The Blue Devil

6-10-25

Dear Diary,

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I haven’t felt the need to write anything in a long time. My distant relative, Tennessee Williams, was once asked why so many great writers come from the South. His answer was superficial at best- very uncharacteristic of him. However, I know exactly what he wanted to say now- it’s because of the pain. Haunted memories of torture and agony seep into every nook and cranny of this region. Trauma is the South’s most addictive stimulant, especially for writers. Maybe that’s why I have finally decided to put my aching thoughts to paper- because I’m staying the summer at my parents’ house in my hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee.

I’ve begun to babble- one of my more uncouth traits. All of that unneeded explanation to say, I’ve felt the incessant and pervasive need to uncover my anxious mind-ramblings ever since I arrived last weekend. Mom has been her flimsy, insubstantial self. She is one of those annoying people that always have something to say, but never listen. Dad says it’s because of her racing and clouded brain. It very well may be- the blue devil does like to torment our family. However, I have no sympathy for those who struggle, have plentiful knowledge and opportunities, and don’t attempt to help themselves. I have been the victim of too many violent outbursts and stifling meltdowns to think anything else.

I met a fascinating and peculiar character last night. Her name was Hazel. She is a dainty and rare individual, with dark, brown eyes that smouldered like a bonfire at midnight and the sweetest face. Her scent mixed of cigarettes and vanilla- an inviting and intoxicating aroma that had my thoughts wandering and mouth salivating. I couldn’t be around her for longer than a minute without blushing like a mad school-girl. With a voraciousness and confidence that could only manifest after a few alcoholic beverages, I asked her on a coffee date. Me!! Ask another female on a date?! I was extremely surprised by myself.

Speaking of the inhibitions granted by a certain beverage, Sarah and I fell into a battle of limbs, so to speak. I shouldn’t have kept going- I should have told her to stop. Our friendship has been one of the greatest blessings in my life. Now I feel like it’s been totally ruined.

Mary Williams flinched as a droplet of water splattered on her journal. She sighed heavily and collected her belongings from the graveyard below. Mary glanced ruefully at her ancestor’s, James White’s, headstone behind her. There was something cathartic and spiritual about writing in her journal at the cemetery- an unspoken bond that was enriched between her and her relatives with each stroke of the pen. She got up from her seated position in the grass and flung the blanket she had brought over her shoulder. A faint buzz was heard in her back pocket, barely perceptible. It was if her phone was sheepishly trying to ignore whatever had woken it from its slumber. Mary started walking slowly back to the fort, where her car was parked. Her friends would scoff and nervously chuckle at watching her so lackadaisically return to the place of the horrifying event that had happened not even forty-eight hours ago, but Mary had never been one to scare easily. If the spirits had something to tell or show her, the frontierswoman in her would not back away.

6-11-25

Dear Diary,

It’s curious how fickle the human heart can be. I had been increasingly distraught and embarrassed over the whole situation with Sarah, but a small chat with Hazel changed my bleak outlook to a gleeful one in no time at all! Our date was nothing special- no lustful or suggestive glances or gestures. No hand-holding or kisses at the door. We just dove deep into conversation. It was the type of interaction that leaves you breathless and wanting more. It was the kind of chat that made you believe in soulmates. Hazel asked the typical questions about my background and current interests, as did I with her. Her eyes gleamed in wild ecstasy as I talked about my Uncle Tom and Aunt Rose. “Your family history is like a writer’s wet dream!” she said lightly, her tight curls bouncing up and down as she laughed. My face fell slightly- I hate talking about my family’s past (especially about my aunt, whom she seemed oddly infatuated with). Hazel noticed my uncomfortable and awkward silence, wisely acknowledging that it was best to move on to other topics.

Our conversation flowed into a spirited explanation of our current and past writing projects. I shared some of my favorite poems that I had committed to paper recently, and explained the premise of my new novel- a sapphic romance/fantasy book with themes of good/evil, the supernatural, spirituality, and obviously LOTS of smut. Hazel beamed in enchantment, exclaiming, “I can’t wait to read the completed story! It sounds so intriguing.” This statement sent a chill of excitement and longing down my spine and straight to my toes. It was a promise of the next meeting.

