broke me out of my sleep a few minutes ago.

I jumped out of bed and started looking around the room, convinced that somewhere in the room, somewhere just out of sight, I’d find Sarah’s severed tongue. It took several minutes before I was able to convince myself that it was all just a terrible dream.

I was at about that time that I bolted for the bathroom where I puked my fucking guts up.

It’s been tough, too, since I’ve hardly eaten anything this week -- can barely get anything down.

These dreams are driving me fucking nuts.

Sunday February 5, 2006 - 11:42 PM

2005-01-25T10:54:00.000-08:00

The dreams have stopped.

For now at least.

I dropped into a dead sleep right after lunch and slept for 10 solid hours.

Fucking snow. This morning I hated it, but I think it was the snow that helped me finally hit the proper point of mental and physical exhaustion. We got dumped on over night with somewhere between 30 and 40 centimetres of snow. Holy shit. Again. Uncle Bob's snow blower is on the fritz -- likely because it's been used so many damn times this winter due to winter storms like the one we just got. At least our friggin' power wasn't out like I heard happened to over 80,000 poor slobs in central Ontario.

Uncle Bob and I went out there and started shovelling the snow around 9:15 this morning, and, without the snow blower, it took the both of us close to four hours to get the snow cleared.

The drifts in the middle of the driveway were almost three and a half feet high in some places, and the two ends of the driveway (we live on a corner lot with a big long wrap-around driveway with entrances on two different intersecting streets) were plowed in at least five feet high by the snowplows. Man, that was the hardest part, that heavy, salt and sand encrusted snow. I thought we would never be finished.

Anyways, when we came in for lunch, all sweaty and exhausted, Aunt Shelley was pestering me, the way she always does, about how little I eat. I guess this time she was right, because I haven’t been able to eat a solid meal all week. Anyways, she was pestering me about how little I was eating, and suggested she call the “on-call” doctor so I could get in to see him, when I almost collapsed at the table. From exhaustion, I guess.

I left my plate virtually untouched and went into my bedroom.

Without changing or anything I fell onto my bed and passed out.

I'm pretty sure Uncle Bob convinced Aunt Shelley not to call the doctor, and not to pester me anymore, just to let me sleep the day away, because I woke up in exactly the same position I'd collapsed in, still dressed and everything. Thank God for that.

It was glorious.

Ten freakin' hours of uninterrupted, dark, empty, blissful sleep. I think that's all I needed.

I’ve been up for about 10 minutes now, feeling fully awake. Fully rested.

For the first time in what feels like forever.

Don’t think I could sleep now if I tried.

Tuesday February 7, 2006 - 10:46 PM

2005-01-25T10:00:00.000-08:00

It’s amazing what a couple of good night’s sleep will get you. Maybe it’s all the fresh air and back-breaking snow shoveling I’ve been doing lately, but something’s working right.

I did end up going back to sleep the other night. I dropped off again at maybe half past midnight. Last night, I slept the whole night through as well. And I did dream, but it was normal stuff -- none of the nightmarish stuff that’s been plaguing me lately.

It’s interesting. I saw Sarah today, and, instead of getting all freaked out and staring at her, and wanting to follow her, I just kept walking. Sure, my heart was in my throat, and beating a million beats per minute. But I just kept walking, and I think I made it look like things were cool and I was over her.

I should be an actor. Like I said, a couple of full night’s sleep works wonders.

The thought of actually being "over" her and being able to play that part reminded me of something, though. A conversation that Sarah and I had not all that long ago. Back in the fall of 2005, in November, I think, Sarah and I were driving back after seeing the latest Harry Potter movie in Sudbury.

We were in her father’s 76 Impala -- a brown beauty of a car with a convertible top. Of course, it was too cool out to have the top down, but man I loved driving that car.

That was the great thing about that car. Sarah loved to drive it, and so did I. It was fun, too, because when she was driving, I’d be undoing her front zipper and slipping a hand under the waist band of her panties, rubbing her with my finger while she drove. And when I was driving, she would either be playing with my nuts or stroking my cock.

That night, she was giving me one of her nimble and expert hand-jobs when the conversation turned to University. Sarah was talking about heading off to Carleton University in Ottawa. She is a brilliant writer and has always wanted to be a journalist. Ever since I’ve known her, she’s always loved to write. I’m pretty sure, in fact, that one of the only reasons I’ve taken to following the guidance counselor’s advice and writing these journal entries is because on some level I’ve equated writing with Sarah. Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind, writing this stuff gives me the sense of being closer, somehow, to Sarah.

And it’s funny, too, because this Furzl guy who leaves me comments from time to time mentioned that he thought I’d make a good writer. I guess I must have picked up at least a little bit of talent from Sarah and maybe it even shows.

Anyways, Sarah wanted to get in to the journalism program at Carleton, and I wanted to stay here, attend Cambrian College. I’ve always said that I wanted to take the Heating, Ventilation and Air Conditioning program, but that’s just been an excuse to stay here in town and keep doing the things that I’m doing until I can figure everything out.

I’ll be fucked if I really know what I want to do. I need a few years of just living and not going to school in order to figure out what that might be.

They should make that mandatory, you know? I mean, how the hell does anyone who’s 18 know what they want to spend the rest of their life doing? College or University should start a few years after high school -- give kids a chance to figure out what they want to do. It’s all too damned rushed. No wonder our generation is so damn fucked up.

But I wasn’t about to admit my reason for wanting to stay around here to anyone -- least of all Sarah. There, see how that’s working. The guidance counselor would be damn proud of me, I think. I AM admitting it now, and admitting it to anyone who happens to read this. So it’s not like I’m just admitting this to myself. I’m admitting it to the world.

Anyways, back to that night, the night we were coming back from the last Harry Potter movie. There was a scene in the movie about the School of Hogwarts that reminded Sarah about something she’d read about Carleton University. Something about the underground tunnels that completely connected all buildings on campus so that you don’t need to go outside at all. Apparently, if you lived in residence on campus, you could attend classes in your pajamas, never needed to take a step outside in the snow all winter. She thought that would be the coolest thing, and was hoping that she’d be accepted into residence there.

She started talking about all that, and I immediately became flaccid in her hands.

“Peter,” she asked, still trying to work some life back into my now unresponsive cock. “What’s wrong?”

I’d been about to say it, about to tell her why I got so tense, so upset when she talked about University, about moving to Ottawa -- that I knew what would happen. She would move away, and at first we’d miss each other, call every day, write letters, send emails, make trips on the bus back and forth. But then after several weeks, maybe even a month or two, she’d make new friends, begin a new life with new people that had more in common with her. We’d slowly start to drift apart. She’d stop returning my calls.

We’d stop being a couple, two people who knew they were destined for each other, and we’d become friends. Then, maybe after only half a year passed, we’d barely be in contact with each other at all.

The mere thought of it, of being apart from Sarah, of losing her like that, it burned a hole in my heart. Whenever we talked about differing paths after high school, Sarah always reassured me that we’d be together forever and that we were soul mates and meant for each other. She talked about these future fantasies she had of the two of us, some time off in the distant future, both of us in our thirties, a married couple, and doing fun couple things in our home and on our various vacations.

But I knew the whole thing was inevitable if she moved away. I’d seen it happen to a friend of mine a couple of years ago when his girlfriend’s family moved away. It didn’t matter how much two people tried, or how much they both wanted it not to happen. It happened. People grow apart.

I’d been about to tell her this when I spotted a pair of eyes low on the road in front of us, two sharp points reflecting the headlight beam. Then a second pair almost above the other. They belonged to two small dark shapes sitting in the middle of the lane immediately ahead. I tried to swerve to miss them, but they started skittering off in the same direction I’d swerved.

The car hit them with a sickening double thump as the tires rolled over them, and Sarah screamed while I adjusted the car back into the proper lane. An oncoming driver who had to brake as I’d swerved laid into his horn, but I barely heard it for the maddening thud of my heartbeat in my eardrums.

We immediately smelled the unmistakable and putrid scent of skunk in the air.

We’d hit a pair of skunks.

“Holy shit,” Sarah said. “Did you see what they were doing?” She paused. “I think they were fucking.” And then she started laughing. “Man, we’re bad news to a skunk’s sex life.”

I didn’t laugh though. I didn’t think it was funny. It was disturbing to me. We’d just killed two animals attempting to come together and mate. And it happened at the same time we were talking about our own fate as a couple.

It disturbed me deeply.

But I didn’t realize until now just why.

The damn thing was symbolic of the break-up of Sarah and I. It was -- what the hell does my uncle like to talk about when discussing movies? It’s when the director sets up a scene that alludes to something that is going to occur later in the film -- it was foreshadowing. Yeah, that’s it. The skunk death was foreshadowing things to come for Sarah and me.

This event just mocked me, reminding me that the whole thing was inevitable.

But there was one other thing that disturbed me about that night.

Once I caught my breath and got the car back under control, I realized that my cock was rock solid again. Sarah had removed her hand when she shifted back over in her seat while we were swerving on the road, so she never noticed. But I wonder what she would have thought about that.

Fuck, I’m still not sure what I think about it.

Friday February 10, 2006 - 11:23 PM

2005-01-25T09:50:00.000-08:00

I walked by Sarah again today in the hall. Again, didn’t turn my head, didn’t let on how much I still loved her, how much I still missed her.

I was just playing it cool.

And pretty proud of myself, too.

I made it to the end of the hall before I turned to look back.

And saw her laughing with this Chad guy. He’s one of those good looking jock types, plays on the volleyball team, is a member of the cross-country running club and can often be found during spares or after school using the weight room. Most of the girls I know have always had a crush on Chad.

They’re both standing at her locker, she’s retrieving some books and he’s all hanging on her locker door and telling her some sort of amusing story.

The sound of her laughter coming down the hallway is both good to hear and yet slices into my heart like the cold steel of a blade.

Dammit, I was doing so good there for a while, too.

Monday February 13, 2006 - 6:36 PM

2005-01-25T09:45:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

I think it’s going to be hard. But I’ll get through it. I spent the entire weekend closed up in my room listening to music and playing X-Box games, just trying to get the image of Sarah talking with Chad out of my head. I spent hours playing through Ultimate Spider-Man. It’s a pretty awesome game. You spend part of the game playing as Spidey and the other part playing as Venom.

It’s not as good as the Spider-Man 2 game was, but it’s still pretty decent. It has an incredible open environment to roam around in, some good challenges and intense fighting action.

Lord knows I can use the fighting action to let off a little steam.

For the past couple of months I’ve been pretty good while sitting on the bus. Pretty good about picking a spot where I can’t see Sarah and she can’t see me.

But this morning, for the first time since we broke up, she was sitting in a seat across the aisle just a few rows ahead. And there was nobody blocking my view. I tried to focus on my Gameboy, tried to read my magazine, but I couldn’t help continually looking up trying to catch another glimpse of her.

And I try not to think about what Sarah and I would have likely have planned for tomorrow. And with that, of course, wondering if she's going to be doing something with this Chad guy who's been hanging around her a lot lately.

This must be what addicts go through when exposed to that thing -- whatever it happens to be for their addiction -- that pushes them over the edge. I guess, for me, Sarah is that thing. I'm over her, I'm really trying to be. But when I get close to her, when I see her again, I have to "get over it" all over again.

Tomorrow is not going to be easy.

Fuckin' Valentine's Day. Another seasonal "in your face" reminder of lost love. Yeah, like I need that.

Wednesday February 15, 2006 - 5:14 AM

2005-01-25T09:40:00.000-08:00

Valentine’s Day was harder than I thought it would be.

And I’m embarrassed to admit something that helped me get through it.

I don’t normally like pop music or top 40 stuff -- most of my favourite music tends to be stuff that was released a generation or two back. I do like some new stuff, but they tend to be alternative bands and not the kind of stuff that you’d hear on the average radio station. Maybe that’s why I like Q92 so much -- they do play new stuff, some top 40 rock and pop songs, but do a great job of mixing it in with a lot of the older things that I like: Led Zeppelin, The Who, Pink Floyd, ACDC.

Anyways, there’s this current top 40 song they’ve been playing in a semi-regular rotation on Q92 that speaks to me. It’s the song by Simple Plan called “Welcome To My Life”

Do you ever feel like breaking down?
Do you ever feel out of place?
Like somehow you just don't belong
And no one understands you
Do you ever wanna runaway?
Do you lock yourself in your room?
With the radio on turned up so loud
That no one hears you screaming

Yeah, I’m not really a fan of their music, but this song says it like it is. These guys actually get it. I went and downloaded the song from iTunes and ended up just playing it over and over and over again.

To be hurt
To feel lost
To be left out in the dark
To be kicked when you're down
To feel like you've been pushed around
To be on the edge of breaking down
And no one's there to save you
No you don't know what it's like
Welcome to my life

Geez, my buddies, who have similar tastes in harder, edgier rock music would cringe if they knew I was up all night last night, playing this song over and over again.

But it helps. It really does.

Friday February 17, 2006 - 8:52 PM

2005-01-25T09:35:00.000-08:00

I was watching Sarah across the cafeteria today.

I don’t know why. Dammit, I was doing so good for a while there, and then along comes this Chad guy, sniffing all around Sarah.

He’s one of those good looking jock guys who could pretty much have any girl that he wants. Why is he bothering with Sarah, then?

And why am I so worried about it? And keeping an eye on Sarah now wherever I go?

It’s not like Sarah and I are going to get together again. Or that there’s a chance that we’ll reconcile. I think I’ve come to terms with that understanding. I mean, I have to give up that possibility, especially since she’s not even willing to speak with me.

I mean, the good thing is that I haven’t approached her again, haven’t gone through my pathetic display of hopelessness. Sure, I’m watching her again. I can’t help but pay attention whenever I spot her. But how can I help it?

Sure, a relationship can end, but you can’t immediately turn off the feelings that you’ve had for someone for years.

I can’t, at least. Sarah meant too much to me for too long to just be able to forget those feelings so quickly.

So there’s Sarah, sitting in the cafeteria, not chatting with her friends, but eating her lunch and writing in a journal. She’s been doing a lot of that lately. Well, actually, she always wrote in her journal a lot -- but she often didn’t do it in the middle of the day. She usually only wrote in her journal first thing in the morning or at the end of the day.

Anyways, she’s writing in her journal and snacking on an apple, and along comes Chad, slips into the seat beside her and starts up a conversation.

I wanted to walk over there, tell him to leave her alone, punch him in the head and then walk off. It took everything in me not to do so. Instead, I just got up from my chair and walked out.

Wednesday February 22, 2006 - 10:12 PM

2005-01-25T09:30:00.000-08:00

I sat on the bus beside Harley today. He’s one of the guys in my group of pals. Well, actually, Harley is one of the guys who is on the edge of the group. I mean, within our group of pals, there have been times when I’ve been closer buds with Neil or closer buds with Jagdish. But I’ve never felt particularly close with Harley.

Not that I feel close with any of them lately. I’ve been sticking by myself a lot lately. It’s been so long since I’ve actually made any effort to hang out with my group of buddies it makes sense that any attempt to get re-acquainted with them would be through Harley, the guy on the periphery. So on the bus ride home today, I sat near Harley. I knew he would start up a conversation almost immediately.

Anyways, Harley was talking about hockey. It’s funny to see him all enthusiastic about hockey this year, because last year, during the NHL hockey strike, he was really pissed about the whole thing. Because there was no NHL season last year, he refused to even put on a pair of skates or even play a quick pick-up game of street hockey. He was a bit ticked because Team Canada lost out at the Olympics today, but still pumped about hockey in general.

Harley said that it’s time to have another one of our challenge games with the Sudbury guys and that he’s been organizing an outdoor game on Windy Lake - it’s to take place this coming weekend on the ice near the old Elk’s Club hall.

The Levack guys are challenging the Sudbury guys. See, from our town -- actually it’s not just Levack, but it’s Levack, Onaping and Dowling. Well, that’s not really true after all, because several years ago we amalgamated into the Greater City of Sudbury; but we still think of ourselves as a unique town -- there’s quite a large group of us that take the bus in to school. Anyways, whenever we participate in after school types of events, they always take place in Sudbury, the veritable centre of the universe around here. It’s always tough to get any of the students who live in Sudbury to actually show up to anything that takes place out here, even though it’s only a 45 minute drive.

One of the only exceptions, of course is the occasional Levack vs Sudbury Hockey challenge. Levack no longer has its own high school, or hockey team, but the team used to be called the Huskies. So that’s what we’ve named the Levack team. The Sudbury guys call themselves the Wolverines -- partly named after the Sudbury Wolves junior A hockey team and partly an ode to the X-Men comic book character.

Harley asked me if I was interested in playing, and he showed me the sheet of names of players, said that the Huskies could use a couple of more players. “Whaddya say, Pete?” he asked. “Tired of moping around like a big cry baby and sobbing in your milk over Sarah? Ready to play a man’s sport again?”

Harley has this way of saying things in a blunt fashion, not really holding back or worrying about perceptions. This had a tendency to piss people off, but at least you always knew exactly where you stood with him.

But my mind was already too busy to take issue with the way he’d said that, because I’d been looking at the list when he was talking, and spotted Chad’s name on the list of the Sudbury team.

I smiled.

Man, it would be a good chance to take my frustrations out on him, maybe a nice cross-check across the forehead, or a body slam right onto the ice.

“Yeah, Harley,” I said, a huge grin on my face. “You can count on me. I’ll be there.”

Sunday February 26, 2006 - 11:40 AM

2005-01-25T09:25:00.000-08:00

I don’t care what anybody says, revenge is not sweet.

Now I can’t be sure, 100% sure, that it’s my fault. But given my track record, why the hell else wouldn’t I believe it?

Why didn’t I just stay away from the hockey game yesterday?

Why didn’t I just stay home?

Dammit.

Fuck.

I’m too upset to talk about it right now.

Wednesday March 1, 2006 - 10:16 PM

2005-01-25T09:20:00.000-08:00

The guidance counselor at school wants me to talk about it. Wants everyone who was there to talk about it. Even though it wasn’t a school event, there were mostly people from our school there. So he has arranged these sessions with everyone -- they started yesterday, and we had another one today.

He wants us to talk about it.

But I don’t want to.

It’s funny, the only thing that I want to do is to try to find this old movie I remember watching with Uncle Bob several years ago. It was bothering me all week, because what happened reminded me specifically of a scene from a movie.

These past couple of nights I’ve been rooting through his DVD’s as well as his VHS tapes. He hasn’t completely replaced and updated his original movie collection -- shit, he even has a few movies on this format called Beta -- he told me that it was all the rage just before VHS players came out -- in my mind, VHS players and tapes themselves are ancient. But I haven’t yet found the movie I was thinking about. I keep remembering that there’s this old guy like whathisname from that show Aunt Shelly watches, The West Wing: Martin Sheen. Or perhaps it’s Jon Voight or maybe that guy who was in Wedding Crashers, Christopher Walken. I do know that I saw it a long time ago. So the actor must have been quite a bit younger when the movie was made.

But it’s the scene I can’t get out of my head. Because it’s almost as if what happened was right out of that movie.

And I don’t think I’ll be able to talk about what happened properly until I can see that scene again.

I know it sounds nuts, but I need to do this. And I haven’t mentioned this to anyone. Because what would they think of this guy who wants to talk about a movie instead of the real thing that happened?

So I remember this scene from the movie. I remember it, but there are different images that don’t make sense together, almost like a dream. Maybe it’s really two different movies or two different scenes that I’m thinking about and confusing them both in my mind. Who knows? Anyways, it’s winter. These kids are playing hockey on the ice of a lake. Then here’s where I’m not sure if I’m remembering a single scene from a single movie, or maybe different elements from two different movies: There’s like this guy who’s mad at one of the hockey players, or else he has a vision that something bad is going to happen. I can’t remember which. Maybe it’s both because it is two different movies I’m remembering. I don’t know.

But the next thing you know, the hockey player breaks through the ice and everyone is standing around looking at him. And you can see him through the ice, banging on it, the air escaping from his lips. And everyone is standing on top of the ice, looking down at him, stunned. He can see them, they can see him.

And everyone watches him die.

That’s what it was like on Sunday. Sort of.

But I need to know what damn movie, or movies I’m thinking about. I need to watch that scene or those scenes so I can get those images out of my head and then properly talk about what happened.

Friday March 3, 2006 - 7:28 AM

2005-01-25T09:18:00.000-08:00

An anonymous commenter helped me identify the two movies that I’d been trying to figure out. Man, gotta love this whole blog thing. My uncle did have both The Dead Zone and The Omen 2 in his movie collection.

I ended up watching both movies last night. Well, okay, I didn’t actually watch the whole movies, because I did fast forward through most of them and just watched the drowning scenes I’d been thinking about.

Funny how I’d mis-remembered them somehow into a single memory.

But in any case, I’ve gotten that strange deju-vu feeling out of my mind. I think I can talk about what happened last Saturday now.

We had another session with the guidance counselor yesterday. Sarah was there this time. She wasn’t at school at all this week until yesterday. She looked like hell, her eyes all bloodshot, her hair a frazzled mess.

I just wanted to hold and comfort her, tell her it would all be okay.

But what’s the use in that? I’m the one who caused it, after all.

So today more people started talking about what it meant to them. Sarah didn’t say anything. When she left the room crying, I started to get up to follow her and a friend of hers, Julie, held me back.

“Peter, don’t” she whispered to me. “She just wants to be left alone.”

“But . . .” I started to protest.

Julie shook her head. “You’ll just make it worse.”

“Shouldn’t you go?” I asked Julie. “I mean, her new boyfriend just died, after all, and . . .”

She interrupted me. “Sarah hasn’t been with anyone since you guys broke up, Peter.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, but she hasn’t been seeing anyone, certainly not Chad, and she hasn’t even been spending time with me or any of her other friends all that much. She just wants to be left alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Definitely,”

Julie had always been one of Sarah’s closest friends. We hadn’t spoken all that much since Sarah and I broke up. I’d assumed that Julie was still close with Sarah and so had felt uncomfortable around her, hadn’t even spoken with her since the break up.

“But I saw them . . .” I started to say.

The guidance counselor interrupted me at that point. “Peter, do you have something you would like to share with the group?”

Yeah, your toupee is way too damn obvious I wanted to shout out. But instead, I shook my head and listened to students take turns offering up different versions of the same story. With each rendition I heard, I kept reliving my own experience of that day.

And now that I've heard all those different viewpoints and watched those scenes that had been plaguing my mind, I think I’m ready to talk about it, tell what happened from my point of view. But not right now. I’ve got to start getting ready for school.

Maybe tomorrow.

Sunday March 5, 2006 - 9:28 PM

2005-01-25T09:16:00.000-08:00

I never made it back to post about what happened. Instead, yesterday what I did was walk from my home over to Windy Lake, to the spot where it all went down. It took about an hour to make the trek, but it was a beautiful sunny day, not all that cold. And I think I needed that walk just to run the events through my mind again, get clarity on it all.

When I got to The Elks Club shoreline, I stood there, looking out over the ice. The crack and hole from last weekend were not even visible from the angle I was looking, at least not physically. I couldn't tell if it was because the snow had covered it, or if it had resealed.

Hard to believe, given the massive breaking of the ice that had occured in the attempt to retrieve Chad's body. But despite the heavy snowfall and refreezing that had occured, my eyes easily found the spot.

And I just stood there, staring at it, thinking back to that afternoon a week ago.

It was a cold but clear day. Crisp and cold, yet relatively warm in the sun if you were dressed right, especially considering the time of year. The teams were on the ice, warming up, getting ready for the game. There were plenty of spectators, from Levack and from Sudbury, standing either on the ice near the shore or on the hill that rose up from the lake’s edge to the Elk’s Club. There was a small bon fire near the lake’s edge, where a constantly changing group of people were huddled, taking turns getting warm.

Sarah was there, too, not far from that crowd, hot chocolate in hand. I saw Chad skate up to her and start chatting with her, saw her smiling at him in response.

I wanted to skate over there and just haul off and deck him. But I needed to wait until the game began before I’d have my chance.

The game was a good paced one, with a lot of action, and a boatload of tired guys because we didn’t have two shifts of players on each side, merely two extra guys on our side and three extra guys on theirs.

Checking wasn’t part of this game because we weren’t wearing any equipment -- no helmets, no skin pads, no jocks, nothing like that, just the extra padding that a sweater and winter jacket provided. But we never played this game without a little bit of light checking and body contact.

I got a couple of chances to come up behind Chad and give him a seemingly incidental nudge to feel out his balance and strength. He did the same to me. We weren’t fifteen minutes into the game when we’d pegged each other for more and more grudge type playing.

Then it was at one moment, when I gave him a hit hard enough to knock him over and lose my balance to fall on top of him that we heard something crack. I don’t remember worrying about it because in the heat of the moment we were fixated on each other, on getting to our feet. But I certainly remember it now.

