“You’ve shut yourself away from everyone.”
“And what would your point be?”
“It’s not healthy.”
“It’s not your business.”
“I don’t see why you’re like this.”
“I don’t see why you should care.”
“I’m a friend.”
“You’re an acquaintance.”
“That’s cold.”
“Adapt.”
“Adapt?”
“Yes.”
“Along the lines of, ‘Get used to it’?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to adapt.”
“Then you won’t survive.”
“How can you say I won’t survive?”
“Only the strong survive.”
“Is that why you’re so cold?”
“That is why I will survive.”
“And as long as I know how to live—”
“Don’t start that rubbish with me.”
”I’m trying to make you laugh.”
“You do so in vain.”
“You didn’t used to be like this.”
“People change.”
“They adapt?”
“Yes.”
”I think I’d rather die than become like you.”
“That would your prerogative, then.”
“You want me to die?”
“No.”
“But you just said that it’s my choice.”
“I don’t want you to die. But if you want to die, there’s nothing much I can do about it.”
“You can stop me.”
“If you want to die, you’ll find different ways to kill yourself.”
“Like slit my wrists?”
“Or hang yourself.”
“Overdose.”
“Starvation.”
“Step in front of a train.”
“Shut yourself away from the world.”
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing of any relevance to the conversation.”
“Do you want to die?”
“Sometimes.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
LESSON :: Beatings
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Stop.
Breathe.
Close your eyes.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Stop. Breathe.
Close your eyes, tighter.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Stop.
Breathe.
Grit your teeth.
Clamp down on your jaw until you feel your molars about to shatter.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sev—
“STOP!”
Eight…
“Please…”
Nine…
“Please stop…”
Ten.
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
Door creaks open.
Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
Door creaks shut.
Click
Bolt-locked.
The room is dark. A slice of sunlight cuts across the stuccoed-ceiling. A small sliver of exposed window, facing the East. It must be early or mid morning, then. It’s bright sunlight. So it’s got to be early morning. There isn’t that dullness to the glow. No yellow, really. More like stark white.
Why did she say anything? She didn’t have to say it. She shouldn’t have said it. But the words just spilled out from her lips. They moved on dark wings, circling his head four times, before slipping into his ears.
All she said was three words. That’s all. “Criminal” and “a” and “you’re.”
But not in that order.
She just stepped out of the shower. Shivering and wrapping the towel around her body as tightly as possible. He was sitting on the bed, timing her. He laughed at her.
Before she could stop herself, before she even knew what she was about to do, her lips parted, her vocal chords exploded, and she screamed at him: “You’re a criminal!”
He sat on the bed, staring at her for a minute. He looked confused, for a moment. She watched the three words on their little hellish wings circle his head, taunting and teasing her. And then, when they disappeared into his ears, his confusion was lost to rage.
The towel was torn from her body. It took him a total of ten seconds to wrap the thing around her throat. He pulled her back against his front, pulling the ends of the towel harder, tightening the fabric around her throat.
She coughed and struggled. He laughed and tightened the towel. She was starting to get dizzy. She remembered something.
As he tightened the towel even more, she forced her body to go limp. He wasn’t expecting that. They both fell forward. She felt something in the back of her head. It was his chin. She smiled at that, swallowing as much air as she possibly could—while she had the chance.
He didn’t say anything. She turned around—still naked—deciding suddenly to kick his ass into next week.
He was faster, though. And stronger. And better prepared.
He pulled a small club—really, it was a bit of hockey stick he’d cut off—and started hitting her with it.
He attacked her legs, chest, arms, ribs, stomach, feet. Everything.
He hit her ten times. Caught his breath. And started again.
She tried to catch the club, to pull it from him. He stopped that with a quick and harsh collision between the thick and strong club, and her bare knuckles.
Now, lying on the floor in their bedroom, she stares up at the shard of light slicing its way across the ceiling, slowly becoming shorter and shorter.
There is reason to move from her spot. There’s also no way to do that. She can feel parts of her body pulsing painfully. She can feel other parts of her body swelling. And, still others, she can’t feel at all.
He steps into the room again, and lies down beside her. He wraps his arm over her stomach, caressing left hip gently. And, as he nuzzles her neck with the stubble on his chin, he whispers, “I’m sorry. I love you. Please…I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
She doesn’t reply to him. She can’t. She lies there, her mind falling into the darkness of unconsciousness. Again.
He was always teaching her new things—at least one new lesson every day. Today, it was to never speak, never fight, and never listen.
Stop.
Breathe.
Close your eyes.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Stop. Breathe.
Close your eyes, tighter.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Stop.
Breathe.
Grit your teeth.
Clamp down on your jaw until you feel your molars about to shatter.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sev—
“STOP!”
Eight…
“Please…”
Nine…
“Please stop…”
Ten.
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
Door creaks open.
Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.
Door creaks shut.
Click
Bolt-locked.
The room is dark. A slice of sunlight cuts across the stuccoed-ceiling. A small sliver of exposed window, facing the East. It must be early or mid morning, then. It’s bright sunlight. So it’s got to be early morning. There isn’t that dullness to the glow. No yellow, really. More like stark white.
Why did she say anything? She didn’t have to say it. She shouldn’t have said it. But the words just spilled out from her lips. They moved on dark wings, circling his head four times, before slipping into his ears.
All she said was three words. That’s all. “Criminal” and “a” and “you’re.”
But not in that order.
She just stepped out of the shower. Shivering and wrapping the towel around her body as tightly as possible. He was sitting on the bed, timing her. He laughed at her.
Before she could stop herself, before she even knew what she was about to do, her lips parted, her vocal chords exploded, and she screamed at him: “You’re a criminal!”
He sat on the bed, staring at her for a minute. He looked confused, for a moment. She watched the three words on their little hellish wings circle his head, taunting and teasing her. And then, when they disappeared into his ears, his confusion was lost to rage.
The towel was torn from her body. It took him a total of ten seconds to wrap the thing around her throat. He pulled her back against his front, pulling the ends of the towel harder, tightening the fabric around her throat.
She coughed and struggled. He laughed and tightened the towel. She was starting to get dizzy. She remembered something.
As he tightened the towel even more, she forced her body to go limp. He wasn’t expecting that. They both fell forward. She felt something in the back of her head. It was his chin. She smiled at that, swallowing as much air as she possibly could—while she had the chance.
He didn’t say anything. She turned around—still naked—deciding suddenly to kick his ass into next week.
He was faster, though. And stronger. And better prepared.
He pulled a small club—really, it was a bit of hockey stick he’d cut off—and started hitting her with it.
He attacked her legs, chest, arms, ribs, stomach, feet. Everything.
He hit her ten times. Caught his breath. And started again.
She tried to catch the club, to pull it from him. He stopped that with a quick and harsh collision between the thick and strong club, and her bare knuckles.
Now, lying on the floor in their bedroom, she stares up at the shard of light slicing its way across the ceiling, slowly becoming shorter and shorter.
There is reason to move from her spot. There’s also no way to do that. She can feel parts of her body pulsing painfully. She can feel other parts of her body swelling. And, still others, she can’t feel at all.
He steps into the room again, and lies down beside her. He wraps his arm over her stomach, caressing left hip gently. And, as he nuzzles her neck with the stubble on his chin, he whispers, “I’m sorry. I love you. Please…I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
She doesn’t reply to him. She can’t. She lies there, her mind falling into the darkness of unconsciousness. Again.
He was always teaching her new things—at least one new lesson every day. Today, it was to never speak, never fight, and never listen.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
WAITING FOR A HERO :: Beatings
She's sitting on the curb, in the parking lot, running through her options. She's been sitting on the curb for forty-five minutes. She's been sitting alone for twenty. Everyone went home.
If she goes back home... But she can't go back home. Not after what she said to her family.
If she goes home... But she can't go home. Not after what she said to him.
If she goes... Where else can she go? Her bank account is empty. She won't get paid for another eight days. She could go to a shelter. But there aren't any homeless shelters here.
There's another type of shelter, though. But she can't go there.
Maybe sneak back onto the site and just sleep in one of the buildings. No one would know. The security guard doesn't know all the sites secrets.
Then again, neither does she.
It's getting dark out. The warmth of the day is beginning to drift away. A cool wind whips her hair around her face. She pulls her forehead from her knees and stares out into the barren parking lot, her chin resting on her knees, now.
She can't even leave the parking lot. She's got eighty three cents in her pocket. Two quarters, a dime, two nickels, and thirteen pennies.
Her stomach rumbles and twists. Her ribs are aching from the lack of food. She hasn't eaten in days.
That's not entirely true. She's eaten. She just hasn't been able to keep anything down. And every time she's sick, her ribs voice their rage against the rest of her body.
The sky is growing dark, rather quickly. It won't be long before it starts to rain.
She presses her forehead to her knees again, and holds her legs against her chest. Her ribs are sore, sitting like this, but it relieves the pressure on her back and neck.
Two options. Both unacceptable. Both impossible. No options, then.
She smells the rain before she feels it. The thick scent of wet pine invades her senses. And then she feels the cold droplets slowly begin to tap at her skin. Before long, she feels the onslaught of the summer tears.
He'll be furious when she calls him. When he has to drive all the way out here to get her. She won't hear the end of. She won't remember it either, though. A blessing in disguise.
But what if she didn't call him? Would he really care that she wasn't home? Would he get worried? Would he come looking for her?
Her family thinks she's with him. They don't care though. She went back to him. After they told her it was them or him. She chose him. And they haven't looked at her since.
The rain falling over her hair slips along the edges of her face, pulling the makeup from her face. Clear water becomes thick with coverup and stage powder.
The sound of splashing draws her head from her knees. She looks into the parking lot, wiping the falling rain from her eyes, feeling small drops slipping from the tip of her nose.
Two lights bounce off the wet pavement. She tilts her head to the side a little. Someone for the restaurant, maybe. Though they're closed tonight, maybe someone forgot a purse or a bag.
The car splashes through the puddles, the windshield wipers moving back and forth at the fastest setting. The vehicle pulls up beside her. The passenger window slides down, the falling rain soaking the woman inside.
She smiles softly and sadly at her friend, standing in the rain and shivering. "Get in, hun."
She shakes her head in the rain, sending drops of water to the left and right. "I'm fine. Just waiting for a ride."
The woman in the driver's seat leans over and looks out the passenger window, "Get in the fucking car! I'm taking you back to my place. Now get the fuck in!!"
Again, standing in the downpour, she shakes her head no.
The passenger steps into the rain, slips to the rear door, and opens it. She pulls a blanket out and wraps her soaked friend in it. "Please," she says softly, guiding but still pushing the young woman into the backseat.
The passenger slips into the seat behind the driver. The latter immediately locks the doors once both women are safely seated inside. The heat flares. The windows are rolled up.
They drive off into the pumelling rain, in complete silence.
If she goes back home... But she can't go back home. Not after what she said to her family.
If she goes home... But she can't go home. Not after what she said to him.
If she goes... Where else can she go? Her bank account is empty. She won't get paid for another eight days. She could go to a shelter. But there aren't any homeless shelters here.
There's another type of shelter, though. But she can't go there.
Maybe sneak back onto the site and just sleep in one of the buildings. No one would know. The security guard doesn't know all the sites secrets.
Then again, neither does she.
It's getting dark out. The warmth of the day is beginning to drift away. A cool wind whips her hair around her face. She pulls her forehead from her knees and stares out into the barren parking lot, her chin resting on her knees, now.
She can't even leave the parking lot. She's got eighty three cents in her pocket. Two quarters, a dime, two nickels, and thirteen pennies.
Her stomach rumbles and twists. Her ribs are aching from the lack of food. She hasn't eaten in days.
That's not entirely true. She's eaten. She just hasn't been able to keep anything down. And every time she's sick, her ribs voice their rage against the rest of her body.
The sky is growing dark, rather quickly. It won't be long before it starts to rain.
She presses her forehead to her knees again, and holds her legs against her chest. Her ribs are sore, sitting like this, but it relieves the pressure on her back and neck.
Two options. Both unacceptable. Both impossible. No options, then.
She smells the rain before she feels it. The thick scent of wet pine invades her senses. And then she feels the cold droplets slowly begin to tap at her skin. Before long, she feels the onslaught of the summer tears.
He'll be furious when she calls him. When he has to drive all the way out here to get her. She won't hear the end of. She won't remember it either, though. A blessing in disguise.
But what if she didn't call him? Would he really care that she wasn't home? Would he get worried? Would he come looking for her?
Her family thinks she's with him. They don't care though. She went back to him. After they told her it was them or him. She chose him. And they haven't looked at her since.
The rain falling over her hair slips along the edges of her face, pulling the makeup from her face. Clear water becomes thick with coverup and stage powder.
The sound of splashing draws her head from her knees. She looks into the parking lot, wiping the falling rain from her eyes, feeling small drops slipping from the tip of her nose.
Two lights bounce off the wet pavement. She tilts her head to the side a little. Someone for the restaurant, maybe. Though they're closed tonight, maybe someone forgot a purse or a bag.
The car splashes through the puddles, the windshield wipers moving back and forth at the fastest setting. The vehicle pulls up beside her. The passenger window slides down, the falling rain soaking the woman inside.
She smiles softly and sadly at her friend, standing in the rain and shivering. "Get in, hun."
She shakes her head in the rain, sending drops of water to the left and right. "I'm fine. Just waiting for a ride."
The woman in the driver's seat leans over and looks out the passenger window, "Get in the fucking car! I'm taking you back to my place. Now get the fuck in!!"
Again, standing in the downpour, she shakes her head no.
The passenger steps into the rain, slips to the rear door, and opens it. She pulls a blanket out and wraps her soaked friend in it. "Please," she says softly, guiding but still pushing the young woman into the backseat.
