Hello Tommy,

It’s me, Isla Walkot. I’m the Isla Walkot who’s your neighbour, not the one on that TV show. In case that wasn’t obvious.

They said I should say something. I’ve no clue what I’m sposed to say. It’s not like we’re friends or nothing. Matter of fact, I pretty much hate your guts. Always have. Ever since the day we met I’ve hated you. I pretty much thought you were a dweeb back then. That’s right. You were a pathetic loser who didn’t know when to stay the fuck out of my way.

We met the first day you and your mother moved into the flat in my backyard. That flat was built for my Nonna, and she lived there for most of my life. I loved her more than anyone. But then my darling Nonna died, and you came and moved into Nonna’s flat. I hated you for that. I could never forgive you for being there, instead of her. I could never forgive you for spoiling my memories of Nonna’s flat with your pathetic existence.

You deserved every single thing that ever happened to you, because of that. And because you didn’t know when to stay the fuck out of my way. And because you were male. And because you annoyed the shit out of me, simply by existing.

They wanted me to say something, so that’s what I’ve got to say. I hate you. I’ve always hated you. You deserved everything you got.

Even this.

Hello Tommy,

It’s me again. I came back. Isla Walkot. The Isla Walkot on that TV show was all blonde and blue-eyed and perky tits and bouncy hair and pretty as a postcard. That aint me. That was never me. You won’t find me on no postcard.

I watched that show every week and wished that I was her. Oh, how I wished and wished that I lived her life. Even with the weird crap that seemed to happen to her, week in, week out, I wished I was her. Regular as clockwork, once a week, something weird would happen, but she’d deal with it, her and her friends and her family, and then she’d smile and tell everyone that everything was perfect, and then they’d all hug each other, and then she’d sit down to a perfect dinner with her perfect family. Every week. Damn, but I wished I was her.

I was thinking about what I said last time. I guess I got fired up. I thought I was over all that anger but apparently not. I don’t really think you deserved this. Some of the other stuff, maybe, but not this.

See, I was thinking about how angry I was at you and then I remembered that you arrived soon after my piece-of-shit father decided he’d be better off without us. So he walked out on us. No goodbye. No final hug. Nothing. He just left. I hated him so much for that. Mind you, he was a piece of shit before he left, so I hated him long before that. I hated him so much. Him leaving made me hate him more. Because of him I pretty much decided that all men were worthless trash who deserved everything bad that could ever happen.

So then it was only me and my mother in that house and we could barely afford the rent, let alone everything else. So Mother said we had to lease out Nonna’s flat to help pay for things. It was your mother and you who moved in.

My useless pile-of-manure father had disappeared, leaving me with all that hate. And there you were, living in my backyard. I mean, sure, you weren’t quite a man. You were nothing but a kid. But you were there, and you were male, so I poured all that anger out on you. I didn’t understand, back then, that I was doing that. But I understand now. At least, I think I understand.

I only vaguely remember the first time we met. Mother told me that the woman who’d moved into Nonna’s flat had a child, a young teen, someone near to my age. I got excited, thinking maybe I’d get a new friend, or something. I was nearly fifteen. I’d been all the way through puberty and out the other side. I was practically a grown woman. I was dating young men. They were sixteen or seventeen year old men. They were tall, with muscles and hairy chests. We had sex every chance we got. I thought I knew everything.

So I was excited about getting a new friend. But then we met up. And there you were. You barely came up to my chin. You were as skinny as a rake. I thought you must’ve been about eight. And you were obviously a boy. Mother left out that important detail. I looked down at you and that excitement I’d been feeling was smashed into pieces. I hated you for that. I hated you for being a boy. And I hated you for smashing my hopes into pieces.

I don’t remember what I said, that first time. I’m sure it was some snarky little comment about how I didn’t have time for little boys. But you didn’t snark back. You didn’t cry. You didn’t even flinch. You just looked me up and down, then turned on your heel and walked away from me like you didn’t care what I said. It was so insulting. I hated you for that. How dare you treat me like I didn’t matter?

