A Sunny Sunday in Harlem

Fiction No.1

A story about New York City in the 90s, jazz club,  some existentialism, some identity confusion, and some teen angsty, cause why not?

Friday, June 4th, 1995

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Dear Emil,

I’m sorry that I couldn’t come to your 17th birthday, dad’s condition is getting worse these days, so me and Ma have to stay in Philly and take turn at the hospital. The doctor said he’s not gonna make it for another month, apparently all the Vodka and Whiskey he drinks like crazy is finally catching up with his liver. He lost like fifty pounds or something. Ma told me the funeral would be sweet and tasteful, and everyone’s gonna wonder who that beautiful lady in her Bloomingdale’s dress sitting on the front row, sipping wine and flirting with all the good-looking guesses, and if anyone has a problem with it, there’s the goddamn door. Such terrific humor, I mean it, Ma should’ve become a standup comedy cause she’s gonna make a fortune of the widows and spencers. She wishes you a happy birthday, by the way. I sent you a gift, did you receive it, or what, cause you didn’t write back to me. I wrapped it with blue and green ribbons, with a silver name tag outside. I swear I sent it on Saturday afternoon, it was raining like hell in here.

The delivery guy with a heavy Dutch accent saw the name tag, and he told me his son's name is Emil, too. That’s funny, do you know Emil is actually a Dutch name? I always thought it would be Irish or something. Anyways, all the sonuvabitch at Stuy are going to Ivy next Fall. Mrs.Gretchen keeps telling me to make up my mind, and accept the spot at Princeton already. But I’m telling you, I’m not going to that place full of condescending snobs, wearing their corduroy sweater and bragging about them reading ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ like one hundred times. I’ll tell you later, when I know what to do with my life. But for now, enough with me and college. How’re you? Are you excited that now you’re 17? You always told me that you would get a fake ID so we can sneak into Frankie’s and get drunk on Scotch and soda. And we can fix your dad’s trailer and get the hell out of Manhattan for some time. My cousin living in Niagara Falls’d be gladly to let us crash for a few weeks. I’m thinking we can cross the border to Canada. It’d be a lot of fun I swear.

I’m worried about you, really. Why you never say anything that needed to say? I wish you opened your goddam mouth and say something, for once, just anything, rather than disappearing into your fucking precious genius mind. Last time we met, you told me you were into Beat Poets and were reading Kerouac. How is it for you? Does it turn you into a phony already? I read ‘On the Road’ last year, and honestly, the writing is a pain in the ass. I don’t get why people are all crazy about him and his ‘jazz-like’ prose. Kerouac keeps describing every stranger he meets on the road, and it bores me to death. And god, I don’t like Dean kid at all. I guess I hate all the pretty boys with narcissistic complex, I have them enough here at Stuy, and somehow girls keep falling head over heels for those assholes. You can’t enjoy the book if you hate the main character’s guts, you really can’t. I suggest you read Burroughs's ‘Naked Lunch’. Burroughs was shooting heroin with some dirty syringes while he wrote, but damn the guy could make a helluva of a story. I have a copy of it in my room, on the second shelf at the far right. I’ll give it to you when I get back. By the way, I’m listening to your mixtape, the one with Bob Dylan, not Zeppelin. I’m on ‘Like A Rolling Stone’, and this is by far my favorite. I’m making you one at the hospital right now, let’s listen to it next time on your CD player, I know you’d love it, cause it’s full of  Thelonious Monk!

There’s something more I want to tell you. But before continuing, please promise me that no matter what, you would read the whole damn thing. This is not gonna be easy, I’m not gonna sugar coat, but I need you to know. I could have told you these in person, but you would jump right into my mouth and never let me finish. Sometimes you’re so impossible. Why you have to be so impossible, Emil? Does it kill you to listen for just five minutes? Especially if things I’m about to say are good for your own sake. So this time, just for once, please read the whole damn thing for me will ya? And don’t be angry at me. You know that I adore you with all my heart, but I need you to hear me. And I know you’d understand, now thatyou’re 17.

Are you keep chasing some girls across Europe, or what? Cause you get one heartbroken and you act like a little child, throwing tantrums and wallowing in despair all day long. I know both of you all too well. And I swear you guys would make a terrible couple. You say that you’d never argue with her, never make her blue, and never make her cry, but you not, you not. You’re too stubborn and hot-headed, and egoistic. You’d kill people and whiny about them forever if they cause you some minor inconvenience. Remember the last time you ignored me for months because you thought I hated you? For god sake, I just forgot to reply to your letter like once. Have you ever heard the word ‘forgive’ before, or what?

