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Enid sat on her bed, knees tucked to her chest, covers pulled up to her chin. Some sad, unidentifiable song—one Wednesday had played on the cello once—played on repeat in her head.
She had a journal tucked between her arms and her chest. A pink, sparkly thing that she had bought for five dollars at a gas station in hopes of processing her emotions. It didn’t work the way she wanted it to. Maybe it was useless, at least for her, to write everything out. It worked for Wednesday, though. That girl had the schedule of an eighty-year-old woman—straight-laced and disciplined—with the way she dedicated an hour out of every day to write. And it wasn’t silly little thoughts either; it was a full-blown novel. Enid felt jealous, she would admit, but she knew she would never actually want to write like Wednesday if given the chance.
With a soft thunk, she dropped her head onto her knees. The journal (still empty) slipped and fell into her lap. She ducked her head under the blanket and stared at it. She twirled the pen between her fingers. But they were cold, and the pen slipped from her grasp and fell onto the journal’s shiny cover with a clatter. To keep it safe, she stuck the end of the pen in her mouth.
Would it change anything? She didn’t feel like writing. But not writing in a journal felt stupid.
She breathed around the plastic and stared at the empty pages. She thought they looked lonely.
It was like when Wednesday came home with every possible injury under the sun. A few days ago, she had come back with blood on her shirt and dark, ink-like stains under her eyes. And now, Enid found herself staying up a little longer, waiting and waiting to see if Wednesday needed anything when she returned to their dorm room. She was concerned, not gonna lie. Concern was a primary emotion.
Last night had been the same. Wednesday came in (five hours after curfew) with blood-stained on her jaw and dark streaks under her eyes, looking utterly pissed at the world. Without thinking, Enid jumped up, torn between anger and concern. She decided on concern. It was a primary emotion after all. She asked Wednesday how she was doing, trying to seem less concerned and more upset. And when Wednesday told her she was fine while wiping blood from her jaw (Enid could smell that it was Wednesday's too), no less, Enid scolded her. Harshly.
Even if Wednesday had said she was fine, she walked (stiffly) to the bathroom to get ready for bed after gathering her pajamas. Enid watched her silently, more than aware of the limp in her walk and how tenderly she had spoken with what must have been a hurt jaw or something like it (the blood was blatant evidence).
I’m trying to understand myself, she had written. Then, she left a few blank pages in case she decided to go back and add in more. If she ever figured it out. If she ever understood herself.
Closing the journal, Enid set it aside, aware that the words held more than she could have imagined. In the absence of what she expected to write, she found what she didn’t know. Herself apparently. That should have been enough, right?
Enid tried.
Started over.
Started over.
Started over.
Again and again.
A letter shouldn’t have been this hard. It was a letter, or a poem - whatever came first.
She knew what she wanted to say. Right?
To Mom,
Dear Mom,
If you ever did apologize
For treating my friends with more kindness than you ever showed me
For sending me to my room without dinner and locking the door every time I had outbursts
Dear Mom,
Even though you said you loved me,
You only truly loved me when I met your standard.
No matter what I did for you,
You’d still find reasons to make me feel like I’m not enough,
and never take the time to see the effect.
Dear Mom,
I was always made out to be the financial burden,
made to feel bad for spending money on my basic needs.
If you ever apologize
to me
—not my brothers—
You only ever apologized to them for stupid things
like forgetting to pack their lunches or taking away their screens.
Dear Mom,
You had a shitty childhood (I think, you don’t really talk about it)
But that doesn’t give you any right to use your victim complex against me.
Every time I start feeling bad for what you went through,
you find a way to remind me you never tried to be better.
Dear Mom,
You come into my room:
"I'm sorry for yelling at you."
I say nothing because I do not forgive you.
You sit next to me:
"Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?"
No, no, I am not.
Dear Mom,
I want to scream at you to the point you can feel the pain you put me through.
Dear Mom,
When someone doesn’t want to tell me what I did wrong,
and suddenly I’m 10, wondering what I did to make my mom mad at me again.
I was not ok.
And I needed you.
I needed you, and you said I did it for attention.
Dear Mom,
I forgave you over and over and over again
because your victim complex reached out for the tiny spark of hope I had left for you.
But every time, the voice in my head begged no.
Dear Mom,
I grew up too fast.
I like being touched,
And I constantly crave affection.
As a child, I didn’t understand—
It was normal for me.
Only later did I start to wake up
to what I’d been through my entire life.
She set her pen down once the ink ran out, deciding fate wanted her to stop. The words were blurry and a little smudged, and if she looked, she knew there would be glittery ink on the side of her hand. She put the pen in a drawer in her bedside table. Even though it was empty, part of her wanted it to have sentimental value (it didn’t now, but maybe if she waited long enough?).
She closed the drawer and almost fell off her bed at the sound of the door opening. She looked up, halfway off her bed, one arm outstretched, and saw Wednesday walk in (no blood this time). She looked over to the clock on Wednesday’s side; one hour and 16 minutes past curfew.
Wednesday paused over the threshold, probably confused at her dangling off her bed. Enid offered her a smile that Wednesday didn’t return, but she got a head tilt and a nod at least.
Pulling herself back onto the bed with a quiet grunt, Enid hurriedly grabbed her journal from where it had fallen. Without fully understanding why, she tucked it under her pillow. Did she really need a reason? She adjusted her pillow and comforter, feeling the weight of the space around her settle. With Wednesday back, the bathroom light was on, and she could hear small rustles coming from beneath the door before the sound of the shower commenced. Enid found herself staring towards the door longer than necessary—at least for an outsider. But she was reminding herself that Wednesday was home, that she was safe.
Enid pulled her comforter over her shoulders. The fabric was soft yet heavy, a comfort in itself. With a small sigh, she slid her arm under her pillow, feeling the firm press of her journal beneath it. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but it felt right.
Even in the silence, she felt less alone. So she stared at the wall, arms tucked under herself, and waited until the shower stopped running and the bathroom door opened. All she could hear were the soft rustles of Wednesday: putting her dirty clothes in the hamper, organizing her desk for the next day, fluffing her pillow (it was such a normal thing that Enid wanted to giggle).
Enid’s body relaxed, involuntarily almost, at the sound of Wednesday getting under her covers in that oh-so-strange corpse pose. Enid had tried sleeping in that position once; having the weight of her arms on her chest was nice, but she slept like a rotisserie chicken and woke up sideways with the worst crick in her neck that lingered for hours after she woke up. She was glad it worked for Wednesday, though.
Enid's eyes remained fixated on the wall, tracing the patterns of the shadows and peeling paint. She focused on those small, familiar noises of Wednesday, finally settling down to rest (god knows she needed it).
Eventually, the soft rustling stopped, and a moment later, the gentle click of the lamp being turned off shrouded them in darkness. With Wednesday finally still, Enid let her eyes close, fingers still wrapped around her journal.