My Bed is a Blackhole

by Hadley Wickham

  ‘Yeah, I should probably head home.’

  We let go of each other and I pretended not to see Doug wiping his cheeks or his wet eyelashes. Realising I was still wearing his hoodie, I let out a small laugh.

  ‘I’ve got snot all over your jumper.’

  Doug smiled down at me. ‘It really doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘I’ll wash it and give it to Glen so he can give it to you,’ I said, beginning to take it off but Doug shook his head.

  ‘No, you can keep it. Give it back to me yourself.’ I nodded, zipping it back up.

  ‘Have a safe drive home.’

  ‘I’ll wait until you’re at the door,’ Doug said, and for a moment I stayed where I was. I wished I could forget and things could be as always were but sometimes that just isn’t possible. Sometimes you realise that the very thing you’ve been holding onto is the same thing that’s been holding you back.

  13

  ‘Are you okay?’ The sound of Peter’s voice made me jump as I reached the top of the porch stairs. For a moment I struggled to notice where it was coming from; eventually my eyes adjusted to the murky gloom and I saw Peter’s silhouette sitting in his wicker chair. I stood there for a moment, staring at my brother and comprehending the fact he’d been witness to everything that had happened between Doug and I. A ball of irritation surged up my throat.

  ‘What are you doing there?’ I demanded. Peter’s presence brought me back to childhood, when our mother had told me off and Peter had hidden behind the door so he could witness my shame with smug satisfaction. The memory made me angry.

  ‘Nothing,’ Peter replied, but his voice seemed almost embarrassed; he’d obviously heard everything. I wasn’t about to explain myself to Peter, nor could I think of anything smart to say so I brushed past him towards the front door.

  ‘What was that about?’ Peter asked quietly.

  ‘Are you asking me because you want to appear polite or because you actually care?’

  ‘Whichever will make you talk.’

  ‘What makes you think I need to talk?’ I spat.

  ‘Nothing, you don’t need to tell me anything.’ Peter’s defeated honesty intrigued me; did he actually care? I sat down heavily in the wicker chair beside Peter. The roughhewn edges snagged on my tights but I didn’t care.

  ‘Doug slept with Kira’ I whispered. I surprised myself; I hadn’t meant to tell anyone, the Blackhole had wanted to keep this secret. So why did I tell Peter? I think saying it out loud made it real and not just something inside my own head. I’d just told my best friend I couldn’t see him, what the fuck was wrong with me? Peter was looking at me.

  ‘You’ve told him you can’t see him because of that?’ he asked, and I turned on him.

  ‘Why were you listening? Jesus, Pete, I wouldn’t do that to you.’

  ‘You weren’t exactly quiet,’ he retorted.

  ‘Oh sorry, I didn’t know you were so interested in my life. What the fuck does it matter to you anyway?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter to me but it obviously matters to you, that’s why I asked if you were okay.’

  ‘How would you know anything about what matters to me,’ I spat at him, and I heard the faint creak of Peter’s seat as he shuffled his weight on it.

  ‘You’re right; I don’t know what matters to you.’ The turn in the conversation floored me, I had expected anger and childish retaliation not empathy; I didn’t know what to do with empathy.

  ‘Can I make a deal with you? I ask you one question and you have to be honest with me. The same applies to you, you get to ask me one question and I have to be honest,’ Peter proposed.

  ‘Okay, but I get to go first,’ I replied and Peter nodded his head in acceptance.

  ‘Okay, fine. What do you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘Why did you leave Sydney? Why aren’t you studying anymore?’

  ‘I’m just having some time off,’ Peter answered and I scoffed.

  ‘You and I both know that’s crap. You said honesty, Pete, why are you here?’ I repeated my question and Peter looked away. We sunk into a silence and I was not going to break it, I was prepared to wait all night for Peter to answer my question.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Peter finally sighed.

  ‘You don’t know what?’ I asked.

  ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘You’re impossible,’ I seethed and began to stand up before Peter slumped loudly back against his chair.

