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8:54pm on   19th, 2005
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It is september! <2
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| From the Diary of Yuki White: |
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10:30pm on   26th, 1991
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the Lady still hasnt left even thoe Dad kisses her alot. she still stays the same. Dad said we could go to chinatown today i love chinatown and we hadnt been in so long but then he runed it. all three of us went and we ate at a restrant with big lines of diffrent foods and things to try. So the Lady looked around she didnt seem to like any of it. but at least i did, and its the kind of food that looks so good and you smell it and then eat it and they all come together and Dad calls it savary. i hope we will go again without her.
My father was an intelligent man. Even when entranced by Queen, he searched for ways to make me more receptive and open to her presence. Chinatown had always been my favorite part of Chicago. When he was still married to my mother, we - a perfect multicultural family - would wander down the colorful streets together. I would beg to be carried, and Dad almost always acquiesced eventually. Then I'd sit happily in his arms, pointing out my favorite vendors or the restaurants with the most delightful welcoming smells. Yet that too ended after the divorce, and I missed it very much. And so, despite a resentful glare or two, I agreed to an afternoon in Chinatown.
The streets swirled with activity; tourists, shoppers, sellers and meanderers blended together like a human mosaic. The three of us maneuvered as well as we could, straying from sidewalk to street and back again. I was watching everything. Smiling, I placed my tiny hand into my father's large one. It was the hand of a worker - callused and rough, but careful enough to be gentle.
Soon we fell into step, and Queen rested her smooth white fingers in the crook of Dad's other arm. Our heels clicked firmly on the stone pavement. It was a steady, reassuring sound. I saw the expressions of passerbys when they looked at us - an empty face lightened, a vacant one returned to earth and grinned openly. I realized that they thought we were a family, strolling along with our pleasant rhythm. My mouth twisted into a broken scowl, and I drew my hand back sharply. Dad glanced at me, but the soft pressure of Queen's touch distracted him. I walked on, separated, alone; the moment of unison had broken. I told myself it would never be restored.
After a while we entered a streetside Chinese buffet, with swinging glass doors and a painted green dragon sign. It was a longtime favorite of ours. I think the name was Moo Feng Li, but it closed down years ago. Inside, aromas rose from their respective dishes; they mingled and hovered irresistibly. The tables were covered by checkered green cloths, lit by oriental lamps. We sat together in a corner booth, and a young waitress with chopsticks in her hair came to take our order.
"Three buffets, please," Dad said simply. "One of those is kid's price."
The girl nodded, and I stared after her as she walked away, wondering how she moved so gracefully. She was like a golden carp fish in water.
"George..." Queen began, clearing her throat. I looked up, interested by the faint cast of disgust in her voice. It tinted her face as well; her scarlet lips were curled slightly. "What are these foods made of, exactly?"
Dad laughed, a deep full sound. "Rice and vegetables and chicken, mostly," he said. Then he looked at me, his mouth curving towards a grin, and added, "The sauces we try not to think about. Also, if it isn't chicken, you probably don't want to know."
Queen made a noncommittal noise and interlaced her long hands. "Maybe I'll just eat when we get back to the apartment," she said. "You two go ahead."
That was a triumph for me. I stole Dad's hand once more, and we drifted through three rows of steaming Chinese cuisine. He helped me fill my plate, and soon it was piled with the most strange, delectable dishes.
Back at the booth, I ate what I liked and arranged the rest into little heaps of color. I was beginning to shape the Kung Bao, sculpting it into a miniature Oriental statue, when Dad broke my concentration.
“Is that Buddha?” he asked, with a skip of amusement in the words.
“No,” I said decisively, studying the cuisine’s swirls and inlets. “It’s a rain catcher.”
I lifted my gaze to meet Dad’s eyes and gauge his reaction. But with that motion, I was caught up in a wave of disgust so rancid that it overwhelmed all the spiced scents around me. Dad sat with his arm outstretched, his hand closed delicately over a silver fork bearing a single bite of chicken. Queen’s head was tilted away petulantly; her bleached blonde hair fanned across her cheek. Her mouth was closed, a ripe plum in a perfect face.
I snapped my neck downwards, quick and sharp as a puppet. We finished the rest of the meal in silence, except for the muted mutterings of two insipid lovers. Queen was no more than a doll. And yet she had filled my mind with bile, my hands with trembling anger.
