Water can be very tasty when you are 16.
Especially at 2:45 p.m.
Especially when you are staring at the ceiling for nearly half an hour.
It’s Christmas time: “Merry Christmas!!!” Here and there: “Merry Christmas”, “Merry Christmas”. Like everybody’s gone mad!!! I feel somewhat idiotic about all this stuff: streets full of Santas, toy snowmen in the shop-windows, the stupid smiles all over unfamiliar faces… I feel sick about all this. Wanna run away. Wanna hide from everybody: from parents, friends, teachers, sounds, smells, tastes…from everything. Just sort of escape. To any country, any except mine.
I remember how much I loved decorating the Christmas tree when I was 5, even when I was 13, but not this year, not when I am 16. I don’t feel like it at all.
“You have completely lost your dreams” I tell myself. “You are selfish. How awful!!! You used to have a lot of dreams, but you have none at all now. You used to share the magic of Christmas with your parents and what now? You just slam the door noisily when you come back from school and open it again next morning to leave again”.
Looking at the mirror: Who is this? IS this pale girl me, real me? Where am I?
Then I shout to the mirror: “Come back, where you are hiding?” The girl in the mirror answers “Shut up, this is what YOU made me”.
I have to accept the fact that there isn’t one person in me, no; there are lots of them, nearly 3 or 4 people hiding in me. I even don’t understand how they appeared, but that is fact, I am never left alone with myself, there are several my selves. And they all have different opinions. But returning to myself: the name of the person who has several selves in one is Nina. I am 16. And water is very tasty when it is 2:45 p.m.
This is a difficult night, long night. I can’t sleep. Only drink water, again and again, and go to the balcony: it’s raining. I love rain, but when it is the night between 30th and 31st of December I prefer snow. Really it’s disgusting to have no snow on New Year’s Eve. It’s awful!!! May be that’s one of the reasons for my feeling sick about this Christmas and New Year.
It’s very funny but I’m sitting in a huge sweater and panties, nothing else. It’s really funny, but I can’t write when I have jeans on, or any kind of trousers. I can write only when I have big sweaters or jackets and panties. By the way I forgot to tell you that I am a writer.
“A little correction”, says one of my selves,
“You are NOT a writer. You just WANT to become one”.
“But I write since I am 7!!!”
“That doesn’t mean anything. You are not a real writer. You have not published a single work, which means you are not a real writer”.
“Having not published any work does not mean being nobody.”
“Can you both shut up? I am trying to concentrate!!!”
And this happens all the time. They are always arguing and I can’t feel alone or calm. And plus to these selves, I also imagine my heroes and even talk to them. I can ask them about their favorite film, actor, song, style of clothes etc. You can think I am crazy… wait a min, I AM crazy. Well, the truth is I don’t care what people think of me.
“Yeah? Really? And I wonder who was crying for 2 hours in the bathroom when at the school party Michael told Lizzie that your dress was awful?”
“That was because it said MICHAEL.”
“And what would you say about Annie when she told you that you grew fat? Who was crying at night because of that?”
“OK, OK, OK, I DO CARE FOR WHAT PEOPLE THINK OF ME, happy?”
Oh my God, I’m talking to myself, or…. my selves? I need a doctor. I need a psychologist. I need somebody!!!
“Your only problem is your imaginary, that’s all”
“Can you please be silent FOR JUST A COUPLE OF MINUTES, PLEASE?!”
Tonight I have to finish a story. I HAVE to finish it. Its New Year tomorrow and I need to finish this story; otherwise I won’t be able to write anything during the whole next year. That is my prejudice, and not the only one. I walk to the balcony for a gulp of fresh air. There is a strange feeling which I always feel before finishing a story… I don’t know how to explain, but I will try: it fright mixed with happiness creeping nearer and nearer to my heart. And also a hope: may be this one will be published or will be thought of as a genius story. You know I even talk to dead writers. Most of all I like to talk to Saroyan, sometimes to O. Henry. But I prefer to talk to Saroyan. He is friendlier.
I stare at the blank page. I don’t know what to write, really, I don’t know. I imagine different variants: my heroine, Elaine, dies; runs away; makes a suicide; cuts her hair….. NO, NO, NO and NO. This is all very boring.
“May be I will meet a handsome and rich Mr. Millionaire, eh?” suggests Elaine.
“Oh, not you, stop please, flee from here.”
My relationship with my heroes was very interesting. At first, when I just started to write, I loved all of them and it was like killing me when I killed any of them. But then they became very usual for me and I stopped considering them something special. But one thing is true: they do live; they do exist in my world. Some of them are my friends, some not, but they are dear for me. I can’t finish my story tonight, something is wrong with me, I feel very tired and I want to sleep.
Next morning. Knock on my door. “Nina, come on, sweetheart, come on, you have to wake up: great day today- NEW YEAR!!!!!!”
“Daddy, leave me alone, I don’t want New Year, OK?!”
I know I offended him, but I can’t help. I really want to have fun with them, but I really can’t. So I take my laptop and put on my coat.
“Where are you going?” asked my dad.
“Somewhere where there is no Santa Claus, no Merry Christmas, no Happy New Year and all that idiot-ism.”
