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And the Magic is Again
I am falling. Falling, falling into a sort of inevitable oblivion that I can do nothing to stop.
Is it depression? No.
Maybe it’s the weather.
He called today and said “We need to talk urgently?” I resisted telling him, talking my a**.
When was the last time he cared, about me, about my privacy, about the fact I'm a human being?
Tomorrow’s the wedding. The wedding of my sister to boyfriend of one month, the boyfriend being a guy whom I went out with for three years.
Jane is sitting there in her cozy little chair all curled up her pigtails making her resemble a 4 year old girl. This is deceiving because Jane is my 30 year old good-for-nothing therapist. She spends all of our session saying BS phrases. I spend this time trying to figure out whether she came up with these phrases herself or are they from some psychology book she read in college.
Today her phrase of the day is:
How do you feel about your sister going out with your ex-boyfriend?
This one isn’t canned. Apparently Jane got a brain. It rhymes.
What she doesn’t know is that he isn’t my ex-boyfriend because we never formally broke up, instead we went on a date and made out. The next day I wake up and find him in the dining room kissing my sister. End of story.
His name is Carl. Carl's a jerk. Carl with a “C” is a name that makes me think of the fat guy in that old kids show.
I’m painting my nails Knarly Kiwi, a polish I borrowed from Katrina when we used to be friends. There is always a used to be.
In English we have to write an essay. Katrina gives me a nasty look.
The prompt: If you could do anything, what would you do?
Easy. I would kill myself.
I’m now sitting in the counselor’s office waiting for Mr.Cerca to finish ranting at yet another pothead.
It seems like a year before he waves me in and gives me the signature look that I always see him give to troublemakers. It never was directed at me. Until now.
What am I? I am a troublemaker.
They took me to a facility where they take all mentals.
My room is grey, my favorite color. Everything is padded with foam. Guess they think I could even kill myself with a chair.
I don’t even know who “they” is.
I’m given a marker. Blue, it’s your favorite color, they say.
It’s not. Grey is. Grey is the color of a sad face. The color of pretty eyes. The color of everyone’s favorite sweatshirt.
I draw on the walls, pictures of me as I used to be, arrows pointing with words so anyone who walks in here will know what they depict.
That’s Helena Smiths. That’s the girl who would never shut up. That’s the girl with the bright red hair and the thousand freckles. That’s the girl who was an amazing artist. That’s the girl who was going to be the next Picasso. That’s the girl who everyone liked. That’s the girl who now doesn’t have a name.
I hate myself. Those pictures are a girl with no soul. She has no eyes and she's me.
I begin to write. How I feel, how I used to feel before I stopped feeling. How the food tastes bad. How the showers are always cold. How my sister is the most horrible two-faced seductress in the world. How Carl is the worst boyfriend in the world.
All the tears that wouldn’t fall become words on the foam of my room. All my exploding guts become illegible writing. I begin to write my soul.
They find me in a crumpled heap with a used blue marker in my hand. Blue is now my favorite color.
Blue is the color of the sky and the sea. The color of my eyes, of sadness.The color I painted my sister’s wedding dress when she wasn’t looking. The color of the soul.
Blue is my name.
The pew is stiff and the high heels that support my shaking legs do nothing to help. I’m shaking with anger. With rage. With hatred.
When I was little I loved Leah. I’m not sure she loved me. I would help her with art class. Paint her room. Do her laundry.
Then she was a sophomore and I entered middle school. And that was that.
They keep kissing and life isn't fair.
No one notices me.
I hope they die on their plane to Greece.
I want to leave. They won’t give me any more markers. I’ve destroyed enough public property. I asked them then why did they give me a marker.
They didn’t have an answer.
No one does.
I don’t love anyone. I don’t even love myself.
I didn’t believe in God like most kids. I believed in Magic. The soul was magic. That I could move my fingers was magic. That I was alive was magic.
But I'm no longer alive. And the Magic is gone.
It's strange to see greens and yellows and reds. I used to only see in grey and blue.
The world is still the same. The world still doesn’t want me. And I still don’t want myself.
Her room is drab, uncomfortable, and boring like Jane. I run out of the room and don't stop running till I collapse in the swing in the park across the street.
Snow collects in my hair. The last beautiful thing. Snow will never blame you. Betray you. Hate you. Snow loves you; melts onto you. Snow whispers in your ear about the coming frost. Snow is your best friend.
Snow is me.
I’m frozen. A smile on my face. My eyes flutter closed. The sky is blue. The snow is white.
And I am Blue and Snow.
And I begin to thaw.
And the Magic is again.