The passenger slips into the seat behind the driver. The latter immediately locks the doors once both women are safely seated inside. The heat flares. The windows are rolled up.
They drive off into the pumelling rain, in complete silence.
Friday, November 05, 2004
WAIT :: Beatings
"You can't hide from me."
A door opens. The hinges creaked -the sound high and fast. The door closes with nothing more than a silent click.
"That's what happened?"
"Yes."
"All right."
"That is what happened!"
Scratching wafts against eardrums. A pen scribbling on paper. A fountain pen on the pages of a notepad.
"She just up and left?"
"Yes."
"Really."
A disgruntled and angered gleam in two green eyes. Thoughts that can never safely be uttered.
"You just left?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
An ammonia-scented hallway. Fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. White. A few paintings lining the walls, an attempt at comfort and life. Tiled floors -scuffed and covered with a fine layer of dust and dirt from outside, brought about from dozens of shoes.
A small beeping sound, coming from beyond that wide wooden door. The one with no numbers. The one with the sign on the front. A sheet of paper stuck there with a strip of clear tape. A black pen -maybe a marker- having scribbled out No visitors! Direct family ONLY!
The word 'direct' underlined quickly. The word 'ONLY' in capital letters, underlined five times, with a loud exclamation mark.
"Said she left without any incident."
"He said the same thing."
"That's not leaving without incident."
"No. That's not leaving at all."
"I told you there's no hiding."
A slight increase in beeping.
"You won't ever try that again."
A waist-length, black leather jacket, strolling down the ammonia-scented hallway. Two large, black, scuffed, metal-toed boots knocking along the tiled floor. A powerful smirk. An acknowledging nod of the head to a police officer.
A predator running free. And a silenced prey lying in wait.
A door opens. The hinges creaked -the sound high and fast. The door closes with nothing more than a silent click.
"That's what happened?"
"Yes."
"All right."
"That is what happened!"
Scratching wafts against eardrums. A pen scribbling on paper. A fountain pen on the pages of a notepad.
"She just up and left?"
"Yes."
"Really."
A disgruntled and angered gleam in two green eyes. Thoughts that can never safely be uttered.
"You just left?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
An ammonia-scented hallway. Fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. White. A few paintings lining the walls, an attempt at comfort and life. Tiled floors -scuffed and covered with a fine layer of dust and dirt from outside, brought about from dozens of shoes.
A small beeping sound, coming from beyond that wide wooden door. The one with no numbers. The one with the sign on the front. A sheet of paper stuck there with a strip of clear tape. A black pen -maybe a marker- having scribbled out No visitors! Direct family ONLY!
The word 'direct' underlined quickly. The word 'ONLY' in capital letters, underlined five times, with a loud exclamation mark.
"Said she left without any incident."
"He said the same thing."
"That's not leaving without incident."
"No. That's not leaving at all."
"I told you there's no hiding."
A slight increase in beeping.
"You won't ever try that again."
A waist-length, black leather jacket, strolling down the ammonia-scented hallway. Two large, black, scuffed, metal-toed boots knocking along the tiled floor. A powerful smirk. An acknowledging nod of the head to a police officer.
A predator running free. And a silenced prey lying in wait.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Beatings :: BECAUSE
"Leeda told me what happened."-
She turns to and looks back at her friend, though she doesn't say anything.
Kate's eyes are soft and warm, they always are these days. "Sorry to hear it, hun."
She shrugs, "Better him than me."
"Guess so," answers Kate, stepping forward and shading the sun from her eyes. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she answers with a bit of a smile. "I'm fine."
"If you need to talk, just let me know. Okay?"
She nods and smiles before saying goodbye. The rest of the staff is leaving the building. She reaches her car and unlocks it, before slipping into the driver's seat.
Her fingers run along the steering wheel softly for a minute or two. It's stifling in the closed vehicle. She can feel beads of sweat forming over her skin -her forehead, her nose, the base of her neck.
She starts the engine. The radio comes on and she listens to the music a little, trying to identify the song and the artist. She can't think of who it is. He could have though. He could name every song you played. He would laugh that she couldn't name any. She would laugh, too.
Her knuckles are white as she clenches the steering wheel; the car running quietly, spewing exhaust into the sweltering summer evening.
Before she consciously realizes anything, she finds herself halfway home. But not the home she's destined for. She's halfway to their apartment; halfway along the route that runs through the back roads. The route that took the longest to get home. The one she used when she knew what was going to happen when she got home. When she knew that she'd forgotten something in the morning, and only realized it after he'd called her cell phone and reminded her of what she'd forgotten.
This was her avoidance. The only way she could assure a little safety.
She stops the car and stares at the roadway. There is no going back to that apartment. There's never going to be a going back. All that their home contains is spotlessness, yellow tape, and a coroner.
He was found dead by his brother. Suicide. Complete with notes for his family and for her. An overdose. They found alcohol, ecstasy, cocaine and acid in his system. Not enough to kill him, but combined to do substantial damage.
It was heroine that killed him. A ridiculous amount, pumped into his forearm with a surgical syringe.
Initially they told her it was the heroine. That's what she answered with when asked. A heroine overdose. Simple and accidental. But he knew how to use it. He knew how much he could take at one time; how much she could take at one time, too.
Later she was told it was air pockets. Something like that anyway. She really didn't pay that much attention to what they told her.
"If you leave me, I will kill myself." He'd threatened her many times with those words. She had believed them every time. He had never tried to call her bluff because she had never threatened to leave. And then, the first and only time she left him, he killed himself.
Staring at the roadway, she watches the years play back in her thoughts. Every moment of silence. Every moment of anger. The hours of bliss. The minutes of hatred and pain. The weeks of tears and fear. All brought to an end because she had left him.
How could she not be blamed for what happened? He had warned her. She ignored him and left. For anyone else, that would have been cause for deep concern. If a student uttered such a thing, the teacher would consult the parents. If an adult whispered such a thing to a colleague, that colleague would consult outside help for the other.
He had told her that if she left, he would have to kill himself to save himself from the pain of losing her. She had always listened to him. He had never tried to hurt himself. And then, the one time she did leave, he pumped his body full of heroin and air pockets.
She killed the man she loved. She did so willingly. She left to be safe forever. And now, she would forever remember that the direct result of her decision was the death of another person.
How could you not look at the facts and call her a murderer?
Because. The only word that matters anymore. Just because.
She turns to and looks back at her friend, though she doesn't say anything.
Kate's eyes are soft and warm, they always are these days. "Sorry to hear it, hun."
She shrugs, "Better him than me."
"Guess so," answers Kate, stepping forward and shading the sun from her eyes. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she answers with a bit of a smile. "I'm fine."
"If you need to talk, just let me know. Okay?"
She nods and smiles before saying goodbye. The rest of the staff is leaving the building. She reaches her car and unlocks it, before slipping into the driver's seat.
Her fingers run along the steering wheel softly for a minute or two. It's stifling in the closed vehicle. She can feel beads of sweat forming over her skin -her forehead, her nose, the base of her neck.
She starts the engine. The radio comes on and she listens to the music a little, trying to identify the song and the artist. She can't think of who it is. He could have though. He could name every song you played. He would laugh that she couldn't name any. She would laugh, too.
Her knuckles are white as she clenches the steering wheel; the car running quietly, spewing exhaust into the sweltering summer evening.
Before she consciously realizes anything, she finds herself halfway home. But not the home she's destined for. She's halfway to their apartment; halfway along the route that runs through the back roads. The route that took the longest to get home. The one she used when she knew what was going to happen when she got home. When she knew that she'd forgotten something in the morning, and only realized it after he'd called her cell phone and reminded her of what she'd forgotten.
This was her avoidance. The only way she could assure a little safety.
She stops the car and stares at the roadway. There is no going back to that apartment. There's never going to be a going back. All that their home contains is spotlessness, yellow tape, and a coroner.
He was found dead by his brother. Suicide. Complete with notes for his family and for her. An overdose. They found alcohol, ecstasy, cocaine and acid in his system. Not enough to kill him, but combined to do substantial damage.
It was heroine that killed him. A ridiculous amount, pumped into his forearm with a surgical syringe.
Initially they told her it was the heroine. That's what she answered with when asked. A heroine overdose. Simple and accidental. But he knew how to use it. He knew how much he could take at one time; how much she could take at one time, too.
Later she was told it was air pockets. Something like that anyway. She really didn't pay that much attention to what they told her.
"If you leave me, I will kill myself." He'd threatened her many times with those words. She had believed them every time. He had never tried to call her bluff because she had never threatened to leave. And then, the first and only time she left him, he killed himself.
Staring at the roadway, she watches the years play back in her thoughts. Every moment of silence. Every moment of anger. The hours of bliss. The minutes of hatred and pain. The weeks of tears and fear. All brought to an end because she had left him.
How could she not be blamed for what happened? He had warned her. She ignored him and left. For anyone else, that would have been cause for deep concern. If a student uttered such a thing, the teacher would consult the parents. If an adult whispered such a thing to a colleague, that colleague would consult outside help for the other.
He had told her that if she left, he would have to kill himself to save himself from the pain of losing her. She had always listened to him. He had never tried to hurt himself. And then, the one time she did leave, he pumped his body full of heroin and air pockets.
She killed the man she loved. She did so willingly. She left to be safe forever. And now, she would forever remember that the direct result of her decision was the death of another person.
How could you not look at the facts and call her a murderer?
Because. The only word that matters anymore. Just because.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
The Coup :: THE SHADOW
The darkness of the den was perfect. You can’t see a thing inside. The lights are dead—the breaker in the basement having been torn from the wall. Nothing works in the house.
They had made sure to secure the scramblers to battery operated back-up systems. When the breaker died, the scramblers came on. A small feat of ingenuity, to say the least. Though not one she herself claimed.
White armour reflects the moonlight cascading through the open windows of the hallways. The staff is secure in their rooms. Though not one sleeps. They knew this would happen. They were told no more than three hours ago. They discovered just how much she does care for all of them. They will never be able to repay her.
The flashlights, strapped to white-armoured forearms, blink and die. Any and all electric-operated devices have no use in this place now. The scramblers are more advanced than anyone truly knows.
They step into the den. Three of them. Their footsteps are heavy as they cross here and there, searching the darkness. They are not used to the dark. They fear it, in fact. The Enemy Unidentified thrives in the darkness.
Their voices whisper to each other. Hurried and short words. They want to get out. But they can’t until their target is acquired. That’s the term they use.
Off in the corner of the room, she stands and listens. They pass by her within nothing more than two feet. She smiles as they tread about the room quickly. She knows they’re scared. She can hear it in their voices. And that fact alone makes her smile even more as she watches them in the dark.
The three leave the room. She waits a moment before following their stumbling strides. She can hear them knocking into furniture and toppling various objects. This is her domain, after all.
As she expected, they move upstairs. Eight of them. The full crew. They move into the bedrooms, waking the already woken staff. They pull their captives to the windows, inspecting them for their targets.
Finally the head of staff is found. She directs them to the main bedroom. They step inside, all eight of them. The head of staff is ordered back to her bedroom. She goes willingly.
From the hallway, the following shadow is silent. She waits, crouched against the wall. She waits for that one step. For that one moment. Her breathing is calm and casual. You would think she waits for the bus on the street corner, and not what she—
The hallway explodes in a blast of white light. Closely followed by a thick cloud of smoke, and then orange red light flickering over everything.
The one step happened. And the room met its ill fate.
The staff goes screaming from their respective rooms. All rush downstairs. One white-armoured figure stumbles from the room—completely engulfed in flames.
The head of staff watches the figure fall to the floor. She says nothing, joining her Mistress and moving downstairs in a perfect calm.
Other figures in white come crashing into the house. They rush about collecting the panicked staff, while other white figures rush upstairs to the master suite.
“Thank you,” says the Shadow to her head of staff.
“Be safe,” replies the other woman.
The Shadow smiles softly before slipping into the gardens, disappearing from all existence. She turns, briefly, to watch the flames explode from her bedroom. The price of sacrifice, she thinks with a smile.
They had made sure to secure the scramblers to battery operated back-up systems. When the breaker died, the scramblers came on. A small feat of ingenuity, to say the least. Though not one she herself claimed.
White armour reflects the moonlight cascading through the open windows of the hallways. The staff is secure in their rooms. Though not one sleeps. They knew this would happen. They were told no more than three hours ago. They discovered just how much she does care for all of them. They will never be able to repay her.
The flashlights, strapped to white-armoured forearms, blink and die. Any and all electric-operated devices have no use in this place now. The scramblers are more advanced than anyone truly knows.
They step into the den. Three of them. Their footsteps are heavy as they cross here and there, searching the darkness. They are not used to the dark. They fear it, in fact. The Enemy Unidentified thrives in the darkness.
Their voices whisper to each other. Hurried and short words. They want to get out. But they can’t until their target is acquired. That’s the term they use.
Off in the corner of the room, she stands and listens. They pass by her within nothing more than two feet. She smiles as they tread about the room quickly. She knows they’re scared. She can hear it in their voices. And that fact alone makes her smile even more as she watches them in the dark.
The three leave the room. She waits a moment before following their stumbling strides. She can hear them knocking into furniture and toppling various objects. This is her domain, after all.
As she expected, they move upstairs. Eight of them. The full crew. They move into the bedrooms, waking the already woken staff. They pull their captives to the windows, inspecting them for their targets.
Finally the head of staff is found. She directs them to the main bedroom. They step inside, all eight of them. The head of staff is ordered back to her bedroom. She goes willingly.
