What Does Blue Feel Like?

Twenty-two-year-old Jessica Davidson started writing when she was fifteen and tore her knee cartilage, ending a future career in ballet. She decided to do a degree in Primary Education instead.

Jessica's father claims he's the inspiration for her writing as he used to make up wonderful stories when Jessica and her sister were little.

What does blue feel like?
is Jessica's first novel.

jessica davidson

For those who heard

 

First published 2007 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney

Copyright © Jessica Davidson 2007

The moral right of the author has been arrested.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in Publication Data:

Davidson, Jessica, 1985– .
What does blue feel like?

For senior secondary school students.
ISBN 978 0 330 42307 6.

1. Teenage girls – Juvenile fiction. 2. High school seniors – Juvenile fiction. 3. Depression in adolescence – Juvenile fiction. I. Title.

Internal design by Melanie Feddersen, i2i design Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group, Maryborough, Victoria

Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

These electronic editions published in 2007 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

What Does Blue Feel Like?

Jessica Davidson

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To my wonderful husband Shanon, thank you for enduring the countless nights when I kept you awake well past midnight tapping on the keyboard. And thanks for putting up with being neglected while I was writing. Love you always.

To my parents for your unconditional love – thanks.

To my girlfriends, past and present, for the fun during the good times and support during the bad.

To Andrew Beiers, thanks for listening to my piercing theories. And all the rest. I owe you a box of tissues.

To my senior English teachers for fuelling my passion for writing, and for telling us it was okay to swear in our pieces if it was appropriate to the character!

Thanks must go to my editor Claire Craig for her unending patience and enthusiasm for the book. Thanks for leading me through the process. Thanks to Anna McFarlane who read my first ever submission and told me to keep writing. And thanks to Julia Stiles who helped me make every word work. To Melanie Feddersen who made the book look so fantastic – thanks.

Lastly, to the inventors of energy drinks – thanks.

It's New Year's Eve.

Should be one of the best,

most hopeful times of my life.

New Year —

Year 12 coming up

turning eighteen later on.

You know, clean slate and all that.

But —

I feel as if

I am falling

into a chasm

or sinking

into the mire.

I can't escape

and I

don't know if I really want to.

I want it to

be over, my whole life.

Extinct.

‘Stop mooching, Char,'

Mum says impatiently

when I laze around all day

watching videos.

Mum doesn't get it.

It's the holidays

and that's what you're supposed to do,

at least that's what I tell her

and myself

refusing to contemplate

that this bleakness

within

has started seeping

outwards.

 

She'll be relieved

when school starts again

because

being surrounded by friends,

assignments to write,

study to do,

I'll stop

mooching.

One day, to relieve the boredom,

Mum takes me to get my learners.

I've been reading the book,

but not that much.

To my surprise,

I pass.

Mum nearly has a teary,

and starts worrying about me driving a car,

and the photo makes me look

like I'm drunk.

I think it's funny,

and laugh when Mum asks if they'll take the photo again.

They say no, of course,

it's expected to have a bad photo.

Dad lets me drive up and down the street that night

while Mum stands on the driveway in her dressing gown.

And worries.

are concerned,

visit guidance counsellors secretly in their lunchtimes,

talk about ringing
someone

but

don't know what to say.

There is a black hole draining

all their energy

away

and they think of what they'll say

to make it better

that doesn't sound like a weak excuse.

They didn't expect

to have to deal with dramas

at the beginning of the school year

but at least

it gives them something to do

during Maths.

Char's mum, Julie,

knows something is

wrong.

She wants her

normal

well-adjusted

beautiful

happy

smiling

child

to reappear.

She feels guilty and wonders if

it is her fault.

counts her calories,

watches her weight,

thinks she could stand

to lose a few

(imaginary] kilos.

Can't wait to finish school

end the surreptitious nagging

about assignments, books and tests.

Sometimes she thinks about running away.

But she doesn't know from what.

She and Char are friends.

Except for recently, when Char is like

the outgoing current,

drifting, pulling, sliding away.

And you can feel the ocean trying to hold

on to the sand and stay where it is.

Sometimes Bronwyn is the sand.

Char tries to analyse her feelings,

be scientific, factual,

cool and detached.

The internet is a ‘valuable information resource',

say her teachers.

But what she reads about how she feels just makes her

confused.

Tangled up in the World Wide Web.

And tired,

so very tired.

are just like sponges.

Night after night they soak up tears

and she doesn't know

why she's crying.

lies awake down the hall.

Staring vacantly into the darkness,

listening to her eldest child cry

into her pillow at night.

So what is this meaning of life stuff?

Char asks. Seems to me

we are born,

learn what we need to know,

and then we start thinking,

There must be more to it than this!

Search for answers.

Find none.

Fall in and out of love

and die,

leaving the rest of the world

unperturbed.

After several endless, drifting, garish days

she still feels nothing. Nothingness —

a lonely companion to have.

When you feel nothing.

And you do not care.

And the nothingness is still there.

Sometimes,

at night, she wishes she would

never wake up.

see Char spinning out of control

like on a merry-go-round

that makes you dizzy

if you watch long enough.

shrug their shoulders

and sigh

blaming it on

takeaways,

television,

glossy teenage mags,

consumerism.

And hormones.

At the supermarket,

among the canned goods,

the thought comes back,

comes back and goes away.

It niggles at her.

She wends her way around the grocery maze,

following her mother

who sends her to get celery.

She holds the cold, pliable vegetable to her cheek

and whispers the thought

to the celery: I wish I was dead.

It shocks her to hear it out loud.

The celery doesn't reply.

