Becoming Jasmine Star - Chapter 11
JS: “Hey, did you read the updates to XX?”
AG :”Yeah, not really a fan of the cliffhanger ending though.”
JS: “ikr!
“the way the author betrayed me just at the end was just wrong!”
AG :”But you’re still going to wait for the next update?”
JS: “Naturally”
Monday, March 23, 2015
She is constantly talking.
for visiting.
The one I met online wasn’t Jasmine, but someone else.
Obviously, She just shares a name with someone I once knew.
But lately I feel sort of glad that she shares the same name as Jasmine.
Just so I make myself clear, she will, not now or ever replace her.
She is her own person and nothing like the Jasmine I once knew.
There’s never a end to her chatter.
About her favorite webtoons, to her photography idols, Ansel Adams and Ben Murphy. Her arsenal of seemingly useless information is endless.
Somehow, I can feel her overly-positive energy through the screen.
It’s a strange change from the way things were for the past year.
But the strangest part is that I enjoy the company she gives me over the internet.
I can count on her being there almost 24/7. Talking like we’re old friends.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
4:30 a.m.
I woke up with a start, as a dream that constantly plagues me wakes me up once again. I feel claustrophobic and panicky. I was buried alive. The coffin I was trapped in was hot and hard to breath in, as earthworms and centipedes bore into my skin. Eating me from the inside out.
I’ve had this dream since the day I watched Jasmine as she was put six feet under.
My dream was from her perspective.
I think of the conversation I had with Dr. Mel yesterday. He told me that I was “getting over the hurdles called ‘firsts’ on the road of grief.”
The first Christmas were I don’t receive a “hipster” present.
The first Valentine’s day I didn’t stress about where to go “A resort? Her favorite museum?” Then, get rejected.
“Can’t we just stay home.”
The first time I don’t have to check behind the bathroom door for one of her elaborate jump-scares.
There were still “firsts” that I didn’t even pass yet.
To think that we couldn’t even get to see our first anniversary…
There’re still so many metaphorical hurdles to get over.
I can’t blame him for thinking that though. I didn’t tell him about the insomnia, or the dreams. It shouldn’t be his problem. Why share pain with someone who doesn’t even deserve to feel any pain?
I roll over to see my potted plants crowding my night stand.
There are now three in total.
One of the first things I was told after Jasmine died, other than “I’m sorry” was “You need to find something to do. Preferably, something with your hands.”
I know what you’re thinking.
But no, I didn’t try to pick up knitting, crochet, writing biographies, poetry, or carving birds out of blocks of wood.
No. I just went to work.
I didn’t take a break from my job during the day. And at night, I stayed up watching “My blueberry nights” wrapped in blankets from aunts, cousins, and surrounded by disposable dishes full of food from friends and neighbors.
But somehow, what was able to bring me over the edge wasn’t precisely them.But rather, it was a small succulent that was able to help me put my nerves at ease.
Last week, I went to a florist’s studio and took part in a “Plant care class” I found the place when researching ways to save the poor plant I was killing at the moment.
Who knew I would’ve been swindled into getting two more.
The place is called Jack and Magnolia’s nursery. Owned by a adorable elderly couple, just a fifteen minute walk from the bay.
“She would’ve loved this place”
The early spring air was still cold as I got off the train stretching my legs from a long hour-and a-half trip.
“Ah! It must’ve been so cold outside! Have something warm to drink.”
Magnolia, Mrs. Redwood. Immediately gave everyone a warm cup of tea, making sure everyone was warm before she started her class.
Maybe I am too emotionally weak. But that simple gesture made me feel warm inside.
I took some pictures of the shop after the class. The shop was too nice to not take pictures and send them to Jasmine.
Even though it was not in it’s proper climate they were able to grow a dwarf banana tree and keep it producing fruit throughout the whole year.
“They must be wizards or something”
Jasmine replied to the photos I sent her as I sat on the train heading back home.
Friday, March 27, 2015
“I’m sorry”
That was the last message I received since Tuesday night.
“Why?”
“What are you sorry for?”
“Jasmine?”
No reply.
For some reason, I feel worried.
My anxiety picks up as the days she doesn’t respond progress.
Everything about this Jasmine is unpredictable.
And I both like and hate that about her.
“Did I say something to upset her?”
I glance over our recent chat.
Nothing that I could see.
10:30 p.m.
“Ding!”
My phone chimes.
I immediately snatch it off from where it was charging. This situation feels all to familiar.
“I’m calling you.”
Before I could even ask her what she was talking about my phone buzzed.
“Jasmine Star is calling”
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