The Aftermath

Chapter 1 - The Interview

Chapter 1 - The Interview

⠀⠀⠀⠀There are awful stories on the news all the time.

⠀⠀⠀⠀George and I eat our cereal at the breakfast bar every morning before school. My parents stay in the kitchen too. Mum hastily checks the calendar to confirm that she hasn't forgotten anything happening that day while Dad does some terrible dancing to the ancient songs streaming from the radio perched on the windowsill.

⠀⠀⠀⠀At eight o'clock everyday, Dad's lonely dance party is interrupted by the morning news.

⠀⠀⠀⠀At this point I'm begging him to stop dancing, he's sticking his tongue out at me like a child, George has spilt milk down his uniform and Mum has gone into a panicked frenzy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The news reporter is drowned out by our chaos, any tragic stories blocked from our ears while we laugh and scream at each other.

⠀We never properly listen to it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But even if we did listen, we'd never truly understand. Nobody can even begin to imagine how terrible it is to be a victim in one those news reports.

⠀⠀⠀⠀You can try to empathise with them all you want. You can think about it over and over until your heart is aching for them, there's a tear in your eye and your chest goes tight.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But there's no way to understand the feeling until you're there... until it's you in the disaster zone.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The numb empty feeling that's worse than crying, worse than screaming, worse than all of it combined.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* * * * *

At a police station in Bali

⠀⠀⠀⠀After being brought into the station over an hour ago, I am barely even conscious anymore.

⠀⠀⠀⠀I'm on the brink of exhaustion but I don't want to sleep. My eyes are sore and in the reflection of the window I can see they are crimson and puffy. My hazel hair, that I tied back tightly in the bathroom earlier in attempt to clean myself up, pulls on my skin making me look pale and ghostly.

⠀⠀⠀⠀I've been left alone in an interview room and they told me that they want to ask me questions about what happened today. I don't know if I can answer them but I've cried solidly for five hours straight and giving my mind something to think about may be the only thing that can help calm me down.

⠀⠀⠀⠀For a long time nobody comes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀I look at the walls, the floor, the window frame and the door - all painted in a concrete grey. I sit at a grey table on a grey stool opposite an empty grey chair. I imagine that my mind is grey right now, not blue or even black - just grey.

⠀⠀⠀⠀If my thoughts weren't my biggest enemy, I definitely would not have gone around the room looking at all the grey objects. I work against myself because I can't bare to think about it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Sierra?" A soft voice calls my name from the door and I realise that I didn't even hear it open. A policeman in his forties stands there, his face wrinkled and tired. He has only a few wisps of hair on his head and there is a grave look in his eyes as he closes the door behind him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He reminds me of my Dad.

⠀⠀⠀⠀I cast my eyes downwards just as my throat begins to burn. My eyes feel prickly again but I refuse to cry, ordering myself internally to keep it all together.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He takes a seat on the opposite chair, placing a file on the table and flicking through it noisily. He seems to find the page he's looking for and takes a pen out of his shirt pocket. I can't see what he's writing when his pen meets the paper but I watch his hand intently, not wanting to look at his face.