Grandpa’s gone. Not, like, in dead gone, but gone to live somewhere else. In a home. The Janet Frame Retirement Home.

He swore he’d never end up in one of those places – ‘death camps’ he calls them. But the thing is we didn’t have any choice. We’d tried to look after him, but I guess the Wests aren’t very good at looking after things – especially mad old guys.

Except Pascalle, of course. Apparently she’s the world of championing of caring – except for the ones she manages to kill. Whoops. And now Grandpa is in her hands – the poor bastard. Probably just as well he doesn’t know what day it is.

You know, I always thought he was faking it. That it was all part of some master plan that he had going on in his head and I’d get to watch as, one day, he just, like, came to life again and amazed everyone. Turns out what was going on in his head was just a load of scrambled junk. I hate being wrong. It sucks.

But you know the thing that really got to me about Grandpa leaving? The fact that when it came down to it, I couldn’t tell him he had to go. I couldn’t bring myself to be the one who told him. I couldn’t face it and I wimped out. I hate that I was too weak to go though with it and bloody Jethro had to do it. Trust him to grow some balls while I’m standing there, feeling useless – talk about salt on the wound.

Hayden asked me a question, the other day. Whether I’d ever loved anyone. What a stupid question – like he’s saying I’m incapable of love. Everyone is capable of love. I love Grandpa.

I’m sure, given time, I could love other people too. If they’re nice to me. If they don’t try and make me into something I’m not. Yeah, I can do love.

It’s late, I’m tired, I’m going to see Grandpa tomorrow. I don’t want to talk about it any more.