She’s uptight and aloof, and it would be a disaster, that’s if you guys ever dated. But the most important thing is, she doesn’t feel the same way about you. I saw her throwing away the mixtape you gave her. That girl is ruthless and stone-cold. I know it broke your heart, but you gotta let it go, boy. You can’t force someone to love you. It doesn’t work that way, and she’s not gonna be a bad person for wanting different things. And for god sake, you don’t love her, you don’t even really like her, for that matter. Now, just for a moment, don’t tell me I don’t understand how you feel because I’m not gay. I mean you don’t actually like anyone. Do you ever like anyone, or anything, for that matter? Do you even like yourself, or what? Every single person you tell me you like, you don’t like any of them. You keep chasing after some chicks you barely know, and get your heart broken all over again. Please cut all the bullshit, that you’re unlovable and there’s a goddam hole or something inside you that could never be filled, cut it out, please. You just keep messing up with your head and doing shitty things to yourself and people around you. I don’t think you ever forgive anyone, and I don’t think you ever forgive yourself for what you did either.

I’m not saying that you don’t know what love is, to be clear. I see girls getting into relationships all the time, and it feels so surreal, almost annoying, to see them with their boyfriend, writing love letters and all, and she swears to death that she loves him. Then, when they break up, she gets with a new guy, and for god sake, she swears to death that she loves him, as if she didn’t say the same thing just a few weeks ago. Is that people have too much love to give, or what, cause I swear it drives me crazy. And not just love, I’m saying you keep throwing yourself over things that gonna end up like hell, and don’t tell me you don’t see it coming. Life is inevitably suffering, and there’s nothing we can do to prevent it from coming. Dukkha, it’s called. So what’s the rush of self-torturing, if life is miserable already?

And you’re always worried so much about what other people think of you. And you want some shallow, artificial admiration from those sonuvabitch, whom you wouldn’t blink an eye if they die tomorrow, to feel less pathetic about yourself, and I’m not sorry for calling you out. And you never say anything. Why didn’t you say anything? You lash out your anger at the people who care about you while being silent like a rock. What a hell of a talent. What’s on your goddamn mind Emil, seriously, cause I need to know. Things have been messed up for some years, but you can not go on like this anymore, cause life doesn’t stop for whatever reason.

I know you’re capable of greatness. You are one of the most beautiful, brilliant things that ever happened in my life. I know you don’t wanna be forgotten, I know. We are both sick of people doing things, buying stuff, and all that vanity, but we’re no different. We’re just like them in disguise. Chasing greatness and eternality is just as frivolous, and ridiculous. Life is futile, cause the universe is too great, and too absurd, to give a damn about us. But we’re too conceited and self-absorbed, that we have to make a fuss about ourselves and be miserable trying to make sense of every fucking thing, when in fact, none of this existence matters in the first place. If the universe would be doomed and turned into dust tomorrow, will you come here with me please?

All the glamorous poets and philosophers preaching like a parrot day and night about understanding this universe can go to hell, all of them. And we get haunted by the imaginary wasted potential we created. Is that why you consciously make terrible decisions and torture yourself to compromise, or what? We thought we were different, but we’re not. It’s just another form of social conformity. Even if you buzz your fucking head and become a monk or something, you’re not going to any perfect places, and one day you will be forgotten. The world is an indifferent place, you gotta remember that. Things come and go, like waves in the ocean. Ma used to take us to the beach at Florida on her old Prius every summer, did you remember? You spent the whole day building sand castles and waves came and took them away. And you didn’t cry. I got sunburnt and my skin tasted like salt cause I was soaking in the ocean for too long. You can’t force something to stay if it doesn’t want to stay, you just can’t.

I wish you could accept this truth, the sooner you accept and tolerate it, the sooner you would be free from suffering. Nirvana, it’s called. And please don’t hate me, I can’t stand the thought of you resenting me. It kills me just to think about it. But if it’s what it takes for you to be happy, then I’d gladly accept it, and you’ll thank me, eventually. I want you to be happy because you are a good person, and good person deserves forgiveness. A lot of shitty people out there, they don’t, but you do. I need you to be happy because you’re the only friend I have, the one I love so much. Anyway, I wish you a very very good 17th birthday. I was 17, and nothing feels like being 17 anymore. And I love you.

Yours,

Teddy.

