I do not remember my 14th birthday that well. I remember we took only a few pictures. Two of my friends came over and spent the night, we ate the same cake we always did when it was one of our birthdays. I don't even remember what I got for my birthday...
The days were a bit fogged up, to be honest. I was in and out of school because of my being sick. I remember that Saturday when everything changed from calm to the speed of sound, a spiral of colorless breath and some of those characters in the Japanese film we watched that night would swirl around me in a suffocating, blinding manner, which left me rather speechless. That month my father had bought us some set of channels for our TiVo, I remember it was only six channels but compared to the four we used to have, it was semi-heaven for me and my sister. I woke up to find my sister downstairs watching Disney Channel. We ate soundlessly at the little table in the living room, a bit of sleep still residing in both of our young heads. She was 11 and at this time of year it seemed to me as though I was actually older than I really was since the two year difference between us seemed like three in numbers. Hannah Montana was on, I'd never seen an episode of it before but soon decided it wasn't really my thing, after the Bone Dance or whatever that instantly gave Miley an A in Biology... But in some ways it was so bad that it was good, and besides, it was a great way of killing time. And brain cells, lots of brain cells.
I was anxious to get into town because the September issue of Vogue had just been released in our country. It had Keira Knightley on the cover and, as it was my habit those days, I bought it instantly just because of her. I was nearly glowing of permanent happiness when I walked out the bookstore but what I saw just there and then, even though it was far away and half made up, pulled my shoulders down low. My mother and father, walking in circles in the midst of all those people, my father with his hands behind his neck and my mother with hers on her hips. I knew their body language well enough to tell something was off, their faces bearing a bit of anger and shame in them, especially my mother's.
If one could it with their eyes that is exactly what I would have done with my Vogue as I sat in our car, building after building flying by. I'd never gotten nauseous in the car whilst reading so I used my multitasking skills again as I discussed something with my father while reading the interview on page 200 and something. I was only halfway through the magazine --- I skipped some parts but then shuffled back, not reading it in order at all --- when we got home and I almost hit my head on the doorframe because my eyes were on the text and glossy pictures. I sat down on the sofa in our living room and read through the rest of it, flipping through it once or twice once I was done reading, just to review the pictures and advertisements. I have thing for colors and light. I was at the last few pages again when my parents walked into the room together, as far apart from each other as they could have been but at the same time chained by their ankles and wrists. "We need to tell you girls something," they said to my sister and I while she was still settling herself on the sofa. A long silence came next and my naive mind went through all our relatives, the oldest ones who could have died, the ones who were sick. I flipped through some names of friends with my in-head phone book. "Your mother and I have decided to divorce," my father said so very slowly it seemed as if half his face had become crippled. I could feel teeny tiny papercuts wrap around my heart and my lungs, basically cutting through every internal organ. I felt so ill. I felt disgusted. I turned my head away instantly, set the magazine down. To tell you the truth it would have touched me a lot less had it been a dead relative instead. This was a dead family. I choked down my rage and ran upstairs with my magazine, and since my door couldn't be locked I sat down in front of it. I still have that magazine. It has been untouched for almost four years now. I remember every picture, every word. I remember the magazine better than the actual emotions that roamed through my bones that night. My little body was full of needles and and craving, an emptiness that needed to be let out instead of filled up again. I remember the wooden stairs underneath my bare feet. And no matter how hard I try I cannot forget. I have stitched it all up but it has caused my heart to mutate. I will remain ill. I will remain disgusted. Until something, someone... Just takes it away.