From the hallway, the following shadow is silent. She waits, crouched against the wall. She waits for that one step. For that one moment. Her breathing is calm and casual. You would think she waits for the bus on the street corner, and not what she—
The hallway explodes in a blast of white light. Closely followed by a thick cloud of smoke, and then orange red light flickering over everything.
The one step happened. And the room met its ill fate.
The staff goes screaming from their respective rooms. All rush downstairs. One white-armoured figure stumbles from the room—completely engulfed in flames.
The head of staff watches the figure fall to the floor. She says nothing, joining her Mistress and moving downstairs in a perfect calm.
Other figures in white come crashing into the house. They rush about collecting the panicked staff, while other white figures rush upstairs to the master suite.
“Thank you,” says the Shadow to her head of staff.
“Be safe,” replies the other woman.
The Shadow smiles softly before slipping into the gardens, disappearing from all existence. She turns, briefly, to watch the flames explode from her bedroom. The price of sacrifice, she thinks with a smile.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
The Coup :: THE INTRODUCTION
They sit out on the patio overlooking the marble fountain. Clear and crisp water bubbles and frothes through the polished limestone, shaping something only The Observer understands.
The birds are content today. Merry, even. Their chirps and songs echo all around the grounds. The fresh and strong leaves whistle beneath the light breeze. Everything is very much alive. Mid-July always did boast that aspect of the world.
The two women sit outside in the warmth of early-afternoon in July. The exquisite patio furniture is very comfortable. Four tall chairs, each with armrests and thick cushions on both the seats and backrests. The table is glass-topped, with a deep green edge and legs. The tall, thick green canvas umbrella, forces shade upon them both.
Three platters adorn the table. Each with different treats. One, a dark blue plate, holds intricately sliced fruits. Strawberries, honeydew melon, kiwi, pineapple, watermelon, papaya, passion fruit, blueberries and raspberries, cantaloupe. Small, two-pronged forks are placed around a small bowl of fresh thick cream, centered by the fruit.
The second platter, this one deep red -almost purple, really- holds various pastries. Small round buns, lightly glazed with caramel and topped with flaked-chocolate. Cheese-filled croissants of the lightest possible crust -seeming almost to melt in one's mouth. Muffins that look more like golden clouds with drops of rich chocolate melted into their centres and tops. Cinnamon buns, sticky to the fingers and almost painfully sweet to the palette; some glazed with candied-sugar, others brushed with white chocolate. Small dark truffles, marked with white and milk chocolate, placed around the other items.
The third platter is a deep forest-floor green colour. This final setting holds small finger foods. Three-inch-long breaded sticks, filled with melted mozzarella, cheddar, and Brie cheeses. Battered chicken strips, brushed with honey mustard. Round crackers topped with smoked Gouda and finely sliced ham kolbassa. Grilled chicken breasts, cut into bite-sized pieces, stuffed with strips of smoked ham and goat cheese. Small round balls of chicken koftas surrounding a bowl of lime pickle. Spring rolls filled with pieces of beef and pork, stuffed with bell peppers and sprouts, complete with a soft cucumber dipping sauce.
Four glasses are placed on the table as well -two for each woman. One being a tall crystal wine glass, the other a smaller tumbler. There are also three bottles, and a crystal pitcher, too.
One bottle is a dark blue colour, with a pale label covered in French words; ice wine from Northern Quebec. The second bottle is a clear glass. It has a black label, this time with Italian print; a brilliant red wine from the Hills of the Trasimeno -The Observer's second favourite. The crystal pitcher contains clear, crisp, and fresh water. Small round icecubes float about on the surface of the still water. The third bottle is clear -more than half empty- with a white label. The words are English, save the name itself: Te Bheag. The Gaelic dubbing for this particular brand of unchilfiltered Scotch. This is The Observer's absolute favourite.
"You're not eating," says her guest, dipping one of the spring rolls into the cucumber dip and taking a bite.
The Observer raises a single eyebrow, before taking a sip from her tumbler, filled with deep amber drink. She allows the Scotch to rest on her tongue for a moment before feeling it run along her throat, heating her entire body.
"You should eat something," says her guest, finishing off the spring roll, and taking a sip of her golden ice wine. "Damn this is good!"
The Observer smiles, lighting a cigarette and inhaling long and slowly. The blue smoke rises from the tip of the smoldering white stick, curling into the air and climbing as far as possible before being obliterated by the slight breeze.
"You should really eat something," continues the guest, placing her glass back on the table. "There's no way I can manage to stuff all this down my throat."
"There's no way either of us can manage to finish half of this," says The Observer calmly, her voice silken as she places her burning cigarette into the varnished ashtray to her right.
"Then why in the name of God did you have so much made?"
With a small shrug of the shoulders, The Observer answers in that same silken and calm voice, "I've got to keep my people busy, don't I?"
"Listen, you don't have to do all this. I mean, you don't have to play the cool and composed writer for me. I know that you're upset about what happened to--"
"Do not start with that, Leigh." The silken voice is drowned beneath a deep anger.
"Kay, listen to me," presses Leigh, turning in her chair to face her friend. "We all know what happened. We're all worried sick about you out here. Mi--"
Again, The Observer slices through the words of her friend. "Drop it! Don't bring this up again! I told you once that I would be fine. Well here I am! It's been two years and I've gotten over it. So drop this bullshit about my needing to talk about it!"
"It's been two years, Kay," begins Leigh softly, "And you still haven't come home."
"This is my home."
"This is not your home. This isn't even your country. You aren't a citizen here. You never were."
"What's your point?"
"Why are you fighting for them? Why are you fighting a lost battle?"
Kay says nothing as her grip around her tumbler tightens, the blue smoke from her burning cigarette not making it so far as the edge of the ashtray before being scattered by the breeze.
"Kerridwen." Leigh's voice is soft as she speaks, draping her arms over the chair. "You watched your wife get slaughtered in the street. You can't get over that."
Kay still says nothing as she takes a long breath from her cigarette, lighting a second one, and ignoring the voice of her friend.
"Why fight a losing battle here? This place is already gone. Come home and help us."
"It's not lost here," answers Kerridwen softly, staring at the fountain. "I can't leave here. I can't leave until we've won."
"There is no winning here," presses Leigh. "It's already a lost cause. Fighting here is nothing."
"I have friends here that I can't leave. They are my family now."
"And we're not? The people who stood by you in the worst of your life?"
"What the hell am I supposed to do? Just disappear and watch this place burn?"
"Better than being caught in the flames."
"My life ended here. I'm not leav--"
"Exactly! Your life here ended when Mikaela was gunned-down in the street. Your life ended when you ploughed a gun down your husband's throat and pulled the trigger. Kerridwen, your life here doesn't exist anymore. Come home and help us win this fucking war."
"I won't leave this place until it's safe. I will never leave this place."
"You aren't fighting for them anymore. You're fighting for someone you can't help."
Kay's voice was, like Leigh's, becoming more and more harsh. Her anger, normally controlled and completely subdued, began to rise quickly. "Fuck you! All right? Fuck you, Leigh! I know I'm fighting for Mikaela. I know I can't win. I know I'm just avoiding being pumped full of fucking bullets by those monsters! I don't fucking care! I'm staying here because I'm needed. I'm needed here more than I am back home. And you all know it! Everyone with us fucking knows it! I'm the only one who can get the weapons here. And there's no fucking way in hell that I'm leaving." She turned and stared her friend in the eyes, "Either you accept it and help us, or you'll all end up the way it is here."
Before Leigh could reply, six women stepped onto the scene.
"Everything all right here?" asked one with red hair.
"Everything is fine," answered Kay, not pulling her eyes from those of her friend.
"Oh-kay," said the woman again. "Uhm, we need to talk."
Leigh looked over the six women. She sighed and looked back to Kay. "The Brits have sent us five full loads of assault rifles." She looked back to the six women for a moment, before continuing to Kay. "We only need two."
Kerridwen stood and motioned for Leigh to do the same. "Leigh, I'd like you to meet the COUP."
The birds are content today. Merry, even. Their chirps and songs echo all around the grounds. The fresh and strong leaves whistle beneath the light breeze. Everything is very much alive. Mid-July always did boast that aspect of the world.
The two women sit outside in the warmth of early-afternoon in July. The exquisite patio furniture is very comfortable. Four tall chairs, each with armrests and thick cushions on both the seats and backrests. The table is glass-topped, with a deep green edge and legs. The tall, thick green canvas umbrella, forces shade upon them both.
Three platters adorn the table. Each with different treats. One, a dark blue plate, holds intricately sliced fruits. Strawberries, honeydew melon, kiwi, pineapple, watermelon, papaya, passion fruit, blueberries and raspberries, cantaloupe. Small, two-pronged forks are placed around a small bowl of fresh thick cream, centered by the fruit.
The second platter, this one deep red -almost purple, really- holds various pastries. Small round buns, lightly glazed with caramel and topped with flaked-chocolate. Cheese-filled croissants of the lightest possible crust -seeming almost to melt in one's mouth. Muffins that look more like golden clouds with drops of rich chocolate melted into their centres and tops. Cinnamon buns, sticky to the fingers and almost painfully sweet to the palette; some glazed with candied-sugar, others brushed with white chocolate. Small dark truffles, marked with white and milk chocolate, placed around the other items.
The third platter is a deep forest-floor green colour. This final setting holds small finger foods. Three-inch-long breaded sticks, filled with melted mozzarella, cheddar, and Brie cheeses. Battered chicken strips, brushed with honey mustard. Round crackers topped with smoked Gouda and finely sliced ham kolbassa. Grilled chicken breasts, cut into bite-sized pieces, stuffed with strips of smoked ham and goat cheese. Small round balls of chicken koftas surrounding a bowl of lime pickle. Spring rolls filled with pieces of beef and pork, stuffed with bell peppers and sprouts, complete with a soft cucumber dipping sauce.
Four glasses are placed on the table as well -two for each woman. One being a tall crystal wine glass, the other a smaller tumbler. There are also three bottles, and a crystal pitcher, too.
One bottle is a dark blue colour, with a pale label covered in French words; ice wine from Northern Quebec. The second bottle is a clear glass. It has a black label, this time with Italian print; a brilliant red wine from the Hills of the Trasimeno -The Observer's second favourite. The crystal pitcher contains clear, crisp, and fresh water. Small round icecubes float about on the surface of the still water. The third bottle is clear -more than half empty- with a white label. The words are English, save the name itself: Te Bheag. The Gaelic dubbing for this particular brand of unchilfiltered Scotch. This is The Observer's absolute favourite.
"You're not eating," says her guest, dipping one of the spring rolls into the cucumber dip and taking a bite.
The Observer raises a single eyebrow, before taking a sip from her tumbler, filled with deep amber drink. She allows the Scotch to rest on her tongue for a moment before feeling it run along her throat, heating her entire body.
"You should eat something," says her guest, finishing off the spring roll, and taking a sip of her golden ice wine. "Damn this is good!"
The Observer smiles, lighting a cigarette and inhaling long and slowly. The blue smoke rises from the tip of the smoldering white stick, curling into the air and climbing as far as possible before being obliterated by the slight breeze.
"You should really eat something," continues the guest, placing her glass back on the table. "There's no way I can manage to stuff all this down my throat."
"There's no way either of us can manage to finish half of this," says The Observer calmly, her voice silken as she places her burning cigarette into the varnished ashtray to her right.
"Then why in the name of God did you have so much made?"
With a small shrug of the shoulders, The Observer answers in that same silken and calm voice, "I've got to keep my people busy, don't I?"
"Listen, you don't have to do all this. I mean, you don't have to play the cool and composed writer for me. I know that you're upset about what happened to--"
"Do not start with that, Leigh." The silken voice is drowned beneath a deep anger.
"Kay, listen to me," presses Leigh, turning in her chair to face her friend. "We all know what happened. We're all worried sick about you out here. Mi--"
Again, The Observer slices through the words of her friend. "Drop it! Don't bring this up again! I told you once that I would be fine. Well here I am! It's been two years and I've gotten over it. So drop this bullshit about my needing to talk about it!"
"It's been two years, Kay," begins Leigh softly, "And you still haven't come home."
"This is my home."
"This is not your home. This isn't even your country. You aren't a citizen here. You never were."
"What's your point?"
"Why are you fighting for them? Why are you fighting a lost battle?"
Kay says nothing as her grip around her tumbler tightens, the blue smoke from her burning cigarette not making it so far as the edge of the ashtray before being scattered by the breeze.
"Kerridwen." Leigh's voice is soft as she speaks, draping her arms over the chair. "You watched your wife get slaughtered in the street. You can't get over that."
Kay still says nothing as she takes a long breath from her cigarette, lighting a second one, and ignoring the voice of her friend.
"Why fight a losing battle here? This place is already gone. Come home and help us."
"It's not lost here," answers Kerridwen softly, staring at the fountain. "I can't leave here. I can't leave until we've won."
"There is no winning here," presses Leigh. "It's already a lost cause. Fighting here is nothing."
"I have friends here that I can't leave. They are my family now."
"And we're not? The people who stood by you in the worst of your life?"
"What the hell am I supposed to do? Just disappear and watch this place burn?"
"Better than being caught in the flames."
"My life ended here. I'm not leav--"
"Exactly! Your life here ended when Mikaela was gunned-down in the street. Your life ended when you ploughed a gun down your husband's throat and pulled the trigger. Kerridwen, your life here doesn't exist anymore. Come home and help us win this fucking war."
"I won't leave this place until it's safe. I will never leave this place."
"You aren't fighting for them anymore. You're fighting for someone you can't help."
