Page 2 of I See Red

“For what it’s worth, I’d rather have a love like whatever that candle reminded you of than never have it in my future at all. Even if it wrecks me, and I cannot maintain it, to have had it and known what that is, good or bad, would be pages worth living. Worth being told. I pray I have what you had one day, and if it isn’t vanilla and leather, I don’t want it, no matter theconsequences. You may not feel it now, but you are lucky,” she blubbers out, firm in her words with conviction and certainty standing behind me.

Looking back at her, I smile, taking in a deep breath, my hand grasping for the trunk to lower it down as I give her exactly what I know she needs—the truth because she is one hundred percent right.God, was it beautiful.

“Keep reading, never stop, and you are right, but I don’t just love vanilla and leather. I love sandalwood and tobacco just as much, and unlike books, in the real world, you don’t get the luxury of having it all, and when you love that hard like the pages you read, it creates a world of chaos. So pick your favorite scent and never let the flame burn out,” I tease sarcastically, sharing a laugh together.

Opening my door, I go to get in when she blurts out again, “Hey, do me a favor. If you ever find yourself back in this neck of the woods, will you stop in and let me know if both, neither, or one snuffed out?

“I just might. Guess I better get off to turning the pages. Take care, Junie, and keep that FMC energy, fellow bookie.”

“Juniper Hadleigh, that’s my name. My mom owns the shop, so you can always find me here. If you can’t have both, I’m team Vanilla & Leather, just so you know!” she yells before running back into the store, allowing the door to close behind her.

Inhaling a deep breath, I take a moment, unsure how to feel about our conversation. Lighting a cigarette, I turn onHappy Ending by Demi Levato,catching the highway, windows down, the frigid snow air igniting my lungs, the town not even a speckle in the rearview. My next destination is my own piece of heaven on earth. Home—deep in the pines. Goodbye, Massachusetts. Welcome to Vacationland. Let’s light this fucking candle.

Dear Diary,

The biggest threat to every child in this world is the probability that they will be raised within it in emotional destitution. A child is supposed to be raised with all the makings to be a productive member of society, yet emotionally rounded and capable of life’s navigation. A school teaches them to prepare for a nine-to-five, to have the tools and abilities to conquer the workforce of their choosing, and to be a teacher of financial freedom, if you will, in whatever career field they choose. Then there are friends to teach them socialization, bonds between two humans, forgiveness and vulnerability, acceptance, and a sense of likability. We can live a thousand lives, and the one human trait that will run concurrently is wanting to be liked; it is genetically a part of human biology. Lastly, parents and familymembers to teach them compassion, self-worth, respect for elders, and most importantly, unconditional love, the most crucial instillment in every human that walks this earth. To know that no matter when you fall, if nobody steps in to catch you, they always will. The feeling of knowing that you are genuinely loved is a core necessity of human nature, no matter your choices, your faults, your failures, or shortcomings. Your parents are your first lesson and taste of humanity and compassion you will ever experience from the moment you are born. Somehow for many, the love they receive as an infant is not carried on through their life. For some, their parents only see their innocence in their physical size, and when that baby begins to grow, they somehow forget that child is still just as fragile as the day they were born. They forget that the child still yearns and is searching for all the things they needed as an infant; a security blanket, admiration, praise, acknowledgment, and most of all, the unconditional love we give to our babies so freely with nothing in return. Recklessly forsome, they find beauty in their young children that is not wanted; simply, they are only a transaction, here to serve a purpose. So, what happens when a child is raised without those things in their life? What happens to a child raised within an emotional & societal destitute? What does their future hold? Is there one at all on the end of another birthday? Or is their fate sealed by everyone around them before they discover who they even are? And if so, will they truly ever find that answer and be able to answer it honestly and, furthermore, believe it with conviction? I’m sure there’s some standard answers to all my questions in the DSM-5 and many licensed people who feel they have a valid answer to each one of my questions. But in my world, the DSM–5 and those who wielded it were the same as a lopper to the vines of Ivy that rooted in me at birth, devastation slicing every vine when it grew too far because good little girls can’t be controlled when they sprout too much on their own. Unfortunately for them and me……

I was born to fly.

My answer is simple or has become over the last twenty-nine years of life, and it is the most cutthroat answer I can give with complete conviction. Absolutely everything & nothing becomes of them—I mean us. My soul was before its time, which made me dangerous for those whom I called Mom and Dad. Strong-minded, spiritually free, empathic, intuitive, a view of life completely outside the box & by their actions, unimprinted by the devils that swarmed them, especially my mother. Their actions making my own soul a danger to myself. For when a child is born into this world embedded with a vintage soul, then starved of completely everything they desiderate for, they cannot flourish entirely, for they are cursed by the reverse Peter Pan. Born old and never experiencing what it is like to be young and free. Never playing in an imaginary world, never chasing butterflies, and catching it being the biggest struggle of your day. Never having a food fight, and your mother laughing uncontrollably, then graciously helping you clean up the mess because she cherishes momentsover the chaos they brought. Never making poor decisions, and someone walking through it with you without contempt or judgment, much less repercussions.

Oh, the repercussions… in my world were inhumane, explosive, and without warrant.

