Krystal Halliburton

Viola’s Pages

The Black Book “Grand risings, friend!” My best friend, Danielle, barged into my new apartment with two iced coffees in her hands. In my state of exhaustion, I couldn’t decipher whether she was louder than usual, or if it was the emptiness of my new place that made greetings sound much more amplified. From the half empty cup in her hand, I could tell caffeine had made itself comfortable in her system. “Why are you up so early?” I said, still huddled beneath my blankets with sleep clouding my vocals. “Up? Girl, I haven’t even been to sleep.” That caught my attention and forced me to sit up. Before I could even ask, she handed me my coffee and I took a grateful sip. The caffeine combined with the iciness of the drink sharpened my senses well enough to pull the rest of my mind from its nocturnal fog. “I was enraptured by artistic muses that love to come out after dark and feed my need to create.” Then it hit me, “how did you get in here?” She pulled my keys from her back pocket and tossed them at me. “You left those in the door, genius. Luckily, the good people of NOLA are an honest breed. If you did that in New York, your whole place would have ended up on the back of somebody’s pickup truck, never to be seen again.” “I don’t have anything to take.” I knew I couldn’t hide the sadness in my voice. Earlier this year, I had lost everything I owned in a fire in my Manhattan apartment. I was grateful to be alive and took this tragedy as an opportunity to relocate down to Louisiana. Danielle came and sat next to me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “I don’t want you to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. Get back into your writing and keep making those masterpieces. Publishers are going to be begging you to be on their team when they see how talented you are. And anything you need, I will be here to help you. You’re my sister, Annie, you know that.” There were very few times when Danielle got sentimental, but when she did, it came from her soul. Wiping the tears that were gathering on my cheeks, I asked her what she was working on last night and she jumped back up with the excitement. “I finally finished the mural that I started on the brick wall on my roof!” I could tell she was so proud of her accomplishment and I couldn’t wait to see it. Danielle was a phenomenal artist, the type that would rather spend her days covered in paint, inhaling the overwhelming scent of her latest creation than fill her time with things that didn’t fulfill her. I was the safe friend. A complete 180. Never too daring or brave enough to step out of my own skin. I lived my life up until now dying on the inside, constantly racked with regret and fear that my life would be over before I’ve truly had a chance to live. “Congrats, D!” I threw my arms around her, genuinely happy for my friend. I pulled away from her and asked if she would let me take her to brunch to celebrate. “I have a better idea. Hurry up and get ready so we don’t miss out on the good stuff.” My confusion was definitely written in my expression and before I could get a word out to question or protest, she was pushing me into my bathroom, slamming the door behind me.