something.
It’s when I’m alone that the doubt sets in. It’s been that way for years. As long as there are people around, I can pretend that everything’s OK. But I need that audience to pretend for, otherwise it doesn’t work. Alone, I’m not that easy to fool.
It’s not that I mind being alone, not really. I can distract myself with silly fantasies and daydreams for hours, but in the end it always comes back to me. That’s what I’m left with: just me. And that’s what scares me more than anything. Me. The thoughts I try to purge by cutting. The memories that seem to get louder and brighter the harder I try to forget. The whys and what ifs. And always crouching somewhere in the background, waiting to knock me down whenever things seem OK for once, is the thought – the knowledge – that breaks my heart: my father would be ashamed of the person I have become.
Sometimes I used to feel glad he was dead, just so I didn’t have to see the look on his face when I stumbled home completely off my face, clothes a mess, mouth red-raw from kissing some random. She never cared. She never waited up. Dad would have though, I’m sure of it. He would have worried about me and shouted at me and grounded me and told me I couldn’t see those boys any more. And I would have cried and slammed my bedroom door and begged to be allowed out. But inside it would be different. Inside I would be secretly pleased, comforted by the knowledge that someone cared. I wouldn’t go out every weekend. Sometimes I would stay at home and watch telly with him, even those crappy old sitcoms he loved so much. She might be there too, but we wouldn’t care either way. It would be different. Everything would be so different. I might not have gone to the park that day, armed with a bottle of cider. That’s where it all began – that’s where I began.
I was fourteen and clueless. It was all down to Tanya. She sat next to me in English and we’d become almost-but-not-quite friends over the past few months. She was pretty (but wore too much mascara), clever (but could never be bothered to do any work) and bitchy as anything (but she was nice to me, so that was OK). One Friday in May, Tanya asked me what I was up to at the weekend. ‘This and that, y’know’ was my particularly eloquent answer, not wanting to admit that I was headed for another weekend in front of the telly. It was around the time that Mum had started going away and the TV was my constant companion – anything to stop the silence from suffocating me. But Tanya was having none of it. ‘Fuck “this and that”. Why don’t you come out with us tonight?’ The thought of going out with Tanya and her friends scared the crap out of me, but I found myself saying yes in spite of myself. She told me about an off-licence near the park that would sell to anyone, no matter how young they looked, and said everyone was meeting at the kids’ play area at eight. I had no idea who ‘everyone’ was.
I nearly chickened out when I was getting ready. It would be so much easier to stay at home. I could take my duvet downstairs, curl up on the sofa and order a pizza. But I didn’t. I changed into a shortish skirt and a pretty black top that I’d never worn before. I pulled on my boots and checked that my make-up was OK. My face looked different, maybe because I’d gone a little bit overboard on the kohl. I felt different too. Maybe this was going to be the start of something for me. These people didn’t know me, not really. I could be different; I could be anyone.
Buying the booze was as easy as Tanya had said, and it wasn’t hard to see why. The lady behind the counter was about a hundred years old, with the thickest glasses I’d ever seen. She asked if I was eighteen, and (surprise, surprise) I said I was. I’d never drunk much of anything before, so cider seemed like a safe choice: apple juice with a bit of a kick.
I approached the play area with caution. I could hear laughter coming from the den at the top of the