AZALEA'S POV:
"SO YOUR life in Italy is really vast from London, huh."
I told Vincent everything. From my brothers, to Matteo, just keeping him updated. He seems to always have the best advice. Almost like an older brother to me, except I'm closest to him than any other of my older brothers.
"Yes.. very different, so different and quick I sometimes miss London― but not in a way that'd I'd want to go back. No offense, but I like it way better here. London is just filled to very nearly the brim with bad, bad memories for me, y'know?"
"Bad memories?"
It had completely slipped out my mind: the fact I hadn't told Vincent about the abuse I'd endured from my dad― from Stefano. From the devil himself. Everything has just been slipping by so quickly recently, it feels like everyone knows everything and nothing. I can't seem to remember myself lately, I've been changing. Changing so much, so quickly I can't tell if it's good or mad― if I'm spiraling out of control or spiraling just into the depth of control.
Vincent doesn't know anything of what happened inside the walls of where I'd lived for 12 years. All he knows is that Stefano was depressed, I was mourning and my mother was dead.
"Yeah, um," Wheels twist in my mind, trying to find an excuse, quickly. "bad memories, when Mary died. Worst memory of all." Not far from the truth, and a pretty reasonable and believable excuse. One point for Azalea!
"Right, but in that case, don't you have more good memories then bad? I mean, London is practically your life, your home. Where you grew up, where you lived for 15 years of your life. You grew up here, learnt to talk, speak, walk, crawl― everything. Then, you just go to Italy everything is perfect?" He spurs out, almost with a hint of.. anger?
More good memories than bad my ass.
Since when did he have such a strong opinion about what I cared about, and especially about my preferences?
"No, I didn't say that. You were kind of the only good thing that happened to me in London, I'm just much happier here."
"Well, I couldn't have been the only good thing. What about life before Mary died? How was it then?" What's he suggesting at?
"Uh.. good.. I guess? Sorry, what are you getting at?"
"Well, clearly, Italy is much better than London. And I'm almost certain London will eventually slip out your mind, then the special place your heart has created especially for it," He starts, my eyebrows pinch together.
"When you say it like that―"
"―I think you should make a journal. A diary, even. Just something to remind you of life back here and then your life down there, something that reminds you to be grateful and maybe miss little things back here," He finishes, and I process anything. The idea is far from a bad one. Maybe, I should do it, or consider it at least. Journaling. Journaling my life.
"I don't need something to remind me, I remember it either way. London is my second home!"
"If I asked you what city your home 9 months ago, you would've said London without hesitation. Now, it's Milan. Admit you're slipping away, Azalea. No one is out to hurt you if you admit."
"Maybe I am. Maybe I am slipping away, but that doesn't mean I'd forget London. I could never forget it, forget what happened inside of it― even as much as I'd like too," My voice is barely above a whisper by the end of my sentence.
Vincent sighs from the other end of the phone. "Okay. I just think it'll help you, that's all."
"Help me? Help me with what exactly?"
"Process, realize, acknowledge. Process what's happening, the changes, realize this is your life, figure out what you want in the future and acknowledge this is it. Your life, your brothers, acknowledge that, too."
"Hm," I hum, thinking about it.
"I have one too, you know."
"One what?"
"A journal, or a diary if you'd like."
"Really? For how long? What's in it?"
"Since I was a little boy, 10, and it's meant to be a secret, right?"
"Right," I drawl out.
"So, will you do it?" He asks, determined.
"Yeah, I think. Out of pity for you though, you must be missing me so dearly, only thing I can do, right?"
"No, you can come back to London," He says, and I can almost feel his teasing frown,
"Ha-ha, very funny. You should think of becoming a comedian." I deadpan, ending the call without saying goodbye.
No texts has been exchanged between me and Matteo. I think he's expecting me to text first, the same way I'm expecting him to text first.
