said a barrister to me, yesterday. I like her. She scares me a lot, because I feel like she has this fine-tuned BS-ometer and she can just see through everyone, and what she will see in me, I don't know, but all fears aside, I like her.
I should be studying for my exams, but I can't. As echoed by jizbillions of uni/VCE students around Oz at the moment, I suppose. I'm just tired. I finished up another block of placement on Saturday, I have my own students who've been requesting sessions and sending me things to read a lot more in the recent days, I've had to work on some exam study, and I have soccer. I now just have a craving to bake, but I know I'll feel bad doing it when I should be studying, so I'm not. Instead, I'm feeling bad writing this.
But it's okay. I can deal.
I have a cute story.
The patient was an elderly male, who lives independently with his wife, but kind of as her carer, because she has some dementia. Right before they went to bed that night, he fell over, as old people do.
"Are you okay?" wifey called out.
"I'm fine, love, you go to bed, I'll be right," he replied.
When she got up in the morning, he was still on the floor.
It's a lot harder for the elderly to deal with falls - it's one of the most common reasons for being hospitalised. But he just didn't want to wake her up. So he was admitted with hypothermia.
D'awww ♥
I have another one.
One of my students came today for, perhaps, his last session. I love this kid. I've only been tutoring him for a couple of weeks, and extracting an essay from him is a painful process. But, funnily enough, he really, genuinely enjoys studying his book. He won't admit it outright, but he said that in procrastinating for other exams, or even for just writing essays in general, he'll pick up his book (Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood), and just pore over it, analysing, looking for ideas, trying to make sense of it. It's a pure kind of appreciation, and I adore him for it.
Anyway, today, in discussing this habit of his for the umpteenth time, he said: "You know, I even had this fear for a while that what if I died, right now, and you know, the angels came to ask me what my book was - you know how they do that - and instead of Qu'ran, I said Cat's Eye. Freaked me out."
LOL. I mean that literally. I teared up laughing.
I'm so sad to be losing my students. Not in the sense of an income (although that's going to make the future a bit unstable, I'll have to be stingier than normal), but in the sense that I really love these kids.
I'd like to go over the conversation with the barrister though. She's a family friend, and kinda like an older cousin to us. I mean, we call her our cousin. On the Sunday, my sister confessed the state of her current romance to her, schmaltzy fuzz and all, and oh, how she ripped her apart. Not as in crushed her dreams, but gave her a reality check that we both actually enjoyed, despite the cynicism. But I suppose that's one of those you-have-to-be-there-(andknowthefullstorywhichIcan'tbebotheredexplaining)-to-appreciate-it things.
Meanwhile, we continue to consistently lose in soccer. Did I tell you guys that? From our casual futsal games, some of the regulars decided to form a team and join a league. We exemplify the literal meaning of 'out of your league'. The girls we're up against are from actual teams, who train with coaches and play in official tournaments. They're vicious, they're masterfully skilled, they have tactics, and, on a side note, they all tend to be a lot bigger than us.
We even played against professional 14-year-olds and lost. To be fair, they looked a little soft, so we were reluctant to play our toughest. Although I'm a little sceptical that our 'toughest' would have made a difference.
But it's fun. I like these girls. I don't mind losing with them. We have this sense of sisterhood, camaraderie, that makes even the losses feel like a gift... just by being something we share? Something like that.
I should get my driver's licence.
I could go to Nepal to volunteer as a student nurse for 8 weeks, for under $4,000. I can afford that. Okay, it doesn't include the ticket and visas and vaccines. But everything else. It's pretty good.
I could go to Sri Lanka and do it instead. Free accommodation and food with the relatives. Hmm.
I'd love to write a story. Some things never change, do they?
Peanut butter cookies. The craving. It's killing me.
Okay, I feel bad. I should stop now.
Peace in,
Laila
Monday, October 26, 2015
Thursday, September 17, 2015
the one that got away
I left the house at 0650 this morning, or a minute or two earlier.
I do have this down to a science. Usually, I catch the bus at 0644 that goes towards the campus closest to my house, then catch the shuttle at 0715 towards my campus. But just today, I decided to loosen the reigns on my otherwise rigid, self-imposed schedule, and go the other way, a bus and a train towards the station near Panda's house, so she could pick me up and we'd head to uni together, for Thursday Pancakes.
