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.


31. Entry twelve:

She was in the warm rain. Hair damp. Eyelashes dashed with the cold running down her pointed face. And there was Holly Sommer too – I should have seen it coming – standing in the dark of the bridge like parted lovers at twilight. But there was nothing romantic about it. He was pulling his hands over his head and sobbing. She was yelling something I couldn’t understand at the time. I know now, but I never questioned it. Like the garden patch, like Eve’s accusations. I think the reason I never asked was because really, I was scared about how well I could handle an answer.

It was the first rain for the week, and you could tell because it poured in hot, fat tears like it had been straining the clouds to keep them. How I hadn’t seen the condensation before with Eve was a miracle, as now the sun was slowly being swallowed by pearly white clouds. The rain was soaking me through, and bashing loudly on the pavements of the road. But I was transfixed on the conflict. The way Holly curled away like a scared animal. The way June towered above Holly, even if she was usually much taller, and the same words again and again.

I know! I know! I know what you did. June kept yelling, whispering, silent mouthing with such viciousness I expected to see a forked tail of a tongue stick out at me. You seemed to know everything June; except when to stop. But what shocked me more was the retaliation from Holly. Spitting back in June’s face, Holly threatened her own secrets;

Don’t think I don’t know who you are! We both have tabs on each other! June’s glare softened, her lips parted with a shock and she began to speak so acutely, I couldn’t hear even when I peeked out from the wall, straining my ears and balance past the puddles overflowing with the hot, fast beads of rain.

I should have looked into it more. I should have moved closer, picked up anything. Anything. I don’t know what I could have done, but anything is better than the nothing of being silent.

And I guess I’m no better than Mrs Sommer. I guess I’m no better than the rest of these wash-ups, with dyed hair and wistful eyes teaming with tears. Unlike them, I’m trying to admit it. Words are too easy to spill when you don’t have to look into anyone’s eyes.

only do I realize now we’re not writing her anymore. This isn’t the collected accounts of her, it’s ours. Johnson’s creek has been personified into this sole girl. She’s all people will think about when they see our speck on a map, or in the newspapers. We’ve changed the texture of her hair to thick layer of paste snow, or her eyes for the lake on the verge of frosting over. We all forgot she’s not a girl anymore, she’s us.

Except most of us endure. Most of us can get up in the morning without deciding on the last resort. Most of us can find our way back to bed again, with the black outside our windows, without having done the unmentionable throughout the day. She lashed out, she acted on the impulse I hope we all have. Either that, or I have far too much in common with June Bloomer than I feared.

Once the show had ended, the rain became too hard to ignore as sense by sense it flooded me. I could feel the red begin to sprinkle across my nose, the stifle of a cough in my throat, and the cars rushing past, slushing little waves of puddles to splash and soak my feet. I was still a decent walk from my house, and without an umbrella; I doubted

That night I had a dream about a room filled with ticking clocks. First one heartbeat, a tock for every second thud, and then the rest invaded my brain until I could only think in the breaks between. The ticks consumed the room, with clocks of wood and metal hung on every inch of the dull four walls. I could hardly make out the shapes of desks and chairs to figure out my surroundings, and in a minute I realized there was another figure. Mr O’Clock. I prayed then he wouldn’t smell the Cosmo and the hopeless, dreamy depression of the sisters that would run in my bloodstream for a while longer. He didn’t look capable of acknowledging anything. His hair was balding, body thin like a teenager a step from puberty, and there was his eyes. Except where they should have been eyes, they were clocks too, and they were counting down to something terrible.

I kept a dream journal that night that read; didn’t sleep. Dreamed of Tim’s dad and strange shop. But there’s not a detail I could have forgotten. I could tell you the colours on his stripes of shirt, or the weather outside as I panicked and tried to look at anything but him. At first, I didn’t know where all I was. There was just the beginning of that sound, a definite, constant thud. Only when I went through the door; I recognized it was ticking. I’ve never had a dream like that before, almost like a precognition. Tim’s dad had been crying, or at least, had the evidence of it. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, but his face and composure was perfectly still.

When I woke up, my ears were ringing and my head and heart were simultaneously pounding.

Rose's edit: I never knew you saw her then.

Eleanor's edit on Rose's edit: I know, I never told a saw because it never felt as though it amounted to anything. They can't pull evidence from thin air, can they?


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