It was when we were scrambling to our feet that I turned to him and said. “Stay away from my girlfriend.”

He grinned at me. “She’s not your girlfriend.” Then his face turned serious and he gave me a hit to the shoulder that sent me back on my ass. “And I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”

The ice must have cracked some more at that point when I fell, but I don’t think I heard it. He skated off, back into the action. The fact that he left without our conflict being properly settled riled me. I remember seeing red as I glared at him.

I got up and headed back towards the action, my eyes on Chad the whole time. I remember getting closer into his direction, but the puck and action would shoot off again in another direction, and I’d have to close that distance again.

The entire group skated at least two times over that spot where Chad and I had fallen. It was the third time when Chad had the puck on a breakaway for our net, and I was the closest person to him, and was rushing at him, rushing to knock him flat on his ass, hit him with all that I had, that it happened.

Another crack broke through the air, more like the overpowering crack of lightning than anything else. It was surprising to us, and we all stopped, almost as if taking cover from a gunshot or something.

And Chad was standing there, puck still on the end of his stick, and I was looking at him and he at me. It was quiet, calm. Nothing but a calm wind settled over the ice, evident in the drifting powder of snow visible in the middle of the lake. But it was an eerie calm, especially considering the bizarre and loud explosion of noise that had just occurred.

Everyone around started laughing at their own startled reaction, a huge group release of combined tension. Chad stopped looking at me long enough to wave over at Sarah, then look back at me, a satisfied smirk on his smug jock face. She was looking back at him. My rage intensified and I was about to launch myself in his direction again.

That’s when the final loud explosive crack echoed through the air, and Chad went down on one knee, or so it seemed at the time because, then, impossibly, he seemed to quickly melt down into the surface of the ice like the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz on fast forward.

But he wasn’t melting. He was falling through the ice.

Screams went up; the players on the ice nearest the hole, including myself throwing themselves flat against the ice -- it seems, growing up where we did, and being involved in many frozen lake activities like hockey and ice fishing, we knew our odds on a questionable ice surface were always in distributing our body weight over as much space as possible.

I looked over at where Chad had been standing. There was nothing but a fissure in the ice big enough for a person to fall through.

And a small mark of blood on the ice surface where he’d hit his head on the way down to mark his fresh ice cold watery grave. A mark of blood that, one week later, wouldn't even be visible. At least not physically.

Tuesday March 7, 2006 - 11:09 PM

2005-01-25T09:14:00.000-08:00

Starting doing a google search online a few hours ago. Found some interesting web sites about death, and spent the last couple of hours reading through it all.
Cool stuff.

Freaky stuff.

--> The Death Clock

--> Death and Dementia

--> Death - The Last Taboo

--> Near-Death Experiences

--> Death Images

Got me to thinking more about Hamlet’s little speech, again. And Death.

I think I want to talk to Miss Hamilton about Hamlet again.

Yeah, yeah, I know, Miss Hamilton, our English teacher, is Sarah’s favourite teacher and, while Sarah hasn’t been spending much time with her friends, she still is hanging around Miss Hamilton a lot.

But that’s NOT why I want to chat with her. I want to talk about Hamlet, and Shakespeare, and maybe see if she can recommend something else that I can read of his that is just as good. I remember we read The Merchant of Venice in Grade 9 and then The Tempest in Grade 10 and King Lear in Grade 11, but I didn’t really like them so much.

There’s gotta be something else Shakespeare wrote that’s as good as Hamlet.

Wednesday March 8, 2006 - 10:54 PM

2005-01-25T09:12:00.000-08:00

Thanks for the recommendations, Franny and Furzl. I will look into those titles. I didn't see your comments, though, until just now. I did end up going to see Miss Hamilton for her advice on other Shakespeare plays to read.

But when I went to talk to Miss Hamilton today, Sarah was with her. It shouldn’t have surprised me because I knew that she was always spending a lot of time with her. But I guess I was so focused on wanting to find something good to read, another good Shakespearean tale, that it didn’t immediately occur to me.

I walked into Miss Hamilton’s class during a spare, seeing her at the front of the room working at her desk through the window on her door. I walked in and started to ask her a question and I froze in mid sentence and mid step.

There was Sarah sitting about three rows back writing in a notebook.

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t realize that . . .”

“That’s okay, Peter,” Miss Hamilton said, getting up from her desk and walking over to me.

“What was it you needed to ask me about?”

“I was interested in . . .” I began, but I could feel Sarah’s eyes on me and just couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. I suddenly felt embarrassed, not being one of those reader types comfortable about talking books with a teacher, particularly not in front of someone, and especially not in front of such an extremely well-read person like Sarah. Back in the day, I think I would have been excited to share my enthusiasm for Shakespeare with Sarah, and she would have been delighted to recommend something.

But now it was just embarrassing.

And that made me angry.

I stopped, suddenly starting to feel angry. Angry with Sarah, who broke up with me. Angry with Miss Hamilton, who was obviously one of the only people close to Sarah lately.

“Nevermind,” I managed to say through mostly clenched teeth. And I turned and walked out of the class.

Thursday March 9, 2006 - 8:24 PM

2005-01-25T09:10:00.000-08:00

Sarah and Miss Hamilton were in an accident last night.

A pretty nasty accident.

Miss Hamilton was driving Sarah home. I guess that they’d both been working after school and Sarah had missed the last bus. So, Miss Hamilton had offered her a ride back to Levack.

It wasn’t uncommon for a teacher like Miss Hamilton to do that, particularly not for a student with whom she’d spent so much time. Miss Hamilton lived in Dowling, and so was heading most of the way there anyway.

They were on the highway between Sudbury and Levack. It had been snowing, not heavily, but enough to reduce visibility I guess. They were just about to cross the bridge over the Vermillion River near Dowling when an oncoming transport trailer crossed the middle line, heading straight toward them.

Miss Hamilton swerved the car, tried to take the ditch, but the snow covered guard rail was so close to the edge of the highway that close to the bridge that the car couldn’t go far -- it simply bounced off and back into the lane. The transport hit the back of the sedan. The sedan flipped up and onto its left side, slid across the middle of the highway, slammed into the guard rail of the bridge and spun around on its hood.

A second oncoming car plowed into the front of the overturned vehicle.

Sarah received some bruises and deep cuts from pieces of the windshield that sliced into her forehead and cheeks. But otherwise, once they cut the vehicle open, she walked away from the accident. That was a huge relief to hear.

Miss Hamilton, unfortunately, wasn’t so lucky.

Her body was crushed by the oncoming car that had plowed into them, suffering two broken arms and a broken pelvis. She also received severe head injuries in the accident and is currently in a coma in the Sudbury General Hospital.

Could the whole accident have been my fault?

I had been rather angry at the both of them yesterday.

Did that anger spiral into an evil force that caused the accident?

I’m not sure what I’m talking about. Not sure what to believe any more.

But it seems as if all it takes is for me to be angry with someone, pissed off with them, and the curse strikes.

It’s crazy. Curses don’t exist. They’re myths. Superstitions. But it seems to make sense, seems to fit in with what’s been happening lately. Lately? It’s been happening my whole life. Am I only starting to figure this out now?

Figure what out? I have no idea what’s happening to me and to the people around me.

All I know is that Sarah is lucky to have escaped the accident with very few injuries. And I think it’d be best if I could completely avoid her, ensure that she stays far away from this curse. I’m too upset with her after all.

If I was the cause of the accident, that is. I mean, if I did cause the accident, and I was the cause of the other deaths, why didn’t Miss Hamilton die? Why is she in a coma?

It could just have been that. An accident. Right?

I don’t know what to believe anymore.

Wednesday March 15, 2006 - 8:05 AM

2005-01-25T09:08:00.000-08:00

I'm half-way through the March Break and I can honestly say that this is the worst one, by far. I'm supposed to be out with my buddies, maybe heading out on our snow machines, maybe skiing. But certainly laughing and having fun, knowing that spring is just around the corner. Sure, we had some pretty warm temperatures lately, and even rain, but we're back to snow again.

It's like the cycle of misery that I keep finding myself back in. At least being in school was a bit of a distraction. The only thing I can do for a distraction is browse the net, maybe watch some of Uncle Bob's movies. But that's about it. And it doesn't really stop my mind from coming back to Miss Hamilton.

She's still lying in a hospital room in a coma. No change.

The thing that I find toughest, though, is that I haven't gone to visit her. She was a good teacher. I liked her. She made Shakespeare fun.

But I can't visit her. I'm too afraid that if I show up there, it'll finish her off.

Sunday March 19, 2006 - 11:54 PM

2005-01-25T09:06:00.000-08:00

Wow. I can’t believe that the March Break is over already. And for the first time in many many years, I just wasted most of it away. I sat around the house mostly, watching movies and playing video games.

I did take Kimberly’s advice and had some flowers sent to the hospital for Miss Hamilton. I went into town on Saturday with Uncle Bob and Aunt Shelley. When we got to the mall I went to a florist shop and placed my order to have flowers sent over to her anonymously. I would have done it over the phone, but I don’t have a credit card to pay for it. And I didn’t want my aunt or uncle to know about it.

I’m not sure why. I just don’t want anyone to know I sent the flowers.

This week I also watched a couple of movies that I was a little bit surprised to see in Uncle Bob’s collection. Final Destination and Final Destination 2. Although I shouldn’t be surprised about it -- he does have a pretty wide range of tastes in movies.

I remember seeing Final Destination a few years ago when some buddies and I rented it. So when I came upon it in Uncle Bob’s movie collection, I watched it. I was pretty hooked. The whole concept of this unseen death entity stalking the characters down and killing them off one by one intrigued me. Death picks them off throughout the movie apparently because it missed its chance to kill them during a plane crash that they avoided at the last minute.

It was an intriguing concept, and made me think a lot about the all of the deaths surrounding me and my life. Death takes on many forms and appears in many guises.

And no matter how much you run, no matter how hard you try, Death will find you and get what it wants.

Death is the one thing that will not and can not be denied.

It makes me wonder what is going to eventually kill Miss Hamilton? Do you think it might be a bizarre allergy to one of the flowers in the bunch of wild flowers I had delivered to her room?

Or is the whole series of Final Destination movies getting to me?

Monday March 20, 2006 - 9:49 PM

2005-01-25T09:04:00.000-08:00

Despite knowing that Miss Hamilton was not going to be there, I was very much looking forward to going back to school. At the very least school was this huge distraction that often took my mind off of focusing on Death.

All that March Break seemed to be to me was an opportunity to mope around the house and dwell on dark and disturbing things.

The first part of the day was pretty slow and boring. I kept wishing that Miss Hamilton was still around. But the longer the morning got, and the fact that I never saw her kind of brought it home for me.

I did really like that old broad. She was pretty cool. And now she’s lying in a hospital bed in a coma that she might never wake up from. And I can’t shake the feeling that somehow it’s my fault for being so pissed off with her. And that perhaps because of me, Death, who didn’t properly get the job done in the first place is creeping around within the shadows of her room, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

Like I said, the morning kind of dragged on. But the afternoon was different. Today a teacher arrived. A new teacher. One who will be there until the end of the year to take over Miss Hamilton’s classes.

Mr. Robinson.

I was prepared to hate him. Prepared not to like anyone who tried to step into Miss Hamilton’s shoes.

But he wasn’t trying to replace Miss Hamilton. He said so himself. And he has this strange, bizarre style that I’ve never seen in a teacher before. The whole class today kind of blew me away like nothing I’ve ever seen in a classroom before.

When he first walked into our class complete with this strange little bolo tie, his brown cowboy boots, and the puffy sleeved shirt that reminds me of the pirate shirt on that old Seinfeld episode, it was one of the first things he said.

“I’m not Miss Hamilton,” he said. “Nor will I try to pretend to be her. She was a great teacher. She actually taught me when I was a student here years ago. She was in fact one of the finest teachers I ever had. She had this incredible love, this incredible passion for literature. And I loved her dearly. So I’m not here to replace her; but rather to carry on with the subject with which she showed so much passion. I have my own style of teaching, my own perspective on English class, and my own love for literature. And I owe all those things to Miss Hamilton who was the first teacher to inspire them in me.

“My name is Mr. Robinson. But you can call me Robbie if you like. Just don’t Rob me of my love for literature. And if you don’t enjoy reading, don’t enjoy writing, or don’t enjoy talking about great works, I won’t hold that against you. I just hope at the very least you do your best to open your mind for the time that we have together here, knowing there’s a possibility of seeing something in a way you never saw it before.”

Then he said something that blew my mind, and which started to kind of change my opinion of him. He said something that was a direct quote from Hamlet. And he spoke it in a deeper voice using a British accent. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophies, Horatio.”

He paused, just stood there and looked at the class. The classroom was mostly silent. Maybe just a cough here or a sniffle there. I’m sure that I had a huge grin on my face, because I caught the reference immediately. I’m also sure that he cast a knowing smile in my direction, picking up on my awareness. I quickly glanced over at Sarah. It was obvious from the look on her face that she caught the reference, too. A moment later a few of the students who were really into English class clapped their hands together or made strange little grunting noises that seemed to acknowledge that they knew where the reference was from.

But then he seemed to just let it go, as if to allow those of us who understood the reference to bask in the knowledge, and those who didn’t to wonder.

“If you get anything out of this class,” he continued, walking over to the desk and standing on the chair, one booted foot on the desk. “Get this. English literature is a statement -- sometimes a statement of truth, sometimes a statement of fantasy. But it’s a statement. Writing can be about showing you something about yourself, or showing you something about the world that perhaps you never considered before. A new perspective, a new way of seeing the world.

“Literature is only as limited as a person’s imagination. If we let it, it can show us something new, or show us something we thought we knew, but from a unique and distinct perspective.” Then he stood up on the desk itself. “Like the perspective of the class that I suddenly have when I’m standing up here. And reading those works, reading that literature, should be as interesting and as memorable as what I’m about to do.” He then paused, stomped his feet on the desk, smiled at the group of us, then jumped off the front of the desk to the floor with a loud thud.

“Okay,” he said. “Enough talk. C’mon. Single file, up to the front of the class. Who wants to see English, see literature in this exciting way?”

Everyone just stood there looking at him. Nobody got up. Not even the English keeners.

“That’s fine.” He said. “Nobody needs to get up. Nobody has to do what I just did. But I’d like you to open your mind to the possibility, to the grand adventure that literature can be. To the perspectives it can open. And I invite you all, at any time during the rest of class time this year, if you need to behold a new perspective, need a sudden paradigm shift, to walk up here, stand on my desk, look around and soak in the new view.”

Bobby Shay, one of the Goth guys in our class stood up then. “I’m ready to try.” He said. And he got up, walked to the desk, stood on the chair, then stepped up onto the desk, looked around and smiled. Then he jumped off.

The girl who sat directly in front of him, Alicia, I think her name is, smiled, got up and did the same.

Then, one by one, each student took a turn doing so as well.

Mr. Robinson stood silently at the side of the class, smiling a huge smile as each student performed this ritual.

When it was my turn I remember pausing to look around the room, to see the class from an angle I’d never considered before. And I felt strangely liberated. For a moment I was so ecstatic that I forgot about the death, about all the deaths that had surrounded me. I’d been freed from them. It was a glorious moment. I barely remember jumping back down to the floor. But I remember feeling lighter as I stood there on the desk in front of the class.

Wow.

The whole thing reminded me of a scene from this other movie I remember watching with Uncle Bob about an English boarding school for boys. But I can’t remember what that was.

Wednesday March 22, 2006 - 9:34 PM

2005-01-25T09:02:00.000-08:00

The Ides of March are come.

This morning Mr. Robinson walked into the room, wandered up and down the aisles and just looked at us, a rue smile on his face, without saying anything.

When he completed a full round of the class, he paused in the front of the classroom, and in a very low voice, what he later explained was a “stage whisper” he said: “Beware the Ides of March. The Ides of March are come.”

After another long pause he asked: “What’s wrong with what I just said?”

A couple of the students in the class knew exactly what he’d been referring to, and clapped. Sarah, of course, was one of them.

Someone, I’m not sure who, spoke up. “The Ides of March was last week.”

Mr Robinson clapped his hands together. “Exactly,” he said. Then he went on to explain to the rest of the class that last Wednesday was the 15th or the “Ides” of March and that he was quoting from Julius Caesar. He explained the soothsayer’s prophecy, the basic story of Julius Caesar, and the fact that, while it would have been cooler to do this lesson on the 15th, that it had been March Break and not at all cool to be in school.

After telling us a bit about how the “Ides” referred to the 15th of some months and the 13th of other month, he talked more about Julius Ceasar and Shakespeare. Then he had students come up to the front of the class with a shortened script in hand and act out both the soothsayer scene where Caesar is warned and then the scene where he is killed and betrayed, even by his friend Brutus.

He picked me to play the role of Caesar.

I’ve never acted before, but man did I ever love it.

My favorite part, the very best moment was when I was pretending to be dying and I grabbed Bobby Shay by the scruff of his shirt, pulled myself up to his face and said. “Et, tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!”

It was a complete riot. I haven’t enjoyed talking about or studying Shakespeare so much as this. I love how Mr. Robinson jumped us into it by explaining what the “Ides of March” meant and having us act out some of the scenes.

Then he did something completely strange. Once we all settled back down into our seats from the Caesar death scene, he talked about how literature and storytelling in general often was self-reflective and that many newer works often made reference to classic pieces.

He said he would return to this motif often; try to show us how something recently written could be an ode to an older work. So he pulled out this book he said he bought at Chapters at a book signing last year. It was a book by an author who supposedly grew up in the Sudbury area. In Levack, of all places.

The book was called “One Hand Screaming” and the author’s name was Mark Leslie. The story Mr. Robinson read to us was called “Ides of March.” It was about these snowmen that have come alive, steal a truck and are trying to gather as many other snowmen as they can while driving north, desperately trying to avoid spring.

It was a darkly humorous sort of tale, and not something that I thought I would enjoy. But it was okay. Maybe because of the wonderful way that he read the story. Mr. Robinson went on to explain how the author, who he’d chatted with at the book signing, described using the title of the tale to be an allusion to a scene out of literature and incorporated the alluded to warning with the oncoming spring as an ominous element. He explained that this same author had a similar snowman story paired with this one in the very same book and that the author was trying to apply the same theme that Mary Shelly had explored in her novel Frankenstein.

Mr. Robinson said that while this particular author wasn’t one of the best he had read it was important to note the author’s local stature to illustrate that even modern writing by local authors or even stories written in so called “ghetto” genres, like horror, could be reflective of great classic works.

He asked us to look for such references in things that were available to us in the mass media. Asked for us to come up with comparisons between our favorite television shows and movies or perhaps even commercials and great works of literature.

“And saying the movie ‘Pride and Prejudice’ which is based on a book by Jane Austin, doesn’t count.” Mr. Robinson said, smiling. “Take whatever TV show that you watch or one of your favorite movies and let’s talk about it tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll be able to find some sort of allusion or reference or derivative from a classic work.”

This guy just continues to blow me away.

Thursday March 23, 2006 - 11:08 PM

2005-01-25T09:00:00.000-08:00

Man, I thought I was going to stump Mr. Robinson. I thought I’d have him. Because the television show that I raised in class today was “Survivor” - I thought for sure that there was no way that a reality-television show could have allusions to classic literature.

But he completely surprised me, saying “Oh, Peter, that’s a real easy one. There are so many other works that you could say a survivor-type show are based on, such as what is often considered the first novel of the 20th Century. Joseph Conrad’s ‘The Heart of Darkness.’ But there’s also ‘Robinson Crusoe’ by Daniel Dafoe or one of a number of other similar titles.

And then he paused, a strange glimmer in his eye, turned, quickly headed to his desk and started riffling through his large packsack until he pulled out a book of short stories. Then he started reading us the story ‘The Most Dangerous Game’ by Richard Connell. It’s about this guy who is shipwrecked on this island and meets this rich eccentric guy who owns the island and hunts humans for sport.

It was a spectacular tale. And there’s no stumping this guy. Every day in his class is like a new adventure. We seem to shoot off on these tangents. But everyone seems to be really enjoying it, and we do end up talking about different novels and stories.

I’m feeling a bit guilty to be enjoying English class so much knowing that Miss Hamilton is in the hospital in a coma. But this Robinson guy is really taking the whole class on this zany fun trip.

Monday March 27, 2006 - 9:58 PM

2005-01-25T08:58:00.000-08:00

I stuck around after class today, wanting to talk to Mr. Robinson, ask him for recommendations for other things to read.

Before he suggested anything, he paused, told me he could tell that I was troubled by something, that I had this huge weight on my shoulders. He asked me if it had anything at all to do with that quiet blonde girl, Sarah, the one who had been in the car with Miss Hamilton when she had the accident.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I can see the longing in your eyes when you look at her,” he said.

“But I hardly ever look at her,” I protested.

“You don’t need to look at her long for you to reveal your tell.”

“Am I that obvious? I must look like this huge geek, drooling all over Sarah.”

“No, no, it’s not like that at all, Peter,” he said, fiddling with his bolo tie. He seemed to wear a slightly different one each day. “It is very subtle. But I’m a writer. And an observer. I spend my entire life looking at the little things, the non-verbal cues that people give off. I doubt that many people who don’t know you well have picked up on it.”

Then he went on to say that my predicament -- having lost my girl, what had been the main focus of the last several years of my life during my senior year reminded him of a character in a book.

“It’s by a local author, actually. A Sudbury author. Dr. Sean Costello. I’m not sure if it’s even in print anymore, but I have a copy of the book with me, as there was a scene I’d been planning on reading to the class today, but I just ran out of time. But I’d be happy to loan it to you.” He then walked over to his bag, dug into it, and produced this pocket book that had a picture of this ugly thin teenager sitting in a wheelchair. The book was called “Captain Quad.”

“The main character had everything, but then he lost it one day after an accident that paralyzed him. The author does a brilliant job of showing the downward spiral of his hatred and anger. Of course, the author then introduces some pretty scary things, not unlike the frightening sort of thing that happens in Stephen King’s Carrie. But it’s really well done, and terrifying. The terror hits home not only because the writer has a great talent of bringing the reader into the scene, into the characters, but also because it happens right here in Sudbury.

“Now, I’m not saying that you’re like the main character in this book, just that, like him, you’ve suffered a significant loss. And the key is that maybe by reading his story, by seeing how he falls prey to the anger and the hatred, you might recognize a few of those same things in yourself. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll help pull you out of your funk.

“Literature can do that very well. It can be like a mirror that we hold up to ourselves. And the story, the characters can help us see things, detect details about our lives, and examine them.”

I thanked him for recommending the book and for lending it to me. And then I walked out of the class, thinking about how he picked up on the whole unspoken thing between me and Sarah.

I’d been wanting to ask him if perhaps he saw a similar thing in her when she looked at me. But I didn’t know how to ask.

Thursday March 30, 2006 - 2:58 AM

2005-01-25T08:56:00.000-08:00

Wow. I just finished that Costello book, the one called “Captain Quad” -- I read the whole thing in just two sittings. It was incredible. Blew me away. I couldn’t put it down when I started reading it before going to bed.

And now it’s almost 3 in the morning, and I haven’t slept.

But I don’t care.

I’m high with having enjoyed this book so much.

Ever since finishing the book, I've been sitting up, reading through some of my previous posts and reading through the many comments people have made for the past few months.

I started wondering why I'm so hung up on Sarah and not willing to move on, especially when there are all these cute girls out there offering kind words of support. Tish and Kimberly have lately been really lifting my spirits with their comments. It makes me think that if I can stumble upon really nice girls like that online so easily I should be able to find someone nice like that around here eventually. Just gotta keep hoping.

I'm not saying that I'm over Sarah. Not really. I think I still love her. I definitely don't want to end up obsessing over her the way the main character in "Captain Quad" obsesses over his lost girlfriend. Man, that was a scary thing. But I do have to face reality. And move on.

Oh, what the hell do I know? I'm so fucking tired I feel like I'm just babbling right now. I really should get to bed.

I can’t wait to talk to Mr. Robinson about the book, see if this Costello guy has written any more books, and if I can get my hands on them.

Thursday March 30, 2006 - 10:21 PM

2005-01-25T08:50:00.000-08:00

Mr. Robinson and I, or Robbie, as I now call him, chatted for a long time after class about “Captain Quad” -- we didn’t talk about my situation, about the bitterness I felt over Sarah having dumped me.

It just felt good to talk about the story, about the scary things that happened, about the creepy feeling I got when reading it.

Maybe the whole reflection piece, the whole moral behind the story is something that just gets planted somewhere in the back of your mind while you enjoy the story itself. In any case, we didn’t talk about that. Just about how good the book was, and the different memorable scenes in it.

