December 8

11:00 pm

Getting home: normal. I killed the engine, walked into my apartment, turned the lights on and placed the keys on the barren ring tree on the kitchen counter.

Getting undressed: normal. I hastily remove my contaminated outer layers, throw them into the now full laundry machine and start it up as I turn on the shower.

Getting clean: normal. Standing in the shower, scrubbing my day away, I find tiny pieces of minced garlic and tomato mush under my nails. I scrub everything away.

Winding down: different. I sit down in my reading chair, only a towel keeping my soaking, scrubbed raw body from the fabric, I feel relaxation slowly go over my body like when a bed sheet is allowed to gently fall and settle over you.

Getting dressed: normal, yet different. I put on some old, comfy jeans and sleepily pull a black t-shirt over my head. I take my hair out of its wet bun, towel dry it and take a few minutes to comb it out and tie it into a messy fishtail reaching its way to the middle of my back.

Packing up: finally. I move the clothes from the washer to dryer and take my suitcase to my closet. I take with me all that I haven't worn in years, clothes that I've never worked in, clothes that are casual and beautiful, clothes that the old Julienne never thought she deserved.

Cleaning house: finally. I empty the remainder of my clothes and the clothes in the dryer into big black garbage bags along with my bed sheets and pillow case, the pillow itself stuffed into a small space in a carry on.

Dumping clothes: charitable. I drove up the road a few blocks and came to a drop box for the local charity store. I pushed the bags into the slot and drove off when the car was empty.

Coming home: almost. My apartment looks different, I walk room to room noticing. It has less weight, less dread. I look in the fridge, empty of food except for a huge bottle of water, I sit on the floor and savour every single drop. Crisp, perfect, remarkably delicious.

Calling cabs: tedious. I go through about four or five until I get and answer and another two until I get a yes. It is rather late to be going away, but thankfully, I'm just going one way.

Getting there: new. The cabbie comments on the hour as he helps me get my suitcase in the trunk then moves on. I lean on my carry on as I watch the lights of the city twinkle by me, a meteor shower outside my window. The cabbie, a large, Haitian man with a heavy accent shamelessly sings along to Brittany Spears. I never noticed how remarkably beautiful the city is, I actually smile.

LaGuardia Airport: vacant. a man on the far end of the room is mopping as a bright florescent light above flickers and returns to its normal bright. I look at the board above, listing departures and times. After making my decision, I walk to the ticket booth, have a small exchange and luck out, the plane is only about half full. I splurge a bit out of excitement and ask if first class is available. Shell out more money and I'm off to security checkpoints.

Checking bags: grueling. They dig through the carry-on looking for those very dangerous full tubes of toothpaste and cans of hairspray. The security guard apologizes and takes the items away, recommending that next time I go to the travel size section in Target before I travel. I shrug and thank her for doing her job and keeping flights safe, because that's what actually matters.

Waiting. I wait with my carry-on by the huge bay window and watch the lights flash on the planes and little baggage trucks. I try to find my bag on it but there is no such luck. Before too long, my flight is called.

Sitting. It's been a long while since I really took a breath and sat down. I stretched my legs out and rested my hands on my stomach. I noticed how comfortable I was and the more I noticed, the more comfortable I got. Every tiny shift in my body found a newer, happier position. My muscles felt not pain, my heart, no ache.

Watching. I watched the first class people slowly file in, finding their sits, stuffing luggage above them and sitting down, taking for granted the comfort they feel. Soon enough, one such person did this before me and casually sat beside me. A man. When is the last time I spoke to a man?

Conversing. A simple hello and hello can do quite a bit. He commented on a scar I had on my arm, as well as the matching one on the other. I tell him I'm a cook and I used to work in a restaurant run by my uncle.