It's really complicated, him and I both know it wasn't meant to go down that way, I think. It was wrong, everything about it was. The timing, the place, the people. It felt so good though, so right, so perfect. Like everything had temporarily fixed in place just to let me appreciate the moment. Because I knew that was the first and last time that's happen. We made out, I think. Made out, kissed, and made out some more. I couldn't look anyone in the eyes, my head was down the entire day. My head is still clouded― really, really foggy.
I'm not ready to talk to him about it yet, to resolve things. Instead, I'm going to be dodging him like an immature child dodging nerf gun bullets.
Also, my brothers had sensed something was wrong. My face was all red, I was flustered. I literally couldn't utter words properly without stuttering. When me and Elliott were alone, he made a joke, asking if I'd committed a crime or made out with someone and got caught. Almost as if he knew. My face was as red as a tomato, I swear, I felt my skin burning off from the heat that lived under it. He never asked me what went down when me and Matteo skipped.
He definitely knows.
But out of all my brothers, he's definitely the best one to know. Nicholas would behead me and Matteo.
Anyway, before I give myself a panic attack or an effective overthinking session, I should get back on track with the idea of a journal.
From when we went shopping, I still have a bunch of notebooks Nicholas brought me for revision. Mentioned something about Elijah saying I need notebooks for revision since school may be hard, considering I'd never gone before.
So I have a bookshelf in the corner of my room, filled with a bunch of books― the last shelf being notebooks, school books and textbooks that help with Math, English, Reading, Science, Literature, ect. And of course, some empty notebooks that were a spare from the load they brought me.
Steadying my feet on the ground, I spring up from my bed and strut over to the black shelves, crouching down to meet the bottom one. I grasp the notebook's spine in my hand and pull it out from the bottom of the pile. A simple black cover with a black elastic band to close it. I'd later decorate this. Make a mental note to myself to do so.
My eyes stare down at the journal, already trying to figure out what to write. I elevate and my feet take me back to my desk. I take a seat on my leather chair, moving my MacBook aside and placing down the journal. My finger brushes the black cover, flipping it open. I grab a pen from my circular pen can. Instinctively, my hand wraps around the pen, gripping it harshly.
What do you even write in a journal?
Well, it doesn't matter. It's mine, and only mine. Mine to read, mine to write, ours to know of. No one else will read it because I know they respect my privacy just as I respect theirs.
With that thought in my head, my grip loosens and my elbow props my body up against the paper. The tip of the pen comes in contact with the paper, black ink spilling. I start to write. The pen glides seamlessly against the white, lined paper, leaking black gel. Words start to form.
This is my journal, my place to hide, express myself, to focus on me and only me, and to spill my heart's contents. *azalea.
It's in cursive handwriting, almost perfect. The gel had yet to dry, seeping into the paper. I continue. Decide I'll start from when I was little, as little as I can remember.
London, the place where I grew up. The place I experienced everything, meeting the best and worst people. Experiencing the best and worst things. Discovered what life was about, how my life would go. Met my non biological mother and my tormenter. This, is my journey. An update of my life, a safe space where I can suppress my heartfelt words into simple sentences in cursive, printed on a piece of paper. A notebook so innocent, yet the contents are far from.
༄ ✯ ༄
I'm this close to rewriting all my chapters that were at the beginning. Because tell me why I re read what I wrote and notice how shitty, rushed and bad quality they are.. do you think I should re write them? Only thing I'm worried about it loosing all the comments on them. Other than that, I'm more than happy to fit some time in for it.
This is kinda a short chapter, sorry about that! there wasn't much to say in this chapter
But anyway, this is kinda a filler, it'll be important later on. And just to show Azalea is getting closer to Vincent!
This book is so close to being finished it's kinda scary. Then we have book 2..
But anyway, opinions on Vincent?
Also buckle up for the next chapter, the drama is finally going to start stirring uppp! I 'm excited and scared, and you guys might hate me for it..
Anyway, until next time!
~Violet