Perhaps

Brigid is a stereotypical millennial who must now suddenly deal with real life tragedy.

(Narrated by a real life stereotypical millennial).

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1. Perhaps

 

Perhaps the first indication that this was not going to be a good day was the way in which Thistle slept in the spare room, leaving his usual spot by Brigid’s room cold and vacant.

 

Thistle - in case this lack of context is causing a gratuitous sense of confusion - was the family spaniel; A manic depressant dog with a morbidly obese exterior. A notable quirk of Thistle’s was that he habitually slept by Brigid’s door. Why the creature did so was unknown, but Brigid too was a manic depressant and perhaps he found comfort in the overt derogatory emotions which the young girl emitted.

 

I say ‘young’.

 

Brigid did not truly consider herself young, like most young people don’t. Her childhood resided between age zero and twelve. Yet Brigid did not slot into this bracket and in turn, crawled through a crack into the melancholy world of Adulthood.

 

Well, Teenaged Adulthood. Which, as my cynically sardonic narration has inferred, very much differs to Adulthood TM.  

 

For example;

 

Brigid is not stupid. Not for her age. Yet Brigid still believes in fate and God and hope and has yet to dive into the world of true poverty in which even the Pot Noodles she finds so delectable are not within the price range of her famine budget.

 

She is a pacifist. Yet Brigid’s country has not been bombed in her lifetime and she has never witnessed a fight (except possibly when she caught a glimpse of Gregg ‘South Paw’ Baulder blinding Carl Fielding with his fisted claws in the canteen last period, last Friday. Brigid walked away, not because she is a pacifist but because Gregg ‘South Paw’ Baulder scared the absolute shit out of her).

 

Brigid is a liberal. She has read Animal Farm and 1984 and has since learned how not to be a communist. However, Brigid does not vote and actually has not read 1984 at all but instead, employs it as her own month-less calendar, judging each four weeks by how much dust the novel has collected by her bedside. She argues that she is an existentialist and this is her method of expressing such views.

 

She is a revolutionary! Her Peter Mark balayage hair is like no others’! Her Zara coat was purchased from Zara as opposed to New Look! Oh! How the youth rebel!

 

Perhaps this critique is needless and brutal at the current hour, for Brigid’s life is about to change horribly. Brigid is about to lose her sister. Often, ‘to lose’ a family member is vague possesses some conspicuous meaning but, in this case, I can assure you that Orlaith is dead. This is not word play. She is simply dead.

 

There is no haunting to be done nor will she return in angelic form. Orlaith is dead and Brigid is going to deal with this because there is nothing else to do. This will not be the last time Brigid experiences grief nor has it been the first for, before both Thistle and Orlaith joined Brigid’s family clan there was another dog, Bron.

 

For those who are not aware, ‘Bron’ is the Irish word for sorrow. Meaning Sorrow was something she had to care for always, even in her childhood.

 

She walked Sorrow and fed it and slept with her in her room. She comforted Sorrow and cuddled her when she was lonely. Sorrow chased her in the garden and in turn, was the chasee when Brigid got bored.

 

I do realise that I earlier presented Bron as if she were an actual dog. She is not. She was imaginary. A sort-of imaginary friend, as sorrow usually is.

 

Perhaps the fact that a child names their dog after the sister of mourning means that she is more prepared for this death. Perhaps her acknowledgement of the inevitable combustion into oblivion which we must all someday purchase a ticket for eludes to this. This analysis would be false. For Bron was simply her dog’s name. There is no deeper meaning and for that I apologise.

 

So now is when Brigid discovers the news. Period nine, Chemistry with Senor McNulty who announces that she is wanted in Ms. Antony’s office. So Brigid does as told.

 

Her mother is there and delivers the news.

 

‘Oh’.

 

That is all Brigid has to say. Perhaps Brigid is smarter than I gave credit for. ‘Oh’, I think, is the only respectable response when your life has just been torn to fucking pieces.

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