I moved home for good, along with all my belongings that I collected from Mrs. Jenkins’s place when Mark was on his shift.
I painted my room and asked Kayla to help me to put some art on the wall. We’d been thinking for a long time about what I should do, until the morning I saw her drawing a phoenix on her pad. She was doing a piece for one of her clients, and I just knew it was what I wanted. I wanted a phoenix on the wall. A symbol of rebirth, of coming pure out of ashes.
I wanted to be that, a phoenix.
She told me to get out of the room and not come in until she’s done, so I took up residency on the couch downstairs.
When she finally called me upstairs, I cried. It is perfect. Instead of making it a red bird, she made it a blue phoenix to match my eyes. She said it’s me, and she cried too. My mom came to the room and started crying as well. When my father found us like that, he just about had a heart attack, not knowing what’s happening. So now, every time when I go to sleep, she’s watching over me, shooshing the demons away. They still come, but less.
Mark is still there, in the same nightmares, but I came to the understanding that his presence in my nightmares is comforting. I know it’s him, and it anchors me to reality. He encourages me to fight back.
Since the last time he appeared in my nightmare and told me to fight back, I started fighting. I still do. Every single time. The nightmare slowly turns into just a dream because I never let it go that far. I always fight back at Mark’s encouragement. He is so good at that, my dream Mark.
Sometimes, he comes to me in sweet dreams too. That’s when things get heated. One time when I woke up, I had to mentally thank my parents for giving me the farthest room from them, because the stuff he did… well, it was dirty, to say the least. I haven’t had naughty dreams in eight years before Mark, and now, I’m having them nearly every single night. They sure beat the nightmares.
It’s been four weeks since the last time I saw him. Well, saw him up close. I saw him a few times around town from afar, plus, that one time when the guy with black hair drove him home. For the first two weeks, I heard he was drunk a lot, and I thought it had something to do with our situation. I secretly hoped it was the reason, because my feeling toward him was—is—real. I thought it was going to get easier, but it’s not. It’s getting worse. Every desire to be a woman again disappeared along with him.
The past two weeks, he’s been better, and I should be happy about that, but a weird feeling pings in my chest.It took him only two weeks to get over me?I was right, and he stopped seeing me as a woman after the bombshell Justin threw at the dinner. He probably took a deep, cleansing breath since he had a valid reason not to deal with my crazy anymore.
As for the family dynamics, I still can’t stand Justin, just like he can’t stand Jake, so the sibling connection is severed. And at this point in my life, I’m sad to say I’m okay with it.
Jake is traveling now. I think he chose not to be here for the holidays after all that happened with Kayla, even though it’s been a while since he put his long nose where it didn’t belong, I honestly think he’s trying to get better so he can make amends with Justin and Kayla.
Today is Christmas Eve, and Justin is coming over with Kayla. We all love her so much, considering she changed my douchebag of a brother into something tolerable. Don’t get me wrong; I absolutely love my brother, and I’ll die on that hill, but I don’t particularly like him now. I hope I’ll outgrow it one day, but I don’t see it happening anytime soon.
I know Mom invited Alex and Freya, but I don’t think they’re coming, since apparently Freya is working on fixing the relationship between Alex and his family. Good for them. Alex deserves all the love in the world.
Yesterday, we stayed up late with Mom, cooking and prepping for today since Christmas Eve in our house always ends up with us all in a food coma. I’m placing garlic knots in the oven when the doorbell chimes.
“George, can you open the door, please?” Mom yells at Dad, who’s secretly watching Harry Potter, even though he’d never admit it.
“Sure thing, pumpkin.”
They’re so sweet, it’s sickening. Growing up, we had high standards for family in front of us, so we would never settle for anything else. It’s why I know I’ll never have it. The only person I see myself spending my whole life isn’t here. Because of me and my weakness.
I lose focus for a second and burn the top of my hand on the oven.
“Motherfucker,” I cry out and push my hand under the running water only to yell again. It’s hot.
“Alicia!” Mom exclaims loudly. She doesn’t even need to add anything else because I know she’s shocked. I don’t curse, especially not in front of my parents and not in their house. I respect them too much for that.
“Sorry, Mom.” I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment. She shoots me a glare that used to put me in my place—still does—and keeps cutting the salad.
Kayla comes into the kitchen, looking cozy in a big red hat with cat ears, an oversized red fuzzy sweater—a color that would look ridiculous on me but somehow works on her—and black leggings. Her feet are covered in big fluffy socks, and she’s holding an insane amount of bags.
“Ho-ho-ho!” She mimics Santa and shakes the bags. “Where is the Christmas tree in this house?” Her acting game is horrible, and we all laugh.
“It might be that huge thing you had to walk around on the way over here.” Mom chuckles as she points at the ten-foot monstrosity in the middle of the living room.
“You’re no fun.” She pouts her painted-red lips. “I’m gonna drop them off and be right back.” She disappears into the hallway, and Mom’s eyes follow her. A faint smile is playing on her lips, and I know it’s the look of a happy mother. I smile too. I’m so grateful for Kayla.
When she comes back, she plants her butt on the stool and sighs. “It smells so good in here; I’m gaining ten pounds as we speak.”
“That’s garlic bread. It always makes me hungry.” I go to put the kettle on. “Do you want some tea?”
“Yes, please. Or anything you’ll be having.”
“Mulled wine?” I ask hopefully.