Next time I saw you, I think it was the next day, you were zipping up and down my driveway on your pathetic little skateboard. I couldn’t tell you to get the hell off my driveway because my mother was standing right there next to me. But I must’ve said something because Mother said it was your driveway too, now. We had to share things like that, she said. I hated you for that. How dare you force me to share my places with you?

Then she said I should make friends with you. She said she thought you were nice. I smiled at my mother and told her of course I’d make friends. I even told her I’d already spoken to you. I told her that I was sure we’d be great friends. By that time, I was so used to lying to Mother that it came naturally. I remember thinking when the piece of shit left us that I’d be able to stop lying to my mother. Apparently, some habits are hard to break. But you made me lie to Mother and I hated you for that.

I’m not stupid. I know how dumb I’m making myself sound. I was blaming you for everything and most of it wasn’t your fault. I was so angry back then. I couldn’t see past that. I’m sorry about that. Maybe we could’ve been friends. Maybe you could’ve helped me back then, helped me calm down some of that anger. But I blew it. I blew that chance. Instead I let myself hate you and I blamed you for everything bad in my life.

And now here you are.

I’m sorry I blamed you for everything. I’m sorry I took all my hate out on you. And I’m sorry you’re here, like this.

I better go now. It looks like they want me to finish.

Hi Tommy,

It’s Isla Walkot. I’m back again.

I saw a movie the other day with the other Isla Walkot in it. She’s all grown up now. She was driving expensive cars, and wearing expensive clothes, and wearing fancy jewellery, and making out with a hot dude, and waking up in the morning in his bed. It was nothing like the Isla I knew from my favourite show. It freaked me out seeing her like that.

But the young Isla still lives on in repeats. In those, she’s still young, and bouncy, with her perky tits, and her big smile, and her perfect loving family, and her perfect loving friends, and her amazing ability to solve all of her problems in 47 minutes. I never realised how plastic she looked. Like a walking talking Barbie Doll. And I never realised how silly her problems were. I used to love that show and now I reckon it’s so stupid. It’s nothing like reality.

And look at us. We’re all grown up too. But nobody’s asking us to act in movies. Instead, there’s just the two of us in a room. This room is reality. I have to face the facts. The fantasy movie life aint for us. I don’t get no violin background soundtrack to my life. I just get this room to sit in, with you.

I think I said last time that I’d thought you were something like eight or nine when we first met, and I was nearly fifteen. Imagine my shock when I ran into you at my school. You’d just started there after moving from whatever school you went to before. They put you in the year below mine. I figured maybe you’d skipped a whole lot of grades or something. Or maybe they made a mistake. But then I looked around and took notice of the other boys in your year. For the first time I really looked at them instead of ignoring them like the bugs they were. A whole bunch of the boys looked not much different from you. Some of the boys were grown taller and more muscly, but a whole lot of them looked like tiny little kids. Little baby boys just like you.

Then mother told me we were going to a little party to celebrate your fourteenth birthday. That made you only nine months younger than me. I was a full grown woman and you were a little baby boy, but you were only nine months younger than me. How does that work? I think they talked about it in health class at school, about boys getting puberty later than girls. But that idea never really sank in until I was confronted with you. Nine months younger in age, but a lifetime of difference in the way we looked.

Suddenly it made sense why I wasn’t interested in the boys my own age. It made sense why I only wanted to date guys two or three years older than me. Boys my age and younger were still little kids. Tiny little dweeby boys like you. It was only when they got older that they turned into something that was actually interesting. Okay, the older guys were still pigs, but at least they were interesting pigs.

I told you I hated all men back then. I did. I even hated the guys I dated. But it was necessary to date them. I had lots of reasons. If I didn’t date them, I would’ve been a social outcast. And there was my dirt-bag of a father. I dated them because of him. And I dated them so that I could have them put their arms around me and make me feel like I was loved, even if it was fake. I couldn’t help myself. I was addicted to the feeling of their arms wrapped around my body. I’d let them grope me and suck on my tits, just so they’d hold me tight. And then I’d do a BJ, or let them plug me whichever way they wanted, and then I’d send them on their way. Then I’d go home and wank myself to the memory of their arms wrapped around my body and the needy look they’d get in their eyes when I was letting them get their rocks off in me. Then I’d hate myself for needing them so much when they were disgusting pigs who deserved to have their balls cut off and chopped up and fed to them.

