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.


17. Final Entry: Part two.

On the letter it had said three things; “Forgive me”, “Forget me” and a set of instructions leading me through Mossfield until I’d reach the spot she’d suggested. It couldn’t be her – I knew that with nearly ever fibre – yet who else would send me hurdling down the town for no reason? Fresh air ran through my hair as I bundled through the streets, almost weightless with the speed I managed to stir from rusty muscles. There were outlines of black birds perched on the wires above with curious glances and occasionally my reflexes would have to catch up in order to avoid the lit blur of a car. To my darkest fear I had realised that the world had kept spinning, and healed itself over the wounds June had made as though they were shallow little cuts.

There was dourness to Mossfield now, though. Something in the sky had mixed with the tragedy and had kept it an unchanging state until now. I couldn’t remember a time the weather hadn’t suddenly morphed into something else; my childhood pictures were filled with rain and sunshine and storms and snow. Since she’d gone, and I had exiled in my room all I saw was a grey sludge of clouds framing a dull blue sky. Only today, the weather had leaked a little snow and the faces of people I saw lightened at the sight as though it

No, they should have been worried. Snow didn’t mean the leaving of a bad spirit; it meant the return of her.

The map lead in the direction of the little den we’d spent time together, I knew that from the minute I followed the lines on the page that would lead me to her. Or at least a fraction of her. The white-coated grass that sheltered the den peeked in sight. So close, I thought to myself, as taking the effort to use extra physical energy could wear me down instantly.

I reached the end and with a sprint I found the den from the outside unchanged from the scarring. Possibly it was the only artefact in the whole ghost town that had remained entirely intact. A wave of a past June and Michael whispering seemed to skip past me and for a moment I squinted my eyes to almost watch them. The June and Michael of sunny days. They laughed and cried and rose and fell together in a burst of youth that had cast a ray of light across our time together. But that Michael knew nothing; not of pain or of what was being placed object after object on top of each other just to crumble. Now I felt angry, and with that ventured inside to face whatever was waiting for me.

 Forgive me was etched on yet another box in the corner of the hole, but instead of a dull blue it was adorned in travel stickers and stamps. The Forgive me looked scribbled, as though she’d planned it in an instant without considering it first. I unleashed the hatch to see it brimming with items enough to well something up inside me. Crying had become a daily routine, so I doubted I had it in me to shed more tears despite what I was seeing. As I reached in for a closer look, a million daises kissed my hand and stuck to my skin as I noticed they were scattered on the inside like confetti. Besides the items was a scroll of everything included, all wonderful and touching and everything I had told myself June wasn’t anymore.

There were little eleven objects, including wrappers of sweets we’d bought, cinema tickets, ironic Mossfield t-shirts, school ties and baseball caps.  “One for each date!”  She’d scrawled on the top in a red pen, and put a dramatically out of place smiley face beside it. I fell to my knees and ruined my trousers with moist dirt and flowers.

The whole box seemed to smell of her, as though she’d sprayed her perfume all over. She felt so unbearably close; and I could feel the hatred of the monster June I was told she was melt away as though being swept in a tide of perfume and daises. Without my full consent, she seemed to have succeeded in making me forgive her. I only wondered what on earth she’d make me do to forget her.

“I. Can’t. Forget.” I swallowed my words after they slipped out because I knew the pain of them being unheard would be the final factor to push me overboard. My eyes didn’t fail to slide out tears and I let them fall down my cheeks as I studied the tickets, felt the soft petals of daisies and spent too long and too short a time forgiving her. Why did I have to forget? I wouldn’t. Wasn’t to forgive her enough? Wouldn’t she decay in my mind, over the years and times and places? I was only seventeen. I had multiple amounts of time to live minus the chance of car crashes or cancer, or maybe meeting another June Bloomer. The Forgive me envelope came into view on my left hand side.

