Tuesday January 31, 2012 - 7:40 AM

Couldn’t sleep again last night.

Still haven’t been able to sleep properly.

Keep having these erotic dreams about fooling around in the truck with Sarah that always end with some horrifying image of Sarah’s father dying.

I’ve been a wreck at school.

Can’t concentrate on anything -- except Sarah.

When she passes in the hall, I stand there staring at her. Like a big dumb jackass, I guess, standing in one spot, the crowds of students moving all around me, just staring at her, and, after she leaves, at the spot she was last in.

A big dumb, tired and horny jackass.

And I noticed that I've got more comments, more advice, more people concerned. I don't know. I don't want advice, but it's nice to know that at the very least there are strangers out there who seem concerned enough. At least somebody cares.

I'm so tired, I just want to sit down and fucking cry.

Sunday January 29, 2012 - 9:24 PM

I haven’t been sleeping much since that last nightmare a few days ago.

The worst part about it, of course, is the fact that it’s not just a nightmare -- it’s a nightmare in which I relived everything that occurred that night exactly as it happened. That's almost worst, I think.

Every time I close my eyes I see Sarah’s father staring at me; his hurt, painful eyes. Dammit, why couldn’t he have just been pissed off with me and taken a swing at me? Why did he have to come off like that? All “I trusted you, Peter” and shit. Man, that’s what really gets me.

I also spent a long time reading and re-reading the three comments on my last post. It’s funny that Frank should mention me being a writer. That’s what Sarah wants to be. A writer. And she’s going to be a damn fine writer, too.

But that’s her. Not me.

At least Frank gets me. Fuck, the guy lives in South Africa (I followed his comment post to his own blog -- what a fucking awesome thing this whole blogging thing is), and he gets me. I don't know how he found my online journal, but at least he fucking gets me. Yet people I know, within my own town, they just don’t get it.

There are a couple of other comments from this Michael dude and Kim chick (Yeah, they seem to be bloggers, too, and from Ontario -- man, this whole blogging thing is huge -- I never really thought about it much before). Yeah, okay, I see the advice, and I hear you. Blah, blah, blah, fresh pain, if you love something set it free. Gee, you think I haven’t heard these things from my friends?

Well, I guess I would have heard these things from my friends if I was hanging around with them. But I haven’t been. I’ve been avoiding them since Sarah dumped me. You know why? Because I don’t want to hear all that bullshit from them. And now I’m reading it here. Jesus. You just can’t escape people and their unsolicited advice. Even if they're complete strangers and you haven't a fucking clue who they are.

I did let Sarah go, dammit. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve tried to call her or approached her at all? It’s been almost a week. Fuck. What do you want? Want me to move to another town? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to just “back off” anyway? It’s not easy -- not at all easy.

If only I could fucking sleep. Just a little bit.

Thursday January 26, 2012

Can’t get to sleep again. Dammit, it took me several hours to fall asleep because I was tossing and turning, and thinking about that comment this Franny person left about me being a creep. But when I finally did fall asleep I had a damn disturbing dream. So I decided to write about it, see if that helps me sleep. It worked the other night.

I had this vivid dream. An erotic dream. About Sarah.


There we were, in my Uncle Bob’s truck, like so many times before. Sarah’s favorite album by Evanescence was playing, but neither of us was paying any attention to it. We’d just finished talking around the issue of University, neither one of us wanting to admit that after graduation it was likely possible we’d be heading to two different cities. The frustrated conversation ended the way it always had when we started talking like that. Us telling each other that we loved each other and that’s all that mattered -- we’d be together forever.

And then we completely avoided the whole issue by getting hot and heavy.

Within seconds of our lips and tongues melting together, I’d been able to get her shirt pushed up to her shoulders. As I rolled her bra down, revealing taut firm nipples, I slipped down in the seat to let my tongue swirl around them in small circles. She tasted like candy, and as she moaned beneath me, I felt myself strain uncomfortably against the denim of my jeans.

Her hands quickly found my zipper and fumbled with it while I darted back and forth, unable to settle on a single breast, but instead wanting my hands, my lips, my tongue to explore every inch of them.

