The Undying Apathy Of Imogen Shroud Read online

  For my sister; my weaknesses are your strengths.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Testament

  so yeah, I guess I died

  Chapter One

  two years is forever when you're seventeen

  Chapter Two

  there's a young girl trapped in here with me

  Chapter Three

  today the wind sounds like bees

  Chapter Four

  send me over to the darker places

  Chapter Five

  we can't run but you can't hide

  Chapter Six

  say something that you wanted to

  Chapter Seven

  do your numbers give you comfort

  Chapter Eight

  find me a heart killed with hope

  Chapter Nine

  all the while you learn

  Chapter Ten

  comes the time and you still don't know

  Chapter Eleven

  find the place we linked to the past

  Chapter Twelve

  all my words are never enough

  Chapter Thirteen

  goodbye my love

  Chapter Fourteen

  chemical glow takes me apart

  Chapter Fifteen

  music sounds better with you

  Chapter Sixteen

  in heaven everything is fine

  Chapter Seventeen

  we the living

  Chapter Eighteen

  did I ever promise you I'd never

  Chapter Nineteen

  can't always get what you want

  Chapter Twenty

  the undying apathy of imogen shroud

  Chapter Twenty One

  but if you try sometimes

  Codicil

  postcard from the underground

  Hey. I'm Imogen Shroud, and I'm speaking to you like this because I'm dead. The living can't first-person narrate, they're stuck in subjective third-person—sucks to be them, I know. Except it doesn't, because they're alive and I'm dead, and believe me, as much as being alive sucks, being dead sucks way harder. First-person narrative isn't exactly adequate compensation, is what I'm saying.

  But anyway. You may be wondering why I'm talking to you. Or if you're anything like me then you're not wondering that at all, you're actually wondering something like 'when is this dead girl going to tell me something interesting?'. Fair enough. So what's interesting to you? Pain? Is that 'interesting'? Heartbreak? Depression? Death gore mutilation—

  I'll tell you a story. Stories are interesting, right? So long as they've got enough hurt in them. That's what my old English teacher used to say, "grab 'em with hurt, everything else comes later". And there's that bit in that comic that's like 'start with the saddest thing you can think of' ...

  Know what the saddest thing I can think of is?

  When I was fifteen, I was the happiest girl in the whole entire world.

  Why? Because of Glenda Tracy. I should've listened to my grandpa, "never trust a girl with two first names", he told me that at least a dozen times, although that's probably because of his brain thing (ie he doesn't have a brain). But I was fifteen. I was stupid. I thought I was in love. No, you know what? I WAS in love. We met at Kendo, she moved like silk against skin and her ears were so tiny. She beat me in our first match, and afterwards she gave me some cream for the bruising. Ten minutes later I experienced my first kiss, and I knew I was in love. But for her ... for her it was 'just a phase'. Just a phase until Glenn Barksdale finally noticed her. Why did he finally notice her, you potentially ask? Because he thought it was hot that she'd made out with another girl. That's right, she got with me because it turned him on. It wasn't even a deal they had, just a screwed up little plan of hers to maybe catch his attention, frankly I'm amazed it worked. At the time I wasn't particularly 'amazed' by the situation, though. More like 'crushed'. I didn't even know what was going on at first, just that I hadn't seen her for a week and she wasn't returning my calls or IMs or anything. I thought she was dead. Then I found her in the park near our school, with him, doing stuff that I'm now quite certain I'll never do. Dead girl here, remember? Not a lot of sex in the afterlife, let me tell you. Anyway. Know what they did, when they noticed me? Invited me to join in. Glenda was so sweet about it, 'Oh Imogen, we'd really love you to be a part of this, I think it'd really help you grow as a person'. She should write a book, 'Threesome-ing Your Way To Emotional Maturity', the best-selling follow-up to 'I'm A Horrible Selfish Bitch So Screw You, Imogen'. Know the worst part? I almost said yes. I was this close, then Glenn said ... you know what, it doesn't matter what he said. I didn't join them, I just ran away. I ran away and I hid in my room for two years.

  Cue title card.

  Imogen Shroud was the unhappiest seventeen year-old in the whole entire world. As a reflection of her mental state her room was adequate, dimly lit with horrible wallpaper, criss-crossing patterns of blue and purple diamonds against a pale green background. If you stared at it too long the patterns sucked at your eyes and began to slowly spin and bend, diamonds orbiting diamonds orbiting diamonds in an eternal dance of tasteless asymmetry.

  Imogen spent a lot of time staring at her wallpaper. Usually from her bed, which was a futon crammed into the corner, a patch of allegedly harmless mould slowly working its way towards sentience beneath it. She had two duvets, one thick, one thin, the thick one's cover patterned like a chessboard of mauve and black, the thin one with no cover at all. Sometimes she stared at the wallpaper from the stool in front of her dresser, which used to be white, or sometimes from the chair in front of her closet, which used to be full, or sometimes just from the barely carpeted floor, for those days when she couldn't be bothered walking even those three extra steps to slump onto the futon.

