SEVENTY: AFTER

Hi guys, I hope my story is still catching your fancy. It is what happened to me. It is my true life story. Every single thing. I don't know why I wrote it, but at least it's been published and I'm one of the youngest talented authors in town at the moment, I am fucking proud of myself. A lot of waters has passed under the bridge. A lot of stuff has happened in the last years. I've relocated, wept, rejoiced, gained friends, lost friends, got this close to embracing suicide, almost lost my mother, almost lost one of my sisters, oh well- before it actually happened. Don't worry I'll tell you everything. That's why this book was published. It doesn't end my depression but at least when I look at my book in New York bookshops and students' bookshelves, I have a reason to smile. I touch my chest and feel my heart heaving and regulating its beats, and I know it means something- I have a purpose for my existence. It means that in spite of losing my sister, feeling lonely, having my mom locked up somewhere because she is running mad, and the scars I got on my body from the accident, I still have life in me, and I am not going to take it. This life I am living is to make up for my sister's, Big Joe's, Granny's and every other loved one that I lost. Hmmmph. ****************************************** "One, two, three!" "Yayyyyyyyyyyy!" "Happy new year!" The fireworks were ignited as soon as everyone welcomed the new year. The sky lit with the most beautiful temporal art I've ever seen. The euphoria in the voices that hailed the novel year was so infectious it made my face light up with a smile. It is 2012. Watching them from my windowside was the most peaceful thing I ever achieved since we arrived Frankfurt, Germany. It was what I did the previous year and the ones before that. Every year had turned out lonelier than the last, with me spending the beginning of each of the years at the window, with my only sister in the house. We were always alone on the first mornings of Christmas and new year. At Christmas, Jack sometimes passed by in the afternoons to take us girls for an ice cream treat. Then he brought us a Christmas present each. He dressed us up himself with extras after we might have changed into the Christmas dress he bought for us, then he took us to the city square to watch the fireworks and pray to Santa. We only get to see this place about twice a year. Yeah, only twice a year, because after the hustling and bustling of the celebration of Christmas and the new year, we go back to being confined in the house, our house in Frankfurt, while Jack returned to his base. He worked in the same city we lived. Not that we were being imprisoned, but there was no one to look after us if we left the house. Mom? She's in the asylum. Well, not exactly the demented individuals' centre, but she stays in a building meant for people who are not all right in the head, or about to run completely mad, under close monitoring of some mental health doctors. I don't want to call them by their name, because it'll mean my beautiful mom is crazy. If anyone tells me that, I'll punch him in the stomach and it'll take a lot of appeasement for me not to murder somebody. I am old enough to fight and defend Mom anywhere now. Jack. I can't describe how humanly he is. He's the only person left in the whole wide world that's making me hold on to life. He's basically our only hope, the one ray of light in a dark tunnel. He makes me believe that my mom is coming back to us. Without him, our Christmases and New years would be dark and uneventful. Because there was no one else in the house, except Pamela and I. Mom, the beautiful Ruby Gonzalez is there in the building about three streets away locked up in a room solely, because she doesn't want anyone to stay with her, has been there a year plus now, and we children only get to see her once in a while. She spent her last Christmas there, and the new year too. She didn't even receive what Jack took to her the previous years. Jack has stopped visiting her for a while, or maybe he did visit her contrary to the impression he gave He didn't exactly say he was going to stop visiting her, but I heard his soul groan those words out. It was also because I could see how mom's condition broke him each time he returned from her place. He usually had this sullen look on his face, and he'd hug us both and cry very hard on our shoulders while giving us some words of hope. He didn't care that we saw his tears. He's still unmarried. I am very certain he is waiting for mom to get better so he could marry her. I must say, that doesn't look like it'll happen anytime soon. But I must commend him. I have never seen any man love any woman as much as Jack do Ruby Gonzalez. I have never seen anyone exercise that much patience. Even me might have probably given up if she weren't my own mother. 'Stupid of Mr Timberlake to think I don't know what it means for my mother to be with them, with her hands tied to her back because she had grown violent over the months. What did he think I was? A fool? I don't know why people like that do not go straight to the point. They euphemize everything. Not like it does anything, it is total cold comfort. I don't want to hear it, neither do I want to hear the painful truth. And of course, I do not want the pitiful stares either. They should all just leave me alone. How's that so hard to do? I just want to see my mom. I don't care if she's violent with me or if she doesn't really recognize me or if I do not recognize her anymore. I don't even care that she has an annoying drool in the corner of her mouth everytime I see her. I think it's from the overdose they inject in her. I just want to see her and hug her, know that she is alive. Feel her, hold her. That is all I've ever wanted, since we left Scotland, but these doctors at the mental hospital would not let me in just like that, even though I am her first child and no longer a kid. They would not even let Pamela see her lovely mom. The little girl would come to me and plead with me, with tears in her eyes. "Ariana, Why can't I see mommy? Help me plead with Mr Timberlake. Tell him to show me mommy" she would cry, but what could I do when Mr Timberlake says we can't see her until much later, say in the evenings when she's had her treatment? Treatment they call it, but I know what they mean. They mean sedatives. Very strong ones. The ones that have bad side effects. These things they inject into mom to calm her down seem so dangerous. They claim they're 'treating' her ailment but it's been almost a year already and she's getting nothing but worse. Violence or silence, that's all she's displayed. Sometimes I wish I could find Cameron Peyton and butcher him. There's no other reason other than he's the reason for mom's current predicament. My memories are returning. You see, When we arrived Frankfurt, about four years ago(yes, we've only spent four years here. We didn't come here immediately after Scotland. We've been moving everywhere around the world like nomads, because everywhere we settled, mom couldn't find the peace she so sought for, because everyday, she got threats from the greatest human mistake in her life-- Cameron Peyton, now that's a long story and it is what led us to this point in my story), mom bought new kitchen utensils alongside other important household stuff like furniture, and new pack or floor tiles to help us settle down into our new home. It's the place we've spent the longest in, so far. Mom claimed she found some calm there, and we could finally rest. I was happy. I thought it was all over. Mind you, the memories my old saviour purged me of, have started returning. I call him my old saviour now, when I want to talk about him because calling his name is painful. I don't want to remember him because he's not here. He promised to come back but it's been over a decade and I've got nothing from him. I feel like he's gone forever. Now I'm digressing. Again. It is what happens to me these days that I can't help. Sometimes I'm with a few acquaintances at school discussing how wasps are different from bees and butterflies generally and then my mind starts to wander, and I find myself talking about how the soup mom made last Sunday night tasted really sour. Well, what was I saying? One of the kitchen utensils mom bought when we arrived here, is a dozen set of knives-bread knife, table knife, kitchen knives. One of them slashed my palm the first time I tried to cut bread with it. That's to show how sharp it is. The point here is that , if that kind of knife, just one of them touches Cameron's throat, it'll easily slash it in two. It's gonna be a bloody day . I'd happily do that if I got the opportunity. I don't care if I get injured in the process. I want to kill him. Sometimes I wish I could turn into a huge, strong man, barge into the building where mom is locked up, punch everyone to pulp and cart mom away like a lost but found precious commodity. She's not meant to be there. There, is not her rightful place. A FLASHBACK A DECADE AGO