chapter three
19 June, 2012
Journal; that’s what this is. This is not a diary, nor a memoir, or an autobiography; this is just a journal. I’ve read somewhere on the internet that the best thing to do in these situations is to write… everything. That’s what I plan to do in this journal of mine; write everything. Starting today, the nineteenth of June, the summer before freshman year, I will devote myself into writing everything and anything onto these hundred and some pages. I’ve decided to begin on this particular day because today, out of all the days in my fourteen years of being alive, is the day I truly feel alone.
My name is Delilah White; ex-mathelete, vegetarian, and daughter of a suicide.
I stopped there, finding that my heart was racing as I read the last word. Suicide; a seven-letter word that’s ended more people’s lives than I could ever imagine. Never has the word felt so heavy on my tongue, not that I could remember anyways. Not to mention; this was her. This was the voice of the famous Delilah White, whom I’ve presumably murdered somehow. That mere thought, that this was Delilah White’s journal, sent chills down my spine that made my whole body tremble to the point where I dropped the leather bond book. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.
I decided to inspect the rest of the tree house while my fingertips calmed down a bit. Unlike Delilah White, this small wood structure was something I could remember. Like I’ve said, the place was swamped with post-it notes, all varying from different colors and content. I recognized my handwriting, simply because of all the work I’ve had to catch up on thanks to my leave of absence from school. Then, there was another set of handwriting, much less legible than mine. It was scratchy and the letters leaned far too much to read easily, but I invested the time into understanding them anyways.
Join the army?
Become a shoe-maker.
Use the word “indubitably” frequently.
Pay off parent’s mortgage.
It didn’t take long before I realized they were all tasks and very few had checkmarks by them. I found comfort in reading them, not only because it reminded me of my past but gave me a sense of my future; or, rather, what I had liked my future to be. But, of course, there were a few odd ones that didn’t seem to fit anywhere. Comics, jokes, and study notes; a few of them here and there. I must have spent at least an hour just glancing through all of them and trying to recollect memories; some were easier than others.
After I read what I assumed was the last square piece of sticky paper, I took a deep breath and exhaled. My eyes grazed over to the journal again, the pseudo-leather teasing me to no end. In the end, I snatched it without a second thought and quickly descended from the tree house, crossing my fingers that Mr. Garfield was too old to chase me down. Despite his brittle bones, his voice compensated, and I heard it loud and clear. He opened his bedroom window and shouted at me from above, “Isaac Ramos? I thought God finally did us all a favor and got rid of you! Get off my goddamn lawn or I’ll finish what God started!”
In spite of his fragile frame, I didn’t take his warning lightly and quickly jumped over the iron fence. Delilah White’s journal was clasped tightly in my palm, never daring to drop. Even when I tripped over some loose pipes, I made sure to land on my left arm instead of catching myself with both. I felt the least I could do was protect Delilah White’s last tie with the world.
I ran into my house through the back door, the one in the kitchen who’s screen was completely pried off after many of Delilah White’s visits (or so my mom says). Who, speaking of, was collecting the trash from the bin and smirked at the sight of me.
“So, how did Mr. Garfield take the news that you’re still alive?” She asked, tying the plastic bag tightly.
I smiled weakly, “Uh, he, uh he’s—he’s just really mean.” I couldn't really grasp any other word to describe Mr. Garfield, so I decided on a fourth-grade level adjective and hoped for the best. My mom smiled and nodded, then began to walk toward the door.
“Sounds like him,” She commented, “but your old self would be a bit more… graphic.”
I narrowed my brow in confusion, but watched her leave the house without another word. I figured I could ask her later, when I do decide to embark on the definition of what “my old self” means.
I went over to my room, brushed items off my crowded bed, and sat down. The book felt heavy on my lap. “Private Property of Delilah White” was scribbled on the corner in black sharpie, while a strap held it shut. How many times had she held this? How many times did she write her thoughts down? I was hesitant to check the last page, like any other book, but I opened it anyways. The last entry was the twentieth of March.
As I read that date, the same night that I had lost my memory, the door to my room swung open and scared me enough to drop the book. My mom came in, beginning to talk about laundry but stopped mid-sentenced when she saw me and the book on the floor. She cocked her head.
“What’s that?” She asked.
My mouth moved up and down, reaching for words to say or a lie to tell, but it didn’t seem to function properly. Unfortunately, though, my “quick wit” was far too slow for my mom’s reflexes, ending with her just crouching down and retrieving the journal.
“Where did you…” she began, but quickly caught on. I shrugged my shoulders, not sure of what else to say. She was hesitant to hand it back, even when I extended my arm to grab it. I pleaded her with my eyes, mouthing the word “please” as meaningful as I could muster. She glanced back at the book, bit her lip, closed her eyes, and sighed.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Isaac,” She stated, “maybe after a few more sessions with your therapist—“
“Mom,” I interrupted, standing up.
She stared at me and my arm and back to me. I watched her carefully, looking for any inclination toward my request. But before I could even react, she shook her head and bolted out of my room. Instinctively, I jogged after her, but she had a running start and was already out the door when I stubbed my foot on the coffee table. It hurt badly as the corner stabbed my bone, but I hopped out the door nonetheless, only to find my mom starting up her beat up minivan.
“Mom!” I yelled, limping toward the vehicle.
She looked at me through the window and smiled sympathetically, “It’s for your own good, Isaac, I promise!”
And just like that, she left and took the last link I had with Delilah White with her.
