Page 6

Aoi

I can’t believe I thought I had it hard.

Of course, life troubles shouldn’t be compared but I always feel like mine aren’t such a big deal. Maybe because someone somewhere in the world has it worse or maybe because I just don’t deserve to complain . I don’t feel worthy of complaining no matter how hard it gets.

I had hopes and dreams that I simply gave up on and ignored my uncle’s support when he claimed I have potential. It all sounded like blatant lies to me.

Some people simply aren’t meant for greatness and that’s okay. I’m just not the type of soul whose fate is to shine in the spotlight, and I prefer it that way. It’s not hard to admit since it’s true.

In hope of getting closer to those dreams, I found a part-time job at a publishing agency. Becoming an author is my only goal now, a foolish one. My writing isn’t even good to be honest. It’s not life changing and definitely not inspiring. I don’t see why anyone would want to read it and yet there’s so much I want to convey through words inked on paper.

It’s not a mere passion it’s a way of life that I haven’t been able to get rid of.

I’m lucky to be able to work in a field so close to my dream job. I can learn about the publishing system and let my thoughts wander to a future where I got everything I always wanted. It pays well enough to afford most of my living expenses and rent.

Okay, part of the rent is paid by my uncle. Don’t judge me. What is a twenty-two-year-old student supposed to do? I have no choice but to rely on him from time to time.

Seattle might be a nice city to live in but as the economy gets worse and worse for working people, affording a life here gets harder as well. The rest of the time I go to college and spend my time either reading or replying to Sally’s incessant and incoherent messages.

I hear the stream of the shower and head towards the kitchen. Visha is probably starving; I have to prepare some food for him. I put on my chick yellow apron because yes, I’m that kind of person. I need to have a protective surface over my clothes when I cook. No, not because I need everything to be clean and what else but because I’m a clumsy mess. The way I manage to spill anything that has the bad luck of ending in my palm is a real thorn in my foot.

I mean it. ANYTHING.

Since I was a child, I have always spilled my goblets, and it would make my mother crack up. My dad had to clean up after me because mom was too busy laughing her ass off and telling my little sister to stop making fun of me. I used to cry whenever I spilled something because I felt like a burden to my parents. I was the eldest and yet my sister never spilled anything.

I grab a box of pasta, and some bottled tomato sauce, then start mixing the sauce with a mixer to give it a homogenous texture. I learned how to cook from my father, who made a hobby out of it, after realizing my mother fell in love with him time and time again after each delicious dish. They were the cutest couple.

I pour the sauce in a saucepan and turn on the heat on medium, then fill a pot with water, and turn on the stove. I’m not especially hungry, so I prepare a singular plate. I pour some of the farfalle in the plate to measure the quantity needed.

How much does a kid his age eat anyway? Aren’t young kids picky? Whatever, if there are leftovers, I can always put them away in the fridge and heat them up tomorrow for lunch. After approximately eight minutes, the water starts boiling and I pour the pasta in the pot with a pinch of salt.

After a good ten minutes, I taste one farfalla and thankfully it isn’t overcooked. I use a spoon to collect some of the pasta water and pour it into the saucepan that’s still boiling, then I sprinkle some salt and taste the sauce.

I’m no chef and clearly no Italian but this will have to do. Usually, I let the sauce simmer for at least an hour, but I don’t have that kind of time right now.

Searching for the colander, I smack my head against the cabinet door. “Oh, you fucking piece of shit. I’m gonna dismantle you one day.”

I glare at the small door as though it appeared out of nowhere, just to attack me. Flipping it off, I reach for the colander in the cabinet, massaging the aching spot on my head. I spill out the pasta water, then mix the hot sauce with the farfalle.

Hopefully, he’ll like it.

Unable to resist the urge, I hold my hand over the stove, enjoying the warmth tickling my palm. Sometimes I think about laying my palm flat on it and letting it burn my skin until the red ink stops clogging my lungs.

I know that wouldn’t work and I promised to stop acting on these thoughts. Jason would be disappointed if he knew I still cling to the familiar sensation of pain. I can’t even glance at sharp objects without thinking about my blood trickling down my wrists.

Am I ever going to be okay? Will these thoughts plague me until I stop breathing?