Who is C?

Took me quite some time to realise what he'd said. What had just happened. And then I needed to figure out what to do. I hid in my room, let the tears come, the screams, the memories.. C is my great love. My only friend. My femme fatale. We grew up together, sharing everything - heartbreaks, favourite clothes and family troubles. She was my sister. She already had quite a few, but for me she was the only one. When we moved away, we wrote letters. Hundreds of them. I have saved them all, in three rusty boxes. They contain every thought, every laugh and every cry we have ever had. Together or in solitude. 


She struggles. She have the biggest heart, the most fair smile. She is weak in her mind, but strong in her fists. We've been through this before. I have had that call before. Because underneath the beauty lies something dark, something that carves out her soul, break her bones quietly from the inside. Something that she will never recover from. I know. For a long, long time I was the only one who did. We shared it. Like sisters. Then something pulled me out of the water, gave me the oxygen I needed to continue. Saved me from myself. But no one did the same for her. She just continued to drown, one day at the time. I was never enough. Though I yelled at her, stroke her hair and whispered softly in her ear, cried beside her hospital bed, picked her up from the floor and said that I was done - she never stopped. She wouldn't even consider it. There was never something else. Just that. 

there's no sugar in france

Today was a war. No soldiers, no weapons, no fire. Me against myself. It's very simple really, you just don't do it. You just don't put that kind of things in your mouth. You just don't put yourself in that position where it's available. But today I did, and so I had to fight it..

When I was a little girl I learned that the white crystals were no good for you. They existed only for you to hate them. It was my fathers french wife who taught me. She was the most beautiful woman, tall and slender. She never wore Chanel but I always imagined her as an aged model. Those tall legs were mostly captured in flats, but when she wore heels, she became the most compelling woman, she was a queen. Not only to my father but also to me. Her long dark hair, flying free in the wind. Her scent, filled my nostrils whenever she was around. She was the perfect mixture of bohemian and chic. A simple nod and you'd obey, still when she smiled at me - she filled me with pure happiness.

The memories of her are clear, like a framed picture on a wall in my mind, still I somehow try to cover them in fog. I shouldn't remember her as I do. There's too much pain, too much confusion, too much shame..