The Little Purple Book

Warning: This story contains themes and mentions of childhood trauma, mental health, physical abuse and sexual violence against a minor, and self-harm.

“My childhood was pretty normal,” I said to Jas, echoing the same words I’ve shared with all my past girlfriends.

As I lay on her lap, she gently ran her fingers through my hair, soothing me. We were engrossed in a lively conversation, occasionally glancing at the movie playing in the background, which we had already seen.

“Nothing noteworthy?” she questioned.

I paused, allowing myself a moment or two to contemplate. I couldn’t think of anything remarkable. Growing up, I had the unfortunate experience of having two parents who were openly homophobic. I struggled to make friends, particularly because of my reputation as a nerd. As the only child in my family, I had all the attention to myself. Being a lonely child, I spent most of my time lost in books and daydreams. There was nothing particularly interesting or special about that.

I shook my head, and I could feel the warmth of her thighs pressed against my cheeks.

Over the years, the majority of my girlfriends had unquestioningly believed me. They had all grown up with ordinary, uneventful childhoods. Jas, on the other hand, remained unconvinced and did not trust my words.

Another frequently asked question by my potential partners was, “What makes the purple book so special?” Jas had yet to asked the question, but her constant glances at the book in my back pocket made it clear that her curiosity was piqued.

In my tiny hands, the little purple book was a miniature version of its former self, once large and imposing. The story my mom used to read to me before everything went south was about a magical school, and as she read, I could almost smell the musty pages of ancient spellbooks and hear the distant laughter of students in the hallways.

It was an average book back then, blending in with the rest on the shelf. Despite its actual size of 24x20 cm, in my young hands, it appeared gigantic. While the other kids held onto their blankets and snuggled with their teddy bears, I sought refuge in the world of my purple book. Placing it under my pillow would instantly transport me to a different dimension, a realm where dreams come alive. The voices around me became distant and muffled, as if they were from a completely different universe, while the world around me slowly dissolved. As I entered the new realm, the words on the pages transformed into a tangible existence, and I discovered I had become a witch, with the power to make all my troubles disappear.

Other details from my childhood–it’s all a blur.

My memories were filled with the haunting presence of pain, suffering, misery, and fear. Throughout the day, the sound of pounding echoed in the air, while during the night, unwelcome touches became a disturbing presence. Yet, they existed only as a faint echo, devoid of the vividness that comes with a genuine memory. If my childhood memories were paintings, then the images of my childhood that have stayed with me were like faded purple brushstrokes of people without distinct features and landscapes devoid of vitality.

One day, Jas pointed to the purple book and asked, “What’s the story behind it?”

“It’s my favorite book,” I said with a forced smile, hiding the truth that it wasn’t my favorite at all.

“What’s it about?”

“I don’t remember.”

Wherever I went, this book went with me, its pages filled with memories and stories that shaped my existence. The small purple book felt smooth and velvety in my hands. It nestled perfectly into the pocket of my jeans, and I found it convenient to have it within reach at all times. Without exception. It served as a constant reminder of the person I had become, contrasting with who I once was. I think.

When Jas went home that night, I sank into the couch, feeling the weight of the little purple book in my pocket. I took it out. Can it be true that I have absolutely no recollection of what it’s all about? The true motive behind why I held onto it had eluded my memory.

The purple cover caught my eye, its surface rough and grainy like sand, bearing the marks of age, yet possessing an undeniable allure. I couldn’t help but think of my childhood as I looked at it, evoking a sense of familiarity and innocence. Memories came rushing back, each one tinged with shades of deep purple. The world around me was a vibrant sea of purple.

From a young age, I had to navigate the challenges of having parents who were intolerant of my sexuality. The emptiness settled in my heart, a heavy burden, as I faced the realization that there was no one to share my secrets with during the dark days and long nights. Oddness emanated from me, like a subtle, unplaceable scent. I was a nerd, always seen with thick-rimmed glasses and a stack of books in my arms. Growing up as an only child, I constantly felt suffocated by the constant, undivided attention from my parents. During recess, I sat on the bench, listening to the laughter and shouts of other children as they played. There was nothing particularly remarkable or memorable about that.

