Chapter Text
Chapter One – Black Dog
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Do you ever think about killing yourself?
Don’t lie. Of course you do. I bet everybody does.
Some people think about it at every minor inconvenience. Others work their way to it like they’re climbing Everest. They start off with this is fine, then this is getting a little tough. They push through what they’re prepared to tolerate and they keep going, past what they ever thought they could bear. Then, eventually, at the furthest point measurable from where they started, they look out across the ocean of shit they’ve gotten lost in. When there’s nothing but misery and pain and sadness in every direction, forever… then they consider checking out.
Doesn’t mean they act on it. But everyone thinks about it. It’s part of being sentient, I’m sure. Thinking about not being. Once you know you’re here, you have to consider the alternative.
I’m a QC Reject-Stamped, marked-down emo. I think about little else.
It’s a fun hobby. Dammit. It’s a full-time job. A vocation. A calling. I was always a bit of a weirdo. A sullen child. “Old head on young shoulders.”
Blah de blah de bleurgh.
I’ve talked about this with the others. We were all mis-shapes, mistakes, misfits. Raised on a diet of broken biscuits.
It seems like anyone who doesn’t cotton on early that being a benign grin machine is the way forward—well, they’ll find themselves the other side of the glass pretty quick. I remember the exact moment I lost the trail and knew I’d stay lost in the woods. I’ll tell you all about it someday.
What was I saying? Oh yeah. Killing yourself. Myself. The act. Topping yourself, that’s the one my mum uses. Popping off. Doing yourself in. Taking an early bath. Going out west. I like that one. It’s romantic.
I’m definitely in the former camp, by the way. In that either/or choice, I’m queuing up for it. If I get into an argument, I don’t want to lash out at my opponent. I want to slip a noose around my own neck.
Feel ill? Might as well finish myself off, I’m clearly dying anyway.
Sitting around bored and unmotivated? Well, I guess this could be… My only friend… The end.
Can’t sleep? You should take a lethal dose.
Just had a really good time? Might as well go out on a high. Now’s as good a time as any. Right?
You can’t say this stuff out loud. Of course not. Why not? Umm… Reasons. It crosses the mind, though. That’s all I’m saying. Not that I’m going to act on it—but it’s always there.
It’s like whenever I open a new packet of butter or a tub of ice cream, I feel the urge to gouge it all out at once, right from the middle.
I don’t, though. I work in from the edges, one portion at a time. Like life. Day after day.
The urge is there, though. I’m sure it’s in everyone. We’re just not supposed to say it out loud to each other.
We have filters. We have the afore mentioned “reasons.”
What I like about The Pack is, they let you say this stuff out loud. They kind of agree. Some more than others.
They let you get it off your chest, and they come back with their version, or a spin on your perspective.
I know they know more about me, my mind, how it works, and how it fails than anyone else.
They’re my friends. Eight of us. All different in our own ways. But all the same to anyone else. It’s safe to say I wouldn’t be here today without them. Not because of the urge. That’s just a feature of life. Until it isn’t.
I wouldn’t be here. As in, in this room, behind this door. If it wasn’t for The Pack. They’ve done me a real favour there. Kept me safe. Kept my light burning. They’ve done that a lot.
I’d like to think I’ve done the same for them. Most of them, at least.
It’s like we all pick up each other’s slack. Those diagrams they use in science with the overlapping circles. Venn diagrams. That’s The Pack.
If one of us is X, then two or three others are too. If one’s Y, one’s Animal, one’s Vegetable, one’s a stray shopping trolley… Well, at least a couple of the others have you covered.
It takes a village. Blah de blah de bleurgh.
I guess I should introduce them to you, or I’m going to be bleating on about my friend who this or my friend who that, and you’ll just be thinking, “Is this the girl with the wonky boobs or the Indian lad with the bad hands?”
So, in no particular order:
The Pack is made up of eight young people who walk home together from The Shack, across the town centre, through the estates, until we’re all safe and sound about three miles from the bar we’ve adopted as our spiritual pond.
Let’s start with the girl with the wonky boobs and the Indian lad with the bad hands.
Prue is one of my oldest friends.
She was in the year above me at school, and even though we live on opposite sides of town, we’ve found ways to see each other every day since I was eleven. Now we’re in Sixth together, we’re inseparable.
She’s got a rebel heart and rebel hair and (I’m sure she won’t mind me saying this) rebel tits. One is much bigger than the other, and that fact has caused her a lot of upset over the years. She hides her unique features under layers of fabric, and her face behind that wild mop of curls.
