Page 94 of Landon & Shay: Part One

I went to my next class, holding the notebook close to my chest, and instead of listening to the teacher, I read Landon’s words over and over again, taking it all in, taking him all in. Then, I returned the notebook to his locker so he could respond to the other questions I left for him. From that point on, we exchanged that notebook back and forth. Reading his replies felt like a special passageway into Landon’s heart, and based on the heaviness of his replies, I knew it meant a lot for him to share such a part of himself with me. I hoped writing was helping him, too, the same way words helped me. Getting one’s thoughts down on paper can make the emotions easier to deal with sometimes. It’s as if the written word is a great escape from being swallowed alive by one’s own mind.

* * *

What’syour favorite time of the year?

Chick,

I love the fall. There’s something magical about watching the leaves shift colors and float down to the ground. It’s like the trees are dying, only to come back to life in a few months. People seem happier around the fall, too. I haven’t really figured out why, but maybe it’s because they know the best holidays are right around the corner. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas…it’s like the trifecta of happiness.

Is it stupid that I love holidays? Mom never travels during the trifecta, so it’s nice to have her around. She takes that holiday shit seriously—especially Christmas. It’s like she’s Mrs. Claus and she expects me to eat every cookie known to mankind. The only problem with that is my mother is a terrible baker. She thinks baking soda and baking powder are the same thing, which is beyond problematic. Still, I eat her nasty cookies because she has the biggest look of pride about the crap.

We sit in front of the table, watch crappy Hallmark movies that are all cliché, but between this notebook and me, I actually kind of like the corny shit, and we fall asleep under the Christmas tree lights.

My mom’s missing my birthday this year.

Still a little sad about that. And by a little, I mean a lot.

For a long time, I felt like she was one of the only people who would never let me down when I needed her the most. But that’s the thing about people, I guess—sometimes they end up letting you down.

Hopefully next holiday season she’ll be around, though.

And I’ll still eat her shitty cookies.

-Satan

* * *

What’syour idea of a perfect day/date with a person?

Chick,

Sex. Smoking-hot, break-the-headboard kind of sex.Is that the answer you were looking for?

If headboard breaking sex isn’t involved, I guess my next idea of a perfect day would be sitting on the sofa, eating pizza, and watching a marathon of Friends. If someone likes the same television show as you, I think that means they are your soulmate.

-Satan

P.S. If you want my first idea of a perfect day to come true, you know where I live. My headboard is quite sturdy, but with enough determination, we could make dreams come true.

* * *

Blank page.Freestyle your thoughts.

Chick,

It’s three in the morning, and I can’t sleep tonight.

There’s a thunderstorm pounding against the windows and the sound of the thunder is making my head hurt. I hate storms. I hate the way it sounds like it’s drowning me. Of course, that could just be due to the fact that tomorrow is my birthday. I hate birthdays. Not all birthdays, but just my own. I feel like my birthday had been cursed from this point on, seeing how Lance died on that day. I kind of understand my mom running off to Paris. It must all be too hard for her. How can you celebrate a life without mourning a death? I want to hate her for not being here tomorrow, for choosing work over me, but an odd part of me gets it. I don’t know how I’d feel about celebrating a birthday knowing that was the day my brother took his life.

I like to pretend I’d be different, though. I liked to think I’d tell my son or daughter that the world was a better place because they were there. I’d like to think I’d give them words of encouragement to push them into the direction of never blaming themselves. I’d like to think I’d love them the loudest because I knew they’d somewhat hate themselves.

But what do I know? It’s hard to walk in someone else’s shoes when they don’t fit your feet. Maybe my parents are just doing the best they can. Maybe they are just trying to get through each day without falling apart.

I want to hate my uncle, too, for taking his life on my birthday. Though, I don’t think he even knew it was my birthday. By the time he took his life, his mental state was so far gone.

My goal for tomorrow is to just get through it. Nothing more, nothing less.

And then I’ll wait another 365 days to do the same exact thing.

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