By the time her hand slipped past my underwear and she took hold of my stiff cock, my lips stayed focused on a single nipple, sucking it in, flicking it with my tongue, swirling around and around My hands began working her shorts down, my finger poking, exploring the hot moist warmth of her sex.

It was always a struggle as to who would go down on the other one first, and this time Sarah moved faster than me.

Knowing she’d won, I laid my head back against the seat, letting her take me in her mouth and just relishing in the moment, but still able to reach and rub one breast with my right hand, the nipple stiff against my palm and still damp with my saliva.

She worked my pants midway down my legs as she bobbed her head up and down. She moaned in pleasure, and the sound of her muffled voice, stuffed full of my hard-on brought a heightened sense of arousal. Every so often she’d stop, look up at me with a devilish glint in her eyes, flap my cock against her cheek and let out a girlish giggle.

Then she’d alternate between pumping her fist around my aching shaft and taking me full in her mouth, her head bobbing madly, impossibly fast, up and down, up and down.

“I’m going to cum,” I gasped and closed my eyes as she switched again from pumping to sucking . . .

A sudden noise, a throat clearing, startled me. When I opened my eyes a moment later, there stood Sarah’s father, silently staring at us through the passenger window.

Unable to stop myself, I shot a load of cum deep into her throat as her father looked on.

I woke with a start at that point.

I can’t believe I re-lived, through that dream, that horrible night.

Well, it’d been a wonderful night until Sarah’s dad showed up.
Man he’d been pissed.

But he didn’t say anything, he just stared at us as Sarah and I scrambled to get our clothes back on properly. When Sarah had her clothes back on, he pulled her out of the truck.

I sat there, stunned. I didn’t know what to do. So I followed them to his car which was waiting just a few parking spots away. I can’t believe we hadn’t seen him pull up -- well, I can believe it -- we’d been too deep into the moment, hadn’t noticed anything around us.

After putting Sarah into the car the way you see cops put suspects into the back of a cruiser, he whirled around and faced me. But instead of yelling at me, accusing me of having my way sexually with his little baby, his little angel, or punching me, kicking me, spitting on me, all things that I’m sure he must have wanted to do, he just stared me down and the words he spoke hurt, struck me harder than any physical or verbal assault could have at the moment.

“I trusted you, Peter” he said. “I trusted you with her.”

The words struck me deep. I wanted to tell him how much I loved Sarah, that she was the only girl for me, that we would be together forever, that I wanted to marry her -- that there was nothing wrong with what we’d done because we were everything to each other.

But I just stood there, wishing he’d go away, that he’d just die, drop dead on the spot -- whatever it took to relieve the guilt and shock that he’d just inflicted.

Wishing that he’d die.

And now, he’s going to die.

I can’t help but think that it’s my fault.

But who the hell would believe me?

Maybe Sarah would -- maybe that’s why she’s avoiding me. But I never got a chance to speak with her since that night. The next time she spoke to me, it was to tell me about the results of her doctor’s appointment -- the death sentence he’d been handed.

Wednesday January 25, 2012

Okay, so I can't believe I never noticed this before, but apparently there are people who have been reading my journal entries, and even leaving comments.

I guess I never paid attention to the comment feature (I'm kind of new to the whole blogging thing, so wasn't really sure what I was doing -- I just picked a template, loaded an image, filled out a few personal details and got started. I never realized how big this whole blogging community is, or even that there are other people out there doing this very thing).

It's kind of freaky, actually, knowing that there are people out there reading my words and deepest thoughts.

And this Frank guy who has made several comments seems to really get me and what I'm going through. Love does hurt. Funny, in his comment to my last post, he mentioned a quote from this old porn movie that he saw once. Have I mentioned that my Uncle Bob is a huge movie buff? I wonder if that extends to porn films. I mean, we've never talked about that genre, but I'm sure there must be classic porn films that are studied and discussed, all while these academic types sit there stroking their goatees (rather than stroking other parts of themselves -- HA HA)

But this Franny person, the one who commented that I should back off Sarah, that I'm being a creep, well she just doesn't get it -- she doesn't get what true love is. She has no concept of the passion and love that Sarah and I felt for each other before she stopped talking to me. No fucking clue. How the hell can people go online and judge other people like that without knowing it? Sarah and I are soulmates, destined to be together. She just can't see that right now.

