fictionalbiographer

[fictionalbiographer]

The Inappropriate End to the Story of Jasmine Stratton

At 12 years old Jasmine asked the reason behind why her parents picked to name her after the flower. They answered that it was because the flower meant ‘a gift from God’, her mother liked it, and the fragrance was versatile with the hope that one day she would grow up to be a useful person in society.

            She found it funny when her parents told her the reasons that she burst with laughter, her parents all confused in turn asked why.

            “You might as well named me Vanilla,” she laughed.

            “Well, that’s not nice. We prayed and put a lot of consideration into choosing your name.” Her mother took off her reading glasses to have a better look at her.

            “Also vanilla is black and bitter.” Her dad pointed out.

            “First of all, it is technically a gift from God, along with everything else. Second, it’s not bitter ‘cause Mom likes to bake with it, she likes it alright. Lastly, the fragrance is ‘versatile’; vanilla muffin, vanilla ice cream, vanilla latte, vanilla perfume, I can go on if you need more proof.” One by one she counted on her fingers, proving her point.

            “John.” Her mother looked at Dad as if saying ‘Please deal with your daughter.’

            He looked up from his book and turned to Jasmine saying, “You’re in trouble young lady, please go to your room right now.”

            Before she went out the door, she turned her head around and said, “You know, I really wouldn’t have minded if I was named Vanilla.”

            “I don’t think you’d say that if you were.” Her mom sighed, massaging her temple.

            She saw the slight upturn on the corners of her dad’s mouth before she walked out.

           

            Jasmine didn’t like jasmine.

            Moreover being associated with this delicate thing. So, she didn’t. When people ask her name she would tell them her family name. She modeled her life after villains in comic books; tormented lonely genius. She had virtually no friends because she thought they couldn’t understand her, all they do were being boy-crazy, making stupidity a quirky quality, and gossip. They were not productive at all.

            On the other hand, she read books religiously, considering both her parents were professors, it’s basically a family activity. She was a little pessimistic about the future which made her realistic, and she had only one friend in other word; a side kick.

            Villain? Check, check, check.

            A specific sequence of knocks could be heard on her door.

            “This is John of Stratton who has come a long long way from the drawing room in the north. I bring news of peace, may I be permitted to be in thy presence?”

            “Yes, you may Sire John of Stratton. It must have been a long journey. Please take a seat.” She opened her door, her father did a little head bow and so did she, then they each sat on bean bags near the bookshelves corner of her bedroom.

            They sat in comfortable silence.

            “What are you reading now kiddo?”

            “A Little Life. It’s good, there is a tormented soul in there whom I so can relate.”

            “Oh, dark as usual.”

            “Well, that’s my brand.” She shrugged.

            “I see, I might take that up one day after you’re done.”

            “I don’t recommend it for you Dad. It’s like hardcore, and you have a tender soul, it’ll scar you for life.”

            “Vanilla. You’re dramatic.” Dad reached out to ruffle her hair gently, that nickname had become their inside joke, she smiled. “Your mother is going to stay in Boston this weekend for that conference she’s so excited about these past 3 months.”

            “Oh trust me I know. Mom became like a maniac when she’s in the ’zone’.” They shared laughs on that. Mom really can’t be bothered when she is being serious on her work, she debates with herself, suddenly running to write, and books can be found lying open everywhere. It’s a whole thing.

            “That means that we are going to spend this weekend together unless you already have plans with your friends?”

            “Dad, what are you talking about? You’re my friend.”

            “You melt my heart. What do you want?” John put his hand over his left chest and she laughed, talking to her Dad was one of her favorite thing to do. He didn’t patronize her, and his listening made her feel understood.

            “I want to go to Frank’s Bar & Grill.”

            “Oh?”

            “Yes, there’s this open mic thing that a theatrical community hold there this Saturday night for their 5th year anniversary. I want to sign up.”

            “I see.” He calculated in his mind, he wanted to make sure she had someone to go to and be open with because all tight restrictions do is make great liars. People are going to do what they want to do anyway. It’d be better that she goes with supervision he thought, rather than not.

