Midnight. The moon glistening a pale soothing white, the stars dancing around it, and there I am, slouched on one of the curved walls beside the stairs-something that I used to do all the time when I was little; it helped me to think. Something that I had time for before I started secondary school. At such a bad day like this, my large, slightly unkempt back garden doesn’t seem as welcoming as it normally does. But the moon keeps me there. My shimmering diamond eyes fix on that moon, and nothing else. Pearly tears rolling down my ivory cheeks, I am almost as pale as the moon. I guess if nobody could see my eyes or my mouth, I could probably be passed off as the moon, what with me wearing black all over, especially with my black headscarf bound around my head, hugging me, comforting me, telling me that everything will be alright, and my head, almost floating unsupported in the darkness. I still feel sick, even though I already threw up after what I had seen: I never, ever wanted to see it. Not the sky, something else. But I had known for so long, that that day would come. Creeping, day by day, getting closer and closer, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Nobody could. We were all powerless.

 I look a mess. Despite my crimson lips and my sweet chocolate brown eyes, flashing so many shades of brown, there is no longer any colour on my face. And there usually were, soft pink roses on my cheeks, and when I was hot, my heart shaped face was red all over. But today I am not pale because I’m cold; I am petrified. A million voices, all of my memories buzzing in my head at once, flashing, smouldering, cutting into me. The pain so intense, I feel it all over. It feels as though my heart has been damaged, rips in the centre of it, tugging whenever I move. Acid, being pumped inside my body, instead of the usual blood. I’m screaming inside; no sound could expel from my mouth-the acid had reached my throat, and there it lies, leaving a foul taste in my mouth for many days to come. I’m screaming inside, but no one can hear me. My tongue is sandpaper, roughing my mouth, but it doesn’t make any difference because I feel nothing but pain, anyway. Water could not soothe my dry throat, nor my mouth. It would just flow down and do nothing. It tastes horrible too, even though normally it doesn’t. The acid is just too overpowering. It isn’t bad breath that’s the cause of the taste either; I even check. Overnight my once full bottle of Listerine transforms from being full to the top, to entirely bare. But even so, it still doesn’t want to go away. Neither does how I feel.

I can’t sleep at all the whole night, and it shows: the next day, I look even worse-I look almost like a zombie. For several hours I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling, weeping. I try to sleep, but I can’t. When my eyes are open, all my memories of what had happened, and older ones, attack me. When my eyes are closed, it’s even clearer; I could all but go back to those happier times and use my life more wisely. The smells, my feelings, everything around me: I remember it all, though I don’t want to remember everything. 

The doorbell rings. Footsteps going past my room, and the doors open. I hear the voices at the door. My mum had opened the door, and it was one of the nicest carers I had ever known. I hear whispers outside, all to do with what had happened. I peek out my door, and there she is, giving her sympathy and hugging mum. Maureen had come over to  clean my Nana up four times a day, but everything has changed now. Nothing would ever be the same. Everything is changing so quickly, my whole life has changed, and it scares me. My parents have been talking about traveling the world a bit. Not everywhere, just in some places. We always wanted to go to an Arab country and learn the language. That would be nice. Maybe it would take my mind off things, make me forget. Then after that, move to Malaysia permanently. I do like that idea, but I always thought that we would move when I was much older than I am now, about twenty, but I’m barely even sixteen yet. If we do move, it would be soon after I leave school, so if that does happen, I only have less than a year left living in London. Scary.... I’ve lived here my whole life.