Comments like that just piss me off.

Tuesday January 24, 2012 - (2)

I don’t know if it’s the lack of sleep from last night -- I finally fell asleep shortly after 4:00 AM and had to get up maybe only 3 hours later (I need to be up early to catch the bus to Sudbury, which is where my high school is. It takes about an hour to get there) -- but I’ve been a real wreck today. Made a huge ass of myself, too.

I waited for Sarah in front of her locker. Skipped a bunch of classes too. Just planted myself there and waited for her. For hours. I think she’d seen me a few times and purposely avoided heading down the hallway. But it was in the early afternoon, when the hallway was busy and I guess she couldn’t see me through the crowd when she approached.

She was startled, I think, to see that I was still standing there.

She stopped, just a foot in front of me and stared.

Then she turned, without saying anything, and started walking away.
“Sarah!” I called out after her, my voice breaking, tears flowing freely down my face. “Please, don’t ignore me any longer! Please talk to me! Sarah!”

She just walked away and I sank down on my knees, my face in my hands and cried.

I didn’t look up again until the hallways were cleared. I just couldn’t face all the people who’d seen me break down like that.

Damn Sarah. Why does it hurt to love her so much?

Tuesday January 24, 2012

I can’t fucking sleep now.

I’ve been tossing and turning for several hours -- been thinking about my dad getting hit by that car ever since reliving it a few hours ago. I never realized how guilty I felt about the whole thing. I mean, just moments before he was killed, I’d been wishing that he’d go away, die.

And I suddenly had this memory of standing over his dead body and laughing a bit. Laughing, because when I looked at his dead body I was thinking that this couldn’t be my father. He didn’t have a pipe sticking out of his breast pocket and I couldn’t smell that musky pipe scent on him at all.

So I just stood there laughing. And that’s how they found me -- standing over my father’s dead body and laughing.

I never realized that I must have repressed the whole thing. I only remembered it after regurgitating the memory of my father getting hit by that car.

Yes. “Repressed” -- It’s a fun word -- the guidance counselor at school has used it a few times when I’ve been speaking with him. I’ve been visiting him regularly lately -- gee, I think I’ve been repressing those visits, although I do find them helpful. We don’t often talk about Sarah or the whole “death” thing, he often helps me just by listening to me talk about my day. Occasionally, the conversation will drift towards Sarah or the many different people in my life who have died. But mostly it’s distracting conversation.

I’d never admit this to him, but it’s actually helpful.

I wish that I could talk to him about this feeling of guilt, this repressed feeling that I just uncovered.

But instead I’m stuck with the coping technique he’d suggested -- write about it in my journal.

So much happened so quickly after my father died. I was moved away from most of my friends in Sudbury, sent to live with my Uncle Bob and Aunt Shelley in the small town of Levack. They’ve been raising me ever since -- they’re really good parents, actually. Maybe they’ve always been extra nice to me because they couldn’t have kids of their own and they felt sorry for what had happened to me. But in any case, it’s been good being their son.

Uncle Bob taught me how to fish, how to hunt -- we often went out in his boat, on camping trips. And Aunt Shelly has always been good to me. Loving and supportive, but not at all imposing or restrictive. She’s been protective, but also gave me my space when I needed it, let me have my freedom.

Of course, I’d never admit to them how good it’s been. It’s been years since we’ve been able to talk to each other, years since Uncle Bob and I have gone on a hunting or fishing trip together.

I miss that closeness, but I find that they annoy me and get on my nerves so easily these days.

Monday January 23, 2012

Damn, I hate the fact that the guidance counselor was right, but I felt even better after getting the first death, my mother’s, off of my chest.

