‘I said we’d meet him at the lecture,’ I replied.
Glen looked at his watch. ‘Okay, we should probably head over now then,’ he declared.
Abby and I followed him out of the heaving food court and out on to the grassed courtyard, which was the social hub of the university. It only took us a few minutes to walk to our lecture theatre, an immense cavern of a room which could seat 300 students comfortably, and, not to appear eager, we chose seats on the right wing, half-way up.
Glen slipped in first and I followed him, keeping a seat between us for Doug as Abby followed me. I settled myself onto the uncomfortable plastic chair and began pulling pens out of my bag when I heard someone call my name. I turned in the direction of the sound and saw a girl with platinum blonde hair standing at the end of our row staring at me.
‘Hey, mind if I sit with you guys?’ she asked, and I nodded my head.
‘Sure.’
The girl sat down next to Abby without so much as a thank you. That was Kira. Like Glen she studied sport science and was in her first year. I didn’t like Kira, yet for some reason I described her as my friend and found her almost as inescapable as the Blackhole. Kira was tall and had a figure that most girls would die for yet when you saw her unfortunate frog-like facial features she suddenly became much less attractive. In the words of Glen she was a total butter-face and I couldn’t help but agree. She had slightly bowed legs which gave her an unusual walking stride and a loud abrasive voice that didn’t seem to know how to whisper. Not that I ever wanted her to whisper anything to me; I didn’t want her to think we were that familiar. Unlike Glen and Abby, who acknowledged their selfishness and didn’t pretend otherwise, Kira was the type of person to exploit her selfishness to the extreme and then pretend to be completely generous. The thing that irked me about Kira was that she only did what would serve her best interests and didn’t care who she tread on in the process. Why Kira hung out with us wasn’t exactly hard to figure out, she did because I was generous enough to give her notes for exams and she also fancied Doug. The latter fact may more accurately explain why I disliked her so much.
‘Hey Doug.’ It was Kira’s scratchy voice that snapped me out of my critical review and looking up I found a tall guy smiling directly at me. I gave him a smile back and he shuffled his way behind seats to sit in the spot Glen and I had saved for him.
‘Hi,’ I greeted.
‘Hi yourself,’ Doug replied.
I had met Doug in my first class at Murdoch. We had been in the same foundation unit and paired up for the group assignment; from that moment on we’d been best friends. Doug was studying to be a chiropractor and it was through him I’d met Glen. Glen and Doug were best mates, they had been since meeting at UWA where Doug had also studied medicine. Doug had dropped after first year too, though his reason was far less interesting then Glen’s: he simply didn’t want to be a doctor. Doug was broad-shouldered but his body was still clinging to adolescent skinniness and he needed to fill out. He had a large forehead which he tried to hide with his fringe of golden-brown hair and a wide jaw, but those features were complimented by a large pair of brilliant blue eyes. Doug’s skin was faintly pockmarked with acne scars and his ears stuck out a little, but you wouldn’t even notice when you saw him smile. I’d never thought of a smile as an attractive quality until I met Doug. His smile was beautiful. It changed his whole face, his cheeks lifted and creased his eyes which glowed with warmth and he had great teeth, the benefit of having braces. He’d first smiled at me when our class tutor had called out our names as partners and at that moment I’d thought you could hear my heart crack.
I hadn’t wanted someone like Doug in my life while I had my Blackhole. I felt horribly and inexplicably self-conscious about it whenever I was around him. It was idiotic because Doug had no clue about it and he never would. If I had to tell people about my Blackhole Doug would be the last person to know, not because I didn’t trust him; I trusted him more than anyone. Rather Doug would be the last person to know because I wanted him to like me. Meeting Doug had caused me to lose my belief in fate; if fate was real it wouldn’t have given me Doug now because the person he called his best friend wasn’t the person I wanted to be. Yet truthfully the Blackhole would be so much worse without him. Doug was honestly the only person who could make me some semblance of happy. He didn’t do anything special but for some reason he was like my own personal sun that radiated happiness; being in his gravitational pull was enough to make me think that maybe this Blackhole wouldn’t last forever.
3
There are two types of students at university: those who study because they know what they want to do, and those who study because they don’t. I was neither; at least, I didn’t fall exactly into one category but rather between them. I knew what I wanted to do, I just didn’t know how to do it, so going to university had seemed like a good option. The best thing I could say about studying was that it made me appear normal and that my life had something to it.
