The cold, brick wall behind me soothes my body from the warmth inside the coffee shop. All my friends like to cause a ruckus in there and heat up the place - making it nearly unbearable. I place my hands flat against the wall, in the hopes that it would rid my palms of their clamminess. What I didn't expect is for one of the bricks to be loose. After a closer examination, I discover that the brick could be removed completely. Hidden behind the brick is a worn, maroon journal filled with disgusting, yellow pages. I open the revolting thing, thinking that maybe the content will be a bit less gross than the outside.
Dear Journal,
I refuse to call you "diary," because then I'll feel like an eight-year-old. You actually anger me, considering that I'm only writing in you because Dr. Thurman told me to. She says some bull about you being a way to vent my anger. I have to write in it every Thursday, before each therapy session.
Wait, why am I humanizing a journal?
This sucks. Dr. Thurman, if you ever read this, I hope this is sufficient enough. Not.
-SLH (14/11/06)
The first entry I read is dated back seven years ago. Clearly, this "SLH" is an angsty teenager with a few anger issues. Her peevish attitude is probably what landed her in therapy.
Since the date is years away, I figure that no one is missing this journal… So I take it upon myself to bring the battered object back into the coffee shop. After staying outside for a good fifteen minutes, the excitement inside simmers down to a few of my friends lulling about the humble building. I plop down on the comfiest leather chair I've ever sat in and continue reading.
Dear Journal,
I hate you.
-SLH (21/11/06)
Dear Journal,
Blah blah blah.
-SLH (12/12/06)
The last two entries made me laugh, but I was curious to see what the long paragraph on the next page had to say. "SLH" is turning out to be a sarcastic personality.
Dear Journal,
Dr. Thurman found out that I wasn't writing in my journal properly. She told me that I'd have to write in you once a week rather than once every three if I didn't write a few "positive" paragraphs every time. Thanks. Great.
So why don't I tell you about yesterday? Mr. MacAffee was glancing over my shoulder when I was drawing. He said he loves my style! Can you believe it? Someone actually likes my art. And even better, he's asked me to paint something to go up in his shop! I know exactly what I'm going to do. Is that "positive" enough, Doctor?
On another note, I'd like to ask my mother to go see the painting when Mr. MacAffee decides to put it up… She and I don't have the greatest relationship. She and I used to be close… But she changed after the divorce. Mom isn't "gentle," so to say, when she handles me. Honestly, I just want to make it up to her. I've been a total arse to her these past years, and I know how much she has to go through to raise a problem child like me. I mean, what the heck, I gave myself pink highlights just to annoy her. And I know how trashy she thinks black nail polish and piercings are, so I endure them to get on her nerves. I'm a jerk! Wait, that's not "positive," is it?
Too bad.
-SLH (1/2/07)
"SLH's" confession about her attitude towards her mother was quite a shock, considering the material that she's been providing before. There were only two more entries left.
Dear Journal,
The painting for Mr. MacAffee's shop is going splendidly. I tried to make the colors match the interior decor… I really hope that he likes it. +++ Positively charged entry.
I haven't asked my mom yet if she wants to come with me when it's unveiled. I'm kind of nervous to ask her, to be honest. I'm scared that she will go crazy at me. I've been trying to get on her good side since that last journal entry. I really want her to come.
-SLH (1/23/07)
I start to feel for "SLH." I want her mother to come to. Wasting no time, I read the final entry.
Dear Journal,
My mom agreed to go to my painting's unveiling! I can't believe how happy I feel right now… Is that what I've been wanting all this time? For my mother to finally notice me? I don't really know, but one thing is for sure, I totally feel like I'm flying in the clouds! I'm going to blow her away with this piece! I'm sure she's going to love it.
The show is tomorrow, and I'm planning on driving my mother out there with me. I have a nice dinner planned afterwards that Dr. Thurman helped me perfect.
Speaking of Dr. Thurman, she's noticed a "strange" improvement in my attitude ;). She says I can stop writing in this silly thing. Yesssss!!!! No offense Journal, but writing in you has been a real hassle.
But Dr. Thurman was right… Using you has benefitted me in so many ways. That's why I'd like to keep you safe. I've got a special place to put you… I don't think I'll ever glance at your ugly barf colored pages again, but maybe someone else will.
If you're a random stranger reading my Journal, then hi! If you're up for it, meet me for coffee one day. You'll know which shop! I can tell you what happens after this silly thing is over.
-SLH (13/2/07)
P.S. I just realized I've never written my name in here!
P.P.S. You can call me Stacey Hicks!
My best mate, Andrew, glances over at the object in my hands. "Man, are you reading a diary?" When I say nothing, he leans over to take a closer look. He quickly skims the entire page before inquiring "Stacey Hicks?" A tone of recognition tints his voice. "The girl who got in that severe car wreck on Valentine's Day a few years ago? Man, I remember that wreck was pure brutal! Nobody came out alive."
"Yeah," I say. I had already known when I read her name.
"Hey mate, hold on a second, c'mere." Andrew jolts across the coffee shop. My body moves sluggishly, my brain is still trying to process everything I had just taken in. "Look here!" His finger points to the corner of the only painting in the coffee shop. In elegant swoops of of multicolor shades, the painting depicts a young, blonde girl in a frilly dress. She's smiling up at the face of a beaming woman who returns the joyful emotion. Their hands are interlocked. In the same handwriting as the Journal I just devoted the last hour to, "SLH" is clearly scrawled in the bottom corner.
Taking me out of a trance, Andrew asks, "aren't these the same initials?"
After a moment, I softly whisper, "yeah."
