Ann Morphett

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My Fault

Today is the day, as cheesy as it can get, is our anniversary. The day we became who we are, best friends, inseparable, together. Today is the day of sickly love notes and too much chocolate; Valentine’s Day. Except today is different, they won’t look at me, go near me or even acknowledge that I exist, with only a note to say their goodbye. But what did it matter? It’s not like it could be my fault.

Instead of moping around I decided to cheer up someone else, someone who seems lonely on my bus. I’d seen them before but never really spoken to them, too shy to say hi. We hit it off instantly, albeit a little quiet. I seemed to forget for the moment about the loss of my best friend, and remember the glory of gaining a new one. I got barely any sleep from talking to them until late that night, but that’s my fault.

The weeks flew past, I barely noticed them go, like how I barely noticed my decline in friends. Any chance I got and I would be by their side like my cat to her food, love struck. I wasn't old enough to understand what that truly meant but time surely showed me quickly. After all, I started our friendship, it was my fault.

2 months since I’d lost a best friend, but gained a relationship, one where we tell each other we love each other constantly and one of us means it. I’d been told that arguments make a relationship healthy, and that if they truly love me then what they said would be out of frustration from something else, not their hatred for me. I started to learn techniques in avoiding these arguments, but in the end, it was my fault.

I’d tried to talk like we used to one day, like that first time on the bus when I cheered them up. The only answers I got in return were more bruises to count on my skin. It didn't bother me, we were going into winter and long sleeves were in this season. I would get asked a lot if we were dating, and I’d have to deny it, because they told me that no one else could know we were together. I didn’t mind, all that mattered was that they loved me. And if they didn’t, well that’d be my fault.

Death. Not something any wishes upon the one they love. Yet there I was, after just informing them of the news that my Grandmother had died that they told me to join her. I thought they were joking. By now my skin had turned a beautiful harmony of blues and blacks, with red lines filling in the gaps. It didn’t matter how long my sleeves were or how loose my clothes were, people could see that I was not healthy. But what did it matter? I started it, it was my fault.

Months on, and here I am, spending money I do not have because they want their chocolate for the week and I had to pay, like always. They would eat two pieces after demanding I buy the largest block yet get angry if I were to ask for just one piece. I was in debt, but everyday I’d still whisper the same thing, ‘I love you’. I had stopped hearing a reply by this time, but it had to have been my fault.

One day, they told me they were going away soon, going away over my birthday. I didn’t mind because they said they loved me, but I wasn’t allowed to know where they were going. I’d stopped pushing for answers, because the only answer I would receive was them pushing their thumb into an open wound. They promised that they’d buy me a present from the place they go and many more for my birthday. I believed them, but I guess that’s my fault.

Two days after they’d come back, and a week since my birthday and I hadn’t been given my gifts. I dared not ask, but relish in the fact that after their holiday they still chose to be with me. Me, the freak no one wanted to be around, who had lost most of their friends because they’d spent all their time with that one person. Because my body was so weak at that time, I couldn’t go three weeks without getting extremely ill and needing a week to recover. I had to go home that day and rest for a week, but that was my fault.

I waited for them like I did every morning, except this one was different. Instead of a hug and a hello I got ignored and shoved in the shoulder. They’d done this once before, and it took until lunch for them to talk to me. I was worried, but kept my space, not wanting to upset them any more. But by lunch they weren’t speaking. The only response was the open violence I was receiving. This wasn’t normal, the violence and pain was kept behind doors, where they didn’t have to be scared that someone could see we were in fact together. I didn’t know what to do, so I went home alone. This had to be my fault.

A week went past, and though most of my body was now a mess of yellows and greens instead of the wonderful blues and blacks I had grown accustomed to wearing, it didn’t mean I was in less pain. In fact, now that I didn’t have that constant physical pain, the mental pain was unbearable. I had lost all but three of my many, many friends. All because of rumours. Maybe I did do what those rumours say, for I have a bad memory, so it could have been my fault.

Now years have passed me, yet there are days where I hate to open my eyes because she is who I see. I see her face, that look she would give me when I was bad, that look of disappointment. I hear stories of her occasionally, rare but they happen. I can’t help the way I cower, or how my hands sweat or the feeling like I’m going to be sick. I hate the way that no matter how hard I try, I can’t listen to the music she introduced me to because they have too many memories attached to them. I’ve been near her once since she left me, and that train ride I barely breathed in the hopes that she wouldn’t see me. And after all this time, I still but can’t help but think that it was all my fault.

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