I must not remember. Oranges,
oranges, that’s the image in my head. Oranges. Not bone, not books, not-
Oranges.
Keep thinking, Clarissa. Keep
thinking of anything else.
Remembering is suicide.
Type, type as fast as you can,
lose yourself in the words. As your mind goes blank you can finally relax
without a single traitorous thought rising up to kill you.
There must be more I can say. All
I need to do is to write for another ten minutes, to make up this half hour,
and then I can stop, then I can sleep.
What can I say? My name is
Clarissa Finch and I am sixteen years old. I live in London, England, and I
have done for all of my life (bar a year when I stayed in Spain on an exchange
trip which turned into a full blown holiday). I go to school, I take Law and
English and I hope to go into journalism some day.
What else can I say? I need to
keep writing before my mind drifts back. Five minutes left. Work. Work! I have
a part time job in my local library, after school most days except Wednesday,
and I get paid a decent amount - £7 an hour, well over the national minimum for
my age. It’s an easy enough job. I work behind the front desk, stamping books
and helping people to take them out, then I clean after the building closes for
the day. Sometimes I even meet interesting people. Take last week for-
No. No no no no no. Too close, I
can almost imagine it scraping in the back of my head, yearning to be thought
about. Something more to distract me,
please!
The timer just went; my half hour
is over. If I’m careful now I can sleep without fear.
Ironically enough, it’s not the
sleeping world I fear.
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