An Imperial Affliction

To Myself:

Hello Anna. I mean me. Or you. Hmm that's definately something to think about isn't it? Who am I actually writing to?

You see, I'm only writing this so that when I've died and passed, everyone will finally understand and comprehend the inner workings of Anna Prescott. What did she really think about school? Did Anna ever think about me? Well, I guess you're going to figure that all out now aren't you.

But by the way, if you're reading this and I'm NOT a bag of bones six feet under, I'm very upset you're snooping. Shame on you.

Well to continue on, I'm just sitting here in my room with my door locked as my mother plants yet another row of tulips in her garden. Her obsession reminds me of a dog's fascination with chasing it's tail. Let me explain. A dog tends to forget it has a tail and then it catches a glimpse of it. Suddenly, the dog can't help but become obsessed with it's tail. The dog wants it's tail. The dog needs it's tail. It begans to chase and hunt it's tail down, until ti accepts the fact you can't chew off your own tail. The dog just let's it's tail be there, until it forgets again. The cycle repeats.

The same thing happens with my mother. She has always loved tulips. My mom was this little girl and was hospitalized for over a month (funny story actually, I will explain later), and everyone who came to visit her would bring in tulips. She says when they would leave,, the smell of tulips would fill the room and she would feel, and I quote here, "surrounded by love and comfort." It's really cliche if you ask me. But anywho, my mother will plant a row of glorious tulips, remember she can't have all of the world's tulips, forget about them, and when reminded become again obsessed.

When I was little, I used to be yelled at for pulling tulips out of the "prized garden". I used to yank them out one by one as if they were the reason I wasn't a good daughter. My mom would run into the greenhouse and cry because I had once again hurt her precious tulips. She would yell and scream at me to stop. So, I guess you can see why I'm not fond of tulips.

You may be confused as to why I say I'm not a good daughter. Well, that's logic. You see, if something causes you pain and suffering, it's labeled as "bad". If something throws your money down the drain on nonworking solutions, they're considered a waste. If you have ever pushed death into someone's face and dangled your self over your own death bed, well you definitely aren't "good" to anyone. And that's what I did, at the age of six to my parents.

I was diagnosed with leukemia at age six. My dad and I were playing outside, throwing the ball back and forth, when he accidentally hit my lower left eye. I was knocked over instantly. I remember him rushing over to me apologetically. "Anna! I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" he asked. I was fine. My eye didn't even hurt. Yet, when my father started peering at my face he told me I had a large bruise. I laughed at his

joke. He still looked serious though and told me he hadn't meant to throw the ball that hard.

"Daddy! You barley hit my left eye!" I giggled.

He look puzzled, "Anna honey that's your right eye." He then pointed right below my right eye.

I was persistent and assured him it was my left eye he hit. He scooped me up and ran me across the yard. He yelled for my mother as he strapped me into my seat belt.

"Where in the world are you going?" my mother yelled at him.

He was out of breath from running that far too fast. "To the. To the. Hospital," he gasped. He showed my mother my eye and, then we all took a very speedy road trip.

The doctor explained to my parents that under my eye was petechiae, a purplish patch of blood due to my blood's failure to clot. They started about 500 test on me and two whole days later, I was an official leukemia patient.

For three years, my parents drove me back and forth, from hospital to hospital, just so I could be cured. Two years in and my father decided that he could take it no longer. We were losing money, love, and now bits of my life were fading away. Dad decided he was divorce my mother. He said he "couldn't deal with losing a daughter" and "the toll was too large" on him. Dad, if you ever get to read this, I want you to know that dying and losing one of my parents to divorce, was one heck of a toll for an eight year old to carry.

Along with losing my father, we lost our large house. Mom and I moved into a smaller apartment where there was barley enough room for the both of us. All of my treatments were expensive and my mother's job couldn't support us. Luckily, the people who bought our old house allowed my mom to keep the patch of land that was her garden. She would drive me out their on Sundays and I would lie in the sun as she planted more tulips.

I got sicker and sicker until it was decided by my doctors that my body would take no more. I was laid on my death bed. Slowly but surely, I felt the life draining and loss filling my soul. The edges of my sight got dark and all I could do was nod my head as death as if they could come in.

She must have gotten a bigger job, because death left my door. As a nine year old, my body was finally cured. I no longer had a father who cared, an actual house, or any of my child years, but I didn't have cancer either. And that was a plus.

So all in all, I'm not a good daughter.

I have to go now. Apparently my mother is having guest over so they can "discuss the delicacies of gardening" and I was ordered to make an appearance. Ta ta, see you later my love.