It is eleven fourteen. I am sixteen years old. I sink back into the foliage of the bush, I press myself against the leaves and hope he doesn’t recognise me.
“Joz?” He calls out and I move my head slightly. “Oh my God, Joz. What the hell happened?” he runs over to me, he looks almost as terrified as I feel. “Who hurt you? Were you mugged?” he leans forward and places one hand on my neck, feeling for a pulse. “Your heart is racing.”
I can’t make myself talk, he hasn’t spoken to me properly since, well for years anyway. I shiver slightly, the warmth of his hand still fresh in my mind. “Are you cold? You’re cold aren’t you.” He babbles. “Come back to mine, we’ll clean you up and then maybe you can tell me what happened.”
Sam takes my arm; he tries to help me up gently. I lean very heavily on him and try not to put too much weight on the bad ankle. He notices this and looks hurt and confused. I remember that look too well, he always looked at me that way when I’d just been hurt by someone at school. We walk back together across the park, and I hobble down his lane. The familiar red iron gate that marks his house comes into view. 16 vertical pieces and 6 horizontal pieces. He fiddles to fetch a key from his jeans pocket and support me at the same time. We enter his house, light brown carpets, three new paintings. A plant and a cat flap. Then the same sweet scent of him fills my lungs and I am taken aback. I’d missed this.
We negotiate the stairs, 13 of them. And he helps me into the bathroom, sitting me down on the bath, it’s cold and I catch my breath as feel the coolness spread across my skin. Sam looks me up and down, deciding what to do first.
“Joz, can I ask you to sit in the bath, I need to wash the blood and dirt off your feet.”
I blush deeply, “you really don’t have to do that.”
“I want you to be okay.” He says and I hear every tiny implication of that sentence. We manage to get me sitting in the bath without too much trouble. I try to take the shower head off of him it has 45 holes to propel the water, 45 is a good number. Sam refuses. “You’ll get your hand wet. Please let me help you.”
Eventually I decide to give in, my bandaged arm hangs over the edge of the bath and the other keeping my hospital gown as tightly together as I can. I don’t want him to see me like that for the first time. He winces as he examines the broken skin of my feet, and I feel him push around and find stone embedded deep into my skin. After about 15 minutes he is finished, he helps me out of the bath, sits me on the toilet seat and carefully dries my feet.
I can’t help but steal a glance at him, I melt slightly. I haven’t quite realised that I am really with him. It feels so safe, so private. My ankle is really swollen too. I realise I should be planning a lie to tell him. A way to make him believe everything that has happened today has been normal.
Five minutes later I have an ankle support on, my feet are clean, blood and grit free, the worse areas are covered in plasters. I’m alone in Sam’s bathroom, brushing my teeth with a spare toothbrush they keep, third drawer down on the left hand side of cabinet. I feel almost normal now, other than the damp hospital gown. I spit the toothpaste into the sink, it’s stained slightly green from the remains of the vomit but at least I am clean now. Sam knocks gently on the door and pushes it open.
“These are as close to your size as I could find.” He says softly and places the pile of clothes on the toilet seat. He goes to leave and I cringe with the embarrassment of what I have to say.
“Sam, I need you to dress me.” He glances at my hand and immediately walks over to me. He slips two fingers under the hospital bow and undoes it with one hand, the way he has done since he learnt to tie bows. He carefully eases my hands out of the gown and it slips to the floor. Averting his eyes, he passes me the boxers, which thankfully, I can manage alone. I sit on the side of the bath, my hands covering my breasts.
“I won’t look. I promise.” Sam says, he smiles. I feel a warmth run from my chest to my thighs. God, I love that smile, every part of me wishes he would look. Then I remember the scars. I am suddenly aware of the marks all over my skin, I feel as exposed as the girl in my mind. I am too much like her, these red lines painting my skin. I lift both arms into the air and an oversized top is placed carefully over my head. He smiles again, “I really didn’t look.”
His hair, his eyes, his smell, his hands, his care, his smile. I lean forward and kiss him.
My heart is racing. It’s Sam this time. It’s really happening. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. I love you.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is twelve forty-three. I am six years old. I can’t stop yawning. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m sitting in my classroom now, we are doing art. We’ve been told to draw our bedrooms. I wanted to draw mine like I saw it last, a room full of numbers. So I drew a bed, and wardrobe, some dolls, my clock and I drew all of the things I could think of that were in my room. Then I put numbers on top of them in a different colour so that the whole room was a really big tangle of numbers. It took me ages to remember all of the numbers so I had to draw my room really quickly and the pictures weren’t very good. The numbers were perfect though. Then I had the idea of counting up all of my numbers. So I put two of the numbers on top of each other, like we do in maths.
