It was strange being back at home. When she was at the girls’
centre Natasha had thought of all the things about home she
missed. Now she was there it was hard to remember what
they were.
She stayed well away from the shed. That didn’t stop Dad and her brothers pestering her though. She would lie in bed at night, dreading the sound of footsteps coming closer or the sight of the door handle moving. One or the other of them always arrived and when they didn’t, she lay waiting and waiting, hoping no one would come, but unable to sleep because she knew they would. She hated it. She hated them.
She felt very small and helpless when they forced themselves onto her, but in her mind she made herself powerful by dreaming of killing them. She would do it slowly. She would make them cringe and cower. Then they would beg and plead with her not to do it, just as she had had to do with them. It wouldn’t do any good though. Finally she would finish them off. A bloody, gruesome, horrible death.
When she slept, however, she often dreamed it was them who were attacking her. She would wake in the night screaming and sobbing and later would feel so angry when they continued to behave as if nothing had happened and they didn’t have a care in the world.
When Nick went into the shed one day he came out howling like an animal. The family tried to get him to say what was wrong but he couldn’t stop sobbing. He tried to speak but all that came out were a lot of sounds that no one could understand. Eventually he became calm enough to make sense. Darren had hanged himself on the rafters.
The family were distressed. Natasha was amazed.
Why had he done it? She got into endless debates with herself. Maybe she was responsible for killing him. She had been so preoccupied planning ways to do it, maybe she had actually caused it to happen. But how could she? He didn’t know what she had been thinking. People only killed themselves when they were unhappy, didn’t they? Darren always seemed very much in control to her, and not unhappy at all.
It seemed like death had overtaken all of the family. Even after the funeral there was a deathly hush in the house – no sound, no movement. The tension was unbearable. Natasha had to get out. She was really drowning this time. She could feel herself being sucked under. That night she fled.
When she was found her family were furious. Didn’t they have enough to worry about at the moment without her adding to their problems? Things had been fine when she was in the girls’ centre. They should never have brought her back home. Darren might still be alive if she hadn’t been around to stir up trouble again.
They hadn’t hit her, but the words felt like blow after blow. She couldn’t feel or think or react. All she knew was that she had to get away.
Down by the river she drank litres of beer. It didn’t seem to help. She wanted to be further and further away. So far away she never came back. She persuaded her friends Rocker and Camshaft to take her in their car, as far and as fast as the Mercedes could go. They took her at her word. She had never ridden so fast before. They had several near misses at sharp corners but she didn’t care. What did it matter if she lived or died?
When the car plunged over the bank, Tasha felt sure this must be it. She wished it would stop rolling so she would know whether she was dead or alive.
She was surprised to discover, when she regained consciousness, that she was still alive. Surprised and somewhat disappointed. She had missed her chance to end it all.
When she came out of Intensive Care, she still had several months of lying flat on her back in the Orthopaedic Ward ahead of her. She spent hours lying motionless gazing at the ceiling. She hardly knew whether it was day or night. She stopped eating and became thinner and thinner.
The hospital staff were worried about her. They sent a psychiatrist to talk to her. She didn’t want to see a shrink.
Dr Carmichael was really curious about Natasha. She smiled as she approached this little girl who looked more like 10 than 15. Her face was pinched and tight. She spoke in a monotone and made sure she avoided meeting Dr Carmichael’s eyes. Talking to her was like trying to get information from Google when the internet isn’t working. Dr Carmichael felt she was walking in a minefield. Every move had to be made cautiously. There was something about Natasha that told her if she stepped in the wrong place, an explosion could occur. In spite of this there was something about her – she couldn’t quite put her finger on it – something in the way Natasha’s eyes clouded over at times and the way she dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. For whatever reason, Dr Carmichael knew she wanted to stay.
Natasha felt irritated as Dr Carmichael asked her a lot of questions about her life and family and friends. She said ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to each question, and when neither of those fitted, answered in as few words as possible.
After a while she started to wonder about Dr Carmichael, but she wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of looking at her. She was puzzled that the doctor didn’t seem irritated with her. Dr Carmichael’s voice was soft and warm and didn’t seem to change no matter how rude Natasha was.
Dr Carmichael was finding this hard work but her instincts told her to hang on. She was wondering where to step next. She knew about Darren having hanged himself, and that definitely seemed unsafe territory. She decided to chance it though.
‘Natasha, I’m wondering how close you were to your brother who killed himself?’
There was silence. Natasha wondered what to say. She had been close – too close. That wasn’t what the psychiatrist meant, though. How could she explain? She thought about telling.
