The week drags by, hauling me along with it. Hopelessly I shamble through the charred remains of my life, familiar places now so desolate all that remains is mud and a few splintered landmarks from the past, preserved under a sky the colour of cemetery marble.
Nothing I see makes me feel any better, not even the glimpse of a lady’s black bra on the tram. And anything I have to do, I do in a trance. Even footy training. Anything I don’t have to do, I don’t even think about.
Even Ms Inglis asks me if I’m okay. Even Coach Tindale tells me to take it easy because I look sick. Even Hailey rings me to ask me how I am. Even my mother wants to know what’s wrong. Even Trav’s mum does.
Far out.
Yet I don’t want to talk to anyone about it. Yet when I see Electra, the only person I do really want to talk to, I don’t know what to say. And when I hold her hand, or kiss her, or when our skin is together in some way, shape, or form, I feel that although I’ve never been closer to anyone else in my life, she’s already far, far away, and moving further away still.
Hey, yeah, I’m used to losing things; man, I’ve been losing stuff all my life. But what I’m not used to is knowing that I’m going to lose something in advance, and there’s not a thing I can do about it. Even freakin’ nametags won’t help in this situation.
There’s just no stopping Electra.
And I wouldn’t if I could.