34
67
That makes 101. Then I added the next number to 101. I hadn’t finished when the teacher told us it was time to go and have break. I didn’t want to leave, the adding up wasn’t done. I asked the teacher what you called something that wasn’t all added up. She shrugged and turned to the assistant who said “and some?”
So I wrote across the top of my picture ‘18573 and some.’ My picture was stuck on the wall because I was told it was ‘original.’ I hope that I get it back at the end of the year, normally the year 5 get to take them down at the end of the year. They tear them. I want to keep my numbers. They make me safe.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
wow. its really interesting in the way you write. going from a more mature person who writes more maturely, to this small child.
It is amazing to see it from a childs point of view, really gives me an insight into how they feel. I think you are an amazing writer. keep up the good work and take care xxx
wow. its really interesting in the way you write. going from a more mature person who writes more maturely, to this small child.
It is amazing to see it from a childs point of view, really gives me an insight into how they feel. I think you are an amazing writer. keep up the good work and take care xxx
Thanks. I enjoy being able to switch between styles, though I know it needs a lot of editing to be convincing yet!
Mainly I have a pretty good memory of my own emotions at a young age, I work off them and 'copy' the way small children act, the way they think.
And thank you very much!
x
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is nine forty. I am ten years old. Sam is still at my house. I am trying to sit further away from him now. I don’t want him to know that I want him to be my boyfriend. That would spoil everything. I love him, but firstly he is my best friend. I don’t want to not have my best friend. I have to learn to not like him, and even though I’ve never had to do that before I somehow know that it’s not going to be easy.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
The following content has been hidden - Reason : Just for the suspence. (Why the title is Orange....)
It is two sixteen. I am fourteen years old. I am sitting in an RE lesson. I am bent over my desk, my hand is grasping my pen tightly and a flush of ink runs down my middle finger where the nib touches my skin.
“So, what does everyone think depression is?” Asks Mrs Roberts, her long hands flail inelegantly as she speaks. So desperate to have her point put across.
One boy speaks up from the back.
“S’when all you think about is killing yourself.” He suggests. Mrs Roberts nods encouraging, “not quite, though a good point about the attitude of a depressed person.” She leans heavily on the board, her red pen squeaks as she traces the words Suicidal idealisation.
One girl lifts a nervous hand. “My uncle had it. He used to hide away all the time. We don’t really talk to him anymore.”
Self isolation squeaks its way onto the board.
“Cutting.” Says one girl, a blonde one. She’s called Helen I think. “Like emos and stuff.” She continues. My hands turn themselves into fists.
“Great point there Helen.”
Self harm
“Well class, the first thing to know about depressed people is that they are just like us. Only they find it hard to deal with their feelings. They feel very sad a lot of the time and can show some of the symptoms shown on the board. I think we should discuss the ideas we already have, to get an idea why depressed people might feel the need to do and think these things.” Mrs Roberts smiles and looks around the class. There is some interest. All of the class seem to have something to share on this subject, other than me that is.
“Let’s start with the issue of self harm. It’s very misunderstood. And clues as to why people might do this?”
“Well they are mental aren’t they? Why else would someone want to cut their arms to hell?” Says Toby. My opinion of him drops. Mrs Roberts raises an eyebrow. “That is exactly the sort of discrimination that can really affect people’s lives. Anyone else?”
No one moves. No one understands.
“Oh come on girls and boys?” She says tapping one foot. “No awareness what so ever. Can anyone even tell me what colour represents self harm awareness?”
I can’t take this. “Orange.” I say, then slam my mouth closed. The class turns to look at me. I stare into my lap.
“Very good.” Mrs Roberts says, “Now Jocelyn, do you have anything to share on this subject?”
I don’t dare move. I feel a class worth of eyes running over my arms. I hope they can’t see through the thick layers of fabric. I hope they can’t see how vulnerable I really am. I realise I shouldn’t have said that word. ‘Orange’ Oh God, what I am doing. I raise my hand slowly.
“Yeah, I do.”
Mrs Roberts smiles encouragingly. “Do go on.”
