Expired Photos

They said her heart stopped first.

That’s all that mattered – that she didn’t feel pain because her heart stopped, and then fat shards of glass slit her face beyond recognition. Her legs got crushed and they found her in a cooling pool of blood. No one ever told me this. I never saw pictures. My dad got angry one night, though, and he shouted the bloody truth over the phone before shivering out fat tear drops that looked like rain. It was raining that night, that’s what caused the accident.

I don’t like it when they call it an accident. I think it’s because it suggests that it wasn’t meant to happen and could have been avoided. Well, of course it does. I think, though (and I’ve never said this out loud, of course), that maybe it would’ve been better if it weren’t an accident. That it was an inevitable stamp that fate decreed when my mum was born. That it was unstoppable. That we wouldn’t feel blamed.

Dad doesn’t cry much anymore. I think I preferred it when he did. At least if I heard him sobbing I’d know that he’s home. That he’s curling up in the empty space of the bed where Mum used to sleep, begging for her to come back rather than hide in a dark, dodgy bar and poison his liver.

The first week was the worst. I stopped catching the bus because people stared and their friends asked, ‘Dude, why are you staring at her?’ and they said, ‘Oh, that’s the chick whose mum died in that gruesome car crash.’ And then their friends would stare and pity me because my mum’s not alive anymore.

Or there’d be the intrigued. They were worse because they’d continue on: ‘Which one? There’s always car crashes.’ And I know they wouldn’t realise how insensitive that sounds, but they’d add a chuckle as though they just told a joke. And their friends would continue, ‘Oh, she’s that famous painter who did that thing at the town hall.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Damn.’

And sometimes, when they saw me put my earphones in, they’d lean in and whisper to their friend, ‘Mmm, just as well. I hated that painting.’ And they’d guiltily snicker. One of them would always turn to look at me and then when I glared at them, they’d quickly shudder away and make out as if I’m heartless. How dare I listen? She deserved to lose her mum – they must be thinking.

‘They don’t mean that!’ hisses Kate when I tell her this.

‘They kind of do-’

‘Jane, that’s such a horrible thing to say! Let alone think! You are kind and lovely, how could anyone wish something so tragic upon you?’

I shrug. I wish I said nothing.

Mr Martin conveniently strides in at that moment and at first, he’s got his usual, boisterous grin stretched across his lips.

‘Morning everyone, what a fantastic sunny day we’re having, huh? Oh-’ he sees me and my eyes shoot my desk. I’m terrified that he’s going to apologize – whether that’s in front of the whole class to hear or if he’s going to quietly slink over to me, bend down and whisper it, I know I’m going to be bombarded with pitying eyes. I shouldn’t complain about stuff like this, I know. I should find decency in human sorrow and respectfulness, but as cliché as it sounds, I know my life has changed thanks to the accident.

I feel eyes on me all the time, though I know that they’re not actually always there. The whole school doesn’t know about me, but there’s enough for at least seven people to come by me and pay their condolences, even after a week. I feel as though my hearing has improved and I’m more prone to hear whispers, and not just muffled words, but sentences that speak clearly to me. I hear my name or my mum’s name. I’m hooked and I don’t want to be. I want it to end.

Michael from my friendship group is having a party this weekend, but I’m not invited. All of my friends are going, I know. I heard Olivia talk about it, obviously forgetting I was standing nearby, and from the clearly awkward facial expressions from everyone else, it was obvious that no one wanted me to hear. I don’t know why, exactly. Maybe I’d be that downer like I always am now. Maybe no one wants to deal with the drunken depressed girl whose mum just died. Maybe they don’t want to have fun and look at me and remember that not everyone’s world is happy. They don’t want to see pain in my eyes, and maybe, they’re scared that I might have fun and momentarily forget that what happened in my life happened. I suppose it’d be embarrassing to hang out with someone who should be depressed but doesn’t act it. Then again, I’m not sure if it’s much better the other way around.

The first week was the hardest.

No one understood how to act. No one knew what to say. It was as though everyone would have to carefully think of even the simplest, purest, most innocent topics before saying them aloud – just in case it offended me. And the worst part is, I do get offended. I get upset when I shouldn’t and people should be angry at me for that. But for some reason, it’s always excusable.

‘Jane’s makeup was all smudged in the bathroom,’ I heard Marcia say in Literature last week. I think she was attempting to have a go at me, stab my ‘selfishness’ in a way as if to say ‘she’s still crying?’

‘Fuck off,’ I heard Oscar sneer back. I smiled a little at this. I hope they didn’t notice. ‘Her mum passed away, have some respect.’

Marcia’s lips sort of strained and she decided to shut up and never mention my name since. Or at least I haven’t been around her enough to hear her further bitch about me. Still, a little finger wiggled in my heart when Oscar said this. I mean, we were never really friends. I never really talk to him. I had a crush on him last year though, but I’m pretty sure he never noticed me. And even now, I mean nothing more to him than ‘the girl whose mum died.’

And yet,

I still don’t know what to expect from people.

And I think that’s the hardest thing I have to fucking deal with alone.

Because people treat me as a friend even if I meant nothing to them beforehand. I don’t know if I should feel used because of that. People are being nice, I have to keep reminding myself. They’re not using you. They feel sorry for you, they pity you and they’re being decent fucking human beings by patting your shoulder and telling you that they’re sorry. It’s humane and socially expected of them. It’s a norm.