Saturday 6th June, 2006
Jess is dead. She was killed by a man named Mr. Thompson; his car crashed into her. The doctor just came up to me to tell me that he’s dead too. ‘Rosie,’ he said, ‘I’m sure he felt terrible about what he did.’ But the thing is, the doctor isn’t sure, at all. Plus, I don’t know whether the fact that Mr. Thompson is dead makes me happy or sad. Neither, come to think of it. All of this makes me angry. I remembered something that the counsellor said last year in tutor…when you have things to talk about, write a diary. I have a h*** of a lot to talk about now, so I am. I suppose years from now I’ll read this ‘diary’. You know, I guess it would amuse my future self to address all my entries to Mr. Thompson…after all, if anyone should carry the burden of my destroyed life, it’s him. He’s the one who caused it. Unfortunately, my entries/letters can’t be sent to h***.
Monday 8th September, 2007

To Mr. Thompson,

As a high wailing sound interrupted the quiet of our small town-house in London this morning, I was only subconsciously aware that it was my alarm clock and not, in fact, a realistic addition to my nightmare that was ringing endlessly. I lifted a lead heavy arm to silence the noise and rolled groggily out of bed. Averting my eyes from the mirror as I reached the bathroom, I began to get ready for the first day of school.

It was only quarter to seven when I walked out of the house, making sure to lock the door behind me. It was much too early to venture out on the short walk to the tube that would take me to Westminster, but I wanted to be able to take my time and not have to rush, anyway. I hate rushing. I walked slowly along the narrow sidewalk, observing my surroundings. Everything was so artificially perfect; the street was lined on either side with immaculately cut grass and identical houses, and nothing was out of order. It was all so dull, and I honestly don’t know why I found it to be so. Maybe after Jess was killed, everything became dull and pointless. I’m sure you’d agree, Mr. Thompson, if you were here. Well, suffice to say, if I didn’t have you to write to, and Rocco to talk to, life wouldn’t just be pointless for me; it wouldn’t exist.

Too busy reflecting on the past, I almost didn’t notice the newspaper boy who had to swerve violently on his bicycle to avoid crashing into me. I gritted my teeth in annoyance, having to clench my fists to stop myself from yelling at him. I hummed the little tune my private counsellor had told me to hum whenever I felt angry. Ring around Rosie, a pocket full of posies, ati-shoo, ati-shoo, they all fall down…

A piercing wailing sound snapped me out of my reverie, and I pulled my phone out of my pocket quickly, hurriedly trying to silence the noise. I really have to change that ringtone.

I looked at the caller ID and smiled; it was Rocco. Best friends since nursery, we were inseparable. He was everything to me, and there’d never been a time in my life when we didn’t need each other. I couldn’t imagine when we ever wouldn’t. Over the phone, we arranged for me to meet him at his house so we could walk to the tube together and take it to school. I smirked as I imagined what Sasha’s reaction would be to that. The prettiest girl in our year, she had always had her eyes set on Rocco. That girl just didn’t understand that Rocco didn’t want her. After all—and here I’m laughing uncontrollably at the ridiculous prospect—why would he want anyone else when he’s got me?

4:30 p.m., After school

School today was cr*p. I didn’t get to sit with Rocco at lunch, and I felt so stupid, wandering around looking for somewhere to sit. He went and sat with his mates, ones I didn’t even know he had, and didn’t bother to call me over to join him or anything. Then he got mad at me. Don't ask me why, I have no idea, I didn’t do anything. I’d only walked over to his table to ask why he had sat there. I had every right to, he’s my best friend. But…his reaction was strange. He sort of squinted at me—angrily. Rocco rarely ever gets mad at me, you know, and when he does he always says that it’s just a ‘passing feeling’. He always forgives me straight away, no grovelling required although I’d always be happy to. Now, though, the way he looked at me…my breath caught in my throat and I was so confused that I forgot to give him the chocolate milkshake I bought him, his favourite. I noticed he didn’t buy one when I was standing in line with him, so I thought I’d just—Well, it doesn’t matter. One little thing doesn’t matter.