  ‘Fine,’ he sighed dejectedly, and I slowly sank back into my chair. It was nothing but rude curiosity that had driven me to ask the question and I didn’t like myself for doing it. Yet I had the feeling that I knew the answer already; I just needed to know I was right.

  ‘I left Sydney because I hated it. I hated everything about the place, my friends, and the lecturers. I hated it for no other reason then I hated it, and I hated it even more because it was making me hate engineering. Every day I woke up angry, every day I woke up wishing I was at home and every day I found myself missing dad and mum and Henry and even you. Engineering… I just don’t know if I want to do it, I mean I think I still love it but the thought of actually dedicating my life to it? That scares me shitless. I came home because I was afraid, afraid of what I was becoming and afraid of the future. I’m twenty-two and people expect me to have my life sorted but do you think I know what I want? Jesus, I have no fucking idea what I want.’

  Peter had his elbows resting on his knees and his head was propped up by his clenched fists. For a moment he stayed still and the gloom made him look like a concrete statute, like one of those street performers you saw on Market Street. I almost wanted to ask him not to move, there was something unnaturally peacefully about looking at Peter in the wake of his refreshing honesty, but his head slowly turned and he shrugged his shoulders slightly.

  ‘That’s it,’ he finished, and I looked out across the porch with him. My view was obstructed by the wooden poles of the fence, but I could still see the tiny golden lights of the port and the sea which looked like slick oil in the moonlight. Peter’s fists fell down and rested between his knees while his head dipped downwards so he was staring at the floor.

  ‘Are you going to say anything?’ Peter asked, and I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I admitted.

  ‘Well be honest. Tell me, am I being stupid?’ I hated it when people asked me to be honest because they never meant it. Nobody ever wants honesty, what they want is a lie told sincerely. They think that demanding honesty from a person somehow makes them incapable of lying. Well they’re wrong. Everyone lies and the terrible thing about it is we don’t even care anymore; all we want to know is that we are special, that we are good and incapable of error. Honesty had no place in a world of those expectations.

  ‘You want me to be honest?’ I asked and Peter nodded.

  ‘Well yeah, I did ask.’

  ‘You’re stupid,’ I began and I stood up. I was angry at him. How could my brilliant brother possibly feel like this? ‘Peter, you’re the most brilliant person I know. You’re smart and every day of your life you’ve always known where you were going. Even when there was no destination in sight, you just kept on pushing, you believed in yourself and that’s what got you through. Pete, I’m nothing like you. I have absolutely no fucking clue who I am, so how do you think it makes me feel when I hear you say that? You have everything, you are literally capable of anything and yet you’re here, sitting on your arse like a senile old man just watching time pass and you’re naive enough to think that your life will wait until you’re ready.’ My voice was becoming louder as I continued. ‘Well it won’t, Peter. Time doesn’t wait for anything. You can dig your heels in far as they go, but time will still drag you forward and suddenly you’ll realise you’ve spent you’re entire life miserable and doing what other people expected of you when they couldn’t
give two shits about you really. People are selfish, Peter. No matter how much you think they care they will never care as much as you do. Life isn’t meant to be a nice series of consequential events that you are capable of dealing with. Life is meant to be terrifying, it’s meant to be uncertain and the fantastic thing is; everyone is capable of getting through it. We’re not made of glass, Peter, we’re blood and bone and we’re brilliant, you’re brilliant. Do you know how much I envy you? You can do whatever you want because you’ve got nothing to hold you back. If you’re unhappy, Peter, then do something about it. You’re allowed to change; you’re allowed to fuck up because it’s just you. Don’t just sit here, Peter, because it’s insulting to everyone, there are children who would literally kill to be in your position and yet you’re content just to sit here? Well fuck you, Peter, fuck you.’

