The Little Red Diary
She was so beautiful in her own way; her hair was scrunched up in a bun with wispy bangs swept across her porcelain face, speckled with freckles where she once baked under the sun. Her black almond eyes lined with smudged up eyeliner, spoke words about her life, the suffering, which it was put on display for the public to see, spreaded out, defenceless and motionless for every Tom, Dick and Harry to see.
Cyndonia’s movie. A movie about the most personal things that she fought so hard to protect played out for every oxygen consumer that lived. It was the blockbuster of the year; played repeatedly with a few parts being cut out. Her life must never have any dose of being a regular folk.
She never wanted her life to be so crumpled. She never wanted the constant attention; never did she ever ask her life to be full of colours. She just wanted her life to be gray, with specks of colours now and then to spice her life up.
Now, all that is left of her is that flickering light of hope at the back of her mind that pushes her to live for another day. That light has never been extinguished, but disturbed, it has. Many times that flame threatened to leave behind a trail of smoke, leaving her with no direction nor instruction to wake up to that morning glow that streams in into that filthy room of hers, strewed with soiled garments, littered with cigarettes that burned right up to their filters that was always washed down with drinks that fizzled with white foam, leaving a distinct, familiar yet bitter taste that lingers on her tongue.
She wondered to herself, she was just one of the countless words that make up a newspaper. Why her, as she laid down beside Dakota, with her eyes closed with a smile spread across her face.
Then again, it was just one of her rhetorical questions that could never be answered. The answer could never be found in her anyway.
‘What a shame,’ they always say. She pretended to not hear anything when people said such negative things about her. Mama always told her, ‘Believe in yourself, not no one. Not even me.’ She did, but those comments were like hearing a twig crunch when being tread on, something that was so insignificant yet so distinct in the ears.
She fought for power. Fought for independence, she wanted people to stop fussing about her, she just wanted them to let her mature in her own ways. She was a fighter, a warrior that braved through the difficulties shoved right into her face. Bitten and scarred by the battles she went through.
Humming that familiar tune that mama used to sing when Cyndonia got frightened by the rumbles of thunder; Cyndonia somehow manages to salvage back that fighter spirit her mother always instilled in her.
She stood out like a green apple in a basket of red apples when she was young. She yearned to be recognised, neither for her talents nor looks but for being herself in a world full of superficiality and lies. Being accepted for being herself was all she ever wanted but all she got was lies and more uncertainty. That confusion spurred her on to understand, while disregarding the judgement she had for humans, for being so nifty, never saying what they really mean and why was there this a cycle of shallowness. There was never been a time of life where she went, ‘Is this it?’ There seems to be never-ending steps to understanding these strange creatures.
She was a noted figure, known for someone who made controversial observations about people, known for being both applauded and slammed for making honest comments. She was someone who was full of spices, jumbled up to give an exciting yet sometimes repulsive and saccharine taste. One minute she’s a darling to the world for making inaudible arguments amplified for the whole world to know about the darker issues hidden and wrapped up in attempt to ignore their existence. In another minute, she’s the devil brought into this world to create disputes. She was of a different taste to every individual that is caught in the madness of giving the least politically correct judgment to sensitive issues raised.
That was what made her so endearing, she thought, as she locked her eyes on Cyndonia’s loose hair which caressed her neck in such a sensual way. She looked so stunning, basking in that evening glow that seems to illuminate her expressive eyes. Dakota never felt this blissful before. Never did she have the luck to have someone she genuinely loved and cared for.
Cyndonia became aware of her lover advancing towards her.
She closed her eyes, everything fell into darkness. Cyndonia waited for Dakota to draw closer until she could feel the heat of Dakota’s body and hear her steady breathing. Their bodies pressed close together, their heartbeats’ seemed to crescendo with every second that passed. Cyndonia sighed as Dakota started to stroke her neck affectionately.
Dakota leaned her head and pressed her lips onto Cyndonia’s neck, flicking her tongue playfully as she planted kisses on her neck which left a tart taste in her mouth from Cyndonia’s favourite perfume. She then pressed her bosom against Cyndonia, making her gasp in surprise. Smirking with amusement, Dakota then started to intertwine Cyndonia’s hair with her fingers and the other hand cupping her face.
Their soft lips found each other and their tongues were let out to roam around freely, exploring each other curiously with much passion.
It was in the 20th century. There was one of the secret Cyndonia fought so hard to keep. There was never a sense of calmness. She was so terrified of people finding out about the romance and affection that had for one another. All those intimate moments with Dakota were only for them to know, it was their little secret, and something that sticks them together, protecting them.
Every event, quarrel and intimate moments were penned down in a red diary with a locket only opened by their matching key necklaces. It was to remind them of their journey and laugh back at the silly name-calling whenever they had a petty quarrel over who should use the bathroom in the morning. It made Cyndonia realise that those ‘strange creatures’ aren’t as repulsive and horrible at all after she found Dakota. She loved every laughter, every shy smile and that special glint in her eye which made her fall even harder for her.
On a Thursday, everything changed. Clutching the newspaper in the hands stained with dirt, she trembled and shook while tears rolled down the very face Cyndonia always loved.
Cyndonia looked at Dakota with sad eyes, and Dakota stared back coldly with bloodshot eyes from all the crying and sobbing. It wasn’t as though they were not expecting it to come but it came too sudden. Pouring a cup of a luminous purple pleasant smelling liquid, Cyndonia handed a cup to Dakota, who hesitantly cupped the cup with both her hands, and poured another for herself.
They kissed, for the very last time, cherishing each other, loving each and every curve of her body. Their bodies tingled with excitement from every touch of the finger and breaths quickened. With their cups, they drank the vile-tasting solution like medicine to their heartache as they lay on the slimy and cold tile floor, having their last moments together.
As Dakota lay-ed eyes closed with that last smile she will ever give Cyndonia, Cyndonia embraced Dakota’s body close to her until she no longer felt the warmth.
The lovers remained in their positions, icy and dead the next day. That little red diary will be the only evidence that bears their existence in this world. Gun shots rang in the morning. The executions of gays have just begun.
You fell in love with the girl in June. I'm December now.
