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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15. Entry thirteen : (Final entry, a preface)

As I have stated, I physically cannot write what I know the others will carry on for me. However, I feel it’s only right to share you with the final moment I said goodbye to June Bloomer, or at least the idea of her. You can have the soft, promising hello and a chilling goodbye; but nothing in between. It is a gap I would forever leave as an open wound, as long as the abyss didn’t hold memoirs.

She got her neat goodbye, and now I want mine. Goodbye, June Bloomer. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you or me from yourself. I suppose we both suffered, maybe you more than me. Goodbye my second love and my first real love. Goodbye to your infinite daisies that poked from your sleeves and shoes as though you sprouted them yourself. Goodbye to your rain-eyes, white hair and pasty skin. Goodbye to everything I loved about June Bloomer, and to the rest that came after it.

There’s something about the word goodbye that doesn’t feel permanent. There’s something about saying farewell in general that gives me the slightest hope she could ever come back, though we all know that isn’t possible. One day I’ll be old, and maybe the pain will fade and become just an interesting story. Maybe I’ll be able to create a pane of a glass between her and me. Still she feels too close, like a noose around my neck tightening with every regret and the ghosts of our lives we might have had together if she hadn’t done what she did. Maybe I’ll run away to Alaska, as I’ve considered on many occasions, and persuaded Noreen to fall in love with me again. Maybe.  I didn’t want all the possibilities, I only wanted the definite. 

The only definite or two I seem to grasp are those that hurt to clutch. In those moments I like to think of sunny days we spent together. Picnics and flowers and the trivial bliss that seems more like the ancient myths we studied together than reality. My knowledge became rusty the minute she entered the class, and I couldn’t spend a moment without twitching at the thought we were in the same room and a head full of anything but the Greek alphabet.

Those days we enjoyed weren’t so important, except for the pieces and tendencies that shaped what I became today. We are composed of stardust and yesterdays, according to both actual science and my own personal studies. And although we aren't conscious of the dead universe we are conscious of the memories and past tense actions that define who we wake up tomorrow. I woke up five minutes ago, bed-haired and seventeen years old, and I believe everything I saw; from the purple bags under my strained eyes and mouth heavy with an absent smile, was a product of June Bloomer.

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