The House On Anchorburry

A Growing Love's Hue

With the coming and going of the seasons and the days just after the incident now turned to weeks, Jaimee, the heartbroken father, slowly entered her room. It was the place She'd called her own since the day she was welcomed into the world and the day she'd left it. It was then that Jaimee noticed something dark and leather-bound poking just slightly from behind the stack of books his child kept stacked in the far corner of her bedroom. It looked to be very old and well-worn as he noticed the familiar doodles that She would often draw when she was younger.

Jaimee stood, moving the column of books aside. He took the old-looking book from it's place. It was almost like the owner had hidden it in a hurry, trying to stow it away until they decided to write in it again. The father tugged the neatly tied leather strap bow loose, wondering where and when his daughter had gotten it. Up until then, he had no idea something like it even existed. In his mind, old pieces of parchment held together with weathered animal skin were things that belonged in a museum. But, for some reason, he couldn't imagine finding it anywhere but where it'd been when he saw it first.

He opened it, hoping to find what he thought were the words of a teenage girl. It was his wish that instead of a suicide note of some kind, he found her entries about who'd been her crush or how she thought about the likely trio of especially mean girls she'd encounter. Unfortunately, Jaimee wasn't welcomed with the peace of mind that was his child's seemingly happy hum-drum life. What he'd found was nothing of the sort. Inside the thick journal were many cute drawings of the neighbor's cats or printed monochrome photos of her and her few friends. Underneath the stack of memorabilia was a piece of paper.

The beautiful cursive handwriting had been written in black pen, a color She had never liked to use. The first sentence brought Jaimee further into the world that was his daughter's strange mind. It read:

To Father, my lifelong supporter.

It is winter in the house today, for the warmth of your smile hasn't graced it once since my passing or hers. Please tell them, comrade, if the color your eyes see is truly the one that suited me. Speak to them the truth of my love for all that is of this spiteful world and let them know how it felt to watch the colors of the people and the souls within them dance across my dreams.

My eyes no longer welcome such innocence. For if you are to speak the truth of my ways, your dream of love must know my story. For love has almost always been my favorite color.

Jaimee cried because he couldn't understand her mysterious letter of pain. Was it hysteria or a word to the wise?