Winter

iii; hidden beauty

chapter three: hidden beauty

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Winter

"It is the possibility of having a dream, that makes life interesting."

                                                        -Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

"You're absolutely sure that you hadn't found anything here while cleaning?"

The obviously Spanish janitor who clearly had no knowledge of how to understand English shook his head at me, his eyes remaining dull and unfazed. All he wanted to do on a Saturday morning in July was to rest, eventually expecting to have to clean up whatever he had to clean up in the latter and I fully respected that. But I swear I dropped my diary somewhere in Rizolli; I had ransacked my room, all three million of my bags and I even traced my path from Aunt Georgia's apartment to the cafe where the poetry reading was held. Although knowing this was New York, a busy place with a population well over five million. . . Finding my diary seemed impossible at this point.

I was only hoping that the janitor must've picked it up while cleaning yesterday, however he didn't- I hoped that my trust in him was not a mistake.

"It's a black moleskine-" 

The janitor, bald and dull, shook his head for the trillionth time, probably desperate to get me out of his sight. After all, I had tracked him down thanks to Kiera, the girl who worked at Rizzoli and had some sort of relation to Steve, and after she'd told me he usually went to McDonalds in the morning. . Well. . 

Sighing in defeat, I shut my eyes and thanked the man for his time, although the thank you didn't please him- he seemed very much pleased watching me walk away from his table and out of the store. I didn't know what to do at that point- I even went so far as asking the twins about it and interrogating them for hours on end, until I fell asleep and they locked themselves in their respective rooms, not saying another word to me.

Losing my diary was like. . It was like losing my life. I had written everything in there, from my sixth birthday and so forth. I was surprised that it hadn't been filled up yet. Perhaps it was magic, and the pages magically multiplied- I didn't know, but I needed my diary back. Where was I supposed to write my thoughts? Where was I supposed to write anything?

All my ideas were in there- my thoughts- my feelings- my life stories turned into fiction. . And now it was gone, gone forever. 

I sighed again, this time on my way back to the apartment, and soon found myself flopping onto the front steps of Aunt Georgia's apartment and burying my head in my hands. I was too upset for words- for the first time in ages, I was actually sad. Saying that made me sound like an overjoyed twelve year old who wore her hair in pigtails and bounced around flinging money all which ways. Well, for one, I wasn't twelve, or overjoyed and I didn't think that hair as curly as mine fit properly in pigtails. I wouldn't know- I never tried. And most importantly, I didn't think that any fifteen year old had enough money to fling onto the streets.

Even if I did, I think I'd be spending it on other things.

As my head was engulfed in the warmth of my hands, I felt someone beside me- or towering over me rather, and when I looked up in sudden panic, I found the mailman struggling to shove the mail into the mailbox without stepping on me. "Sorry!" I squealed/apologized, leaping up from the seats. Dusting off my skirt, I politely took the mail from his hands and smiled. "I'll take it," I said, noticing a package in the mail.