Young Writers Society

Jasper-

The heat's streaming down my face and flies are licking the sweat off my neck. God, it's bleedin' hot. I have to finish this section of plum trees before I can go in, boss man is gonna throw a shit if I don't. The last time I failed to pick enough I swear I could see the veins popping out of boss man's head. He's an alright guy really, but sometimes he can go off his rocker if I don't do enough work. Which, fair enough, he's letting me kip here and feed me and all that, I mays well do me bit to help. I keep working as the sun starts to set. I finally pick me days quota of plums and start to head back in. As I approach the house it looms over me, I suppose its sort of menacing in a way. I've never been near a house as big as it, let alone get to sleep in it. Okay, so I don't exactly sleep in it as such, I sleep in the sheering quarters to the side of it. Which is still nicer than what I'm used to. Its got beds, blankets and a little heater thing that keeps me warm when it's cold. And trust me, mate, it gets bloody cold out here. I've got to contend with the heat and the flies during the day and the cold at night. But, I get a nice meal at the end of the day and weekends off, unless there is something super important to do. That's what keeps me here, the fact that it's not as shite as other places I've worked. I eat dinner as quick as I can, 'cause all I wanna do is sleep. That's another good thing about this job, it makes me so exhausted that I can barely keep my eyes open at the end of the day.

Normally, I sleep through the night, at least I have done for the past few months. But, not tonight. I wake up, screaming. I'm dripping in something that's probably my own sweat.

There used to be a time when I'd always wake up in the middle of the night and I'd be covered in me own fucking sweat, and the only thing that I'd be thinking about was the one thing I didn't want to. It was times like those that I wished Charlie was here. I mean, I know that I had always been telling him to get brave, but I never thought that he should be the one to tell me that. I just gotta do it meself, make meself stay brave, make meself forget, that's all.

But, you see, I thought I was good, I thought that I had forgotten, that I didn't have to think about it. It's what I needed to do, to just forget and all would be good. I hadn't had any mid-night sweats for a good while, and I seemed to be getting me life on track. I do have me life on track, I've got a somewhat stable job, and a place to sleep. What else is there? And then, I remember. I wasn't gonna have to do this all by myself. I wasn't even going to pick fruit and fix fences. I was gonna get out and do something that was good, that I actually wanted to do. Not be stuck on another fucking farm.

But, it could be worse, I've gotta keep reminding meself that. It could be worse. I always gotta tell myself that I'm happy here, cause it's true, but sometimes I forget. Well, not forget as such, more as remember. And that's what makes me sad again, remembering.

I'm still sitting on my bed covered in sweat and shaking, I need to sort myself out. Need to try and go back to sleep. But I can't seem to move my body, it's like someone glued me to the ground and won't let me move. Come on Jasper, I say under my breath, you've got to move. You've gotta get brave. But, no matter how hard I will myself, I just can't move. I can't get myself out of it, out of the memory. I just can't forget. It's over, it's over, it's over, I whisper, hoping my brain will realise that. Come on Jasper, you've got to keep going, you've gotta get brave. But, I can't. I just can't. Or at least, not they way I want to. Not the way I want.

I stay rooted to my spot, and it flashes before me. The memory. And her. I just need to forget. I've gotta get brave.

***

I arrive. I was afraid I wouldn't remember the track, but, how could I forget it. In a way, I hoped I wouldn't remember the track, that I'd have to turn back and forget about it. That wasn't an option though, not really. I need to get brave. My feet take the all too familiar final steps. And I'm there. The one place I'd been running from, and the one place I needed to return.

I feel her before I see anything. She'll be hardly recognisable now, but I guess none of us would be. Time does that to everybody. Dead or not. I feel my heart rate starting to rise and my breath becoming rigid, but I whisper to myself and continue. I reach the old jarrah tree and feel the letters below my fingers. The ones that had been etched there years ago. The ones that had begged for forgiveness and I repeat them now. I let the word roll off my tongue again and again as I face the dam. Hoping she hears, hoping she understands. The tears are falling down my face and I'm screaming the word out now.

