Catharsis

Entry I: Mom        
January 25, 2006

Sunrise, cinnamon.

Breakfast, baby blue. 

Morning, mom. 

Today marks three years without you here; without the smell of your godsent apple tarts painting the cool morning air with a gentle, cinnamon-brown hue, or the scratchy sensation I felt on my lips when you wiped crisp, golden crumbs off my face with the rough corner of that ancient, (originally navy) baby blue apron that you refused to dispose of no matter how much dad whined about it. With you, it only took a kiss on the cheek to change his mind, and two to make his dimples tremble. But his sweet grins are empty now, and his green eyes remain hollow. Half of his soul must have departed with you, mom–and the other half, perhaps, is still clinging onto your originally navy blue apron that he now thanks the heavens you didn't throw away. He wears it every morning when he tries to bake your apple tarts. It barely shields him from the great flour explosions or the mixer malfunctions, but I guess he finds solace in holding close the only fragments of you that he has left. I, on the other hand, have been living a lie. While dad has been embracing the remnants of your joyful spirit, I’ve been trying to run away from my own two feet. I can’t let go, mom. Sunrises still smell like cinnamon, breakfasts still look baby blue, and mornings still feel like you. 

Entry II: Loose Thread      

January 27, 2006

Math, lavender.

Lunch, thornbush.

School, TORNADO!

They call it “Synesthesia”: the ability to experience sensory crossovers. It’s a gift and a curse that leaves me lost in my own world–a kaleidoscope of colors, tastes, smells, feelings, and sounds–that either puts me up on cloud 9 or traps me in an overwhelming mishmash of sensations. The morning birds’ melodies wrap a silk sheet around me as I walk to school. They fill the warm-orange air with the almost tangible scent of grandma’s freshly baked cookies. Unfortunately, however, everything can come crashing down in a snap. The moment I step through those creaky metal doors I hear Michelle and Alex quarreling about whether math is red or blue (when it is, in fact, lavender). At lunchtime, I feel a sea of eyes glued directly onto me, followed by the blades of a thornbush cutting into my bare skin. 

I don’t blame them though. Who wouldn’t stare at a weirdo who hides in her cramped locker because her damn brain makes her see a tornado rushing through the corridors? They can’t blame me for being different, but I can’t blame them for treating me differently either. As exciting as it may be, I’d prefer to see life through monochrome lenses: when the world presents itself to you as a salad bowl of everything scattered everywhere and all at once, your sanity gets mixed into it too. I need to make it stop. 

Entry III: Catharsis

January 29, 2006

Tired. 

Empty. 

Cursed. 

In an attempt to end my suffering, I tried to figure out where it started; how did this curse even find me? Well, I traced it all back to the day you left. Mom, I remember now. How could I ever forget? My troubles were born on that day; the day you were murdered in cold blood, the day the strings on your originally navy apron were dyed maroon. So now, the heavens have punished me to make up for his mortal sin, and for the rest of my life will I seek the catharsis I can never have. 

Screams, dimples.

Switchblade, green eyes.

Crimson red, 

Dad..?

But no, I can’t. I won’t give up on you this easily. I’ll find the answers, mom. It’s not over,  I promise. 

Entry IV: Invisible Maze

February 21, 2006

A maze of fury and fear. A flame ignites inside me with every minute that passes, but is constantly extinguished by the utter disbelief of what he had done. My dad, the man who loved her with everything he had, turned out to be the very reason she faced death’s platinum scythe. How dare he do this to her–to me. So now, I’m living with grandma–arguably the person who loves me most–who assured me that everything would fall back into place, that I’d get my answers, and that she would do everything in her power to help me through anything–anything at all. He knows that I know: the man who dropped me off at school today has gone into hiding. But I will find him, and I will make sure he pays. 

Baby blue: find the crosswalk. Cinnamon: walk up pine street. Apples: make a right turn at north avenue. Sunrise: take the train to Chinatown. Breakfast: order a cab to Melrose boulevard. Mom, guide me through this maze. 

I’m here. Cracked gray walls, rusty metal bars, keys dangling off navy-blue pants, then, the click of my revolver. 

I found you, dad. 

Entry V: The Sinner

February 25, 2006

No, no, no, this can’t be right. I couldn’t have, right? No, I couldn’t have killed my own dad! Yes, I was going to make him pay, but I wasn’t going to kill him! It’s okay, you’ll be okay. Grandma should be done packing up soon. We’re leaving the country and everything will be alright. Sunrise, cinnamon, baby blue–Mom is here; she’s here, everything will be okay. I’m a mess…wait, no, I’m not! I did the right thing. That damn murderer deserved it. He did, didn’t he? God, where’s grandma? We have to leave now. Now, now, now, now. 

Baby blue pills scattered on the cinnamon-brown floor. Beside her cold cadaver, a sinister red box; red ribbon untied. On her left hand, a pale-white bottle labeled “cyanide” in pretty cursive letters, and on her right, three crumpled-up, dirty-yellow pages lined with broken edges. They were ripped out of a book. They came from this diary. 

The Ugly Truth: Lost Pages 

January 28, 2006

Make it stop? Why make it stop if you deserve it? Oh, and how do you like grandma’s cookies? Your favorite, aren’t they, Aza? Well, tell me how you like them after hearing this: grandma always longed for you, you precious child. She was the happiest when you were born. But you know, she wasn’t always like that. The selfish old hag wanted something exciting to live for, so upon finding out that her daughter was infertile, she threatened to take her own life. You heard that right, Aza! Your mom had you to keep poor grandma alive!

February 17, 2006

Aww, like mother like daughter indeed! Look at you, Aza, refusing to give up on mommy just the way she refused to give up on grandma. Unfortunately for you, yours is long gone–but for your mom back then, she saw a slim chance of keeping grandma going. So, she made a pact–an immoral sacrifice that gave her you (and of course, gave grandma her life back). All that sacrifice just for her to die. Poor mom, hm? Maybe we should avenge her! Come on, Aza. We’ve got a mouse to catch!

February 23, 2006

Oh, you did it! You actually did it! The poor man was a prisoner already, you sick girl. But hey, it’s a double kill for Aza! Oops, did I just say that? Don’t worry dear, it’s destiny! “To 

bring life to a child who will end up taking your own”, that was the deal your mom made with him, Aza! When you first developed your ability, you lost control and murdered her in cold blood. Before you could wake up from that episode, your dad grabbed the switchblade and took the blame. He didn’t want you to feel miserable, Aza! No fun, huh? Wait, do you hear that? Grandma’s choking! Can you believe it? The irony! 

Irony, irony, irony!

Entry VI: Him 

February 29, 0000

Mom, Him.

Dad, Him.

Grandma, Him.

Do you ever wonder where you got your name? Whether it was completely random, or somehow…planned? Just like the heart in your chest, your name is something that you own: something you’ll carry with you for the rest of your sad life. Maybe–just maybe–if you dig deep enough into every single letter of your name, you might just find out that it has meaning. Yes, meaning; just like mine. 

Azalea, Azalea, Azalea, Azalea. 

Azalea the loose thread; Azalea the sinner; Azalea the murderer. Tell me, does my name scare you? I am Azalea, the daughter: She who shares a pair of shackles with divine karma himself; she who was born of his twisted stratagem, and chained by the ankle to an eternity of misery. And now I see it; he lurks through the pages of this very journal, following behind me with every step I take. No, perhaps the opposite: I’ve been following him. 

25, 27, 28, 29…17, 21, 23, 25

Go on, say his name. 

He’s within the pages, in bold.