“Listen, what’s wrong with you? What do you want from us and from this life? Calm down and help your mother to lay the table. ”
OK, this is enough; I can’t bear it any more. I wanted to be polite, but I am not going to keep my anger in myself.
“I HAAAAAAAAAAAATE YOU, ALL OF YOU, I HATE CHRISTMAS, I HATE LAYING A TABLE, I DON’T CARE A FUCK ABOUT ALL THIS AND I HATE MYSELF, OK?! I’M LEAVING.”
I slam the door with all my power and make as much noise as possible. Fortunately I have money and my laptop that is all I need. Today I will finish my story.
“So, what are we going to do? We have money and legs. Where are we going? ”
“I want to have ice-cream”
“I want to skate”
“I want to finish my story”
I enter a café. It’s called “J.M.” and I don’t know what that means. It’s 9 and the café is nearly empty. There is an old man sitting in a corner. He looks very ill and tired and poor.
“Give me a big cup of cappuccino. No, wait a min, do you have whisky?”
“And are YOU 21?”
“I am 84, and I need whisky.”
“Not in my café.”
“Oh yeah?” I want to yell at him, but then I stop as I understand that he is only doing his job.
“Then I want to order something for that old man”
“What exactly do you want to order?”
“I don’t know, may be a breakfast?”
“OK, breakfast for that old man.”
I sit down and start to sip my cappuccino. The only thing I want now is to listen to James Blunt. That’s all I need. I ask the barman to play something by James Blunt.
“Or I have to be 21 to listen his songs?” I add with sarcasm.
“No, there is no age distinction for music.”
“How sweet of you”
I return to my cappuccino. Sipping and singing “So long, Jimmy, so long. Though you only stayed a moment we all know that you’re the one, singing….”
“I love you, James, love you, love you and love you.”
I try to concentrate on my story, but it’s all useless.
“No, Nina, you have no qualities of a real writer, you can’t even finish a story!!!”,- says one of my selves. Let’s call her Nina2.
“Listen, you are always making noise, you don’t let me concentrate, and you know what? You are a pessimist.” answers Nina3.
“Can you please SHUT UP?”,- shouts Nina1, that is to say me.
“What is wrong with you, girl? Why are you shouting?”, -asks the barman in a very irritated way.
“Wait a minute; did I say that out loud?”
“Yes, you asked somebody to shut up. What is wrong? ”
“Excuse me; I think it’s time for me to go.” I say and start blushing.
Hurrying out I understand that my thoughts are in a mess. I never thought that I could act in that way. And I am really concerned about the other girls in my head and me talking to them, or……….talking to myself?
“Yes, my dear, you are talking to yourself, and you are gone mad....”
“And I think we need a doctor.” adds Nina3.
“Girls, I really need to finish my story. Poor Elaine can’t be left in that situation too long, or she will make a suicide. I don’t want her to end like that. ”
I am wandering about in a park. Don’t know where to go, don’t know how to finish my story.
“Well, Nina, I really don’t know how to help you.”, says my friend William Saroyan, “But remember one thing: there is not only one way out of a difficult situation, never: there is always more than one solution, people always have choice: that’s why we live. Our life is made up of choices, every second we choose something. Every second we decide whether to breathe or not.”
While I hear these words everything becomes clear for me: I know what will happen. I know how to finish my story. I know what will happen to Elaine.
“Mr. William, you saved me!!!! You made everything clear for me, now I know what will happen!!! I have to hurry, Mr. William, I have to write. See you soon”
“Don’t forget to give me to read your story, Nina. Don’t forget!”
“Of course I will not forget!!!”
I open my laptop and the words burst out of my head. They cover a page after page. They appear like green grass in the beginning of spring: after long and freezing winter you don’t believe there can be green grass in the nearby park, and every year when you see the first grass it is like a miracle for you. The words were miracle for me. They filled the white pages with their black and elegant form like a graceful dance fills the air with beauty.
Elaine, my heroine, lived only by her pictures and in her own world. But one day appeared Charlie, a young architect. He loves Elaine, but she doesn’t want to hear anything of that kind: she is quite pleased by her life and wants nothing else. She wants all her attention to be devoted to her art, to her pictures, which were a whole world for her. But then one day she learns that Charlie has cancer, and he might not live any longer. This shock makes it clear for Elaine that she really loves Charlie and that she wants him to live. Elaine burns all her pictures and struggles for Charlie’s life together with him. He feels her love and affection and after 2 years they win… Elaine marries Charlie and starts to paint in a completely other style: and this style attracts the attention of the critics: they find something special in her art and she becomes very famous.
I write the last words:
“And though I lost my world, you helped me to create a new, better one, and without your help there wouldn’t be today’s me, and there wouldn’t be anything. There wouldn’t be even today… ”
“Ah, good work, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and I liked it, too, especially the last words.”
“Thank you, girls, but this doesn’t mean that I am not going to visit a psychologist and get rid of both of you.”
“But if you get rid of us, who shall comment on your work?”
“OK, I will think a bit more before visiting a psychologist.”
And we laugh….all of us: Nina, Nina2 and Nina3.
