My Bed is a Blackhole

by Hadley Wickham

  ‘Yeah,’ I breathed. I opened my door and more silence flooded in; it crammed itself into my ears and down my throat. Speaking, even thinking now seemed unnatural. Abby didn’t seem too concerned with my silence. She was far to panicked about driving and looked like a meerkat as she clenched the steering wheel, peering over the top. A good friend would have told her she shouldn’t be driving, a statement of fact meant to convey concern that neither of us would take sincerely. Abby would still drive herself home; all my concern would do is ease my guilt if she had an accident. That small completely useless token of effort would somehow absolve me of my responsibility and it was stupid. A more genuine thing was to tell her to be careful; make her realise she had a reason not to make any reckless decisions. Letting someone know you care doesn’t magically make them immune from all possible harm; it provides incentive to consider the harm not just affecting themselves but others as well.

  ‘Be careful,’ I mumbled as I clambered out of the car. Abby’s head nodded stiffly twice, she hadn’t taken her eyes off the barren road ahead. I allowed the door to shut solidly behind me and Abby offered me a small wave before she drove off. I kept my eyes fixed on her taillights, allowing them to disappear from view before I realised I was still standing on the road and I should probably step back onto the footpath. Abby had dropped me off at a bus stop on South Street and it wasn’t anything special. A little bus shelter with a cold metal bench covered in scribbles. These scribbles were names crudely etched by keys and school compasses, swear words written in permanent marker and meaningless dates written inside hearts with initials. I felt sorry for the girl who thought it was romantic to have her name etched into a cheap metal bench on a completely unimportant street. Whenever I was at bus stops like this I couldn’t help but wonder how many people had had sex on this bench, on top of those names and words. I wondered if they paid any thought to the people whose names they were having sex on top of. Did that make it more exciting? Did that make it more romantic? Thinking about other people having sex made my skin itch and I turned away from the narrow love-bench, looking down the street as it stretched under the golden glow of the street lights. The world was completely empty, not even silence had a place in it. There was nothing, just nothing; nothing to think about and nothing to do. I was completely alone in this beautiful emptiness and I had never felt more peaceful. For once the world matched how I felt inside. Not everyone liked silence as much as I did, in fact most people don’t. I’m not exactly sure why people could be so unnerved of nothing, quite literally. I’d always thought it was because people these days always needed and wanted more. They were completely unable to enjoy simplicity, to recognise things as they existed in the moment. Now all people cared about was improvement, all they thought about was the future and all they wanted to be was something else. We lived in a disposable, one-hour photo society, nothing was ever good enough and we were striving towards an unachievable future. Gone are the days where children dreamt of being teachers, nurses or hairdressers. Now all anyone can think about was being noticed, that your presence on this earth can only be justified by acknowledgement from people who quite honestly don’t give a flying fuck about you. That’s why people didn’t like silence. Silence in itself didn’t deafen you; all it did was make room for your own thoughts. Suddenly other people were removed from the equation and the division between who you thought you were, and who you actually were no longer exists. For once you are forced to consider you, and only you. In most cases people are made painfully aware of their mediocrity, which had now become something terrible. I had never thought of mediocrity as bad, in fact I was doubtful mediocrity existed. To think someone mediocre was in my opinion, one of the most disgusting ways to regard a person. It ignored every essence of their individuality and treated them as simply mounds of flesh responding to stimulus around them in a completely predictable way. You can never be mediocre. There may be some things about you, some tiny insignificant parts of you that may very well be described as such, but in totality and considering your whole person, you are the farthest thing from mediocre one can get. No one else will see the world as you do, relish in the same beauty or recoil in the same fear. You are you, a special edition and available for a limited time only: eighty years or so (approximately). I’d never considered myself mediocre. I had always been excited to discover differences between myself and others; to realise the things that made me special. It was to understand that me, and only me, would be the keeper of that specific combination of flaws. So why wasn’t I excited to discover the Blackhole? I mean, it made me very different from everyone else; not everyone can boast to having a Blackhole in their bed. Maybe I was being hypocritical; maybe I should wear my Blackhole like a badge of honour. I could start a freak show or something, charge people two dollars to come and see the girl and her Blackhole. Yet the Blackhole wasn’t a flaw, it wasn’t something that made me different. What it did was make me realise that I wasn’t happy; it was that fact that made me different and in some respects it went even further. The Blackhole took everything, my flaws, my strengths; it took them all with a ravenous hunger until I was nothing more than the Blackhole itself. It made me a shell of a person. It made me mediocre.