Your birthday party was pathetic. There were just five people. Mother and I were there in our nice clothes, and there was you and your mother, and there was a little dweeb from school who you’d met up with on your first day. I forget his name. He was never important. Mother was there so I pasted a smile on my face and pretended to be friends with dweeby little you and your dweeby little mate. And I entertained myself by imagining grinding your stupid little face down into your cake and holding you down until you drowned in the cake so that I would never have to see you ever again. Did I mention how much I hated you? Is it possible to drown in cake?

Afterwards, Mother said how happy she was to see me making friends my own age. I smiled at her and told her I was happy too. See how you made me lie to my mother? Mother never knew about my dates, of course. She never knew about what I let those disgusting pigs do to me on those dates. She would’ve killed me for sure, if she’d known. So I lied to her about my dates, and I lied to her about my friends, and I lied to her about my sex life, and I told her I was happy. That was a lie too, obviously. Not that I would’ve admitted that back then.

But now I’m here, talking about you. I’m talking about the way you invaded my life by moving into Nonna’s flat.

For the first little while, we mostly stayed out of each other’s way. But we had to share the same backyard, so sometimes I’d be sitting on the old swing and texting on my phone and you’d be on the path, pathetically failing to learn a new trick on your stupid little skateboard. I think our mothers must’ve looked out their windows and seen us near each other and assumed that we were best friends or some shit like that.

But we never talked. I’ve already said more to you in these last couple of visits than I ever said to you in all that time.

And now you’re here. And maybe you can hear me and maybe you can’t. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to talk to you like this. I’ve got to go now, but I’ll come back.

Don’t go anywhere.

Hey Tommy,

It’s Isla Walkot. I’m back. I see you’re still here. They tell me you’re no longer critical. That means they don’t think you’re going to die. Not right away, anyhow. But then they said you might never wake up. That sucks. They took out the breathing tube and you’re breathing on your own. Most of the bruising on your face is gone. They tell me the rest of your injuries are healing too. Now it looks like you’re just sleeping and might wake up any second. I kind of hope you do. You don’t deserve to be like that. Except maybe you do. I mean, you were the one driving super fast and you did drive into the tree so what did you expect would happen. Were you trying to kill yourself?

Oh!

Maybe you were trying to kill yourself. Why would you do that? You put up with all the shit I did to you and never tried to kill yourself. Why would you do it now?

They told me you were doing riskier and riskier things. And that it’s not surprising you ended up doing this to yourself. Why would you do that stuff? I don’t understand. And I don’t expect you’re suddenly going to sit up and explain yourself. I don’t understand you. I don’t think I ever did. Sure, I thought I knew everything I needed to know about you. You were a dweeb and you’d invaded my space. What else did I need to know? But it turns out I never understood you at all.

I never planned to do all that to you. It wasn’t, like, thought out or nothing. Not at first, anyway. And even later, I never really had a long term plan. I just had an idea and did it. And then I had another idea and I did that.

How did it start?

I remember that your mother worked night shift like three times a week, so you got left alone a lot in the evenings. There was some arrangement with my mother that you could get help from her if you needed. I think Mother even went and checked in with you from time to time. I don’t think you ever needed help, but she was there so your mother was okay with leaving you like that.

Also my mother had her regular Thursday night thing that she had to go to, so I got left alone on Thursday nights. The same arrangement meant I could get help from your mother if I needed. She came over and talked to me a few times on those evenings. She was nice enough, I guess. She never really bothered me.

About once a month, your mother’s night shift would be on Thursday night so they’d both be out. I remember the first time that happened, they sat us down together and talked to us both about being responsible and looking after each other and all of the usual crap. We sat side by side on the couch and looked at our mothers and nodded like good little puppets and promised to be good and promised to look after each other. And in my head, I’m thinking that I wished you would shrivel up and blow away on the wind. I don’t know what you were thinking. You said the things we both had to say to keep our mothers happy. But you never said anything more than that. You never said what your were thinking about being left alone with just you and me.