Sarah returned to school today, and, while I did keep an eye on her whenever possible, surreptitiously glancing at her in class when she didn’t realize I was looking at her -- I have managed to not stalk her or approach her. And it’s been two days since I called her. Sure, last night, before going to bed, I picked up the phone and started dialing her number. But I put the phone down before I finished.

Who knows? If I keep up this journal type writing, maybe I’ll get completely over Sarah.

I guess I should share the second death in this lifelong chain, then.

My father

He died when I was about seven years old.

I can barely remember the man, but I do have these vague memories that play back to me like an old movie reel in my mind. One of my favorites is this memory from a time in which I think I might have been four or five years old. I’m standing, leaning back against the refrigerator, and my father is standing in the kitchen, talking to me but looking out the window at something outside. And he’s reflecting on something, like he’s sharing a deeply personal memory or experience with me. I can’t remember what he’s telling me, but I remember being very interested, enraptured by his words. All that comes back is this memory of him talking to me and the musky ripe scent of his pipe.

To this day, I cannot smell a pipe without thinking about my father and about that early kitchen memory -- and, though most of what I know about him is through stories told to me by relatives, I always have this image of him, standing near the window, talking to me and looking off into the distance, as the main picture in my head of him. And just like I have few memories of my father, I don’t have many memories from when I was seven. But I remember this.

All too clearly.

We were fighting. I was playing cops and robbers with a couple of friends, and my father wanted me to come in -- it was time for my bath and I needed to get ready for bed. It was early summer and I remember being so angry that I had to go in when there was so much light outside. I thought I should only have to go in when the sun was down. It just wasn’t fair.

I ignored my father, even though he was standing at the top of the steps and I was in the driveway. I remember wishing that he’d just shut up, wishing that he would go away, die, whatever, just leave me the hell alone.

When he came down the steps, I ran across the street, toy gun in hand, looking toward my buddies who had already crossed the street and were pretending to shoot at each other over and around a hedge. I wanted to be over there with them, back in the pretend world of cops and robbers, engaging in the mystery, the fun, not running from my dad.

He followed me across the street.

I didn’t even see the car -- but I heard it.

My dad must not have seen it either.

The impact killed him instantly.

Saturday January 21, 2012 - (2)

I was thinking about how I felt after writing about Hamlet and my thoughts about his little monologue and how it made me feel. It actually did help, and I think I need to get back on track like that again.

I think I need to express a bit of my pain. But not just today’s pain, the pain that I’ve lived with my entire life.

I think in order to understand this, to come to terms with what’s happened, I need to go right back to the beginning.

Right to the first person that was taken away from me.

To the beginning of this chain of death and misery.

My mother died during my delivery. As the story goes, apparently there were some complications. The umbilical chord had wrapped itself around my neck and nobody had noticed. My mother was told that her baby had died in the womb, but that she had to give birth to me anyway.

She was screaming hysterically -- it took everything that my father had just to calm her down, he’d said. The doctors then talked her through delivering her stillborn baby. Although she did what they told her, she kept screaming through the whole process.

At one point, in the middle of the final push, she let out a gut wrenching scream, what happened to be her last mortal contribution to this world, and my head finally cleared her cervix in a huge rush of blood. Pushed down on the full flow of blood, the rest of my body came out so fast that the doctor and nurse who’d been ready to receive me didn’t catch me. I landed on the floor with a wet slurpy thud and the strangest thing happened next.

I started crying.

The labor room staff were mystified.

Somehow, I’d come back from the dead just as my mother had breathed her last breath.

I’m told that my father didn’t even know, even as the staff scrambled to pick me up, cut the umbilical chord, clean my eyes, ears and mouth of the amniotic fluid. Despite the loud and unwavering crying I was making, he didn’t even know.

He just held my mother and cried -- his own crying much louder than my own.

Welcome to the world, Peter.

Saturday January 21, 2012

Just when I thought I was getting over this, that the guidance counselor’s therapy was working, it all fell apart.

The elated feeling I had yesterday seems to have slipped away. Because I fell back into the old pattern again after a day. I woke up this morning with an urge to talk to Sarah. It was like this burning itch I couldn’t control.

