• It’s been twelve years now. Twelve long years since it happened. ‘It’ is cyclone Diana, and it ruined my life. Afterwards I physically was fine, but deep down I was anything but fine. My name is Jacinta and I killed myself, I have been waiting for you, so that my story may be heard.

    It was a rainy, dismal Friday night when the first cyclone warning was issued. I being a normal fifteen year old girl ignored it. You have to give me some credit though; I did pack a small bag with clothes, a few possessions and some emergency items; just in case. I had tea with my parents, did my homework, listened to music and went to bed. It was still raining.

    Saturday came as all Saturday’s must. I woke to a rainy, windy and depressing day. Although it was windy it wasn’t yet windy enough to get nervous. I had a shower, ate breakfast and went on the computer for an hour or two. It was pouring at 12 o’clock, I rang my friend, Cassandra and we agreed to call off band practice. Instead I forced myself to work on my assignments.

    We were advised to evacuate at 1 o’clock. We spent fifteen minutes boarding up windows, securing fragile or precious items and then we were leaving. We were the fastest road between two major cities, hence a lot of big trucks came through our town. One truck was going too fast and crushed a car, blocking all traffic on that road. There was no way around it. There were fifteen people trapped in the city now. Mulberry Street was the only road out of the town that wasn’t taking you to the centre of the cyclone. We all huddled together and had a very tense argument over what to do. Finally my dad shouted “I have it! We have to get to a basement or bathroom, and hid. We decided to go to different houses - just in case some didn’t have basements. We went to the Keating’s house, which had a tall oak tree out front. I kicked the door down and went to look for a basement, my parents followed behind me. I found the basement. I took one last look out a nearby window, at the tall oak, and opened the door. Just as I opened it we heard a resounding crack, from the oak tree outside. My parents looked at each other, and I think they knew then that only one of us would survive, and gently pushed me down into the basement and started to dive in after me. They never made it. The oak tree had fallen on my parents. I could see my mums arm, I went and grabbed it but it was cold as ice. In that instant I knew they were dead. I cried myself to sleep, holding my dead mothers arm. I couldn’t see my dad.

    Next thing I knew I was being yelled at, “Come on we’re nearly there, we can get her!” Rescue! I was excited, until I remembered that my parents were dead. All at once there was light, and several of the tougher townsmen staring at me. My rescuer picked me up and carried me to a waiting ambulance. I was taken to hospital, my rescuer with me, holding my hand. I think his name was Chris, I do remember that he was cute. I scolded myself for thinking such happy, carefree, thoughts while my parents were dead back in the Keating’s house, but I think I had been knocked on the head. At the hospital I was taken to a nurse, who patched my head up – when my parents pushed me I must have hit my head pretty hard. I asked her what day it was and she said it was Sunday afternoon. A few minutes later a male nurse came in and took my name, address and my condition and left. Then a nurse gave me something and I fell asleep.

    When I woke up the same nurse was at the bed beside me talking to the patient there. After several minutes I croaked something and she came to my side. The fist thing she said was “Honey, I’m sorry about your parents.” Then “You were in relatively good condition when found, so I patched you up and gave you something to sleep. Is there anything you want, or anyone you want to find?” she was smiling at me so sweetly it made me sick. I found my voice.
    “Can I have some water, and where is my boyfriend Edward Ashford? And what day is it?” she told me that it was Monday and then hurried off, and a few minutes later she was back with water “Dear, we’re still looking for Edward, he’s in our list of missing people. We should find him soon.” I asked what was wrong with me and she told me I had a concussion when I came in, a sprained wrist and ankle, also something I didn’t understand was wrong with my knee. I drank the water and dozed off.

    Next time I woke it was Tuesday afternoon. The nurse was checking something at the end of my bed. When she saw that I was awake, she told me that Edward had been admitted and was still in a serious condition. Also that he was deteriorating. I demanded to be taken to him so she put me in a wheelchair and wheeled me to his bed. He was awake. The nurse told me he couldn’t speak, and that one wrist had been broken and the other arm too. I sat there for at least an hour before the nurse told me I had to go back to my bed soon. That’s when he spoke for the last time, so quietly. “I… lo...” was all I heard before he slipped into the coma that later killed him. I was wheeled away. Lying there for a few minutes I hated my life passionately. I got into my chair and wheeled myself to the bathroom and found a razor, for shaving. I picked it up with trembling hands and made one cut on my upper thigh. It hurt and I felt my anguish leaving me. I grabbed a heap of toilet paper and pressed the cut until it stopped bleeding then I went back to my bed. At tea time I asked if I could have a book to write in and a pen. When I received my treasures, I started writing some really sad songs.

    Over the next week I wrote dark poems and songs, cut myself several more times and cried. On Friday I was visited by a child services worker, who told me that I was now officially in the care of my next door neighbours, whom I hated. I cut myself twice after that. An hour after the horribly women left I was visited by the hospitals counsellor, the nurse had told her of my poems and songs. We had a long, completely one-sided conversation. I cut myself after that as well. I now had over twenty cuts on my thigh and I was starting on my other thigh. Frankly I was amazed that no one thought I was doing anything. I mean my parents and my boyfriend were dead not to mention I was injured and my house ruined. Did they honestly think that I was handling everything as well as I pretended to?

    I was released on Wednesday Mr. and Mrs. Smith picked me up. When we were ‘home’ they told me I was to visit a physiatrist, and I wasn’t allowed to my friend’s houses, or to my own. I ate as little as I could and stayed in my room, which was painted pink, eww. After nearly a week of starvation and depression, it was time for my first visit to my physiatrist. She talked to me a lot. I said about ten words the whole hour I was there. I knew she was trying to convince me that life was worth living to the full, but she only managed to convince me that I could not survive any longer. She made my mind up about suicide.

    That night when I got ‘home’ I snuck some rope up to my room, and from my knowledge of sailor knots, I made myself a pretty good noose making sure it fit perfectly. Then after tea I threw the other end up over one of the beams in my room, tied it very tightly. I wheeled a chair under the rope, stepped up, put the noose around my neck and kicked the chair away, and fell.

    Death was quick and painless. Almost immediately I died and my family and friends (those who were dead at least) stood there calling to me. I ran into their loving arms.

    That is my story; you may like it you may not. But I have one last thing to say from beyond the grave. The bit I neglected was seeing my whole life, even the bits I would have lived if I had of stayed, flash before my eyes. It was chilling; I would have been a famous physiatrist, with my third book being published. Life gets better. There’s always a light at the end of the tunnel, you just may have to look real hard to find it sometimes. So my message is wait for things to get better, they always will, trust me.