Kay's voice was, like Leigh's, becoming more and more harsh. Her anger, normally controlled and completely subdued, began to rise quickly. "Fuck you! All right? Fuck you, Leigh! I know I'm fighting for Mikaela. I know I can't win. I know I'm just avoiding being pumped full of fucking bullets by those monsters! I don't fucking care! I'm staying here because I'm needed. I'm needed here more than I am back home. And you all know it! Everyone with us fucking knows it! I'm the only one who can get the weapons here. And there's no fucking way in hell that I'm leaving." She turned and stared her friend in the eyes, "Either you accept it and help us, or you'll all end up the way it is here."
Before Leigh could reply, six women stepped onto the scene.
"Everything all right here?" asked one with red hair.
"Everything is fine," answered Kay, not pulling her eyes from those of her friend.
"Oh-kay," said the woman again. "Uhm, we need to talk."
Leigh looked over the six women. She sighed and looked back to Kay. "The Brits have sent us five full loads of assault rifles." She looked back to the six women for a moment, before continuing to Kay. "We only need two."
Kerridwen stood and motioned for Leigh to do the same. "Leigh, I'd like you to meet the COUP."
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
The Angel Of Death
Her footsteps echo through the empty hallways. The lights are not coming to life. It is, after all, four hours after the curfew.
The place is quiet as the grave. It is a well past two o'clock in the morning. The world sleeps now. Save for those like herself. Her footsteps ringing through the entirety of the house. The others living there hear the footsteps. Though they will deny it upon naught but the most severe tortures imaginable.
She pushes the door of a dark room open. Her footsteps carry her down a flight of stone steps. Her long black jacket waves with the motion of her long and commanding strides. Her hands, concealed within the most malleable black leather she could buy, carry death.
Her gloved and tight fist pushes open a second door. She steps into the chilled night. The dogs come tearing at her in silence. They are trained not to bark. They are trained to attack without making any noise -save their rapid running.
She pulls off one glove. They stop inches from mauling her. They sit and wait.
She smiles and pulls the glove back on. "Come," she says, her voice deep and sombre.
Five pitbulls fall in line behind her.
She smiles again. Her own army.
After some time, she steps out of the forest. The streets are empty. A few figures -shadows- flash in her vision. To them she is just another shadow.
Her boots knock on the sidewalk as she walks to the alleyway. The window she passes flashes her reflection in the moonlight.
She wears a long black coat, hanging down to the middle of her shins. Her boots are thick, climbing to just below her knees. They are dull and black. Her pants cover the boots to the ankle -black and loose, easier to run with. Her shirt is snug. The collar locking at her throat with two dull black buttons. A black nylon mask is pulled over her head. Even the eye slots are covered -a one-way tinted plastic. No one can see into her eyes, but she can see into theirs.
She had once been called The Angel of Death, as a farce. Now, she is that Angel. Her power is true. When this Angel sees her prey, death is more than certain to follow.
She steps into the alleyway. The dogs follow and sit beside her. They are silent. She is silent. They lie in waiting.
Across the street, in the alley opposite her own, she sees the shadows moving. Three of them. Beneath the nylon mask, she smiles. Her hands reach under her jacket, and draw two dull firearms.
Handguns. She doesn't know what kind they are. She doesn't care. They fire when she wants them to. And that's all that matters.
Lights appear in the street. Two sets of headlights.
Perfect, she thinks, setting herself into a crouch.
The vehicle lumbers closer. The searchlight sweeping over the alleyways.
She waits. Once, her breathing would grow fast and harsh as her blood and adrenaline would pulse with anticipation. Now, it doesn't matter. Fear doesn't exist. Excitement is dead.
A then, she sees the front of the vehicle. The dogs all sit up and she leans forward a little. The weapons are clenched in her hands.
She hears the rocket take off. The first white van jolts and then explodes.
She goes. Her footsteps slamming against the paved roadway. The dogs rushing forward with her. The others across the way coming forward as well.
The men and women in the white uniforms rush from their vehicles, trying to find their enemies.
She sees two men with assault rifles. She squeezes the triggers four times each. Both men fall to the ground. Two more jump from the intact vehicle. The dogs latch onto both men. She empties two shots into their faces. Their bodies are torn to the ground by her dogs.
She sound of gunfire explodes all around. Flashes of light as weapons are discharged. Barking, screaming, snarling, shouting, and silence.
Within ten minutes the scene is silent.
The three others are now two. They incline their heads at her and take off back into the alley. She moves back toward the forest.
"Come," she says again, in the same deep and sombre tone.
The dogs follow. Their jowls glistening with blood.
They step into the forest. She's still got five dogs with her. They tread through the darkness of the forest in silence.
She doesn't pull the mask from her head. Beneath the nylon mesh, her eyes are dark and empty. They took out ten tonight. They lost one. Her vendetta isn't complete yet, though. It won't ever be complete.
They all fight for freedom. She, however, fights for vengeance. And she will have it.
The place is quiet as the grave. It is a well past two o'clock in the morning. The world sleeps now. Save for those like herself. Her footsteps ringing through the entirety of the house. The others living there hear the footsteps. Though they will deny it upon naught but the most severe tortures imaginable.
She pushes the door of a dark room open. Her footsteps carry her down a flight of stone steps. Her long black jacket waves with the motion of her long and commanding strides. Her hands, concealed within the most malleable black leather she could buy, carry death.
Her gloved and tight fist pushes open a second door. She steps into the chilled night. The dogs come tearing at her in silence. They are trained not to bark. They are trained to attack without making any noise -save their rapid running.
She pulls off one glove. They stop inches from mauling her. They sit and wait.
She smiles and pulls the glove back on. "Come," she says, her voice deep and sombre.
Five pitbulls fall in line behind her.
She smiles again. Her own army.
After some time, she steps out of the forest. The streets are empty. A few figures -shadows- flash in her vision. To them she is just another shadow.
Her boots knock on the sidewalk as she walks to the alleyway. The window she passes flashes her reflection in the moonlight.
She wears a long black coat, hanging down to the middle of her shins. Her boots are thick, climbing to just below her knees. They are dull and black. Her pants cover the boots to the ankle -black and loose, easier to run with. Her shirt is snug. The collar locking at her throat with two dull black buttons. A black nylon mask is pulled over her head. Even the eye slots are covered -a one-way tinted plastic. No one can see into her eyes, but she can see into theirs.
She had once been called The Angel of Death, as a farce. Now, she is that Angel. Her power is true. When this Angel sees her prey, death is more than certain to follow.
She steps into the alleyway. The dogs follow and sit beside her. They are silent. She is silent. They lie in waiting.
Across the street, in the alley opposite her own, she sees the shadows moving. Three of them. Beneath the nylon mask, she smiles. Her hands reach under her jacket, and draw two dull firearms.
Handguns. She doesn't know what kind they are. She doesn't care. They fire when she wants them to. And that's all that matters.
Lights appear in the street. Two sets of headlights.
Perfect, she thinks, setting herself into a crouch.
The vehicle lumbers closer. The searchlight sweeping over the alleyways.
She waits. Once, her breathing would grow fast and harsh as her blood and adrenaline would pulse with anticipation. Now, it doesn't matter. Fear doesn't exist. Excitement is dead.
A then, she sees the front of the vehicle. The dogs all sit up and she leans forward a little. The weapons are clenched in her hands.
She hears the rocket take off. The first white van jolts and then explodes.
She goes. Her footsteps slamming against the paved roadway. The dogs rushing forward with her. The others across the way coming forward as well.
The men and women in the white uniforms rush from their vehicles, trying to find their enemies.
She sees two men with assault rifles. She squeezes the triggers four times each. Both men fall to the ground. Two more jump from the intact vehicle. The dogs latch onto both men. She empties two shots into their faces. Their bodies are torn to the ground by her dogs.
She sound of gunfire explodes all around. Flashes of light as weapons are discharged. Barking, screaming, snarling, shouting, and silence.
Within ten minutes the scene is silent.
The three others are now two. They incline their heads at her and take off back into the alley. She moves back toward the forest.
"Come," she says again, in the same deep and sombre tone.
The dogs follow. Their jowls glistening with blood.
They step into the forest. She's still got five dogs with her. They tread through the darkness of the forest in silence.
She doesn't pull the mask from her head. Beneath the nylon mesh, her eyes are dark and empty. They took out ten tonight. They lost one. Her vendetta isn't complete yet, though. It won't ever be complete.
They all fight for freedom. She, however, fights for vengeance. And she will have it.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
The Beginning
They wandered home slowly. His arm draped on her waist casually. Her head resting against his shoulder gently. Their footsteps in sync. Their voices soft whispers. Their smiles perfect and young.
"Thanks for supper," she said softly, looking up into his eyes and smiling.
"Anytime," he answered, squeezing her hip with tenderness.
She smiled a little more as they walked along the street.
Two months. They'd gone out to celebrate their anniversary. The past eight weeks had flown by in a whirlwind of love and laughter. Everyone was enviousness of their relationship. Everyone knew about their relationship.
Her parents loved him. His parents loved her. They shared the same group of friends. They shared the same classes. They shared everything.
It was Saturday night. It was a little past ten o'clock. The meal had last three hours. They bought everything they could. His father had provided the Visa card. He didn't tell her. She knew it anyway.
"We can still make the late game," he whispered in her ear, just before he kissed her neck softly.
She smiled and couldn't quite manage to surpress a soft giggle. "Who's playing?"
"Oilers."
"And who are they playing against?"
"Not sure," he answered, leading her up to the building. "We'll check when we get upstairs."
She smiled even more as he lead her past the doorman, into the lobby, and then into the elevator. It was the newest building in the city. Everything was brand new. Everything was worth a fortune. His father provided the suite -mostly for business- which always went to his youngest son when the family was out of town.
The glowing blue numbers ran off on their own, climbing higher as the silent elevator rose to the top of the building. And, as its occupants fell into a deep and long kiss.
A soft chime whispered to them. The glowing blue numbers read fifteen. They stepped out onto an empty landing, save for a single door with gold numbers -Suite Main.
He grinned, wrapping his arm around her from behind, and kissing her neck lightly. The key in his left hand quickly found the lock, and they stepped into the dark penthouse.
She slipped off her jacket, and took his. Both long garments were hung in the entrance closet. He was already in the living room, lounding on the black leather couch. She slipped off her shoes, leaving them by the locked door. He kept his on.
She slipped onto the couch beside him and kissed him lightly. The game was already on. He draped his arm over her shoulders, pulling her closer. The remote was in his right hand, his left resting on her shoulder and squeezing ever so slightly.
They watched the game. It was about five minutes into the first period. The Oilers had already scored two goals.
"Hey," he whispered, watching the television, "Could you get me a drink?"
She laughed and playfully hit his stomach. "Dream on!"
His head turned and he faced her. "What?" Their was laughter in his voice.
"You've got legs," she said, kissing his jaw. "You can get your own drink."
"Well, yeah. But I don't want to miss anything."
She laughed a little, "And I do?"
He pulled his arm from her shoulders and stood. She watched him go into the kitchen, and come back with a bottle of Coors. He sat down, opened the bottle, and took a long swig.
"None for me, then?" she said, playfully.
He sighed and watched the game, "You've got legs."
She stood and moved into the kitchen, getting herself a bottle of water from the fridge. Their was an edge to his voice. She shrugged it off. More than likely, he was upset that the Oilers weren't leading by more than only two goals.
His feet were up on the coffee table. His beer was in his right hand, the remote lying on his leg. She reached for it, wanting to check the news during the commercial.
"Don't touch the remote!" he said, grabbing it from her.
"Why not?"
"Because you'll start flipping through every channel and I'll end-up missing something."
She couldn't help but stare at him, now.
"What?!" he demanded, placing the remote control out of her reach.
"I'm just as interested in this game as you are."
He didn't reply. Instead he just went back to his beer. She shrugged and took a sip of her water. Some evening, she thought silently.
By the time the second period came to its end, they were at opposite ends of the couch. Three empty beers sat on the floor by his feet. Her water was half empty.
Suddenly, she stood up and moved off to the entrance.
"Where are you going?" he asked, standing and watching her pull her coat out of the closet.
"I'm going home."
"Why?"
"Because, Keith, you're being an asshole."
He stared for a moment before approaching her. Very gently, he took her face in his hands -without putting the nearly empty bottle of beer down- and kissed her lightly. "Don't go," he whispered, "I'm sorry."
"Mom won't like me staying the night anyway," she said, pulling on the sleeve of her jacket.
"Since when do you care about that? You've stayed here with me loads of time before now."
She slipped her feet into her shoes and struggle to slip her arm into the other sleeve. "Yeah, well," she began, fighting with her jacket now, "I'm going home."
She felt him grab her arm and hold it tight. "You can't go home."
She stared at him. "Let go of me."
He didn't answer her. He kissed her. He said how much he loved her. He told her that she was the one for him. He didn't let go of her arm.
"Keith," she said through clenched teeth, trying to hold her anger, "Let go of my arm."
Then, he hit her. His right hand crossed past his left shoulder and hung there for a split-second. Then, she watched as the cold beer bottle moved closer to her face. It was a brown blur. She didn't see it -not really. She felt it.
The cold and thick base of the glass bottle struck her face. She felt it collide with her right cheekbone. She felt the small indents in the bottles bottom peel at her skin. She felt her head snap to the left -hard and fast enough that she felt fire explode from the base of her neck, and climb to the very top of her head, within her skull.
The white and black tiled floor flew up to meet her. She fell hard. Her left wrist broke her fall. Her face stung and throbbed.
She clenched her jaw. Pure rage flooded her veins. She looked up at him, and made to grab at his ankle, to drag him down to the floor with her. She was strong. She had fought with the boys all her life. There was no way some drunk asshole was going to do this to her! No way in fucking hell!