  The sound of a bus hissing to a stop in front of me made me realise I was no longer alone. The vehicle lowered itself to the ground so I could comfortably step onto the platform and the driver cast me an unimpressed look, like he was annoyed he’d had to stop. I mentally apologised for the inconvenience and cautiously made my way down the aisle, it became clear I was still drunk and I threw myself down onto the nearest seat, not even bothering to tuck my dress in behind me. The perk of travelling on public transport late at night was that it was always empty and tonight was no exception. I sat on the seats reserved for people with disabilities and internally cursed when I realised that I was faced with a detailed portrait of myself reflected in the night-backed window. The impenetrable darkness outside and the bus’s interior lighting made the windows act like a mirror and I considered moving before realising that any movement on my behalf, when combined with the buses spontaneous accelerations, would likely result in me crashing to the floor. I was confronted with my own image yet felt nothing, even considering how much it offended me. I saw a girl with hair the colour of dirty dishwater, sitting in an ugly dress with her cheeks flushed from drinking. My vision didn’t allow me to see what her face looked like in detail, but I could vaguely discern a pair of eyes set in dark circles. The girl wasn’t Miranda; in fact I didn’t know who it was. This girl was completely unknown but horribly familiar. She was like a shadow in the sense that she copied my movements perfectly and that was the proof she belonged to me. The girl in the window held my gaze and forced me to look away because in her eyes I saw nothing, absolutely nothing. There was no idea as to what would make her happy again, no idea about if she could be happy again and no idea how to get rid of the Blackhole in her bed. What I saw in her eyes was complacency, a tolerance, if not ambivalence to the horror of the Blackhole. How could anyone be like that? I had been so transfixed by the reflection of the girl who wasn’t Miranda I almost missed my stop. I pushed the red button at the last moment and the driver slammed on the brakes so hard I slipped across onto the next seat. Standing up I didn’t even notice the slight wobble in my legs as my brain ordered them to walk and the bus driver shook his head as I passed him.

  ‘Give us a bit more warning, love,’ he said and I grasped the yellow pole as I attempted to line up my bus card with the scanner.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. My words slurred together and I over-pronounced my vowels making it sound like some pretentious warble. The bus driver didn’t appear to even hear me. To him I was just another useless student, studying because my parents could afford for me too, regardless of if I deserved it or not. I realised that to him, I was completely mediocre. That thought made me turn before I stepped off the bus and I gave him my best impression of a smile.

  ‘Thank you, h
ave a lovely night and hope your shift’s over quickly.’

  The driver stared at me and I offered him a small wave before I jumped the small gap between the road and the footpath.

  ‘Hey, love, are you all right getting home?’ The sound of the driver’s voice made me turn. I found him with his face pressed up against the cage that imprisoned him in his seat, peering at me with a slightly confused and guilty look on his face.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be right. I’m just up the road,’ I reassured with another slack-jawed smile before I wrapped my arms around myself.

