Oleanders are Poisonous by AJ Collins

Author:AJ Collins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Young Adult Fiction, Coming of age, Trauma, Female lead, Music, Small town girl, Australia
Publisher: AJC Publishing
Published: 2020-03-01T16:00:00+00:00

9. Abnegation

I wake to a wattlebird screeching. Those first few seconds, my head is quiet and dull. Then it all comes flooding back. I pull the doona over my head. I don’t know how to face the day. How to face Samuel. Mum. Who do I tell? Do I tell? Maybe I’ll pretend nothing’s happened, go about business as usual. Samuel was drunk. He probably won’t even remember. But I do. What should I do? The question goes round and round with no answer.

I want another shower. I still feel dirty. But I don’t want to move. Moving means facing it. And then the doubt creeps in. Was it my fault? I’d let him sit close, hold my hand, hold me. It’s never the victim’s fault. There’s been so much chatter on the news and online lately about victim blaming. And there, in a split second, I’ve become something that never, ever occurred to me: a victim. I’m not me anymore. Where did I go? Crazy, I’ve gone crazy.

I move through the house, numb with lack of sleep, edgy with wariness. Their bedroom door is open, but neither Samuel nor Mum is up. Something’s not right. No snoring. I’m guessing Samuel is dead to the world after his drinking, and Mum’s still dopey from her sleeping pills. I slip into the bathroom and lock the door.

I desperately want to shower again, to scrub away the memory of him, but the thought of being naked, with Samuel nearby, even in drunken sleep, even with the bathroom door locked ...

How did I manage last night?

I listen, straining to hear for any movement. I take my top off for a quick wash with a face cloth. I stop and listen again, towel pressed tightly to my chest, then hurry with the rest of my wash. I can’t look in the mirror; I don’t want to see this other self I’ve become. I know I’ll start crying, and that can’t happen. I have to push everything down, keep it tight and knotted, so I don’t fall apart.

It’s too early, but I leave the house anyway, keeping the snick of the front door as quiet as I can. I straighten my uniform and pat down my hair as I walk up the drive, then open the gate only a fraction, so it doesn’t creak too much. The footpaths are swept with soil from last night’s wind. Shifting piles of red dirt sit in the cracks and gutters. Branches and leaves coat the roads.

I head to the café, where Trish tells me I’ve missed the early bus. My regular one is in another twenty-five minutes. I order a hot chocolate and sip while I stare at my maths book. Trish brings me a blueberry muffin. ‘It’s yesterday’s,’ she says. ‘Free.’ Can she tell? Am I a walking, flashing sign that reads ‘Molested’?

I nod, unable to return her smile.

She goes back to the counter but keeps glancing at me. Can she tell? Country folk always seem to know each other’s business.

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