I just wanted to talk to her. That’s all.

Just talk to her.

Like an itch that you can’t reach, I kept trying to scratch it, but it was no use.

All morning I just kept calling, leaving voice messages on her cell and land line (she has her own phone line -- have I mentioned that already?) But she never calls back.

She never calls back.

Damn, that whole therapy thing was a temporary fix -- it helped me for a very short time. But now, now I’m right back where I started. Or maybe even worse off, because for a day or so there I actually started to feel better.


Thursday January 19, 2012

Sarah’s still not talking to me.

She wasn't at school today, either.

I must have called her cell half a dozen times just today. Also, her home phone. She has her own private line -- I keep leaving messages. But she won’t answer.

The bitch.

No, I take that back. She’s not a bitch. I love her. She’s my soulmate. That’s why this hurts so fucking much, that’s why it feels like somebody ripped my heart right out of my chest and started stomping on it.

We’re studying Shakespeare in school right now - Hamlet, actually. I can’t concentrate on much, but this is something that caught my attention. It’s the scene that everyone has heard without having seen Hamlet -- the one where he’s standing there talking to himself -- it’s called a sol-something. Sounds like a solid query or something like that.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that the monologue our teacher, Miss Hamilton, explained to us in proper modern English -- I normally don’t pay all that much attention to the old bird, but this time, I couldn’t help but hang on her every word -- well, this monologue, it spoke to me.

To Be Or Not To Be.

Wow - what wild crazy shit. I mean, what made him put it into such a bizarre term? Who would have thought that that’s what Hamlet meant -- that he was considering committing suicide. I find myself reading and re-reading the quote over and over again. I think I have a lot of it memorized now, because I can recite it.

To Be or not to be. That is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.

“And by opposing, end them” -- what a wickedly cool statement.

To die - to sleep no more. And by a sleep . . . to end the thousand heartaches, the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. To die -- to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, there’s the rub.

Ay, yes, “the rub”

For in that sleep of death what dreams might come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.

I know this Shakespeare dude lived hundreds of years ago - but he knew, man. He knew exactly how I feel. I don’t know how, but he does.

Fucking strange.

Wednesday January 18, 2012

It’s over. I can’t believe it. Sarah won’t speak to me. It’s as if she blames me for her father’s death sentence.

I can’t say it’s a new feeling, though. It’s like all my life death has consumed the people close to me. First my parents, then my best friend, now Sarah’s dad.

I’ve been where Sarah is now, but she won’t let me help her -- hell, she’s not even talking to me.

Ever since her father announced to the family that he had an inoperable cancerous brain tumor so far advanced the doctors were giving him a 50-50 chance of living beyond one more month, she stopped talking to me, refused to see me and ignores my phone calls.

It’s been four weeks now. Four long, painful, horrible weeks. I think I’m going to die. I wish I was dead, actually, like so many of the people I’ve cared about.

Our school’s guidance counselor suggested that I start this blog in order to try dealing with it.

So here I am, typing, trying to come to terms with it. But I don’t want to write about how I feel -- I keep stopping and just sit here smashing my fingers down on the keyboard, smashing my fists down on the desk. I want to break something, smash something, throw my computer monitor through the fucking window.

This is bullshit.

The Online Journal Of Peter O'Mallick

Peter O'Mallick is a fictional character created by Mark Leslie.

Peter is a teenager suffering through all of the usual dilemmas facing a 17 year old male - the recent breakup of a long-time girlfriend, frustrations with living in a small Northern remote community, too much homework and too little time to just hang out with his friends.

O'Mallick, of course, is also dealing with a unique and usual hang-up.

A death curse.

It seems as if those around him, particularly those he is closest to, are dropping like flies -- and O'Mallick believes he is the cause of it all.

This journal is written from Peter O'Mallick's POV and will be blogged in real-time to coincide with the forthcoming novel I, DEATH which will be released in November 2012. The contents of this blog are from the first 1/3 of the novel)

Subscribe to this blog to follow along the first 3rd of Peter's astonishing story.

The terror begins on January 18, 2012.