Sorry I haven’t written for so long. I left you at home, only managed to get you back today. I have missed you, DD. So much has happened since that shit-show of an open house. My family is so embarrassing. I am still mortified. And really, really sore.

I didn’t fall asleep till after 6am. I wish I’d made it out to Spock’s in time. Stupid me, I flaked out on the floor and woke around midday on Sunday with a desk being pushed into me.

‘Camille, Cam?’

Asha was trying to get in. I scraped the desk back against the door and pushed it with my hands. She must have been pushing hard too, because my arms started shaking and my veins got huge.

‘Are you okay? Why won’t you let me in?’

I didn’t answer. I had decided never to talk to her again unless words came out while maiming or killing her. I wished I could push the desk hard enough to break the door down and flatten her almost perfectly symmetrical face until it was a centimetre thin and matter oozed out. I wasn’t strong enough.

‘Just to say I’ve put Mum to bed. She’s in a state. Have you heard from Dad?’

Don’t say a word, Cam, not a word, I told myself. She always used Dad to get me back on side. Or Mum. Or sisterhood, whatever that is. She’s always thought she’s entitled to me; that she deserves undying loyalty from me. While living together in that horrible house she had a growing list of reasons why I owed her, eg:

‘We are sisters. I am your big sister. I am a good sister.’

(Two out of three ain’t bad, but so what, what does that mean anyway?)

‘I taught you how to play netball.’

(I have always hated it, oh and you broke my nose ‘playing netball’ you mental case.)

‘I showed you how to do your hair like that.’

(I hate it.)

‘You’d dress like a dag if not for me.’

(You are the daggiest dresser in Ballarat, and that is saying something.)

‘I always talk you through it when you get upset.’

(You’re always the reason I get upset.)

It goes on and on. And on. So does her list about the ways in which I have disappointed her over the years, for example:

‘You never call me.’

(Because I hate talking to you.)

‘You don’t look after things, you don’t show any respect for my belongings, you stained my favourite shirt that time and never fixed it.’

(It was 2009.)

‘You put no thought into birthday presents.’

(I don’t want to give you birthday presents, I don’t want birthday presents from you, no matter how perfect and thoughtful they are. I know I will react poorly to them, under-appreciate them. I may not even understand them. Thinking about presents is making me sore. Itchy. Oh god. I need a pillow. I need a different top. Your presents and your birthdays scare the shit out of me.)

‘You don’t thank me for all the work I do around the house.’

(I would rather live in a pool of diarrhoea than deal with your rage when you clean, you lunatic.)

‘Open the door, Camille,’ she said, ‘you’re worrying me, do you want me to kick it in?’

I tightened my push against the desk. She may have heard my breathing. I hope so. I could hear hers.

She calmed it down to re-humanise: ‘Okay, no worries, I’m just finishing cleaning up. Omg what a mess.’

Yes, I thought, because you smashed everything up.

‘Just to say we have no food at all. Dad won’t answer his phone, can you believe him? What an arsehole.’

Here we go – whose side am I on? If I didn’t pick the right one, I would get it. Dad’s, I was on Dad’s.

(Wrong.)

‘Can you try him, maybe? Mum can’t even move. And obviously I can’t go out. I’ll go to jail if I go out – you do understand that, don’t you? Could you please go to the shops for me and Mum and get bread and milk and stuff and something for dinner…’

Wait for it, wait for it…

‘…and wine? I thought we had at least two goon sacks left. I can’t find them anywhere. Have you got them in there? Where did you put them? Camille? Camille!’

We had two goon sacks and six bottles, to be exact. In my secret hiding place.

She gave up and started cleaning again, huffing and puffing and swearing as she vacuumed – which is how Asha and Mum clean – not with grace, but with fury. I could hear everything she was saying, even when she was out the back:

‘What the fuck is that doing there?

‘Who left this in the sink, has no-one heard of rinsing?