  14

  Things had gotten really bad, yet I get the idea you already knew that. The scary thing was that I didn’t though; when these things are happening to you, you just don’t see it. You don’t notice all the tiny changes until you find yourself staring at your reflection and realising you have no idea what the thing is staring back at you. That had happened on Saturday night. I was standing in front of the mirror after the fight with Peter and the sight of my reflection had horrified me so much I’d all but run into the sanctuary of my bed. The girl was empty; I could see right through her and there was nothing, absolutely nothing but a consuming darkness. How had I become so lost? Without uni to keep me busy I spent most of my day sleeping, the splintered snatches of oblivion soon left me confused and my sense of time eventually passed into nonexistence. I didn’t eat or shower, and when I wasn’t sleeping I was trying to; it was the only thing that offered me some reprieve from the Blackhole which had suddenly revealed itself as the monster it always was. Nothing mattered anymore and by the end of June I knew my parents, as well Peter had begun to worry. My mother had come into my room after a week, asking if I was sick and had attempted to get me to play my violin but I’d refused. On Saturday dad had attempted to interest me in food by taking me to the Fremantle Markets. He bundled me into the car in my leggings and oversized hoodie and I’d followed him around the stalls blindly. Rejecting every enticement to food he’d made until he’d eventually lost patience and bundled me back into the car. A few hours later he’d barged into my room with a plate of toast and forced me to eat in front of him. He’d made me cry and I’d heard Henry ask our mother what was wrong with me. I didn’t hear her reply. It took another week for my mother to ring Alison and learn that I’d not been to any of my sessions for the past month. She’d run into my room in tears, yelling and begging me to tell her what was wrong, but all I could do was stare at her numbly, mechanically muttering that I was fine. My mother had told Alison I’d be at my next session on Wednesday and made me promise I’d go. I promised only to stop her crying. I hated people crying or expressing any dramatic emotional response. There was something so grossly uncomfortable about it; sometimes just seeing it was enough to make me feel it too. When Wednesday morning arrived my mother contemplated calling in sick to work so she could ensure I made it to my session with Alison. I’d hated the thought of it, yet she seemed resolute so I was confused when I heard her car engine start. Dragging myself out of bed, I walked down the hallway to find Peter sitting at the kitchen table.

  ‘Where’s she gone?’ I asked, referring to our mother, and Peter looked up.

  ‘I told her I’d take you instead, and promised I’d wait in the car,’ he explained. I was surprised; Peter hadn’t said as much as a word to me since our fight over a fortnight ago. Why he’d volunteered to drive me this afternoon was either because he couldn’t stand to see our mother so upset, or he actually cared enough to think that a session with Alison would actually help me.

  ‘Oh,’ was my lame reply. I walked back to my room trying to think of some way I could bribe Peter to not take me, or at the very least not make it through Alison’s office door. Peter had to wake me up at 2:30 so I could get ready, but I only pulled a polar fleece jacket over my singlet and changed into a pair of leggings. My dirty hair was slicked into a messy bun which I’d slept in for the past two days, and I hoped my perfume was strong enough to hide the fact I hadn’t showered in a week. Peter was waiting on his wicker chair with his car keys when I walked out of the house and pulled on my plimsolls. It was the middle of winter and it had done nothing but rain all day. The entire world looked waterlogged and as we walked across the grass to his car, water welled up around our shoes with every step.

  Driving into Fremantle Peter and I didn’t speak, to be honest I felt rather sick and anxious so the silence was appreciated. I didn’t want to see Alison, let alone actually have a session with her. She’d want me to confront the problem when really I saw no harm in just living in it, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t see the point of doing anything differently. When Peter drove past Alison’s office I’d thought he’d forgotten where it was, but when I pointed out his mistake he cast a quick glance in my direction.

  ‘You’re not seeing Alison. I’ll cover for you, but I thought someone else might be more appropriate.’ Suddenly Alison didn’t look so bad.

  ‘Who?’ I asked, trying not to let panic creep into my voice.

  ‘You’ll see,’ Peter said, pulling up in front of small cafe I’d been too a few times.

  ‘I didn’t bring any money,’ I said. Peter handed me ten dollars.

