Jodie's Chariot
Hi, it's me, Jodie. Well, that's
how I start my tweets (Rachel showed me how) so that's how I'll start the book.
Almost thirty words already. Don't get it right, get it written, that's what
Karen said and I always do what teacher tells me. Quite often, anyway. See,
fifty words now.
Let's get the jargon out of the way first,
shall we? Then you can decide if it's worth your while to read on. OK? Right.
I'm 28 years old, IC3, T10-L1, 1.45m tall, 62kg. heavy. M.Sc., demographic
class C2, favourite vehicle is my custom built 6kg racing chair, and I play rugby to
relax. Let's move on.
One hundred and nine words, and you already
know a fair bit about me. I reckon I can finish this book in under a thousand
words. Fifteen hundred tops. That photo of me on the front cover? Yes, a bit
out of date. I don't like any that's been taken of me since then. Twenty-one
years ago and I loved life. Didn't know that, of course, I just got on with it.
School was good; I loved hearing stories and poems. I liked games and swimming
- we all learned to swim. Then it all went wrong: mum died. She'd been too busy
to go to the doctor about the pains in her chest. Then she dropped dead. Just
collapsed and died. Gone. I was sitting at the kitchen table and she was
fetching my dinner from the microwave. She sort of gasped, looked at me, tried
to speak. I sat there, thought it was some kind of joke for a moment. I grabbed
the phone and called 999. I tried to turn her over into the recovery position -
we'd learned about that in school - tried the kiss of life and the paramedics
had to drag me off her. I ran. That was all I could do. Just ran and ran and
ran. The police found me - that was where I first heard the IC3 bit.
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