“Sorry”.

My life is a confusing blur, of false apologies and excruciating sadness. What does saying sorry do anyway? Is it just something you say when something bad happens? There is no emotional meaning behind the word. It’s not like it eases the pain, it only reminds you of what you lost.
When I fall asleep, my mind replays memories into my head, forcing me to inquire deeper, to remember the truth. I lie awake, staring at the patterns on the ceiling, the fear of dreaming is enough to fund these sleepless nights.
And it’s starting to show. I’ve stopped wearing make-up. Going out with friends. I’ve lost weight. The only thing I can think about is him, and getting him back. But then I remember. He hasn’t dumped me, or ran off with another, slimmer girl. He’s gone, and he can’t come back.


I mess around with my bowl of cornflakes, pushing the discarded cereal back and to with the spoon. Making it look like I’ve eaten something. I can feel my mum’s eyes burning onto me.
“I’ve got to get to school” I mumble, the excuse comes out feeble. She knows I’m not ready to go back; and I do to. But I need some distraction from the aching loss. My uniform feel’s alien to me, it’s been so long since I’ve worn it, since I felt the rough scratchy material against my skin.

Before my mum can speak, I’m making my way out of the door.
My friend Marissa is waiting for me at the gate. Concern shimmers in her eyes, but she doesn’t say anything. I like that about here, she isn’t plaguing me with sorry's like everyone else. She knows there value and understands their worthless to me right now.

We walk in silence, an awkward tension mounted between us. She was the first to speak.
“Are you sure about this, because if you want to change your mind, it’s ok.”
“No, I’m fine, really” I try to sound upbeat, like I’m actually looking forward to the next six hours. She nods subtly, keeping any un-projected feelings to herself.


I walk down the corridor in a haze; I tried to hide the tears in my eyes. When I walk past, people cast there gazes down to their shoes and mute there whispers. Like it makes any difference. I knew people were going to watch me, to see my reformation back into society. It was like I was starting school again, isolated from the do’s and don’ts of high schools.

“Cassie Brown, to the headmasters office” A voice blares through the speakers. Its robotic tone makes it difficult to recognise my name. I walk numbly to the office, and knock on the door. It opens slowly, and the stony faced headmaster greets me.
“Cassie, Hi, I have someone I’d like you to meet” He curved his hands towards a woman in the corner. She was wearing too bright lipstick. Her skin was too tanned, almost orange. Her hair was a false blonde, and she spoke in a too soft voice.

“Who’s this?” I ask, taking his gesture as an invitation.
“My name is Claire, Im a guidance counsellor, Im here to help you” She said in that too soft voice.
“Im sorry, but I don’t need any counselling. Im not crazy” I add, and turn to leave. Surprisingly, she doesn’t do anything. The principal grabs my arm lightly, the look on his face exaggerated.
“No one thinks you’re crazy, Cassandra, but were worried”
“Worried? About me? Why should you be worried about me, it has nothing to do with you. Or Claire”
“Your parents wanted you to speak to her” That flawed me, the use of the authority had me rooted to the spot, after everything they did for me; I couldn’t block their efforts to ‘help’ me.
“I’d like it if you left whilst I spoke to the councillor” I said to him, he seemed to except my demands, at least I was trying. He closed the door behind him. There was no escape now, just me and Claire.

“What now?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the sofa. I make it clear I don’t want to be here, I make no eyes contact and stare at the floor.
“We can talk about anything you want to talk about, what’s on your mind”

I look at her blankly; she seems completely unaware of the whole situation.
“I think about that night.”
“Well, if you want to we can talk about that. If not, it’s fine.”
I was amazed by the calmness of the situation. My nana went to a councillor once; she said they pried the information from her lips, making her tell everything. But Claire didn’t seem like that, she seemed kinder, more relaxed.

“I guess I should start from the begging.....”