If you ever want to witness the mass exorcism of original thought just walk into a lecture theatre at any university. It’s ironic to consider the ultimate institution of education as stimulating for individual thought when in fact it did the exact opposite. Students exorcised their personal morals and ideas to correspond with those which they were told were “right” – even if they didn’t agree. The sad thing was that behaviour was normal, if not encouraged, in the pursuit of being the best because that’s all that really mattered. I hated it, even more so because I did it too. I would write whatever my professors told me to write so long as it got me a high distinction. Considering my pay-off was a shit job market and an astronomical student debt I couldn’t exactly call myself smart. No one noticed this sad death of originality, or if they did no one spoke of it. I think it was because we were all somewhat ashamed at the prostitution of our souls but in the end what did it really matter? There is a time and place to be yourself, university wasn’t it.
To be honest, psychology did bore me a little. Strip it back to its core and psychology is nothing more than common sense and empathy, with a little ethics thrown in. Boredom was what fed the Blackhole and right now it was enjoying an all-you-can-eat buffet as I sat in my lecture for psychological health and welfare. A woman by the name of Dr Una Donoghue ran the unit and the only reason I didn’t loathe it completely was because I felt sorry for the unfortunate-looking woman. She was on the wrong side of forty, plump, with thinning hair and a complete ignorance to what was “presentable attire”. How she found the confidence to lecture about the importance of exercise and good nutrition was astounding or perhaps sardonic, as she clearly didn’t follow her own advice.
‘I have honestly not listened to a word she’s said.’ Abby’s breath smelt faintly of stale milk and I tried not to wrinkle my nose as she whispered in my ear.
‘That makes two of us,’ I replied, and Abby slumped back into her seat. She was sitting with her legs crossed and idly twirling her pen in a circle with her fingers while Kira was lazily flicking through something on her phone. I turned to my left and found Doug sitting back in his chair, staring at the floor in boredom while Glen was reading an online blog. I suddenly felt even more pity for Dr Donoghue. I felt a tug at my sleeve and found Kira lying across Abby’s lap.
‘Hey, move. I need to ask Doug something,’ she commanded, and I immediately leaned back against my chair, catching Abby’s incredulous look cast down at Kira.
‘Doug.’ Abby’s whisper was harsh, almost like a hiss, and Doug turned to her like he’d just noticed her presence. ‘What’s the due date for the first assignment?’ Kira asked and I smirked. Doug smiled at her. I’m confident to say that it wasn’t genuine. When you’re obsessed with someone’s smile you know what a real one looks like, this one leaked with condescension.
‘I got no idea,’ Doug answered. Kira dropped her head dramatically so it almost touched my leg and she slowly pulled herself f
rom Abby’s lap. Abby gave her a dirty look, which caught Kira’s attention and she assumed an innocent gaze.
‘Oh, I just need to know. I want to get ahead on my work this semester,’ she breathed. I have no idea what made me reply and even Miranda appeared to scoff.
‘It’s on the 5th.’
Kira glared at me, though catching Doug looking at her she replaced it with faux appreciation. ‘Thanks.’ The insincere words dripped from her mouth like sticky ooze. I had no doubt she appreciated knowing the due date. Kira’s problem was me, though I’m not sure why.
It was usually after exchanges like this I found myself wondering why I referred to Kira as a “friend”. I obviously disliked her but I’d never go so far as to say I hated her; I don’t hate anyone. My feelings towards Kira were those of complete ambivalence. I simply didn’t care. In my opinion that is so much worse than hate. Hate requires a person to care, ambivalence requires nothing. Wouldn’t it be devastating to realise that a person simply didn’t care? That anything you did, anything you said elicited nothing from a person? That is how I felt about Kira. Her presence didn’t bother me because she didn’t mean anything to me. So why did I tolerate her? The question is quite easy to answer really. Kira didn’t mean anything to me but she served a purpose: she made me feel like I was normal. What people do to appear normal is astounding. They’ll laugh at jokes they don’t find funny, agree with opinions that aren’t their own, study something which bores them to the point of insanity, people will even be friends with someone they don’t care about. Why are people so afraid to be different? Why did they put so much effort into appearing normal when it was a pointless exercise because normality doesn’t exist? “Normal” is a social construct, contingent, spontaneous and dependent upon the social opinions of the exact moment you choose to act. If I put as much effort into finding the cure for AIDS as I did appearing normal then millions of people wouldn’t be dying right now. But I’m not a hero; I’m just a girl with a Blackhole. So that’s what Kira was, a product that I used for my own benefit and I did feel bad on some level. Giving her notes and helping her cram for exams were therefore my way of paying her for her service, but even that I did partially for myself. I did it so I’d feel less guilty and in a way our relationship had become pure economics: friendship at a bargain price.
