C H A P T E R 2 : T H E B L U E E N V E L O P E
~Being depressed is like falling into a black hole that you can not climb out of. Depression is a wound that never heals. A wound in the back of your mind that can’t be touched because it hurts too much. It’s always there and never goes away. Constant pain, a constant reminder. Every thought is a battle, every breath is a war, and you will lose on both fronts if you give it a chance.
Depression is a serious thing but you’re not entirely hopeless. There is hope, there’s a chance to win the battle. You can’t win a battle, let alone a war, on your own, this is precisely why you need your family and friends to help you in a lifelong fight to keep you from sinking. Reach out to others to help you get out of the black hole. You may not be able to climb out alone but you certainly can be pulled out by those people who love you.
I reread the epilogue of my new book, Black Hole, displayed on the screen. It’s a book that I wrote about Sabrina, a girl who lost her father. Instead of facing his own demon, Sabrina's father took his own life in front of his family, scarring his own daughter for life.
Being a non-fiction novelist, most of my stories are about people’s experiences. I collect facts through research and interviews, then retell the stories through books. My stories, in turn, memorialize their contributions in life and highlight their suffering and pain. This way, they shall be remembered and hopefully, their story helps someone along the way, someone who currently faces these difficulties.
At the age of sixteen, Simon and Schuster took a chance on me and published my first book, turning the experience of losing a friend in a car crash into a New York Times bestselling book. Since then I have published four more books with them. The years have been good to me. Life is great. I have a successful career as a writer, I have two loving parents and one little sister whom I adore with all my heart. They are always there for me and constantly supportive of all my work. All in all, despite my independent nature and age, I lead a successful life by anyone’s standards. There’s nothing to complain about.
I tap the send button lightly, sending the manuscript straight to my editor, then stretch my body on the leather chair as I mull over what has happened today. It has been a long day for me. It all started with rereading seventy thousand words that I have written about Sabrina’s story, leaving ticks here and there on parts that I wanted to change, and then tried cleaning the attic out but after rummaging through a few boxes, my back began to protest so I stopped and went back to working on the manuscript again. Now that it is all done, I can finally have more time to finish my house cleaning. The clock on the wall tells me it's seven p.m., just enough time to clean up the boxes scattered all over the living room.
I quickly turn off my computer and walk into the living room through the adjacent door that connects my office to the other parts of my small yet comfortable home.
To be frank, noticing how many boxes are there makes me feel lazy. Yet again, if I’m not going to clean these up, who will? Downside of living alone. I roll up my sleeves and take a deep breath, mentally and physically preparing myself for the task at hand.
God, I have a lot of things to do.
I start by simply separating things that I want to keep from things that I’d like to dispose of.
As music always brought me joy, I turn on some music on my phone. In minutes, I find myself humming along with the note of a beautiful classic directed by the amazing Johann Sebastian Bach.
Time flew when we don’t pay attention to it. It’s close to ten when I finally reach the last box.
This last box, unlike the others, is smaller in size and more colorful on the surface. Carefully, I lift the dusty cap and put it down on the floor as I sit there, cross-legged, on the grey tiled floor. Most of the things inside are letters and correspondences from my family and friends, a bunch of holiday cards, and an old photograph of my sister and me standing in front of our parent's house in Ardmore, Pennsylvania. I take out the photo and put it on the table, reminding myself that I need to find a nice frame to put it on later. I return my focus to the letters, some were poems that I wrote during my teens. I pick up one and begin to read.
“Gosh, I was such a depressed lost soul,” I mutter to myself as I read several lines about how lousy life was for my thirteen-year-old self.
A strange envelope piques my curiosity, I can not remember ever receiving it. The blue color of the envelope reminds me of the summer sky, clear and idyllic. There are no markings or any indication of who the sender is. Intrigued by the discovery, I tear it open.
Before I can pull the content out, a loud noise pierces my ears. The noise comes from the phone on the table. I throw the letters and all the other things back into the box and hurriedly answer the phone.
“Hi, Mom.” I smile as I listen to my mom’s chatter about Adam Levine and Behati’s baby daughter. I plop down on the couch and turn on the TV, changing the channel to E! News and try my best to catch up with her.
This is our daily routine, talking about a celebrity’s life on the phone while watching it in sync, it almost feels like she is right beside me on the couch, sharing popcorn and pointing fingers, instead of miles away.
For quite a while, it makes me forget about the blue envelope.