‘Bunch of grotty arseholes. Pigs. This is a pigsty.

‘Just plain rude leaving this on the loo for me to scrape off with this disgusting brush. Why isn’t there bleach in the container? Gross.’ She faked a dry heave.

‘Why would anyone leave a tube of toothpaste in this state? Camille, WHY? What is wrong with you? All you have to do is squeeze it, from the bottom up, and roll it, and ROLL IT so the next person can get some out. It’s manners, it’s common sense.’

I put my earphones in and turned the volume to maximum. I waited for an hour, but it wasn’t safe to leave, she was still banging about and swearing, waiting for me to react and/or come out.

Eventually I had to pee in a jug that hadn’t hardened yet. Most of it was absorbed into the wet clay but quite a lot dribbled onto the stone floor. God, it is the most uncomfortable house. Stone floors, who wants stone floors in a bedroom, or in any room? Not Dad, he wanted carpet, like me. How Mum and Asha scoffed – ‘Cover these floors? They’re listed, they’re bluestone.’ After an hour I made a mistake. I lay on the gym mat and closed my eyes and listened to heavy metal, which was calmer than listening to my sister.

A while later, I could hear scraping. I could feel someone touching my hand. It was nice at first. No-one had held my hand in a long time, not even Spock. He’s always too wasted and too manly to hold hands. Something was banging into my leg. Weird, what’s that? I thought, then I woke up.

Asha was standing over me. She’d pushed the door and moved the desk to get in while I was sleeping to AC/DC, hence the scraping. The hand hold was her pressing my fingerprint against my phone, like last time. She was now in possession of my mobile, standing what seemed about a mile above me, and kicking my leg.

‘Oi, wake up, oi.’

Another kick, ouch. Earphones off, I tried to sit up, but she put her foot on my stomach and pushed me back down. She kept her foot there and pressed, immobilising me.

‘Hey, I can’t breathe,’ I tried to say.

She didn’t care. She was looking at my phone. ‘I knew it,’ she said.

‘Ow, Asha stop, Asha, Asha, I can’t breathe.’

She released her foot a bit, angry eyes on my phone.

I pounced to my feet and lunged at her. ‘Give it back.’

She held it to the side, her other arm fending me off with slaps, and read a message: ‘Saturday night. From an unknown number.’

Oops, I had deleted the first text from Rowena as well as her number from my contacts list. But I had failed to block her number entirely and delete the second message.

‘All ok?’ Asha read. ‘R and R, kiss.’

She placed great emphasis on the kiss.

‘And this is what you replied to Richard and Rowena, who you say you didn’t speak to in Geelong at all: “All good. Home safe and sound, smiley face.” You saw them, I knew it, you were with them all day, you liar, what did they say, what were you doing? Tell me or I’ll punch you in the face.’

‘Do it,’ I said, moving closer. ‘Why not? You’ve already broken my nose and head-butted me.’

‘I broke your nose? What rubbish. Why didn’t you ring an ambulance, then? You’re just mad because you can’t catch. I did not break your nose, you whiney, dobbing wimp.’

(She was getting very good at rewriting history.)

‘You’re such a liar. I can’t believe you’ve betrayed me like this…’

(This will undoubtedly be added to list B above.)

‘…your own sister, your only sister. After everything I have done for you.’

(See list A.)

‘You’re evil, Camille, you are pure evil. Step away from me or I’ll do it. I will smash your face in with my fist.’

She was shaking her knuckles two inches from my chin – they were as tight and as white as her lips.

‘You just kicked me, Asha, you just stepped on my stomach. A punch in the face doesn’t scare me. Go on, go on.’ I stood tall, chin out, daring her. ‘Do it.’

She punched me in the face.

Fuck. If I hadn’t been prepared for it, feet slightly apart, strong and stiff as a board, I would have toppled. I was too angry for it to hurt. Slowly I turned my head, offering her the other side. Understanding the reference, she refrained from punching it.