It is an ordinary Sunday morning in New York, June of 1995. Hippies and punks walk around the corner of Astor Place and Lafayette, and from time to time, people almost get killed by the striking sun, with the jagged lines of heat waves distorting and dancing before their eyes….

Inside a brownstone apartment located on West 112th Street of South Harlem, on the second floor, Emily ‘Emil’ is sitting on a couch, her back facing the bedroom window while holding Teddy’s crumpled, ivory-paper letter. The letter must be re-reading quite a few times ever since it arrives.  The handwriting, written in black ink, is utterly ugly and almost illegible. Words are crammed and uneven, with a lot of shaky lines and loops. After a while, Emily puts the letter down on a table, and she starts walking around while lighting a Marlboro. Normally she doesn’t smoke much, but it’s the third one already this morning. She looks extremely handsome in her kid-size blue t-shirt, it matches her eyes very well, with messy black hair, and silver hoop earrings.

Her bedroom has a lot of natural light, thanks to a big ass hell window. The only thing interesting about the room is its wall. All sorts of water colours, red, blue, purple, and green, are recklessly painted on one side, while literature quotes and song lyrics, in both calligraphy and posters, are on the other. Carefully dropping the ashes into the tray, she stands still and starts reading some of them, from left to right.  

Now, farewell, Susie… I add a kiss, shyly, lest there is somebody there! Don’t let them see, will you Susie?

                           — Emily Dickinson to Sue, 11 June 1852.

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog –

To tell one’s name – the livelong June –

To an admiring Bog!

                  — Emily Dickinson, “I’m Nobody!”

My parents, I want them to have a nice time while they’re alive, because they like having a nice time.. But they don’t love me and Booper - that’s my sister - that way. I mean they don’t seem able to love us just the way we are. They don’t seem able to love us unless they can keep changing us a little bit. They love their reasons for loving us almost as much as they love us, and most of the time more.

                  — J.D Salinger, “Teddy”

Now you don’t seem so proud

About having to be scrounging

Your next meal

How does it feel?

How does it feel?

To be without a home?

Like a complete unknown?

Like a rolling stone?

                   — Bob Dylan

I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth. She was only the dead-leaf echo of the nymphet from long ago - but I loved her, this Lolita, pale and polluted and big with another man's child. She could fade and wither - I didn't care. I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face.

                   — Nabokov, “Lolita”

Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living. You said I killed you--haunt me then. The murdered do haunt their murderers. I believe--I know that ghosts have wandered the earth. Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad. Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! It is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!

                   — Bronte, “Wuthering Heights”

Maybe there is a beast… maybe it's only us.

What are we? Humans? Or animals? Or savages?

                   — Golding, “Lord of the Flies”

All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

                   — Orwell, “Animal Farm”

She feels dizzy as hell, and her heart starts rushing like crazy, three cigarettes and that cup of long black coffee is finally catching up. And she can’t stop thinking about Teddy’s letter.

Teddy lives with his mom in an old, rustic apartment above a Jewish Deli just a few blocks away. Standing six feet in blue jeans, dark skin, slender, pretty like a girl with his big brown eyes, and black curly hair. Straight A’s in science and English, although he skips class quite a lot, and playing basketball for the school team, he falls naturally into company. But, he’s a strange and peculiar boy, personality-wise. While other kids are crazy about Nas and Wu-Tang, Teddy is surrounded by the diverse music cultures of West Indians and Southerners, nourished by his mother Violet, and it eventually lays the foundation for his biggest love: jazz.

Born and bred in San Juan Hill, notoriously for its violent crimes, but also a tight and cosmopolitan black community, Violet is a cultured and fearless woman. Her biggest dream is becoming a cartoonist for her favorite magazine, The New Yorker. She got a scholarship and went to Hunter for a degree in painting, but dropped out because of financial hardship, and she has been working in a bodega near Fifth Avenue ever since. The thing is,  people can’t dream of doing big, if they don’t know whether they’re gonna survive the next meal.

She pays for his son’s piano lessons at nearby community center by taking extra cleaning shifts, and on Sundays, she would take him to orchestra concerts and operas at The Apollo Theater and Central Park. And even when Teddy was a small kid, he would challenge other piano players at music club “You didn’t play it right. You see, it’s Chopin’s Sonata No.5 in C Minor, it’s supposed to play adagio, and you played it allegro. You gotta be serious about tempo and all, that’s what I’m saying.” and people would go crazy over him. After school, Emily and a few other neighbors would come by their house for jam sessions and hot cookies.