She stayed well away from the shed. That didn’t stop Dad and her brothers pestering her though. She would lie in bed at night, dreading the sound of footsteps coming closer or the sight of the door handle moving. One or the other of them always arrived and when they didn’t, she lay waiting and waiting, hoping no one would come, but unable to sleep because she knew they would. She hated it. She hated them.
She felt very small and helpless when they forced themselves onto her, but in her mind she made herself powerful by dreaming of killing them. She would do it slowly. She would make them cringe and cower. Then they would beg and plead with her not to do it, just as she had had to do with them. It wouldn’t do any good though. Finally she would finish them off. A bloody, gruesome, horrible death.
When she slept, however, she often dreamed it was them who were attacking her. She would wake in the night screaming and sobbing and later would feel so angry when they continued to behave as if nothing had happened and they didn’t have a care in the world.
When Nick went into the shed one day he came out howling like an animal. The family tried to get him to say what was wrong but he couldn’t stop sobbing. He tried to speak but all that came out were a lot of sounds that no one could understand. Eventually he became calm enough to make sense. Darren had hanged himself on the rafters.
The family were distressed. Natasha was amazed.
Why had he done it? She got into endless debates with herself. Maybe she was responsible for killing him. She had been so preoccupied planning ways to do it, maybe she had actually caused it to happen. But how could she? He didn’t know what she had been thinking. People only killed themselves when they were unhappy, didn’t they? Darren always seemed very much in control to her, and not unhappy at all.
It seemed like death had overtaken all of the family. Even after the funeral there was a deathly hush in the house – no sound, no movement. The tension was unbearable. Natasha had to get out. She was really drowning this time. She could feel herself being sucked under. That night she fled.
When she was found her family were furious. Didn’t they have enough to worry about at the moment without her adding to their problems? Things had been fine when she was in the girls’ centre. They should never have brought her back home. Darren might still be alive if she hadn’t been around to stir up trouble again.
They hadn’t hit her, but the words felt like blow after blow. She couldn’t feel or think or react. All she knew was that she had to get away.
Down by the river she drank litres of beer. It didn’t seem to help. She wanted to be further and further away. So far away she never came back. She persuaded her friends Rocker and Camshaft to take her in their car, as far and as fast as the Mercedes could go. They took her at her word. She had never ridden so fast before. They had several near misses at sharp corners but she didn’t care. What did it matter if she lived or died?
When the car plunged over the bank, Tasha felt sure this must be it. She wished it would stop rolling so she would know whether she was dead or alive.
She was surprised to discover, when she regained consciousness, that she was still alive. Surprised and somewhat disappointed. She had missed her chance to end it all.
When she came out of Intensive Care, she still had several months of lying flat on her back in the Orthopaedic Ward ahead of her. She spent hours lying motionless gazing at the ceiling. She hardly knew whether it was day or night. She stopped eating and became thinner and thinner.
The hospital staff were worried about her. They sent a psychiatrist to talk to her. She didn’t want to see a shrink.
Dr Carmichael was really curious about Natasha. She smiled as she approached this little girl who looked more like 10 than 15. Her face was pinched and tight. She spoke in a monotone and made sure she avoided meeting Dr Carmichael’s eyes. Talking to her was like trying to get information from Google when the internet isn’t working. Dr Carmichael felt she was walking in a minefield. Every move had to be made cautiously. There was something about Natasha that told her if she stepped in the wrong place, an explosion could occur. In spite of this there was something about her – she couldn’t quite put her finger on it – something in the way Natasha’s eyes clouded over at times and the way she dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. For whatever reason, Dr Carmichael knew she wanted to stay.
Natasha felt irritated as Dr Carmichael asked her a lot of questions about her life and family and friends. She said ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to each question, and when neither of those fitted, answered in as few words as possible.
After a while she started to wonder about Dr Carmichael, but she wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of looking at her. She was puzzled that the doctor didn’t seem irritated with her. Dr Carmichael’s voice was soft and warm and didn’t seem to change no matter how rude Natasha was.
Dr Carmichael was finding this hard work but her instincts told her to hang on. She was wondering where to step next. She knew about Darren having hanged himself, and that definitely seemed unsafe territory. She decided to chance it though.
‘Natasha, I’m wondering how close you were to your brother who killed himself?’
There was silence. Natasha wondered what to say. She had been close – too close. That wasn’t what the psychiatrist meant, though. How could she explain? She thought about telling.
