[Part One]
If one person were to write down everything they felt at one given moment, there wouldn’t be enough words or words true enough to capture every dimension of that single point in time. For after all, words are only words; empty until someone acts to fulfill the promise the words offer. To write down the thoughts that pass through a person at one instant would mean to write down what the heart is screaming while the head tries to reason. It would be impossible; words would never be enough.
She filled her world with words. She’s never seen without a pen and something to write on, whether it be a napkin that was placed under her sweating soda at the local diner or on her own skin. Her goal? To be able to write down everything she thinks and feels. Over time, her handwriting had evolved into thin, scrawling letters from rushing to get every word that crosses her mind down onto something before it was too late.
When does someone’s thoughts finally turn into words? Do we think in words, even when we are babies, we just aren’t sure of how to form them with our mouths, dissolving into gibberish the moment it gets past our lips? At what point do our thoughts become solid enough to be able to say them aloud, or write them down?
Her notebooks and skin were filled with thoughts like these. Thoughts filled with questions, with emotion. And sometimes, her thoughts were nothing more than commenting on how the clouds looked as the wind blew them across. Something as simple as noticing the change of colors in the leaves, that she referred to as, “nature’s fireworks.”
It’s difficult for me to explain just how I came to be reading her notebooks. She was always so protective of them, I remember. She was always hunched over one, her arm hiding the page from spying eyes. And she never left them out for people to read. They were always tucked away in her book bag, or shoved in an overstuffed drawer. But they were always hidden. Away from me. Away from my parents. Away from the world.
Reading these notebooks now, I feel like I’m finally accepted by my sister. Yes, my sister. The perfect little goody two-shoes, never gets in trouble, never gets yelled at, never gets punished for anything, even though it is sometimes her fault. My little sister, the fragile little porcelain doll of the family. The one who always has the world at her feet, and then some. My parents dote upon her, I always find myself softened by her sheer cuteness. Everyone at school is always scrambling to help her, to befriend her, to get on her good side.
Despite all this, my sister isn’t spoiled. She always shares her lunch with someone who forgot their money at home. She always lends a pen or pencil to whoever asks for it during class. She offers help in classes when someone is having trouble. She convincingly plays along with whatever alibi I come up with to hide whatever I did to screw up. She always gives, and as a result, she has everything.
You would think, with someone this perfect, they would surely have one thing that was their undoing. One vice that shows that they aren’t perfect. One moment where they screw up their perfect life.
And in this instance, you’re right.
It’s difficult to know where to begin. I guess her fall from grace was gradually building, judging from what is written in her notebooks. Her thoughts grew darker, her handwriting becoming untidier in its hurry to take shape on the thin pages of the simple spiral notebook. I wonder how she kept up her illusion of helpful happiness up when so many demons were threatening to take her over. If it had been me, I would’ve succumbed to the sweet escape these monsters in her mind had offered. I wouldn’t have been as strong as my little sister had been.
At first glance, it’s difficult to find a bad quality in my little sister. But once you find it, it’s difficult to find something in her personality to redeem her. It’s complicated. She’s perfect, but flawed. Such a cliche, I know, but it’s the truth. Trust me, you wouldn’t believe how many cliches and stereotypes are actually true.
It all starts when she started high school.