Teddy spends most of the time composing and playing music on his Japanese piano in the living room. He has this cycle of intense creativity and hyper energy, grumpy and isolating himself, when he makes music and records like crazy, from dusk till dawn, barely sleeping, not even stopping for washroom. It happens for about two to three days, then he’d collapse. Emily really hates seeing him like that “You’re not gonna be a hotshot if you can’t make it past your twenty, you genius. For god sake, does it kill you, or what, to function like a goddamn normal person.”, and he’d say “You peasant, you don’t understand.” And the cycle continues.

Last summer, he buzzed his pretty hair, hopped on the Greyhound to visit a few temples and meditation retreats across Massachusetts. He has performed gigs at some cheap jazz clubs, and tutored middle kids to save up some dough…

The old pendulum clock strikes eleven. It’s time for lunch. The smell of butter and caramel is all over the apartment, but Emily doesn’t feel like eating. She goes downstairs anyways, cause the last thing she wanna hear right now is her mom, Betty, barging into her room and preaching about how important it is for the whole family to spend time and cuddle each other on a Sunday like this.

In the dining room, the family sits around a rectangular, Victorian-style table. The kitchen is fairly compacted, with solid wooden countertops, and a large venting on the ceiling. Lunch for today is baked lasagna, tomato sauce, roasted wedge potatoes, and brown sugar cookies for dessert. Emily’s dad, Joe, is pouring some red wine into a glass, while Betty is serving iced cold lemonade from a pitcher. Lily, their 13-year-old second daughter, as usual, absently chewed her food while picking up the People magazine’s latest issue. She has very messy teeth and her lips keep smacking like crazy during the whole meal. Lasagna is all over the place, cause the girl is devouring an article about Van Damme and his rumored lover.

 “Put that down and focus on your meal, honey. And look, you drip the tomato sauce all over your shirt. Let me bring you some napkins and roasted potatoes. No? So perhaps a glass of lemonade then?”

 “Leave her be, mom. She’s thirteen. And don’t you have a hand, or what?” - said, Emily.

She has been staring at Lily’s mouthful for a while and it starts getting on her nerves. One thing about Emily is that she really hates people with lousy table manners.

 “None of your business, Miss. And it was mom offering, I wasn’t saying anythi..”

 “Will you do me a favor, please. That is shut your goddamn mouth and stop being so loud. You look like a cow chewing its grass.”

 “Again, none of your business, Miss. I’d chew my food damn loud if I want. I can, and I will.”

 “Lily, I swear it’s not that hard to behave like a human being. It doesn’t kill you, and I’d be happy.”

 “Stop it you two. Lily, clean up yourself and put the magazine down, that or you won’t have to eat for the rest of the day. And Emily, for god sake, don’t talk like that to your sister. I swear I don’t raise hateful young ladies in this house.” - Betty frowned her forehead.

Joe said quietly. “Save the quarrels for tomorrow please, today is too fine..”

The family eats in silence for a moment. Emily intensely watches the ice melting inside her lemonade glass. She barely touches her dish…

A few years ago, when they were 14, Emily and Teddy got invited to a house party by their classmate, Jane, at her Lower East Side apartment. Her parents were in Chicago for a wedding and left her at home with an old, nearly deaf maid. The apartment was diffused and blurry as hell, they heard someone tripping over a table “How about turn on some goddam lights?”.

Kids were rolling blunts, boozing, and making out on the floor like a pack of wild animals. After a while of breathing in the cigarette smoke and sweat air, Emily and Teddy climbed up to the rooftop, swinging some Cokes and tortillas from the party. They were both quieter than usual, and Teddy kept playing with a silver ring on his thumb. And for god knows why, suddenly Emily pulled him over and started kissing him like crazy. But when he kissed her back, all over her face and all, Emily abruptly pushed him away.

 “Fuck, Teddy, I’m sorry but I can’t do this.”

Teddy looked awfully scared. “It’s okay, it’s fine. I mean I think have a crush on you for some time.” He said. “Do you get what I’m saying, I’m saying I like you and all.”  

 “I can’t do this.”

 “Do what, like making out or what, cause we can be normal and I can take you out for a date, nothing corny I swear. I’m not gonna call you ‘baby’ or something, of course unless you want me to, for god s..”

 “No I mean I can’t do anything you’re saying.” She said, miserably. “I don’t know why but I can’t like you as you want me to.”

 “What do you mean? You mean .. you don’t like me?”

 “I try, I really try, but I can’t. I wish I could. I don’t know why.”