In less arousing news, Jason has been arrested, again. Yes, journal, again. He refuses to take his medication, which he says makes him feel agitated and restless. His crime was petty- a simple shop-lifting excursion for deodorant. His case manager told Mom to send him back to jail, where he could be properly taken care of and supervised. “Taken care of,” my ass. He’ll be alone, scared, and revert to the only thing he knows- the schizophrenic rantings and ravings of a damaged and hurting mind. I’m conflicted on a number of levels. On one hand, his reckless actions have caused more suffering for poor Tom and Mimi. On the other hand, I seem to be the only person in the family who thinks we aren’t getting the full picture. He clearly needs a new care team and possibly a different diagnosis. Medication, despite what the incoherent ramblings of my mother would want me to believe, is designed to help you. Not cause more agony. I want to go visit him and see his state for myself.

Mary quickly closed her journal as her mother sauntered into the living room. “What terrible secrets are you hiding this time, Mary,” she muttered defensively, “Telling the whole world about how broken and useless I am?” Mary closed her eyes, attempting to calm her anger before saying something she would regret later. “Just musing about my date and the whole Jason situation. I barely mentioned you at all.” she sighed tiredly, as if speaking to an irritating toddler. Her mother barked a dry, unconvinced laugh and began to scurry around the kitchen. “Your father hid my cigarettes again.” Mom accused bitterly, scanning through drawers and cabinets desperately. Because you don’t need them, Mary thought sharply. She had planned to say that inside her head, but her Mom’s self-righteous glare and indecent cry signaled that Mary had accidentally said that aloud. “Don’t start with me, little miss. As if I don’t know about your marijuana and mushroom addiction. It’s a shame- for a teacher of small children to be indulging in such depravity!” Mom yelled, pointing a shaking finger at her daughter.

Mary had many things that she wanted to say. She wanted to spew venom and hurtful, damning vitriol back at her mother until the latter ran away crying. However, Mary thought of how upset that would make her father and baby sister, which slowly calmed her tumultuous rage. “I’m not having this discussion with you, Mom. Not when it will just end in a fight.” she stated firmly, rushing to her room and slamming the door behind her before her mother could bite back.

6-17-25

Dear Diary,

Sarah still hasn’t called or texted me. Poor Laura is caught in the middle, trying furtively to repair our fractured friendship. I yearn to return to New Orleans- where there is no family drama or breakups. The only highlight in my life right now is Hazel. I finally broke down and explained all of the events that had occurred recently. She was a godsend- holding me to her chest as I bawled and screamed. Hazel didn’t offer words of comfort or silly, meaningless promises. She just sat in the agony with me and helped stitch my shattered soul back together. Hazel thought it was a bad idea, considering how fragile and weak I was, but that was the first night we shared a bed together. And we have continued to do so ever since. Mostly at her apartment, never at my parents’ home, sometimes at the fort (sorry, Uncle Edward), and often at the cemetery.

My dreams of late have recently turned to hellish nightmares. The same figure from before haunts my every step, whether conscious or not. Hazel, Sarah, and Laura are the only ones that know about the raven mocker- even though I think my uncle highly suspects it. It continuously calls to me, sadistically cooing covenants of revenge and never-ending torture. Hazel recommended that we have a seance in order to speak with my ancestors and gain whatever knowledge I could, but I am extremely wary. The raven mocker has not been the only voice summoning me in the darkness. My Uncle Tom and Aunt Rose have been protecting and guiding me as best they can- and warning me. “Some of our ancestors are not so benevolent. They would rather throw you to the beast than save your life.” I heard my uncle say.

I went to visit Jason the other day. I have never seen him so despondent. I asked him to explain his side of the story- and the answer sent me into a panic immediately. He said the blue devil told him to do it, and that it would punish him if he disobeyed.