And then Mr. Robinson loaned me another book by this Costello guy. This one was called “The Cartoonist” -- it looks even better than that first one. It's about this old guy who is a mostly coma-like patient at a hospital and who draws things as if on autopilot. But the things he draws all come true and wreak havoc and hell on one doctor's life through a series of uncanny accidents and mishaps. I’m actually afraid to pick it up and start reading it tonight, afraid that I’m going to get sucked into the book and not get any sleep again.

So I put it on my night side table. I’ll start reading it tomorrow because I don’t need to get up early on Saturday.

Saturday April 1, 2006 - 3:43 AM

2005-01-25T08:45:00.000-08:00

I just finished “The Cartoonist” and, tired as I am I just can’t sleep.

Dammit, but this Costello guy is a brilliant writer. And he’s from Sudbury, no less. Wow, I didn’t think I’d like this second book as much as I liked the first, but I liked it even better. “The Cartoonist” was phenomenal. It blew my mind.

Wow.

I can’t wait to talk to Robbie about this one, see if there’s more stuff that this Costello guy has written.

Sunday April 2, 2006 - 10:42 PM

2005-01-25T08:40:00.000-08:00

I did some browsing online, found this Sean Costello’s guy website. Found a few online articles about him. Even found a review of one of his books online written by that Mark Leslie guy that Robbie had talked about in class. Then I linked over to Mark Leslie’s site and found a quote that Costello wrote about one of his books.

Costello seems to really like this guy’s writing. Maybe I should consider borrowing that book from Robbie too.

I wonder if the two actually know each other. And does that sort of thing -- where authors who know each other give each other a praise blurb -- happen a lot?

I can’t wait to get in to class tomorrow and talk to Robbie about it.

Monday April 3, 2006 - 9:27 PM

2005-01-25T08:35:00.000-08:00

Robbie talked about the mystique behind April Fool’s Day today.

I’m sure it was interesting, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Just when he started in on the origin of the trick rituals of April Fool’s Day, I had glanced back towards Sarah. I’d been startled to see that she had been looking at me. She quickly averted her eyes and her eyes never moved back to me.

But I couldn’t help obsessing about it and wondering if it had just been a chance glance, the way a person normally looks around the room and their eyes cover everyone in it, or if she had been actually looking at me.

I started to wonder if Sarah had been thinking about last April Fools. About the trick I had played on her.

That morning, Sarah’s friend Julie helped me distract Sarah while I snuck off with her cell phone. I used clear packing tape and taped down the # key, but you couldn’t see that the button was depressed. The intention was that every time Sarah went to use her phone, she’d be unable to dial properly. But what happened ended up being more frustrating. Because holding down the # key put Sarah’s phone into “lock” mode. And since Sarah had never used the password feature and didn’t know the password default, her phone became pretty much useless. It took three days before she could crack the code and use her phone again.

Then I started thinking about what had happened that night. Sarah had been really pissed at Julie and I all afternoon. But we’d originally been planning on renting a movie and watching it at Sarah’s house, so that’s what we did.

The three of us were in the family room at Sarah’s, and the trailers had just started playing, when Sarah went upstairs to make popcorn. A few minutes later, Julie and I heard this loud crash and went running out of the family room to find Sarah sprawled at the bottom of the stairs on her back, her right arm twisted at a funny angle underneath her head, one leg resting on the second step, the other one folded underneath her. The popcorn bowl was overturned on the floor beside her and there was popcorn everywhere.

At the top of the stairs both Sarah’s parents were, like Julie and I, standing there, horrified. “My baby,” Sarah’s mom started to scream and turned to bury her face against Sarah’s father’s chest.

That brought the horror of what had happened home to me. Sarah could either be unconscious or worse. Broken arm, broken leg, broken neck. I fell to my knees beside Sarah and started wailing her name like some twisted banshee.

That’s when Sarah sat up, pointed at Julie and I and said: “Gotcha!”

Apparently, her parents were in on it too. They were pretty cool, that way, often participating in the fun and antics. And of course, I’d completely forgotten the fact that Sarah was double jointed. Once I had seen her reading a paperback held by an arm twisted around behind her head. The double-jointed thing that day freaked me out a bit, but about three hours later, when Sarah and I were rolling around under the sheets together, she showed me some other interesting uses of being double jointed.

So, I’d been thinking about Sarah and about April Fool’s Day last year instead of paying attention in class. It makes me wonder if Robbie could tell I wasn’t clued in to his lesson, and it pissed him off.

Because when class was over and I went to talk to him, there was a group of students hanging around to ask questions and talk with him after class. That always happened, but Robbie usually made sure to hang around and talk with me.

So I hung back, like before. But, instead of staying in the classroom as the students slowly dissipated, Robbie started heading down the hall to the staff room, still answering their questions and chatting with them, but in a hurried sort of fashion.

Man, I was stupid. I hope it’s something else and not that I pissed Robbie off.

Tuesday April 4, 2006 - 10:58 PM

2005-01-25T08:30:00.000-08:00

After Robbie’s class today I was able to speak with him, and return the copy of “The Cartoonist” -- but it didn’t go the way I had hoped.

When I handed him back the book, he thanked me politely and put it in his bag. I thought that he’d ask what I thought, who my favourite secondary character was, any of the usual fun ways he had of getting me to talk about a book I had read. But that was it.

I wanted to talk more, to share the excitement about the book, and about the interesting thing I’d found about the authors Costello and Leslie offering praise for each other’s books. So I asked if he had another Costello book that I could borrow.

He told me that he had loaned that book to another student.

He did say that he’d try to bring something else in to class the next day that he thought I would like.

But I kept thinking about the fact that he’d loaned that Costello book to another student. I guess I’d thought that I was the only student he did this with -- loaned books to and chatted frankly with.

I’m trying not to get all bent out of shape about it.

And I am looking forward to finding out what book he’ll be bringing in tomorrow.

Friday April 7, 2006 - 3:47 AM

2005-01-25T08:25:00.000-08:00

Can't get to sleep. My heart is still pumping like crazy from this twisted erotic dream I just had.

After class on Wednesday, Robbie handed over a book called “In The Dark” -- it was by an author named Richard Laymon. He told me that Laymon was one of those authors who cut right to the chase and had a way of keeping action and suspense rolling non-stop in a seemly effortless style.

He told me that, while the content of the book -- the shocking horrific elements and the seemingly gratuitous sex scenes -- might at first seem simplistic and b-movie style, the author had actually invested quite a bit of effort into developing his characters and crafting the story. “He makes it seem simple and effortless” Robbie said. “But the work he put into developing the whole thing is phenomenal.”

Robbie explained that he’d read a non-fiction book that the author wrote which documented the story behind his writing. He talked about how the author himself was a voracious reader, often with several books on the go at once, and was well read in multiple genres.

He talked a bit about some of Laymon’s favourite authors and the fact that Larry McMurtry was one of them. He’d mentioned that the next book he was going to get me to read was called Savage and then after that I was going to read a novel by Larry McMurtry so I could compare the styles.

I didn’t read the Laymon book the night Robbie gave it to me -- it's funny, when he started talking about comparing Laymon to McMurtry it just sounded like the typical crab that English teachers talk about, and I got nervous that I was going to hate Laymon's book.

But, oh man, was I wrong.

Laymon blew my fucking mind.

I started reading "In The Dark" at about 10 o’clock last night. The book was simply riveting, and written in a style that had me begging to just want to turn one more page, just continue on reading for a few more minutes. I thought that I might read for about fifteen minutes, but I read for two solid hours. I wanted to read more, but I was so exhausted that I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

At one point I remember finally putting the book down, and struggling with the desire to want to read, slowly peeling off my clothes without getting off the bed, and then turning off the light and sliding under the sheets.

When I first closed my eyes, I couldn’t leave the world the author had created for me. Couldn’t push aside the heart-stopping plot, the intense and tight timeline for the story, the cliff-hanging suspense of each chapter, the hot and sweaty sex.

I’m pretty sure it was the book that caused the strangely erotic dream that I had.

The dream was, like a few that I’ve had recently, based on something that really happened. And while erotic and exciting, it was a bit frightening, too.

There Sarah and I were, in the family room. Two of Sarah’s friends were there, Monica and Julie, each sitting in an armchair. We were watching a movie, something with Adam Sandler in it. Sarah and I were snuggled up together on the couch with a blanket over us.

During the movie, Sarah’s hand moved down and started rubbing me through my jeans. I remember looking quickly at her, then at her friends, a bit anxious at first that we’d be caught, but they didn’t seem to know what was going on. I then relaxed against the back of the couch and just enjoyed it.

Sarah’s rubbing hand got more vigorous and my erection was straining against the denim, a solid mass of excitement and painful pleasure. This went on for quite some time. Then Sarah reached in with her other hand, pulled down my zipper then pulled out my cock and started pumping it in her fist.

Monica seemed to have heard the zipper, because she glanced over. Julie, sitting in the armchair farther away, must not have noticed, her eyes stayed fixed on the television screen. But Monica looked over, and a wry smile crossed over her face as she figured out what was going on underneath the blanket.

That made me even harder, and I could feel myself pulse within the firm grip of Sarah’s palm. Monica didn’t turn her eyes back on the television screen, she just looked over at us, a huge grin on her face, and when she saw that I had noticed her watching, she winked at me.

Then she pursed her lips as if to blow a mock kiss at me and ran her tongue across her top lip.

That’s when I exploded without warning. A huge eruption of come that coated the blanket, Sarah’s hand, my jeans. Of course, neither of us moved for the duration of the movie. When the movie ended, Sarah and I remained under the blanket, saying goodbye to Monica and Julie without getting up. I remember Monica’s knowing smirk -- she must have realized what had happened.

But that’s where the dream diverted from the memory of reality. In the dream, Sarah is giving me a hand job and Monica is watching, and when Monica licks her lips, Sarah notices her and says “Enjoying the show?”

In the dream, suddenly Julie isn’t there at all, and Monica’s clothes have disappeared. She is suddenly completely naked. Brushing aside her long black locks to rub a breast with one hand she slides the other hand down and starts fingering herself.

“Why don’t you join us?” Sarah purrs, as she removes the blanket. I discover that Sarah and I are also naked beneath the blanket.

Monica lets out a gasp and walks over. I can see that she’s so hot and wet that there’s actually wetness dripping down the inside of her thigh. Sarah’s hand pumps furiously. When Monica gets to us, Sarah and I each take one of her succulent breasts in our mouths. Sarah smiles playfully at me as her tongue flicks at Monica’s nipple -- all the while her hand never stops its rapid stroking.

I reach around, pull up on Monica’s buttocks, and she steps onto the couch, then, with both hands on the cheeks of her ass, I pull her in to me, eager to lap up all of the hot wetness that is flowing from her. Still jacking me off, faster and faster, Sarah moves around, kisses my hands and the sweet cheeks of Monica’s ass as if they are one, and I can tell from the sudden startled sigh of pleasure that Sarah has stuck her tongue in Monica’s ass.

That’s when I can’t take it any longer. My face still buried in Monica’s dark muff, I try to say, “I want to fuck you both so bad it burns.” But the words come out muffled, the way they sometimes do in those dreams where you try to cry for help but can barely speak.

And similarly, I can’t move either. I want to pull Monica down onto my rigid and aching shaft. But I can’t move.

Monica steps back and both of the girls are playing with my cock now, one hand each, occasionally leaning forward and darting a tongue at the swollen head. Then quickly kissing each other before attending to the swollen head of my cock. I marvel how this is so much like most guys dreams, and despite the fact that I desperately want to take both Monica and Sarah yet can’t move, I try to just lay back and enjoy it.

“Okay,” Sarah says. “It’s time for the grand finale.”

Sarah flips her hair over to one side, leans over my crotch, takes me full in her mouth, and bites. Hard.

Pain like I’ve never felt before shoots through my legs, up my spine as her teeth come together through the meat of my cock. She sits back up and she looks at me with that sexy playful glimmer in her eye, all the while chewing a large mouthful of gristly crunchy flesh.

I shriek in pain, in horror, in shock as I feel myself explode in a hot and sticky eruption. Only it’s not cum, it’s blood. My crotch is shooting up a hot geyser of blood. And Monica is leaning down to try to catch it in her mouth.

Sarah, finished chewing, leans back down to join her, and both girls laugh madly as they playfully fight for mouthfuls of my hot spurting blood.

I woke up at that point, my sheets completely soaked in sweat and cum. I laid there for several minutes, afraid to pull the sheets back, afraid to look down, afraid that I’d see dark red blood instead of white schmeg coating my stomach, legs and the sheets.

Friday April 7, 2006 - 11:28 PM

2005-01-25T08:20:00.000-08:00

It's so funny that I dreamed of Monica, one of Sarah’s friends that I’d mentioned the other night. The one from my erotic dream.

She’s not in any of my classes, so now that Sarah and I have broken up, I barely see her anymore. But I saw her in the hall on today and my heart skipped a beat.

I was on my way in to Mr. Robinson’s class and she was walking out, with a thin paperback in her hands. I remember glancing at the book in her hands, my mind suddenly as excited to see what people are reading as I used to be to see if I could catch a glimpse of a girl’s bra strap peeking out from beneath her clothes.

And I saw the name “Costello” on the spine of the book in her hand.

Ah ha, I thought. She’s one of the other students who Robbie has hooked on these great writers.

She smiled at me and said hi as we passed each other. I saw her in a completely different light this time, though. I looked at her gorgeous black silky hair and her stunning brown-green eyes and I remembered the dream of her walking naked towards me, offering her breast to my eager lips and tongue.

I turned to admire her ass as she walked past, and I kept staring at her, thinking about the dream (at least the way the dream was before it turned nightmarish) and feeling myself getting hard.

I was tempted to go and talk with her, but I couldn’t build up my nerve. I couldn’t even remember if she’d been dating anyone anyway.

I’m suddenly seeing her in this new light. But I wonder if it’s just the dream doing that. Still, I can’t seem to get her out of my mind tonight. I just keep thinking about her.

And lusting after her.

Geez, is it possible that I’m starting to get over Sarah? Finally.

Sunday April 9, 2006 - 11:14 PM

2005-01-25T08:15:00.000-08:00

School tomorrow, and I’m as excited to chat with Robbie about the latest Laymon novel that he loaned me on Friday and that I finished (this one was called “One Rainy Night” and was an incredible non-stop roller coaster ride of mayhem, action, and unadulterated bloodshed) as I was at the chance to talk with Monica.

It took me the whole weekend of dwelling on her to realize that I suddenly had an easy “in” with her for a conversation. All I needed to do was find out from Robbie what Costello books she had already read, and see if I’d read them as well. Or if she’d read one that I hadn’t and I’d read another, at least we could still compare notes.

It’d be a great conversation starter at least.

I feel like a kid in grade nine again, steeling up the courage to ask a girl to dance with me.

It’s this queasy, uneasy, yet enjoyable feeling.

Tuesday April 11, 2006 - 10:51 PM

2005-01-25T08:10:00.000-08:00

So I didn't even see her at all yesterday, but I had a chance to talk to Monica today. But instead of saying anything, I just stood there, my mouth hanging open while she walked by.

She did smile at me. She did say hello. And I was fully prepared to say hello back to her, then mention that I’d seen her with a Sean Costello novel the other day and I was wondering if she’d read it yet and what she thought of it.

But I just stood there, my mouth an open hanger, a veritable fly-trap.

I can’t believe this. I’m completely tongue-tied around her.

I wonder if it’s because I can’t stop picturing her naked -- can’t stop having this picture of her from my dream as she is walking towards me, her thighs damp with the heat and excitement from fingering herself while watching Sarah giving me a hand job. Can’t stop remembering the vivid taste of that wetness on my lips and tongue.

Or is it just because I haven’t approached a girl for years? I mean, Sarah and I were together for so long that I practically forget what it’s like to ask a girl out.

And the comments that people have been leaving about Monica being a friend of Sarah's -- maybe those are eating away at the back of my mind -- as in, "Is this really a good idea?"

Oh man. I haven’t hung around any of my buddies all that much lately. Can't remember the last time I sat down in the lunch room with them. I think I need to find my buddy Neil, ask him for some advice. He was always pretty suave with the ladies. I’m sure he’ll be able to help.

Wednesday April 12, 2006 - 11:52 PM

2005-01-25T08:05:00.000-08:00

I didn’t go sit with my old buddies in the cafeteria today. I don’t know why. I mean, it’s been so long since I’ve hung out with them, and I don’t know why that is either. Actually it’s funny, because when I was going out with Sarah, I would sometimes sit with them and sometimes I wouldn’t. It was no big deal either way.

But lately, since our breakup, I haven’t made much of an effort to reacquaint myself into the group. Sure, I’ve still hung out and chatted a bit with Neil, Jagdish or Harley, but I can’t remember the last time we all went out as a group, saw a movie, got loaded, whatever.

In any case, instead of just sitting with the old gang, I waited around for Neil after one of his classes.

When he saw me waiting for him, the first thing he said was, “Oh oh. Does this mean that you’re ready to come out of your cave, Mr. Hermit?” Now, I’ve seen this with Sarah and her friends, but it’s a rare thing for guys to get snippy with each other for not calling, not hanging out, whatever. But Neil is one of those rare guys who can get away with it. I suppose it’s the same way that Harley can get away with being an asshole in some of the things he says and does, and we just roll with it. Or maybe the way that Jagdish can play stupid, and, even though we all know he’s probably smarter than the rest of us combined, we play along.

That’s the great thing about friends. Yeah, I’ve been absent, not hanging around much, and, like Harley said a few weeks ago “moping and sobbing over Sarah” -- but I know that when I’m ready to get back to normal and settle in with my buddies, that it’ll all be good like it used to be.
I didn’t end up asking Neil about what to do about Monica. We ended up shooting the shit. He started talking about that mass murder of bikers near London that everyone has been talking about, and that lead to other world news -- one of Neil’s favourite topics. We ended up making plans to go see "The Benchwarmers" tomorrow night. It looks hilarious.

So, no, I didn’t end up asking Neil about the situation with Monica, but I did enjoy catching up with him. Besides, I’ll likely have a chance to work it into the conversation tomorrow.

Saturday April 15, 2006 - 4:30 AM

2005-01-25T08:03:00.000-08:00

I didn't end up going to the movies with Neil on Thursday night. We went last night instead. While waiting to be let in to the movie (we were there about half an hour early) we played a game of air hockey and chatted.

It felt good - I haven't hung out much with any of my buddies all that much for several months now.

Neil wasn't all lecturing and stuff, but he told me, in no uncertain terms, that he thought it wouldn't be a good idea if I asked Monica out. He cited some of the things I saw posted in comments here. It's funny, because he made that statement, and then we moved on to other things.

It wasn't until just before the movie started, when we were sitting in the darkened theatre, that he turned to me and said. "I always thought that you and Sarah made a pretty decent couple. Do you think there's a chance you guys might patch things up?" I didn't respond because the first trailer had started. Some new movie with Michael Douglas and the guy from 24. It looked good, and instead of thinking about it or responding, I just watched the trailer. I didn't know what to say to that.

About midway through the movie, I got up to go to the snack stand. This was one of those movies that had its funny moments, but I wouldn't be missing anything while I was gone.

I bumped into Monica who was getting popcorn. I asked her about that Costello novel I'd seen her with the other day, and she started raving about it. We chatted about Costello, and Laymon and about how cool Robbie was for introducing us to them. I told her about Costello and Leslie offering "praise blurbs" for each other's work, and she told me that there was this new anthology coming out in May from a Sudbury publisher that includes a story from Costello and one from Leslie. It was called "Bluffs" - I thought it was so cool that she had made a similar connection between the two.

It felt good.

Then I went and blew it all by tossing out this clumsy little question about whether or not she would be interested in going out with me some time.

She paused. Her face went white, and I knew immediately that it had been a mistake. "You're kidding, right?" she said. "I'm, like, Sarah's friend. That would be so, like weird." She didn't say anything else at that point, just walked off, leaving me standing there with a bag of nibs in my hand, feeling like a complete loser. I almost didn't go back into the theatre.

For the first time since Sarah and I broke up, I was having fun just chatting with a beautiful girl. And I blew it. Not only that, I blew it by doing something that Neil and some online friends warned me against.

I'm such an idiot.

I didn't tell Neil about what had happened. I know that he wouldn't have said "I told you so" but just the same, I didn't want him to know how much of a fool I'd been.

Wednesday April 19, 2006 - 6:12 AM

2005-01-25T08:00:00.000-08:00

I’ve been sitting up most of the night. Just sitting in bed and staring into the darkness. I was afraid to fall back asleep, afraid of what I’d dream. Afraid I’d dream the same thing which woke me up in the first place.

I didn’t really realize what I was doing until I started to see bits of light from the morning son creeping into my room. That was about when I decided I would sit down and try to write about it.

It all started yesterday at school. I didn’t see Monica at school on Tuesday. But I ended up overhearing two girls talking about her. Talking about the rumours about her. The rumours that she had been raped on the weekend. Raped and beaten.

I talked to a few people about it. Neil mentioned that he’d heard the same rumours. That was the frustrating thing about rumours in this school and in our home town. They spread quickly, and much faster than the truth.

Later in the day, still wondering why Monica wasn’t at school and still making inquiries about her, I still got no where. When I’d asked him what he knew, Harley made a joke about her deserving what she got because of all the dirty talk she often used and the way she flirted with everyone. I shouldn't have been suprised at Harley's response. Our friend Jagdish hadn’t even heard the rumours at all and then got into an argument with Harley that nobody, not even a hooker deserves that. When they started their heated discussion, I just walked away.

It was when I got to Robbie’s class that I knew the rumours had to be true. I mean, adults, teachers, they don’t take rumours at face value, do they? They get to the truth behind the stories. They find out what’s really going on. And they have the means to do it.

That’s how I know it must have been true. Robbie seemed to not be himself at all. He seemed less full of energy; less alive and into the class. He seemed to just walk through the class the way I’ve seen so many other teachers do over the years. Simple tired repetition of the same lesson taught year after year. And why shouldn’t he be like that? After all, despite the fact that I was jealous of it, Robbie shared a similar passion for reading and books with Monica that he shared with me. So why wouldn’t he be disheartened over learning what had happened to her?

I wanted so badly to talk to Robbie about it after class, to hang around and talk about it, talk about my feelings of guilt over what had happened to her. But I was afraid to bring it up, afraid that by talking about it, it would make that darkness, that depressed and melancholy state he seemed to be in even worse. That and he never made eye contact with me once during the entire class.

When I got home from school, I scanned through The Sudbury Star and there was a short article saying a young woman had been beaten and raped in an alley behind City Centre on the weekend and was being treated in hospital.

I started phoning the different Sudbury hospitals and on my second try, at the General, when I asked to be connected to Monica’s room, they put me through.

I hung up. What could I possibly say to her? Having confirmed the rumours, that Monica had been the victim mentioned in the paper, I simply hung up and then started to cry.

I couldn’t have possibly brought this on to her, could I? Could this be yet more evidence that there’s a curse surrounding me? I tried to think back to how I felt the other night when she rejected me. Tried to focus in on the embarrassment, the anger, and any resentment that I’d felt.

Of course, I couldn’t deny having felt those things. Which meant it must be true. I must have been the cause of what happened to Monica.

I moped around most of the night, tried listening to music, playing video games, anything to keep my mind off of it. But nothing worked. I actually went in to Uncle Bob’s liquor cabinet and nipped a bit of his rum, a bit of his rye and a bit of his gin. An old trick I learned about swiping booze is never to let the bottle drop by any visible amount. But I needed something to numb my mind and help me sleep.

Combining all three in a single glass, I drank it all down in three horrid mouthfuls. It tasted awful. When I drink for fun, I never drink it straight. I prefer mixing rum and Coke. But straight up? Bleech. Drinking all three mixed like that was pretty nasty.

But it did do the trick. I fell asleep pretty quickly.

But that’s when I dreamed. And God knows, I would have loved to have had that same dream I’d had before -- the one with Sarah and Monica. Yes, even the fact that at the end of that one, Sarah had bitten off my cock. I’d rather dream that dream every night, than the one I dreamt last night.

In the dream, Monica and I were standing at the concession stand at the movie theatre. We were talking about the books we had read, and started talking about Laymon. Monica started admitting that the scene in “In The Dark” where the librarian is looking in the window and watching his girlfriend and another guy getting it on made her all hot.

I responded by asking Monica if she’d remembered that one time at Sarah’s when she’d spotted Sarah giving me a hand job under the blanket and the way she’d winked and licked her lips. I told her how it was that look she gave that made me blow my load. I told her how lately I’d been able to think about nothing other than her, about how her lips might taste, how they might feel on my cock.

She responded by saying, “Why wonder any longer?” And suddenly we weren’t in the movie theatre, we were outside, in an alley. Monica was polishing my knob and I was enjoying it, both hands resting on the top of her bobbing head, my fingers gently playing with her hair. But suddenly Robbie was there, watching us, and beside him Harley was standing there. They were watching us and talking to some other figure, some guy dressed in black, who was standing in the shadows. They were saying something to him, but I couldn’t hear what it was.