As she grabbed for his ankle, she watched a black blur come at her face. Before she knew what happened, the toe of his shoe smashed against her swollen eye.
She tried to grab his ankle again. She couldn't see anything from her right eye. She couldn't hear anything except the blood slamming against her ears, and the deep gasping breaths filling and emptying her lungs.
She felt another solid and cruel object slam against her ribs. And then, a second later, another something slam straight into her stomach.
Had she not been on the floor already, she would have doubled-over. All the air in her body seemed to explode from her. She lied there, turning-in on her body, gasping for air.
She looked up at him as he knelt beside her. Their was sweat on his forehead, dripping off his nose. He looked as though he'd just run a marathon in the middle of July.
His hand reached her throat. His fingers locked around her windpipe, and he screamed in her ear. "If you ever try to make me feel guilty again, I'll kill you!"
He lifted her head from the floor, about a foot and a half. His fingers tightened even more. She felt every inch of his calloused hand on her skin. She felt her body still reeling from having the wind knocked out of her. And then, she felt him push her head down and back.
The tiled floor connected with the back of her skull. She heard something like a melon being smashed by a baseball bat -a dull and hollow sound, echoing in her ears, mingling with the pounding blood. Fresh pain swarmed through the entirety of her head, a sharp and burning dagger almost piercing into her from her head was being ground into the flooring.
Everything went very dark. The last thing she was aware of was the dagger pushing itself further and further into her head.
She woke up and everything was still dark. She could barely move. She looked at her wrist for her watch. It was gone. Everything was gone. Her earrings. Her necklace. Her rings. Everything.
Her right was was burning and pulsing. She touched it, tentatively. It burned and pulsed even more. She winced as her fingers touched the broken and swollen flesh. She felt something crack and peel as her face winced.
The door was just beside her. She took the handle and lifted herself up, ignoring her body. She stumbled to the kitchen and stared at her reflection in the microwave door.
Her right eye was nearly completely swelled shut. It was already purple and green. Her bottom lip was slip and caked with dry blood. She reached behind her head. Her hair as her fingers broke the caked-blood entangled therein. She pushed her fingers in a little, looking for her skull. She found it easily -the dagger pushed forward again.
Very slowly, she made her way to the washroom. She turned on the light, and stared even more.
Her face was worth than the kitchen had reported. Her lip was purple, bleeding freshly, and swollen to the point that she looked to be pouting. Her eye was painted in dark and dry blood, a substantial gash running from the far corner to the base of her cheek bone.
Her mind fled to the blows against her stomach and ribs. She lifted her blouse, and stared at the bruised ribs. Deep blue patches were now painted on her skin. She didn't dare touch those marks.
Her sight wandered back to her face. She stared. She couldn't do anything but stare. His words rang in her ears again, just as they'd one when he originally spoke. "I'll kill you." Three words. Almost like "I love you". Except completely different.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she can't help but remember that first night. Two months lead to almost four years. It would have been longer still, but three things:
Her friends figured it out, and watched her closely, always showing support but refusing to let her go back.
He went to far, and subsequently overdosed one night on heroine. It was suicide. She received a letter three days later in the mail.
The third thing wasn't much, really. She had spent a long time with her friends, when the marks were at their worst. It was with them that she realized her freedom was their. It was that realization that pushed him to suicide.
Everyone will tell her it wasn't her fault. Suicide is a solitary act. You can't blame yourself for someone killing themselves. But she still does. She always will. She could have stopped him. She doesn't know how, but she knows that she could have.
What would have been worse? A few bruises and a couple of broken bones, or knowing that you killed someone?
"Thanks for supper," she said softly, looking up into his eyes and smiling.
"Anytime," he answered, squeezing her hip with tenderness.
She smiled a little more as they walked along the street.
Two months. They'd gone out to celebrate their anniversary. The past eight weeks had flown by in a whirlwind of love and laughter. Everyone was enviousness of their relationship. Everyone knew about their relationship.
Her parents loved him. His parents loved her. They shared the same group of friends. They shared the same classes. They shared everything.
It was Saturday night. It was a little past ten o'clock. The meal had last three hours. They bought everything they could. His father had provided the Visa card. He didn't tell her. She knew it anyway.
"We can still make the late game," he whispered in her ear, just before he kissed her neck softly.
She smiled and couldn't quite manage to surpress a soft giggle. "Who's playing?"
"Oilers."
"And who are they playing against?"
"Not sure," he answered, leading her up to the building. "We'll check when we get upstairs."
She smiled even more as he lead her past the doorman, into the lobby, and then into the elevator. It was the newest building in the city. Everything was brand new. Everything was worth a fortune. His father provided the suite -mostly for business- which always went to his youngest son when the family was out of town.
The glowing blue numbers ran off on their own, climbing higher as the silent elevator rose to the top of the building. And, as its occupants fell into a deep and long kiss.
A soft chime whispered to them. The glowing blue numbers read fifteen. They stepped out onto an empty landing, save for a single door with gold numbers -Suite Main.
He grinned, wrapping his arm around her from behind, and kissing her neck lightly. The key in his left hand quickly found the lock, and they stepped into the dark penthouse.
She slipped off her jacket, and took his. Both long garments were hung in the entrance closet. He was already in the living room, lounding on the black leather couch. She slipped off her shoes, leaving them by the locked door. He kept his on.
She slipped onto the couch beside him and kissed him lightly. The game was already on. He draped his arm over her shoulders, pulling her closer. The remote was in his right hand, his left resting on her shoulder and squeezing ever so slightly.
They watched the game. It was about five minutes into the first period. The Oilers had already scored two goals.
"Hey," he whispered, watching the television, "Could you get me a drink?"
She laughed and playfully hit his stomach. "Dream on!"
His head turned and he faced her. "What?" Their was laughter in his voice.
"You've got legs," she said, kissing his jaw. "You can get your own drink."
"Well, yeah. But I don't want to miss anything."
She laughed a little, "And I do?"
He pulled his arm from her shoulders and stood. She watched him go into the kitchen, and come back with a bottle of Coors. He sat down, opened the bottle, and took a long swig.
"None for me, then?" she said, playfully.
He sighed and watched the game, "You've got legs."
She stood and moved into the kitchen, getting herself a bottle of water from the fridge. Their was an edge to his voice. She shrugged it off. More than likely, he was upset that the Oilers weren't leading by more than only two goals.
His feet were up on the coffee table. His beer was in his right hand, the remote lying on his leg. She reached for it, wanting to check the news during the commercial.
"Don't touch the remote!" he said, grabbing it from her.
"Why not?"
"Because you'll start flipping through every channel and I'll end-up missing something."
She couldn't help but stare at him, now.
"What?!" he demanded, placing the remote control out of her reach.
"I'm just as interested in this game as you are."
He didn't reply. Instead he just went back to his beer. She shrugged and took a sip of her water. Some evening, she thought silently.
By the time the second period came to its end, they were at opposite ends of the couch. Three empty beers sat on the floor by his feet. Her water was half empty.
Suddenly, she stood up and moved off to the entrance.
"Where are you going?" he asked, standing and watching her pull her coat out of the closet.
"I'm going home."
"Why?"
"Because, Keith, you're being an asshole."
He stared for a moment before approaching her. Very gently, he took her face in his hands -without putting the nearly empty bottle of beer down- and kissed her lightly. "Don't go," he whispered, "I'm sorry."
"Mom won't like me staying the night anyway," she said, pulling on the sleeve of her jacket.
"Since when do you care about that? You've stayed here with me loads of time before now."
She slipped her feet into her shoes and struggle to slip her arm into the other sleeve. "Yeah, well," she began, fighting with her jacket now, "I'm going home."
She felt him grab her arm and hold it tight. "You can't go home."
She stared at him. "Let go of me."
He didn't answer her. He kissed her. He said how much he loved her. He told her that she was the one for him. He didn't let go of her arm.
"Keith," she said through clenched teeth, trying to hold her anger, "Let go of my arm."
Then, he hit her. His right hand crossed past his left shoulder and hung there for a split-second. Then, she watched as the cold beer bottle moved closer to her face. It was a brown blur. She didn't see it -not really. She felt it.
The cold and thick base of the glass bottle struck her face. She felt it collide with her right cheekbone. She felt the small indents in the bottles bottom peel at her skin. She felt her head snap to the left -hard and fast enough that she felt fire explode from the base of her neck, and climb to the very top of her head, within her skull.
The white and black tiled floor flew up to meet her. She fell hard. Her left wrist broke her fall. Her face stung and throbbed.
She clenched her jaw. Pure rage flooded her veins. She looked up at him, and made to grab at his ankle, to drag him down to the floor with her. She was strong. She had fought with the boys all her life. There was no way some drunk asshole was going to do this to her! No way in fucking hell!
As she grabbed for his ankle, she watched a black blur come at her face. Before she knew what happened, the toe of his shoe smashed against her swollen eye.
She tried to grab his ankle again. She couldn't see anything from her right eye. She couldn't hear anything except the blood slamming against her ears, and the deep gasping breaths filling and emptying her lungs.
She felt another solid and cruel object slam against her ribs. And then, a second later, another something slam straight into her stomach.
Had she not been on the floor already, she would have doubled-over. All the air in her body seemed to explode from her. She lied there, turning-in on her body, gasping for air.
She looked up at him as he knelt beside her. Their was sweat on his forehead, dripping off his nose. He looked as though he'd just run a marathon in the middle of July.
His hand reached her throat. His fingers locked around her windpipe, and he screamed in her ear. "If you ever try to make me feel guilty again, I'll kill you!"
He lifted her head from the floor, about a foot and a half. His fingers tightened even more. She felt every inch of his calloused hand on her skin. She felt her body still reeling from having the wind knocked out of her. And then, she felt him push her head down and back.
The tiled floor connected with the back of her skull. She heard something like a melon being smashed by a baseball bat -a dull and hollow sound, echoing in her ears, mingling with the pounding blood. Fresh pain swarmed through the entirety of her head, a sharp and burning dagger almost piercing into her from her head was being ground into the flooring.
Everything went very dark. The last thing she was aware of was the dagger pushing itself further and further into her head.
She woke up and everything was still dark. She could barely move. She looked at her wrist for her watch. It was gone. Everything was gone. Her earrings. Her necklace. Her rings. Everything.
Her right was was burning and pulsing. She touched it, tentatively. It burned and pulsed even more. She winced as her fingers touched the broken and swollen flesh. She felt something crack and peel as her face winced.
The door was just beside her. She took the handle and lifted herself up, ignoring her body. She stumbled to the kitchen and stared at her reflection in the microwave door.
Her right eye was nearly completely swelled shut. It was already purple and green. Her bottom lip was slip and caked with dry blood. She reached behind her head. Her hair as her fingers broke the caked-blood entangled therein. She pushed her fingers in a little, looking for her skull. She found it easily -the dagger pushed forward again.
Very slowly, she made her way to the washroom. She turned on the light, and stared even more.
Her face was worth than the kitchen had reported. Her lip was purple, bleeding freshly, and swollen to the point that she looked to be pouting. Her eye was painted in dark and dry blood, a substantial gash running from the far corner to the base of her cheek bone.
Her mind fled to the blows against her stomach and ribs. She lifted her blouse, and stared at the bruised ribs. Deep blue patches were now painted on her skin. She didn't dare touch those marks.
Her sight wandered back to her face. She stared. She couldn't do anything but stare. His words rang in her ears again, just as they'd one when he originally spoke. "I'll kill you." Three words. Almost like "I love you". Except completely different.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she can't help but remember that first night. Two months lead to almost four years. It would have been longer still, but three things:
Her friends figured it out, and watched her closely, always showing support but refusing to let her go back.
He went to far, and subsequently overdosed one night on heroine. It was suicide. She received a letter three days later in the mail.
The third thing wasn't much, really. She had spent a long time with her friends, when the marks were at their worst. It was with them that she realized her freedom was their. It was that realization that pushed him to suicide.
Everyone will tell her it wasn't her fault. Suicide is a solitary act. You can't blame yourself for someone killing themselves. But she still does. She always will. She could have stopped him. She doesn't know how, but she knows that she could have.
What would have been worse? A few bruises and a couple of broken bones, or knowing that you killed someone?
Monday, October 25, 2004
Scoundrels
The breeze is so warm, even a little damp. It smells of damp soil and aging leaves. The sky is a deep and crisp blue. There's not a single cloud anywhere in the world above. A couple of sparrows fly overhead, screeching their soft cries.
Off to the East, the sky is growing steadily darker. The sky to the West has that pale late evening light, still. The trees are all bare. The leaves scattered about on the ground, creating a sea of dark browns and dying golds. The squirrels are busy -running back and forth, chattering to one another as they run up and around the slumbering trees.
Everything is so quiet. The park is all but empty. There are a few people coming and going. Joggers. People walking their dogs. Cyclists.
The benches are all a dark brown. Not a nice colour, but rather the kind that comes from years and years of painting over graffiti.
She sits by herself. She sits on the same bench, every Friday, at this time, as she's been doing for three months. It's her little bit of time alone. It's the only place she enjoys anymore.
A dog rushes up to her. He's big and black. A lab mix, she thinks. His eyes are round and shining. His tail wags back and forth with more enthusiasm than she could ever hope to muster. His tongue hangs out the left side of his mouth, gobs of thick drool glistening his jowls and chin. He's dropped a very soggy tennis ball at her feet.
She smiles a little and extends her hand slowly. The long and wet tongue immediately licks her hand. The dog barks playfully, something of a high yelp, but still with that trace of deep throated bark.
Her foot kicks the tennis ball. The dog chases after it. His feet run straight over the slimy green thing. His whole body sort of bends-in on itself and he dives forward at the ball. His tail-end comes around to the right, hard and fast. His whole body rolls over the ball. He pushes it forward, somewhat running while laying on his side. His nose nudging the ball forward as he tries to grab at it with his teeth.