“Depressed people self harm because they hate the way their life has gone. Everything hurts so much, everyone hurts them so much and they feel so alone in everything they do. You self harm so that no one can hurt you in the same way you hurt yourself. You self harm so the scars are the reason you are hurting, when there are fresh cuts you know the reason you hurt so badly is because you are bleeding. You can trick yourself into thinking that if you are hurting on the outside then you can’t feel the pain on the inside. You fall in love with every ridge, every time life overcame you and you lived. You become a slave to it. It becomes your best and only friend and after that, your identity. Depressed people self harm because on the inside they are broken and they just want someone to notice, they want people to help them.”
I stand up, picking up my folder with one hand, my pencil case and jacket with the other. I walk out of the room, leaving Mrs Roberts in shock and my class staring after me. As I close the door I hear stifled laughter from the back of my class. “Weirdo.” I hear. It kills me. It’s Sam’s voice.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
It is seven minutes past twelve. I am sixteen years old. I pull away from his lips. My head is spinning. I taste him on my lips. Musk. He looks so confused.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m not thinking straight.” I say quickly. Sam frowns, “Why did you do that? What about your boyfriend?” It takes me a good few minutes to understand what he is talking about. David. I’d forgotten about him. I feel a little sick again. I remember the way David said my name so carefully, so lovingly. Then I look at Sam. He’s everything I wanted.
“I’m not with David.” I say slowly.
Sam closes his eyes and breaths in deeply. “This is all getting very complicated. Jocelyn. Can you try to explain things for me? It’s been too long since I talked to you.”
I smile, I mean it. I smile properly; I feel my face move in way I didn’t know took so little effort.
We walk carefully to his bedroom, he sets me down on his bed. It’s been made for him. His mother still does that for him. He never could work out quite how to make it not look like a bird’s nest.
“I loved you from the age of 10.” I say. I’m just going to tell him the truth, lies don’t really work with Sam, he knows me too well. “I’ve been really depressed for ages. I don’t eat right, I self harm” I cringe as I say that one, I remember the laughter of two years ago. I remember how it cut me deeper than I could ever cut myself. “I wanted to kill myself for a long time. I’m not doing too well at the moment.”
Sam nods but says nothing. I know he is listening. I know he just needs to listen for now.
“The bandage on my arm is from self harm. I needed some stitches and so is my hand. I hit it against a wall, it’s a bit messed up. They wanted to x-ray it, so they took my metal stuff off, then they took my clothes because they had blood on them. When I was getting put back together the doctor told me I needed to see a therapist and I ran. I ran from St Catherine’s to the park and when I got there I was so scared of what had just happened I threw up. Then you found me.”
He raises his eyebrows. “St Catherine’s?”
I nod. “I know, well my feet felt the distance.” At this I come to a stuttering halt. Sam nudges me back into conversation.
“And David?”
“He’s liked me for ages and has been nice to me recently. He took me to St Catherine’s to get my arm sorted the other day.”
I stop, I can’t make myself say another word. I was so desperate to keep him talking I didn’t think about trying to make myself seem normal.
“How much of this could I have stopped?” Asks Sam, his hands have curled into fists and he is speaking more slowly than he normally does. This means he is angry, he’s very angry.
I don’t know what to say. My brain screams at me that he could have stopped all of it. That he was the only one who could have let me live. He could have made me happy.
“If I had just stayed. If I had ignored my bloody mother. If I hadn’t gone with the crowd. I was so damn stupid. Jocelyn. Did I ruin everything? Is it my fault? I’m as bad as those bastards who hurt you in the first place.”
I can’t talk. I just watch him.
“I deserve to hurt. Not you Jocelyn. I wanted you to be okay. You have been hurt by so many people.”
He’s almost crying. I am not really thinking. I just need to see what he does next. I want to be impartial.
“Tell me you still love me Jocelyn.” Sam begs. “Tell me you forgive me.”
I can’t. I can’t say I love him. I can’t forgive him for leaving me. Humiliating me. I cant’ forgive him for forgetting about me. I shake my head.
Sam’s face falls. “Jocelyn?”
I look up at him, he’s a little boy again. Terrified of the bin men, his favourite game is snakes and ladders, even though I always win. He is innocent. He’s my Sam still. And I can’t forgive him. I don’t even know what he’s done.
System A
Sophie Mandi Max Gwen Mercy Erin AVA Tracey Bridget My Isaac