But this does: Sasha went and sat at their table, and he didn’t mind at all.

Monday 9th September, 2007

Mr. Thompson,

Ring around Rosie, their pockets full of posies, ati-shoo, ati-shoo they all fall down.

I can’t let this song get out of my head. If I do, I can’t focus and the anger will wander dangerously out of control, and then I’d hurt Sasha Benedict.

Sasha and Rocco are dating. At first I didn’t mind; I thought, surely a fifteen year friendship will outlast a two-hour thus far relationship? Obviously, I thought wrong. It was as though he’d forgotten about me, completely. At least you never will, Mr. Thompson… you couldn’t if you wanted to.

Rocco, however…he had a choice, and he chose her. Or did he have a choice? I don’t know, anymore! It hurts my head to think about it…no. She possessed him, brainwashed him to make him think that he wanted her too. He may not care about me anymore, and I may not be his best friend anymore, but I care about him. I have to protect him from her, guard him against her. He doesn’t know what she’s done to him yet, but he will. I’ll make sure of that. She will burn. I’m exhausted—from all of this—I can barely write…I need to rest.

6:06 p.m.

I tried to take a nap. I couldn’t. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. A sound keeps looping in my head, over and over and over again, like a stuck record. It’s a high wailing sound, like the sound of an ambulance. The ambulance. The one that took my twin sister away, bleeding to death from the car crash. Your car crash, Mr. Thompson. Remember? I hope you’re feeling regret down there while you burn. I hope it hurts.

I’m going to take my medicine now, the one that the counsellor told me to take. Don’t worry, I’m coming back.

6:16 p.m.

Ring around Rosie, a pocket full of posies, ati-shoo, ati-shoo, they all fall down…

They all fall down…

They all fall down.

Tuesday 10th September, 2008

Mr. Thompson,

It has to be done. I can’t try and convince myself not to do it anymore. Doesn’t Rocco understand? He’s everything to me. He is mine. I have to protect him. He may have broken his promise about us always being there for each other, but I haven’t. All my life I’ve been secretly wondering what I would do if Rocco ever stopped needing me, and now I know. I’m smiling with amusement, because it’s all simple, really. I’ll make him need me again. What was it the counsellor had said again? Oh, yes: Focus all your angry energy into doing something constructive.

I suddenly jumped, startled, as I heard a voice in my head. It was soft, sinister. It was right in my ear, and I could almost feel the hot breath, clouding my brain, numbing my sanity…

They all fall down…

I shuddered. My head was hurting. I looked at the clock and it was 1:00 a.m.. I still can’t sleep. Well come on now, Rosie, are you going to do it or not…?

9:16 p.m.

Today, I forced myself to look in the mirror, and had to bite my tongue hard to stop myself from screaming. I had forgotten how much I looked like Jess, and of course being her twin, this wasn’t entirely a revelation, but I’d avoided looking at any reflective surface for so long that…well, it was just a shock I suppose… but that wasn’t the only thing that scared me. What scared me most was how much my eyes resembled Jess’—when she was dead. My eyes were dead. When you’re dying inside, your eyes are the first to have their life extinguished. The life is snuffed out, like a candle. I looked at my dead eyes more closely, and felt my face go white. They truly were frightening. Once a warm brown, they were now hard, emotionless, glassy. It was a black hole of insanity and emptiness. Peering at them so closely that my nose was touching the mirror, I felt like was I falling.

I was only vaguely aware that my mouth was gaping a little and my eyes were widening in fear and panic. I began to feel frightened of myself; realising that all the thoughts I had thought in the past days since she destroyed my life, were real. I was about to take it all back, to forget about it all when I felt the hot gust of air blow softly into my ear, and my eyes were dead again. I closed my dropped jaw and stared blankly at myself in the mirror, numb to emotion. At that moment I thought to myself, The only thing I’m ever ‘taking back’ is Rocco.

I took a step back from the mirror, looked at myself impassively again, and walked away.

Wednesday 11th September, 2007
4:43 p.m.