Each passing season seemed to erase a bit more of the memories from my childhood, until they became distant whispers in my mind. Was that considered ordinary? As time passes, memories tend to diminish and become less distinct.

After Jas disappeared from my life, her image began to blur and fade, until she became nothing more than a faint echo of the past. My last girlfriend was so similar to the people I grew up with that it felt like I was reliving my childhood through her. And then, the details of her began to blur in my recollection, leaving behind a vague impression.  

“I don’t remember.”

I love this book because of the profound impact it has had on my life. It felt like a breath of fresh air, a much-needed escape from reality. With just a few seconds, one can transport themselves into a whole new world.

In the past, when Jas and I were dating, it was not as tiny as it is now. The book was of a standard size. Despite its appearance as a typical novel, however, it held within its pages a story unlike any other.

There are times when I question whether the book’s content shifted over the years, or if it was solely its outward presentation that altered. Could it have been a genuine children’s book during my innocent 6-year-old days, a relatable story during my tumultuous teenage years, and a captivating YA novel in my 20s? What about now? Is the witch in the story portrayed as a victim of history and religion, or does the narrative primarily focus on adult fantasy elements? Does the story evoke a feeling of sorrow or sadness, reminiscent of my childhood?

With each passing year, the book appeared smaller and smaller to me. It shrunk to the point where it could easily fit in my pocket. It gradually shrank in proportion to the shrinking of my memories. With the loss of my childhood memories, this book feels smaller, as if it has lost its weight and significance.

I wondered if my inability to remember things was a result of my tendency to look away whenever they occured. I detached from my physical form and fixated on the little purple book.

With each page she turned, Jas’s aggression intensified, causing her to unleash her fury on me, using the book as a weapon and eventually resorting to her fists. My gaze remained fixed on the small purple book, until the world around me faded away, leaving only a sea of purple in my sight. The memory of Jas is now tied to the color purple, and it floods my mind whenever I think of her. And them. The vibrant hue of purple was scattered everywhere that day. The book cover, the walls, her clothes–all were covered in a vibrant splash of purple. As her anger poured out, I could feel the warm, thick purple liquid trickling down the cut on my temple.

Every day, I carry my little purple book in my pocket, its faded pages a cherished reminder of my childhood dreams. The dreams I used to escape into were vibrant and full of life. Though they weren’t consistently kind and comforting; occasionally, they were dark and unsettling. The haunting beating and touching would often find their way into my nightmares. And that would cause me to involuntarily urinate during sleep, resulting in additional morning violence and heightened evening intimacy.

The details of their faces have become hazy and forgotten. The details of my old room elude me, but I can still recall the presence of this little purple book on my nightstand. It served as a source of solace amidst painful moments.

Intrigued by the transformation of the little purple book through the years, I carefully positioned it on the coffee table before me and locked my eyes onto its cover. It gazed back at me. It beckoned me. Pleading with me to read it. Following a prolonged internal argument, I ultimately took hold of it, opened a page at random, and promptly threw it across my living room without reading any further. Although I only glimpsed a random page, I saw something that shouldn’t have been possible. Something along the lines of Dear Diary. Obviously, it was foolish of me to have read that. The book with a purple cover was about a witch attending a school of witchcraft. It was my favorite book, but also, it wasn’t my favorite book. The only thing I had left of a less-than-happy childhood was this little purple book.

Restlessly, I paced around the house, the sound of my footsteps reverberating off the walls.

The little purple book, with its worn pages and faded cover, held the key to a magical world that would come alive in the stillness of the night. The little purple book, with its gentle words and comforting pages, was my only source of solace in the face of pain and loneliness. The little purple book became my lifeline, helping me navigate and make sense of the world around me. In a childhood that was a peculiar blend of ordinariness and turmoil, the little purple book provided solace as my only friend.