Sorry, sorry, sorry. Over and over, until my voice is coarse and I'm all out of tears.

Silence falls. I sit by the dam and for the first time in years I let myself remember. And I don't need to feel guilty anymore.

I got brave.

Charlie-

The room is full of people, all swarming around each other, making mindless small talk. It would be ok, if they were here for me. But my latest novel got turned down by yet another publisher. I thought I had put my heart and soul into that novel, but got told that it lacked the heart and passion it needed. I don't understand why nobody picked it up. I mean, what do I need to write about to publish the best Australian novel? Do I need to write about another middle-class family suffering through a hardship? Because, that's not me. Well, not really. I thought coming to the city would be my big break, I had my first novel in my hand and a burning desire to get it published. But, that's not the way of the world. You've got to put in the hard yards to become successful, and that's what I'm doing now. I got picked up by a newspaper and have been writing articles for them for the past 2 years. It was hard, frantic work. At first I was covering crime but they quickly moved me into arts after they realised that I was incapable of writing crime articles because I easily got distracted from the actual crime story, and would hand in a poor replication of what someone else had just wrote. Replicating someone else's article just meant that I didn't have to think about how the crime happened or why it happened. It was easier not to think about that sort of stuff.

I feel myself becoming suffocated in the room filled with intellectuals and artists, knowing that I wasn't one. I always thought I was. Growing up in Corrigan made me believe I was one. But, ever since I moved to the city a few years ago I've realised that I am surrounded by people a lot smarter than me. It was a shock at first, knowing that what I had defined and prided myself own growing up no longer really mattered. Not the way it did before anyway.

I find myself on a bus. I have no idea how I got there. Probably too caught up in my own thoughts to notice. I don't even know what way the bus is going, but I stay seated and once more become absorbed in the wanderings of my own mind. I find myself returning to the thought of my recent novel, and knowing that it is going to be a failure, begin to think of what else to write about. I want to write something that touches people, that makes them think and question the world we live in, that awakens people to the cruelty and the beauty of it all at once. I want it to be groundbreaking. But, I can't write like that. Not with the ideas I've been getting, they've all been boring and mindless, it's as if I want to write subpar literature that is only read by bored housewives.

I finally hop off the first bus and get on the one that will take me home. When I arrive I see that I've got mail. It's mainly bills, but one is a letter from my dad. He moved to Canberra the year after I left, he hoped to become a political journalist but ended up becoming an editor. He writes to me every couple of months, filling me in on his life and asking about me. We make sure to never mention mum. The dark cloud that has loomed over our heads from the moment I caught her that night. I hear that she was living somewhere in Perth but I've never once tried to get in contact with her, besides she probably doesn't even know I'm here.

I open the letter and start to read.

Charlie,

I hope you are doing well. I've been good. Busy, but good. I've been sifting through story after story. God, the things people write about. I mean, seriously who comes up with all these ideas. People who have don't know the name of their own Prime Minister, that's probably who.

Anyway, I'm not too sure how to tell you this, but guess who I run into the other day. Sue Findlay, you remember her, from Corrigan. She's softened out a bit. She's working as a counsellor up in Sydney, helping veterans return to civilian life. I think she's one of the only people who actually truly understand PTSD. We had a good little chat, about Corrigan and all that. She returns there every now and again, to check up on the place.

Do you remember Laura Wishart? I'm sure you do, well, they found her Charlie, they finally found her. Well, not exactly. They haven't found her body. But they found out what happened to her. Someone came forward and told the police everything, I'm not sure who, maybe it was Mrs Wishart. I don't really know. Isn't that great news though? That poor family will finally get some peace. Although, I don't think they really need it anymore.

Have you heard from Eliza Wishart lately? I know things went a bit sour between the two of you, but I think it would be good of you if you saw her. See how she's doing.