  Today was one of those days. No, worse than 'one of those days'; she wasn't even staring at the wallpaper. To muster the will and energy necessary to move her head seemed an impossible task, and so Imogen simply lay there, flat against the floor, her face smushed against the carpet, breathing in dead skin and the dusty scent of long-deceased moths with each long inhalation, sighing out all the weariness and troubles of the world with each long exhalation.

  "Imogen? Hey?"

  On a better day Imogen might have replied, said something like 'go away' or 'get lost' or 'what are you doing in my room, Spack?'. Today, though, she simply lay there breathing.

  "Mum said you have to go out today. She said you have to return your library books. She said she's not paying any more of your late fees."

  Beside the futon bed lay a scattered heap of books.

  "Um ... oh, Fayette Eve is on soon, it's just a repeat but do you wanna watch?"

  There was a poster on the wall opposite the door, depicting a leather-clad woman holding a large pistol. The poster had a tear down the middle and one corner drooped heavily.

  "Mum's got the TV on View/Point but she's not really watching, she's got her new magazine. We could get her to change the channel, I bet she'd do it if you asked her."

  Near the door the wallpaper had been partially torn away, revealing the cheap fibreboard beneath. There was a small but noticeable dent in it.

  "Can you get up? Please? Mum said—"

  Imogen pushed herself over just enough to fix her little brother with a dull-eyed stare. There was nothing particularly malevolent about her expression, but he immediately took a step back.

  "I'm eating your muffin if you don't get up!" he cried as he fled, a feeble parting shot.

  Oddly enough, it worked. Imogen knew that this was no idle threat, that leaving her muffin unguarded for too long would inevitably result in it being eaten by someone other than herself—although far mo
re likely her mother than her brother. With an unhappy grunt Imogen pushed herself up to her hands and knees. She stayed like this for a long moment, weighing the importance of her muffin against her desire to simply let herself fall back against the floor.

  Eventually, perhaps inevitably, the muffin won. It was dark chocolate with a bitter caramel centre. Imogen didn't like dark chocolate, neither did she enjoy bitter caramel, but as far as fitting her mood went this muffin was king.

  After pulling her dressing gown tight Imogen dragged herself out of her room and into the narrow hallway, and from there through to the lounge/dining room/kitchen/laundry. The thin curtains were drawn so the sun didn't reflect off the TV screen, upon which three women and one man were all shrieking.

  "—did NOT just do that, you did NOT just DO that!"

  "Girl, you are CRAZY, you are CRAZY!"

  "I know. I know! You don't—"

  Imogen forced herself to stop listening, fearful of brain cell loss. Opposite the TV, in the sunken centre of a pale yellow couch, was her mother, half-smoked cigarette in one hand, remote in the other—although she wasn't actually watching. Her attention was on the magazine laid open in front of her, its glossy pages shining in the reflected light of the television. As Imogen shuffled her way through to the kitchen area, her mother reached out to turn the page, ash from her cigarette falling onto the couch.

  "Aiieee," she said flatly, not looking up. "The ghost that walks."

  Imogen ignored her mother and made for the fridge. There wasn't much in it; a two litre bottle of milk with the tiniest amount left in the bottom; a wilted stick of celery; two cartons of yoghurt, both strawberry; a white paper bag with 'IMOGEN' written on it in flat, broad script. Inside this unassuming paper bag was Imogen's muffin, safe and unconsumed.

  She took it from the fridge, then let the door swing shut by itself.

  "Close it properly," came her mother's voice.

  Imogen considered rebelling, but decided she couldn't be bothered. She nudged the heavy fridge door with her foot, then pushed her knee against it to force it to seal properly.

  "Good girl." Imogen's mother looked up and around at her. "Are you taking a shower today? You've got to—"

  "Don't," Imogen said, the first word she'd spoken in three days. Her voice was low and tired and flat. "I already took one."

  "This week? This month?"

  "This morning," Imogen said, her voice just as flat as before. "You were still unconscious."

  Imogen's mother raised her cigarette to her lips and took a thoughtful drag, her eyes upon her daughter. Then she made an unimpressed noise and returned to her magazine.

  "Get dressed and take your books back. I'm not paying—"

  "They're not due until tomorrow—"

  "It's raining tomorrow. Do it today."

  Imogen took a breath. When she spoke next her voice had lost a little of its flatness:

  "Don't just order me—"

  "If I didn't order you, you'd never do anything."

  "I ... you ... just shut up."

  "I'll shut up once you're dressed and out that door. Remember our deal, Imogen."

  "We don't have a 'deal'. All we have are your—"

  "Out of the house at least once a week."

  "Why should I do—"

  "End of story."

  Imogen's teeth clenched. She hated those three words, more than anything else. Once her mother had said them she switched off completely—already Imogen could see that her attention was fixed solely on her magazine. With a quiet hiss Imogen stomped back to her room, tossed the muffin bag onto her desk, then threw scattered books into a bag and scattered clothes onto herself, before yanking open a drawer of her desk.

  She froze.

  For almost a minute Imogen stared down, unmoving, then she gritted her teeth together, scooped the muffin bag into the drawer, and slammed it shut so hard it hurt her hand. She picked up her book bag and just stood for a moment, breathing harshly in and heavily out, then she roughly pushed her hair away from her face and stomped back into the hallway, colliding heavily with her brother.