Mr. Thompson,

I looked out of my window today and what I saw disgusted me. Children were playing in the leaves giggling with joy while their mothers were smiling at them over their cups of hot chocolate. Why did they get to be happy? I thought, as one child ran up to her mother for a hug. I gritted my teeth in anger. My mother wouldn’t even look at me anymore.

The children were laughing as red leaves swirled around them and floated up out of their reach in a gust of wind, staining the sky with their colour. Almost as though a devil was rising. My eyes went cold as I stared at the happy children and the happy mothers and the happy lives unfeelingly, and as the bitter breeze blew forcefully upon my window, I cupped my hands to it and breathed on it, drawing a posy flower in the fog slowly dissipating across the pane.

And I heard the voice again, but it was louder this time, less gentle.

They all fall down…

8:04 p.m.

I got her number from Rocco, and managed to speak to him for a bit, and I was glad to be able to talk to him again, but once conversation turned to her I just got really annoyed, you know? Anyway, apparently things weren’t going well with her. She had been sort of sad, he said. He said he was worried that it might be over soon, but he was going to keep on trying and was going to take her out and treat her well to cheer her up. I didn’t say anything to him, didn’t mention how he would be the one in need of cheering up after tonight.

Before I called her, I practiced making my voice pleasant and friendly. I recorded myself to hear how I was doing, and it sounded as though I was gnawing on each word before I spat it out. That’s exactly how it felt. It was painful to speak to her. It felt wrong, like an alligator letting a bird rest on its snout without snapping it up for lunch.

I practiced again, and again, and by the time I finished and my voice didn’t sound brittle; dead; or fake anymore, it was 8:47 p.m. I was going to call her. Staring at her number on my phone, I suddenly felt giddy and giggled hysterically. Then I pressed the ‘call’ button.

9:10 p.m.

I was sitting in the dark. I had to, to concentrate. Granted I couldn’t really see what I was doing but that made it all the easier. I worked carefully and methodically, directing most of my thought onto the task at hand.

To be honest, I don’t know much about suicide. I’m an angry person, not an emo one, and my anger rarely ever drives me to thoughts about suicide until recently. They’re empty thoughts though, just silly little declarations I make in my head to tell myself that I have some sort of solution to the problem, when in truth the real solution was there all along. I just didn’t see it, you see. When I thought of it, I actually nearly kicked myself because it was all so simple.

After researching it for about an fifteen minutes, I knew enough about suicide to know that I had a handful murder weapons no larger than my thumb nail in my kitchen cabinet. I grabbed a scrap piece of paper, copying down the names of the pills from my computer, and ran downstairs. I felt strangely adrenalized—and admittedly a bit scared of what I was about to do, and of my cold, calculating manner in planning what I was about to do. Still, it had to be done.

I hurriedly opened the kitchen cabinets, identifying the vile of the type of pill I needed before deftly pulling it out and gently shutting the cabinets. Holding about five different pill-boxes in my hands, and knowing what I was going to do with them was slightly disconcerting. Also disconcerting was the fact that I suddenly, out of nowhere, felt so terrible about all of this. Then I heard a beeping sound and pulled out my phone to read the text message. It was from Rocco. I spoke to her, I think everything’s going to be okay, it read, with a little smiley face at the end of the text. The smiley face seemed real, and seemed like it was taunting me. I wanted to throw my phone at the wall and crush that smug little expression off the screen, but instead I smiled grimly back at it. You won’t be a smiley face after tonight, I thought. You’ll be a sad one.

So now, I was sitting in the dark, crushing six pills from each container carefully and methodically until they became a fine powder. Taking a quick look at my computer again I looked at my five neat piles of powder, and swept them all into a small Ziploc bag that I had grabbed from the kitchen. I shook the bag hard—the motion randomly reminded me of killing a fish—until I thought that the crushed pills had properly mixed together to form my weapon. I stood there in the dark for a few moments, holding the bag gingerly and contemplating what I was going to do.

Every sense was suddenly acute to me. I could hear the gentle whirring of the fan above me, could feel thin wisps of my hair brush my cheeks, tickling my face. The bag of powder unexpectedly felt so heavy that I could barely hold it up anymore, and then the voice—

Rosie, don’t be afraid…they all fall down…Remember?