I am rather proud to admit that my relationship with Kira was completely unique; she was the only one of my friends that I tolerated in this manner. Any more friends like Kira and it would be too much effort. In my pursuit of normalcy I’d reach my maximum capacity to care and consequently stop caring altogether. People can only care so much about nothing. I think I’d reached maximum capacity on some level. Kira was my last effort; I wasn’t quite ready to stop caring about normalcy completely. I suppose I should find that comforting.
***
‘Okay, I’ll give you a ten-minute break for coffee. Be back at ten past.’ Donoghue’s voice shocked me back into the dimly lit lecture theatre. Like a nest of disturbed cockroaches students scurried up the stairs of the theatre either in the rush to get their fix of burnt coffee or to leave entirely. Donoghue didn’t exactly inspire attendance. I was watching her stare blankly at the computer screen when a soft squeeze on my shoulder made me turn and I found Doug standing up and looking down at me.
‘You coming?’ he asked.
‘Sorry, what?’ My mind was still sluggishly trying to catch up to the present moment and looking down at my workbook I found it scrawled with notes that I didn’t remember taking.
‘Coffee?’ Doug elaborated, as he slowly stretched his arms up, making his shirt ride up and revealing a hint of bare skin with a faint trail of hair around his belly-button. He stayed like that for a few moments as he cracked his back before quickly bringing his arms down and his shirt down with them.
‘Yep, I need coffee,’ I replied, and stood up with a faux yawn which made Doug smile, though at what I couldn’t tell.
‘Where are you guys going?’ Kira asked; her neck was craned around Abby.
‘Coffee, want anything?’ I answered, and she stood up.
‘No, but I’ll come for the walk.’
I squeezed around Abby’s chair and Doug followed. Abby wasn’t coming but as Doug began walking up the stairs with Kira following like a puppy, I looked back expecting to find Glen behind me but realised he was still staring at his laptop.
‘Glen, you coming?’ I asked, my tone indicated my expectation. Glen looked startled, either at my invitation or my tone.
‘Yeah, sure.’ He nodded and quickly slammed his laptop shut. Joining me on the stairs and we began to follow Doug and Kira.
‘I didn’t know you guys wanted me to come,’ Glen confessed quietly. I looked at him, his admission surprised me.
Glen was my friend and I liked him. My friendship with him was genuine and I don’t mean to be unkind but it was not a relationship that my appearance of normalcy gained anything from. Glen was unpopular; aside from Doug, Abby and I, Glen had no one except for his younger brother. My friendship with him was therefore completely unusual and rather risky. The highest compliment I can pay him is to say that he was worth it.
‘Yeah, you’re not leaving me with Kira,’ I replied, and allowed a wicked smile to flash across my lips which was replicated by Glen. As we reached the top of the stairs I allowed my smile to vanish, though Glen’s remained painted on his face. Glen made no attempt of hiding his dislike of Kira and this was manifested in his total disengagement with everything she did. In fact the only time Kira could get more than a few words out of Glen was when they were having a “disagreement”, usually the result of Kira saying something completely stupid and Glen telling her that. I found myself now wondering why Glen put up with Kira if she really irritated him so much. The conclusion I came to was that Glen did it for exactly the same reason as I did. It’s amazing how miserable we’ll make ourselves in order to fit in.
4
There were certain days that I didn’t mind university, coincidently they were always when a prior engagement offered me a legitimate excuse to leave early and miss the obligatory post-lecture study session. Wednesdays had offered me that excuse since I was fifteen and still at high school, but back then they had been more of an obligation than an escape. It must say something rather sad when I wished that every day offered me the same excuse as Wednesdays. As much as I enjoyed my friends and the small reprieve they offered me, pretending to be normal isn’t as fun as I made it out to be.