  "What the HELL, Zack! Get out of my way!"

  "Sorry!"

  Imogen pushed her brother away, then bent to pick up her book bag—he went for it at the same time and their heads hit together.

  "ZACK!"

  "Sorry! Sorry!"

  "You're SUCH a spastic—just get out of my way! Now!"

  Zack backed away as Imogen snatched her book bag from the floor, his big blue eyes wide.

  "I was trying—"

  "Do NOT care."

  Imogen walked away, leaving her brother to stare helplessly after her.

  "Be nice to your brother," Imogen's mother said, as Imogen stalked past.

  "Whatever," Imogen muttered, before wrenching the door open and shoving her way out.

  It was a brightly overcast day, the low clouds silver-white, the glare of them blinding after the dimness of indoors. Imogen squinted her eyes almost shut as she made her way to the stairs, passing dozens of doors before she reached them. Once there she glanced back, then pulled a flat packet of cigarettes from the inside pocket of her jacket. She took a cigarette out as she walked down the stairs, along with a scratched black lighter, and by the time she reached the concrete below her lungs were full of thin smoke.

  There was no one in the wide central courtyard. Eight apartment complexes surrounded it on three sides. The fourth side was bordered by mounds of compacted dirt, and beyond that a parking lot filled with an absence of cars. Imogen started off away from the stairs, her eyes on nothing in particular. After taking a few dozen paces she stopped, as she always did, and looked back. She could see the door of the apartment she reluctantly called 'home', up there on the ninth floor, one among hundreds.

  She turned away and started walking again.

  There were hardly any people on the streets and paths between Imogen's apartment building and the library, just a mother out with her three children, all of whom avoided eye-contact with practised comfort. The incongruence between the build-up of great towering apartment complexes and deserted streets was nothing new to Imogen, and as such she didn't even notice it.

  The library was an old building made of metal and glass. The entrance sat beneath two curving arcs of tarnished metal, perhaps meant to represent a stylised heart. The glass windows that looked into the library were almost opaque with all the grime and graffiti that covered them. One had been broken, and was covered in newspapers and duct tape. There were beds of grey soil and black wood chips surrounding the building, presumably once planted with something more than the sad but sturdy flax plants that clung to life every few metres or so, the space between them filled with discarded fast food wrappers, empty booze bottles, and bulging plastic bags. What they bulged with was something that was, perhaps, best not dwelt upon.

  Imogen straightened, still a little short of breath, and pushed her hair away from her eyes. She dumped the contents of her book bag into the 'returns' slot, then went in through the double doors.

  The inside of the library wasn't quite as deserted as the streets around it, but it came close. There was an old woman dozing noisily at one of the reference desks, shopping bags piled around her legs. There were two young boys running here and there in the stacks, their faces serious. There was a tall, awkward-looking man browsing the Ancient Cultures - Languages section. And there was Imogen.

  Once upon a time there would have been a librarian, but they were thought of as unnecessary these days—by those in charge of funding libraries, at least. Instead there was a row of automatic check-out stations near the exit. All were broken, except one.

  "Afternoon."

  There was a security guard, of course. Imogen didn't acknowledge his presence with anything more than a roll of her eyes as she passed, her book bag held loose at her side.

  She spent a productive half-hour wandering through the shelves, shoving a dozen likely-looking books into her bag—she wasn't picky, anyt
hing with a remotely interesting title was fair game. Once her bag was sufficiently heavy she headed for Romance, the 'hot' section. With a look of faint disgust she plucked three from the shelf at random, holding them between two fingers before dropping them into her bag.

  The two boys she'd seen before were using the sole working check-out station, so Imogen took advantage of the library's bathroom—the only part of the library that was always clean. She glanced up at the mirror as she washed her hands, but couldn't meet her own gaze.

  The two boys had left by the time Imogen was out of the bathroom, and she walked briskly to the check-out station, trying to ignore the way the security guard was leering at her. Someone had smeared something thick and sticky over the station's screen and scanner plate, so it took even longer than usual to get through all her books—by the time she was finally done Imogen was feeling hot and tight, her hands shaking as she dropped the last book into the bag and hoisted it over her shoulder.

  "Abble daba dum, badumba mangle fish?" said the security guard as Imogen made for the exit, or at least that's what she could make out through the fuzz clouding her head.

  Outside the air was thick and hot, the heavy clouds above glowing as the sun did its best to burn through them. Imogen brushed her hair from her face as she walked, stumbling a little as she crossed the empty parking lot across from the library. There were three young men loitering against a brick wall a block away, and they called out when they noticed her, their voices rough and expectant. She put her head down and tried to ignore them, the tightness in her chest and her stomach growing stronger, a sick feeling in the back of her throat threatening to overwhelm her as she shambled along the path. The men called out again, and one of them started walking towards her. Imogen shivered and kept walking. After five steps he stopped. Imogen kept walking. The man threw up his arm and yelled something harsh. Imogen kept walking. The man spat on the ground, then turned to walk back to the others.