C H A P T E R 3 : T H E L E T T E RA year later.His name is Toby Sanders. A twenty-five-year-old guy, a successful horror novelist went missing. Everyone thought he was doing his usual research, finding mysteries for his upcoming book.Sadly, it is not the case at all as he turned up dead the next day in the lake one hundred miles outside the city. He suffered two stabs on the back before he was drowned.Believing his story is interesting enough to be written, I run around doing my usual research about his life.I park my car on the side of the road and kill the engine. In front of me is the orphanage where Toby used to live.The headmistress, Sister Cecilia, finally agreed to the interview.At first, she was reluctant to share any details. The latest news about Toby’s tragic death has cause
C H A P T E R 4 : J U L I E TThe people who say you are not facing reality actually mean that you are not facing their idea of reality. Reality is above all else a variable. With a firm enough commitment, you can sometimes create a reality that did not exist before.—Margaret Halsey, No Laughing Matter~“That’s Juliet Matthias and one of our girls.”I look at her in disbelief. I pinch myself to make sure I am not dreaming.Manners are important in our family, so I know I should be more polite, but I can’t help but s
C H A P T E R 5 : M R F I C T I O NHuman memory is a marvelous but fallacious instrument. The memories which lie within us are not carved in stone; not only do they tend to become erased as the years go by, but often they change, or even increase, by incorporating extraneous features.—Primo Levi~No matter how hard I tried, I could not find it. The frame is still empty, and the picture is gone. I bring the cup of tea close to my lips and take a sip.What happened lately is beyond explanation. I cannot tell whether someone is trying to prank me or I simply am unlucky.I pick up the phone and force myself to call my mom. I know that I’m not adopted, but I just want to make sure. I want to have no doubt in my mind that I’m truly my parents’ child. It takes quite a while be
C H A P T E R 6 : A U R E V O I R The truth is rarely pure and never simple. — Oscar Wilde ~ “Who is this?” I grip the phone as though my life depends on it, on the words the man will say next. The man chuckles. “You have been seeking answers.” There is a momentary pause before he continues, “one bit of advice, my love, if you are not ready for the answers you are about to hear, you better not raise the questions. Au revoir mona mi.” Just as fast as the call came, it ends, leaving me staring at my phone, confused. What the hell was that? My hand shakes uncontrollably. I
C H A P T E R 7 : M A S K E D T R U T H No mask like open truth to cover lies, as to go naked is the best disguise. William Congreve. ~ It was around two in the afternoon when I arrived at the orphanage. This time, I did not bring my tape recorder or notebook with me. I came alone solely to obtain answers. The nun who opened the door gives me a curious look. She must have heard about my impertinence the last time I visited with Sister Cecilia. “Hi, good afternoon,” I give her my brightest smile, one that assures her I won’t bite. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?” The nun returns the smile, though I can see the wariness in her eyes. She looks lik
C H A P T E R 8 : T H E H O T , S W E A T Y S E XLust is a pleasure bought with pains, a delight hatched with disquiet, a content passed with fear, and a sin finished with sorrow. Demonax.~In the moonlight I can see the dark gleam of his eyes as he carried my fingers to his lips, very gently kissing each one in turn before sitting up in bed and drawing me down into his arms, into the bed, against his naked, warm, body. I feel my own body start to tremble helplessly in mute response, not just to the feel of his, but to all the memories it evokes.I hear him whispering my name between kisses, repeatedly. Like a refr
C H A P T E R 9 : R E A L I T Y V E R S U S I L L U S I O N Reality is merely an illusion. Albert Einstein ~ “Who are you?” I stare at the stranger in confusion. I know who he is, he was the man in my dream, but I have no idea that he could visit me in reality as well, standing on my porch with a mischievous devil may care smile across his lips. I thought dreams are just fickle of our own imaginations. “My apologies, where are my manners?” he replies, though he does not look sorry at all. “My name is Remliel Deveraux. I believe you are Julie St. Matthews, Katherine’s daughter.” I blink. “You know my mother?” So I have been dreaming about my mother’s friend?? Ew, how gross is that?! “I’m here on her behalf, actually.” He smiles again, yet it still doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s somet
C H A P T E R 1 0 : T H E S T A T E O F M I N D Truth depends upon the intensity of imagination, not upon facts. Neville Goddard. ~ Right after I tried and failed to convince Bob to take on the new story instead of Toby’s, I find myself once again behind the wheel again on the way to the orphanage. I need to gain more information about Juliet Matthias, her life at the orphanage, and where she is right now. I have to prove to Bob that this story is bigger and more interesting than Toby’s.Something, call it writer’s intuition, tells me that the nurse will be helpful in gaining this information. It does not take longer than the previous visit to get to Sister Margaret. It almost feels like she is secretly waiting for me when I see her in her usual spot under the tree in the garden. “Good morning,