After the Blu (Controlling Chaos)

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It’s funny, being back here.

Mom’s house is just like I remember it.

Smells like shit, mess on the countertops.

She’s just like I remember her.

Not to be morbid, but I thought she’d be gone by now. Gone, moved away, residing in some guy’s basement. I mean, she got a job at the gas station, last I heard. The cycle of men is never-ending.

It’s sad, that she never changed.

Grief hits you like that, paralyzes you.

Dad’s gone, her body can’t let go, so her mind’s been behind bars ever since.

I don’t collect her mail anymore, after all, I have my own place in the city. Brick walls, high ceilings, clear skies.

Silence.

You’re probably wondering why I came back home.

Me too.

Stepping foot in the places you leave behind feels wrong, somehow. Like something I buried long ago is breathing again.

But, I have a few things to collect.

Mom’s passed out in the bathtub. She’s fine, she prefers hard porcelain to a mattress. I lift her anyway.

“Who’s there?” Her voice is groggy, needle marks puncturing her wrist. “Who’s there, I say?”

“Beatrice,” but she doesn’t hear me, does she?

I carry her to her bedroom, the stink of half-eaten Chipotle resting on her nightstand.

I pick it up, throw it in the trash, and tuck her in.

Before I close the door, I hear her ask, “Who’s Beatrice?”

And I sigh, “A friend.”

Because that’s all I can say now. She doesn’t remember me, she doesn’t need a daughter – another problem to take care of. So I’ll assist, I’ll make sure she’s alive –

And I’ll continue to live.

I call her sponsor, Davis, and leave a voicemail.

She neglected me, for so long she let me drown in the devastation of losing myself, that I want to hate her.

“Davis, please take care of her, she’s not doing well. I love her.”

I want to hate her.

But I need to love her.

I carry on.

My room is just how I left it. Blue walls, blue sheets. Mom never changed a damn thing. My scent’s floating around, the only perfume I used to wear.

Burberry Her.

“What perfume is that?”

You wouldn’t know it.

“Try me.”

I push away the memory, replace it with something else – the old lady at the supermarket who paid in dimes, the orange stop sign by the McDonald’s on Fifth – I replace it, like I replaced that damn perfume.

Memories, nothing but memories in this fucking place.

I find the box of old memorabilia in the back corner of my closet, sifting through expired makeup and lotion, beaded jewelry that’s been out of style for a decade, and then I see it –

My old diary.

Blu’s Diary.

I smile.

Flipping through this book gives me whiplash.

I was so…

Sad.

Angry.

Difficult.

Burdened.

Broken.

And now –

“God,” I whisper, running my fingers over his name.

Pages, and pages, and pages of him.

“Oh, Blu…” I read:

This man would be mine, whether he knew it or not.

I shake my head, reminiscing.

The pressure I carried to be the girl he wanted was overwhelming and unattainable. I’d broken every part of me trying to fit into that pretty, perfect mold…

Blu, Blu, Blu.

If I only knew then, what I know now, I would’ve never subjected myself to the lowliness of what he offered me.

Painful memories come in a sweep of fire.

You let me.

I wasn’t ready to love you, even though my heart wanted to.

You let me.

I’m selfishly in love with you.

You. Let. Me.

I close the book, feeling a stab of tears push against the floodgates. It’s not easy to revisit the old hurt, feel the feelings you once felt. Like looking at a child version of Beatrice, staring at the broken pieces of Blu, me and Blu – me and Blu – one in the same.

It’s been three years.

Three years since I last felt the touch of him.

Three years and I still remember it.

Three years, and I’m ready to close the book…

But, maybe, not all the way.

My eyes scan the pages, blotched ink over tear marks, the pain of a girl I used to be. It still matters. She still matters.

…

You don’t want to let her go, do you?

…

Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Sadness, fuck, it’s so easy. Stay where it hurts because at least we know it.

It’s torment. Agonizing torment.

But, I know you didn’t open this book with the intention of healing. Hell no, that’d be boring.

You came back to see her again. The old me. The version of me you saw in you.

Of course you miss her. Sometimes, I do too. Fragile, arrogant, bruised – a hopeless romantic, clinging to the idea of love from a boy who could never give it.

You let me.

Blu, oh Blu, I did.

I close my eyes, let the tears fall. Make a wish over my bleeding heart, praying for peace.

“Bea, you found it,” I whisper. And maybe, I have.

But, have you?

…

How about you and me, we start over?

…

I pick up my pen, turn the page –

And start writing.