Never having the stability to excel in school, discover your natural talents, or explore the inner makings of who you are destined to be. On the same hand, it never allows them to grow up; they stand frozen, overwhelmed and fighting to move accordingly in their adult world, with expectations they can’t maintain one day making their ability to connect with others even harder than it would have been if they were simply just born with an old soul. Trauma is a fickle beast; it wears many faces, and for some, it causes them to simply spend their life searching for destinations they never arrive to, feeling failure time and time again because, to them, getting out of bed and surviving the day was how they spent their weeks, their months, their years. So how does one stop surviving and start living? I donot know that we ever do, but what I do know is we will spend every day trying, for quitting is not in our vocabulary, while resilience runs through every inch of our being.

My childhood was hijacked from me, but it also never existed—at least, that’s what I have told myself for years. For to acknowledge its horror is to admit to myself it was real, and that is like pouring vinegar on English vines. The toxicity is capable of destroying the entire plant to its roots, making it secede within a week.

Even if I am dead on the inside, the breath I brandish every morning when my eyes open is one of victory, for I am here, while they are not, and I grew to become none of the things they all said I would, the things they tried to force me to be. I spend every day repenting for the actions that were of their making on my journey here, and I will forever be their prisoner because of them, but I will never be their victim again. So, for me, when I read my pages, I read them in love, and sign them in lace. My childhood was full of love, a love like no other, the kind stories aremade of. The ones little girls grow up to walk down the aisle to, that soul-shattering and all-knowing love. Love that gut punches you, the kind you can finally see outside the speckle of your reality up through the sky, past the burning stars, straight into the bleeding colors of the Milky Way. Love that transcends elucidation and perception. He was the light in my darkness, the validation in my tattered soul, and the single thing my heart beats for as I walked this earth, filling the holes in it bludgeoned by others. Love came to me younger than expected in the societal standards, but for the land in which my soul was forged, it came when it was supposed to. For I believe they may have been forged in the same fire, whether this is true or not, that ideology and unshakable tie between us through all these years has remained my boundary of hope and the fertilizer that feeds the Ivy covering every wall inside that I have built. The only problem being—I had never told him until today. It’s taken me a lifetime to tell him about my feelings for him, partially because telling would give him power, and to give away power leaves room forhurt, rejection, and error. For me, those are not worth giving up the fantasy. When I learned he had felt the same all these years later, we made the hard choice that watching the reel play through our mind is better than losing it in the physical world, for taking a chance could alter the ending to the story we wrote together all these years. Instead of diving off the cliff, we will wade in the rocks while craving the adrenaline the jump would give us, forever convicting ourselves to a lifetime of self-inflicted purgatory. Forever craving the adrenaline the jump would bring us, dreaming, hoping, and holding onto one another, sentencing our hearts forever to be given with limitation and a lifetime of a desire to be filled. For heaven is not a place you can physically be, but you can spend your whole life chasing it, even while wading in the waters of Hell. At Least that was our story, but now the city has brought us a chance to write new pages, filled with new adventures that have never touched the ink in our prequels, a plot twist I never saw coming, and an ending overdue to be written. Cheers to our Sequel T.

- ME-

P.s. Buy new fucking pens; these suck. Oh, and next time, try using I and me instead of them, they, their, we’re, etc. Your lack of self-absolution is seeping through YOUR words.

The Beginning of the End

“The greatest tragedy to your future is it running concurrent with your past.”

—Ivy

One year earlier

Have you ever hated something and loved it at the same time? I have, specifically, the color red. Statistically, red makes you look more powerful; at least, that’s what she says. However,that’s not why I wear it, or maybe it is? Honestly at this point, I’m not sure. Our personalities used to be so far apart, but now, defining our differences is almost non-existent. Differentiating ourselves over the years has become harder and harder, but isn’t that how it is with most best friends who grew up together? Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her; that’s exactly why her clothing selection consists of only red. Sure, she’s my best friend, but that doesn’t mean I have to think she’s perfect. In reality, she is a vain, manipulative, and calculated bitch. So, if the shoe fits, and itcertainly does, then wear it, and she wears it hastily. I, on the other hand, well, Ihatethe color red for more reasons than one, and at times, my entire world revolves around her.

“Wearing red again, I see, shocker.” I can’t help but laugh as the words leave my lips. Antagonizing her is truly a loved art of mine I have perfected over the years.Here comes the side eyes.

“Ha, jealous much?” Her words laced with a grin that could solve world peace. “I can’t help that I make red look good off and on the floor.”

My eyes roll in disgust. As much as I love her, her immense confidence at times can be nauseating.

“Let’s try and keep it off the floor tonight, Red,” I suggest.

Obviously, this is my sad attempt in trying to keep her in line, which I’m certain will be unattainable, but for my own self-righteous reasons, I like to believe my words carry weight when it comes to her and her behavior, knowing damn well I’ll be listening to her evening affairs detail for detail over coffee in the morning. Not that I’m complaining, though. I certainly live vicariously through her in many ways.

Leaning down off the edge of the bed, struggling like hell to lace my black heels as quickly as I can, my insecurities begin to seep through my confidence.

“God, I really hope my massive calves don’t bust out of these tonight,” I joke as a gasp releases all the air left trapped inside of me that this dress has yet to expel from my chest.

“Ha, Ivy, and here I am hoping mine do, and not on their own accord.”

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