Heading towards the warmer seasons as we are, the days getting longer, the sun rising earlier, so there was sufficient light for me to see when I stepped outside. It was of the ambiguous variety, with no clear sun to pinpoint as the source, just a grey sort of brightness. I said my salaams to my mother, shut the door, took a few steps before registering the splatter on the pane beside the door.
I'm not really a zombie in the morning; I'm sort of a morning person, but I'm also a bit slow. It looked like someone had thrown some small, juicy red fruit, so that it had splattered, and dripped down, gradually drying as it did. My initial thought, as I slowly processed this, was why would anyone bother? Our house is sort of on a hill. It would take some effort to walk up the steep driveway, or the stairs, to get close enough to take exact aim and hit the glass right. To what purpose. And why. Why, between last night, and this morning, would someone do that.
As these thoughts slowly came together in my head, I gradually became aware of the bigger picture. This dried up red, smudged across the door, on the glass panes in the middle, on the side. Thick, congealed drops on the floor. You wouldn't see this from way out front, but when you go up the final steps to my door, there is another set of steps on the right, that go into a space behind the garage, but in front a tall fence that separates it from the backyard. Even there, there were these smidgens of red, at the top too, like someone had reached over and grasped the top.
My stomach turned over. Blood. It was blood.
In this sort of sickened haze, I knocked quietly and rapidly on the door; my mother had just woken up as I was leaving, everyone else was still asleep. She opened the door, frowning.
"Mum, mum, look," I said, swallowing the lump in my throat and gesturing vaguely.
She went in and called my dad, who was awake, it turns out, just listening to Qu'ran in bed.
I know we discussed this briefly, what was to be done, but even though it was this morning, I can't remember what was said. I know my dad was a bit reluctant to call the police. I said I had to catch my bus. I left.
On the bus, I just. I felt sick. And strangely on the verge of tears.
Last night: it was one of those nights where it was cold, but also warm. I had a bit of a cold sweat going on. My little sister kept waking me up, sporadically, throughout the night, because she was feeling unwell. I only checked the time once - it was about 0250. The whole night went by in this stage between sleep and wake.
But there was a moment, in the night, somewhere, I'm sure, between 0300 and 0500, maybe 0430, where there was a loud banging. I'm a light sleeper; the slightest sounds can disturb me. I have a tendency to come up with dark theories if I can't automatically detect the cause, and the absurdity of these theories eventually lulls me to sleep. I know that's weird, but honestly. I live in the dullest part of my suburb, quiet, middle to upper class suburbia, with a touch of a retirement living across the street. Nothing. Happens. Here. You've heard me say it before.
So when I heard this banging sound, I thought to myself: sounds like someone getting hacked to death. Which is, of course, ridiculous in my world.
Also, the sound seemed to becoming towards my sisters' end of the house, which is the back, like my room, but on the other side. Far from the front. When I think about it now, I've heard that human hearing is terrible at pinpointing sources. So maybe that's another reason why it didn't register.
My parents also heard it, apparently. My dad thought it was someone knocking, but my mother assured him it was probably cats. I mean, Kiki knows how to knock on our door. And we've had quite a few cats visiting and kicking up a fuss recently. So my father didn't get out of bed to check either.
All I could think of, on that bus ride, was that somebody, in the night hours of the morning, was hurt. That they came to our door, banging on it loudly, in search of help. And they didn't get any from us.
On that bus ride, I felt like throwing up. I kept an eye out for bodies, for some kind of disturbance, but I saw nothing.
When I met up with Panda, I called my mother straight away. She told me they had decided to call the police after my dad had come home from work - he drives a school bus, so he just had to drop the kids off. After that, I allowed Panda to reassure me, and I got back into the routine of Pancake Thursdays.
I can't believe I was able to do that. I don't know if others would do the same. But somehow, I managed to put it at the back of my mind. It's not that I didn't think about it at all - I checked my phone frequently, expecting an update if something came up. But I was calm. And I eventually stopped worrying.
I got home earlier than usual, but it was still dark. That was the fastest I have ever walked from the bus stop without a purpose. I was paranoid, my eyes flitted everywhere. The sick feeling came back when I arrived and the dried, drippy blood was still there.
The police hadn't come. My parents had called about 0900, and it was about 1840.
Some thoughts that had come up since:
Yes, I had heard the banging on the door, as had my parents. But we hadn't heard any yelling. No one had tried calling out to us. Why not?