I opened it with trembling hands. Now, whether or not I show you this letter is something I’m torn about. Because in my mind, it might be enough to show everyone just how sweet June Bloomer could really be. Eleanor-Green-sweet. Rose-Much-driven. And Ky-Valderman-observant. Yet the thought of the letter being pulled apart by the lingering news reporter digging for a piece of untouched flesh is indescribably awful. For now I will tell you this; she was all these things, and many things more. You can’t say a person is bad because of bad actions. Especially in the case of June Bloomer. In reality, you have to look layer after layer until you find the roots that lead to these cataclysmic events.

At the end of a letter there was a little section, bordered in black pen and attached was a vile of something dark-coloured and suspicious. “Remember in Classical Studies, Michael?” She’d scribbled first, and I don’t mind telling you this bit because I doubt there’s a story here. Only a chilling reminder that she wasn’t as evil or inhumane as people may believe. “We learnt about the river Lethe? The one that makes you forget everything before you move on to the next life.” I followed the gentle curves of her handwriting, and all I could imagine was the way her white hair must have fallen down and graced the page I was holding. How her own hands worked to write this for me and how she’d managed to give me this, against everything. I couldn’t forget if even a slither of writing could overwhelm me in a love I had told myself I had diminished.

“Write me Michael. Write the full account. It might take you days, or weeks, or months. It might take you a three-word summary, or a novella. When you pour everything you know, and the gaps you don’t, then I’ll be written and you can forget. After you’ve written it, give it to Rose. She’ll know what to do. Then you sit, you think, and you drink. Rid me from your system until you fall asleep and when you wake you will act as though I never existed. And only then can your after life begin.”

At the final scribble I chuckled although the laugh was dull and shaky, fighting its way through more tears as though my tear ducts were trying to construct a river itself. “P.S I imagined the river Lethe had dark waters, so I used diet coke. It’s probably painfully flat by now so I’d recommend buying your own.”

“P.P.S Goodbye Michael Eaton. Thank you for letting me fall in love and break a heart like a normal person.”

Now I have written everything I can say about June Bloomer. It’s amazing to have got to this moment; there have been so many instances where I’ve wanted to punch holes through my screen and my temple with aggravation, searching for the common goal of getting this done. But now it’s over, I don’t feel satisfied. I feel hollow.

In my fridge there’s a mixture of coke and liquids with better kicks primed for this very moment. In seconds I’ll be able to run down the stairs, at a staggering half six in the morning without any sleep, and reach for the Johnston’s Creek answer to the River Lethe. But before I have to pretend I stood a chance at forgetting you, June Bloomer. I have things to say.

Your mother can never die. She’s pressed flowers and photographs and poems and gentleness. Neither can your father because the weather continues to sprout and wither and the snow of your hair is always snowing somewhere. I know this because you’re composed of elements and not genetics, and therefore you will never need to avenge loss. You’re pure electricity and faded magazine covers, starlets and red vines, playlists and cut out stars.

I’d like to meet another girl someday. It doesn’t have to be soon. I don’t believe I can use up my love, but if that was a slight possibly I’m sure I’d be clean of it all. Nevertheless, when I shut this book for the final time; I’ll do my best. 

June, I’m glad I could help you in the smallest of ways you’d let me.

I’m sorry you did what you did.

I think I’m beginning to know that really, you couldn’t have stopped it. I couldn’t have stopped it. It was like watching waves engulf the shore.

And I promise that when I flip this page over and hand it to Eleanor; that Rose will take care of things, including me.

Thank you June.

Goodbye June.

Hopefully I’ll meet you in the oblivion one day.

Eleanor’s edit: Beautiful Michael; you described her perfectly minus the gooey-love-struck eyes. Every entry fits. Just, don’t overdo it though. Alright?     I know this took a lot of guts, so we’ll forever be thankful. She would be… too. But enough about her, enjoy the coke. You deserve it.

Michael’s edit on Eleanor’s edit: I’m fine El, honestly. Just glad to have got it all out there. And Affirmative.

Rose’s edit: Congratulations, Michael. We’ll take it from here…

Michael’s edit on Rose’s edit: Thanks Rose; but it’s only just beginning, isn’t it?


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