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secrets left untold;, juli's journal

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julianna sellenger	Posted: Jun 20 2009, 02:20 AM
eleventh grade Group: academy student Posts: 122 Member No.: 59 Joined: 5-June 09	September 07, 2008 Jared is dead. I cannot breathe. I cannot think. I cannot do anything. Now I am truly alone. October 25, 2008 I am a fool. And not simply a regular fool, but a tremendous one. For my entire life, I have striven to make others happy. That, and only that, has been the task I have given to myself. And, until recently, I have done just that. But yesterday. . . I am so stupid! I cried. . . out in the middle of the courtyard. And to make things worse, I blubbered like a child and ended up completely scaring Liam away. I begged him to stay, but he left. And it was my own fault. Why do I care? I shouldn’t. I just thought. . . I thought he would understand. . . because. . . because he has sad eyes like mine? See, I am a fool! Since Jared died, I am not the same. My heart aches. No, it burns. I feel as though my entire soul has been ripped to shreds and now no one can glue the pieces together again. I ripped my drawing to shreds yesterday. The rose. . . It resembles my soul now. I hate myself for being so broken. I am supposed to be strong, but how can I when everything is falling apart? I do not sleep anymore. Every night, I wake sweating or screaming from nightmares. It’s always the same. Always Raymond. Taking what he wants. . . his weight pressing upon me. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate him! I hate him. . . almost as much as I hate myself. November 16, 2008 It is cold today. Not that it hasn’t been cold before, only. . . it is very cold today. I want hot chocolate, but I cannot make myself move from this spot. I am finally starting to warm up. Finally. I have not drawn since Jared died. I have not painted either. This was a point of contention between me and my art teacher. I thought he would cry when I refused, day after day, to draw. He would fail me, he said. Fine, I said. I eventually just dropped the class. It was an elective. It doesn’t matter. But I do miss it. The way my pencil or crayon or pastel or paintbrush would dance across the page. The way the colors would explode before my very eyes. The way I would feel. . . alive. I promised myself I would not draw again. But that was simply foolishness. It is not about that anymore. I tried to draw, but I can’t. It’s like I don’t even know how anymore. And, more than almost anything, I wish I could. December 27, 2008 I think that the devil invented Christmas break as a method of torturing ill-behaved students. It is the one break which my aunt refuses to let me be exempt from. Fall break, spring break, no problem. I either say I am staying on campus or lie and say I have been invited to a friend’s house. I honestly do not like to be at school when so many people are gone. It is quiet and lonely. But it is better than being here. Here is where Raymond is. He still comes into my room at night. I wish I could just die. January 01, 2009 Happy New Year. Everyone seems to think that a new year makes everything different, but they are wrong. It is 5:50 am on the first day of the year. . . and still things are the same. My parents are dead. My brother is dead. And I am alone. I shared a bed with a boy last night. I don’t even know his name. I met him at a party and he. . . Well, I didn’t have the strength to say no. He smelled like body odor and beer and was at least 22 kilograms overweight. . . possibly more. What is wrong with me? February 08, 2009 I thought I saw Raymond today. I was walking along the Seine for the first time in months, just trying to. . . I don’t know, clear my head? (It did not work.) That’s when I saw him. Same dark blonde hair. Same muscular build. Same type of clothing. I was certain he’d see me, so I hid. But when he turned, it was just another person I did not know. How can he torment me this way, even when he is not here? March 26, 2009 The school year is dragging by. Not much longer until we are finished, but. . . can I make it? Then again, I am staying here for break. Taking classes is the only way to avoid going back to the house. I cannot call it my home—Paris is my home, but that house is not. I think I may attempt to graduate early. I have enough credits that I can finish fall semester of my senior year. Perhaps I can begin college that spring. Then again, what’s the point in hoping for anything? Nothing good ever happens. At least, not to me. April 01, 2009 April Fools Day is a dumb holiday. But it is also fun to watch the pranks the students pull on each other, and on the teachers. It’s something Jared would have done. Something he did do, many times. I remember when we were very young, he convinced me that it was a costume party day at school. I dressed as a butterfly and got made fun of by all of my classmates. My teacher ended up calling Father to come get me. Instead of being angry with me, he just laughed. Jared thought it was hilarious too, until he was grounded for a week. I miss them both so much. May 17, 2009 I do not know how to write any of this. It hurts so much. . . I must write it, for I can never tell anyone. But how? Raymond found me yesterday. Perhaps I should not be surprised, for he lives in Paris. But he has never sought me out like this, has never come to me except at night. Oh God, I hate myself. I was simply reading on a bench in the courtyard when he walked up. “Hey, Jules,” he said, smiling. That itself sent chills up my spine so I closed my book and stood up, thinking if I could just get away he wouldn’t do anything. He couldn’t do anything there—there were students in the courtyard. Before I moved, he put an arm around my shoulder, holding me in a way that I could not get away. When he started to walk, I stopped. I think I said no very quietly, but now I cannot be sure. That was when he bent and whispered. “I know you, Jules. Do you want everyone to know your secrets? My mother and father will throw you on the streets. Do you want that?” I said no, and he led me away from the school. We took a taxi to some godforsaken hotel. I’d expected to go to the house, but now I see that he wanted privacy. I hate him even more for that. It was the same, mostly. I made myself as still and numb as possible, but I could hardly stand it. I struggled and tried to scream but that did not last for long. He’s never hit me before, but yesterday he beat me. I have bruises up and down my stomach and sides. I don’t know what to do. . . As if I can actually do anything. Why won’t God just kill me? It would be better than living this hell. I wish I could just tell someone. But even if someone would listen, they would then see me for what I truly am, and hate me the way I hate myself. I don’t think I could handle that.

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