Suddenly, I started to fill with this rage. An inexplicable rage, and I pulled hard on Monica’s hair and threw her backwards. She smacked her head against the brick, then fell onto the ground. I started kicking her and punching her and screaming at the top of my lungs.

She didn’t move, didn’t get up, just recoiled with every kick, every punch I landed on her, and I kept screaming, yelling, pleading with her to go away and leave me alone. Then I dropped down on my knees and started to pull her pants off, telling her she deserved what she was getting because she was hanging around me.

“Stay away from me! It’s my fault! I caused this to happen to you! Stay the fuck away from me! Stay the fuck away!” I woke up screaming those words. I’m surprised, actually, that Aunt Shelley or Uncle Bob didn’t wake up, but maybe the screaming was louder in my dream.

I’ve never even raised a hand in anger against a girl. Not even when I was really young and roughhousing with other kids in the playground. If a girl hit me, I just took it, and never hit back.

But the dream I just had kind of says it all, kind of puts it in perspective. No, I wasn’t the one who raped and beat her. But given my track record, all the horrible things that have happened to people I’ve been angry with, and the fact that I was angry at her, I might as well have been the one.

And that’s what was going through my mind these past few hours as I stared into the dark, afraid to close my eyes and sleep, afraid I’d dream of hurting Monica.

Wednesday April 19, 2006 - 10:14 PM

2005-01-25T07:58:00.000-08:00

Monica still wasn’t at school today.

Of course.

She’s not going to be back for a while. Who knows when.

I pretty much muddled my way through the day. Sure, the rumours about Monica being raped and beaten half to death kept flying around. They seemed to have more details in them. How she was attacked by three guys at knifepoint. How she’d been stabbed. One of the rumours was that she had lost an eye.

All rumours, of course. Nobody knows the real truth.

I ended up cutting my afternoon classes today completely. I’m going to catch hell for it, but I don’t really give a shit right now. There’s too much on my mind.

And, when I got home from school today and saw the comment that someone left -- speculating that perhaps I had done this to her while in my sleep -- well, that just freaks me out.

I was thinking that maybe a curse around me did this to her. But what if I was the person who did it? What if the dream was somehow a memory of something that I’d done? Done while sleepwalking or something.

And how could I have gotten from Levack in to Sudbury to do this to her in my sleep?

It boggles the fucking mind.

Thursday April 20, 2006 - 10:19 PM

2005-01-25T07:55:00.000-08:00

Again, Monica wasn’t at school. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I keep hoping. Hoping that the rumours weren’t true, that it really wasn’t her that it happened to.

Robbie turned things around a bit for me today with in English class. He always seems to have a knack for knowing the right thing to say, the topics he covers alway seem to hit home perfectly.

“There’s a lot of talk around the school about something that happened to one of our students this past weekend,” he said. “I’d like to read you a scene from a novel that might help us talk about it.”

“The book I’m about to read not only has to do with the Sudbury area, but is written by a man known as the Dean of Canadian Science Fiction. He has won the Hugo, the top international science fiction award, the Nebula, the “Academy Award” of the sci-fi genre, is the only writer in history to win the top SF awards in the United States, Japan, France, and Spain, has one of the most extensive and content rich science fiction web sites available, has made countless media appearances over the years, and is known far and wide as an all around great guy.

“I’m talking about Toronto writer Robert J. Sawyer.

“For those of you looking for a connection between Sawyer and one of the other authors we have discussed in class, Sawyer, the generous person that he is, is one of the authors who gave Mark Leslie a very positive review blurb for Leslie’s short story collection One Hand Screaming. And for those of you who have read that collection, you might note that in the notes, Leslie mentions losing an Aurora Award nomination to Sawyer for Best Short Story English, but that he couldn’t have lost to a nicer guy. And for those of you who like their connections in threes, an additional connection between the two is the forthcoming science fiction anthology that Mark Leslie is editing called North of Infinity II. Sawyer is one of the authors featured in the anthology.

“Now for Sawyer’s connection to the Sudbury area. Several years ago, Sawyer started a trilogy of books called the Neanderthal Parallax. While preparing to write the first book in the series he came to Sudbury, stayed for a few weeks and did research at the Sudbury Neutrino Observatory. The science in this trilogy explores the concept of a parallel world in which Neanderthals survived and Homo sapiens died off, and what happens when a portal opens between those worlds and a Neanderthal appears in the Neutrino Observatory.

“Sawyer has a strong proven track record for using grand “What if” concepts in his writing, often based on cutting edge advances and discoveries in the scientific world. He is not a scientist -- his background is in media -- but he thoroughly researches his books, and that work shows through in his stories. And if you want to understand the scientific principles he explores in greater detail, I suggest you get Mr. Nelly or Mr. Gravante to bring them up in your science classes with them.

“Because in my mind, the real strength, the true beauty in Sawyer’s writing stems not so much from the scientific concepts he explores, but from the characters and character struggles that occur.

“Case in point: Mary Vaughan, one of the main characters from the Neanderthal Parallax, becomes a rape victim in Chapter 6, within one of the very first scenes that we meet her in the first book in the trilogy, Hominids. I’d like to read you a scene from that chapter and talk a bit about it.”

Robbie went on to read the scene to the class. Wow. It was disturbing and terrifying, and it really hit home to a lot of students. A few of them actually started to cry. And I don’t just mean the girls. I was one of the guys who had tears in his eyes.

When he finished the reading, Robbie talked a bit about the concept of rape. Asked the class questions like was rape about sex, or about power? He explored the reaction that Mary, an intelligent and professional woman, a professor at a Canadian University, had to being a victim of rape. We tried to understand her state of mind after such a brutal attack and explored the reasons why she didn’t want to go to the police. We talked about whether or not the scene itself was gratuitous. Then we discussed the idea of the rapist as behaving in a stereotypical Neanderthal way. He asked several males in the class how the scene made them feel -- both about themselves as well as about males in society in general.

The class was so involved and moved and eagerly participating in the discussion, that Robbie had to wrap up the class without the whole thing seeming to finish. Several of the students requested more, wanting to keep talking about it. Robbie handed out pamphlets with a toll-free number to a kids-line help group in case anyone wanted to speak in detail about how this incident made them feel.

And he gave us another one of his cool homework assignment. He wrote the link to Sawyer’s website (www.sfwriter.com) on the blackboard and asked us to do some research there. Some of the research questions he threw out were: How was Sawyer able to write a rape scene from a woman’s point of view? Where does a science fiction writer get his ideas? If a story is about characters, how important is the actual research into the science?

I’m only realizing this after the fact, of course, but Robbie has accomplished two things with today’s lesson. He not only addressed a frightening and difficult to broach issue and gave us the means to talk about it openly, but he also put a spin to it that has allowed us to enjoy the writing of yet another phenomenal author, and issued a task that will help keep us occupied, interested and learning; not just dwelling on the horrors of what happened to Monica.

I still feel terrible about what happened to Miss Hamilton. But I can’t imagine this class anymore without Mr. Robinson teaching it.

Friday April 21, 2006 - 10:35 PM

2005-01-25T07:50:00.000-08:00

I spent a bit of time last night after posting on my blog browsing through Robert J. Sawyer’s website. Wow, Robbie wasn’t kidding. There’s lots of great stuff there.

It’s funny, way back when I first started this online journal, someone left a comment, I think it was that guy named Furzl, telling me that I should consider writing as a career. I’m still not decided, but I started thinking about that a bit after visiting Sawyer’s website, and he also has some articles posted there about the art of writing. Pretty cool stuff.

Many of my classmates were on his site today, and we spent half of the class talking about Sawyer and his writing. Robbie suggested that we start with something like Hominids, which was set in Sudbury, and then read the next two books in the series. But he suggested, for those of us who weren’t in to reading a whole three books that we go with one of his earlier works. He’d mentioned that The Terminal Experiment, Sawyer’s Nebula Award winning book, was a favourite of many, and that an alien being tried in the courtroom in Illegal Alien was also an enjoyable one, particularly for anyone who liked courtroom thrillers or was a Law & Order fan.

I stayed after class today to talk to Robbie and tell him about some of the things I found on Sawyer’s site. I’d mentioned how Sawyer did really seem like a nice guy, often responding to comments that fans left on his blog.

Robbie suggested that I take the time to comment on his blog, to tell him I liked his writing, that it moved me. And then he loaned me a copy of Illegal Alien, which I took home and am eager to start reading. I was going to ask to borrow Hominids, but I’ve never read science fiction all that much before, so I think I’d like to start with the alien one. An alien on trial for murder in a U.S. court sounds like it could be fun. (Maybe I also didn’t want to read that rape scene -- listening to Robbie read it was emotional enough for me right now, thank you very much)

Robbie did something when we were chatting that surprised me a bit. He confided something to me. Apparently, when our guidance counselor got wind of the discussion we’d had in Robbie’s class yesterday, he’d complained to the principal that Robbie was stepping into his territory.

At a meeting in the principal’s office, Robbie defended his position, telling them that if the guidance counselor was going to address the issue of a student who had been raped, he certainly had a funny way of doing it by not doing anything. Then he went on to explain that the best way to introduce literature was to make it relevant to topics that were pertinent to students.

He said that the guidance counselor said something like: “Literature. Humph. I’ve heard what you’ve been reading and talking to students about. Science Fiction. Cave men. Aliens. Hack and slash horror. That’s not literature. That’s crap. Mind-wasting rubbish.”

Robbie said that he didn’t have to listen to that from someone who was not only ill-read and thought only in stereotypes but could barely manage to do his own job, never mind tread on the job of the English teacher. He invited the counselor to take over his class so he could see how fast he could put the students to sleep.

The principal put a stop to the argument between the two, taking the side of the guidance counselor, and warning Robbie to not discuss delicate issues without first consulting either him or the guidance counselor.

Robbie told me that he loved being a teacher, loved connecting with students and helping open their eyes to the vast landscape of literature, but that he was tired of working with “close-minded jerkass literary snobs.” The same kinds of people who praise Dickens today, but if they were around when Dickens was writing, they’d have dismissed his work as commercial tripe that pandered to the masses.

I’ve never heard a teacher talk about another teacher like that. I almost pissed myself laughing.

Monday April 24, 2006 - 11:37 PM

2005-01-25T07:45:00.000-08:00

This is so cool. Following Robbie’s advice, I decided to leave a comment for Robert Sawyer on his website blog. I told him how much I enjoyed the section of the book that my teacher read to our class and asked for his advice on which of his stand alone books he would recommend I read.

He responded -- pretty quickly too -- that his novels Factoring Humanity, Frameshift or Calculating God were the three stand-alone novels he was proudest of. I thought that was really cool, how he thanked me for my comment and then answered my questions.

I wonder how many authors do that type of thing.

So then I started scrolling through Sawyer’s blog archives and found a “book tag” thing he responded to. Apparently he was tagged by Mark Leslie. It’s interesting how there are all these connections somehow. Anyways, I followed the link back to Leslie’s site and found that he mentioned Sawyer’s Frameshift as a book that inspired him in a life-altering way. He didn’t mention what it was, but I wonder if maybe that’s the book that inspired him to become a writer.

He says to email him and he’ll reveal what it was about the book that inspired him. But just knowing it inspired him, and that he’s originally from this area -- well, that’s enough for me to want to read Frameshift and perhaps discover what that might be.

Today in class, Robbie went on about Canada Book Day (which, apparently, was yesterday). He talked about how it had been inspired by International Book & Copyright Day, and that at one time a big deal was made about it. He said that April 23rd was chosen as an important “book day” because a bunch of different authors were either born or had died on this day. He mentioned a bunch of them, but the only one I remember was Shakespeare. Although Robbie wasn’t clear if April 23rd was his birthday or the day he died. Maybe it was both.

He said that he wanted to share different authors with us, particularly Canadian authors, and that, since on Friday he’d mentioned Robert J. Sawyer, he thought he would mention an author who was a friend of Sawyer’s and has been referred to as Canada’s answer to Stephen King. The fellow’s name is Edo van Belkom. Robbie said that van Belkom, an author from the Toronto area, not only won the Bram Stroker Award (the highest honour in horror), but has published more than two dozen books, hundreds of short stories and for a short time several years ago was even the host of a late night horror movie show on the specialty horror channel SCREAM. (One of the students remembered seeing him on that show)

Apparently van Belkom was also known by Sawyer, and Robbie showed us van Belkom’s book Death Drives A Semi, which was a collection of van Belkom’s short fiction. The introduction to the book was written by, you guessed it -- Robert J. Sawyer, and Robbie read to us from the book. He read a story about a superhero stricken with the one enemy he couldn’t fight. Cancer.

Wow. Powerful stuff. Robbie went on to read the essay that followed this tale -- it was the story on how van Belkom wrote the story on a laptop borrowed from his friend Sawyer while he sat in the hospital room where his wife was recovering from a cancer surgery.

It was great to see behind the scenes into the author’s mind and how he came up with the tale. Robbie went on to say that he’d been to a reading that van Belkom gave when his book had first come out, and that van Belkom was one of the best readers he’d ever listened to.

He mentioned that he thought this particular book was now out of print, but that van Belkom had more recently published a book called Scream Queen that poked fun at the reality television trend (something else we’d covered in class a few weeks ago) as well as a series of very popular werewolf books for young adults that were just as enjoyable for adults to read.

At the end of class, I was so excited to learn more about this van Belkom fellow that I almost forgot to ask Robbie if he had a copy of Frameshift that I could borrow.

He said he did own Frameshift, that he owned every single copy of books Sawyer had written, and that he’d have to think about whether or not he would lend me his copy of van Belkom’s Death Drives A Semi. He said that the copy he owned had been signed by van Belkom and since it was out of print, he was worried about losing that copy.

He then turned to me and asked whether or not I had finished reading the book he had loaned me over the weekend, Sawyer's Illegal Alien. I'd completely forgotten about it, because I was so into browsing Sawyer's website and then so excited that he had responded to my question on his blog.

I was a bit disappointed. I mean, I would have thought that by now Robbie would have trusted me with loaning me his books. I've returned all of them in good condition. But it also feels like I let him down by asking for another book without having read the first one. I've just gotten so excited over discovering so many new authors lately.

I can be so stupid sometimes.

Friday April 28, 2006 - 7:11 AM

2005-01-25T07:40:00.000-08:00

I don't know what hit me.

I went to bed Monday night, and when I woke up Tuesday morning, I could barely get out of bed and my throat felt like it was full of sandpaper, closed up tight. Just swallowing air felt like I was trying to choke down a mouthful of broken glass. I was running a pretty nasty fever as well, my sheets were completely soaked.

Needless to say I didn't go in to school on Tuesday. Aunt Shelley made me a doctor's appointment. Turns out I have strep throat. I barely had the energy to get out of bed while she changed my sheets. Barely had the energy to get dressed and get to the doctor's office.

The rest of Tuesday is pretty much a blur. I spent the rest of the day Tuesday falling in and out of feverish dreams. There were pretty vivid, I know that, but I can't recall what was happening in them or who was in them. The only thing that sticks with me is this freaky laughing skull that occasionally flashed into my periperhal vision. And the name "Jimmy" was whispered in my left ear whenever I saw that image.

I have no idea what that means. But that's all I can remember about these dreams. Pretty freaky.

I was feeling better enough on Wednesday that I wasn't just a groggy lump. I mostly stayed in bed and when I was up to it I read. I finished reading the Sawyer book that Robbie had loaned to me. It was really good. An alien on trial for murder in a U.S. court. It reminded me of a cross between maybe Law & Order and one of those new alien shows like Invasion -- not that I watched these alien shows, but I kept seeing commercials for them. So now I'm torn. I want to read another Sawyer book, I want to read that collection by van Belkom. I also want to read more stuff by Laymon.

But I didn't have any of those books with me to read. So I went back to reading Hamlet again. It's funny, I enjoyed Hamlet even more when in a semi-feverish state. The two kind of went well together. And I don't know, but reading about Hamlet strutting about and fretting about his peril reminded me of the things going through my mind, the guilt, the grief, the frustrated anger. It made me feel good in a sad sort of way. What's that saying? Misery loves company?

I felt good enough yesterday to get out of bed. My fever was still there and my throat still had that sandpaper quality to it, but swallowing was getting a bit easier. I sat up and spent most of the day watching movies from Uncle Bob's DVD collection. I ended up watching two different versions of Hamlet. One with Mel Gibson and the other with Ethan Hawke, which was like a modernized version. Except in the new one, something is rotten in the state of Denmark Corporation in Manhattan. Interesting.

Last night Harley called me. It was good to touch base with what I was missing in school. Not that I really cared all that much about what was going on in class, except, of course for Robbie's English class. Apparently, Robbie spent most of the week talking about books that discussed native issues in Canada, and they spent two full classes setting up mock Parliamentary debates over how to deal with the situation going on in Southern Ontario. Apparently there are a group of natives protesting a new housing development and they have this highway and section of land that was sold or taken away from them blocked off, preventing the new houses from being finished. It's stirring up a lot of controversy.

It sounds like I missed some fun stuff. Of course, Harley's take on the situation was pretty much a one-sided view of a bunch of lazy welfare slobs with nothing better to do than prevent other people from making a living. Big suprise there. I honestly don't know how I feel about the situation. From what I've seen on the news, there are a lot of upset townspeople who can't get in to their newly bought homes, and are prevented from getting to work and school. But the native people do have rights; I mean, we pretty much stole Canada from them, and pushed them off onto these reserves, corrupted their lifestyle. I kind of feel sorry for both sides. I don't know how I would have argued in those class debates.

That's one of the things I like about the way Robbie teaches his class. He really makes you start to think

After that Harley told me that Monica was back in school on Thursday. He said that she didn't look good, that her face was all swollen, her cheeks puffy. She had a pretty nasty black eye, a fat lip, and her right arm was in a sling. He said that she wasn't speaking to anyone except for a few of her close friends. I didn't ask if Sarah was one of the people she was talking to.

I know this sounds like I'm a chicken, but I was glad that I wasn't there and didn't see her.

I still have this odd feeling about her, like I might be responsible for what happened. I've tried to block that nasty dream where I'm the one hurting her, where I'm the one in the alley with her, trying to tell her to get away from me, and at the same time raining blows down on her. But I can't entirely push it away.

I'm actually feeling better this morning, possibly good enough to go in to school. But I faked it, pretended I felt worse than I really do. I need a few more days before I face Monica again.

Tuesday May 2, 2006 - 11:58 PM

2005-01-25T07:35:00.000-08:00

I didn't see Monica at school at all yesterday. The day was mostly just a big blur, it was like my ears were stuffed with cotton and I was seeing everything through a smokey haze. My heart kept racing every time a girl passed me in the hall, because I thought it might be her.

But I saw her today. She was far down the hall, and I don't think she saw me. But I saw her, and my heart burned, it ached, and I wept. I wept to see this once strong and confident girl, sexy, bright and cheery slowly slink down the hallway, her head down turned. Walking tight to the lockers, she moved down the hall with these little brisk steps like she was afraid someone was going to step on her.

It broke my heart. But, this wasn't Monica. No, not her. There was barely nothing left of the Monica that I knew as I watched this meek person scuttle down the hall.

And the guilt returned to me full force.

I wonder if that's how Hamlet felt when he came upon the grave being dug for Ophelia. It's funny, someone left a comment about whether or not Hamlet was mad or if he was just allowing others to think he was. Honestly? I actually think it was a bit of both. I'm sure that he played up his madness because it put others at unease, but I also think that there was some truth to his affliction. He was filled with anger, confusion, guilt.

And, of course, I think back to my own situation, my own anger, my own confusion, my own guilt. There was that horrid dream, that awful nightmare of hurting Monica. I feel guilty for having it, but not because I believe I actually hurt her. No, I think that was my unconscious mind telling me I was responsible for her getting hurt. That she was hurt because of me, because of this curse surrounding me.

I just can't get the image of her slinking down the hall like a fearful mouse out of my mind.

Saturday May 6, 2006 - 2:48 PM

2005-01-25T07:32:00.000-08:00

Damn. I've been trying to log onto this blogger account for three days now, and not able to get past the login screen. It's just been hanging there.

I thought, at first, that I'd forgotten my password or something. But that wasn't it. Not sure if it was my connection to the internet or maybe one of the servers at Blogger. Whatever it was, it drove me to start writing my thoughts and stuff in written form, because I've had so many things to sort out lately. Funny, when the guidance counsellor first told me to start writing down my thoughts and emotions I thought he was nuts. But it's funny that that seems to be the first thing I do now whenever I need to sort stuff out.

I'm going to copy those thoughts I wrote down onto this online journal. Is it just for the sake of continuity? Because I have to admit, I've gone back and re-read the stuff that I've written several times now. That has been just as therapeutic as writing it down. So I will post that handwritten stuff here, but I'm not sure when.

As it is, I don't even know if this is going to publish or not.

Here goes nothing . . .

Tuesday May 9, 2006 - 1:19 AM

2005-01-25T07:30:00.000-08:00

Okay, so that last post did work. And, unlike my previous attempts it didn’t disappear. I waited a full day because I wanted to make sure it didn’t delete after the fact. I know this sounds like I’m being paranoid, but the first few times I’d tried to post last week, I ended up losing the work. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention properly and missed a key step. But I’m sure I did it right, and Blogger just hung there, not resolving. And when I came back to it, the post was gone, missing, like I’d never written it.

That’s why I wrote the following entries down. By hand. And now that things are up and working again, I’m going to re-type them below.

Thursday May 4th, 2006

At the end of English class today, Robbie asked me to hang back a bit because there was something he wanted to ask me. I was terrified. I thought that maybe he knew something about what happened to Monica, that maybe he was going to point a finger at me and tell me he knew it was me -- that somehow, in my sleep, I’d gone and beat and raped her. Or that maybe Monica had been talking to him and told him this herself.

I actually tried to sneak out of the class, tried to just mix into the flow of students out of the room. But he reached right out and grabbed my arm. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back through the crowd. He’d done it so quickly, so forcefully, that I’d thought for sure that he was going to lay blame on me for what happened to Monica.

He held my arm, preventing me from getting away while smiling and making quick small talk with the remaining students filtering out of the class. When the last student left, he left go of my arm and closed the door.

“What’s going on, Peter?” he asked, the concern showing on his face as he leaned on a desk at the front of the classroom. “You’ve been acting really strange ever since you returned to school and Monica is back.”

As I rubbed my arm where he’d grabbed and held me, I didn’t know how to respond. “W-what do you mean?”

His eyes softened even more. He pursed his lips and looked me in the eye. “You’re feeling guilty about Monica, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer, but turned my head down and looked at the floor.

“C’mon, Peter,” he said. “You can talk to me, man. I think I know what you’re going through.”
My eyes started to tear up, I tried to hold back the sobs, but my voice repeatedly broke when I responded. “How could you . . . possibly . . . know . . . what I’m going through?”

"Because I've been there too." A strange look came over his face just then and he took a deep breath. “When I was a teenager, my girlfriend was raped at a house party. We went in together, the two of us, and then, as we each starting hanging around with different groups of friends, I ended up heading off in a car with a few buddies to pick up some munchies. We did it all the time, go to a party together, split up, do our own thing, then get back together.

“Only this time, this time something happened while I was gone. These guys from another high school showed up. Nobody knew who they were, they just showed up, about ten of them, crashed the party. A few of them picked a couple of fights with a few of the guys, and three of them ended up pushing their way into the bathroom where Sandy -- that was her name -- where Sandy was. She’d had a bit too much to drink and was in there being sick to her stomach.”

At that point, Robbie paced to the far side of the classroom and looked out the window facing away from me. “The three of them had her way with her. They, they pushed her to the floor, then two of them held her down while the third guy ripped off her clothes and raped her. Then they switched, and another guy took over. Then the third.

“It didn’t matter that she’d been sick to her stomach WHILE THEY WERE RAPING HER . . . it didn’t matter that she was retching and throwing up and almost choking on her vomit. Two of them held her down so she was unable to resist, the third of them raped her.

“They left her lying on the bathroom floor and that’s where the next person going in to use the washroom found her.

“By the time the person going in to use the washroom had figured out what had happened, the entire gang of guys from that other school, even the ones who had started a few different fights, had left. Sandy spent a long time sitting on the bathroom floor, naked and bleeding and covered in her own vomit. Any time anybody tried to comfort her, to help her get cleaned up and dressed, she pushed them off, not saying anything.

“When I got back to the party the whole thing was long over and a few of her closer friends had been able to get her dressed, despite her protests and struggle, and were walking her to a car to bring her home.

