home, if that’s what you would call it.
It makes me feel rotten for what I have. For what I’ve always had. I feel stupid and petty for ever having complained about anything. I feel like a spoiled little bastard, about to crawl into my safe nest while Jasper Jones shoulders his burden alone. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair at all. I want to invite Jasper in, give him my bed, and I hate myself because I can’t and I won’t. I feel sick that I’m going to wake up and have my breakfast made. That my mum is still alive and my dad is a kindly teetotaller. It isn’t right. It just isn’t right that I have so many things that he doesn’t. I might blub again, but I reckon I’m too tired even to do that. I’m so overdone and overwhelmed.
I wipe my forehead. I was right; my relief was short.
Jasper Jones gives a weak, quick grin and claps my arm. He pockets his hands. We don’t say a word. We just look and nod and shift our feet. There’s nothing to say.
I shuck off my pansy sandals, move quietly up to the window. I hoist myself up and hold, like I’m on a pommel horse, but I’m stuck. I turn my head and hiss:
“Give us a hand?”
And Jasper strides over and hefts me easily. I’m through. I made it. Back on my bed.
“Thanks,” I whisper through the window.
“Yeah, same to you,” he says. “I’ll see you, Charlie.” He lingers, as though he has more to say, but just offers a brief wave.
And he’s gone.
I slot the glass plates back in. It feels like I’ve broken into my own room. It doesn’t feel like the same place I left. It doesn’t feel like home, but it feels safe. I can feel the heat of the day threatening already, and the light is still blue-hued. I notice how dirty I am, how sweaty and scratched, how urgently my heart bangs at my ribs. Laura Wishart is gone. She really is. She was killed, in a strange clearing only known to Jasper Jones. And I saw her, hanging by a thread. Already dead. Ihelped carry her to a water hole and I dropped her down and she sank with a stone. That’s irrefutable. That’s truth. That’s what we know. I’m thirsty. I’m in trouble. I feel sick and I can’t still this tremor. For some reason, I just know that if I’m in Jasper Jones’s corner, it’s going to be okay. That there’s some kind of protection and rightness at work. I lie down. And it’s over, for now.
am covered in sweat when I wake. It must be late. The sun is beaming directly into my eyes. I squint. I feel like I’ve just emerged from an operation. It certainly feels like my innards have been pulled and scraped. I wonder what time it is.
Last night comes to me in strange fragments and shards. It doesn’t take long to sink in. One bilious moment, a weighted white dress. Then I remember it all.
And I sit up, startled. I expect police with whistles and urgent orders. Sirens. Bells. Spotter planes. Bloodhounds. Yellow tape and busy-looking people. I expect a red sky and ominous clouds. I look through the window. It is utterly serene in our backyard, save for a castanet chorus of cicadas. Even so, I suspect I’m being watched. I peer at length through the window, making sure I’m not being surveyed.
I get up and glance at my bed. There’s a dark patch where I slept. I touch it. It’s wet. Sweat. But around that is a thin layer of grime. It looks like the chalk outline of a murder. Like I died during the night. Or I shed my skin like a snake.
I need to piss. Urgently. But my dick is cruelly jutting at my underwear, trying to assert itself. It’s rock-hard and disobedient. I rearrange myself and grab a towel, then slip quickly across to the bathroom, hoping I don’t encounter anyone on the way. Thankfully, the coast is clear. I slam the door and toss the towel. My aim is appalling, but the relief forces a thin smile.
I sit on the edge of our lime-colored bath. Naked and solemn, I run the water, flinching when the first spurts scald my fingers. It pools and burns my feet. I hold them
It makes me feel rotten for what I have. For what I’ve always had. I feel stupid and petty for ever having complained about anything. I feel like a spoiled little bastard, about to crawl into my safe nest while Jasper Jones shoulders his burden alone. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair at all. I want to invite Jasper in, give him my bed, and I hate myself because I can’t and I won’t. I feel sick that I’m going to wake up and have my breakfast made. That my mum is still alive and my dad is a kindly teetotaller. It isn’t right. It just isn’t right that I have so many things that he doesn’t. I might blub again, but I reckon I’m too tired even to do that. I’m so overdone and overwhelmed.
I wipe my forehead. I was right; my relief was short.
Jasper Jones gives a weak, quick grin and claps my arm. He pockets his hands. We don’t say a word. We just look and nod and shift our feet. There’s nothing to say.
I shuck off my pansy sandals, move quietly up to the window. I hoist myself up and hold, like I’m on a pommel horse, but I’m stuck. I turn my head and hiss:
“Give us a hand?”
And Jasper strides over and hefts me easily. I’m through. I made it. Back on my bed.
“Thanks,” I whisper through the window.
“Yeah, same to you,” he says. “I’ll see you, Charlie.” He lingers, as though he has more to say, but just offers a brief wave.
And he’s gone.
I slot the glass plates back in. It feels like I’ve broken into my own room. It doesn’t feel like the same place I left. It doesn’t feel like home, but it feels safe. I can feel the heat of the day threatening already, and the light is still blue-hued. I notice how dirty I am, how sweaty and scratched, how urgently my heart bangs at my ribs. Laura Wishart is gone. She really is. She was killed, in a strange clearing only known to Jasper Jones. And I saw her, hanging by a thread. Already dead. Ihelped carry her to a water hole and I dropped her down and she sank with a stone. That’s irrefutable. That’s truth. That’s what we know. I’m thirsty. I’m in trouble. I feel sick and I can’t still this tremor. For some reason, I just know that if I’m in Jasper Jones’s corner, it’s going to be okay. That there’s some kind of protection and rightness at work. I lie down. And it’s over, for now.
am covered in sweat when I wake. It must be late. The sun is beaming directly into my eyes. I squint. I feel like I’ve just emerged from an operation. It certainly feels like my innards have been pulled and scraped. I wonder what time it is.
Last night comes to me in strange fragments and shards. It doesn’t take long to sink in. One bilious moment, a weighted white dress. Then I remember it all.
And I sit up, startled. I expect police with whistles and urgent orders. Sirens. Bells. Spotter planes. Bloodhounds. Yellow tape and busy-looking people. I expect a red sky and ominous clouds. I look through the window. It is utterly serene in our backyard, save for a castanet chorus of cicadas. Even so, I suspect I’m being watched. I peer at length through the window, making sure I’m not being surveyed.
I get up and glance at my bed. There’s a dark patch where I slept. I touch it. It’s wet. Sweat. But around that is a thin layer of grime. It looks like the chalk outline of a murder. Like I died during the night. Or I shed my skin like a snake.
I need to piss. Urgently. But my dick is cruelly jutting at my underwear, trying to assert itself. It’s rock-hard and disobedient. I rearrange myself and grab a towel, then slip quickly across to the bathroom, hoping I don’t encounter anyone on the way. Thankfully, the coast is clear. I slam the door and toss the towel. My aim is appalling, but the relief forces a thin smile.
I sit on the edge of our lime-colored bath. Naked and solemn, I run the water, flinching when the first spurts scald my fingers. It pools and burns my feet. I hold them
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