Page 92 of Wild Side
I’ll reassess after that. But for now, I feel responsible for something a lot bigger than me.
I suppose this is as good a place as any to start.
How the hell do people sign off from a journal entry? This feels very juvenile.
Whatever,
Erika
I snort at theWhateversign-off. It’s pure Erika, holding two middle fingers up to the universe. There’s a sadness in the entry, but also… hope. She’s hooked me, and maybe I shouldn’t be reading these, but I can’t stop myself. It’s not like she can come back from the dead and kick my ass for going through her diaries like she would have when we were kids.
So I carry on.
The first journal details her pregnancy, her internal battles throughout, thedemons in her headthat just never quite let up. It makes me realize that using was never buried at the back of her mind. It was an urge that sat right on her shoulder, and she battled it so fucking hard.
My eye sockets feel full reading about it, and my nose tingles when she recalls wanting painkillers during her labor but refused to ask. Even in childbirth, she fought.
The second journal chronicles her life with a newborn, the way Milo gave her a new lease on life. She still addresses the universe and signs off withWhatever, but there’s a brightness in these entries—which she writes with perfect dedication and regularity. I can see right before my eyes that motherhood has made her a more reflective person.
There’s something about becoming a parent that has given me a new and profound understanding of my own parents. Suddenly, I appreciate the things they’ve done for me. The sacrifices they’ve made for me seem a lot bigger than they did before Milo.
I hate to admit it, but I can understand why they cut contact with me. I think I’ve broken their hearts irreparably (over and over again), and now I carry a guilt that I never did before.
One day, I hope I can repair what I broke, but as it stands, I’m too embarrassed to face them. Instead, Tabby does it for me. I can tell she’s fucking pissed at our parents, but she still faces them on my behalf, acting as the go-between so that Milo can have grandparents in his life.
As a mom, I feel bad for her too. It makes me realize she’s played this role in our lives for years now. The carrier pigeon. The eternal sunshine—even though I know she’s a scrappy little bitch at heart.
Tabby is loyal as hell. I don’t think there’s anything I could do that would make her abandon me. And that knowledge is both reassuring and… infuriating? I don’t know if I deserve that kind of dedication. She’s just so damn good—so reliable—that I almost feel small next to her, even when she’s helping me. It’s that I look even worse in her shadow. Shiny versus tarnished.
Maybe I’m jealous.
I wish I could have been more like Tabby.
I feel like I’ve swallowed something sharp as my throat works to digest her words. This is what I get for reading her journals—the knowledge that she both admired and appreciated me while simultaneously begrudging and envying me. And what’s more hilarious is that I don’t think anyone would accuse me of beingsunshine. I’m matter-of-fact, and I get shit done.
But I never considered that she may have felt as though I was marching in some superiority parade by helping her. I just did what needed to be done to support her.
I did what needed to be done to keep her alive.
I wanted her to live as if my own life depended on it.
And I still failed.
I ignore the twisting sensation in my gut and the thickness in my throat as I read ahead. She recounts sleepless nights and exhausted days when she knew one hit would give her a high she desperately needed. But then she talks about Milo’s button nose and the way he smiles at her, and how it would give her the boost she needed.
She talks about me, and it makes me smile.
Tabby is a godsend—even if she is a bit of a micromanager. I think without her I’d die from exhaustion rather than addiction. I don’t think many people know the love of a sister the way that I do. One day, I’ll work up the nerve to tell her how much I appreciate her.
I sniffle as I read the passages. Happy sniffles, but no tears. In this phase, it seems like she has more good days than bad. Somehow, even her handwriting looks cleaner—stronger.
When I flip open the third journal, my eyes home in on Rhys’s name, and I slam it shut as I shimmy in my seat. A nervous flutter in my stomach has me pulling my feet up to sit cross-legged as I tug the blanket tighter around my shoulders. Rhys has sworn there was nothing between them, but there’s always a voice of doubt in my head that constantly questions if trusting him is smart. One I’ve been ignoring.
Anticipation and dread braid together and wrap around my throat as I open the journal once again to read something I may not want to know.
Dear Universe,
Excited to report that I have found a beautiful new place to live. Emerald Lake, technically a small city. It’s big enough to feel different from home, and still tiny enough to be cozy. It’s clean, and safe, and unlike anywhere I could have imagined for myself. For the first time in a long time, I feel proud of myself. I feel like all my hard work and all the right choices I’ve made are finally paying off.