            “Alright, little vanilla. We have to make this a secret mission if we both still want to live in this house.”

            “I won’t tell if you don’t.” she put her fingers up in a ‘V’ form, looking away.

            “Roger that, also no alcohol you’re still 15. Over.” Dad talked to his fist near his mouth as if talking with a walkie-talkie.

            “Copy that. Over.” She followed suit. John checked his watch.

            “For dinner tonight, I can cook us some baked chicken.”

            “Oh no Dad, no offense but we shouldn't burn the house before Mom gets home. Let’s just get pizza.”

 

When they arrived the place was already packed with people, the seats were almost all filled up. Jasmine had signing up as the first order of business so that’s what she did. She said happy anniversary to the founder who stood near the end of the bar, filled up some form, exchanged numbers, the works. She joined her father, he handed her a wine glass filled with red liquor.

            “You said that I can’t drink alcohol and yet you’re giving me red wine.” She tried to smell it the way she saw someone in a movie had done but she didn’t know what to look for so she brought the glass to her lips.

            “Is the red wine good?” John asked calmly.

            “It’s tart and sour. Is this what red wine taste like?” Clicking her tongue in an attempt to decipher the taste. “No, that’s what cranberry juice taste like. Do you like it?” He swirled his own glass, smiling at her.

            “Can’t believe I’m fooled,” She made a shocked expression. “But, I’ve never had it in a wine glass before so it’s pretty cool.”

            “Good. I am having the same drink because no drunk driving. Do you want to play wine connoisseurs?”

            “And snobbishly make ridiculous comments on whatever is on stage? You don’t even have to ask Dad.” She hopped on the barstool. They had a great time drinking fake wine and critiquing really silly stuff.

           

But her Dad of course couldn’t always be with her all the time, he’s still a professor after all. The theory she had learned when she was in 4th grade: ‘human being is a social being’ punched her in the gut. As her parents became busier, she too busied herself with school to cover up that feeling of loneliness which ate away at her soul. However when she reached 18, running away from it was no longer sustainable, it had caught up to her.

            Her body gave opposite signals simultaneously; high level of Ghrelin in her body makes her feel hungry and yet she would want to throw up at the sight of food as if she had food poisoning.

            She felt sad for no reason.

            Often she cried when she got home from school, on the floor in the bathroom trying to shower, or when she couldn’t sleep for days in a row. The pinnacle of it all is that she didn’t feel pleasure in doing what she loved to do anymore. She couldn’t feel anything anymore. None. Nada. She’s exhausted.

            It would be nice to sleep and not wake up she thought.

            “Jasmine.” Her mother one day woke her up after a sleepless night. “We’re going to either a doctor or a therapist, you choose. But, we’re going now.”

            “I can’t, there are final tests for economics and English today.”

            “You can’t keep going on like this.”

            “The alternative would be me being dropped out as a senior. What do you think of that?”

            “No, the alternative would be worse than that,” Her mother said grimly, Jasmine closed her eyes as her mother continued. “Also it’s not about me. Your hair is falling out in clumps, you feel nauseous often — you can barely sit to eat dinner, let alone stomach a healthy portion — that your weight drops really fast and I notice those blackened bags under your eyes.”

            There was a beat of silence, then Jasmine looked into her mother’s almost neutral face and replied “I don’t know this person. Since when do you care Mother?” There was a slight change in her mother’s expression to hurt when she said that, it went as fast as it came but she did catch that. She expected it, she wanted it. It’s cruel she knew, but her mother had mastered the skill of being unaffected that she wanted to extract any reaction from her. She felt a little satisfaction from seeing that.

            “I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped.” Her mother got up from her bed and slowly closed the door.

            She sighed. Sure, why not try this. If it didn’t work, she could just jump off a cliff right?

