In A Week I Will Be Dead

Chapter Eight: Demones

!!!TW!!!

Unkind thoughts, aftermath of assult

IF YOU ARE STRUGGLING CALL THE SAMARITANS ON 116 123 <3 <3 <3

Myself

One of these days, after I climb into bed, it will no longer be goodnight. Here entwined inside the darkness, I replay the times that I survived. I remember them so softly, so quietly, as they drift inside my encapsulated dream. We are living in a retaliation nation. Once something is done, it is bad to deflect the crime with another one. As they say, two wrongs don't make a right. But then again, how did two rights make a wrong?

My parents, the Rights of which I speak of, produced myself. They produced a conscious child. No other creature on the planet, apart from that of the human race, knows the true reality of existence. We were made to be unmade, and this is the truth which haunts all of our surviving days. I did not choose to be alive. I did not choose to breath this air and live under this sun. It was chosen for me. Therefore, by default, whatever chose me can un-chose me, and so I cannot un-chose myself. This is one of the many laws of nature.

I did this. I typed the words I sent to him, I typed the words that caused that awful occurrence. It was my fault. Is my fault. I can't do this to him, but I have to. I need to help him, and he needs to help himself see that. From now on, all letters to Noah will be sent via an email. Luckily, our school has its own inter-email system, so I simply have to type his name into the emailing site and his address will pop up. But then he can also see my address, and the game will be given away.

I ponder the issue as I watch the moon through my window. But then I realise I have the perfect account, something which is gender neutral and won't affect his judgement.

I drag myself from beneath the covers, my insomnia covering my senses. My laptop rests on my desk, nonchalantly hiding the secrets that sit beneath my eyes. I flip up the lid, and immediately click on the Google button on my screen. 'Aspiringanonymouswriter'. The address I wrote earlier on the letters, an account I set up online to subscribe to things without my parents' knowledge. It's as easy a job as copying and pasting Noah's school address into the send box, and attaching the new letters.

'This time, nobody will read them. This is between me, and him.' The swooshing noise tells me my letters have been distorted into a cypher code, and have been flung towards the HQ of Noah, whilst he sleeps away the night, unaware of his new inbox. I think that it might be wise to re-send him the other letters, and so I do with the entitled message 'READ THE SECOND EMAIL FIRST'. I feel like an idiot for not considering this beforehand, but as they say, nobody's perfect. But technically, I am a nobody. I am perfect.

Noah

Everybody has that noise they hate. Some detest nails across a chalkboard. Others loathe the scraping of a chair. But for me, and probably for many others, it is the evil sound of the alarm on my phone going off. Such a happy, jolly, smiley sound for one of the most hated, abhorrent and despicable events known to man. Waking up destroys my dignity, my humanity, and my ability to love this life. So, when (and this happens every twenty-four hours) this event occurs, I try my best to get up without contemplating the necessity of my existence. I do this by checking all of my thousands of messages on my phone, which takes me many seconds of my life.

Message 1: Mother. Received 7am today. Noah, you promised me that you were saving money in your account. I checked at the bank this morning. You have -£345 as your current balance. Plz explain. M.

The absence of the letter x confirms my suspicions as to the nature of the text. This is not a happy text. This is what I nickname 'thundercloud texts', as you can practically hear my mum trying to hold it together as she types each painfully slow letter using just the tips of her two index fingers. I go about seriousness the best way I can, by using my teenage resources and resorting to memes.