Five Parts Dead Read Online Free

every bodily function.
    The rest of my memories from the crash aren’t really mine. Bits and pieces from TV and the papers; statements to police; conversations overheard through a haze of fluorescent lights and painkillers; eulogies; endless questions from shocked teachers and broken parents.
    The TV stations replayed the video of the crash-scene the day of the first funeral. It showed a tow truck pulling the wreck down from the power pole. Cwump ! It hit the ground like a dead swan. Watching it, I winced. Aaron, Phan and I were out by then. They knew about Carlo and were looking for Boris. God knows what went into Boris’s coffin.
    The police interviewed me while I was still in hospital. They knew I wasn’t the driver but I may as well have been. Five of us were in the car and the five of us were equally guilty as far as the media were concerned. One seventeen-year-old learner driver and four of his dickhead mates. Five ‘youths’ who should’ve known better. Five reckless hoons who got into a vehicle ‘borrowed’ from Aaron’s brother. Only two got out. Two to carry the can.
    Phan and I weren’t charged with anything, as we were only passengers. Talkback radio hosts called us every name under the sun. They said we were accessories to car theft and reckless driving. The attorney-general told the newspapers the law didn’t allow for such charges.
    The law might not have nailed us but public opinion did. Talk about trial by media. Our principal put out a press release sending condolences to all the bereaved families and offering counselling to all students at school. Everyone except Phan and me, clearly.
    And there at the bottom of his media release was the damage control. The tosser said he would have expected better of the boys concerned and that we had let our school and ourselves down (in that order, apparently). What’s more, all senior students would be given compulsory instruction in responsible alcohol consumption during first term next year.
    Man, that made me angry. They’re always teaching us there’s no safe level of alcohol for teenagers. Yet the teachers get liquored up at school camps, once we’re supposed to be asleep. And the Year 12 formal after-party is a legendary piss-up. No one put out a press release when the principal’s daughter got legless and threw up in her limo, did they? Hypocrites.
    At Carlo’s funeral, his mother spat at my feet. I guess she blamed me…for surviving in place of her son. I’ll never forget the service. The way she wailed ‘Fifteen! Fifteen years old!’ while the priest was speaking. The way they spoke about my best mate like he was some kind of saint. The way her family had to hold her and drag her off the casket as it was carried out of the church.
    The way no one would look me in the eye.
    Aaron’s family rang my parents and said they didn’t want me at his funeral because of the media. Bullshit. The media were always going to turn up. Aaron’s folks just didn’t want to see me.
    Phan didn’t have to make a statement to the police. He couldn’t. He’s not the same, poor bastard. It takes him ages to get a sentence out now. So much for the guy who was one of the best singers at school. I wonder how many of our classmates visit him? Probably none. Pricks. It’s not his fault the only place they found to take him is an old people’s home.
    On Facebook, Carlo, Boris and Aaron were treated like heroes. Kids left miss-you messages, poems and YouTube tributes. They bonded over bullshit eulogies, even if they had hardly known the guys. Some idiot even put up an online shrine for the Falcon.
    Nothing on Facebook for Phan. Imagine his status update: Rooted and friendless . Nothing for me, either. We were incidental. Collateral damage. Only the good die young…so what does that make us?
    During my interview, the cops warned me I had to tell the whole truth and nothing