 

Jasmine is now 25 years old. She still goes to therapy once a week and take anti-depressants, to help balance back those empty feelings that made her world gray to at least decent. She doesn’t live with her parents anymore, she lives in a little apartment in New York, ride those subways with rats moving here and there. Her breakfast consists of bagel and a cup of coffee, her lunch the $1 pizza from the sidewalk pizza parlor. It all started because somehow she finished high school, higher education, and got accepted to work at New York Magazine.

            Her relationship with her Mother got better, they meet for dinner once every 3 months although her parents are not together anymore, Dad had retired and chose to move to Netherlands because he wanted to become a painter. And while her mother supports him she didn’t want to move to Rotterdam and so they parted. They remain in good relationship which is all that matters for Jasmine.

            If you asked her now as she sits on one of the benches in Central Park on a calm Sunday morning while she waits for her friend, a fellow journalist at NYM.

            “How are you still alive?”

            She would probably be stunned for a second, and then took another couple seconds to think before saying, “I don’t know.” lightheartedly, then maybe she would add, “My feelings get better, my relationships with other people and my mom got better, my parents split and after all of that somehow I came out okay. I mean I didn’t get my childhood dream to become a great genius villain, but I get to be a journalist at New York Magazine and I think it’s not too shabby.”

            She’d pause to ponder a bit more and then she’d shake her head.

            “Even though now I live in New York and it’s always noisy, I don’t know. I don’t know how it all happened but I’m okay.” That’s when the friend comes in the picture and she would say that it was nice to meet you, wished you a good day, and walked away.

[fictionalbiographer]

Nobody Died at the End

It was a Sunday when my dear friends, Louis and Wyna chose that they did not want to put up with my guilt-partying anymore.

“Robin, we love you. You are not alone.” Wyna said.

“But, it’s been 2 months and you look like a raccoon. In the loveliest way possible.” Louis added. Wyna smacked Louis’s arm, giving him a dirty look.

“You’re going to be okay.” She said firmly.

He was not wrong. I’d been bursting into tears constantly whenever my mind replayed our last conversation, dizzying myself trying to figure out how I could’ve changed what happened.

How I could have somehow saved you.

Why did you drink so much that night? Were you speeding or was the road just slippery? Would you have stayed home if I didn’t confront you?

“Does Belgian chocolate waffle sound good right now?” Either of them asked me. NO, I wanted to scream, couldn’t anyone understand that all I wanted was my sister back. But I nodded because I didn’t have any more energy to care.

They brought me to Metropole, where we used to spend time just watching a movie or two on lazy weekends, you’d tell me what I missed because I always had to go to the toilet in the middle of the movie, or when we went out of the theater to drink tea and eat waffles rather than sit through crappy horror movies. But you were not here so I hugged myself.

We got to the second floor, our waffle place to the left. The staff greeted us, Louis talked to him, and he asked about you. I could feel the tears forming, eager to be spilled so I looked away, to the rest of the hallway.

Then I saw you, your back to me. Walking away from me.

And I ran.

You were just a few inches away from my touch when you took left to the restroom you preferred than the one in the restaurant, it’s just better, sometimes there’s no reason why you once told me. Though now I knew better. There was nobody when I entered but me on the reflection, I was alone and it became frighteningly real that I’ve truly lost you. It was unacceptable my heart cried out. I curled into myself and wept.

 

It took me years of therapy to process my grief, trust me, it was a journey. One thing that my therapist told me which pierced through my fog of self-blame and guilt was “What you are doing now was what she did then.” He didn’t mean that I bleed myself with razor or numb my emotions with drinking. What he meant was overwhelming guilt driving me insane with questions I had possibly no way of answering.

How I was playing God.

 

Dear Beloved, I love you.

I get the help you had needed when you were still alive and now I still live. I will not live in grief and destroy myself as I had thought I had to do to keep your memories with me. Most of the time it doesn’t matter why someone hurts, it just matters that they do. I still don’t know why you were hurting, but I’ve let go of the need to know. I will honor your legacy through doing what you love; story-telling, I wrote this book for you. Thank you for ever loving me.