I guess it was a good idea even though I snickered when aunt Helen gave me a diary to write in. I think I’ll give it a go, write something now and then, see what comes up. It’s not like I’m the kind that fills in pages and pages of complaints about how her mother doesn’t understand her and her father hates her because she’s not allowed to go out later than midnight. Actually I never wrote or read much until it all happened, but things change, and I have changed so much since then that I might as well try and see if I can fill in more than a page. It was never easy with Miss Ruth’s written assignments, that woman had us working like slaves. At least I don’t have homework to do for a while. Maybe I wish I had though.
Right now there’s nothing for me to do, and what’s worse, no one expects me to do anything. Except of course, “get better”. No idea what that means exactly, all I do is lie in this stupid bed and stare at my feet. My sister painted my toenails bright pink, she even drew tiny black flowers on them; they look great. Getting better doesn’t mean anything to me. No matter what, I’m not likely to walk ever again so I guess I’ll stay here until my parents have come to terms with what it will be like to have a wheelchair around at home. I wonder if they think now that a three-floor house in the suburbs wasn’t a good idea after all.
I know what the situation is, I’m not going to cry every day, staring at the motionless little flowers on my toes through a curtain of tears. At least being in this position let’s me see what people are like. I mean what they really are like, I feel I can almost see through them. Through their forced jokes or seemingly compassionate looks. Through their pity in the shape of useless gifts, and through every layer of clothes or make up they wear. There’s so much beneath their surfaces it’s incredible. And it’s, ironic is the word I guess, to think that on the surface too, I used to be “perfect”.
I had the looks, I had the clothes and I had the girls following me everywhere, adoring every stupid thing I did. Most importantly, I had him, the boyfriend every girl soaked her pillow for. His deep dark eyes, the way he took a drag from the forbidden cigarettes, his brand-new splendid motorbike. Micky’s bike. No one was allowed on it, and you were no one unless you’d ridden it.
Yet now, here I am in this bed, next to unconscious Mary, the girl who took a pill she shouldn’t and ended up sleeping for days instead of having fun. Looks are useless here, and so are miniskirts when you can’t move your legs on a kinky pair of high heels. The girls hardly ever come anymore, maybe because the sales are on at the mall. In fact I really don’t care. And him, well, he deserves a whole other page of this diary. I’m guessing he’s been visiting the garage every single day, to see if his ‘baby’, that stupid bike, is fixed after our accident. I should have known better.
The funniest thing about everything changing is that, despite what I said before, I guess I’m actually still the same person. Right, I’m spineless and apparently I can write now but I don’t think it’s something new. My fears, my hopes, the little universe inside of me, they haven’t changed at all. The only major change is that I’ve only just realised they were there at all. My mind has let me go further than my feet ever took me, to a place where I can see I had just been trying so hard to be someone else I hadn’t stopped to think who I really was. And in a way, it’s really comforting to know now.