I decided to pick up the little purple book, flipping through its pages.

Dear Diary,

With each page I turned, the book in my hands underwent a magical transformation, shrinking in size but expanding in its captivating story. As I watched in disbelief, the pages of the book multiplied rapidly, until I found myself clutching a diary, its familiar weight comforting in my hands. It was a small, purple diary that I had no recollection of ever owning.

ungrateful

slut

good girl

you never ask about me

you only care about yourself

don’t tell your mom

don’t tell your dad

bruises

I wish I was dead

selfish

I wish you were dead

pain

blood

bruises

cuts

can’t breathe

the beating during the day

I’m doing this because I love you so much

bruises

the touching during the night

I’m doing this because I love you so much

I shut the little purple diary, my hand shaking. Overwhelmed by the weight of its words, I hurled it across the room, the sound of its impact echoing through the air. To my surprise, as it landed, the diary transformed into a small, compact purple book that could easily fit in my pocket.

Leaving the confines of my apartment, I was immediately greeted by the intense heat of the sun, its rays leaving my skin flushed and tinged with a purplish hue.

I’m doing this because I love you so much

Without warning, a perplexing itch emerged on my purple arm. No matter how much I scratched, the itch persisted, tormenting me with its relentless presence. I clenched my fist, digging my nails into my skin, desperately trying to strip away the outer layer and expose the vivid purple blood flowing underneath.

The weight of unwanted memories hit me all at once, and my scars seemed to echo the pain I had long tried to forget.

My feet bear the scars of my own doing, where I mercilessly cut and ripped away patches of flesh. On my heel. Between my toes. Anywhere I could find. Wearing socks all the time has become a habit for me. The purpose is not to hide the scars from the world, but rather to shield the memories from resurfacing in my mind.

Their actions caused me harm, and in response, I ended up harming myself without understanding why.

And now, a sharp pain shot through my arm.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” a concerned stranger inquired, their gaze locked on my arm covered in scratches.

“It’s the little purple book,” I said. “Just like before, it has changed.”

“Your arm... Should I call an ambulance?”

“You know what?” I said, my voice filled with excitement. Ideas flooded my mind, spinning through my thoughts in a whirlwind. “I think we should set it ablaze.”

“The-the book?” they stammered, their eyes widening in disbelief.

“No,” I cried out. “My arm.”

In a rush, both of us began hastily digging through our pockets, hoping to find what we were looking for. While searching for a lighter, I noticed the stranger pulling out their phone and dialing a number. I wondered if it was my mom they were calling. Did her whispers and punishments carry judgment, condemning me for the sin of seducing my own father at the age of six? My father. Oh, dear. Were they trying to reach my father?

I paused my pocket search, quickly surveyed my surroundings, and then forcefully pushed the stranger onto the street. They had a moment of imbalance, but quickly regained their stability. Before they could talk to my parents on the phone, I quickly dashed around the block and into my apartment building.

I’m doing this because I love you so much

As I entered my apartment, my eyes were drawn to the little purple book, sitting silently on the floor, its torn, weary spine a testament to the years that had gone by.

“Tell me about the purple book.”

“It’s my favorite book.”

“What’s it about?”

“I do not remember.”

My fingers instinctively reached out and grasped it, and as I lifted it up, I found myself captivated by its beauty. The book I held in my hand was compact, with a nondescript purple cover. Curiosity led me to flip open the book to a random page, but to my surprise, it was completely blank, offering no glimpse into its contents. As I flipped through the pages, my eyes registered nothing but empty white paper. As I close it and open it once more, a mesmerizing drawing of a witch on a broomstick captured my attention, symbolizing her escape from the town that had wronged her. As she took flight, the distant laughter and harsh words of the people she left behind faded into the wind.

In that moment, I finally recalled everything.

As I slid the little purple book into the back pocket of my jeans, a wave of nostalgia washed over me, recalling the comforting sound of mom’s voice reading this story to me before I drifted off to sleep. This book holds a special place in my heart. This book has always been my favorite.