Well, that's really all from me. I hope you are coping well Charlie, don't do anything too stupid. And remember, keep writing.

All the best,

Dad.

I'm paralysed, I don't know what to think or do. I'd forgotten. Forgotten it all. I don't know how or why, I just forgot. Maybe it helped me cope. If you forget something it means you don't have to worry about it coming to haunt you later on. But, regardless of how hard I'd tried to forget it was here to haunt me after all.

I used to be afraid of wasps. Not anymore. Now, I'm afraid of what I saw that night and what I was dragged into. What's the one way of getting over a fear? Facing it.

So, that's what I do. I let myself remember. All of it. I look back on that summer and don't forget a thing. I remember Jeffrey and our conversations about batman and superman, I remember him winning the cricket match and becoming the town hero for a little while. I remember Mum and the hole she made me dig. I remember Eliza and how she would pretend that she was living in Manhattan. And I remember Jasper and his glade and what I saw there. I remember Laura. I remember.

My mind is over flooded with memories, with everything I'd forgotten. It's like the part in my brain where those memories used to be had been barren and the floodgates had opened and all the cobwebs had been washed away, and it was fill once more. It terrifies me and thrills me simultaneously. I can't sift through the thoughts fast enough, I can't figure what had happened in what exact order, I'm unable to keep up with the bombardment of memories that were fighting for a spot in my mind. I have to get it all out, all the memories and thoughts and emotions. I have to get it all down.

And, finally, I know what I have to write about.

Eliza-

I took too much, I know that now. My head is spinning and I need to go toilet but can't.

I vomit again and the smell of my own sick makes me feel faint and dizzy, or maybe that's the heroin that I injected.

God, I took too much.

I spend the next 10 minutes throwing up and struggling to breathe. I fall in an out of consciousness, and start to get cold. God, it's freezing. I try to reach for my blanket at the end of my bed but its too much effort and I collapse back down onto my pillow. The world is spinning way too fast and I can't keep up. My body won't let me. It's cause you took too much you idiot child, I hear my mum's voice echo in my head. I want her to be here now, but I haven't seen her in years. If only, if only, if only.

I vomit again, and again, and again. I vomit so often that my stomach and throat start to ache from pushing the sick out.

I never normally take this much.

God, I took too much.

The smell of blood hits me in the face, and I don't know if its my own or someone else's. It has to be mine. There is no one else here. I look down and realise it is my blood. Of course it's my blood, and of course it's coming from down there, this time of all time. I can't deal with it now, so I close my eyes and float away. That's all I wanted to do to begin with. Float away.

I float far away from my crabby apartment. Above and beyond everything I've ever known or ever seen. I leave it all behind me. I enter a world of my own creation. One where nothing bad becomes of anyone and people don't leave or turn their backs or die. A world in which we are all survivors. If only, in only, if only. I keep floating, further and further away. I've been running me entire life, and I finally feel like I've reached the finish line. I no longer have to worry about what came before. I don't need to worry about anything. I can simply float away. But, I can't float away, not just yet. Voices are thumping inside my head, getting louder and louder.

Would you rather have penises for fingers or wear a hat of spiders?

Eliza, come back here, you can't leave your own mother.

The voices keep coming, quick and fast, I can't stop them, I can't escape them. They are echoing inside my brain and escaping into the room.

You don't understand, you are just a child.

Go to your room you stupid child, you disgust me.

They keep going, circulating inside my brain. They start to become a constant thrumming in my head. Bringing back memories I'd suppressed so long ago. The thrumming gets louder and louder, it's a never ending cycle.

And then they stop.

I feel my stomach spasm and I start to retch, letting go of what was left of my internal organs. My head is still spinning and I can't see anything. There is just blackness and the feeling of floating away. I'm as light as a feather and don't need to worry. I can just float away.

I've stopped running, I've stopped floating. I let myself get taken away, let my mind wander away, let myself leave the constraints of my body. I can finally forget it all. I can forget about what came before.

I'm finally free.