“The only thing that anybody can remember her saying was when she looked up and spotted me getting out of my buddy Henry’s car. She stood straight up, pointed a finger in my direction and said: ‘Thanks for leaving me alone.’ Then she got into the car.

“Those were the last words she spoke to me. They might have been the last words she ever spoke to anybody. Her friends had brought her home and that night she’d swallowed an entire bottle of her mother’s tranquilizers. She never woke up from it.”

Okay, so I stopped writing the note at that point. I just couldn’t continue. I was exhausted and my hand hurt from writing the note. Retyping this whole thing feels a little silly, but I'm glad that I'm doing it. I've stopped often while keying it in to just read and re-read it again, and realize the effect the whole conversation had on me.

I didn’t write in my journal again until the next night, and in it I tried to continue from where I’d left off.

Friday May 5th, 2006

Robbie stood at the window for a long time before he turned back and faced me. When he did turn I could see the moisture welling in his eyes. At that point, an announcement came on the PA system, calling him to the office.

“I’ve got to go, Peter.” He said. “But I’ve told you my story. So, yes, I think I can understand the guilt that you feel. And I really do think that this is something you should talk about. If not to me, then to someone else, anyone else.”

He walked towards the door and just before he stepped out he turned and said. “But I really do think you need to talk this out. And I’d really like to help you through this, if I can.”

I ended up going to see Robbie at the end of the school day. He just stood there, looking at me, without saying a single thing. And I broke down, started to sob and sob, and told him about the dream I'd had about Monica, about the guilt that I felt about it, and about the fact that I realized that while I'd been intrigued with Monica and interested in starting a relationship with her, that all I'd been really feeling had been a kind of intense infatuation, a kind of misplaced lust, and that fact made me feel all the more guilty about what happened to her.

I'd made her out to be an object of lust and sex and desire, and then someone had raped her. The guilt had continued to grow and eat away inside of me.

Robbie explained that rape wasn't about sex -- and I had a sudden memory of that topic coming up in our class discussion from a few weeks ago, but for some reason it didn't really stick. He explained that rape was about power, about dominance, about control over another person.

He talked about my feeling of guilt and my holding Monica in my mind's eye as an object of desire as being typical of teenage infatuation, but that it had nothing to do with what actually happened to Monica. My feelings of lust for her did not lead to her getting raped, and I had nothing to feel guilty about.

We kept talking around and around the issue, and I have to admit that the release I felt to be able to communicate the things I've been feeling for this past while -- to communicate them openly and verbally, was overwhelmingly powerful.

I started sobbing uncontrollable at that point, not just out of the guilty and grief, but out of the simple emotion of relief.

That's when Robbie stepped forward and put his arms around me and just held me while I cried.

And that was the point where my second hand-written journal entry ended. It feels strange re-reading it and typing it in. I know that my buddy Harley would say something to the effect that it was a real homo scene with Robbie giving me a hug. But I needed that hug more than anything, and honestly, truly, it felt good just to have someone, anyone be willing to offer me that gesture of compassion.

It's funny. Robbie and I had another after class chat yesterday, but neither one of us has brought up the shared stories -- the ones of his guilt over what happened to his girlfriend or my guilt of what happened to Monica.

Instead, we just talked about books. It was great. It was glorious. He loaned me another book. Back to the first author he'd introduced me to. Sean Costello. This one was called "Finders Keepers" and was about what happens to a group of people who come across a lottery ticket worth 10 million dollars.

Robbie said that I'd like the thriller aspect of the story, and that the dark humour employed in the tale would be good to get my mind off of everything. I haven't read it yet, but do plan on starting it tomorrow.

Right now, I should really get to bed.

Thursday May 11, 2006 - 2:04 AM

2005-01-25T07:28:00.000-08:00

I’ve actually felt pretty good since last Friday. The weekend was low key. I ended up cutting the lawn and playing video games on Saturday and then just chilling and watching a movie with my Uncle Bob Sunday afternoon -- some old black and white movie that I don’t know the name of. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was pretty much sleeping with my eyes open. Maybe that’s why the movie was more like a dream that I had and could only remember in fleeting memories of sight and sound.

I felt relaxed and barely thought back to Monica or Sarah or any of the guilt that I’d recently been focused on over Chad, Miss Hamilton or Sarah’s father. Robbie helped me turn that around, that’s for sure. Having gone back and typed in my hand-written journal entries reminded me of just how important that was.

Robbie was sick and not teaching on Monday and Tuesday of this week. I was a bit worried about him. But he was back in class today, and in full form.

He was going through a lesson on Wednesday, read us a few scenes from a book called The Handless Maiden. It was by a Loraine Brown. It was her first novel, and after he read a few scenes from it he explained how the author of this very powerful story had worked at it over the course of something like ten years. He held it up as an example of something he remembered hearing W.O. Mitchell saying during a reading he’d done in Sudbury almost thirty years ago. It was a statement to the effect that any novel that took less than four years to write wasn’t any good.

The class debated the issue back and forth, and I’m sure it was interesting. But I wasn't paying all that much attention at that point. I couldn’t help reflecting back on one of the scenes Robbie had read to the class and how it reminded me of Monica.

The heroine in The Handless Maiden is a talented pianist who loses her hand in the events surrounding her rape. In her I sensed this feeling of utter loss, the loss of her ability to create beautiful music -- I compared that with the loss I sense whenever I look into Monica’s eyes. I started to wonder if I had imagined that sense -- if perhaps I was reading something in to her look that I expected.

After all, I really wonder if I could ever truly understand what it is like to be raped. Yes, despite the guilt that I feel, as if my curse is what caused this to happen to her, despite the dark feelings and the grief, I’m still nothing more than an outside looking in. I’ll likely never truly understand.

At the end of class, Robbie and I chatted for a bit. He mentioned to me that this weekend there would be a launch event for a new anthology of Sudbury and area writers. It was called Bluffs, and featured stories by two of the authors whose works he had read in class, Mark Leslie and Sean Costello. He said that Costello would actually be at the reading, which was taking place on Sunday May 14th at the Jubilee Centre starting at 1:30 in the afternoon and he was wondering if I was interested in joining him in attending the event.

Wow. That was really cool. I can’t wait to attend the event. When I got home I started reading the latest book Robbie had loaned me. Costello’s Finders Keepers.

It still hasn’t helped keep my mind off of the upcoming event this weekend. I just can’t wait.

Saturday May 13, 2006 - 7:04 PM

2005-01-25T07:26:00.000-08:00

Holy shit. Did I ever have a lot of fun at the book event today. Right now I’m logged on using the “internet café” computers at the Chapters book store. Robbie is in line at Starbucks getting us a couple of coffees.

We had an amazing time at the book launch for Bluffs. The readings, the entertainment, everything was just awesome. Robbie bought me a copy of the book that I had signed by six of the contributors, including Sean Costello. I can’t believe that I finally met him. He seems like this normal, friendly guy. You’d never know that he wrote these frightening, creepy tales of nasty people doing awful things to one another. This is the first time that I’ve ever met an author whose book that I read or had a book signed by anyone. It’s awesome.

Robbie brought in all of the Costello books that he owned to have signed.

Anyways, Robbie and I had a great time hanging out, mixing and mingling with all the people there. I just don’t want today to end. We’re going to hang around here at Chapters and browse for a bit, then we’re likely heading over to the Kelsey’s across the way for something to eat.

Oh. Here he comes. Gotta post this and go.

Sunday May 14, 2006 - 3:14 PM

2005-01-25T07:25:00.000-08:00

Why can’t things just go right for me? Why can’t they just be normal?

I’m pretty fucked up right now over what happened.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write about it.

All I know for sure is that I can’t write about it right now.

Friday May 26, 2006 - 1:04 AM

2005-01-25T07:23:00.000-08:00

Over ten days have passed since my last post, but it feels as if it’s merely been an hour since the tragic events that happened back on the early hours of May 14th.

I’ve gone over the details again and again in my head, my heart and mind swimming, practically drowning in the torrent of emotions. And it has mostly all stayed in my head, no matter how much people have tried to make me talk about it.

But I think I’m ready to talk about it now.

I have to ease into it though, take it slow.

So let me start with the thing that is killing me to talk about, the thing that has wrenched my heart from my chest. Maybe if I get that out of the way I can move on with trying to come to terms with what happened and properly relay the events that occurred that have put me here.

Robbie is dead.

It kills me to write those words, kills me to acknowledge it -- almost as if by typing in those words I’m making it real. But it is. It is real. I avoided going to his funeral, refused to talk to anyone about his death for over a week now. But I have to face the fact. He is dead.

Okay, so I finally got that out. Robbie’s dead. It may not seem like much, but to me that’s a huge release, a giant step. Now I can begin to talk a bit about how we got from hanging out at Chapters to how he came to be lying in a pool of his own blood.

But not tonight. It’s taken a lot out of me just to admit that much. I’m going to leave it at that, regroup my thoughts and emotions, and on my next post talk a little bit about the wonderful evening that so quickly and strangely turned into a nightmare.

Monday May 29, 2006 - 11:17 PM

2005-01-25T07:20:00.000-08:00

I’ve tried several times to write about this, to explain the events of the evening, and every time I try, I keep tripping on the words, keep getting ahead of myself.

I’ve decided to make a forced effort not to rush the events of the evening but to try to roll through them in the manner in which they happened -- because every time I get ahead of myself, I trip up and it’s a big ball of madness in my head and not a clean, straightforward narrative that I’m trying to map out for myself, to properly deal with it.

So here’s what happened, right from my last post during the early evening of May 13th.

Robbie came around the corner of a pillar near Starbucks and was heading toward me with two cups of coffee. I can’t remember if they’re called Verte or Grande or Larde or whatever the hell Starbucks calls them, just that they were the large size.

He handed one over to me just as I was pushing the “publish” button for this blog on the Internet Café computer. I tried blocking the screen with my body as much as possible, as if I was preventing Robbie from seeing porn or something on the screen. (Although I’m sure that a public computer like this or maybe even one at the library wouldn’t allow people to browse through porn on it)

“What are you doing?” Robbie asked.

“Ah, just checking some email,” I said, thumbing the computer monitor off and then hitting the reset button that shut down the computer and ended my session. I thought back to the time he’d told me how he was an expert at reading people and wondered if the bemused look on his face meant that he knew I was lying.

“What next?” I said, sipping the coffee. It had an Irish cream taste to it.

Robbie smiled. “I had them add a shot of Irish cream flavour to the coffee. But then I also added a nip of Irish cream to it as well.” He lifted the flap off the briefcase that he carried around on his shoulder everywhere, revealing the neck of a bottle of Bailey’s. He took a sip from his own coffee and then added: “Okay, maybe more than just a little nip.”

I laughed. “This is awesome, I’m having a great time.”

We then spent the next hour or so browsing through the store, Robbie pointing out countless titles to me that he’d read and loved. To be honest, if the rest of what happened that night and early into the next morning hadn’t occurred, then I imagine I would be writing a great deal about that conversation, because I remember it being so riveting. Like the best of the stuff that Robbie shared with us in class, but it was just me there. Just me he was talking to, sharing with, just me asking the questions that drew out more fascinating anecdotes and jokes.

I remember at one time, as we wandered past the graphic novel and local author section over to the wall of horror books, that Robbie pointed to a particular title by Bentley Little called The Store. He first mused about how Little’s titles were all so simplistic in nature, with titles such as The Mailman, The Walking, The Revelation, The House and The Town. He pointed out that Little’s short story collection itself was titled The Collection, as if Little was not above making fun of his own method of title creation.

“Titles seem to be really important for a book,” Robbie said. “But Little is a good example where you shouldn’t judge a book by its title. He keeps the titles simple, but invests his time and energy into writing memorable characters, plots and prose.

“For example, the first book of his that I read was The Store, and it’s the one that has stuck with me the longest.” Robbie went on the explain the premise of The Store, comparing the supernatural force that brings the store to a small town to the manner in which big box stores like Wal-Mart move in and completely take over. He explained that he often thought it would make a wonderful Hollywood movie, and if that were to happen, a deluge of movies based on Little’s novels would likely come out.

“But the problem with that,” he cautioned. “Is that they’d probably translate into schlocky horror movies that wouldn’t be produced properly and instead just be ‘straight to video’ quality. Laymon’s books fall into that same category. Great to read, and would seem to make a great transition onto the screen, but so easy to mess up, focus on the shock, on the gore, and completely miss out on the elements of cinema that could make the truly great films.”

By that time, we’d finished our coffees, and Robbie had found a quiet spot where nobody could see what he was doing to top up our coffee cups with Baileys. As we drank down the creamy alcohol, he started telling me about the screenplay he had been working on for several years now which had been based on and inspired by Bentley’s The Store. He’d given it the title “The Night Managers” and had focused less on the store itself, and more on the evil entities that ran the empire. His goal was much that the way the movie The Running Man was based on King’s novella, pretty might a high level concept with nothing other that a basic premise and some character names being used, his screenplay would also divert to a different path.

He was explaining the basic idea for the main character’s intense fear of big box stores, of the childhood trama of being locked in a Canadian Tire store overnight when he was a child, having fallen asleep in one of the pup tent displays and not waking up until well after the store had closed. He diverted from that telling to explain that it was based on something that had actually occurred to him.

We were laughing about the story of how his father had been searching all over for him, thinking he’d run away from home due to a fight they’d had earlier in the day when this creepy looking man approached Robbie from behind.

I remember the odd leering look on the man’s face, (it specifically reminded me of the look on the face of the original Nosferatu in that old black and white German film) and the way in which he’d started walking towards us purposefully. And then, just as Robbie turned in the recanting of the fight between him and his father over the desired purchase of a basketball, the man turned, ducked behind some tall shelves, and was gone from view.

If I’d known the trouble this man was going to cause, I would have tried to get us out of the store sooner, before he came back.

But I, of course, had no idea, back then, what was going to happen.

Okay, I’m starting to get ahead of myself. But rather than just delete this and trying to start over, like I’ve done so many times, I’m going to stop here, take a break in the telling, and get the rest of my thoughts together.

Wednesday May 31, 2006 - 11:09 PM

2005-01-25T07:15:00.000-08:00

So there Robbie and I were, in the store, finishing off the bottle of Bailey’s, and he was just finishing the recanting of the screenplay concept he’d been working on, revealing to me that one of his great passions was translating literature to a format such as screenplays so that they could be fully enjoyed by the masses.

But Robbie went on the explain that there was so much to literature that could be explored and enjoyed and discussed among the masses, but that the masses were often living lives too fast paced to fully comprehend them to the fullest.

“That’s the wonder of movies,” Robbie said. “When done properly, a good movie can be executed that, rather than take something away from the original book it was based on, can add new elements that can be revealed in a manner less subtle than in the book, but still powerful and rich.”

Robbie then explained that the director Rob Reiner had pulled this off brilliantly in movies such as Stand By Me (based on a novella by Stephen King) and again in Misery (based on another book by Stephen King).

That statement he made reminded me so much of my Uncle Bob. It’s funny, because, since Robbie was a father figure in my life (yes, I only realize that now), it made sense that I found something in him that reminded him of the man I’d known as my central father figure since the day my own father had been hit by the car and died.

It was shortly after this revelation that the creepy looking man I’d seen earlier reappeared from behind a tall set of bookshelves. This time, I think that Robbie must have seen him because, in mid sentence he put down his coffee cup and said.

“Okay, Peter. Time for us to go.”

When I didn’t move, Robbie grabbed me by the arm and starting walking us quickly toward the exit, completely abandoning the small pile of books we’d accumulated, intending on purchasing them.

He didn’t say a word as we moved out to the car, but I could tell that he was stepping more quickly as soon as we left the bright lights of the store and were crossing the dark parking lot. I remember thinking how late it was and that we must have spent a longer time in the store than I’d originally thought. Sure enough, my watch showed that it was already 9:30.

As he was starting the car I finally asked. “What’s going on, Robbie? Who was that man?”

After putting the car in gear he turned to look at me. “Peter, I have a confession to make.

“But the first order of business is we need to get the hell out of here, now.” And he takes his foot off the brake, slams it down on the gas and the tires issue a high pitched squeal as we peel out of the parking lot.

I remember looking back, seeing a few different figures heading out the store entrance, one of them tall like the creepy man I’d seen in the store. An uncontrollable shiver ran down my spine.

We drove in silence as Robbie raced the car down the Kingsway toward downtown. We raced down the street next to city hall, then made a quick right, then a left, darted around a seemingly random route through the downtown core area of town before Robbie raced onto Paris street and then turned off again the parking area near Science North.

He turned off the car and we sat there for a moment, just listening. I couldn’t hear anything other than the ticking and clicking of the engine as it cooled down, but the look on Robbie’s face suggested he was either listening to the traffic turning off Paris or perhaps to voices from the past, talking to him about the confession he was about to make.

“Robbie,” I said. “I’m a little concerned, here.”

He lifted a single finger into the air, saying nothing, and continued to sit quietly and just listen.

After what must have been ten or fifteen minutes, Robbie said, “I’ve got to get something. Just a minute.” And he got out of the car, opened the trunk, then returned to the driver’s seat with a mickey in each hand. One of rye and the other vodka. “Name your poison,” he said, reaching past me into the glove compartment where he fished out two plastic cups.

“Me? I’m starting with the rye,” he said, pouring some for himself. I said that I’d have that too and he poured me a cupful.

He took a long, slow drink from his cup, then refilled it before he turned to me and said: “It’s very likely you’re not going to like me much after I tell you this story.”

Thursday June 1, 2006 - 11:31 PM

2005-01-25T07:10:00.000-08:00

So there Robbie and I were, sitting in the car, drinking rye. It had otherwise been like some sort of cool dream, hanging out with the coolest teacher I’d ever known, going to a book event, hanging out at a book store, drinking coffee spiked with Baileys then racing a car through downtown streets and then sitting back and drinking some rye from a parking spot that I realized gave a beautiful view of a moonlit Lake Ramsey.

But the tone in Robbie’s voice had a nightmarish quality to it. I’d never heard it from him before, and it frightened me.

“Peter,” he said. “That man, the man in the store. He’s my dealer.”

“Oh,” I said. It’s funny. Most teachers are supposed to tell you not to smoke, not to drink, not to do drugs. Okay, so of those, Robbie hadn’t pulled out a pack of cigarettes, but so far he’d helped break all those stereotypes. I know that teachers are human like the rest of us, but it was certainly refreshing to see that evidence first hand. And so what, my English teacher smoked pot. Big fucking deal. Who hasn’t?

“So. What’s the big deal?” I asked.

“I owe him a shitload of money,” Robbie said. “But there’s more. And I know I can confide in you, but I don’t know how to tell you the rest.”

“The rest? Of what?”

“The rest of my confession.” He drained his cup again in another single gulp and poured himself another drink. I think that was his third in so many minutes.

For the first time in our relationship, it didn’t feel like he was my teacher. He was suddenly just another friend, and a friend with a problem. “Just start from the beginning.”

“Fair enough. And I’ll actually start with a smaller confession. I’ve been reading your blog.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Since about the second day of class. I discovered it one night. Actually, a lot of teachers I know have started doing it, started doing google searches on their own names as a means to see if students are blogging or posting comments about them and their class. I spotted yours almost immediately, and went back to the beginning.”

“So you know all about Sarah?”

“Yes,”

“And the other deaths?”

“Yes,”

“And about Miss Hamilton’s accident?”

“Yes. And also about Monica.”

Monica. Oh man, this was so embarassing. Robbie had been reading my words. But what could I expect, really. There were tons of strangers out there, people I’d never met who were reading my online journal and making comments on it. Why did I think that people I knew wouldn’t find it and read it too.

I tried to think back to all the things I’d said about Robbie on my blog, and was slightly embarrassed about how much I talked about him, gushed about him. But it wasn’t quite so bad -- this was Robbie, after all, and to know that he’d had these insights about me almost from the beginning, yet he still wanted to be my friend, hang out with me -- well that was pretty darn cool.

“I don’t know what to say, Robbie.” I said. “I feel guilty about what happened to Monica. As if I could have prevented it.”

“Oh, Peter,” Robbie said, and tears started to roll down his eyes. “You have nothing to feel guilty about with Monica. What happened to her is actually my fault.”

“Your fault?” I said, completely perplexed. “How could what happened to Monica be your fault?”

“I know you had feelings for her, Peter. I know you were interested in her. That’s what makes this so difficult; so difficult to tell you.” He paused, put his head in his hands, then wiped the tears away. “I’m such a fool. I never should have done what I did. But I got caught up in the moment, carried away by emotions. I’d fallen in love with her from the first day that I met her.

“Peter, Monica and I were having an affair. We were sleeping together.”

Friday June 2, 2006 - 11:58 PM

2005-01-25T07:05:00.000-08:00

I had to stop that last post all of a sudden. I’m trying really hard to get this story out, but it’s hard to convey. And of course, every time I get to a part like that last one, like when I found out that Robbie and Monica were lovers, I get a bit overwhelmed with it all. And rather than start going on about how it makes me feel, I try to stop myself.

After all, I’m trying to get this story out, and get it out in the proper sequence of what happened. Because a hell of a lot went down that night. I found out a lot of things about Robbie, about Monica. And I need to write this out in proper order, so I can keep these details straight in my head.

When Robbie told me that he and Monica were fucking, it was like someone punched me, hard, in the gut, then took hold of my stomach with a steel tight, ice cold grip, and squeezed. I couldn’t respond to what Robbie had told me, it was such a large piece of information that I was still trying to digest it.

“There’s more,” Robbie said. “That I have to tell you.”

My own eyes had welled up, tears of rage were streaming down my face even before my mind started to piece the different bits together and I seemed to make the conscious realization. “Y-you raped Monica?” I remember seeing red, ready to strike out at Robbie, tear his eyes right out of his head.

“No, Peter. No. I loved Monica. Cared for her very deeply. I would never hurt her, rape her. Please let me explain. Please.”

The anger started to subside. I sat back in my chair, drank down my own glass of rye and then asked him to refill it for me. “Go on.” I finally said.

“I fell for Monica from the first day I met her. She stayed after class that first day to talk to me. She was so beautiful, looked so much like a woman I’d loved back in University -- Lynda -- the woman whom I thought I was going to marry and spend the rest of my life with. And when she started talking excitedly about The Dead Poet’s Society and how she thought it was so cool that I’d taken a scene from that movie and tried it out in the class, her personality, her spark, reminded me of Lynda again.

“We talked for a good half an hour after that first class. And I offered to loan her a book of poetry by Keats. The look on her face was priceless, wonderful, as she looked at it. She told me Keats was her favorite poet. And when I saw that sparkle in her eyes when they fell upon the book, I knew I was falling in love with her. I know it sounds strange, but that’s exactly how I felt.

“Monica came to visit me after class yet again the next day. And the day after that. And the next. A week or so later when you started hanging out after class, Monica stayed off to the side, slipped out with the crowd. I remember enjoying chatting with you Peter, because by then I’d been following your online journal and feeling a real connection with you. But I was also a bit sad to miss out on my one on one time with Monica.

“But she was waiting at my car at the end of the school day. We ended up sitting in the car and talking for hours, about books, about movies, about music, about life, about dreams.

“And almost every single day after that she was there at my car and we did the same. By then I knew it was too late, that I’d already fallen so madly, so deeply in love with her, that there was no going back.

“One Friday, she asked if we could go somewhere, get a coffee or a drink, and keep talking. She put her hang on my leg and told me that she didn’t want the evening to end.

“So we went out for coffee, and then to a restaurant and ordered dinner. We stayed there, talked until the waiters were putting chairs up on the tables signaling that it was time to go home. Too wrapped up in each other and the conversation, we headed back to my place without discussing what we were doing. I put on some coffee when we got there and we sat there on the couch, talking into the early morning hours. We ended up making love on that same couch, just as the sun was coming up, still talking, still sharing, our bodies finally as intimate as our souls had been the entire night.

“I did love her Peter. I loved her deeply. I still love her, but she won’t have anything to do with me any longer. And I can’t say I blame her.”

“What happened, Robbie?” I asked. “You said that you’re to blame for her getting beaten and raped? How? What happened?”

Saturday June 3, 2006 - 11:26 PM

2005-01-25T07:00:00.000-08:00

I remember sitting there looking at Robbie and feeling jealous. Not just jealous because Robbie had been sleeping with Monica -- actually that didn’t bother me all that much, to be honest. It surprised me, sure, shocked me, stunned me, was like an ice cold splash of water in my face. But I wasn’t jealous. While I knew that I had liked Monica, had thought that she was pretty cool, a lot of fun, was a like-minded lover of reading and damn sexy, I didn’t actually love her.

It took me a while to realize, of course, that it had just been lust I’d been feeling for her, misplaced lust derived from a strange erotic dream and perhaps the fact that I was lonely and just wanted someone. That someone, of course, was still Sarah, but I had to move on, and so likely transferred the intense feelings in Monica’s direction.

