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.

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35. Entry Sixteen

Final Entry:
((I know this isn’t her, Rose, but I just needed to address it. Whether it's one or digital blurs on a screen. It's a terrible ending entry but I think I’ve said all I can. Another terrible ending. If you need this gone, or something totally new, just take it away and I’ll figure something else up. I don’t care if the next entries are ever read, but it needs to be written.))


Dear Dad,


I’m sorry you caught me writing last night at five in the morning, especially when you told me I shouldn’t. I’m sorry when we find a way to publish this that it’s only going to grab the attention we thought we’d left behind. I’m sorry I could never find the words like you could; and like me refusing your help and calling it a burden was like a person with a broken leg refusing crutches. See? I suck at similes. I suck at a lot of things. I’m sorry I can’t seem to be honest with people and I have a people-liking complex. I’m sorry that ended up leading me to befriend the worst killer we’ll ever meet. 


But most of all, I’m sorry that tomorrow you could catch me in the middle of the night writing the next entry, and know that you could take away my laptop or take away my writing tools and I’d still find a way to write it.


I’m sorry you think it’s your fault because you’re my obligatory dad and I’m the kid who has to cry into her pillow every night until she’s too tired to cry any longer. I’m sorry you couldn’t protect me from June. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect myself.
And more importantly; I’m sorry we both don’t know how and when I’m going to get better. Or how I’ll have to become a person with a thicker skin, a sharper wit, and a newfound cautiousness towards people that will endeavour to make me shy away. 
Hey; at least I’m getting somewhere with word counts, when I usually can’t string two sentences together. Nearly half-way through a novel. Quantity over quality apparently. 
Dear Mom,
I’m sorry I yelled at you when you didn’t listen, and pushed you away when you tried to. I’m sorry you’re not around enough to notice when I’m tired and angry and can’t even nod when you ask me questions at dinner. I’m sorry you’ll never know June like I did, and I’m sorry that I can’t be upset about her around you because all I feel is that I told you so look, like some motherly intuition told you she’d do what she did. I’m sorry I never listened.
I’m sorry for not being an Eleanor Green you probably envisioned in the hospital with the Baby Girl balloons and the older brother and the tiny infant with the name of your grandmother. But if June Bloomer taught me anything; I am not sorry I am the Eleanor Green that I am. I don’t know how valuable advice from a criminal is, but for the most deceptive, vilified person I ever knew; she was always the most honest and kind.
You don’t find one place on the spectrum of good or bad, smart or stupid, hot or ugly. You have several roots. I’m sorry that of all the numerous branches, we hardly have a single to overlap. But I love you, and you love me, and there’s nothing that can be more the same. I’m sorry you can’t understand what we’re going through right now, but I promise to try and come out the other side all in one piece. 
Dear June,
Let’s be honest, all of my entries are a letter to you. It’s a shame you’ll never get to read them, but I’d like to know if you thought I would have done you justice. Thank you, for teaching me the value of myself, but I just wished you hadn’t burnt it in flames on the night we can’t forget. I can’t forgive you on behalf of those people, and I can hardly forgive you for myself. I just want to graciously be numb to you, and learn to stop filtering myself. That’s probably something someone best learns for themselves. 
Dear Rose,
I’m sorry I’m writing letters and that I can’t seem to do this book the justice it deserves. 
I’m sorry I never side with you because I try my best to be neutral and frictionless, even if I know you’re right. I’m sorry I envy you for how you don’t pick a side, you make one. You can stand alone and fearless. You can stick by your instinct like a captain relies on its compass. 
Dear Michael,
I’m not sorry that out of all the girls in the world, you ended up falling for her. I think that what you had was sweet and real, something that to an outsider is envious and wonderful. I am sorry that it had to end so badly for us all, and that you carry the burden more than we’d like you too. We all know that if we’re all dangling a block of guilt-wood above our head that most of the weight is crushing you, and only gently pressing on our palms.
Dear Ky,
I wish you’d teach me your secrets. How do I sign up for the Ky Valderman diet of honesty, observance and intelligence? I’m sorry I always assumed you liked to be on a pedestal from a far without really asking. I’m sorry that when all of this happened, I realized I didn’t even have your number to phone you, and see if you were alright.
P.S. I liked your shirt today. It kind of reminded me of when we first met, and I spilt some chocolate milk on it. (The milk stain kind of suited it, though.)
P.S.S I think I might be drunk on writing. Also it’s so late here it’s now too early. 
Dear Old Eleanor,
I’m sorry you weren’t enough to survive. I’m sorry I had to snatch all the best assets from you, and discard your old carcass. I’d like to let you know that I still believe what you did. I still want happily ever afters, I still want serendipity and I still want shooting stars and I still want all that is impossible. Just because of June, it doesn’t mean I have to lose though too. However, I have to be more careful with these precious and happy things. What I mean is, I think I understand why everyone else automatically shoves their hearts far up their sleeves, and keeps them just as far beneath our skin as our flesh hearts are. It’s safe-keeping. It doesn’t mean the absence of them like I thought.
I don’t know if I’ve made the right choices with June, or myself, or by writing this. But I promise that although I have to let you go now, we are always the same. In fact, screw this New Eleanor and Old Eleanor. People don’t reinvent themselves entirely, they just upgrade. We are the same, and we are too kind and too soft and it will probably only ever lead to our ruin.
On the other hand, maybe it won’t. If we can do anything, we can hope. We can hold a hand, heart, secret, or be friend like no one else.
Dear Reader,
I think I might be the most sorry for you, and I’m sorry for saying the word sorry so much because now I’m reading all of these out loud to myself, the word sorry sounds weird. You should probably should have just flicked past my entries anyway; I promise, I wouldn’t be mad if you do.
That’s it. I’m done. I’m done with June and her entries and my memories and I don’t have a routine or ritual to perform. I just have to send this off and close my laptop screen. Then it’s over. 
It’s about five o’clock right now in the daytime hours. And now, there’s a storm coming. Maybe less of a storm than something powerful enough to cleanse the town clean. I bet the rain isn’t warm anymore.
Michael’s edit: You don’t need to be sorry about anything. You did good Eleanor; I hope you can find a good night’s rest. We are all holding the same burdens, don’t you forget it. Phone me, okay? Maybe we could even go back to the swings…. Maybe not. It would do us both good to go outside. 
Rose’s edit on Michael’s edit: Michael??? Going…. Out of his bedroom???? You can shift mountains, Eleanor Green. I think this is the perfect ending. Well, the perfect half-ending. I’ll take it from here.

 

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