I don't think I have demons, so to speak, that lurk in my past. No real secrets lie there anymore, forced into repression by external guilt and a lifestyle I never understood nor truly wanted. Things are just things, if I might be so brilliantly articulate to say; things that have happened. It would be foolish to once again embark on the bold pursuit of daily writing with a fresh update of where I work and what I've been doing, because that's not writing. None of that matters, and it certainly won't provide the necessary excitement or vigor required to invigorate my lazy writing habits. I dance around the things that plague me, these things that have happened, and I attempt to ignore them though I know how they affect me. Namely, August 12, 2005: my birthday, and, ironically, the last day I saw or spoke to Elisse.

The simple thought of the ordeal bears witness to the damage I have done; where are the dates, the times, the emotional upheaval and the heart-wrenching despair, why have I neglected to write about this? I now have nothing but a brief overview of the affair, an overview that has been knocked out of focus and robbed of detail by the months I've allowed to pass. What little I have now, however, shouldn't share the fate of the rest of the story; as lame as the saying is, "better late than never".

Elisse had come to visit. I remember, through all the uncertainty, that her flight was delayed and I fought back frustrated tears as I teetered on my high heels and rushed from terminal to terminal. I clutched a piece of paper upon which the words "PUDDIN HEAD" were printed in large, capital letters- I thought it charming to stand next to the chauffeurs and hold my sign proudly while boasting a serious, stern expression (needless to say I summoned many a curious expression from passersby) - but my plan was foiled, and when I finally found her the silly sign was crumpled and in my purse. She wore a black peasant skirt, and told me through her amusement of my frazzled condition about the man she had met on the plane. We climbed into daddy's convertible and sped towards the city.

Of the days that followed there is little to say, I suppose; we went out to eat plenty with my father and spent the rest of the time lounging about the house. We went one night to Eden Park, kicked off our shoes and sat on the edge of the gazebo while we chatted into the placid buzzing of the bushes around us. We discussed my father, my currently secret relationship with Bryan, her life and mine. Without her I wouldn’t of had the courage to tell my father about Bryan, and I will always feel rightly indebted to her. I miss the comfort of those particular nights, those particular conversations, and as fatiguing as tears are I long for the connection I could only ever establish with Elisse. This connection, however, was of the deepest kind, and shared between two very arrogant individuals, and it therefore produced endless spouts of bickering, tears that flowed angrily and generously, and, most unfortunately, a fallacious resentment for Elisse that I easily stuffed deep inside of me and never bothered to confront. It was she, after all, that exposed me to life outside of Utah, outside of the religion I was born into. It was she that provided the intellectual oasis for which I hungered, and naturally my life took a course that differed from the average Mormon high school student. I still don't know why I blamed her for the consequences these changes brought- the suffocating guilt I felt from the belief to which I had been espoused so long, harsh judgment and animosity from previous Mormon friends, though I had always despised them, and my mother, above all the complete chaos brought on by my mother- I blamed Elisse, be it secretly, unwillingly, or perhaps completely unconsciously.

The frustration always lingered, always loitered about when I was alone, always resurfaced, though it was never expressed and never approached. The disdain billowed freely inside of me yet didn’t appear to exist outside of my bitter thoughts. I’ll never forget the scorn with which my voice shook when I looked her in the eye, during one heated argument or another, and announced without flinching:

“I hate you. I will always hate you.”

I remember the silence that followed, I remember watching the blow as it was delivered and tragically received, I remember the look on Elisse’s face as her expression dropped and her mouth opened in pain. I remember half-assing an apology, still angry, still infuriated. I remember her saying that some things can not be excused or swept away, that some things cannot be retracted once said, that she couldn’t bear my malice and treat herself fairly simultaneously. I remember my father trying to mediate while we cried and accused each other with our jaws tightly clenched.

Above all, I remember standing on the porch before she climbed into Cindy’s car, and bitterly hugging in a weak attempt to lend poetry to the ordeal. There was nothing poetic about this moment, nothing at all. In a relationship so consumed with passion, companionship and extremes, this ending seemed so meaningless. There was no fire in our tears, they were merely tears that ran down our cheeks and bloated our faces. I didn’t cling to her as I watched her go; childish hostility pulled us away from each other regardless of how close our bodies were. We were through playing grown-up, we were done wearing our posh heels together and talking philosophy, tearing down others in our elitism; the haughtiness of our games had faded to reveal that we were children fighting over crayons, that I was too young, too foolish, too utterly consumed in my self-preservation to realize how fucking happy it made me to know that I had her. We were children.

At least I was. I went inside, and spent the next couple of days spewing insults and promises of hatred into the journal she had given me for my birthday. Twenty-eight pages passed, and once I had filled them with the dirtiest, rudest, most hostile words I could muster, I was fine.

Completely fine.

The resentment I had allowed to fester inside of me for years, literally years, melted, mysteriously, into that leather-bound journal. I was fine.

Completely fine.

Except for the fact that I was alone now and Elisse was gone. We had pushed each other away, and in the end I triumphed; it was my bitterness that ended our friendship. She’s in Salt Lake now, I assume, doing whatever it is that she does now, associating with those that surround her, filling her days with what she chooses to. I know nothing as to how Elisse has been, and it kills me. I hope to god that she’s in school, that she’s taken care of, that she’s still with Carter, that she’s happy. I hope she’s still a snob, I hope that she still laughs and that she still cries. She’s stopped writing in her blog, and I can’t help but think that her cessation acted as a final mean of finalizing the space that lies between us. She writes elsewhere now, in a place that can’t reassure me. My writing, though neglected, sits on the same page where it has always been, and I know, somehow I know, that she’s visited it at least once since she left, and if she hasn’t she will. I just know.

As to the journal in which I carved the murderous, enraged thoughts that released me, I haven’t opened it since.

I’m simply not brave enough to.