And a giggle escaped my parted lips as I did.


12:00 a.m.

I killed Sasha Benedict. My little recipe of poison had its effect on the girl at about 11:06 p.m. It was perfect timing; she felt right outside of the Westminster campus, and the fact that everyone would find out about her tragic death the very next day only added to the excitement that she was finally, truly, gone. Mr. Thompson, you must be wondering how I did it. Well, really it was easy.

Immediately after finishing with the powder, I turned on the lights, took a shower and began to get ready for my rendezvous with her, picking an outfit that oozed girly and friendly. When I was done, I looked into the mirror and practised my pleasantry for a few minutes more. Once I had that mastered, I grabbed the Ziploc bag of powder and stuffed it into my duffel coat. I tidied my room to make it look unsuspicious, and after wiping my desk of any excess ‘poison’, I took the now half-empty pill boxes and skipped down the stairs to put them back in the cabinets. I made another trip back to my room to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything in regards to evidence, and once I was sure everything was in order, I left, making sure to lock the door behind me.

By 9:30 I was greeting Sasha at the door of some dingy little café near Holborn with a hug and a smile. She seemed surprise at my sudden show of friendliness, and said so.

“You know, Rosie,” she said as we chose a secluded table in the corner of the café, “I never thought I’d find a friend in you.” I assured her that there was a lot in me to find, you just had to get to know me better. She smiled at that, and we sat down. After chatting idly for a few minutes, I offered to make her coffee at the coffee bar. Again, she seemed bewildered at my ‘kind’ offer, and said that yes, she would like some coffee. So, I smiled sweetly at her and got up to make some.

I made sure I didn’t stay at the coffee bar for more than five minutes; I didn't want her getting up to check on me or something. I quickly poured two cups of straight black coffee into two glass mugs, and dumped half of the contents of the Ziploc bag into the mug on my left hand side. I then added a packet of sugar into both of our mugs, and stirred them both vigorously, Sasha’s mug more so. I stuffed the Ziploc bag back into the inside pocket of my duffel coat and, taking a deep steadying breath, walked back to our table where Sasha was waiting expectantly for her caffeine rush. Then we began to talk, and Sasha began to tell me about her petty, pathetic, inconsequential problems; and I wanted to throw up. When she was telling me how much she loved Rocco I had to literally stop myself from vomiting into my coffee, that’s how sick it all made me. I was so tired of listening to her whiny voice that after a while I suggested she write down her problems. She thought it was a good idea after some convincing, and tucked it self-consciously into her bag when she was done writing it. Pity she had no idea that she was writing her suicide note.

The rest of the forty-five minutes of the café passed smoothly, and when Sasha yawned I suggested that we leave. She agreed, saying she was shocked at how weary she was. I didn’t say anything. We left the café and walked slowly towards the tube that would take us back to Holborn city. It would have been eternally boring if I hadn’t been on edge, waiting for her to drop dead. Literally.

As we walked, I looked up at the sky and saw a full moon; an orb of light gleaming in the dark night, looking over me like a watchful eye, and I felt the hot breath of air on my ear... Hearing a sudden thump, I pulled my eyes away from the moon’s ghostly glow only to find Sasha lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, convulsing violently as she coughed and spluttered helplessly. I laughed as I realised what she resembled, lying there choking on her own vomit: a pile of rubbish. Which is exactly what you were, I thought to myself, observing her with an indifferent air. Now you’re just dead…and she took her last, strangled breath, and died.

I looked at her, my eyes cold with triumph. I looked up at the moon again, eyeing it with speculation. Did it approve? I wondered. Then I heard the voice, its laugh echoing endlessly in my ear, and I knew it did. I glanced at Sasha, lying in a pool of her own sick, blankly once more, and walked away.

On my walk home there was a new spring in my step, and I was singing my little song all the while. They all fell down…I heard the voice say to me one last time, and then it was gone. I laughed exuberantly as I realised that Sasha did fall, and I could finally have my life back…

So, Mr. Thompson, I killed Sasha Benedict. They would call it suicide.