  ‘Mel should be inside,’ he declared and my stomach dropped. You fucking didn’t. I was too angry to speak and yanked my seatbelt off before slamming the door shut behind me. Fuck. Shit. Crap. What the fucking hell, Peter! I was almost at the point of tears when I walked into the café; it was practically empty and Mel was sitting at a corner table. Despite all her virtues, Mel was a horrific actor and the look on her face when she saw me told me I looked as terrible as I felt. How I managed to smile was beyond me, but I hugged her and sat down while she ordered our coffee. I tried to think of things I could say, but more importantly of how I could leave as soon as possible. My phone’s text alert went off and it was Peter. “Mel’s dropping you back home when you’re done.” Fuck you, Peter. Mel sat down opposite me, putting our number in the middle of the table and gave me her best smile.

  ‘So, how are you?’ she asked, and as hard as I tried not to cast a sarcastic look, I failed.

  ‘Oh I’m good, just very tired. How are you?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m good.’

  The conversation evaporated and we found ourselves each sitting across from a stranger. Mel gave me an embarrassed smile and I continued to look at her blankly.

  ‘What did Peter say to you?’ I finally asked. The eagerness of her answer did little to hide her relief at breaking the silence.

  ‘He said that you needed to talk to me about something. That was it and I thought it must be serious because well, Peter never messages me.’

  ‘He text you?’

  ‘No, on Facebook.’

  ‘You have Peter on Facebook?’ I asked and Mel nodded.

  ‘Yeah, he added me and I accepted. Is that a problem?’ I shook my head in response. A girl who looked too young to be working brought over our coffee; she spilt them both as she put the cups down though pretended not to notice.

  ‘So, what do you have to tell me?’ Mel asked, and I looked down at the coffee. It had far too much froth to be a flat white.

  ‘Doug slept with Kira.’ I breathed. When Mel didn’t say anything I looked up to find her staring at me.

  ‘What!’ She almost growled the question. ‘When? How did you find out? Are the together now?’

  ‘Um, it was about two months ago. Abby told me and no, they’re not together. From what I understand it was a drunken mistake, though I could be wrong,’ I explained.

  ‘Have you spoken to Doug about it?’ Mel asked and I nodded.

  ‘Yeah, we had a talk a fe
w weeks ago; it’s no big deal. Honestly I don’t know why Peter told you I needed to talk.’ Mel looked stung and she shuffled uncomfortably in her seat.

  ‘You seem to be taking this awfully well,’ she observed carefully and I shrugged.

  ‘He didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘Yeah but, c’mon, you can’t be that blasé with how you feel,’ Mel said and I looked at her.

  ‘To be honest I don’t know how I feel, Mel.’

  ‘Well how do you feel now?’ she asked.

  ‘Considering I’ve asked Doug not to contact me for at least the next few months, I guess I’m halfway between angry and hurt.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie… I’m sorry.’ Mel meant it, sincerely.

  ‘Yeah well, I can’t really do much about it now,’ I stated and Mel stirred her coffee.

  ‘Boys just suck,’ she breathed and I didn’t reply.

  ‘Well that’s my news, what about you though? How’s Rhys?’ I asked and Mel nodded her head slowly.

  ‘Yeah I’m good. I got back from Davao yesterday, dad’s good, and Rhys…’ She trailed off. ‘I suppose you could say he’s okay.’

  ‘Why just okay? Are you guys fighting?’ I pressed. I was desperate to get Mel to start talking about herself, then I wouldn’t need to say much and could just listen to her incessant droning until she realised the time and would drop me home.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mel moaned and she let her hands fall off the table into her lap.

  ‘We’re just so different and I thought that didn’t matter at first but now all we seem to do is make each other miserable. Like before I left for Davao he got really shitty with me when we had to go to my friend’s twenty-first. He spent the whole night just sitting by himself, refusing to talk to anyone and when I tried to talk to him he’d always push for a fight.’ From Mel’s exasperated tone I got the feeling that this was the first time she’d been honest with someone about how she felt about Rhys. ‘There’s this guy in journalism, his name’s Brayden and I’ve always had a bit of a crush on him. Anyway, he asked me out last weekend and I said yes; I just said yes without even thinking about Rhys and I hated that. I want to be the girl who tells everyone she’s happy with her boyfriend but I’m not and that makes me miserable,’ Mel explained.