 “So what the hell just happening, Emil?” He cried out. “Why you even fucking kiss me, do I look like a puppy for you to cuddle whenever you want, and forget when you don’t cause w..”

 “I’m sorry I’m sorry but I need to know.”

Emily almost burst into tears.

 “Know what, exactly?”

A long pause. Emily bit her lips so she wouldn’t cry.

 “I don’t think I even like boys, Teddy. And, and pretty girls, they make me nervous as hell, I can’t even look them straight in the eye, I feel like I can die for them or something, and I barely know them. I’m probably crazy right now, I’m sorry, but I need to know.”

Another long pause. This time felt like a century. The hot summer night wind blew on Teddy’s curly hair. Emily could smell his perfume lingering in the air, the smell of fig tree and coconut.

 “Am I a freak? Please, will you say anything Teddy cause I don’t like it when you just stand there like a.. ”

 “I understand. You don’t have to say anything anymore.” - He nodded and looked her in the eyes.

Then he flashed a smile.

 “You’re the coolest freak ever, that’s what I’m thinking”

Emily felt a bit of relief.

 “But..do you hate me?” - Hesitantly, she asked.

 “Of course I don’t.”

 “But why?”

 “Cause Buddha says you shouldn’t practice hate crimes, and hate crime is not good, that’s why. Do you want me to, or what, cause I ca..”

 “No, jesus, I’m just asking. You’re touchy as hell.” - This time, she laughed out loud.

They ditched the party for the rest of the night, and Teddy took her to his favorite Jazz club in a basement at Greenwich Village. She felt like she could be anything when she was with him…

As usual, Betty becomes the first one to break the scene.

 “I found a package at the front door today. I put it on the chair over there. It’s.. for you, Emily.”

 “From whom? And why do you look so tense? Is it from school, or what, cause I swear I’ve been very good this semester.”

 “No, it’s from Teddy.”

 “It must be the gift for my birthday. It got delayed from Philadelphia.” - said Emily.

 “And one more thing, I spoke with Violet, and Teddy’s funeral is on next Sunday. Violet’d love it if you can come, and perhaps you can write a eulogy, you know, for.. for the wake. You gonna come, right?” - asked, Betty.

 “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.” - Emily answered, without looking up from her lemonade glass.

 “What you mean by that? You knew him better than anyone, and what’d people gonna think if yo..”

 “First of all, the hell with people. A bunch of Misters and Misses Dignity in their well-tailored clothes, crying and throwing up till they get seizure, with their goddam condolences, calling him ‘darling boy’ and ‘sweetheart’, and placing white roses all over him. For god sake, he only loves daisy. And the funny thing is, they don’t even know him. They don’t know Teddy. Teddy is everything, everything, but a darling boy. He overdosed right in the goddam kitchen at his dad’s house in Philly. People never care, they only care after you die or something, that’s why.”

 “Are you done?” - said Betty

 “That, and second of all, I’m not coming. See if I care. Is that clear to you, mother, or it’s still too hard to understand?” - said, Emily.

 “Enough. I said save your catfight for another day. No one forces you to come if you don’t want to. And if you wanna know, that strange boy, always jazzing and whoring around black slums, isn’t doing you any good. And for god sake, his mom scrubs people’s floors, our floor I may say, for a living. Say whatever you want about him, Princeton, genius, whatever, but those kinds of people, they don’t change Emily, you know what I mean. And I’ve been saying it for years, there’s a reason why Robert goddam Moses segregated us vs them, but you don’t listen to me for a second. And now, you go and deal with the consequences.” - Joe cried out.

Emily inhales a deep breath. “Do you even understand what you’re saying? People out there, people like Violet, they’re good people, they work day and night, like a goddam cattle, to survive, to have food in their mouth and a roof over their head. Yet some other people, some Rothschild or something, having billion doughs without lift a goddamn finger, buying and eating things they don’t even need, and when the market crashes, those motherfuckers  gonna sell the stocks in a blink of an eye and run away with the money, meanwhile the workers would be out of job and crawl through the streets. It’s not about them, it’s about this goddam fucking world, if you ever just get out of your cubicle and think and open your eyes for a goddamn se..”

 “For Chrissake, It’s not my problem if those blacks can’t even read and get some C-s for a college degre..”