So yes, I was a bit jealous that Robbie had been sleeping with Monica while I’d been lusting after her, but also jealous of the fact that Monica had gotten so close to Robbie, and of course, jealous of the fact that they had each other while I was still on my own. Since Sarah dumped me, I’ve been mostly alone, on the sidelines, looking in. This revelation by Robbie about his relationship with Monica was just more salt in that wound.

“Peter, do you remember that night when you bumped into Monica in the movie theatre?”

“Yeah,” Rejection night. How could I forget?

“Monica was there at the theatre with me. I stayed out of sight when we spotted you. Of course, it was risky for me to be there with her in the first place, but after all we were just a student and teacher out at the movies, nothing wrong with that. But having read your blog I knew you’d been interested in Monica and would perhaps be jealous of the fact that we were there together.”

“Yeah, I would have been.” I said quietly.

“It was that night, after the movie, when Monica and I went for a ride. We went up to that spot on Big Nickel Mine Road where you can watch them dump the slag from the side of the road.

“We were sitting there, just chatting, and shooting coke. Yes, the addict that I was, I ended up getting Monica started on my drugs of choice. No, I’m not proud of it, but it happened.

“Speaking of drugs, that’s where my dealer comes into this. I’d owed him a large sum of money and he’d been carrying me for weeks. I hadn’t been able to pay but still kept going back to him for more -- I don’t know if you’ll ever understand an addict’s mindset, but there’s this belief that with just one more fix you’ll be fine and can move on. Only that “one more” is always in your future, never in your past. You simply can’t.

“Anyways, I could talk for hours about the demons I’ve been facing with respect to my dependencies on drugs and alcohol. But the key thing here is that I’d pissed on someone who held a lot of power over me.

“And that’s who showed up that night when Monica and I were sitting in the car. The moment he pulled in behind us, his headlights bright in my rearview mirror, I knew who it was, and told Monica to get out of the car immediately, just leave. I quickly explained about the money situation and that he was there to hurt me.”

Robbie stopped, drank down yet another full glass of rye and filled his cup again. “She wouldn’t leave. She joked that she’d give him a blow job and maybe that’d tide him over. I got angry with her, told her this wasn’t funny, that I wanted her out of harm’s way. But she refused. And when the dealer approached the car, he did it from her side. I’m sure he not only could tell there was someone in the passenger seat, but that he’d been following us all night anyways. He leaned in the window, grinning that sick twisted grin of his, and asked me if I knew why he was there.”

Putting down the rye and kneading his hands over his forehead, Robbie whispered. “Dammit, why couldn’t I just get Monica to get out of the car and leave? Why?”

I put a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Robbie. Keep talking. It’s helping.” I for one, should know the recuperative powers of just getting the grief out.

“So Monica starts flirting with the guy, starts saying suggestive things, like maybe we could all talk about this, and maybe there was something she could do to please him, make him forget about money. She was trying to protect me, to help me, and I just sat there like a fucking idiot as she unbuttoned her shirt and sarted parting it, sat there watching as this bastard reached in and cupped one of her breasts. I sat there just watching as Monica whispered something in his ear, and he opened the door, pulling down his zipper. Sat there watching her suck his dick. And all the while knowing that this was happening, the woman I loved was doing this to protect me, to keep me from harm. And I was too much of a fucking chicken to do anything but sit there and watch it. And the whole time, the sick fucker was staring at me a huge grin on his face.

“When the scumbag finally blew his load, he laughed, called out that it was time, pulled Monica out of the car, produced a switch-blade and held it to her throat. That’s when two of his cronies appeared on my side of the car and hauled me out.

“ ‘Now listen up and listen good,’ the dealer said. ‘I was planning on hurting you to show that I mean business and I want my fucking cash soon. But I have a much better idea now.’

“And that’s when he started using the knife to peel off Monica’s clothes while he dragged her to his car. I tried to break free of the two thugs holding me, tried to step forward, but there was nothing I could do.

“ ‘This lady friend of yours is going to hurt in new ways,’ he said, shoving her into the back seat of the car then turning toward me again and pointing the knife at me. ‘Let’s just say she’ll be sorry she ever made your acquaintance. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll think twice about trying to stiff me out of a payment.’”

“Then he nodded, and I felt something connect with the side of my head. That’s the last thing I remembered before blacking out.

“I woke up after what must have been several minutes. Their vehicle, with Monica in it, was long gone.”

Sunday June 4, 2006 - 10:51 PM

2005-01-25T06:50:00.000-08:00

Robbie stopped telling the story, but his head against the steering wheel and started sobbing uncontrollably. “I didn’t do anything to stop them,” he said. “They drove off with Monica and they beat her and raped her and it was entirely my fault.”

I looked at Robbie, not saying anything. Of course it was his fault. His drug habit is what put Monica in that predicament. I know that I was supposed to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. But I couldn’t. He’s the reason why Monica was so badly injured both physically and emotionally. The reason I saw that hurt animal look in her eyes. Him. Not me.

“You talked about her rape in class that week,” I said, accusingly. “You used it as class material, as something to help us deal with something that had happened to a fellow student.”

“It was also helping me deal with it, too,” Robbie said, still not looking at me.

“And that story you told me about your girlfriend in high school. You made that up, didn’t you? Wait a minute, you fucker. You’d been reading my blog, so you knew about the dreams I’d had about Monica, about the guilt I’d felt over it. And you let me feel that. You could have fucking told me about this back then.”

“How could I?” Robbie said. “How . . . could . . . I?

“I’ve needed to talk about this with someone, but who could I talk to, and how could I bring it up in the hallway between classes? My girlfriend, that high school party I’d told you about, that happened Peter. It really did. That’s what makes it that much more painful, that much more difficult, that another girl I loved was raped, and again I could have prevented it, but I didn’t.

“I fully expected Monica to tell the police the story, but she refused to talk about it with anyone. I want those guys to pay for what they did to her, want to kill them with my bare hands. But I can’t come forward and tell the police what I know. Besides, I don’t even know the fucking dealer’s name. He goes by Dillon, but I know that’s not his name. I have a cell phone for him and that’s all. Who knows if it would even help them find him, who knows if they could even hold him in jail. What evidence is there now?

“Oh God, Monica,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

We sat there in silence. I sipped at my rye, but it wasn’t going down well at all. After several minutes, he spoke up again.

“I tried talking to her, tried calling her on her cell phone, slipping her a note, talking with her in the hallways at school. But she won’t even respond to me, won’t even talk with me. Won’t let me apologize.”

“What the fuck do you expect?” I said. “Serves you fucking right.” But inside, I was feeling sorry for him because he was in the same situation I had been in with Sarah. I guess the difference with Sarah is that I didn’t put her in a situation where she’d been raped and beaten. No, in our case, my death curse caused her father’s cancer, but she couldn’t possibly know that. In our case, I couldn’t have prevented what happened. But I could still feel for what Robbie was going through, despite the fact that I was angry with him for the situation he’d led Monica into.

Fuck. I liked Robbie, respected him, looked up to him so much. And, despite how angry I was with him, I still wanted to comfort him, tell him there wasn’t anything he could do.

But I never got that chance. I never got to tell him that, while I was pissed off with him, I still looked up to him, still wanted to make our friendship work.

I never got the chance because there was suddenly a bright flash of headlights from behind us.

“Holy fuck.” Robbie said. “Dillon has found us.”

Monday June 5, 2006 - 11:13 PM

2005-01-25T06:44:00.000-08:00

My head was swimming with the recent knowledge of the events that had led up to Monica’s rape and beating. A wonderful mentor and father figure had been destroyed in my heart’s mind by admitting his involvement in the whole deal. And the alcohol I’d been drinking was flowing through my veins, clouding my perception.

So when Dillon appeared at the driver side door, his switch-blade already out, it was very much like a dream. He reached in the open window with his other hand and hauled Robbie out by the neck without opening the door. He’d looked tall and lanky in the store, but he was a strong son of a bitch, that was plainly obvious.

He kicked Robbie in the face then leaned into the car door and said. “Oh, so what do we have here? Get out of the car, now.” I complied. He stood there and smiled at me across the top of the car. “You fucking him, too, Robinson?”

“Hurt me, kill me, do what you want,” Robbie said struggling to his feet. “Just don’t hurt the boy.”

“Oh I plan on doing more than that,” Dillon said, a huge grin on face. “I don’t do the Hershey highway stuff, but let’s see how good he is at giving me a blow job, and if it’s good, I’ll kill him quickly. If it’s not good, he’ll be begging for me to kill him before I’m done with him.” He pointed the knife at me. “Over here and on your knees, boy.” He said to me.

“No!” Robbie said, and reached forward, but a simple thrust of the blade by Dillon into Robbie’s shoulder stopped him.

“I’m coming,” I said, starting to walk around the front of the car.

“No,” Robbie gasped, stumbling back, grabbing at the gash on his shoulder. “Leave him alone.”

“No, you listen, you dumb fuck. I thought you’d learned your lesson last time, but you obviously need to be taught a more serious lesson now.” He grabbed Robbie’s shoulder, the one he’d just stabbed, and squeezed, pulling Robbie forward. “Get moving. We’re heading down to the water.” He turned back toward me. “You lead now, pretty boy,” he said to me. “Keep those fucking hands on the top of your head and no funny moves or your lover here gets the knife through his jugular. Capeesh?”

“Y-yeah,” I said, starting to walk through the parking lot toward the waterfront.

He steered us through the dark, down some steps, around a few corners. The whole time I listened to their footfalls behind me, Robbie’s heavy breathing, wondering how badly he was stabbed, how much he was bleeding. But I didn’t dare look back at all.

When we got to the dock, he told me to stop. He stepped closer, his left hand on Robbie’s shoulder, still squeezing it, the blood seeping between his fingers, Robbie wincing under the grasp. Dillon then placed the hand with the knife in it on my shoulder so that the blade touched my neck.

“On your fucking knees, boy,” he said to me.

I froze, just stared at him, feeling the tip of the blade against the side of my neck. I didn’t move.

Dillon kneed me hard between the legs and I doubled over, seeing bright spots of light in my vision. He pushed down on my back and I folded to my knees, still hunched over, gasping for air.

I didn’t look up, but could hear Dillon saying something in a laughing tone, and the distinct sound of his zipper coming down.

Things started to happen really slowly at that point. I remember hearing Robbie’s voice, a strangled, frustrated cry saying. “No. Not again. No more. No more.”

I started to look up at that point and saw Robbie grabbing Dillon by the throat with one hand and wrestling the knife hand with his other. Caught completely by surprise, Dillon stumbled back. It was only then that I realized Robbie had succeeded in stabbing him. Dillon held a hand to the blood seeping out from a puncture wound in his stomach.

Robbie ran at him, the knife extended, and the blade glanced off his chest as Dillon flung himself back. In a single, fluid motion, Dillon hit the dock, rolled, pulled a small handgun from a holster beneath his jacket and let off a single shot.

It was Robbie’s turn to stumble backwards, holding onto his own stomach, looking down at the blood which started to pour from where he’d been shot.

I still could barely breathe as I watched this scene unfold from my knees. But even if I hadn’t been hoofed in the nuts, I’m not sure if I would have moved. The whole moment still had that strange murky dream-like quality to it as I watched. I’m not sure if I would have actually been able to pull myself out of that state and do something.

Robbie looked up at Dillon who by then had the gun trained on me as he was getting to his feet. I remember noticing the gun pointed in my direction, but not actually registering what it meant. It was like I was watching some foreign language film and not completely understanding what was going on.

Robbie let out a hoarse battle cry and rushed at Dillon, the blade extended. Dillon turned the gun back towards Robbie and it went off as Robbie tackled him. I didn’t see where that second bullet went, but I did see Robbie manage to sink the blade deep into Dillon’s neck before the two of them fell backwards off the dock and splashed into the water.

When I finally managed to drag myself to my feet and walk over to the edge of the dock there were barely ripples visible in the moon light.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, looking down at the waterbefore I realized that neither one of them was going to surface. I remember whispering for Robbie, wondering if he was okay and just hiding somewhere, under the dock, or treading water quietly, just out of my line of sight.

“Robbie,” I called a bit louder. “Robbie,” and I started to break down and cry, huge, hiccoughing sobs, as I realized that he was gone and I’d never see him again. I thought back to that first day in class, when he made us stand on his desk to see the class from a different viewpoint. I thought of all the new viewpoints he'd afforded me, all the hope he'd given me. Now gone. And I cried.

I finally got up and moved when I heard sirens in the distance.

I ran off down the boardwalk that led to Bell Park, and from there crossed Paris street near the hospital, walked through that neighbourhood, then meandered through side streets mostly on my way back to the downtown area and started walking along the highway that Elm Street turned into, on my way towards Highway 144 and Levack.

Thursday June 8, 2006 - 10:32 PM

2005-01-25T06:40:00.000-08:00

I can’t believe how utterly exhausting it was to write about what happened the night that Robbie died. I never would have thought that it would take me such a long time to actually tell the story. But reliving it so I could write about it was extremely difficult. I needed to take a break, let the painful and disturbing memories kick around in my head a bit so I could get everything straight.

So many times I just wanted to get it all out at once, let it flow. Maybe I could have done that if I were speaking to someone, telling them the story. But I wasn’t. I was writing it down. The mere fact that I had to slow down made it more difficult to do in longer pieces.

In any case, sure, it almost took me an entire month to go through it, but at least I’ve been able to. And I’m tempted to say that I feel better, but I still feel like a walking sack of shit. But just typing the story out, getting it out of my head, that actually has helped.

So much has been going on lately that I don’t even know where to begin to get caught up. For the most part, since Robbie died, I’ve just been going through the motions, getting up, going to school, coming home, watching TV and going to bed. And that’s been enough. It’s been hard enough just doing that.

At school, our guidance counselor started up sessions again with groups of students, much like he had when Chad broke through the ice. It was different this time, though, at least for some of us.

Robbie was well loved by many of the students. Sure, both Monica and I had had a special personal relationship with him, so maybe we felt the loss differently than most. But we were in different group sessions, so I never heard how she spoke in the group, or if she even spoke in the group. I wonder if, like me, she just played along pretending to just be another student and not someone who shared a special link to this man.

Sarah was actually in the same group session as I was. And she did speak a lot. About feeling guilty over Robbie, but also feeling guilty about Miss Hamilton and the accident. It seemed like she had a lot to get off her chest, and I remember losing myself in Sarah’s words, as if it were just her and I and it was the way it had been before, the two of us together.

I remember listening to Sarah and then picking up on something that seemed to lie between and beneath her words. Sure, she was expressing grief and feelings of guilt about the loss of two much cherished teachers. But there was more grief, more guilt beneath the surface. The guidance counselor didn’t push with her, as if he knew not to go there. But I could tell. I’d heard enough psycho-babble lately to understand that Sarah was transferring the guilt and grief she felt about her father’s cancer death-sentence onto the loss of these teachers. It was almost as if she was trying to pre-grieve her father’s loss.

I openly cried while Sarah spoke, and I remember her noticing when she looked over at me once. I could tell she noticed because her eyes didn’t just pass over me but lingered a moment longer. I looked back at her, not wiping the tears, just looking at her. I wanted to get up, walk across the circle our chairs had been placed in and just hold her; tell her it would all be okay if she just let it out.

But she averted her eyes again quickly, and I knew that I was reaching beyond my grasp again.

Saturday June 10, 2006 - 10:06 PM

2005-01-25T06:35:00.000-08:00

The group sessions ended on Friday, and they’ve been good. It still hurts, still fucks with my mind -- and nobody has a clue, of course, of my involvement, that I’d witnessed Robbie’s death.
All they know is that Robbie was found dead, his body entangled with a known drug dealer in Sudbury.

The police hadn’t even showed up the night that I fled the scene. They must have been heading out on another call. Or I guess it could have even been an ambulance.

Robbie was found the next morning by a morning jogger. There was an investigation, but I was never even questioned. The evidence seemed obvious. A drug deal gone bad.

Could I have stepped forward and given the authorities details about what had happened that night? I suppose I could have. But what was the point? Robbie was dead, the bad guy was dead -- there wasn’t really anything to tell.

Except where it came to Monica. I mean, sure, if Dillon or whatever the drug dealer’s name was -- I think it was in the papers when they found his body, but they only used his real name once (I suppose the media rather enjoyed the nickname “Dillon” maybe because it sounded like an outlaw’s name) -- if he were still alive, then sure, I could perhaps give the authorities details on what I knew about him. But he wasn’t. And besides, it wasn’t really my place to bring something that Monica herself wasn’t comfortable bringing forth to the surface.

Yes, I cared about her, but it didn’t happen to me, so how could I possibly know the right thing to do for her?

There’s only one thing that comes to mind, and I think I’ll do it.

Tuesday June 13, 2006 - 10:10 PM

2005-01-25T06:25:00.000-08:00

I slipped a note into Monica’s locker. I thought she had the right to know.

It was an anonymous note, and it simply read the following.

Robbie loved you dearly and was regretful
for what happened, that you ever got hurt
because of him. He died trying to avenge
his wrongs, and ensured that nobody
else will ever be hurt by that evil man
again. Robbie died a hero.

Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker, I’m just
someone who cares and thought you
would like to know.

Signed,
A friend

I know it was a risky and silly thing to do, but it was the least I could do to let Monica know how deeply Robbie had cared for her, how truly sorry he’d been about what happened to her.

I think Robbie would have appreciated that.

Thursday June 15, 2006 - 9:28 PM

2005-01-25T06:15:00.000-08:00

I’ve been watching Monica these past few days, trying to judge by any difference in her if she got my note. I hadn’t spotted anything yet. Maybe the note fell out of her locked onto the floor.

Oh shit. What if someone found it? What if someone found it realizes what it’s related to and knows there was a witness that night.

Holy fuck. What’ll I do?

Monday June 19, 2006 - 9:56 PM

2005-01-25T06:10:00.000-08:00

There was a note in my locker this morning. Nothing on it, other than the words:

Thank you

Not signed. No indication who it was from. And while I wouldn't recognize her handwriting I know the note was from her.

She passed me in the hall this afternoon and didn't even give me a second look. I understand that she doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to acknowledge what we both know.

But it made me feel good to know that by writing that note to let Monica know that her secret was safe with me, and that Robbie’s love for her was true, it was appreciated in the spirit I’d intended.

That and the fact that Monica DID get the note and it didn’t fall into any one else’s hands.

Thursday June 22, 2006 - 9:03 PM

2005-01-24T07:04:00.000-08:00

I was sitting in the cafeteria today with Harley, Neil and Jagdish. Man, I missed those guys.

I’ve been sitting on my own, or just wandering around like a space cadet for so long, I never got caught up with my friends. Sure, I hung around with them for the occasional event, chatted with them in the hallways and sometimes sat with them during lunch or spares.

But today was different.

It was like old times, back before things between Sarah and I fell apart.

I hadn’t felt normal, like one of my old pals since before Christmas. But they welcomed me right back into the fold.

We were talking about old man Cottman and his fuckin’ end of year pop quizzes. We ended up getting all razzed about that morning’s pop quiz surprise and the fact that none of us passed this one. We started worrying about the upcoming History exam that Cottman would present us with when Harley made an announcement.

“We should fucking party tonight!” he said.

“What?” Jagdish looked at him, stunned. “It’s a school night.”

“Fu . . . Screw that,” Harley said, quickly changing the first word of his sentence because a teacher was walking by. “We all flunked this pop quiz, we’re likely going to flunk Cottman’s exam. Why don’t we take a moment to just say ‘to hell with this’ and party it up?”

“Not a bad idea with all of the bizarre shit that’s been going on around here lately,” Neil said. “Both a teacher and a student died just this semester, never mind the accident that nearly took out Miss Hamilton and Sarah.” Neil paused very briefly to look at me when he said this, sensitive to my reaction to her name. “We could use the release. Besides, this is our last year in high school. Next year -- who knows? We should make the most of our time together.”

I started laughing. “Hey, Neil, that’s awfully sentimental of you.”

Jagdish leaned toward him. “C’mon, Neil. Give us a hug.”

“Yeah, you fairy.” Harley said. “Let’s have a group hug and a cry. What are you, like Oprah?”

“Lay off Harley,” Neil said. “I was agreeing with you, okay.”

The group was quiet for a minute when Jagdish spoke up. “Where?” he asked.

We all looked at him.

“So, we know we’re going to do this. So where? The pit?”

"Fuckin' A, Jag." Harley said

The rest of us immediately agreed as well. The pit was an abandoned dump that was just off the highway. There was easy access to it, but the deep pit allowed us to make a lot of noise and have a bonfire without anyone being able to see or hear from the road.

Plans were made as to when we were going to meet, who was going to bring what and it was all settled by the time the bell rang announcing our lunch period was over.

Man, was that ever a good thing. It’s been way too long since I’ve felt that good. I’m so looking forward to getting drunk with my buddies later tonight. Going to pretend to go to bed early then sneak out. Can't wait.

Friday June 23, 2006 - 5:54 PM

2005-01-23T11:06:00.000-08:00

Oh fuck.

It’s happened again.

Jagdish is dead.

It’s my fault.

Oh shit -- Uncle Bob's knocking at my bedroom door -- probably wants to "talk" to me again about everything. Dammit.

Tuesday July 25, 2006 - 11:37 AM

2005-01-23T11:04:00.000-08:00

stil grounnded not sur if thiss cell phne txt mesage will get thru to my blg feeel so out of toouch fukck

Tuesday August 15, 2006 - 12:17 AM

2005-01-22T11:07:00.000-08:00

Christ. Two fucking busy months just passed. Uncle Bob and Aunt Shelly took away all of my priviledges, including television and internet access.

Fuck.

How the hell is a guy supposed to do his "self-searching" therapy? I haven't even worked out the whole situation that caused the death of my buddy Jagdish yet, nevermind try to deal with the rest of the bullshit that's happened between then and now.

Got way too fucking much to say and I don't know where to begin.

I'm tired. Just want to get back to sleep now. I'll be back.

Tuesday August 15, 2006 - 11:20 PM

2005-01-21T07:19:00.000-08:00

I noticed that some anonymous person posted a comment with a link to a site that they thought might help me.

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

I checked it out. It didn't help me, but I can see why someone suggested it. It's some sort of site where people mail in secrets and confessions. Some of it was a little disturbing to read, but it didn't make me feel any better. These entries of mine aren't confessions, they're just me trying to deal with all the people around me who are dying.

I didn't do anything wrong. It's not my fault.

Is it?

Thursday August 17, 2006 - 10:32 PM

2005-01-21T05:25:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about what my guidance counseller said about writing it all down, and about that confessional site that the anonymous person posted. And thinking about Jagdish's recent death.

And it made me realize something. I've never spoken at all to a single person, about what happened to my best friend Donnie when I was twelve. Yeah, I think I might have mentioned when I first started this blog about the fact that I lost my best friend.

But I don't think I talked about how it happened. And I know for sure that I've never let anyone know the exact details of what happened, or, more embarassing, how I'd reacted to it. And I don't think I can move on to deal with Jagdish's loss without going back and examining Donnie's tragic death -- and my involvement in it.

We were twelve, and out hunting partridge with our 22's. Levack is pretty much completely surrounded by wilderness and so getting to the woods was easy, almost any way that you walked. We headed into the woods down High Street, behind the school -- behind what, at the time, used to be Levack District High School but is now Levack Public School.

Donnie and I were walking along with our rifles at our sides and pointed to the ground -- sure, we followed at least one of the hunting safety guidelines, but we kept them loaded while we walked, eager not to miss out the chance to shoot any partridge we stumbled across. We were walking down a trail when Donnie spotted a rabbit. It was a cute little white rabbit and it darted out on the trail in front of us. Donnie let out a startled laugh and raised his rifle towards it.

"No, Donnie," I suddenly blurted. For some reason it disturbed me that he was going to shoot the rabbit. I don't know why. Maybe it's because we were out looking for partridge, not rabbits. We weren't there to kill other animals. Something in my mind refused the idea. I wanted Donnie to stop.

Donnie glared at me, hopped off the trail and started running through the woods after the rabbit. He was laughing at he ran, and the entire time, I was hoping that he'd fall, stumble, and that the rabbit would get away. I watched as he ran, his head disappearing beneath the high growing ferns as he tried to duck and spot where the rabbit was heading.

I cringed when his head went down a final time and the rifle went off.

His head didn't pop up again. Instead, I heard a horrid, nasty wailing series of screams.

I dropped my own rifle and ran towards Donnie's screams. I found him lying on his back, looking up at me with one eye, his left eye. The other eye socket was a pool of flesh and blood and gunk, and a small trail of blood and eye fluid was leaking down his cheek. He must have shot himself in the eye. When he saw me, he stopped his screaming and reached toward me. "Peter," he said. "Help. My eye, my eye."

