Letters from the Inside (4 page)

See, Trace, the trouble is, I’m scared of Steve. Scared of my own brother — it’s not meant to be like that, is it? But Steve is a violent guy. I mean really violent, seriously violent. He’s still at school, in Year 12, except I don’t think he does any work. But the worst thing is, no-one seems to realize how bad he is, except me. It’s not just that he’s got a bad temper, though he sure has that. It’s not just that his room’s full of Rambo posters, that he watches all these violent movies, that he dresses in Army greens, or that he’s got all kinds of weapons, like two old guns of Grandpa’s and butterfly knives and nunchaku and Rambo knives. Those things alone wouldn’t worry me, although I’d think anyone was a bit of a nerd if they were the biggest thrills in his life. But it’s more than that. When Steve gets mad — and you never know what’s likely to make him mad, it can be any little thing — the only way he ever reacts is violently. It’s like, he doesn’t know any other way. And he goes cold — his eyes go dead, you can’t talk to him, his face goes blank and his voice is like a robot. I don’t know whether he does it to look and sound tough, or whether it’s a part of him that he can’t control, but whichever it is, I know its effect on me, and that’s bad.

He’s beaten me up sometimes. Not like I’ve got any black eyes or broken bones, but he’s hurt me. He’s bent my fingers back, bent my arm back, kneed me, kicked me in the crutch, all kinds of stuff. And it’s always when no-one’s around. He’s smart like that. I get so scared when I know the two of us are going to be home alone. That’s one reason I hated it when Katrina left.

And when I’ve tried to talk to my parents they brush it off. It’s like they don’t want to face it. When I complain (and it’s dangerous to complain when Steve’s around) they tell me not to provoke him, just to ignore it, that I must be exaggerating, or that he’s ‘going through a stage’, or they say ‘Well that’s what boys are like.’ I think the guy’s got a problem, but how do I convince Mum and Dad?

Katrina doesn’t think he’s that bad, ’cos she was bigger and stronger than him when they were growing up, and he’s always been scared of her. And I don’t like to talk to my friends about it, although they do think he’s weird. For that matter, no-one likes him much — he’s got no real friends, just a couple of other losers who are into the same kind of Rambo stuff. But they’re not as bad as him. What I can’t work out is how Mum and Dad keep ignoring his reports from school, because the school’s complained about him a few times, and he got suspended last year for bullying. All his reports say he’s got a terrible temper and he has to learn to control it. But he hasn’t learnt, and I don’t think he will.

You know, I read about those guys who do things like the Richmond Park killings, and the Harvey House Massacre, and I wonder if that’s how my own brother will end up. That’s not too good, is it?

Well, this must be the longest letter I’ve ever written. Hope you’re awake. Sorry it’s been so depressing. But now you know why I think you’re lucky. Don’t throw away what you’ve got, Trace, ’cos it’s worth a rainforest, having a family like yours.

I’m going to crawl off to bed. It’s after midnight — I’m too tired even to slash my wrists — I’ll have to do it tomorrow.

See you — lots of love,

       
Mandy

Apr 15

Dear Mandy,

Well, yesterday was the big one, and we lost. Bloody hell, I hate losing. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. We played Chieftains again and they thrashed us, 60-36. But it was a bloody rough game. They got away with everything under the sun. See, the refs in our comp, they hate our guts, so we’re always playing against seven people. I got fouled off three minutes into the second half, and I reckon one of the fouls was fair enough — all the others were total rip-offs. I’m still steaming. I mean, I’m bloody bruises from head to foot but I’m the one who got fouled. It sucks, it absolutely sucks.

Chieftains were so up themselves after the game. I’d rather any team in the comp but them won it. They were so psyched-up from the semi, it was like playing a football team.

We had a party afterwards but it was a dumb party. Now I’m watching
Video Super Hits.
I hate that Wave song, ‘Lovers and Strangers’, don’t you? I’ve seen it a million times.

You asked about the holidays, but we’re not doing anything. Dad says we’ve had too many trips lately and we should stay at home and have a family time. I don’t mind.

That girl you met from Prescott, I don’t know who she is. We don’t mix with the Year 1 Is much. And anyway, like I told you, I’m quiet, so not many people know me.

Anyhow, I’ve got a History test tomorrow, better go and study.

Bye,

Tracey

April 17

Tracey, how can you ignore my letter like that? I mean, it’s bad about your basketball but I told you stuff about Steve that I’ve never told anyone, and you didn’t say a word about it!

I was waiting for your letter, and when it came, all it had was bloody basketball. In fact I started thinking maybe you hadn’t got my one, but you mentioned the exchange student, so you must have. I can’t believe it.