She watches him play, and she laughs a little.
He jumps up, grabbing the ball in his mouth, and rushes back to her. His expression shouts "Do it again! Throw it again!!"
This time, she reaches down for the ball. He runs back a few strides and watches her. The front part of his body lies flat to the ground, while his back curves up. The thick black tail continues to swing back and forth, causing his back-end to way beneath the momentum of the tail.
She smiles at him as she grabs the ball. The gobs of thick saliva coat her hand, but she doesn't it much attention. She tosses the ball. Not overly hard, just far enough to give him a good run.
Laughter trickles up from her soul as she watches him chase after the ball again. He runs straight over it, turning sharply and almost swallowing the ball whole.
She looks around the park. No one seems to be watching. No one seems to be looking for their errant mutt.
The dog comes hurtling back. He runs quickly, almost jumping up with every other stride. Again, he drops the ball by her feet. He watches her carefully as she reaches down for the green piece of rubber and fur.
She makes to throw it, and laughs as he runs off and looks to see where his quarry has landed. He looks back at her. She tosses the ball into the air a little and catches it. He watches the ball, his tongue waggling out the side of his mouth again.
That's when she sees him, striding toward the park with the utmost grace. His arm draped over the shoulders of another woman. She stares. She can't help it. She knows full well that he cheats of her. She knows, also, that she can't rebuke him for it. She did it once. She won't do it again.
The dog nudges his snout against her hand. She drops the ball. It bounces once and rolls under the bench. Her eyes are fixed on him. He smiles at her, and kisses the other woman, before smiling in her direction again and continuing on his way.
The dog nudges her hand again. This time fixing his snout under her hand, chin resting on her knee. She looks at him, at the round and shining eyes staring up at her. She smiles a little, scratching his ear.
A woman comes up into the park from the right. She's carrying a leash in her hand and she makes a straight line toward the black lab.
"Scoundrel," she says, tying the leash to his blue collar. "Hope he didn't bother you," she says with a smile, reaching under the bench for the tennis ball.
"No. No, he didn't bother me," she answers, with a soft smile.
The other woman starts to walk away, the dog in tow. He bounces around his mistress, barking and yelping with apparent glee.
She watches as they walk away. She looks at her jeans, and notices the considerably large gob of drool where his chin had been.
A smile crosses her lips.
Off to the East, the sky is growing steadily darker. The sky to the West has that pale late evening light, still. The trees are all bare. The leaves scattered about on the ground, creating a sea of dark browns and dying golds. The squirrels are busy -running back and forth, chattering to one another as they run up and around the slumbering trees.
Everything is so quiet. The park is all but empty. There are a few people coming and going. Joggers. People walking their dogs. Cyclists.
The benches are all a dark brown. Not a nice colour, but rather the kind that comes from years and years of painting over graffiti.
She sits by herself. She sits on the same bench, every Friday, at this time, as she's been doing for three months. It's her little bit of time alone. It's the only place she enjoys anymore.
A dog rushes up to her. He's big and black. A lab mix, she thinks. His eyes are round and shining. His tail wags back and forth with more enthusiasm than she could ever hope to muster. His tongue hangs out the left side of his mouth, gobs of thick drool glistening his jowls and chin. He's dropped a very soggy tennis ball at her feet.
She smiles a little and extends her hand slowly. The long and wet tongue immediately licks her hand. The dog barks playfully, something of a high yelp, but still with that trace of deep throated bark.
Her foot kicks the tennis ball. The dog chases after it. His feet run straight over the slimy green thing. His whole body sort of bends-in on itself and he dives forward at the ball. His tail-end comes around to the right, hard and fast. His whole body rolls over the ball. He pushes it forward, somewhat running while laying on his side. His nose nudging the ball forward as he tries to grab at it with his teeth.
She watches him play, and she laughs a little.
He jumps up, grabbing the ball in his mouth, and rushes back to her. His expression shouts "Do it again! Throw it again!!"
This time, she reaches down for the ball. He runs back a few strides and watches her. The front part of his body lies flat to the ground, while his back curves up. The thick black tail continues to swing back and forth, causing his back-end to way beneath the momentum of the tail.
She smiles at him as she grabs the ball. The gobs of thick saliva coat her hand, but she doesn't it much attention. She tosses the ball. Not overly hard, just far enough to give him a good run.
Laughter trickles up from her soul as she watches him chase after the ball again. He runs straight over it, turning sharply and almost swallowing the ball whole.
She looks around the park. No one seems to be watching. No one seems to be looking for their errant mutt.
The dog comes hurtling back. He runs quickly, almost jumping up with every other stride. Again, he drops the ball by her feet. He watches her carefully as she reaches down for the green piece of rubber and fur.
She makes to throw it, and laughs as he runs off and looks to see where his quarry has landed. He looks back at her. She tosses the ball into the air a little and catches it. He watches the ball, his tongue waggling out the side of his mouth again.
That's when she sees him, striding toward the park with the utmost grace. His arm draped over the shoulders of another woman. She stares. She can't help it. She knows full well that he cheats of her. She knows, also, that she can't rebuke him for it. She did it once. She won't do it again.
The dog nudges his snout against her hand. She drops the ball. It bounces once and rolls under the bench. Her eyes are fixed on him. He smiles at her, and kisses the other woman, before smiling in her direction again and continuing on his way.
The dog nudges her hand again. This time fixing his snout under her hand, chin resting on her knee. She looks at him, at the round and shining eyes staring up at her. She smiles a little, scratching his ear.
A woman comes up into the park from the right. She's carrying a leash in her hand and she makes a straight line toward the black lab.
"Scoundrel," she says, tying the leash to his blue collar. "Hope he didn't bother you," she says with a smile, reaching under the bench for the tennis ball.
"No. No, he didn't bother me," she answers, with a soft smile.
The other woman starts to walk away, the dog in tow. He bounces around his mistress, barking and yelping with apparent glee.
She watches as they walk away. She looks at her jeans, and notices the considerably large gob of drool where his chin had been.
A smile crosses her lips.
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Wait For Me
"So, you coming tonight or what?"
Uhm, I can't."
It's not the guy again, is it?"
Uhm, no."
"You're lying to us."
"Come on! It'll be fun! We haven't been bar hopping in ages. You never come out with us anymore. Stay at my place. He doesn't know where I live so it's not like he'll come looking for you there!"
"Besides, have you seen her Dad? Dude could scare Satan."
A faint smile crosses the pale and soft lips before they answer, "I just can't."
The two other women sigh. They've been worried about their friend for over a month now. She hasn't so much as smiled in days. Her weight has been dropping for no reason. And she hasn't stopped looking over her shoulder for a solid three weeks.
The woman with the short black hair releases a second sigh as she leans back into the couch. "Listen, Dad knows what's going on." She answers her friend's silent question without hesitation. "Yes. I told him, Aimee. I told him that I think your boyfriend is kicking the living shit out of you. I told him because I wanted to know if I could press charges."
Aimee smiled just a little. It wasn't the attention. She hated the attention she received from the bruises. It was the concern. She'd thought that no one was asking because no one cared. "What did your Dad say?" The question was very soft, and very cautious.
"He said I can't do a fucking thing until you decide to change things."
Aimee sighed with visible relief.
"How can you be relieved?"
"How can I not, Kinsey?"
"Aimee, he's going to keep hurting you no matter what you do." This was Aimee's other friend. Her deep brown eyes didn't even make an attempt to shade the fear in her voice.
"He's going to stop, Kinsey. He will."
"Damn it, Aimee! Stop thinking that you can change him. No matter how many times he tells you that he loves you, he'll turn around and beat the living shit out you! Stop thinking that you can change a monster! You can't. He's a fucking psycho, and he'll always be a fucking psycho!"
Aimee frowned and forced her anger aside. "You have no right to make judgments about him, Lynn. You have no right--"
"Bull shit! You're my friend and when I see you come to class with bruises and a fat lip, it becomes my business!" Lynn was on the point of screaming the words. Aimee may have been able to control her anger, but her friends were not.
"Trust me," said Aimee with a very soft voice, and a gentle expression in her eyes. "It'll be okay. It'll stop in a couple of days. I promise."
Her friends watched her carefully. A couple of days. She'd never said anything like that. It sounded as though she had something planned. Something that would end all of the beatings with the utmost simplicity.
Lynn looked over at Kinsey. The latter never once took her eyes from Aimee's as she spoke, "Are you going to...You're not going to do something, are you?" It sounded like she was asking if her friend was going to kill her boyfriend. She hadn't thought it was going to come out that way. Her intention was a similar notion, only a self-inflicted one.
"Oh gods, Kinsey," said Aimee, sitting up suddenly and looking rather shocked. "No. No. I wouldn't ever do that!"
Kinsey blushed with embarrassment. Apparently, her unspoken murder had been the exchange. "I didn't mean kill him." She looked to Lynn, and then back to Aimee. "I meant, you're...Well, you're not going to...Or thinking of..." She hesitated. She and Lynn had both talked about the changes in their friend's behaviour. They'd spoken of that taboo subject. But they'd been avoiding a direct confrontation for reasons they didn't understand. "Well, I just mean..."
Lynn stepped in and abruptly cut her friend's words short. "Are you planning on killing yourself?"
Aimee stared. She couldn't think of a reply. Lynn's voice was harsh and direct. Her eyes were anything but. She'd asked the question while looking at the wall directly behind her friend's head. Her hands were stuffed deep into her pockets. She was biting the inside of her mouth. Kinsey's reaction was something of the same. Her hands were clenched into small fists, and her eyes were directed to the floor.
Aimee realized she would have to tell them. She would have to tell them everything.
"Aimee?" Kinsey's voice was quiet.
"I'm not going to kill myself," answered the girl with the chestnut hair and the green eyes. "Though, I'll be honest, I've thought about it a lot lately. Hell, I tried to do it."
Neither Lynn nor Kinsey made any reply. This was turning into some cheesy teen soap opera. And they both had a feeling they knew what was coming out next.
Aimee hadn't been going out to the parties at all. She'd been avoiding the bars as though they carried the plague. She drank nothing but water and milk.
"You're pregnant." Lynn and Kinsey spoke together.
Aimee nodded her head softly. "Yeah."
"And he's still beating you."
"Yeah."
"So you haven't told him."
"No."
"When?"
"Tomorrow night. After class."
"What's he going to say?"
Aimee fell silent. It was her turn to stare at the floor. "No idea."
Lynn sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "So, are we supposed to congratulate you?"
Aimee shrugged.
"Are you keeping it?" asked Kinsey.
Aimee shrugged again.
"You're going to base that on his reaction, aren't you," said Lynn, a deep resentment in her voice.
Aimee just shrugged again.
"Well, we're for you either way," she added after a minute of silence had passed.
Kinsey smiled a bit. "So, what do you mean by that 'Couple of days' thing?"
Aimee answered softly, "Well, either he stops, or I walk out."
Lynn and Kinsey looked to one another with skepticism.
"I'm serious about this one," said Aimee, a definite anger in her tone. "I can't risk anything this time around."
"This time around?" asked Kinsey.
Aimee looked to both her friends in turn, and spoke with a slight tremor to her voice. "Uhm, think you guys can wait outside for me tomorrow night?"
Kinsey looked over to Lynn with an inquisitive expression. "Why?"
Aimee hesitated to answer. "Uhm, because last time I told him I was pregnant, he pushed me down the stairs and threw me out the door."
Uhm, I can't."
It's not the guy again, is it?"
Uhm, no."
"You're lying to us."
"Come on! It'll be fun! We haven't been bar hopping in ages. You never come out with us anymore. Stay at my place. He doesn't know where I live so it's not like he'll come looking for you there!"
"Besides, have you seen her Dad? Dude could scare Satan."
A faint smile crosses the pale and soft lips before they answer, "I just can't."
The two other women sigh. They've been worried about their friend for over a month now. She hasn't so much as smiled in days. Her weight has been dropping for no reason. And she hasn't stopped looking over her shoulder for a solid three weeks.
The woman with the short black hair releases a second sigh as she leans back into the couch. "Listen, Dad knows what's going on." She answers her friend's silent question without hesitation. "Yes. I told him, Aimee. I told him that I think your boyfriend is kicking the living shit out of you. I told him because I wanted to know if I could press charges."
Aimee smiled just a little. It wasn't the attention. She hated the attention she received from the bruises. It was the concern. She'd thought that no one was asking because no one cared. "What did your Dad say?" The question was very soft, and very cautious.
"He said I can't do a fucking thing until you decide to change things."
Aimee sighed with visible relief.
"How can you be relieved?"
"How can I not, Kinsey?"
"Aimee, he's going to keep hurting you no matter what you do." This was Aimee's other friend. Her deep brown eyes didn't even make an attempt to shade the fear in her voice.
"He's going to stop, Kinsey. He will."
"Damn it, Aimee! Stop thinking that you can change him. No matter how many times he tells you that he loves you, he'll turn around and beat the living shit out you! Stop thinking that you can change a monster! You can't. He's a fucking psycho, and he'll always be a fucking psycho!"
Aimee frowned and forced her anger aside. "You have no right to make judgments about him, Lynn. You have no right--"
"Bull shit! You're my friend and when I see you come to class with bruises and a fat lip, it becomes my business!" Lynn was on the point of screaming the words. Aimee may have been able to control her anger, but her friends were not.
"Trust me," said Aimee with a very soft voice, and a gentle expression in her eyes. "It'll be okay. It'll stop in a couple of days. I promise."