I just stared at him, my stomach pitching and rolling. I was afraid to touch him, even just his hand. Afraid that his blood, his gore, his death would get on me. I just stared at him, and then started to back away.

"Peter?" he said, sitting up, his one hand still reaching for me, his other hand starting to pawing madly at the side of his face, as if it were merely a bug sitting on his face that he wanted desperately to be rid of and not some sort of permanent damage.

I turned and ran from him.

And I kept running, screaming, trying to banish the image of my best friend sitting there, helplessly reaching toward me, the messy gore running down the side of his face. Trying to block the sound of his continued cries for help.

I kept running, away, away from him, from the scene of the accident. I'm not sure how long I'd run, but I ended up collapsing at some point where I could no longer hear him calling for help. I sat there in the woods, listening to see if I could still hear him (I couldn't) and crying.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, but when I finally got up and started walking back in his direction, I was cold and very numb. As I got closer to where the accident had happened, I had this strange feeling of calm. The forest was quiet, silent. Donnie was no longer calling for help, or crying or screaming in pain. I wondered for a moment if I'd come in the wrong direction. But no, I was in the right place. There was my gun on the trail path where I'd dropped it when I first heard his scream of pain.

And the forest was completely silent. The ferns just above where Donnie had fallen were blowing gently in the breeze. I picked up my rifle and started heading back out of the forest, back home.

I'm told that some adults found me walking down the street with my rifle, heading in the direction of home, my head downcast and my face white as a ghost. They'd known that Donnie and I were out hunting, and when they asked where Donnie was, I'd just pointed back towards the woods, my jaw hanging open, my eyes wide, my tongue like a thick wool blanket in my mouth.

When I eventually spoke, I told people about the accident, but not about how I'd run away from Donnie. Everyone assumed that I was in shock from the accident -- but I was in shock because of my reaction to my friend crying out for help -- and the fact that if I'd actually helped him, not left him lying there, then perhaps things would have been different.

Donnie didn't die right away. But when they found him, he'd already dropped into a coma. The bullet had done some damage to his brain, an infection had spread. There was nothing anyone could do. He never came out of his coma and ended up dying by the end of the week.

And I hadn't even gone to see him in that hospital. No, the last image I'd had of Donnie, the one that stays with me today, is the image of him sitting on the forest floor, reaching towards me, asking for help.

Saturday August 19, 2006 - 7:28 PM

2005-01-20T07:01:00.000-08:00

Couldn’t sleep last night, or the night before that -- the morbid memory was stuck in my head all night and I still can’t get the image of Donnie out of my head. Every time I close my eyes he's sitting in the dirt, his face leaking eye puss and gore, looking up at me, pleading. Just wanting me to help.

In my dreams I keep seeing Donnie sitting there, only, instead of just some gore and puss running from his eye down his cheek, both of his eyes are hanging out on these long crazy fleshy strings, swaying back and forth, but still looking at me.

Jesus.

I spent a good part of the past month digging through Shakespeare, trying to read more of his stuff, you know, to see if there was something else like Hamlet that I could identify with. My aunt has this old beat-up “complete works of Shakespeare” sitting on a book shelf in the den. I buried myself in it for days on end, reading from the time I got up until the time I went to bed, stopping only to eat when my aunt or uncle called me. I mean, I was fucking grounded. Not much else to do anyways. And focusing on the imagined worlds was a far better option than thinking about what ha just happened to Jagdish. Okay, fuck, I'm not ready to talk about that. Have to ease into that once I feel ready.

So last night when I couldn't sleep, since I'd finished reading Shakespeare, I started reading Sophocles. Oedipus Rex. I remember Miss Hamilton talking about how Hamlet included streams of plot from Oedipus, or something like that. I can kind of see a bit of that now that I've read it. But it's fucking freaky stuff. Guy who is left to die as a baby ends up killing his father a couple of decades later without realizing it, ends up marrying his mother. Geeziz.

Makes me wonder if maybe my Mom isn’t dead after all -- and, what if I end up getting it on with this older woman, and later find out that I’m sleeping with my Mom?

Fuck, what was it with these ancient writers?

They came up with some wicked stuff.

I stopped reading when I got to the scene where in his grief and rage, Oedipius plucks out his eyes. I couldn’t get past it -- that’s when the images of Donnie started haunting me again.

Fucking Shakespeare.

Fucking Oedipus.

Sunday August 20, 2006 - 7:44 PM

2005-01-19T05:12:00.000-08:00

I think I’m starting to understand just what the hell is wrong with me.

No, not in the grander sense. It’ll likely take me my entire life to figure out why I’m surrounded by so much tragic death, so much tragedy. Fuck, it feels like I’m at the centre of some sort of Shakespearean play.

What I mean, is why I can’t get my head out of this funk that I’m in.

It comes back to that damn guidance counselor.

Who would have thought that the overweight bastard with the coke bottle glasses and the obviously fake head of hair, sitting there at his desk and looking at me, his hands folded across the outcrop of his stomach, a smug look on his face, would have been so bang-on.

In order to clear my head of the endless images, the thoughts that are plaguing me, I need to either talk to someone or write it all down.

Well, since I don’t have anyone to talk to -- it’s not like I can talk to Aunt Shelley or Uncle Bob any more.

No, in fact, I’m blaming this funk I’ve been in these past two months on them.

If I hadn’t have been grounded, and cut off from this therapeutic activity that had been working well for me, I might not feel this way.

So I’ve got to try hard to focus, to go through the details of what happened that night to Jagdesh. Then maybe, just maybe, I can start to move on.

Tuesday August 22, 2006 - 10:47 PM

2005-01-18T05:15:00.000-08:00

Damn, I’ve been sitting here for about half an hour, just staring at the damn keyboard and not able to get it out. It’s not that there’s nothing swirling around in my fucking head. I just can’t seem to get it out. Being away from this journal for two fucking months seems to have put a stop to the rhythm I had fallen into.

It's funny. That Kimberly person left a comment on my last post asking why I didn't write it out long-hand, like I'd done before. But I guess I was so distraught when Jag died, especially following so closely after Robbie's demise, that I sank into a funk where I wasn't able to write. I just read, watched movies, and stared out the window. It's all I seemed capable of doing for so long. And it's taking me a while to get back into the habit I'd previously been in where I could just write out the things I'd been going through.

I have found one thing, though, a side-effect of all of this that is okay with me.

Sarah. I haven’t thought about her in almost two months.

And when I think about her now, sure, it’s with a pang, an emptiness, a sense of loss, but it’s not the same obsessive compulsion that it used to be.

Sure, thoughts of Sarah are still there, and it hurts to have lost her, still hurts to think about her, but it’s not so bad as it was a few months ago.

I think I’m getting over her.

Finally.

And it only took how many deaths to get to this point?

Wednesday August 23, 2006 - 7:47 PM

2005-01-17T04:40:00.000-08:00

That night at the pit is starting to come back to me. No, it’s not that it was never there; I mean, I never lost the memories of that night, well, most of them anyway. I did spend a long time trying not to think about it, trying to do anything but think about it. But now that I'm writing in my journal regularly, it's becoming easier to bring it all back.

The later part of the night, the stuff that happened slightly after Jag died, that’s lost to me. But the earlier part of the night Jagdish died is falling into place in my head now.

And I’m ready to remember it in this journal.

I recall it being a pretty low key party, just the four of us. But yeah it was a relief. And it might have ranked up there as one of those “good times” memories that people say they look back on with fondness when they get older.

Just four friends. Drunk, stoned, rocking along, goofing around, just letting ourselves relax and enjoy the moment.

I know, I must sound like one of those “Carpe Diem” poets that Robin Williams talks about in that movie where he plays a teacher at this private school. (Damn, can't help thinking about Robbie whenever I think about that movie and cool teachers) But, until the tragedy struck, it WAS a night like that. None of us had a clue what was going to happen.

No, that’s not true.

Neil must have.

Yeah, now that I think about it, I find it strange that Neil didn’t smoke anything. He even seemed not to be drinking as much as the rest of us had been. It was almost as if he could sense that something bad was going to go down.

At the time, though, I wasn’t concerned with whether or not Neil was catching a good buzz. Jagdish and I were sharing a joint and a beer, doing air guitar and singing a song by a local bar band that Neil’s older brother was a member of.

They were pretty cool. Called themselves the “Vicious Pigs” -- we’d been to a lot of their shows, had all three of their CD’s and one of our favorite songs was “Rock Me To Hell” -- that’s the one Jag and I were rocking down to.

“Hit it to me baby” I screamed, in an attempt to hit the proper high notes of the band’s lead singer.

Jagdish finished off the can of beer, crushed it in his fist, tossed it in the fire, then started strumming the fingers of his right hand down near his hip and wigging his left fingers in a half-closed fist at about mid-chest. He was mimicking the action’s of Neil’s brother, the leader guitarist for the band. With a higher-pitched voice than mine, he belted out the next lyrics. “Down on your knees.”

We stepped closer to each other, leaning against each other’s backs at a pretty steep angle the way we’d seen the lead guaitarist and lead singer do on stage while performing this song.
“Rock me to hell, baby!” We bellowed together, in much deeper voices.

Jag then moved away so fast that I fell onto the ground because I was still leaning on him. Then he leapt onto a boulder beside the fire and started gyrating his hips to the unheard drumbeat of the song while his fingers moved along the invisible guitar in an effort that spoke to me like the awesome guitar riffs that always played during this part of the chorus of the song, and finished the song with: “Oh blow me a breeze.”

Neil and Harley were sitting on a fallen tree, laughing their asses off. “Great show, you dumb fucks,” Harley said.

“Yeah, nice fall, Peter!” Neil said.

I remember getting up to my feet, the sound of their laughter echoing in my head, and suddenly I was filled with a red-hot anger. I don’t know why. It was an accident that I’d fallen when he leapt up onto the rock. But the fall, combined with him thrusting his crotch in my direction, and the laughter of our friends, just rolled into a burning anger that seemed to bubble up out of nowhere.

I glared at Jagdish and he started to shrug as if to say “Hey man, sorry, but what can I do.” I was about to say something like: “You dumb prick, you could have warned me you were going to move.” But I never got a chance to say a single word.

His eyes suddenly widened and he released a hot burst of puke, some of it hitting the side of my face, and he collapsed right off the rock, his arm and hand falling into the fire.

“Aw Christ,” Harley said. “This just gets better and better. If you guys don’t quit it, I’m going to fucking piss myself laughing.”

I was wiping the puke off my face looking at how it seemed red in my hands in the strange firelight, when Neil let out a strange panicked yell.

I didn’t hear what exactly he said because it was then I’d noticed that Jagdish was just laying there, his arm laying directly in the fire. He hadn’t pulled it out at all. He was right out of it.

I grabbed at his other arm, dragged him out of the fire, the stench of burnt flesh and fabric suddenly filling the air.

Out of nowhere, Neil was down on the ground, his fingers pressed against the side of Jag’s neck. Then his hand shot back, like he’d been stung, and he jumped up to stand beside me.

“Son of a bitch,” Neil whispered and then, in a voice that kept getting louder and louder kept saying this over and over and over.

Sonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitchsonofabitch

Then, to the bizarre tune of Neil’s endless stream of panic, I felt something welling up in my throat. Given the situation, how much I’d drank, the disgusting smell of Jag’s burnt flesh, I bent over, ready to release the entire contents of my stomach.

But I didn’t throw up, even though the feeling was exactly the same.

Instead, I released a deep and eerie laugh, which seemed to reverberate from the depths of my stomach and burned at my throat as it burst out of my mouth.

Friday August 25, 2006 - 10:52 PM

2005-01-16T07:20:00.000-08:00

I see that someone named Jane has posted a comment asking me why I stopped. I've held the details of what happened the night that Jagdish died so deep down inside, that it's difficult for me to get it all out. I needed to take a break after writing in such detail about it the other night. But it's not only that. It's that I pretty much went blank immediately after what I'd described.

Laughing, my entire body shaking as the laughter forced its way past my lips, was the last thing I remember about that night.

The rest is just darkness.

Pitch black darkness.

Immediately after releasing the laughter from the depths of my bowels, I passed out and fell onto the ground immediately beside Jagdish.

Neil told me this. And this was just last week, because other than school and Jagdish’s funeral, I hadn’t seen either Neil or Harley because I’d been grounded. Anyways, Neil told me that as I fell down on the ground beside Jag, that they thought I was dead too.

Neil admitted that he thought maybe Harley had poisoned us in some sort of bizarre “end of school, end of friendship” death pact. But I know it’s something he would never tell Harley, likely because it’s the crazy fucking kind of thing that Harley would come up with, and we both knew it.

Anyways, talking about all the mindfuck kind of things that Harley is capable of is not the reason I’m keeping this journal.

No, I want to get on with remembering the sequence of events from that night.

Neil said that I’d fallen down right beside Jag.

He said that when he checked for my pulse he could feel it. Said he’d only ever felt a pulse stronger once, actually. It was the pulse he’d felt on a wounded moose just moments before it bled to death. He said my pulse was something like that.

In any case, he knew that I was still alive.

He told me he hesitated again a moment before leaving for help, uncertain as to whether or not Harley could be trusted with our bodies -- Jag’s dead body and my unconscious one -- with thoughts that perhaps he might come back to find Harley had rolled us both into the fire to see who might burn up first, or maybe dragged us over to the river to see if our bodies would float away or just sink into the murky depths. Yeah, Harley was that kind of strange fuck. I’ll never forget the time that I came upon him when he had two poor frogs pinned down by the arms and was slowly pulling a single leg off of each of them. He’d been planning on seeing if there was any difference in the way that each frog hopped afterwards, claiming it was a scientific experiment.

Fuck me. Scientists are supposed to do experiments, sure, but his idea of experiments was always something sick. If Harley becomes a scientist I’m resigning from the freakin human race.

Damn, I keep harping on about Harley -- it’s almost as if I have to work at getting stuff about him off of my chest here before I can continue on with the remaining events of that night.

Or maybe it’s because the rest of that night was pretty much standard.

No, Harley didn’t do anything with our prone bodies. Neil ran to get help. When Neil returned, with his older brother and father (and a quick 911 call put in), he said he found Harley sitting cross legged in front of the fire and singing “Koom-Bah-Ya” or however the hell you spell it.

So help returned -- I was rushed to emergency and treated for alcohol poisoning. It was later determined that that is what killed Jagdish.

But, dear reader, we both know by now that, no matter what the medical report says, Jag wasn’t killed because he had too much to drink that night.

No.

Jag was killed because of me.

I did it. It’s this fucking curse surrounding me.

Everyone who gets close to me dies.

And now Jagdish is dead.

And it’s my fucking fault.

Tuesday August 29, 2006 - 3:18 AM

2005-01-15T04:41:00.000-08:00

I had to stop writing the last time because it was becoming a little overwhelming for me. But I couldn’t sleep for the longest time either. That night I just laid in bed, the events that followed going through my head.

But it was all going through my head too much to write them down.

And the same thing kept happening to me again every night.

Tonight, or this morning rather, I'd had enough. I finally just got out of bed and thought I’d try to slow those thoughts down, try to write it all down.

The weeks following Jagdish's death, the time at school, everything, is just a huge blur. Or at least, the images and memories of those weeks are mostly swirling around in my head so fast that I can’t catch them, hold them down long enough to write about.

But I have been able to pick a few of them out of the air.

Yeah, I remember moments at the funeral, sitting there in the pew, looking up at the casket, then across the aisle at Neil. (He’d been sitting with his folks, me with Uncle Bob and Aunt Shelley) Like me, he’d been grounded as well -- and, like me, it had been suggested to him that it would be best if he and Harley and I kept our distance from each other until the school year finished. So, perhaps under the fear that others were watching us and would report our behaviour, we stayed away from each other during lunch or spare periods.

It was like being back in that exile I’d been under when I first broke up with Sarah. Only, this time, it wasn't self-imposed.

Dammit to hell, though, and this is something that you’d think at least the guidance counselor would inject on our behalf -- we needed to talk to each other -- we needed to deal with our feelings of what happened when a friend of ours died. We needed that.

But we didn’t get it.

Now, though I’m no longer grounded, I still haven’t spoken much with Neil or with Harley -- to be honest, I never did much with Harley one on one -- we only hung around together as part of the larger group, actually. Neil or Jag were the only ones I’d ever had any deep or meaningful conversation with, actually.

I’d always kind of shunned Harley, to be honest.

Perhaps in the way that I’m convinced that Neil is now shunning me.

You see, Neil’s a smart cookie -- he doesn’t know about my good friend Donnie, because his family didn’t live in town back when that happened. And I’ve never talked about it to anyone. But he knows about my parents, he knows about Sarah’s dad and he witnessed the thing with Jagdish firsthand.

So he must have figured out the bizarre combination -- that getting mixed up with me was an invitation to bring Death into someone’s life.

He must have figured that out.

It’s why he didn’t call.

I get the feeling that he’s shunning me, the way that we all used to shun Harley.

It has to be.

Okay, I think I got most of whatever I could snag out of the air down. I actually feel better. I think I'm going to be able to sleep now.

Wednesday August 30, 2006 - 7:49 AM

2005-01-14T11:49:00.000-08:00

I had some strange dream last night.

I was walking through this field, wearing some sort of heavy fabric, but I couldn't see what it was. It was foggy, but just up ahead of me was someone that I was trying to catch up to. But I couldn't walk fast, because the heavy fabric on me was weighing me down, and I was also carrying something -- something heavy that required both hands just to hold it.

The person up ahead in the field disappeared down a hill as I tried to pick up speed. Then, they appeared, even farther away atop of the next knoll up ahead.

Frustrated, I tried tossing off the fabric on me, but it wouldn't move, and I kept moving slower, but the stranger ahead, the person I was trying to reach, kept moving farther and farther away.
Finally, as my walking slowed down, almost as if my feet were stuck in some sort of thick muck or quick-sand, the stranger crested the next hill and disappeared. So I gave up and just stood there.

I looked down in my hand. I was carrying a scythe.

I screamed, dropping the scythe, and teared at the fabric, doing whatever I could to get what I now knew was a shroud off of me. That's when I felt something hard pinching my leg. When I looked to see what it was, I could see these skeletal hands reaching up through the dirt and mud, grabbing at my legs, holding me in place. First there was one set of hands, then two, three, four. And more. I lost count. The hands and skeletal arms were grabbing my feet, legs, my waist, pulling me down. I struggled to break free but I couldn't.

I struggled to yell out for help -- maybe the stranger in the distance, the one who'd just disappeared out of view, would be able to hear me. But my mouth wouldn't work.

I struggled, helplessly, and then became aware that there was someone -- no, not someone, a group of people -- coming up behind me.

"Peeeeeeter," their voices whispered in unison, the sound not unlike the quiet creaking of an old coffin lid being raised. "Peeeeeeeter."

I woke up as a hand came down on my shoulder.

Now what the fuck was that all about? Who was the stranger? Who was sneaking up behind me. The only thing I could tell for sure was that the hands coming out of the group were likely the people whose deaths I'd been responsible for over the years.

The freaky thing is that once I woke, I went for a quick piss, then got back into bed and slept like a baby. Not too sure about that. The fact that I could sleep after such a bizarre nightmare, well, that scares me more than the dream.

Monday September 4, 2006 - 10:39 PM

2005-01-14T11:45:00.000-08:00

School starts tomorrow. Not that that means anything for me. I won't be attending anywhere.

Aunt Shelly and Uncle Bob are pretty pissed off at me about it. But I honestly can't get my head into the thought of actually going to College or University. It's been way too difficult a summer, trying to get over the way that Jagdish died. Fuck. I still remember back to the long talks we had and all the worrying that I'd done when Sarah and I were together and she wanted to go to Carleton in Ottawa and I just wanted to stay here. Worrying because I didn't want to be apart from her.

Pointless worrying. And it's funny. Because I have been kind of listening in to friends talking about Sarah and what she's been up to. I just can't help myself. And apparently, though Sarah was accepted into the journalism program at Carleton, she didn't end up going. She didn't end up going anywhere, in fact.

Just like me.

Funny that we should both be in the same boat and not be together.

Sunday September 10, 2006 - 12:09 AM

2005-01-13T05:15:00.000-08:00

I had another one of those bizarre dreams last night.

Again, it was a foggy night and I was in this field, carrying a scythe and trying to catch up with this stranger who was walking quickly, moving faster than I was, and disappearing off in the distance.

Like before, there was this feeling that there was someone behind me. I could hear this noise, soft at first, then louder, perhaps as the wind shifted, or it got closer to me.

It was the unmistakable chaotic shouts of an angry mob.

When I turned to look, I could see them, about a hundred or so yards back, some of them carrying torches and too numerous to begin to count. In the same way that I could tell the stranger ahead of me was getting away, I knew that they were gaining on me, and would be caught up to me in a matter of minutes.

I turned to look ahead for the stranger, but she was gone again. Yes, suddenly the stranger was a woman.

When I turned to look for the mob, they were suddenly gone too, but standing a few yards behind me were two of my friends.

One of them was holding a rifle and both of his eyes were hanging down by the thinnest of sinews on his cheeks, swaying as he walked as if they were trying to look at me. It was Donnie. That much I could tell. The other one’s eyes were also popped out and his mouth was open, slowly leaking a steady flow of a thin red fluid. His hands were moving in a strange little dance, the fingers wiggling. That, of course, was Jag, and I realized that he was doing air guitar and his mouth was moving to the lyrics of a Viscous Pigs song.

I froze in place, staring at them.

Then, as they stalked closer, I started crying for their forgiveness.

When I woke up this morning, I kept thinking about the mob moving towards me in the distance.

It reminded me of this scene from the old Frankenstein movie. No, not one of the versions that was true to the book, like the one in which Robert Dinero played the monster, but the really old one with Boris Karlov.

Uncle Bob’s a bit of a movie buff, which can be kind of a cool thing. He’s shared many of his critiques about movies with me over the years -- although I have to admit it’s been a couple of years since we both sat down and watched one of his classic movies together.

I wonder if we might be able to do that soon.

I think that rather than try to sleep tonight I'll dig into his DVD collection and try to watch a movie. I'm kind of afraid to dream like that again.

Thursday September 14, 2006 - 11:19 AM

2005-01-12T05:37:00.000-08:00

I just did something these past few days that I haven’t done in ages.

I spent some time with Uncle Bob.

And it was great.

We watched movies. But we didn’t just watch them, it was more than that. We were able to bring back a fun experience we’d had a few years ago, back when “Planet of the Apes” came out. When it came out, we saw it in the theatre, and I loved it. But the next day my uncle showed me a DVD from his DVD library -- it was the original movie from something like 25 years ago. We’d watched the original then talked about it. It was really cool, the way they did the first movie. The special effects were pretty bland, but the apes looked pretty realistic and the ending was fuckin-A. At the end the main character, played by Charlton Heston, is on this beach and sees the arm from the Statue of Liberty sticking up out of the sand and realizes that they hadn't been on some alien planet at all, but had landed on Earth which had been taken over by apes. Gotta love those types of endings.

My uncle's a pretty cool guy when it comes to movies - I remember we'd talked about the fact that the newer version wasn't so much of a remake as it was taking a basic concept and doing a whole new thing with it. There are pro's and con's for each, I think. But I love listening to my uncle go on about it. He really knows his stuff.

This past week we watched a few movies and their remakes. We saw the original "Flight of the Phoenix" as well as the one that came out last year. Kind of neat. We watched "Assault of Precinct 13" - the new and the one from the 70's. My uncle liked both of them as well, but for different reasons. Then we watched three different versions of "King Kong" which was really cool to do. We did those ones backwards, starting from the most recent to the original black and white.

Last night we watched the original Alfred Hitchcock "Psycho" and the one they re-did a few years ago. It was neat to see the original, because I'd only seen the remake and thought it was pretty good. (Okay, I did see a clip from the black and white shower scene -- I mean, who HASN'T seen that?). But in that case, the original was just more creepy, had a deeper type of atmosphere. My uncle was able to explain how Hitchcock was able to do that consistently in his movies, but I've forgotten most of the details he explained.

It was enough just to listen to him go on, so excitedly, about the movies.

I love when my uncle and I can spend time like that together.

It makes me wonder, though, why he didn't pursue a career in film-making. I haven't asked him that, yet, though.

Saturday September 16, 2006 - 3:15 PM

2005-01-11T11:12:00.000-08:00

I finally broke down today -- maybe it has something to do with being back and writing in this journal regularly. Maybe it has something to do with the connection that I've rediscovered between Uncle Bob and I.

But I feel like I’ve been able to open up again, to life, to the experiences, to the idea of communication.

Yeah sounds like flowery girly crap to me, too. But it’s a powerful feeling. I haven’t felt that way since Sarah and I last got together.

And I know that if anybody out there could possibly understand what I’m going through, what I’m dealing with, it’d be Sarah.