Love (but burned-off),

     
Mandy

Apr 20

Dear Mandy,

I’m sorry about your letter and your brother and everything. I knew you’d be pissed. But I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t know what to say.

When I put that ad in, and you answered, I thought you were such a funny and lively person, and sort of casual, happy-go-lucky. All the things that I’m not, to tell you the truth. Those comments you made once in a while about your brother, when you said he was a creep or something, I just thought he was lazy or selfish or a lagger. I didn’t know there was anything serious. Then your letter came and I read it. I felt a bit sick. I thought, ‘God, she’s got problems like everyone else.’ I don’t think I wanted to know that.

What I can’t understand is, how come you put it to those guys who tried to crack onto you, Paul and the other one, how come you put it to them with so much spunk, but your brother’s got it all over you? I thought you were bloody tough the way you went after Paul. I can’t work it out.

Guess you’re on holidays now. I know I told you we’re not going anywhere, but are you? Hope you haven’t shot through, or you won’t be getting this for a while. Not that it’s worth getting anyway.

Sorry,

 
Tracey

April 26

Dear Trace,

Well, thanks for writing back. I don’t blame you for being confused — I confuse myself sometimes.

Maybe I shouldn’t have written to you the way I did. But I had to talk to someone. And these letters, it’s funny, they’re different. It’s a different type of friendship. In a way I hope we never meet — it might spoil it. Somehow these letters are like a diary, and I write things in them that are different to the way I talk to people I see every day. So if we meet, or when we meet, it’s like we’ll have to start one type of friendship when we’ve already got another one. It’s like we’d be starting from scratch when we’d already been going a hundred years. I don’t know how it’d work.

I don’t know whether I’m funny and lively, like you say, but I like a laugh and I do some radical things. But I’m not casual, or slack. Maybe in these letters I make myself out to be more of a social star than I am. You can do that in letters. After all, what you know about me is what I choose to tell you — I could be making it all up.

Sometimes when I write to you it’s like I’m writing to myself.

I’ve been thinking about who sees the true side of me, because everyone sees different ones: my parents, my sister, my brother, Cheryl, Rebecca, Maria, you, the bus driver, my French teacher. . . But they’re all true in their different ways (all fake too, sometimes). Guess it shows how many sides we all have. You know how people insult each other by saying they’re ‘two-faced’? The reason it’s an insult is because it’s an understatement! I’m thousand-faced.

Your letter only came today, thanks to Easter and Anzac Day. It’s been a scungy holiday so far. I hate it when all the shops are shut. Sunday we went to church, not a common event in our family. My mother’s always at us to go to confession and mass. She goes quite often but Dad’s not even Catholic. He went on Easter Sunday though, so did Steve. Now if anyone should go to confession it’s Steve, but the priests would have to sit in relays.

Katrina wasn’t there but she came home afterwards and we had a proper big-time Easter dinner, with turkey. We’re too old to have an egg hunt but we still got the eggs. I kind of miss the old egg hunts, to tell you the truth.

Uncle Kevin and Auntie Sophie came, with Justin, who’s their only son. Uncle Kevin is Dad’s twin brother and Justin is 18 and doing dentistry. He’s a fun guy, the kind of sweetheart who passes his time by coughing up big gobs and spitting them at the rubbish tin. Too bad if you’re walking past at the time, like I was when I stayed with them once. He should make a great dentist.

Yesterday I went into town with Cheryl. We didn’t exactly plan it, but we ended up watching the parade of the old diggers. It was amazing. Actually it was sad, seeing them march along. The saddest thing was to see the World War One guys. There’d be a sign saying Second Division, and behind it there’d be three or four men, and you’d think, ‘Once there would have been thousands, maybe tens of thousands, walking behind that banner, and now there’s only three left, in their nineties, representing those fit young guys.’ It seemed so tragic. And the World War Two ones were starting to look old and slow too.

My father was too young for World War Two and too old for Vietnam, so he was lucky. But both my grandfathers were in it, one in the army and one in the air force.

But the worst thing was after the parade. Cheryl and I were walking along Mortimer Avenue. This was about four o’clock in the afternoon. These guys were coming towards us, in their suits with medals and ribbons all over them. They were from the Vietnam war I guess, and they were drunk. Anyway, when they saw Cheryl — she’s Malaysian — they started yelling out stuff like ‘Get the gook! Get the gook!’ and they fanned across the footpath making machine-gun noises and acting like they had guns. They thought they were being funny, but Jesus it was so bad. Cheryl just burned red, but I tell you, that girl’s got guts. She walked right through them, without looking at them, without slowing down or speeding up. And tough old me — you remember how you said I was tough? — I tagged along behind her hoping to God they wouldn’t touch us and there wouldn’t be any trouble. Well we got away, but we didn’t get away really. I think it left a mark or two.