‘Give me the phone,’ I said, but she was holding it behind her back now, refusing. In my attempt to retrieve it I may have shoved her a little. She didn’t fall over. She didn’t even bash her back against the wall. It made her even angrier, though, and she hurled herself at me with an animal growl. She pressed the phone against my throat. I couldn’t breathe.

‘What were you doing in Geelong, what were they saying? Why are you torturing me, why are you lying to me?’

Fuck her, I wasn’t going to tell her anything, ever, no matter how close I was to death.

She pushed me, and I fell to the ground, banging my back into the pottery wheel. Still on the floor, I defended myself by twirling the wheel and pointing my elbows as she jabbed at me with the edge of the phone. Phones are hard, DD, they hurt if you hold them the right way. I started crawling towards the door, over the toppled desk. She bashed my back with the phone with each movement. When I got to the door, she hit me so hard in the back of the neck that I was flattened on the stone. I stayed still for a few seconds, played dead. This made her stop and worry, I think, which was enough time for me to get to my feet. I reached for the door. She hit my neck again. She was going to seriously injure me. If she could, she would kill me. No way, I thought, no fucking way is she going to kill me. I turned and pushed her and she fell back onto the gym mat.

‘Ow, ow, my arm, you crazy bitch.’ She pretended to be hurt, she started whimpering. She’d fallen on faux sheepskin ffs.

I seized the moment – and the phone – and ran out into the hall. I yelled for Mum, but she didn’t hear, or didn’t care enough to answer, then I raced out the door and didn’t stop running till I got to Spock’s.

*

His mate Barnsey came to the door, so off his head on Ket that he couldn’t get any words out, despite trying really hard for a really long time. I could see Spock and his big brother, Big John, sprawled on the floor in the lounge and thought twice about going in. It probably wouldn’t be worse than home, but it was a close call. Spock was getting druggier every time I saw him.

‘Get on in.’ Spock had managed to sit up. ‘It’s my darlin’, it’s my little Campervan.’

He called me something different every time I saw him, prided himself on it. Last time it was either Camisole or Camera-obscura, can’t remember which. He couldn’t get all the way up to give me a kiss. I patted his head.

‘What the fuck’s happened to you?’ said Big John.

I realised I was limping and probably had bruises. ‘Bar brawl,’ I said. ‘Mind if I hang for a bit?’

Barnsey tried to say something, it made all of us laugh.

‘You look like you could do with some non-reality,’ Spock said, offering me a plate filled with pills and powder and crystals.

‘What kind of mate pushes that stuff?’ I said to Spock, who was popping crystals in a glass pipe.

‘We’re not mates,’ he said, lighting up.

‘Are we not?’

‘We’re lovers.’

Barney tried to say something – think it was ‘lovers’. We all waited for him to give up then laughed again.

Big John took the glass pipe and had a smoke.

I hated hanging round people on meth. Last time, Spock danced for ten hours then wrote a very short fantasy novel in a language he didn’t understand then crashed his car into his dad’s office. Another time Archie from Sovereign Hill had a psychotic episode and started plucking the hairs on his legs till he somehow made himself bleed. Said there were spiders inside his hands and that the devil was real and was standing right behind me.

‘Judgey judgey,’ said Big John, taking another puff. ‘What kind of mate wouldn’t want to share euphoria?’ He bounced up from the floor, grabbed a guitar and started playing something beautiful and classical. Who’d have known.

Some non-reality was exactly what I needed and I was pretty close, I reckon, to partaking. Apart from Barnsey they all looked really happy. Imagine being happy. Y’know, DD, I don’t think I can imagine. It’s been so long. What even is it?

‘Have you got coffee?’ I headed to the grotty kitchen of this shared bachelor pad/drug den. To my surprise, they even had fresh milk.

‘You all right, Cameltoe?’ Spock was in the kitchen now, wanting a hug.