Lying. It's not hard, therefore, it can't be all that wrong. I haven't told malicious lies or anything like that. In fact, most of my life has been run on unspoken words and complete honesty. I think its about time for a harmless, career-advancing lie. I was a cook in my uncle's restaurant until it burned down last week on my day off, my poor uncle and quite a few customers and cousins alike were trapped. A tragedy. I nearly believed it.

Crying. Just a tear or so. A tear or two for the last five years of real agony that hovers just beneath the surface. It helps me now and honestly, it feels good to now let some of that out. When I open blurred eyes, a tissue is offered to me with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

Comfort? How foreign.

Flying. The flight lasted nine hours. Nine hours, three time zones, one business proposition. My decision.

Deciding. If I'm not careful, soon I may just be fully in control of my own life. I may just make my own choices based on where I want my life to go. Sarcasm aside, I am a little afraid. But the old Julienne knew fear much better than I. She harped on it and let it destroy her. But I am new. Born again from a murder. Life, death. Yes, no. Yes. The world before me says "yes" to me.

Santa Catalina. Not my original aim but in this new world of yes, I feel its equally important to allow divine intervention. This man, Christopher, the front of the house manager for the Avalon Grille is coming back from a visit to the city to care for his mother and to follow up on some potentials for new cooks that just turned up dry. Not good enough. Speaking to me and hearing of my struggles, he has a feeling I cannot disappoint. He offers to take me with him to the island and do a test run.

More lies. Since my only job has ever been at the restaurant, I don't have any references or anything to go on a resume. I am basically excused from the resume is I am to work there.

Boats. I've never been all that fond of the water, but again, new things in a new world. A boat doesn't count as being in the water so long as you don't look to your sides. Looking up, there is all sky, no water.

Cooking. I spent an hour in their kitchen. Fifteen minutes to commit its layout to memory, five to note their storage habits and quality of product, the rest making four dishes on the menu and plating with some assistance from a server who stayed a little after her shift. Christopher's mouth gaped open, watching the food come up, all cooked perfectly, all beautifully cared for.

Respect.

Integrity.

Care.

Exquisite.

Jobs vs. careers. My work with Silas was a job. A cold, uninviting job. Nicky was right all along and now, I am happy with my career at Avalon.

Unique. I never thought I'd enjoy life as much as I do. I have a small hut all to myself on the beach, I'm an islander, sun-bleached hair and all... I'm. Finally. Happy.

Lies. Little do my co-workers know of my past. Before long, however, I realized that no one cares about your past, just me, but not anymore.

Irresponsible. I go out with my friends and get super drunk. I've had a one night stand or two and once I slept late and was an hour late to work. I'm not perfect.

Elated. I stumbled home from the bars one Saturday and happened to look at the clock, just barely thinking of my next shift. And something caught my attention.

3:00 am.

Three AM. Three hours ante meridiem. When have I last woken up at this time? Can my memory even span so far? It was probably three in the morning when I got home yesterday and it will probably be three in the morning when I go to bed tomorrow.

Three AM.

I suppose three AM is as good a time as any.

I lay in bed and close my eyes. The nightmare is over in every regard. Grae Lights Inc. crumbled in the stock market when their majority shareholder was found alone in his home, dead from a "tainted cocaine overdose". The coroner concluded that with his cancer continuing to kill him, he would've only had about a month or so left either way. I created a new life on an island where no one knows where I went to college or where I last worked or my relationship history. To my greatest happiness, no one has so far as uttered the words "Perfect Julienne contest". On the island of Santa Catalina, I am just Julie. Julie Laganà (I always did like Nicky's last name better. He was always quite eager to take my name with his love of rice and all).

I sleep soundly every night, probably less than I should, but always soundly. Why? I have stared into the face of evil and let said evil overtake me. However, I rose up and killed it. The amount of time it took holds no bearing on its importance. Whats important is that I have rid myself of my own personal demon and not many can truly say that. I sleep soundly, happily, comfortably.

Nothing nagging at me anymore.

Nothing hurting me anymore.

Nothing terrible anymore.

Nothing felt.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.