Well Chet goddam Baker is playing again and my room is dark, with not even the flicker of the TV tonight. The whole house seems under some sort of black cloud. There’s only Madeleine and me at home; Mom and Dad are away at their goddam orgy or whatever it is, and I’m scared.
I’m scared of how I feel right now, and I’m scared about tomorrow. I hate Sylvia for walking away from me like she did, even though I realise that I actually love her. I hate the fact that Madeleine is going to be depending on me because I don’t feel strong enough, I just don’t. And I hate Mom and Dad for not being here. And I hate myself for being weak and being scared.
Of course I’m holding the scissors again. The dirty, blood-soiled bandage is on the floor next to me. In places the cut from last night is still weeping blood and plasma, but it’s not really flowing. And I’m just playing at these open wounds with the tip of the scissors and I’m feeling nothing. I’m just numb with fear.
Madeleine is downstairs watching TV. At least she was when I last saw her. She’s watching a DVD – a recording of some ghastly stage musical that we’d all been to see last year. Normally, I’d have a dig at her for that. I mean, musical theatre is surely the lowest, meanest, least intelligent art form imaginable isn’t it? I’d rather watch rats mating than sit through a minute of that anodyne drivel. It’s like baby food for the minds of morons; all sickly mush is what it is. I have to make allowances for Madeleine right now though. She has other things to consider and I know it.
When I walked past Madeleine’s room earlier, I saw her little overnight bag on her bed. I’ve never seen anything so lonely and sad in my entire life as that bag just sitting there. Madeleine has packed a change of clothes for tomorrow. It’s not like she is going to stay overnight or anything; she just wants something fresh to put on once it’s all done and finished.
I’m sitting here trying to put myself in Madeleine’s shoes, to feel what she’s feeling, but I’m so wrapped up in my own misery and self-pity that I can’t. I despise myself for that. Madeleine needs me more than ever right now and I’m just useless. Perhaps I’ve always been useless. Selfish and useless. What use am I to anyone? Sylvia’s getting beaten up and I can’t do anything. Madeleine is hurting and there’s only me to help her and all I’m concerned with is my own depression.
I can feel the blood running over my arm again. I’d better get another bandage. I should really go and sit with my sister. Did I ever tell you how much I love her? It might not seem like it, the way I’m acting right now, but the truth is that I do. I really do. I love her to bits if you must know.