‘Do you and Big John ever fall out?’ I asked.

‘Argue?’

‘Yeah, like physically as well.’

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘He’s a fucking giant.’

‘He’s never hurt you?’

‘Nah … Hey BJ,’ he yelled to his brother next door, ‘have you ever hurt me?’

‘Nah,’ Big John yelled from the lounge.

Spock nodded, happy they agreed, then remembered something and yelled again: ‘What about that time you opened the car door in Napier Street and pushed me out?’

‘Oh yeah, haha.’

‘Hahaha,’ Spock laughed. ‘Mum and Dad grounded his fat arse.’

‘For six months!’ Big John added.

‘Asha driving you nuts, eh?’ Spock said.

‘A bit.’ I melted into his arms again, they’re the only things about him that I like tbh.

‘Tell you what, take this as an introductory gift from me.’ He handed me a small tin. ‘I think what you need is…’

‘Euphoria!’ That came from Barnsey next door. He was very pleased to get it out so quickly.

Big John applauded him.

‘So you really are dealing this shit now?’

‘Only to mates.’

‘We’re not mates, remember?’ I said, foregoing the coffee, disengaging from his arms and heading out the back door as fast as I could.

With the tin, DD. Dunno why, hate to admit it, but I took the tin.

*

Dad’s phone was going straight to voicemail. The receptionist at the Western Inn sounded like she knew him intimately and said with affection that he was at the Eureka, rehearsing. I had no idea what he was rehearsing for but I assumed Vanessa would be there too so I didn’t bother going. Actually, fuck him, leaving like that. Fuck him, fuck Mum and fuck Asha.

I had no money to get to Melbourne. Without thinking, I phoned Rowena. It took her ages to answer and I nearly chickened out.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Rowena, it’s Camille,’ I said.

A pause, then she said: ‘I thought I told you never to call me.’ Her voice low and sinister.

‘Did you?’ I asked.

‘If you ever call me or my husband again, we will phone the police,’ she said, and hung up.

Omg, psycho! I was totally head-fucked. Poor Asha. She’s been head-fucked by these two as well. I was really angry, really upset. In desperation I texted The Queen:

Hey Mrs Salisbury, just wondering if you know where homeless people go?’

What do you mean? she replied.

I can’t live at Mum and Dad’s anymore. I’ve left. I have absolutely no money. I just need somewhere to stay for a while, probs till Friday when Asha goes to court. She’ll go back to Sunshine after that. Is there a homeless hostel in Ballarat?

Do you drive? she typed.

I do. (Mind you, I hadn’t for a long time.)

I have a van. You can have that till Friday if you want.

Really? I was tearful. That would be incredible.

Where are you? I’ll come get you.

*

Ah this van, I love it. I never want to leave. Since Sunday I’ve been driving round the western district, eating baked beans and the other stuff Mrs Salisbury gave me, and sleeping soundly in lay-bys. There’s a huge dental chair in the middle that I’m sitting on now, which is crazy comfy. Not sure I’ll ever tire of zuzzing it up and down. Makes me giggle every time. There’s a tiny kitchenette for cooking and a cupboard with all sorts of sharp dental implements that I could slice people with if they tried to break in at night. Proper torture cupboard, it is, with syringes, pickers and drills. Asha has messaged me hundreds of times, and it’s entertaining reading – she goes from aggro to entitled to fake loving to livid to indignant and back to fake loving again. She is so desperate to know what happened in Geelong, that is all she cares about. She wants to know if I’m still in contact with the Rs. She wants Richard to know she is praying, that she hasn’t given up. (I know what she means. Praying for Nellie. Nutter!) She wants to see Richard. She loves him. Do I not understand? He loves her too, she knows he does, was it obvious to me when I spoke to him, that he loves her too? It’s his wife, she’s manipulating him, she’s just doing damage control because she wants to keep him, she likes being the pastor’s wife, she likes the money, don’t I reckon, don’t I think?

