Faults

• Matilda Weaver, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2014

Lachlan died. It is my fault he died. Maybe if I weren’t alive, they would all be alive. I killed them. Me and my stupidity.
“I love you Kayla, remember that,” Lachie whispered, lying beside me.
The moon is beautiful. It shines brightly in the night sky, unique to it's children that blink around it. It cascades light towards the grass, making the grass look as if fairies are flitting across it. The occasional frog will speak to it’s friend and every now and then an owl will hoot into the darkness. Lachie and I used to climb the trees, although we would always fall out, lying in a tangle of limbs, giggling helplessly.
Mum and dad used to call Lachie and I twins. Even though we were 6 years apart, we had a special bond. We would do everything together and would never be seen without the other by their side.
“Kayla, I really love you,” Lachie breathes, tiptoeing out of my room and quietly shutting my door.
When I was 11, I began to make Lachie angry; taking too much time in the bathroom, eating too much food. Mum and dad never realised, so I didn’t tell them.
“Don’t worry Kayla, we will be inseparable now,” whispers Lachie, pulling of my top and panties.
I was 16 when I told mum and dad how Lachie had sexually abused me since I was 8. I told them how every night Lachie would come into my room and hurt me in terrible ways. Mum and dad were shocked. After about 2 minutes staring into space, they decided to head down to the shops. On the way, their car crashed into a river by the side of the road. I never saw them again.
“You’re gonna pay for telling mum and dad.”
Because Lachie was an adult, he became my legal guardian. The abuse continued for 3 years, until Lachie pulled a mum and dad. I had accidently burnt the food in the oven and Lachie got mad. He started screaming and yelling, throwing things. He then went off to get wasted with his friends. When he was driving home, he sped and got hit by a truck.
“I. Love. You.”
The dew from the grass seeps between my toes. I head towards the kitchen to get the object. I glance at my surroundings, the grubby dishes in the sink, the damp wallpaper. I head back outside, the dark blanket smothering me. I walk to a spot under a willow tree and sit down, my bottom becoming wet. The kitchen knife fits perfectly into my hand, glinting in the moonlight. I pull back my sleeves to show my pale wrists. I make two small incisions on my wrists, watching the blood. I then lean against the tree, closing my eyes. The blood trickles down, dampening my pants.
I was coming.
90% of child sexual abuse victims know the perpetrator in some way. 68% are abused by a
family member.