I guess everything spun out of control when I met Heather—the Girl of my Dreams—an enchanting little fairy that perched on my shoulder, her gumdrop-sized fingers caressing me, terrifying me, the flames in those ocean orbs a whirlpool of rage, lust and haunted ghost.
We were underwater, arms outspread like angel wings, my body pressed against her superior one as we kissed and explored each other’s tongues, flavours, secrets...1
And then, like a captured butterfly, she just slipped through my fingers and into the moist, impending darkness below, leaving me nothing to cherish but the torn pages of her neglected diary. 2
Dear Jenny...I love you, it said. 3
The diary was small, cherry-red and covered in bubble stickers of washed-up boy bands and pink skateboards and even superheroes I had worshipped as a child. 4
Blowing a layer of dust from its smooth white pages, I flipped through Heather’s memories, appalled by how prissy some of them were, how repulsively cliché. But, as I continued to probe her mind, the sugar-coated words seeped into bloodstains. Mascara replaced gel-pens and the ohmygods became whatthefucks. 5
Dear Jenny,
I don’t know how to feel anymore because you took that from me. You always take everything without my permission and I hate it. I hate how you borrow my pens at school; write shit in the corners of my notebooks but never SAY how much you love me. It’s all just doodles and poetry and shit nobody ever understands. I’m just tired of smoothing out the creases and killing myself to make people happy. Life’s just one big picnic for you, isn’t it? Just a bunch of watermelon wedges and sunshine and all those stupid little things that make it worthwhile. You’re not borrowing anything of mine tomorrow, Jenny. I’m still waiting for you to give back my heart.
6
Heather xoxo
Eyes clamped shut; I uncapped my lipstick and messily underlined “It’s all just doodles and poetry” in hot pink, the mascara now smudged all over my fingertips. Then, fighting tears, I circled “sunshine” and then “happy” for no reason at all (maybe it was because happiness seemed outrageously fake?).7
The diary felt smaller in my hands, and I imagined it shrinking until it fit the pad of my thumb like an M&M.8
Dear Jenny,
9
I’m walking home alone today. Please don’t follow me.10
Every page, every teardrop breathed my name...11
“Obsession”, I said, and my own voice sounded weird, as if something was had crawled into my throat and decided to control me. All of a sudden I could picture this gigantic earwig scraping its legs against the walls of my trachea, its antenna all tangled up in my vocal chords.12
The pages, sad as crushed roses, beckoned me to lose myself in Heather’s violent, desperate world...her brain like a girl on the streets who constantly fed quarters into the pay phone even though nobody ever answered. 13
Dead, empty, thudding memories was all they were. A dial tone...dead poetry no matter how beautiful {because nobody ever read it. Just cruel laughter and name-calling and kids repeating the words in goofy voices before they crinkled it up and threw it in the trash can by Mrs. Wimple’s desk. You belong there, stated Callie. That’s when Heather got mad and pounced on Callie, beating her face in until Mrs. Wimple had to crack her with a meter stick to make her stop}. 14
Oh sure, the writing comforted Heather for a while, but then reality would crash down over her head like a piano and she couldn’t fight back. Even Heather wasn’t that tough...15
I threw the diary under my bed. 16
Emotions dragged themselves out from under the bed like smashed, half-dead birds, their beaks digging into the carpet as they hoisted themselves forward with the useless tendons of broken wings.17
There, gleaming dully between my sneakered feet was a razor. It must have fallen out of the diary, I thought, and bent down to pick it up.
18
Dear Jenny,
19
The leaves are falling off the trees, aren’t they pretty? I love crunching through them. I like how they chase me down the street when it’s windy, like little ghosts, or when the neighbours rake them into big monster piles that you can take turns jumping in for hours. Isn’t that a nice thought...to land in a pile of soft golden leaves?20
The emotions were upon me now, their tiny clawed feet sinking into my skin, wings flapping uselessly in my ears until they became loud as thunderclaps.21
Isn’t that a nice thought...to land in a pile of broken glass?22
I grinded my heel into them, stomped on each bird-creature until they were nothing but puddles of sticky, gore-matted feathers. The diary seemed to pulsate under the bed like a fat, ominous tumour. 23
“Jenny?”24
It was momma. She stood in the doorway with a bouquet of snow-white roses clutched like an infant to her breast, dark hair combed back, lips painted siren red.25
“Another date, mom?” I asked.26
“He’s a real sweetie”, momma said, offering me a feeble smile as if to convince herself. “See these gorgeous roses? He gave them to me, and it’s only our first date!”27
“Yeah, they’re nice”, I said. “You look nice.” Her smile grew wider. 28
“He got you a little something too.” Momma gushed.29
“He did?” Probably a vibrator, that’s what the last boyfriend got me.30
“Well, I told him who your favourite singer was, and...”31
She pulled out a lurid purple CD from the pocket of her denim skirt and held it out to me. “It’s Wicked Rose”, she stated, her lips framing small, nicotine-stained teeth. 32
Wicked Rose was this amazingly beautiful woman named Sade with the blackest, most fantastic hair and this voice that could rock a lion to sleep. She was like a more talented Evanescence, minus the pounds of black eyeliner, and her music videos almost always had snow in them.33
“Wow, thanks mom!” I touched the plastic-encased front, Sade’s cat-like eyes gazing up at me, her angelic white arms wrapped around the head of a black wolf that flaunted a jewel-encrusted collar. The wolf’s eyes were yellow and possessed- looking.34
It was the first CD Heather and I had listened to, and the last before she killed herself.35
Dear Jenny,36
This is the last time you will hear from me again, but I’ve packed up all my doodlebooks, pencils, and knick-knacks for the Art School that dad’s been whining for me to go to since birth. This place is like a fucking palace, man! I can’t help but feel pretty with all these shiny marble floors and high windows. Even the KIDS are shiny, as if someone waxed them or whatever. I heard that the bathrooms are so huge that you can totally get lost if you’re not careful. 37
Mrs. Wimple gave me a brochure and said good luck, I’ll miss you. I’ve always liked her ‘cause she’s not fake like the other teachers, you know? She said I have “potential” and that my writing can change the world. I’m not spending the rest of my life as a blob with a gift like mom before she kicked off. I don’t know if God exists, but if he does, then I think he put us here for a purpose...to see how long we can last before checking ourselves out, as if life’s a cheap motel or whatever. I’ve found my purpose, Jenny. I’m not checking out anytime soon.38
“Well, you listen to your music and I’ll be downstairs.” Momma set the roses down on my dresser, careful not to knock over the delicately-aligned perfume bottles. “Can you put these in a vase with water for me, sweetie?”39
“Yes.” It took all my strength to get the words out.40
“There’s a casserole in the oven, and my cell number’s on the fridge in case of emergency. I’ll see you in a few.”41
“Enjoy yourself”, I said, blowing a kiss just as she turned around. Alone in my room, the silence so intense it was practically mumuring in my ears, I decided to wait at the top of the staircase for momma to leave.
One hand on the cool, walnut banister, I listened to the jingle of car keys, her high-pitched laughter, a click-clack of high heels and then that satisfying creak of the garage door closing her off from me. 42
Downstairs, in the comfort of my own house, I would burn Heather’s diary.
~43
Honorable mention
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