Dear Chiara Grace, from Chiara Grace

Dear Chiara Grace, 

When I first read the prompts for this week’s contest, I didn’t know what to do. Not because I was short on ideas, but quite the contrary. Each prompt sparked in me different ideas. Being controversial in my writing allows me to free on paper those ideas I could never speak out loud. I thought to myself that this was the theme for me. But the time to decide which prompt to choose and to elaborate came. I was driven towards writing a story about old friends that meet one another after a long time. But there it was, the third prompt, calling to me like a Siren that calls to a sailor. It screamed my name. It told me, or better, it begged me to tell my story. My own. Our own. Because what other story could describe better the feeling of learning and accepting the fact that you are different from what your younger self wanted you to be, if not mine? If not ours? We are the perfect example of what the prompt is asking. But there is a storm inside me, always consuming my energy. Will it calm down when I’m going to be finished writing? Or will it get worse? Am I going towards salvation or destruction? I wouldn’t know. But I’m willing to gamble. 

I will write this, because as my Italian teacher once told me, stories on paper are not written in ink but in the blood of those who write the words. I will write this, because our story does not belong in the “untold” category. I will write this, because whether it will help or worsen the storm, it will make me feel somewhat accomplished. I will write this, because I owe it to the little Chiara Grace that still lives in my memories. I will write this, because she, you, the younger me, deserves it. So this is for you, me.

Our story begins way before our birth. It actually starts the day our older brother, Marcello, died during our mother’s premature delivery. I don’t actually know if he was already dead when the doctors inducted the birth or if he ever breathed, but I won’t dare ask my parents. Firstly, because I know that that wound is still open and painful in mum’s heart. And secondly, because I know that knowing if he took even one single small breath would completely and utterly destroy me. I don’t even know if it would be a good or a bad destruction, but it would still be destruction. And I don’t need that. I need redemption. 

Why did our story start there, with Marcello? For you, my little Chiara Grace, he is just the big brother you play with when no one else is around. But for me, oh for me, he’s many things. Oh darling, you can’t even imagine how much I would pay to be you again, to laugh with Marcio and think nothing of it. You see, I say that you think nothing of it, because you really do. “Everyone has an imaginary friend, I have one too. Simply, it’s not a random friend but it’s my big brother” I can hear you, me, us say that. It really started like that. Only thing, my ingenious kid, normally people stop seeing their imaginary friend at the age of six. Normally. But we, and you won’t be happy to hear this, are not normal. At all. We still see him, we still hear him, we still talk to him, we still feel him. Yeah, none of that is typical. It’s weird. It’s mad stuff, and not in the mad-cool-stuff way. In the we-need-psychiatric-help kind of way. Plus, we don’t play with Marcello anymore. I fight our demons with him beside me. My demons, you know nothing about them. These demons are called Mr. Depression, Miss Anxiety and Mrs. Suicidal Thoughts. Don’t look at me that way, you little girl. I know you’re scared and disappointed but somebody had to tell you. I know, I suck at this whole being-alive thing. I am sorry. But it’s the way it goes, you know? It’s the way God planned our life has to go. And do not roll your eyes at me, young lady. You never really believed in him, I know. But I do. I trust Him. And I have devoted my life to His cause. Not what you had in mind for us: we’re not an actress, nor a dancer, nor an astronomist. No. We are a writer. A writer whose goal is to send God’s love message in what she writes. The disappointment in your face breaks me a little, but what can I do? This is what I am, what we are, on earth to do. You don’t accept it? I don’t care. I accept it. I fought so hard to understand what my place is in this world. So now that I know it, I won’t be in denial because of what you want. I refuse to be a slave of my own memories any longer.

Here’s a thing, you are a prick. You come into my memories and pretend to be listened, when all you are screaming is that I am not who I should be, and therefore that I failed you. I did not. I failed nothing. I changed, I grew up, I found myself. If anything, you have failed me. So let’s make a path, darling: you stop bothering my memories and get to terms with who I am now, and I will make sure me and Marci will kill the demons that don’t let us be happy. This way, maybe, in ten years time, future Chiara Grace will write us a letter to update us. And maybe, just maybe, we will have a happy life. And I don’t care if it wonìt be like you and me wanted it, as long as it is like future us will want it. If she will be happy, I’m going to be happy for her. That will  be my job as a memory. 

Earlier I apologised, but truly I am not that sorry. What had to happen, happened. So let it be it. I have come to terms with who I am today. You should too. 

Love you always and forever,

Chiara Grace.

P.S.: The storm is still strong, but the wind of self-hate calmed down a little.