Her friends watched her carefully. A couple of days. She'd never said anything like that. It sounded as though she had something planned. Something that would end all of the beatings with the utmost simplicity.
Lynn looked over at Kinsey. The latter never once took her eyes from Aimee's as she spoke, "Are you going to...You're not going to do something, are you?" It sounded like she was asking if her friend was going to kill her boyfriend. She hadn't thought it was going to come out that way. Her intention was a similar notion, only a self-inflicted one.
"Oh gods, Kinsey," said Aimee, sitting up suddenly and looking rather shocked. "No. No. I wouldn't ever do that!"
Kinsey blushed with embarrassment. Apparently, her unspoken murder had been the exchange. "I didn't mean kill him." She looked to Lynn, and then back to Aimee. "I meant, you're...Well, you're not going to...Or thinking of..." She hesitated. She and Lynn had both talked about the changes in their friend's behaviour. They'd spoken of that taboo subject. But they'd been avoiding a direct confrontation for reasons they didn't understand. "Well, I just mean..."
Lynn stepped in and abruptly cut her friend's words short. "Are you planning on killing yourself?"
Aimee stared. She couldn't think of a reply. Lynn's voice was harsh and direct. Her eyes were anything but. She'd asked the question while looking at the wall directly behind her friend's head. Her hands were stuffed deep into her pockets. She was biting the inside of her mouth. Kinsey's reaction was something of the same. Her hands were clenched into small fists, and her eyes were directed to the floor.
Aimee realized she would have to tell them. She would have to tell them everything.
"Aimee?" Kinsey's voice was quiet.
"I'm not going to kill myself," answered the girl with the chestnut hair and the green eyes. "Though, I'll be honest, I've thought about it a lot lately. Hell, I tried to do it."
Neither Lynn nor Kinsey made any reply. This was turning into some cheesy teen soap opera. And they both had a feeling they knew what was coming out next.
Aimee hadn't been going out to the parties at all. She'd been avoiding the bars as though they carried the plague. She drank nothing but water and milk.
"You're pregnant." Lynn and Kinsey spoke together.
Aimee nodded her head softly. "Yeah."
"And he's still beating you."
"Yeah."
"So you haven't told him."
"No."
"When?"
"Tomorrow night. After class."
"What's he going to say?"
Aimee fell silent. It was her turn to stare at the floor. "No idea."
Lynn sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "So, are we supposed to congratulate you?"
Aimee shrugged.
"Are you keeping it?" asked Kinsey.
Aimee shrugged again.
"You're going to base that on his reaction, aren't you," said Lynn, a deep resentment in her voice.
Aimee just shrugged again.
"Well, we're for you either way," she added after a minute of silence had passed.
Kinsey smiled a bit. "So, what do you mean by that 'Couple of days' thing?"
Aimee answered softly, "Well, either he stops, or I walk out."
Lynn and Kinsey looked to one another with skepticism.
"I'm serious about this one," said Aimee, a definite anger in her tone. "I can't risk anything this time around."
"This time around?" asked Kinsey.
Aimee looked to both her friends in turn, and spoke with a slight tremor to her voice. "Uhm, think you guys can wait outside for me tomorrow night?"
Kinsey looked over to Lynn with an inquisitive expression. "Why?"
Aimee hesitated to answer. "Uhm, because last time I told him I was pregnant, he pushed me down the stairs and threw me out the door."
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Sakee & Rayne :: SCOTCH
Kay is sitting on the couch. She’s almost being swallowed by the big black cushions. It’s an old couch. You sink into it when you initially sit down. If you stay sitting there for over an hour, you almost feel as though it’s closing in on you, trying to wipe you from the face of the earth. Maybe that’s why she’s been sitting in it for so long now.
The alarm clock went off at seven this morning. She forgot to shut it off. It’s Saturday. She doesn’t go in to work on Saturdays. She was a little drunk last night. Kay always forgets to do things when she’s drunk.
The sky beyond the windows is dark and low. The clouds seem to almost be touching at the treetops. It’s raining again. It’s been raining for days now. The thunder echoes across the city. The cars outside are still speeding along the street. Their headlights bounce off the wet asphalt.
It’s after ten o’clock. She’s been away for three hours. The couch is slowly swallowing her whole. She doesn’t really care. With every inch the couch takes, she downs another bit of scotch.
The bottle is a deep green—emerald, really. The label is parchment, almost. It’s supposed to look old. Really, it is. A friend has bought this for her. For Christmas or Easter or a birthday or something. A ten-year-old scotch. Apparently very fine to the palette.
Kay hasn’t noticed. She doesn’t notice these things anymore. Little things of enjoyment are slowly being drowned away in a world of monotony, of routine, of monochrome colouring.
Rayne has started to notice her friend. She’s noticed that one beautiful glass is always on the mahogany coffee table. There’s always that goldish film on the bottom of the glass. The ice-cube tray is never full, either.
The sky is so dark. The colours outside seem to be painted over with a grey tone. Everything is so dark these days.
Rayne hops off the bus as it stops. She forgot her umbrella. She’s got another block to go before she gets to the building.
Tossing her jacket over her head, she starts the run.
Kay missed their breakfast at the coffee shop this morning. It’s still raining today. She hasn’t answered the phone at all.
Rayne knows what her ex is doing.
The rain is slowing now. Kay watches it as she leans forward, reaching for the bottle. She’d planned on keeping this for a special occasion. It had been sitting in her cupboard for a year now. She saw no reason to let it sit there any longer. The scotch was a gift that should be used. She was using it now.
The door of her place opened. She heard it. She heard keys jingle. Kay stared out the window, a freshly poured glass of scotch in hand, and wondered why she had ever given Rayne a set of keys.
Rayne saw her friend sitting on the couch. She saw the bottle of scotch, nearly empty. She dropped her bag on the floor, slipped off her shoes, jacket, and wet socks. She didn’t say anything as she stepped around the couch and sat down beside her friend.
Kay held the glass with a loose grip. She kept staring out the window as Rayne sat down. She bit her lip against the tears that were now collecting in her eyes.
Rayne took the glass from her friend’s hand and placed it on the coffee table. She put the top back on the bottle of scotch. Rayne looked at her friend through the corner of her eye and sat back.
Kay stopped trying to bite her lip. Her tears slipped along her face in silence. Rayne took her hand in silence. The storm outside kept raging all the while.
The alarm clock went off at seven this morning. She forgot to shut it off. It’s Saturday. She doesn’t go in to work on Saturdays. She was a little drunk last night. Kay always forgets to do things when she’s drunk.
The sky beyond the windows is dark and low. The clouds seem to almost be touching at the treetops. It’s raining again. It’s been raining for days now. The thunder echoes across the city. The cars outside are still speeding along the street. Their headlights bounce off the wet asphalt.
It’s after ten o’clock. She’s been away for three hours. The couch is slowly swallowing her whole. She doesn’t really care. With every inch the couch takes, she downs another bit of scotch.
The bottle is a deep green—emerald, really. The label is parchment, almost. It’s supposed to look old. Really, it is. A friend has bought this for her. For Christmas or Easter or a birthday or something. A ten-year-old scotch. Apparently very fine to the palette.
Kay hasn’t noticed. She doesn’t notice these things anymore. Little things of enjoyment are slowly being drowned away in a world of monotony, of routine, of monochrome colouring.
Rayne has started to notice her friend. She’s noticed that one beautiful glass is always on the mahogany coffee table. There’s always that goldish film on the bottom of the glass. The ice-cube tray is never full, either.
The sky is so dark. The colours outside seem to be painted over with a grey tone. Everything is so dark these days.
Rayne hops off the bus as it stops. She forgot her umbrella. She’s got another block to go before she gets to the building.
Tossing her jacket over her head, she starts the run.
Kay missed their breakfast at the coffee shop this morning. It’s still raining today. She hasn’t answered the phone at all.
Rayne knows what her ex is doing.
The rain is slowing now. Kay watches it as she leans forward, reaching for the bottle. She’d planned on keeping this for a special occasion. It had been sitting in her cupboard for a year now. She saw no reason to let it sit there any longer. The scotch was a gift that should be used. She was using it now.
The door of her place opened. She heard it. She heard keys jingle. Kay stared out the window, a freshly poured glass of scotch in hand, and wondered why she had ever given Rayne a set of keys.
Rayne saw her friend sitting on the couch. She saw the bottle of scotch, nearly empty. She dropped her bag on the floor, slipped off her shoes, jacket, and wet socks. She didn’t say anything as she stepped around the couch and sat down beside her friend.
Kay held the glass with a loose grip. She kept staring out the window as Rayne sat down. She bit her lip against the tears that were now collecting in her eyes.
Rayne took the glass from her friend’s hand and placed it on the coffee table. She put the top back on the bottle of scotch. Rayne looked at her friend through the corner of her eye and sat back.
Kay stopped trying to bite her lip. Her tears slipped along her face in silence. Rayne took her hand in silence. The storm outside kept raging all the while.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Sakee & Rayne :: UNAFFECTED
Sakee & Rayne :: September 14-2004 (19:39)
UNAFFECTED
Kay's sitting on the edge of the bed. Her barefeet are planted firmly against the cold hardwood floor. Only her toes are visible -the rest of her feet hidden within the wide-ankled khakis she's wearing. Her elbows are planted squarely -painfully- into the tops of her knees. Her fingers are tented. Her index fingers press against the bridge of her nose, the tips almost wanting to pierce into her skull between her eyebrows. Her shoulders are hunched forward. Her eyes are shut. Her hair would be covering her eyes if it weren't for her fingers there.
The window is open. It's been raining for over an hour now. She woke to the sound of the rain. Normally it's the thunder that wakes her. This time it was the rain. It's always the sound of rain now. The trillions of water droplets, hurtling toward the ground in a grand kamakaze style. She used to love listening to the rain. She could sit in this place and listen for hours on end. Now she hates the sound. With rain comes memories. With rain comes conversations. With rain comes pain.
She opens her eyes and stares down at her toes. Her pants are rumpled and wrinkled. Her shirt is, too. She fell asleep in her clothes. She's been doing that a lot these days.
The computer in the other room hums. The sound is a loud droning. It's not even quiet anymore. Once upon a time, it was a calming white noise. Now it almost seems to be screaming at her. She can nearly hear it saying "You see what I can do? You see the kind of pain I can relate?" She sighs and shuts her eyes again. There's music playing from the computer. She wants to get up and shut it off. She wants to take the three speakers, tear them from the tower, and hurl them out the windows to watch them shatter on the streets below.
Kay wants so very many things. And she knows she can never have any of them.
"We could have made it work, we could have found a way.
We should have done our best to see another day.
But we kept it all inside, until it was too late.
And now we're both alone, the consequence we pay,
For throwing it all away, for throwing it all away."
Kay shuts her eyes against the music drifting through her home. She shuts her eyes tight, squeezing her eyelids together, forcing a wall around her body. Forcing the lyrics to stay away from her thoughts.
Her eyes break open and she stares outside. The rain is falling from the sky. The lightning is cutting through the heavens. The thunder is echoing in her ears. The music is still not drowned away.
She stares at the window. The raindrops keep hurling themselves against the glass. Like bugs being crushed against the windshield of a moving vehicle. How many times now has she felt like a bug being quashed underfoot? How many more times will she feel like this?
The music in the other room changes a little. She tries to pay it no attention. She could easily just stand and shut off the speakers. Or shut down the entire computer. It's late, after all. The clock on her nightstand is reading a little before four o'clock in the morning. She's been awake for over an hour, now.
A soft ruffle silences her thoughts. She hears long, calm, and dense breathing. The rain pounds against the window now. She reaches forward and closes it. The outside world is suddenly cut away.
"What's wrong?" asks a groggy voice.
"Nothing," answers Kay, always looking outside.
The ruffle of blankets again. "You sure?"
"Yes."
A few moments of silence pass by. The blankets ruffle a little again, softly. It's a strong contrast to the howling wind and rain outside. The storm has suddenly become so much stronger.
"There's nothing left to prove.
My heart's forever true."
The music keeps playing in the other room. Though the volume hasn't changed at all, Kay hears it louder than before.
"Sakee?"
Kay shuts her eyes again. Her toes press into the cold floor for a moment before leaving it entirely. She lies back on the bed. Her arms pillow her head and she stares up at the ceiling. She is suddenly aware of just how uncomfortable she is in her clothes.
"Sakee."
"I'm fine, Rayne." Kay stares at the ceiling without blinking, listening to the storm outside and the raging music. "Go back to sleep."
The blankets ruffle again. A soft sigh slips from someone's lips. Kay really isn't sure if it's her own breathing or Rayne's.
"You should change into pyjamas," says Rayne softly after a very long silence.
Kay looks to her left. There's just enough light filtering through the storm. She can see Rayne watching her. The sheets are drawn up to her chin. There's a pained and concerned expression on the young woman's face.
"I'm not tired."
Rayne shuts her eyes. "Was it a nightmare?"
"No."
"Was it the storm?"
"No."
A pause. "Do you want me to shut off the computer?"
Several moments of hesitation. "No," is spoken very softly, very slowly, very cautiously.
"Okay."
The storm outside all but stops suddenly. Kay looks out the window and watches as the raindrops fall in a methodical rhythm against the street lights. It's much slower now. Not the horribly suicidal mission from above.
Rayne's breathing is much slower now, too. Kay smiles a little and turns on her side. She watches her friend sleep. That's all they are. Friends. Other than that one kiss, nothing has happened. Nor will anything ever happen. They tried that, once, not too long ago. It didn't work-out.
'So many things haven't worked-out,' she thinks to herself, watching her friend.
Kay reaches forward and pulls the blankets up over Rayne's shoulder. "Sleep well," she whispers.