My mother had contacted our neighbours. Our neighbours on the left checked their front gate/door (there house has a difficult layout to explain), and yes, they too found flecks of dried blood. They also heard sounds during the night, but thought it was possums. But our neighbours on our right found nothing. And no one else in our neighbourhood seemed to be kicking up a fuss. Why was it just our two houses - two houses, mind you, that do not have the easiest access to front doors?
The night before, my sister and I got home late from soccer. We brought a friend home, because her parents had gone out, and they said they would pick her up from our house. My sister let her out when her parents came, but half in this world and half in the virtual world of her phone as she is, she did not lock the door. That night, this morning, the door was not locked. Whoever was banging on our door tried to climb over our back fence - you can see the stains on the top. All they had to do was try the door and they could have gotten in. It's not that I wanted them to, or not; it's just that for some reason, the possibility sends chills down my spine.
Anyway, my sister called again, about 1915. They said they would come. It's 2316 now and they haven't shown. What does one have to do to get the police to show up? I'm not usually overly cynical about law enforcement as a general rule, but today, I have lost all my faith in them.
And I'm scared. I'm not sure what I'm scared of exactly, but I am. Maybe there's a reasonable explanation for this, one that isn't dark. Maybe some silly person went bike riding at this odd hour for kicks, had a bit of an accident, and came staggering up our driveway in the hopes of getting us to call an ambulance or something. Maybe it was some sick person's idea of a prank. I don't know. I just don't know. And I guess it's this not knowing that is scary. I don't want to think about the other possibilities, but they're there, they're in my head. I can't get rid of them. At times like this, I crave oblivion. Or just some kind of comfort, someone to hold on to. But I know if I get my little sister to sleep in my bed, I'll just end up scaring her.
Remember when I said I wished I'd have a story to tell? Spoke too soon, I guess. I want normal again. The kind of normal where all the variables are known, the dramas are petty, the kind of boredom that is safe.
Peace in,
Laila
I do have this down to a science. Usually, I catch the bus at 0644 that goes towards the campus closest to my house, then catch the shuttle at 0715 towards my campus. But just today, I decided to loosen the reigns on my otherwise rigid, self-imposed schedule, and go the other way, a bus and a train towards the station near Panda's house, so she could pick me up and we'd head to uni together, for Thursday Pancakes.
Heading towards the warmer seasons as we are, the days getting longer, the sun rising earlier, so there was sufficient light for me to see when I stepped outside. It was of the ambiguous variety, with no clear sun to pinpoint as the source, just a grey sort of brightness. I said my salaams to my mother, shut the door, took a few steps before registering the splatter on the pane beside the door.
I'm not really a zombie in the morning; I'm sort of a morning person, but I'm also a bit slow. It looked like someone had thrown some small, juicy red fruit, so that it had splattered, and dripped down, gradually drying as it did. My initial thought, as I slowly processed this, was why would anyone bother? Our house is sort of on a hill. It would take some effort to walk up the steep driveway, or the stairs, to get close enough to take exact aim and hit the glass right. To what purpose. And why. Why, between last night, and this morning, would someone do that.
As these thoughts slowly came together in my head, I gradually became aware of the bigger picture. This dried up red, smudged across the door, on the glass panes in the middle, on the side. Thick, congealed drops on the floor. You wouldn't see this from way out front, but when you go up the final steps to my door, there is another set of steps on the right, that go into a space behind the garage, but in front a tall fence that separates it from the backyard. Even there, there were these smidgens of red, at the top too, like someone had reached over and grasped the top.
My stomach turned over. Blood. It was blood.
In this sort of sickened haze, I knocked quietly and rapidly on the door; my mother had just woken up as I was leaving, everyone else was still asleep. She opened the door, frowning.
"Mum, mum, look," I said, swallowing the lump in my throat and gesturing vaguely.
She went in and called my dad, who was awake, it turns out, just listening to Qu'ran in bed.
I know we discussed this briefly, what was to be done, but even though it was this morning, I can't remember what was said. I know my dad was a bit reluctant to call the police. I said I had to catch my bus. I left.
On the bus, I just. I felt sick. And strangely on the verge of tears.
Last night: it was one of those nights where it was cold, but also warm. I had a bit of a cold sweat going on. My little sister kept waking me up, sporadically, throughout the night, because she was feeling unwell. I only checked the time once - it was about 0250. The whole night went by in this stage between sleep and wake.