 “Are you trying not to understand, or what, cause I swear to god. And if people want a job, a clerk or something,  a job that any human being with 2 arms and 2 legs, they don’t even need a brain, can still do it. But people have to know some dumbfuck in the store, and kiss their ass, so that dumbfuck gonna put in some good words.. They don’t even come to you because you guys both like Winona Ryder, or because you are a good person anymore, they come to you because they want something from you. All the time, they only come to you when they want something. ”

 “Emily, stop it please. And Joe, let me tell you, Violet is a very hard-working and smart woman. They just need to believe in themselves a bit more, you know, and try harder, that’s all, no big deal. “

Emily can feel her ears burning. I’m gonna do everyone a favor, I’m gonna kill you, and I’m gonna kill everyone, then I’m gonna kill myself.

 “Everything is possible if you have a dream and believe in yourself, that’s what America is for, that’s what New York is for, honey. Now, do you guys want some cookies cau..” - Said, Betty.

 “Mom, they don’t even have a goddam nickel in the first place, to pay for the tuition fees and all. This is not a matter of trying harder, why don’t you get it? They don’t have anything to start with in the first place, how the hell are they gonna compet..Nevermind you just talk and talk and talk, and never use your brain to think for a second. I just can’t do this anymore. I’m fucking out of here.”

Joe burst into anger. “You ungrateful, disrespectful little.. only talk when you need something from us. From now on, the hell with it, don’t you dare ask me for anythi..”

Emily leaves the table, picks up the package, and goes to her room, her dish’s barely touched.

 “Emily, I need to talk to you.”

 “Please, mom, not now.”

 “No, young lady. I’m not gonna leave till we sort this out. You think I don’t know anything, you think I’m stupid, right? I know more than you, Emily.”

 “I’m sorry, I was wrong. It was me that’s wrong, and you are right. I swear I will never say anything anymore. Is that what you wanna hear? Now please, leave me alone.”

 “It’s not just about your terrible attitude. It’s about your grade, and your college application. You promise me you're gonna try, and improve your grade, but you don’t try at all”

 “Mom, if I told you I'd try, then I will. Now you please, I’m too tired.”

 “No you’re not, you’re not doing anything useful with your life. You always say, but you never do. I saw it so many times that I can’t trust your words anymore. Do you know how much I gotta pay for your private counselor?”

 “Is this about money? Are we talking about money now? Then here’s the deal. You go and calculate the number, the number I owe you, charge interest rate or whatever, I don’t care. Then you come back here, with the goddamn number, and I’m gonna pay back to you, every fucking nickle I owe you, okay, cause there’s nothing I hate more than debt, and moral debt. Are you happy now? And shut the door on your way out please.”

 “You little spoiled brat. Your dad was right all the time. And this is my goddamn house, you’re eating my food and you dare to kick me out of my hous.. “

Suddenly, everything gets blurry, and Emily can't hear a word. Please Teddy, please don’t leave me. I should’ve seen it coming. I should've known, when you tell me you don’t wanna die.

“I don’t wanna die, I just wanna disappear. I don’t know what kind, but I just wanna disappear. I was fine, for some time, then suddenly, I wasn’t fine anymore. I was fine this morning, but I’m so scared of tomorrow, cause I know I won’t be fine anymore. When I was in elementary school, I imagined it as a lucky wheel. Monday is lucky day, I got A+ in my drawing class, Tuesday is unlucky day,  Mr. Johnson caught me sleeping in his class, and Wednesday is lucky day.. I don’t know what it is, but it finally caught me. And I don’t know what to do to stop it, Emil.”

“There’s this shrink, my uncle used to go to him. He asked me if I have a plan to kill myself, and I don’t know how to answer. Like, you tell me to go die nearly everyday, and we watch ‘Die Hard’ like million times, but when someone asks you, right on your face, that are you planning to kill yourself, it’s not the same. My uncle Jamie, he shot himself after seeing that shrink.”

 “Put the pillow away, cause you must listen to me, loud and clear.. Oh my god Emily, what the hell this time, did I lay a finger on you, or what, why are you crying? You look so pathetic I just can’t..”

What could I have said to raise you from the death? Please tell me Teddy.

 “Please mom, I’m sorry, please will you leave me alone, I swear I’ll do whatever you say, just…, for a moment, cause I can’t breathe right now..”

A moment's pause. She hears Betty sigh, then leave the room.

Emily leans forward on her elbows, and buries her face in her hands for a long time. Suddenly, she remembers about the package. The package is about the size of a Nike shoes box. She tears the wrapper with her fingers. Inside the box is a Sony walkman, with one cassette, and a small greeting card “Sweet 17”. She looks out the window, there goes the dying day, and the last sunshine is fading away. And that’s an ordinary, sunny Sunday in Harlem, New York, June of 1995.