At night, Char daydreams —

thinking of ways to do it.

She has read statistics stating the most

successful methods

(an accidental DIY journal)

of suicide.

Such a bitter-sweet-bitter word.

Like medicine. But, sometimes,

thinking about the medicine

you are going to take can

make you feel better.

likes his golf, beer and his tattered old

commando-style pants.

He hates his job (don't most people?),

figures Char is having boy issues

(what teenager doesn't?),

or self-confidence issues (that's growing up!).

And he does care, but she can handle it by herself.

And if he

tried to help, she would probably say,

‘Shut up, Dad, and mind your own business.'

Better just to stay on the lounge.

Uninvolved.

talk.

About nothing.

But they are talking

and the mere effort

is exhausting them both.

Char and her mum cuddle on the couch, pressing together

miles apart.

Her mum says,

‘Remember when you changed your name from

Charlotte to Char?

You wouldn't answer to Charlotte. Your teachers, confused,

sent notes home.

Remember when we went to the sea when you were seven?

A red-haired boy tried to borrow your shovel and

pail and you slapped him. His mother was

horrified when she saw the red mark on his waxen cheek.

Remember when you tried to cut your doll Sally's hair?

We had to stick some more on, made of wool.

Remember when you got your first period?

We gave you

a glass of wine

and you were so proud of being grown-up.

Remember when you moved into your treehouse?

You came back into the house as soon as it got dark.'

I am stupid, Char thinks.

I am failing at least two subjects.

I'm not going to get the marks I need

to get into uni,

to move away from here

to have a career

to have a life.

Char's brother is obsessed with

Nintendo,

Game Boy Advance,

PlayStation,

GameCube

and Xbox.

He sits there,

second after second

minute after minute

hour after hour,

eyes glazed to focus on fake people, palm trees, racing

cars and friendly monkeys.

He says, ‘Why go outside and play? Then I'd have to amuse

myself. Get sweaty, dirty, sunburnt.

And it's boring. This is cool.'

Julie worries that he plays too many video games.

But at least she knows where he is,

at home

in the suburban quiet.

Char has lost her appetite.

Her uniforms are baggy,

the pleats sag limply in the breeze.

They seem almost sad.

Bronwyn is quietly envious.

Her pleats are straight and proud

and she resolves to

work harder at being thin.

she wants to cry.

At the stars, at God, at herself.

She cries every day

and night

and it's during the

long

long

long

long night

that she plans

how to die.

At the family barbecue,

when Char, in her own world, is seen to be ‘sulking',

Gran calls it ‘a mood',

Auntie Glenda says, ‘It's “an attitude”.'

Uncle Bob says, ‘It's teenagers.'

Cousin Em says, ‘Perhaps it's drugs.'

Cousin Paul says, ‘Maybe it's cool nowadays.'

Great Auntie Joyce says, ‘Maybe it's that

time of the month. You remember how cranky

you used to get, Glenda.'

Her brother Tim says, ‘I'm hungry. Someone pass

the sauce.'

And Uncle Simon, who was dropped on his head as a baby,

and therefore is regarded as a bit peculiar, says nothing.

Just gives her a cuddle.

And wipes away an embarrassed tear on her cheek.

I want to die but I don't have the energy

(be careful what you wish for)

she thinks.

I am never going to get anywhere so why try?

I am no one special anyway.

I am a drain on my parents' money and time.

I have nothing to offer the world.

I have no destiny.

I am just a statistic.

I am going to die one day.

I am going to die one day soon.

Her friends say,

Char is like an island, she is all alone.

Char is like a pit bull, she will bite if you try to get too

close.

Char is like a treasure chest, she is locked up.

Char is like a wanderer in the desert.

She needs a place of rest and nourishment.

She needs an oasis.

Especially for my parents, thinks Char. The thought is

sour, rotting, forbidden.

They are fighting again

about money

and Tim.

Their subjects of choice when

it comes to arguing.

I am not going to miss this when I'm

gone,

thinks Char. Gleefully, the thought tumbles around.

And when her mother checks on her that night in bed

she is smiling.

The parents are out. They have taken the beast-child

known as Tim.

Feeling brave, I scribble on a piece of paper.

Goodbye, Mum.

Goodbye, Dad.

I couldn't take it any more.

I pick up our carving knife. It is a

dead weight (ha ha).

All I have to do

is follow my veins

and press hard.

I try to make a mark, just near my wrist.

A thin line of blood appears.

I drop the knife and jump before

it falls on my toes

then —

I stand, frozen

and time freezes with me.

Everything has stopped. Except for my eternal

river of tears.

I scrub the knife, hard

and put it back into the drawer,

and tear wildly at my note

until there are paper snowflakes drifting

down

down

down

a reminder of what I couldn't do.

I burn the shreds.

Her friends know something is wrong

by the way Char refuses to take her jumper off

even when they have to do hot, sweaty push-ups in PE.

They say, ‘We're worried about you.'

But she already knows.

She knows they will be sad.

They might even cry.

And they might miss her for a while.

But they'll forget.

They have things to live for.

She is so busy thinking about how to tell them goodbye

that in Science, sitting next to Bronwyn, she distractedly

Pushes Her Sleeves Back.

When I saw her arm I knew that we weren't

just talking some new craze

like sketching tattoos on yourself.

This was serious.

And, like, how would I know what to do?

I feel confused, anxious, worried.

I feel scared.

Under her bed, in the space between

the bed and the wall,

Char drops her secret goodbye notes.

She feels as if

she is posting them.

They are all the same.

Dear ...I love you, goodbye, love Char
.

Because she knows she will never be able to describe