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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29. Entry ten:

Two weeks later, I found the little garden we’d made destroyed and defiled, badly mauled by night’s hands. The bulbs and buds were all overturned, coated in a spray like fake snow, and the ground had been scooped like horror-movie guts and thrown across the walls. I sat by the patch and cried, because I didn’t need to guess who might have destroyed it. She had told me then, in that sad little square, and I never listened. She had told me she was only capable of destroying the bright, blooming, thing. And I had brushed it off, tidied away the pieces and carelessly searched for the leftover seeds. I held two in my palm and threw them on top of the heap to cover up the tracks.

I never asked June about it, in fact, I never told a soul. When my mother returned from work, her eyebrows raised and her lips pursed, but she blamed it on a mole. I was even surprised she noticed, because her conferences overseas had left her breathless zombie, muttering  jargon as she stirred macaroni for dinner. The table was strange that day.

Eleanor, how’s your summer going? She asked. She hadn’t been back for four weeks, and assumed I’d answer with a single word before she’d tell my brother he put far too much salt on his food. She was right.

Good. I replied, skimming my fork across my plate.

I hardly ever see her, my dad burst out, with macaroni debris still wedged in his teeth. She’s always out. Like an accomplishment, I didn’t recognize that tone of voice he had used. Like pride… I was being overdramatic, but I always felt theatrical in family situations.

Well, you might as well take advantage of the time off. My mother noted outwardly; she didn’t seem to care where I had been all summer. Since my dad wasn’t particularly inquisitive, they were lucky I wasn’t running into trouble.

I had a sudden urge to roll my eyes just then. It was always the same. To take advantages… like every gesture in life was a business venture.

Who’s the cute girl you’re hanging out with? My brother jutted out from the table.

June, I said. I knew who he was talking about; he’d already made a comment that Rose was passible too. Why he thinks he gets to decide, or who cares what he thinks, I will never know.

Is she new?

Who’s June, Eleanor? My mother measured out her second portion, but together they only added up to about half a meal.

Just a new friend, I chewed a hard bit of pasta that must have stuck to the bottom of the pan and smile through my teeth. She was. And that was the end of the conversation. Maybe it wasn’t a strange day at the Green household, but it’s nice to write it down. If my parents ever read this; I’m sorry. It’ll be probably edited out by Rose’s wit, but I keep trying to turn this into my own personal journal. I swear; once you are given the freedom of speech, it’s hard to shut your mouth again.

I really don’t want to make this all about me. And in truth, my family are good people. I’m just seventeen and I don’t fully get what it means to make your family macaroni after being away for four weeks, or how when your eldest son makes you a terrible birthday present you assume it’s because he spent all his spending money elsewhere. Or how when you come back, the first thing you feel like saying is how you need a lie down, and your husband is biting his lip because he’s afraid you’ll brush him off like an insult if he tries to kiss you hello.

I can see it all, but I can’t understand it. Because I only see life from my narration point.

June, you never had to act like you were alone. All I need to do is sit at my table and feel the same. All you had to do was notice that outside of your misery, we’re all just misery too. We know all about what you were feeling.

What happens to me now, Michael? What happens when I have to let go of her? The open windows keep slamming the doors like angry ghosts. But I don’t fear the dead like I used to anymore.

Michael’s edit: This is what happens. You wake up and she’s still all you can think about. You go to sleep and it’s her wishing you off to sleep at night. Nothing happens. Immediately. But I betting on the hope it’s going to get better. And one day we’re going to wake up and that moment we think about her will delay for a second, and another, until maybe we don’t think about her for a while. But I don’t think we can let her go just yet. She doesn’t vanish; she withers.

Rose’s edit on Michael’s edit: You had your account Michael, stop stealing Eleanor’s show.

Eleanor’s edit on Rose’s edit on Michael’s edit: I’m glad you did. It’s nice to read something other than my dreary old complaints. Night. 

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