The Collected Accounts of June Bloomer

Across newspapers and television, seventeen year old June Bloomer is being shredded across the country for the cataclysmic events she caused in the quiet town of Johnston's creek. However months after the horror, in that forgettable village, June's only four friends are determined to tell the truth of June from the causalities they received first hand and nothing less.


19. Entry one:

Entry 1

Michael has given me the job of writing the summer chronicles. It’s five in the morning here, and as I sit by a warm light I can already see the sky turning blue behind the thick curtains. Rain that fell the whole night I didn’t sleep has fallen to the ground in hopeful little droplets. In just minutes I’ll probably hear the patter of my dad’s footsteps as he makes his way out to walk our trusted dog Wilbert at an insane hour. Even just describing something so normal feels surreal, because it was exactly a night like this that we had the first week the schools set us free and the madness of dewy summer began.

By choice, I know I’d rather not relive these moments but I know that’s only being selfish and if the rest of the group can do it, so can I. Between you and me, I think people believe I’m somehow weaker because I enjoy pleasing people. It’s nice when you get smiles from strangers for holding doors or pick up a dummy that a kid dropped from its pram in a hectic shopping mall. If it wasn’t for Michael, my group would all swarm over me with the motherly love I like to give. We all need coaching through this, but only from ourselves. No one in this town has ever been in such a close proximity to that kind of horror apart from us, of course. But anyway, before I get dramatic and I’d really rather not right now – because June Bloomer never needed theatrics - I might as well begin by saying why we need to write this. Or at least why I think we ought to, because I’m sure we’ve all pieced together our own ideas and our motives may vary at the ends. But the roots burst from the same place.

One day, June Bloomer, you will be old.

One day, June Bloomer, you’ll be nothing but a mystery.

Which is why, today, we have to write about you before you melt like the passing snow, and leave no tracks behind.

I just heard my dad leave, and now I’m all alone. My brother’s in college and my mom is away on business to places far more glamorous and gorgeous than Mossfield. At this time I don’t mind being alone, but I can creep downstairs clutching my laptop and light candles in my sitting room. It creates a heavenly glow around me, and I feel in the perfect place to lose myself to another world. It could be a page-turning book that composes the world for me, or maybe writing a harmless fling of fiction with only the growing sun for comfort. Right now, my directions are set. I have to lock myself away in the past few days or weeks – depending on how long it takes it write it all down. I have scribbles and notes across journals of the days, but they don’t feel like a correct account anymore. My ignorance towards what June was feeling is like ink splotches that make the words practically unreadable.

My dad should be home in an hour or so, but I can’t tell you when I’ll be able to get home. If Michael can already lose himself in the blissfulness of our old lives, then so can I.

I am stronger than my own memories. I am stronger than a character in a book. And more importantly I will not be weaker than anyone else. The sun continues to rise and I’m wondering how long writing this is going to take. If only my mind could merge a word document in my head, and with a swipe of my eyebrow I could throw it onto the screen. I could already break into my February reading list by now.

I don’t want you to think badly of me during any of this. So if you’re already considering that; kindly flick through to Rose’s section, or even reread Michael’s because the thought of you disliking this is already shivering all my words back inside where I’ll never find them. I suppose what I’m wondering, is that what if the set of eyes of me are far worse than the exterior of me? What if all anyone has ever liked about me, or admired, was the image I faced out to the world? Never too nice, never too mean. Just the amount of me that people needed in real life situations.

But there’s no measure for yourself when you’re personally reflecting.

I suppose that is what kills me about June, because after opening my entire heart to her – she accepted me heart and soul. All my flaws and talents, every like and dislike. I remember one phone call that last nine hours between us. At some point, we’d both fallen asleep after talking. Only now do I realise what a large proportion of my life we talked about, in comparison to the fragments of her’s.

Rose’s edit: I like it El, I really do. And don’t worry; we know you’re not weak. We all know even trying is tough for the strongest of us.

Eleanor’s edit: That means a lot, Rose. Just tell me what I can do to improve it before we sent it off and I will.

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