As we left, Dad lingered for a moment; he wanted to make sure that the swanlike waitress received her tip. Queen and I stepped toward the door, separated by a few spare feet of mistrust. I stared at her with all the venom of a six-year old. She smiled and whispered me a curse.
"A child's charm is nothing to me, Yuki. You will diminish."
Outside again, the same crowded Chinatown streets seemed harsh and foreign. My initial curiosity had faded; the people were only oppressive, not interesting at all. Even the air felt heavy, sullen, coated with Chicago grime. But then the clouds above opened, and I was brushed by the first shy drops of rain.
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| From the Diary of Yuki White: |
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7:27pm on  18th, 1991
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lady came Today. Dad braut her home on his arm so he must like her becaus he was so close like he wanted to kiss her. but I thout she smelled weerd. like rats and roses. The rats are dirty and evryone hates them but roses cover up other things like wen peple get in fights they find roses to cover up the fight. so she's dirty and fake i hope she goes away soon. maybe wen Dad kisses her he wont like her anymor.
I must have been six when she first came to live with us. We had a grey apartment in Chicago's Southside then - it was no castle, though some previous tenant had been a medieval enthusiast. The walls were done in peeling imitation stone, the floors were rough hardwood, and the furnishings were worst of all. Everywhere you looked, there was harsh black iron; it seemed a scattered forest of lifelessness. Dad always meant to fix it... he said children should play in light and run without fear of splinters. But before the divorce, he never had time, and afterwards he matched so perfectly.
It was a cold, bleached January day; the sun was pale and faded. I had been watching television on the bare floor, but my eyes were following the cartoon movements without really registering them.
"Yuki! Come to the door, Yuki."
I rose with my technicolor patterns and moved, a little lethargically, towards the door. The chain lock was high above my head, but I'd had practice. By stretching body, arms and fingers in unison, I could touch the fastening, and the iron links fell away easily.
The door creaked open, but my father was not looking at me; his head was turned towards someone in the hallway. Tiny creases of laughter spread from his tired blue eyes, and I smiled because they were so new and out of place. Snow was melting in his thin brown hair; there was more on his shoulders and shoes.
I stepped back to let him enter. He guided the newcomer in too, with a strange gentle care. I looked up appraisingly to see who held the key to Dad's laughter. She was tall, dressed in a tight lavender blouse and a short black skirt; it had a small handcut slit on one side. There were feathers of white melting on her long, creased leather boots, and her flowing blonde hair seemed damp. I had to crane my head upwards for a view of her face, a painted mask of violet and crimson makeup. The smile froze on my own face.
"So you do have a daughter, George," she twitched her vivid lips. "Well, I don't mind, as long as she knows not to intrude when doors are locked..."
"She should know by now," Dad replied, grinning quietly. To me, he said, "Yuki, this is Queen."
He placed a hand on her shoulder. I nodded, and retreated farther into the room. I had spent six years in the Southside - I knew a slut when I saw one. But I also took in the glazed expression of my father's eyes; on second glance it was more infatuated than content. So I said nothing.
"Would you turn the TV off, love?" Queen asked me. I saw that her teeth were slightly yellow, but perfect and very sharp. "We don't want distractions."
I flipped the on/off switch emotionlessly, and watched the two of them disappear laughing into the bedroom.
Then I walked as quietly as I could to the far wall, where a simple mirror hung next to a square window. It was adjusted to my height, so my own features were reflected in the glass. Two dark almond eyes, slanted in a pale face, stared into me. My hair was smooth, straight, and black as night. I had my mother's features, as well as her name; I was blatantly Japanese.
Slowly I slid to the floor, drawing my knees to my chest and wondering silently why all the women my father had brought into this apartment had been the same. They were always tall, cheap Caucasians who smelled of advertisable lust. But only this one had ever made him laugh.
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| Prologue |
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12:00pm on  9th, 1985
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I have a story to tell. I have never been a writer, but now I understand the restless fire and indomitable longing of their kind. When something is inside, it needs to be let out.
Still, I am so tired. I can not retrace it all; that would be almost as difficult as living it again...
There are reminders, even now - things that were only lost, not destroyed. Page after page of a child's diary, two empty prescription bottles, a mirror hanging on a wall. I see them all here. They will be my illustrations.
Maybe, if you listen, it will be easier to tell.
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