Ugh, she makes me sick to the stomach. I never want to see her again. I might block her number. Ooh, why haven’t I done that? I am going to block her number.

BLOCKED! Ha. Oh, I just breathed out for so long. What a relief. I don’t need to have any contact with her ever again. Ever again.

I’ve had plenty of time on my hands out here. When the signal is good I’ve done some digging about the affair ‘scandal’. I hate to agree with Asha about anything but it does seem like a cover up.

‘Pastor in Love Triangle.’

‘Pastor Unfaithful to Grieving Wife.’

‘Pastor Dumps Lover.’

‘Pastor Assaulted by Crazed Mistress at Prayer Meeting.’

‘I Love My Wife, Pastor Says, Crying.’

Whoopitydooda. Hardly a big deal compared to the shit churches usually get involved in. Child abuse, obvs, and grave-soaking. There are folk all over the place lying on graves to suck the holy ghost out of the dead. I dug deep enough to find stuff about waking up Nellie too. It’s not just Asha. And here’s the big news – the two Rs started it. They raised money to raise Nellie. They laid her out as long as they were allowed and chanted around her body, saying the same things Asha was saying in her room – wake up, Nellie, we want to see your smiling face, we want to hear your beautiful voice, etc etc. They wrote and sold songs, and held meetings. Lots and lots of people believed the power of prayer could bring her back. It’s actually not so mad if you buy into Christianity. If you believe Jesus healed, if you believe he brought Lazarus back, then why not? Like Matthew says: ‘Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out demons.’

Dance Said He denounced the whole thing ages ago. So did the two Rs (in public). But there are still people out there like Asha praying for Nellie’s resurrection, even though she’s six feet under in Meredith. And there are dead-raising teams all over Facebook – DRTs! They’re as common as local buy-and-sell groups. All you gotta do is believe. All you gotta do is pray really hard and send in money. When I think back to what Rowena said in Geelong – ‘Tell her we’re glad she’s praying, tell her not to stop believing. She shouldn’t give up.’ I realise they are still doing it, The Dick and Rowena. They’re wrapping presents for her birthday ffs. They’re waiting for her to finish her jigsaw puzzle. It’s kind of comforting to know Asha’s madness is not unique to her, that she wasn’t always bat-shit crazy, just moderately so; that she’s been brainwashed. I still hate her though, I’m not going to feel sorry for her.

It’s Wednesday evening now. I went home for family therapy because I promised Dad I would. I didn’t talk to Asha the whole time, even with her staring me out (wondering how best to get through to me: angry stare, scary stare, fake kind stare, killer stare, sisterhood stare). It was safe with Mrs S there. I think she might be the kindest person in the universe. I wish she was my mum. The session was useless though. No-one noticed me limping on the way in, or the bruises on my face and arms, or the marks on my neck. I didn’t bother telling them what Asha did to me on Sunday. Mum fainted before anyone got to say anything meaningful, anyhow. Then Dad left Mum for good. Seriously, fuck Dad. Our family is four fucked people fucking each other over. It is over. I am over it.

I’m sore still. My chin aches and I have bruises everywhere, all over my back and arms and elbows. I can’t turn my head without wincing. I probably should have gone to A&E. I probably should have told the doctors and the nurses what Asha did. But I know what they’d say: Siblings! And they’d laugh about the time their sister broke their arm or the time they threw a vase at their brother and he had to get stitches, hahaha, or something like that.

I’m in the loveliest spot, beach this time, looking out over the majestic limestone stacks on the shore – The Twelve Apostles – and they really are wow, they make me gooey, like I’ve been thinking too small, too inside myself, and that I should look up and out more. I might stay right here till Friday. There’s tons of beans and soup and noodles and chocolate and crackers in the cupboard. God bless Mrs Salisbury. In fact, I think I’ll text her same:

Heating soup on the fabby wee stove: God bless you Mrs S xxx