A quick chat and hug goodbye after my Wednesday classes had become routine and there was never any offence; Doug, Abby and Glen all knew I had somewhere to be. Where that somewhere was I had been deliberately awkward in divulging and the only one to uncomfortably enquire further had been Abby, though Doug had rather flawlessly managed to change the subject every time she asked. Eventually she no longer bothered enquiring and my lifebuoy remained afloat. Glen was too disinterested to ask, though Doug found his curiosity much harder to supress. On few occasions he had offered me a lift into Fremantle, undoubtedly a form of polite investigation considering he lived close enough to Murdoch to walk every day, but I still thanked him for his self-serving offer. I suppose it was considerate of him. Walking to the bus stop I allowed the feeling of relief swell as the distance between my friends and I grew. I wasn’t relieved to be away from them in particular, just people in general; I liked being alone. Solitude allowed me the freedom to be myself, or rather just drop the guise that I assumed around others.
I disliked public transport. It was too busy; the smell, the heat, the hum of conversation made it a situation I tried to avoid beyond necessity and necessity was my commute to university and back home. However on certain occasions I found public transport could be rather relaxing and midday commutes were one of them: buses were all but abandoned then.
On this particular day the only soul on the bus was that of an old woman. She was slight and drowned
in wool despite the heat. She was holding onto the handle of a plaid trolley-bag with a tightness that meant she was either leaning on it for support or protecting it from anyone who dare snatch it from her. I passed her on my way to the back of the bus and she gave me a sweet smile that deepened the creases in her face. I instinctively smiled back; it wasn’t forced or fake. My face had returned to its vacant expression as soon as I’d left my friends so I hadn’t invited the woman’s smile. Why then did she give it to me? I was too filled with a hollow optimism to really care. That smile had offered me was a brief moment where Miranda was no different to the person I was now and that was everything. The woman had no idea of how much that simple gesture had meant, or my pathetic need for it. I sat there and stared at the back of her head contemplating whether or not I should thank her for the smile. I decided against it, normal people don’t thank others for smiling at them, yet I couldn’t help but feel regret for my inaction as she got off the bus two stops before mine. She held onto the handrail and tentatively stepped onto the pavement, like she was afraid it would suddenly vanish from beneath her. I didn’t need to thank her for smiling at me; I wasn’t so pessimistic as to think that society had degraded to the point where a smile from a stranger was alien. Rather, my thanks was driven by guilt; the woman’s smile had been my own personal drug and I hadn’t paid my dealer.
I had taken this route so often that I no longer needed to look outside the window to know when my stop was drawing near. My hand reached up the warm metal pole to press the stop button after I felt the bus round a gentle bend and I was left temporarily unsteady as the driver braked. Even without working air-conditioning the heat inside the bus was nothing compared to the searing street. It hit me like a wave, not one of those gentle swelling waves that made you momentarily lose your footing but one of those giant cascading waves that no matter how far you dived under would always manage to snare your ankle and drag you in a tumble along the seabed behind them. It was like you were caught in a washing machine, and when the wave finally let you go you’d choke up out of the water and dizzily try to get your bearings before another wave came crashing down behind the first. That was exactly how the heat left you: disorientated and slumped into submission as it beat on you from the sky. The only perk of my appointments was they were air-conditioned and I found myself walking quickly down the burning streets, rounding a corner before pushing open the glass door of a compact two-story townhouse which had been converted into comfortable office space. The cool air slowly wrapped itself around me as I walked towards a dark wooden desk that occupied the right side of the room. It was immense and gave the appearance of luxury when in fact it was cheap lumber tainted with a rich jarrah hue. Wiping the small beads of sweat from my top lip I nodded at the round woman behind the desk. Her name was Deb and I’d been coming here long enough to know that she was perennially single, grew up in Darwin and hated country music. She had a severe bob haircut that she dyed black and I’d never seen her wear the same pair of glasses twice. Today she wore thick-framed cats-eyes in turquoise blue and astonishingly pulled them off. Deb gave me the biggest smile her pudgy face would allow and simply waved me through to the foyer. In my haste to leave uni and politely flee my friends I’d arrived twenty minutes early so I sat in the chair tucked next to the water cooler to wait. I didn’t mind waiting, it was actually the only time I would read my textbooks and it certainly made a good impression in this building. I could imagine doctors ducking in and out of their offices as they brought in their patients, or escorted them out, thinking, “Look, she’s really trying. Good for her. She’s not hopeless like the rest of you.” It was wishful thinking of course; in reality I think their train of thought was something like, “Why the heck is she studying psychology?”
My Bed is a Blackhole Page 2