  ‘All right then, love, you take care now.’ The driver returned my sloppy smile with a small twitch of his mouth before he closed the doors. Taking that as my cue I began to walk. My inebriated state made my steps feel like I was measuring out metre distances and to any passer-by I was sure I’d resemble a cartoon. Everything seemed hyper-real. The grass was covered in tiny drops of translucent glitter and the leaves were frozen like crystal shards of a sun catcher which caught the moonlight, creating a world reflected in silver luminescence. The cold, which I hadn’t been aware of until the bus driver had closed the doors, set upon me like a creeping wave. It ebbed up from the grey pavement through my legs while small clouds of moisture fell out of my mouth with every breath. The cold didn’t bother me; it made me feel quite alive and sucking in a deep breath of the frozen air I threw my head back to look at the sky. It looked like glass, clear black glass and I was suddenly struck with wonder. Maybe if I looked hard enough I would be able to see myself reflected in it. The gentle hum of an accelerating engine brought my gaze back to the cold ground and the humming slowed as a car drew alongside me.

  ‘Are you all right there, darlin’?’ a dry voice asked. Two men, their faces blurred from alcohol, gazed at me from inside a shoddy commodore.

  ‘Yeah,’ I breathed and my voice sounded husky. I’m not sure where my common sense had gone but I felt no threat from these men and even regarded them fondly, it was nice they had inquired about my state.

  ‘Have you got far to walk?’ the kaleidoscopic man in the passenger seat asked and he threw a smile to the man in the driver seat who moved forward, craning his neck to get a better look at the girl they had caught trying to find her reflection in the sky.

  ‘No, I’m just at the top of the hill.’ I smiled stupidly, my brain mistaking my own inability to comprehend people as something shared by these two men.

  ‘All right, just wondering if you needed a lift is all,’ the voice drawled and a dry laugh barked from the driver’s seat. The cool air slowed down the sound; it looked as though his mouth had opened minutes before the noise reached me.

  ‘No, it’s fine. Really, I’m just up the hill; you’ll need to turn around anyway,’ I breathed and the voice banged his hand against the outside of the car as he leaned out the window.

  ‘Well you take care then, its chilly tonight,’ he said and I nodded, bringing my hand up and lethargically waving it.

  ‘I’ll be right,’ I farewelled and the voice nodded at me.

  ‘Have a good one.’

  The car which had so slowly appeared now vanished in a second and disorientated I turned around, glancing up the hill to chance a glimpse of the old commodore to make sure it had been real. Of course it had been real; I had no reason to suspect otherwise apart from the nicety of the two faceless men. The cold, which had disappeared at my distraction now returned and I shrugged in welcome, hugging my arms around my chest and returning my gaze to the cut-glass sky. It was beautiful, an endless expanse of sheer blackness. If I’d been more perceptive I would have noticed that the stars were missing. I was tempted to continue staring up at the darkness. My eyes appeared never to tire of exploring it; I think they were searching for some light but the cold made me turn away and continue my walk up the hill. The sight of light on the porch brought me out of my little glass world which I had nearly brought into existence. At this distance I couldn’t quite make out anything but the light, but as I walked up the driveway I was able to see Peter sitting in his wicker chair, which is all he seemed to do nowadays.

  ‘Hey,’ Peter greeted as I reached the top of the stairs and I gave him one of my sloppy smiles.

  ‘Hi, what are you doing out here? It’s like 2am,’ I said and Peter shrugged. I noticed an empty tumbler on the wicker table and, noticing my gaze, Peter leaned forward.

  ‘I could say something similar about you,’ he said and we stared at each other for a few more seconds before I turned away and opened the front door. The house was completely dark, as if the sky had flooded in behind me and I almost fell over a chair in the dining room as I waded my way through the blackness. I didn’t want to put the light on and I didn’t really need to either. All I had to do was walk down the long spinal corridor and turn to the right to find my bedroom. Opening the door I was treated to the sight of my bed illuminated in a white light. I’d left my curtains open and the moonlight flooded in through the window. My headboard was pressed up against the window so the light made a literal spotlight for the Blackhole. Right now it was hard to remember it was there; all I wanted to do was sleep. I pulled off my dress before shoving my pyjama shirt over my head and collapsed into the dirty sheets. I don’t remember the Blackhole grabbing me as I fell through the linen; it realised how exhausted I was and thought it would give itself an easy job, offering nothing but a gentle tug downwards. By now the Blackhole should have realised that it didn’t need to do anything to make me fall anymore. I’d become quite capable of doing that myself.

