In A Week I Will Be Dead

Chapter Two: Honey

!!!TW!!!

Mentions of unkind thoughts and SH

IF YOU'RE STRUGGLING, CALL THE SAMARITANS 116 123 <3 <3 <3

Noah

I have my music on so loud to cut out the music of life. This is what I love to do when I have things to do. In doing so I am rebelling against the school system and just stare up at the ceiling and pretend not to exist. But like all good times, the bad times push through like a sneeze.

I can hear her before she reaches my door, even with the music on. Her footsteps have a sort of heart beat pulse to them, almost like she has a small unnoticeable limp, which moves the entirety of my room. I can just picture her now, bursting through my door to make sure that:

a) I haven't killed myself

b) I'm doing work

c) I'm actually in the house

I speak before she has even reached the threshold of my room. 'I'm alive, I'm doing work, and this is not a voice recording so I am definitely in the house.' She bursts through anyways, a basket of laundry attached to the hip with Grace trawling behind her like a little cat.

'Gracie, what have a told you about following mummy everywhere when you want something? Go and ask daddy.'

With a harrumph Grace turns on her heal and trots down the stairs. I can hear Mr Teddykins's head hitting each step as she relentlessly drags it behind her, like a cat with a mouse.

'Mother, Mr Teddykins will have a stroke before he reaches his teenage years if Gracie is quite intent on giving him brain damage.' My mother gives me a filthy look and plants the basket on my bed, and begins the painful process of sorting through it for my clothing. Eventually she finds my best (and only) white shirt and plops it onto my pillow. Without trying to draw attention to any shifty behaviour, I attempt to cross the room and snatch a shirt up before she notices the stain on it. Before my hand comes into contact with the material I find it whipped out from under my fingertips. My mother is now standing with it, holding it up like a bull fighter.

'Noah, what the hell is this?' She directs her fingernail to the thin line of red which blotches horizontally across one of the arms. Nonchalantly, I remark, 'I tried to do surgery on Mr Teddykins to save his life, but I misjudged it and now he has a permanent scar on his brain. In the process my white shirt was stained with his insides.'

My mother throws the shirt at me and starts looking around my room. She chucks all my things onto the floor, shaking them as she does so. Eventually she gives up, and charges towards me, the bull fighter now becoming the bull. She grabs my sleeve, and yanks it up towards my shoulder. Squealing, I protest and thrash about. However, I am no match for her and I fall lifeless onto the floor, my arm clutched in the hand of hers like a flag of defeat.

'For god's sake Noah, you promised, you said, you...' My mum throws my arm back at me (an unusually weird experience) and grabs the laundry basket. She heads towards the door, fighting back tears. 'I want you to give it to me Noah. You will be in this room until I have it.' With that, she exits my room and slams the door, the musical poster edge coming apart from a piece of BlueTack as she does so.

'Why dost thou have to be a relentless biotch mother, it is a cruel, cruel world we live in.' I throw my hand across my forehead and fall back onto my bed, wishing it was a cliff.

Myself

Revealing my Life:

There will be a moment in everyone's life when we ponder about what the meaning of our life is. I do this regularly, when I find myself listening to something which I believe to be pointless. For example:

1) What a person is going to wear to some event

2) What the person ate last week

3) When they last had their hair cut

Don't get me wrong, occasionally these topics can be made to be interesting, but let's be realistic, whoever fell head over heels with interest when somebody announced that last Tuesday they ate a lasagne with peas? I, my dear reader, believe not even a cave man, whose brain capacity was severely limited, would have been interested about what colour the meat was his friend ate when he decapitated a mammoth. Therefore, the truth stands: food choices (unless a professional chef of course) are uninteresting. Heh. Pun. 'Of course'.

I of course (can't help it sorry) find my mind wondering to get away from all the pain that demands to be felt. I therefore wonder for approximately most of my day. I imagine a perfect world where everyone is just happy. Not peaceful, or rich or selfless – just happy. Occasionally my friends interrupt my wishful thinking by waving their hands in my face, which I try and ignore, because I love being on a different planet.

The problem with some people is that they believe that the world revolves around them. Let's just say that we got that wrong, didn't we? The earth was never the centre of the solar system, as we previously believed, but one of many objects encircling it. I believe what my attempt of an extended metaphor is trying to portray is that we are part of a bigger picture. The sun, in this case, could reflect a number of things, whilst we are mere planets that need it to survive.

I would highly advise the person who is reading this to now stop reading this and do as I am about to say. Go over to the person next to you and ask the simple question 'how are you?' If they ask how you are back, then you know that there is some people in the world that are not self-centred. I mean it. Put this down.

The thing is with life is that it is evidently pointless when you're dead. However, sometimes being dead can actually enlighten the world around you (if you're a person who is dead and is reading this please don't take offence) but this is an option that can only be taken if you literally have nothing to live for. Trust me, most people can find something. Like the way the sun sets, the way the trees move in the breeze. When you're right in an argument, and that lovely feeling you have when you take your socks off after a long day. I hope I am not the only one on that last part.

Regardless of whatever makes you happy, there are some people in this world who are not. I believe that I have created a step by step guide on how to notice these people. Firstly, they are always staring into space. Probably dreaming of a perfect world, which probably in their opinion is without them. Secondly, they seem numb on the surface. They don't really care about anything, which doesn't necessarily mean that they just rush everything to get it done and over with. Often, these people will take time and care with things, taking their mind off the depressing daydream they had earlier which resulted in their encounter with a car. Thirdly, they have outbursts of sudden anger or sadness. Unfortunately, this is the biggest give away, but normally these people shut themselves into a quiet room and let this out. However, things can still seep from the nonchalant exterior and let out a small clue, but this is often covered up with 'I'm just having a bad day' or 'I'm just angry with how much work I've been given' or 'I'm just tired'. I for one have used these excuses myself.

As you have probably guessed by now, dear reader, I am actually in this category. I don't see the point in it all, and hate every single bit of it. I just want to share my experiences with you, so you know how to spot these people and help them. I live in a community which has subtle cliques, and they don't properly look out for you. They could literally be watching you for a whole day and not notice. The policy of 'attention seeking' is the main reason why I do not share my internal emotions, which I know is leading to my self-destruction, but I can only hope that whatever this is – I'll guess I'll call it a book – finished before then. Otherwise, you will have been ripped off for only having purchased half of a book.

I fold up my last few entries and place it into an envelope. The class is now standing up, and now like a magic trick, they're gone. The teacher potters out as well, talking to one of the pupils. When nobody is looking, I grab the tape from our teacher's desk and tape the envelope to bottom of the mysterious kid's desk. I know he will receive it, because he's left his book behind. He doesn't know me, he doesn't know my handwriting. It's typed. I am safe.