This might not seem odd, but I was holding something in my hand. A TV remote. I don’t remember picking it up.
I drop the pen like it’s a hot stone. My pulse leaps in my throat. The cockatoos’ screeching sets my teeth on edge. I cover my ears, but I can still hear them. I’m losing it. I’m losing it.
With a cry, I grab for the pen. I scribble the last part, my hand trembling and frantic. I’m gasping for breath when I finish the entry.
Dear Diary,
I lied about that last part.
It’s true that I was standing at the back door, staring off into the forest.
But I wasn’t holding a TV remote.
I was holding a hammer.
June 19 night, I think
Dear Diary,
I got a missed call from a number I didn’t recognize. I called them back, and they said, “Who am I speaking to, please?”
I opened my mouth and realized I had no answer.
“My name is Lizzy,” I finally said. But it didn’t feel right, so I quickly added, “Oh, wait, no. Sarah, I mean.”
But that wasn’t right either. All I could think about was that girl I told you about. The redhead with the chin-length hair and denim jackets. Katy Kelly.
“Katy Kelly,” I said. “Yeah, my name is Katy Kelly. For reals.”
“The fuck is wrong with you?” the caller said before hanging up.
Hang on. Someone’s at the door—
I trip over my legs when I stand up. My clothes are thrown carelessly over my bed and cover every inch of the floorboards. I blink at the mess. I don’t remember making it. My stomach howls. I don’t remember the last time I ate either.
I’m holding the doorknob when the thought finally hits me. Why the hell is someone knocking on my bedroom door? The builders haven’t been here in days. And I haven’t seen my husband for God knows how long.
“Lizzy?”
I throw the door open.
Well, well. Look who’s come crawling home. My darling husband.
He shoves his hands deep into his jeans’ pockets. New jeans. Expensive. He’s freshly shaved, had a recent haircut. He smells like mint and betrayal.
I reach out and steady myself against the doorframe. He raises an eyebrow, and it seems to say,God, you’re a mess.
So are you, Joe, I think. But lucky for you,I’vealways been here to clean up your messes. The night we left our hometown,Ipacked his bag while he curled into a ball at the foot of his bed, staring at his AFL posters with red eyes. Joe played football every Saturday morning. The entire town was his devoted fan club. People clapped and whistled when he kicked a goal. Now they looked at him and saw me. Now when he stepped out onto the oval, the town went still and horribly silent, thinking only of my sister and how we betrayed her.
I tried to save us. I tried to build a life to make up for the one we lost.
I shouldn’t have fucking bothered.
“I’m going away for a while,” he says carefully. His eyes are wide, uneasy. “Camping in the bush.”
I blink at him. “You hate camping.”
He looks down, examines the floorboards. I grip the doorframe tight enough to shatter it. “Who are you going with?”
