Photography by Ashley Syers

Content warning: references to death and injury.

Benmore. Middle of nowhere. Benmore. We all have shared dreams of leaving. It’s a common country phenomenon and not unique to the hole that is Benmore; nothing is unique here. Not the people, places, or ideas. Every teen has dreams of leaving their small—town provincial life for something bigger or better, but actually very few do. Over time, they realise their far-reaching ambitions are exactly that, far. As far and as beautiful as the sight of a shooting star. You stop, make a wish, and forget that as that star passes you by, it is slowly engulfed in its own flames until it’s nothing. No longer beautiful. No longer seen.

Hopeful eyes wishing for overseas living become dull when those wishes devolve into smaller, more realistic choices, and big city living is crushed under the weight of “complications”. Years of dreaming slowly whittle down to staying at mum’s place in order to set up a financially secure future that you believe might finally fulfil you. It’s even worse for those born without dreams, or dreadfully aware of their lack of a “productive and worthwhile” future. A mundane existence where they can’t even settle for “staying at mum's place” because it isn’t settling if they weren’t meant for or expecting more. It’s only living a carefully predetermined fate.

You can see it in the eyes of every tax-paying citizen that passes you by. The resentment they hold, a thick miasma that follows them every which way they wander. The way they project their own insecurities onto you. You could almost feel the thick black tar scorching your throat, filling up each crevice of your lungs as you gasp for air: helpless and drowning. It’s hard to imagine people living like that. Constantly enveloped in their own self-loathing and resentment. Especially teachers. They’re always so resentful of the life they've chosen for themselves. I think teachers are just people who weren’t successful enough in life to reach their dreams, so they watch others do it for them instead. They can’t help but be resentful.

There’s a clear divide in every class. When the hierarchy presents itself, you see the kids who cling to their dreams, and the ones who don’t have any. Sarah was naive. She saw her dreams as her only escape. I sat behind her each lesson. I never understood her desire. There was this powerful longing behind every word she studied. Her eyes would follow the teacher, hunting for the moment she would learn something that would finally allow her to escape. Always craving escape. The more curious I became, the less I understood. Why would she ever befriend such an endemistic creature as myself? Bound for nowhere. I was of no benefit to her. No benefit to anyone.

I was only 8, yet, being considered the man of the house, every Sunday I would collect the groceries. Each step came with a clink and clatter of the coins that were contained in my ripped cargo shorts. I walked my usual route, and I happened to spot a dog in the corner of my eye. The beast had gotten its collar stuck in a spear-top fence. It was clearly hurt, and it kept whining and whimpering. The obvious thing to do was help the poor brute, but the moment I unhooked the dog, it lunged forward. Its wide jaw seeping saliva. Each web of slobber was backed with a clear intent to hurt me. Peter took form before me; his divine figure seemed to contrast my pitiful state of affliction. As dramatic as I make it out to be, in my eyes, he had sacrificed himself for me. I was indebted to him. From then on, we were stuck together, whether it be due to a feeling of obligation or genuine love for each other. Although it was never the latter.

Our relationship, forged in obligation, continued onward through high school, where Peter had blossomed. He was the popular kid, but not some kind of bully people were forced to like. People genuinely enjoyed his company, and I was just his ragtag disciple. No one really knew me, and I could accept that as long as it was just Peter and me, but that was only because I had never felt the joy of true appreciation. Not until I met Sarah.

I was introduced to Sarah through Peter. She moved to Benmore because her grandma lived here and her parents had to move overseas for work. Peter lived across the road and had been tasked with the job of showing her around school. On our first day of our final year of high school, Peter ran up to me. I’d never seen him so dishevelled. He’d lost Sarah. Something about her going to the bathroom and not coming back out. So, as his lackey, it was my job to find her.

There were these massive bins behind the school that stank of rotten meat and spoilt milk. I used to sneak a cig behind them ’cause I knew no one would come around. Not wanting to be chewed out by Peter’s mum, I had exhausted myself trying to find her. I really needed a drag. On Sarah’s first day, I found her crouched down, wanting to disappear. The moment she looked up, her face read as more pissed that I'd found her than shocked. Tears were staining her face, and I knew how it felt to be alone.

So, I offered her a cig. I didn’t think she’d accept it or anything, but I wanted to offer her an olive branch. To tell her, in my own way, she was safe, and I wasn’t gonna out her to Peter. To my surprise, she said yes, so we smoked behind the rotting bins and shared windows into our lives. She made me swear to never tell anyone, and I never did. It felt nice to have someone have faith in me for the first time. After that, she’d greet me in the hallways every day and turn back in her chair to talk to me between classes.

She understood me so naturally and, because of that, I’ll never understand why she chose to stay. She was so hellbent on her future, and I was just some bloke she’d shared a cig with. We both knew I was a stain on her resume. Sarah genuinely enjoyed my company, and in doing so, she risked her perfectly collected brilliance. I saw our first moments in each other's company as a special moment, meant to pass and be looked back on fondly. Not built upon. She was a shooting star. Always moving, collecting the eyes of those she passed by. People fell in love with her as though it were second nature. I loved her. But what does a shooting star do except burn?

We'd go drinking in the cornfields. Everyone drank, including whoever was driving. We even did car surfing. One person would get on top of the car and hold on for dear life while someone else drove down the dirt road, trying to fishtail them off. What else was there to do in such a mind-numbingly dull and uneventful town? Our antics were the embodiment of death over dissatisfaction, and Benmore was dissatisfaction.

Everything had led to the party. We got our ATARs the week beforehand. Peter and I didn’t expect much and, in return, didn't receive much. We knew we were bound to be stuck to Benmore. We’d accepted it a long time ago, but we didn’t anticipate the fear that came with it. To us, this was our last chance to really live. Live like there was no tomorrow, and for us, there wasn’t a tomorrow, because the future we foretold was of no value to anyone around us. We were as good as dead. So, might as well live to the fullest? At least one last night.

Some kids' parents were out of town, and he decided to host the party in his barn by the cornfields. We’d drink and drive, like always, but this time was different because there was no next Monday, no future consequence. Even our golden child Sarah joined. We drank more than usual, and as dumb as it was, I had gotten a hold of this old paddock basher. What else was there to do but car surf? Except that, instead of Peter, Sarah got on top. The wheels dug into the dirt road, and you could see the trail it left behind. I wanted Sarah to live as I did. To see my life the way I did that night.

The problem was, I was so unbelievably drunk I didn't even hear Sarah’s fall. Such a frail girl, and yet I couldn’t hear the way her skull hit the ground and how it made such a deep and unsettling snap. The way her head didn’t quite sit right on her neck, or how you could no longer hear her breath. I kept driving. I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts over the music, let alone Sarah. Why did everyone assume she was just another drunk, dumb blonde passed out on the ground?

The doctors did everything they could to help her. Her chance of survival was low, and her chance of ever living a normal life was lower. At best, she’d survive, but without the use of her body from the neck down. Confined to an outlet. The only thing keeping her here: selfish greed. She was a shooting star. I could never bring myself to find out what happened to her. I used to wish that she’d stay in Benmore. Stay with me. Sometimes, I blame myself for being so selfish. I wished upon a shooting star, and my greed ruined her life.