Prue consumes music and books like she’s trying to become a human database. She’s never let me down. And if she were that way inclined, I’d marry her tomorrow.
Gayvid is the Indian lad with bad hands.
His real name is Gagan, but his dad thought he’d do better at school with an English-sounding name. So he’s Gagan at home and David at school. It only took one sleepy school morning and a slip of the tongue for David/Gagan to tell a supply teacher his name was “Ga-vid” and his fate was sealed. The tsunami of piss-taking that followed has echoed through the last decade of his life.
I really admire how he’s owned his mistake. He came out as gay five years after his faux pas. Now the name is worn like a badge of empowerment, while all those hyenas who went for the easy target have to deal with his steely glare and indomitable spirit.
The “bad hands” bit will make sense later.
Next up is Unit.
He’s a fat lad who keeps himself to himself 98% of the time. Put him in a mosh pit, though, and he’s like a tornado in a wheat field. He’d never purposefully hurt anyone. Unit is like a sumo wrestler taking exception to a queue for a tube train.
He doesn’t talk a lot. When he does, it’s usually about something deeply nerdy. He’s kind to dogs and cats. He’s also one of the last of us to get home at the end of a night.
I suspect he’s in love. He doesn’t know how to express it.
So he eats his feelings. And he eats my lunch. Bless.
Twink’s a funny one. Literally.
They’re not really a mosher in the traditional sense. But as the only non-binary glitter-glam glitchcore theatre kid in school, it’s kind of our responsibility to keep them out of trouble. It’s not that difficult, because everybody loves Twink.
And I mean everybody. Teachers, parents, boys and girls of all ages. Everybody except Twink, I think. That saying about being your own worst enemy? That’s Twinkle. They’re a nightmare. Not to mention as camp as Christmas.
Monk is our resident vinyl nerd and brooding sceptic.
He was in Prue’s class before we all got into Sixth together. His intellect is astounding, but instead of channelling it into English, Maths or Science, he’s an expert in rock music history, subculture, conspiracy theories, and folklore.
He’s generous with his books and records but he will cross-examine you on them when it’s time to give them back. He’s the nobleman among us.
Peachie?
What do I say about Peachie?
He’s a slut. He’s a sweetheart. I think most girls in our age range have got off with him at one point or another. Well. Not me. But most.
He’s not just burning his candle at both ends. Peachie is lighting everyone’s wick every chance he gets. At least that’s how he starts out. The messes this boy gets into usually end with one of us taking flack on his behalf.
While he’s off snogging someone, we’re cleaning up his vomit. We all know he’s covering up for how much he hates his home life, though. He’ll do anything to avoid going home.
Seven out of eight gets you to Echo.
She only moved here about a year ago. Even though she hardly speaks, we adopted her before the shitheads in this town kicked what little there was left of her around the Lidl car park after dark.
She’s very observant. Unit is in love with her. He’s powerless to winged eyeliner and her black-lipped, quiet mouth. She came to us with Darkwave CDs and a stash of vintage iPods that Monk and Twink practically came over.
I like her. She doesn’t say much, and she’s never loud, but her eyes and her actions show how much she loves the gang. Also, while Gayvid never forgets a birthday, it’s Echo who gives the most thoughtful presents.
See what I mean? Venn diagrams.
Then there’s me. Riff. Rachel Imogen Fletcher. I figure the eight.
We toyed with names for the gang so we could form a band. This was back before Gayvid smashed his wrists to bits. The Hatful Eight was an early contender. But in this day and age, a reference to The Smiths could get you misunderstood in a Brexit town like Countingdon. And Tarantino’s losing his shine too. Monk insisted we go more metal: Eight O’Hate. We laughed him out of the room.
Octopussies was Gayvid’s suggestion. I liked it. Unit was rather vocal in his opposition. The album Eight Arms to Hold You from Veruca Salt offered no ideas. I wasn’t going to play in a band called Ten Tickles. Seven Ate Nine was a contender for a bit, but Peachie said it felt too Party Cannon.
That’s the level of nerd shit you’re dealing with here.
Casuals walk away. Here be monsters.
So we went with The Pack. Because we drink at The Shack. But I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow. Tomorrow is Friday and I’m in love with that idea. So join us for The Walk along Fascination Street tomorrow night. It’s a kill or cure kind of experience.
You get me?