I’m pretty sure that enough time has passed now. I’m sure she’s been able to finally come to terms with her father’s terminal cancer. Maybe she’ll come around if I just try again to speak with her -- maybe she’d be able to see how much I need to have her back in my life, to help sort through this shit that I’m dealing with.

So I broke down today and left a message on Sarah’s answering machine.

Sunday September 17, 2006 - 10:14 PM

2005-01-11T10:15:00.000-08:00

Okay, it’s late enough that Sarah should have been home from wherever she was out to. I mean how much is there to do on a Sunday night in Levack or even in Sudbury? I know that she has her own private line and own answering machine -- so it’s not like the message would have to be relayed to her -- she could retrieve the message from her machine directly.

So she should have gotten the message I left today by now. When I called her place yesterday all I did was leave a message telling her that I was thinking about her. Pretty stupid, I know. But today, I left another message asking her to call me when she got home.

Of course, I’m a fool to think that she would actually phone me back.

Foolish, stupid, idiotic.

But I can’t help myself.

I think I’ll go try calling her again.

Sunday September 17, 2006 - 11:57 PM

2005-01-11T09:17:00.000-08:00

No answer at Sarah’s. Still.

I called about ten times, too.

Fuck.

Monday September 18, 2006 - 5:52 AM

2005-01-11T08:18:00.000-08:00

I just got back from Sarah’s place. I snuck into the back yard, crept down by her window, just to, you know, peek in. There were plenty of times when we were dating that I would show up at the window and she’d stand on a chair, open up the window and the screen. We’d talk like that, her standing on the chair and me laying in the grass, sometimes holding hands through the window, through half of the night.

It kind of felt like Romeo & Juliet, doing that, although we'd never had the same issues with her parents hating Uncle Bob and Aunt Shelley. Fuck, what is it with this Shakespeare guy and the things in my life. Was he that fucking good at writing, or was he some kind of psychic?

We’d tried kissing like that once, but, even when she was standing on tiptoe, she couldn’t quite reach.

So anyways, I snuck around the back of the house, to her basement window.

There was no light on, that I could tell immediately.

But there was a soft light coming in from the basement hallway, light coming from the bathroom -- it didn’t mean that someone was there, because I remember that they always left a light on in their bathrooms both the one in the basement as well as the one upstairs. But I couldn’t be sure. Sarah could have been in there, getting ready for bed.

So I laid there and waited.

And fell asleep.

Not sure how long I slept -- must have been at least an hour. Maybe two.

I woke up, the cold dew seeped into my clothes, my neck sore and stiff.

But her bedroom was still dark.

Still no sign of Sarah.

I gathered myself up and dragged my sorry ass home.

Wednesday September 20, 2006 - 7:42 AM

2005-01-10T05:25:00.000-08:00

I left Sarah half a dozen messages yesterday.

Still no answer.

Damn, why does this have to be so much work?

I have so much to say to her, so much to talk to her about, so much to explain. I know that she’d be able to see things clearly, help me deal with all this, put everything into perspective.

I just know it.

All I need is to get ahold of her.

Well, after reading that comment by the RainyPete guy, I couldn't get the thought of him calling me Paul Bernardo out of my head. I wasn't all that familiar with what he'd done, other than some controversy I remember a year or so ago when this movie came out about him and his wife Karla. So I dug into the movie archives that my uncle has on DVD, and sure enough, I found the movie titled Karla. So I watched it.

Couple of sick fucks. That's all I can say. And I wish there was some way that I could get that freaking clown nosed jerk named RainyPete to understand that I'm not at all like this fucking Bernardo. I'm more like Romeo. And Sarah is my Juliet. I'm simply misunderstood, deeply in love.

And a note to Kimberly, I also saw your comments. I'm not scaring Sarah. I couldn't possibly scare Sarah. She knows me too well. Sarah knows I love her. And I know exactly what's going on in her life right now, because I'm feeling it too. Her father is dying and she's terrified, just like me. Terrified of all the people around me who are dying. So where the fuck do you get off giving me advice? Are you and this RainyPete guy conspiring against me or something? I checked your online blogger profiles and you both live in the same city. I bet you are both conspiring and laughing your asses off at me. Wouldn't surprise me one bit.

I know exactly what Sarah's going through and exactly what she needs. She needs me.

My Uncle Bob said I could borrow the car today, that he wasn't planning on using it at all. I'm going to park just down the street from Sarah's house for the next 18 hours or so, see if I can catch her coming or going.

Sunday September 24, 2006 - 2:58 PM

2005-01-10T04:00:00.000-08:00

Fuck. I've been completely out of comission for several days now. I ended up spending half the day Wednesday parked outside of Sarah's house, but I fell asleep in the car only a couple of hours into my stake-out. I woke up all sweaty and feverish and it took all of my strength just to be able to drive the car home, walk from the garage to the house, then make it into my bedroom.

I've been laid up in bed, sick for the past few days, mostly sleeping, without even the strength to watch television. It's only this morning that I started to feel better. Fuck. I must have caught something that night I fell asleep outside Sarah's bedroom window.

And if the cold that I caught wasn't bad enough, I had these freaky feverish dreams. Most of them involve waiting for Sarah outside her house or outside her bedroom window. The one that sticks strongest in my mind, of course is where I arrive at Sarah's window to find that RainyPete guy there first, clown nose and all, laying in the grass looking through her window.

He stands up when I get there, all excited, telling me he can see it, and wants to get a picture of it. I have no idea what the hell he's talking about. He asks me to pose in front of Sarah's bedroom window so he can take my picture with it. For some reason I can't speak while he puts his hands on my shoulders and moves me into position, then tells me to crouch lower so he can get me and the window and it in the shot.

I'm finally able to speak and I say: "Get what in the shot? What is it that you see?"

"The skull," he says, pointing at the window.

And I turn and now I see it too. Hovering in her window in the dark, grinning at us with haunting vacant eyes. As I continue to stare at it, the eyes start to glow an eerie red and its jaw clacks open, saying something.

Then I turn back to look at RainyPete, and he's taking his clown nose off. And, as soon as he takes it off, I can see that RainyPete is really Paul Bernardo. And, out of nowhere this chick shows up. Although I've never seen what she looks like I know that it's Kimberly. Except she looks like that chick Donna from That 70's Show, the one who played Karla Homolka in that movie.

"We've taken Sarah," they both say in unison. Then RainyPete/Bernardo lifts up his camera and says. "Okay, now say cheese."

Monday September 25, 2006 - 10:56 PM

2005-01-10T03:00:00.000-08:00

I'm still not feeling all that better -- haven't been able to leave the house, but at least today I got dressed, moved around the house a bit, watched a few movies, read almost an entire Richard Laymon novel (that made me think about Robbie -- man do I ever miss him). And I watched some TV tonight.

Was kind of blown away by this new show on called Heroes. It's about these superheroes from all over the world, coming together during this eclipse. Fucking awesome show. It actually took my mind off of Sarah for a while.

Shit.

I stopped while writing this. Stopped for a few minutes to phone Sarah's place.

Her machine picked up after two rings, which means she hasn't retrieved and deleted her messages yet. Fuck. Where the hell is she? Wish I could be out there looking for her, waiting for her, instead of having been sick here. I know that she needs me.

Maybe I'm like one of those characters in the show Heroes. Each of them has this different uncanny super-power, some sort of supernatural ability. Yeah, I know, there's like this dark cloud of death surrounding me, but maybe it's the side-effect from some really cool super-power that I have. Maybe it's just starting to show its ability.

Like maybe that RainyPete character IS actually some sort of freakoid pervert like Bernardo. Maybe my dream WAS trying to tell me something. Maybe that's what my dream was trying to tell me. Maybe he does have something to do Sarah. Maybe that's why he's been haunting this blog, because he's been stalking me and Sarah, waiting for a chance to get at her, now watching me to see what I know.

Wednesday September 27, 2006 - 4:07 AM

2005-01-09T08:30:00.000-08:00

Fuck. I can't believe the nightmare I just had. No, it's not just the dream. It's . . . ah shit, it's complicated. I've been lying here for almost two hours and can't figure things out. I had to get up and write about it. Maybe then I'll be able to close this off from my mind and get some sleep.

The dream was about RainyPete. I know, I dreamed about him and Kimberly the other night. Some sort of combination of the lecturing and accusations they've both made about me, having watched that damn Karla movie, and anxiety over what has happened to Sarah. It all seemed to mix into a really bad few days of feverish dreams and paranoid delusions.

But this last dream, this was worse -- far worse than any nightmare I've had before. But let me start at the beginning.

It was night time. I was sneaking up the side of Sarah's house, on my way to her bedroom window at the back of the house. Like before, RainyPete was there, lying in the grass, looking in the basement window. And, like before, he jumped up, all excited, when I got there, telling me he had to take my picture. But this time, instead of letting him pose me, I stopped him by knocking the camera out of his hands.

"No." I said. "Tell me what you've done with Sarah, you sick fuck."

He smiled at me and shook his head. "You poor, stupid fool."

I grabbed for his throat. "Tell me!"

He knocked my hands down easily. "Get a grip, speedy." He said. "If I had anything to do with Sarah's disappearance, why would I be hanging out here?"

"The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime."

"Okay, dimwit," he said. "Reality check. I've never been to the scene of the crime. The only reason I'm here is because it's your dream and I'm a particle of your dream. End of story."

"That's not true," I said. "You're responsible for Sarah's disappearance. And you're trying to trick me. This is part of some elaborate scheme."

"Don't flatter yourself, tough guy. Why can't you just face the fact that Sarah is through with you, that the whole thing is over, and that you need to get a life? Why can't you accept the reality that you've turned into a creepy stalker? I've got half a mind to turn on my cell phone and call the cops right now."

I lunged at him at that point. "Sarah loves me!" I shouted. "I'm not a fucking stalker." I clenched my hands into tight balls and started flailing them at him, my fists bouncing off his chest. I continued my useless assault. "Why don't you leave me and Sarah alone? Why don't you just get the fuck out of here?"

"Why don't you wake up and smell the damn coffee?" he chortled.

Tears of rage were burning in my eyes as I continued my feeble attack. "WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCK OFF AND DIE!" I screamed.

He suddenly stumbled backwards, as if my words had dug into him like so many sharp blades. "Oh shit," he said. "Now you've done it. I know where this is leading." He started to shake his head in pity again. "Peter, Peter, Peter. When will you learn?" Then a bright look flashed in his eyes. "Wait a second. Let's get a picture of this, capture the moment properly, shall we?" He reached down, retrieved his camera, then set it on a tripod, flicked a few switches and stood beside me.

"Opps," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. "Almost forgot the final touch." He produced a red spongy clown nose that he affixed to his face. Then he put his arm around my shoulder and whispered. "Now we're ready."

At that instant, a red-green tentacle shot out of the camera lens, knocking me to the ground. I recovered, looking up to see that it held RainyPete by the throat, completely lifting him off of the ground. "Gak," was all he managed to utter, before the tentacle closed around his wind pipe, and his clown nose fell off, rolled on the grass to rest directly beside me. As if instinctively, I picked it up, not taking my eyes off the action for more than a split second.

RainyPete was struggling with the tentacle around his throat, his cheeks red and his eyes bugging out from lack of oxygen. But he managed to actually pull part of the tentacle free from his throat. A moment later, he pulled enough ofthe tentacle away that he was able to drop free from its grasp, and in three solid swift moves, he ripped the tentacle out of the front of the camera, pulled it apart in two pieces, and threw them across the yard.

He fell to his kness, panting for breath and I remember looking at him, completely astonished. He's done it, I thought. He has finally broken the death curse. It's finally over.

He looked up at me and smiled. And then he shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together in a grimace as if to say. No, Peter. I'm afraid not, my friend. But he never had a chance to say anything else, because what happened next happened way too fast.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the camera start to slide forward like one of those aliens in the remake of War of the Worlds, the tripod legs suddenly as flexible and strong as the tentacle had been.

It moved forward quickly, and by the time I realized what was happening, one tentacle tripod leg shot forward and pierced through his left shoulder, pinning him against the wall. Then a second one stabbed into the thigh of his leg. Then the camera pulled itself in for an attack, and I swear I saw a set of razor sharp teeth in place of where the camera lens used to be, as the camera collided with his face. It pulled away about a foot, a large chuck of his cheek in its mouth, then it swooped in to attack again, this time biting into his neck, and again coming back with a huge hunk of flesh.

RainyPete didn't utter a single sound as the camera savagely and brutally attacked him. Stunned, I laid there in the grass, getting splattered with raindrop-like specklings of blood, watching as it tore huge chucks of flesh off of his face, chest and neck.

There was a particularly chilling moment, when, in the midst of the piranha-like attack, RainyPete looked over at me, his face consisting mostly of bits of sinew, muscle, and small pieces of meaty flesh, with a good portion of skeletal jaw showing. And I could tell he was smiling at me. And in my mind I could hear his voice. Not spoke aloud, but clearly audible within my head: I was trying to help you, Peter. And look what you've done to me. Look what you've done.

I woke up at that point. Completely freaked out.

But that wasn't the worst of it. By the time I calmed down enough to realize it was just a nightmare, I looked down into my hand.

And saw the spongy red clown nose.

Thursday, September 28, 2006 - 5:25 PM

2005-01-09T07:46:00.000-08:00

I can't fucking believe it. This isn't happening.

After reading Kimberly's comments, I went and looked at RainyPete's blog. And it's true. He's dead. He was found dead about the same time I dreamed about his death.

But I was nowhere near him. I've never been to Hamilton. And it was only a dream that I had. A dream. My fucking death curse couldn't possibly work through the internet on someone who is six fucking hours away and whom I've never even met.

It's just a coincidence. Or maybe it was like I thought before -- my dreams are somehow psychic, somehow trying to tell me something.

It couldn't have been me that killed RainyPete. It couldn't be. Sure, I was pissed off at the guy, at the things he'd said to me lately. But I read back to his earlier comments, and I realize that he was listening, trying to offer words of advice of support.

And somehow, by getting close to me, emotionally, he was killed by my curse?

No, no, it wasn't me. How could my death curse possibly reach so far? What the hell am I talking about, I don't even understand what this curse really is. How the hell could I know its limits?

Monday, October 2, 2006 - 10:14 PM

2005-01-09T07:41:00.000-08:00

I’ve sat here for the past few days and thought about Rainy Pete. A lot. I also went back and read his blog archives, looked at all of the really cool photographs that he'd taken. He was a pretty talented photographer and a funny guy. Strange, but funny in that way certain adults have.

I spent a lot of time getting to know him. I figured if I was responsible for his death, the least I could do was get to know him.

But it doesn't make sense. How could I possibly have killed someone that I didn't even know -- that I haven't even met? That suggests, to me, that it has to be a coincidence. A freaky, twisted coincidence. Either that, or my dream about his death was trying to tell me something.

I haven't been able to dismiss the thought that I kept dreaming about this Rainy Pete guy hanging out in front of Sarah's window. It's as if my dreams were trying to tell me something -- perhaps about Sarah.

I've called and called and called.

Still no luck hearing back from Sarah.

I’m planning on heading out and visiting her place again tonight. I know that Rainy Pete would be rolling in his grave to learn that I plan on doing that again.

But I've simply got to figure out what has happened to her -- and I'm sure that the only way I'll get an answer is to resume my post at her basement window and keep waiting for her.

Tuesday October 3, 2006 - 11:43 AM

2005-01-08T07:42:00.000-08:00

Holy Fuck.

Sarah’s gone.

She’s fucking gone.

I can’t believe it.

I’m sure I’m to blame for that too. See, I knew it. I knew that those dreams about Rainy Pete at Sarah's window were trying to tell me something.

So there I was last night, laying in the grass, gazing into the darkness of Sarah’s room, trying to make out the simple shape of the teddy bear that I knew sat in the chair closest to the door -- with the light from the nearby bathroom, I could just determine the shape of its head, the tiniest glint off it’s one glass eye.

Then, all of a sudden, after what seemed hours of waiting, a shadow crossed the window.

Sarah? Finally?

My heart leapt into my throat. I laid there, frozen, unable to move.

A light suddenly came on, filling the room with a bright painful brilliance. I squinted as I looked in. But it wasn’t Sarah standing there. It was some strange man. He slowly shuffled in to the room and sat down on the bed.

As my eyes slowly adjusted to the light and as I got a better look at him I realized it wasn’t a stranger.

It was Sarah’s father.

Holy Christ, but did he ever look different.

He’s always been a tall and powerfully built man -- but the man I saw before me, though he seemed somewhat familiar in his facial features, was merely a ghost of the man I knew as Sarah’s father.

This guy was like 100 pounds lighter than Sarah’s father -- he had this sucked in face appearance, and moved slowly like he was in a great deal of pain or that it took every effort within himself just to move an arm or a leg. I guess he looked more like those photos you see of people in the Holocaust -- starved, their eyes filled with horror, or else empty, completely spent, with no emotion or energy left to give.

And as he sat there and my eyes continued to adjust, I realized that his body was making a slight hitching movement. His hands went up to cover his eyes

He was crying. But there were no visible tears. Perhaps his cancer-filled body wasn't able to produce them any longer.

The sight made me want to cry, for Sarah, for him. I cringed and slunk away from the window and headed back home.

Friday October 6, 2006 - 9:58 PM

2005-01-07T06:35:00.000-08:00

It took me a few days to find out about what happened to Sarah, but I spoke with Julie, a friend of hers who did return my call. And I just realized, after reading Kimberly's comment, that it looked like I’d thought Sarah was dead. Well, at the very least I knew that much, I just didn't know where she'd went -- I mean, if she’d died I would have heard about it, I’m sure.

My Aunt Shelly and Uncle Bob read the obituaries in the newspaper every day, so I’m sure they would have told me.

What is it with old people and that obsession? Is it just a bland morbid curiosity, like the way that you can’t NOT look when driving past an accident scene, or is it something more? Is it the desire to see whom you’ve survived, whom you’ve lived past, like the same contest that old people have in outdoing one another describing their aches and pains.

So, no, Sarah wasn’t dead. Or, at least, if she was, nobody knew about it. That’s because she ran away.

Julie told me a few things that I hadn’t realized. I wasn’t the only person whom Sarah had shut out of her life. She’d shut every single one of her friends out by the time the school year had ended. I guess I’d been so overwhelmed in my own angst and grief over losing her, and with my obsession to speak with her I didn’t realize that I wasn’t the only one.

I wish I’d known that. I’m not sure what I would have done, but I just wish I’d known that. Maybe because it means it had more to do with Sarah, rather than with Sarah and me. I don't know if that even makes sense.

Anyways, according to Julie, Sarah had disappeared a couple of weeks ago. Around the same time I was having those freaky dreams about Rainy Pete being at her bedroom window and seeing the skull hovering there.

Sarah had been on a trip with her cousin, out of town. Her cousin lives in one of the suburbs or cities just west of Toronto. Burlington, I think. As the story goes, they’d been planning on seeing a concert or something and were both in downtown Toronto. Then nobody heard from them all night, and they never returned home to her cousin’s. Instead, her cousin was found, dead, in an alley. She’d died from an overdose of some sort of narcotic. And Sarah was nowhere to be found.

And nobody has seen her since.

There has been a lot of speculation about what happened to Sarah -- that she must be somewhere, strung out on drugs, or maybe even being held against her will by some Paul Bernardo like character. But not a single person has reported seeing her.

It’s like she disappeared off the face of the planet.

And I can't help thinking back to the fact that Burlington and Hamilton are so close to one another, and that I was dreaming about someone from Hamilton being at Sarah's window at about the same time this whole freaky thing was going down near Toronto.

I just don't know what to make of it all.

Saturday October 14, 2006 - 9:41 PM

2005-01-06T14:00:00.000-08:00

It figures that Friday the 13th and my curse would work so nicely together.

I was in Sudbury yesterday, like I've been almost every day for the past week. I'd hitch-hike in, go shoot pool with Harley and a bunch of the Sudbury guys that he would hang out with, drink, smoke a bit of pot, then head back home. I've found it much easier to spend my days like that then to try to figure out what happened to Sarah.

I mean, I went so far as to actually log onto this Toronto website where they have these cameras you can control for up to a minute, zoom in, pan across, up and down. I spent over twelve hours one day going from camera to camera trying to see if I could spot Sarah. How fucking pathetic is that? I want to believe that she's still alive somewhere, that she's still okay, but what the hell are the chances she'd be anywhere near where these cameras can look. Fuck.

Anyways, after a full day of doing that I'd started to join with hangin' with Harley and some of his pals. They're pretty fuckin' creepy, some of them a lot more strange than Harley, but it was a useful distraction for me.

So we'd sometimes hitch-hike in to Sudbury in the morning together, particularly if we couldn't catch a lift with someone we knew. And we'd hitch-hike back. When I saw together, I didn't mean we actually went at the same time in a group. No, it's easier to catch a ride when there's only one of you, so we'd split up then meet up once we got there.

Anyways, Friday, yesterday, Friday the 13th, good old unlucky Friday, I got picked up while hitching by this older chick. She was pretty friendly and had an interesting sense of humour, really dry, and I can't believe the things that happened in our short drive. But I'm getting ahead of myself now.

So she picks me up, not even a few minutes outside of Sudbury, and we exchange names and start chatting. Her name is Gwen, she tells me, and she works for Chapters, but not the store in Sudbury, at their head office in Toronto. She's some sort of corporate sales rep and is in town working on a deal with Falconbridge or Inco, I can't remember which one, but that's why she's heading up Highway 144. Anyways, we're chatting, and actually exchanging jokes about city people (she grew up in North Bay, so she's a Northerner like me, which is pretty cool) and she's telling me stories about these dumb ass people that she has met or worked with in Toronto, and we're laughing through all these hilarious stories. It's one of the best hitch-hike rides I'd had in a long time, because usually we just sit there in silence, make a bit of small talk about the weather and a half an hour ride seems like fucking eternity. But this chick is pretty cool.

Then, somewhere in the laughter, it hits me. She's from Toronto. That's where Sarah was last seen. I then start to turn the conversation into questions about where she lives, what neighbourhoods she visits. And, I guess I didn't realize it, but she must have been getting a bit creeped out by me. But I kept pushing.

Then I start asking if I can ride back with her when she returns to Toronto, and she gets this horrified look on her face. She starts acting all freaky, or at least I begin to notice, and I realize that she's creeped out, maybe thinking I'm some sort of perv, or one of those dumb asses she was telling me stories about.

"Look," I say. "I just want a ride down south. And maybe someone to show me around. I'll give you money for the gas. I need to find my girl."

But she's not listening, she starts talking about not knowing how long this business trip is going to take, how long she'll be staying in Sudbury, and the fact that she's a new driver, not all that used to highway driving, and in uncomfortable with a stranger in her car. As she's saying this, I'm starting to get really angry. Angry with myself for ruining a fun conversation and spoiling an opportunity so easily, angry with her for her reaction in thinking I'm some sort of freaky pervert.

She tells me she's going to let me off now, and I unbuckle my seat-belt, the fury slowly building inside of me.

The anger barely begins to build when suddenly the car goes out of control. She was pulling near the side of the highway near the cutoff from Highway 144 to Regional Road 8, that leads to Onaping and Levack. She must have slipped and her foot presses down on the accelerator and the wheel hits the ditch and the car starts moving, fast, off the road and toward the lake. It bumps down across the wild grass, over a few rocks and is airborne, pitching down. The front of the car slams into the lake, keeling on the passenger's side. I get tossed out the open passenger window and dive headfirst into the lake. I don't even hear her scream as the car splashes down in the water. I swim over to the shore and watch the car slowly sink, upside down, to the bottom of the lake. She never surfaces, never appears.

There's not another car or soul around besides me, to witness this woman's watery grave. After a few minutes of sitting there, completely chilled to the bone, watching the fresh flakes of snow land on the lake, I get up and start walking home. It's only a twenty minute walk home from there, but it's fucking cold, and I'm worried about catching my death of cold.

I laugh at that thought. At least I think that's where the uncontrollable laughter that rumbles up from my gut has come from.

Wednesday October 18, 2006 - 11:29 PM

2005-01-06T06:25:00.000-08:00

I've checked The Sudbury Star and The Northern Life for the past several days and there's still no mention of a car crashing in to Clear Lake on Friday. Still no sign of the car being discovered.

Of course, the road was pretty deserted, I can't recall seeing any traffic around when the car headed into the water, so it's entirely possible that nobody witnessed it, nobody heard anything.

And since this Gwen chick was from Toronto nobody has started looking for her yet.

I popped down to Clear Lake today to see if I could see anything, see tire tracks leading off the road and towards the drop into the lake, or even part of the car, but I couldn't see anything in the murky depths.

She's dead. Yet another helpless victim -- and this time, nobody even knows that she is dead.

Except me.