  10

  ‘You’re popular today,’ Dad looked at my phone as it buzzed for the sixth time on the dining table. He wasn’t wrong.

  I’d woken to five missed calls and four texts from Doug. I’d called Doug back, but he worked on Sunday’s and because I’d woken up slightly hungover at midday, by the time I’d managed to get through all I got was his voicemail. I doubted he was in trouble, he’d spent the night at Lachy’s with Cam and my panicked thoughts had turned to Abby. Had she been in an accident? Yet I’d had five texts from Abby; they had been sent this morning, well after the time she should have got home so she was evidently fine. The general gist of Abby’s messages was that she wanted to meet up today. This confused me as we’d already arranged a group study session at five, when Doug and Glen had both finished work. Yet Abby wanted to meet up with me earlier so it would be just the two of us. The strangest message however was the message I’d had from Kira. It was perfectly polite, she was thanking me for inviting her last night and I honestly found it rather sweet, if not completely uncharacteristic. I needed to use the bathroom so pulling myself out of bed this afternoon wasn’t a particular struggle, but when it came to getting ready to leave for uni I’d wanted nothing more than to lie back down. I’d avoided both those options completely by going into the kitchen and sitting down with dad as he ate lunch. I was too hungover to want any food so I stuck to water and had already drunk three glasses. Dad seemed to acknowledge my delicate mood and kept the conversation light, politely probing my plans for the day with faint paternal interest.

  ‘I’m going to meet Abby at the library so we can study for exams,’ I explained slowly while Dad nodded his head.

  ‘Good plan. When are your exams?’

  ‘Um they don’t start until next Saturday but I have mine on Tuesday, Friday and the following Monday.’

  ‘Oh well at least you’ve got breaks in between them,’ he observed and I nodded my head, too tired and sick to verbalise a reply.

  I’d clearly made a mistake coming to the library early to study with Abby. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get any work done, the opposite in fact. Abby appeared too stressed to chat and that was the problem. All this time to study made it abundantly clear how little I understood and how much work I had to do to have any hope of passing. For the first hour I’d been too overwhelmed to do more than read the study schedule, but soon enough Abby’s perpetual
silence began to unnerve me more than the thought of study; that’s when I started to read. To be honest I didn’t find the content hard, all it took was empathy and common sense, both of which you can fake. If all else fails just go with the most sickeningly moral option available, then you can never be wrong. By mid-afternoon I’d read a third of the textbook but I’d begun to lose concentration, mostly because Abby had taken to staring at me for a few seconds with a worried expression on her face before I looked up and she would quickly glance away. I could feel her stare slowly creep up my chest to my face now, and in a sudden burst of exasperation I slammed my book shut and looked at her.

  ‘Coffee?’ I asked and Abby’s worried expression softened.

  ‘Sure,’ she accepted.

  Abby’s self-absorption was both her most irritating and kind feature. If you ever felt bad all you had to do was ask her a question about herself and within a few minutes you’d be too involved in her trivial problems to even remember you had some of your own. It took me less than two minutes to find a suitable topic and I was reassured that Abby’s peculiar mood had nothing to do with me as she babbled casually while we got our coffee.

  ‘I got a text from Kira this morning,’ I announced and Abby’s expression changed in an instant. We were walking back through the sparsely populated study area, the good thing about study break is that most students used it for the exact opposite so Abby and I had found a comfortable spot in the south wing.

  ‘What did it say?’ she asked anxiously, her reaction threw me a little.

  ‘She was just thanking me for inviting her last night, that’s all.’ I had half-expected the simple and completely innocuous explanation to relax Abby but all it did was make her forehead crumple in concentration and she kept her eyes on the floor as we walked. I slid my way back into our booth and expected to find Abby doing the same but she’d stopped short. She was standing at the end of our table.