But there was a moment, in the night, somewhere, I'm sure, between 0300 and 0500, maybe 0430, where there was a loud banging. I'm a light sleeper; the slightest sounds can disturb me. I have a tendency to come up with dark theories if I can't automatically detect the cause, and the absurdity of these theories eventually lulls me to sleep. I know that's weird, but honestly. I live in the dullest part of my suburb, quiet, middle to upper class suburbia, with a touch of a retirement living across the street. Nothing. Happens. Here. You've heard me say it before.
So when I heard this banging sound, I thought to myself: sounds like someone getting hacked to death. Which is, of course, ridiculous in my world.
Also, the sound seemed to becoming towards my sisters' end of the house, which is the back, like my room, but on the other side. Far from the front. When I think about it now, I've heard that human hearing is terrible at pinpointing sources. So maybe that's another reason why it didn't register.
My parents also heard it, apparently. My dad thought it was someone knocking, but my mother assured him it was probably cats. I mean, Kiki knows how to knock on our door. And we've had quite a few cats visiting and kicking up a fuss recently. So my father didn't get out of bed to check either.
All I could think of, on that bus ride, was that somebody, in the night hours of the morning, was hurt. That they came to our door, banging on it loudly, in search of help. And they didn't get any from us.
On that bus ride, I felt like throwing up. I kept an eye out for bodies, for some kind of disturbance, but I saw nothing.
When I met up with Panda, I called my mother straight away. She told me they had decided to call the police after my dad had come home from work - he drives a school bus, so he just had to drop the kids off. After that, I allowed Panda to reassure me, and I got back into the routine of Pancake Thursdays.
I can't believe I was able to do that. I don't know if others would do the same. But somehow, I managed to put it at the back of my mind. It's not that I didn't think about it at all - I checked my phone frequently, expecting an update if something came up. But I was calm. And I eventually stopped worrying.
I got home earlier than usual, but it was still dark. That was the fastest I have ever walked from the bus stop without a purpose. I was paranoid, my eyes flitted everywhere. The sick feeling came back when I arrived and the dried, drippy blood was still there.
The police hadn't come. My parents had called about 0900, and it was about 1840.
Some thoughts that had come up since:
Yes, I had heard the banging on the door, as had my parents. But we hadn't heard any yelling. No one had tried calling out to us. Why not?
My mother had contacted our neighbours. Our neighbours on the left checked their front gate/door (there house has a difficult layout to explain), and yes, they too found flecks of dried blood. They also heard sounds during the night, but thought it was possums. But our neighbours on our right found nothing. And no one else in our neighbourhood seemed to be kicking up a fuss. Why was it just our two houses - two houses, mind you, that do not have the easiest access to front doors?
The night before, my sister and I got home late from soccer. We brought a friend home, because her parents had gone out, and they said they would pick her up from our house. My sister let her out when her parents came, but half in this world and half in the virtual world of her phone as she is, she did not lock the door. That night, this morning, the door was not locked. Whoever was banging on our door tried to climb over our back fence - you can see the stains on the top. All they had to do was try the door and they could have gotten in. It's not that I wanted them to, or not; it's just that for some reason, the possibility sends chills down my spine.
Anyway, my sister called again, about 1915. They said they would come. It's 2316 now and they haven't shown. What does one have to do to get the police to show up? I'm not usually overly cynical about law enforcement as a general rule, but today, I have lost all my faith in them.
And I'm scared. I'm not sure what I'm scared of exactly, but I am. Maybe there's a reasonable explanation for this, one that isn't dark. Maybe some silly person went bike riding at this odd hour for kicks, had a bit of an accident, and came staggering up our driveway in the hopes of getting us to call an ambulance or something. Maybe it was some sick person's idea of a prank. I don't know. I just don't know. And I guess it's this not knowing that is scary. I don't want to think about the other possibilities, but they're there, they're in my head. I can't get rid of them. At times like this, I crave oblivion. Or just some kind of comfort, someone to hold on to. But I know if I get my little sister to sleep in my bed, I'll just end up scaring her.
Remember when I said I wished I'd have a story to tell? Spoke too soon, I guess. I want normal again. The kind of normal where all the variables are known, the dramas are petty, the kind of boredom that is safe.
Peace in,
Laila
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