Lifelessly I walk past my Nana’s room, where Maureen and my mum sit on the beautiful red velvet chairs, the same room with the hospital bed, still shaped where my nana was before she was brought out. I do my best to avoid even looking into that room since last night; I don’t want to remember what had happened. As I fasten my prefect’s tie while looking in the mirror of the now steamed up bathroom, I realize that I still wear that same pale face I had yesterday, but this time, my lips have a purplish tint instead of red. I look terrible and I feel it too, but I know I have to go to school. Last night, before my brother Zak went back home, my parents had said that I didn’t have to go to school tomorrow if I didn’t feel up to it, but I said I wanted to go. I needed to get out of the house anyway; staying here couldn’t do any good to me, and even the littlest of things set me off, crying again, when it reminded me of recent events. Despite him saying that he was okay, it didn’t seem like Zak slept as well as usual, either; he couldn’t get up early enough the next day to go to work. But that was probably because he arrived home at 1 am-he never seemed to find it difficult to sleep like I did sometimes. The next night, I didn’t get much sleep, either, but that was for a different reason: I drank too much of a delicious energy drink that made me so hyper, I couldn’t sleep, or even stay still. One day later, my energy still didn’t fade. I love that drink! It had a fizzy orange sherbet flavor, and it even had a poem on the side. It made me feel so much more alive since what had happened on Wednesday, and it cheered me up a little bit, too, and for a while, it made me forget. Could it be that for now, the only way to cheer me up is to keep myself high on sugar?

As I walk up towards the school, it feels as though everything is moving in slow motion. I guess I’m going mad. Eventually I reach the stairs, where one of my best friends is standing, discussing rapidly in Tamil something about the preparation for the planned dance with three other girls at the audition for the culture evening. From hanging around with them every so often throughout the years, I could almost understand what they were saying, but this time I don’t bother to listen. A simple tap on Anitha’s shoulder and a wave, then I drag myself up the stairs to my second floor form room. Ani catches up with me as I reach first floor. “Hey….what’s wrong?” Somehow she could tell that something is up with me. I thought I could hide things well enough; I’m not that bad a liar, am I? I guess I’m wrong. “You don’t look so good.” Ani breathes. As I open my mouth at the door of our form room, my eyes swell up, but I try to fight it. I have to; I don’t want to cry, especially not here. A year 11 prefect, sixteen at the end of the month, and about to cry in front of everyone. How pathetic. One more try, why not? I open my trembling, faded whitish-purple chapped lips and try to speak again. I manage to fight the tears, but this time, no sound comes out.

 Ever since last night I’ve been having difficulty speaking properly at the most random of times. My emotions are like that, too. Now and again I would start crying, without any warning. It took me days to get over what had happened. I still feel sad, but now it’s different; I’m more in control of my emotions. I can’t say that I’ll be that in control of myself in a couple of weeks, though. I’m not that predictable, and it will take a lot to get used to that much change. 

“Tell me about it when you’re ready, okay?” Anitha soothes, concerned. She pats my slumped head as she passes to take the seat next to mine. “Okay” I croak, “but it might take a while though, I’m finding it really difficult to talk about this.” “Sure.” She says, and I force an awkward smile, and she returns one back. “So, are you staying back for the open evening?” I squeak, trying to change the subject. “Yeah..you?” She replies, as she rummages through her ornate purple schoolbag. “Yeah. I don’t think I can handle going back home even straight after art club. My mum and dad will be at work, and I don’t feel comfortable staying in that house on my own so soon, not after what happened yesterday.” “That bad, huh?” 

“Yeah. I need to be here.” I laugh uneasily.” Never thought I’d say that, but it’s true.”

We go down to assembly; this time we needn’t sit on the stage, which is good-I’m still not too keen on the idea that the year elevens had to sit up there. For once in a long time, it is a good assembly, and doesn’t feel so long, but I almost cry again when one of the words on the “Plan for life” sheet catches my eye: Death. Just when I think all those sad memories are beginning to slip away and leave me in peace, they return. The taste of salty tears flush violently down my throat as I hold them back from escaping.

I’m right: going to school like normal really can help. The assembly wasn’t boring, either, despite its minor flaw of almost releasing my malevolent tears. At lunchtime after Geography, I finally tell Ani why I haven’t my usual self today, why I’ve been finding it hard to pay attention, why I can’t think straight. We stay in our form room where we also have Geography, and I tell her everything in a mad rush, still trying to strengthen myself to hold back the tears, before I pop downstairs to get my lunch from the cafeteria and smuggle it back upstairs again, and Anitha and the other Sri Lankan girls begin their rehearsal for the audition. 

We sit down, and I let her know everything, while I watch her expressions modify slightly with what I tell her…