The rain starts its destructive bombardment again. The sound is harsh against the glass windows. She sighs and shuts her eyes.
"So what should I do?
Just lay next to you?
As though I'm unaffected?
And who should I be
When they're judging me?
As though I'm unaffected?"
Kay sits up again, planting her feet on the cold floor. She stands now, moving through the rooms of the appartment. She reaches her computer and pushes three keys. The music stops. The humming dies away. The screen goes blank.
She stares at the darkness in the room for a long while, standing in front of the metal desk. She runs both hands through her hair. Her fingers pressing into her scalp, her neck, her jaw. She runs her palms over her face and stands that way for a while -face buried into her hands.
'Why can't I be unaffected?' she asks herself silently, stepping back into her room and lying on the blankets, staring at the ceiling, compeltely unaware that the storm has stopped, and that she has fallen back into a dreamless sleep.
UNAFFECTED
Kay's sitting on the edge of the bed. Her barefeet are planted firmly against the cold hardwood floor. Only her toes are visible -the rest of her feet hidden within the wide-ankled khakis she's wearing. Her elbows are planted squarely -painfully- into the tops of her knees. Her fingers are tented. Her index fingers press against the bridge of her nose, the tips almost wanting to pierce into her skull between her eyebrows. Her shoulders are hunched forward. Her eyes are shut. Her hair would be covering her eyes if it weren't for her fingers there.
The window is open. It's been raining for over an hour now. She woke to the sound of the rain. Normally it's the thunder that wakes her. This time it was the rain. It's always the sound of rain now. The trillions of water droplets, hurtling toward the ground in a grand kamakaze style. She used to love listening to the rain. She could sit in this place and listen for hours on end. Now she hates the sound. With rain comes memories. With rain comes conversations. With rain comes pain.
She opens her eyes and stares down at her toes. Her pants are rumpled and wrinkled. Her shirt is, too. She fell asleep in her clothes. She's been doing that a lot these days.
The computer in the other room hums. The sound is a loud droning. It's not even quiet anymore. Once upon a time, it was a calming white noise. Now it almost seems to be screaming at her. She can nearly hear it saying "You see what I can do? You see the kind of pain I can relate?" She sighs and shuts her eyes again. There's music playing from the computer. She wants to get up and shut it off. She wants to take the three speakers, tear them from the tower, and hurl them out the windows to watch them shatter on the streets below.
Kay wants so very many things. And she knows she can never have any of them.
"We could have made it work, we could have found a way.
We should have done our best to see another day.
But we kept it all inside, until it was too late.
And now we're both alone, the consequence we pay,
For throwing it all away, for throwing it all away."
Kay shuts her eyes against the music drifting through her home. She shuts her eyes tight, squeezing her eyelids together, forcing a wall around her body. Forcing the lyrics to stay away from her thoughts.
Her eyes break open and she stares outside. The rain is falling from the sky. The lightning is cutting through the heavens. The thunder is echoing in her ears. The music is still not drowned away.
She stares at the window. The raindrops keep hurling themselves against the glass. Like bugs being crushed against the windshield of a moving vehicle. How many times now has she felt like a bug being quashed underfoot? How many more times will she feel like this?
The music in the other room changes a little. She tries to pay it no attention. She could easily just stand and shut off the speakers. Or shut down the entire computer. It's late, after all. The clock on her nightstand is reading a little before four o'clock in the morning. She's been awake for over an hour, now.
A soft ruffle silences her thoughts. She hears long, calm, and dense breathing. The rain pounds against the window now. She reaches forward and closes it. The outside world is suddenly cut away.
"What's wrong?" asks a groggy voice.
"Nothing," answers Kay, always looking outside.
The ruffle of blankets again. "You sure?"
"Yes."
A few moments of silence pass by. The blankets ruffle a little again, softly. It's a strong contrast to the howling wind and rain outside. The storm has suddenly become so much stronger.
"There's nothing left to prove.
My heart's forever true."
The music keeps playing in the other room. Though the volume hasn't changed at all, Kay hears it louder than before.
"Sakee?"
Kay shuts her eyes again. Her toes press into the cold floor for a moment before leaving it entirely. She lies back on the bed. Her arms pillow her head and she stares up at the ceiling. She is suddenly aware of just how uncomfortable she is in her clothes.
"Sakee."
"I'm fine, Rayne." Kay stares at the ceiling without blinking, listening to the storm outside and the raging music. "Go back to sleep."
The blankets ruffle again. A soft sigh slips from someone's lips. Kay really isn't sure if it's her own breathing or Rayne's.
"You should change into pyjamas," says Rayne softly after a very long silence.
Kay looks to her left. There's just enough light filtering through the storm. She can see Rayne watching her. The sheets are drawn up to her chin. There's a pained and concerned expression on the young woman's face.
"I'm not tired."
Rayne shuts her eyes. "Was it a nightmare?"
"No."
"Was it the storm?"
"No."
A pause. "Do you want me to shut off the computer?"
Several moments of hesitation. "No," is spoken very softly, very slowly, very cautiously.
"Okay."
The storm outside all but stops suddenly. Kay looks out the window and watches as the raindrops fall in a methodical rhythm against the street lights. It's much slower now. Not the horribly suicidal mission from above.
Rayne's breathing is much slower now, too. Kay smiles a little and turns on her side. She watches her friend sleep. That's all they are. Friends. Other than that one kiss, nothing has happened. Nor will anything ever happen. They tried that, once, not too long ago. It didn't work-out.
'So many things haven't worked-out,' she thinks to herself, watching her friend.
Kay reaches forward and pulls the blankets up over Rayne's shoulder. "Sleep well," she whispers.
The rain starts its destructive bombardment again. The sound is harsh against the glass windows. She sighs and shuts her eyes.
"So what should I do?
Just lay next to you?
As though I'm unaffected?
And who should I be
When they're judging me?
As though I'm unaffected?"
Kay sits up again, planting her feet on the cold floor. She stands now, moving through the rooms of the appartment. She reaches her computer and pushes three keys. The music stops. The humming dies away. The screen goes blank.
She stares at the darkness in the room for a long while, standing in front of the metal desk. She runs both hands through her hair. Her fingers pressing into her scalp, her neck, her jaw. She runs her palms over her face and stands that way for a while -face buried into her hands.
'Why can't I be unaffected?' she asks herself silently, stepping back into her room and lying on the blankets, staring at the ceiling, compeltely unaware that the storm has stopped, and that she has fallen back into a dreamless sleep.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Sakee and Rayne :: Just A Kiss
Just A Kiss
“Sakee?”
“Mmm?”
“You asleep?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Liar.”
Kay turns over, facing Rayne. With her eyes still shut, “You know it.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I am sleeping very well, thank you.”
“We should get up.”
“I have no desire to get out of bed today.”
“We should still get up.”
“We should also not be in the same bed.”
“That’s why we should get up.”
Kay opens her eyes and sighs a little—softly. “Rayne…” Her voice trails away. She looks at her friend, and quietly slips out of bed. She strides into the kitchen and puts the kettle on to boil. Her palms anchor into the counter top and she shuts her eyes, leaning on her arms and staring into the empty sink.
“We didn’t do anything,” says Rayne, stepping into the large kitchen and leaning against the fridge. “Just a kiss.”
Kay sighs her reply, “I know.”
Both women stand in silence, neither one looking at each other. Kay bows her head and stares at the countertop. Rayne shuts her eyes and listens to the clinking fridge. The kettle starts to whistle softly. Within a second or two, the sound it makes is a screaming cry to be removed from the hot element.
Neither women move.
The small dark blue, metal kettle begins to shake under the pressure of the boiling water. Rayne reaches over and pull it away from the element. She turns the dial on the stovetop and the fire-red metal of the hot burner slowly begins to fade a little—even though heat continues to ripple the air.
Kay pulls two mugs from the cupboard. Rayne draws a couple of spoons from the dishwasher. Kay stares at the empty mug and leaves the kitchen for the security of the living room. Rayne follows. Both mugs remain empty on the counter, the spoons sitting idly by, and the boiling kettle finally calming itself.
Kay sits on the couch. Rayne follows. They sit at opposite ends—almost skirting further away from one another. They remain in silence for a long while more.
Outside the cars are speeding by. They splash and honk at each other. The window is open; the sound is so much louder now—suddenly. There’s a cool breeze filtering into the room. The air smells fresh—wet. It must have rained last night.
“I don’t know why it hurts so much,” says Rayne suddenly, looking over at her ex.
Kay stares at the floor. The empty bottles aren’t beside the couch anymore. She wishes they were. She wants to break each and every one of them now. Shatter them. Reduce them to minute fragments of gleaming rubble.
She doesn’t say anything to Rayne’s words.
“I wish I could make it go away for you, Sakee,” says Rayne softly, moving over to sit beside her friend.
“Why do you call me that?” asks Kay softly, looking to her ex.
Rayne shrugs and smiles a little. “Not really sure. I think it has to do with all that Sake liquor we drank. Remember that?”
Kay smiles a little, “I remember the initial ordering. I remember the drinking. But after that, it’s all a blur!”
Rayne smiles and laughs a little. Kay laughs, too, gently. They both fall to silence.
“Are you okay?” asks Kay, looking over to Rayne.
“Yeah,” she answers with a small smile. “I’m a lot more okay than you are,” she adds softly, her hand finding Kay’s and holding it gently.
“I’m fine.”
“You wish,” says Rayne in a soft whisper.
A long silence follows. There never used to be this kind of silence between them. Now, it seems to hover between them. A soft, gentle, and comforting silence.
“I’m sorry about kissing you last night,” says Rayne, looking out the window.
“Don’t be,” answer Kay.
“Shouldn’t have done it.”
“Why not?” presses Kay, looking her friend in the eyes. “I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t emotionally shattered. I was in control of my own thoughts. I could have said no.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Unless…”
“No,” says Rayne, “I was in control, too. I saw this coming with Sara almost from the get-go of the relationship. We both knew it would never possibly work-out. But we tried anyway.” She’s silent for a while. Finally, she releases Kay’s hand. “We’re too strong together,” she says, standing and moving into the kitchen to boil the kettle again.
“Sakee?”
“Mmm?”
“You asleep?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Liar.”
Kay turns over, facing Rayne. With her eyes still shut, “You know it.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I am sleeping very well, thank you.”
“We should get up.”
“I have no desire to get out of bed today.”
“We should still get up.”
“We should also not be in the same bed.”
“That’s why we should get up.”
Kay opens her eyes and sighs a little—softly. “Rayne…” Her voice trails away. She looks at her friend, and quietly slips out of bed. She strides into the kitchen and puts the kettle on to boil. Her palms anchor into the counter top and she shuts her eyes, leaning on her arms and staring into the empty sink.
“We didn’t do anything,” says Rayne, stepping into the large kitchen and leaning against the fridge. “Just a kiss.”
Kay sighs her reply, “I know.”
Both women stand in silence, neither one looking at each other. Kay bows her head and stares at the countertop. Rayne shuts her eyes and listens to the clinking fridge. The kettle starts to whistle softly. Within a second or two, the sound it makes is a screaming cry to be removed from the hot element.
Neither women move.
The small dark blue, metal kettle begins to shake under the pressure of the boiling water. Rayne reaches over and pull it away from the element. She turns the dial on the stovetop and the fire-red metal of the hot burner slowly begins to fade a little—even though heat continues to ripple the air.
Kay pulls two mugs from the cupboard. Rayne draws a couple of spoons from the dishwasher. Kay stares at the empty mug and leaves the kitchen for the security of the living room. Rayne follows. Both mugs remain empty on the counter, the spoons sitting idly by, and the boiling kettle finally calming itself.
Kay sits on the couch. Rayne follows. They sit at opposite ends—almost skirting further away from one another. They remain in silence for a long while more.
Outside the cars are speeding by. They splash and honk at each other. The window is open; the sound is so much louder now—suddenly. There’s a cool breeze filtering into the room. The air smells fresh—wet. It must have rained last night.
“I don’t know why it hurts so much,” says Rayne suddenly, looking over at her ex.
Kay stares at the floor. The empty bottles aren’t beside the couch anymore. She wishes they were. She wants to break each and every one of them now. Shatter them. Reduce them to minute fragments of gleaming rubble.
She doesn’t say anything to Rayne’s words.
“I wish I could make it go away for you, Sakee,” says Rayne softly, moving over to sit beside her friend.
“Why do you call me that?” asks Kay softly, looking to her ex.
Rayne shrugs and smiles a little. “Not really sure. I think it has to do with all that Sake liquor we drank. Remember that?”
Kay smiles a little, “I remember the initial ordering. I remember the drinking. But after that, it’s all a blur!”
Rayne smiles and laughs a little. Kay laughs, too, gently. They both fall to silence.
“Are you okay?” asks Kay, looking over to Rayne.
“Yeah,” she answers with a small smile. “I’m a lot more okay than you are,” she adds softly, her hand finding Kay’s and holding it gently.
“I’m fine.”
“You wish,” says Rayne in a soft whisper.
A long silence follows. There never used to be this kind of silence between them. Now, it seems to hover between them. A soft, gentle, and comforting silence.
“I’m sorry about kissing you last night,” says Rayne, looking out the window.
“Don’t be,” answer Kay.
“Shouldn’t have done it.”
“Why not?” presses Kay, looking her friend in the eyes. “I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t emotionally shattered. I was in control of my own thoughts. I could have said no.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Unless…”
“No,” says Rayne, “I was in control, too. I saw this coming with Sara almost from the get-go of the relationship. We both knew it would never possibly work-out. But we tried anyway.” She’s silent for a while. Finally, she releases Kay’s hand. “We’re too strong together,” she says, standing and moving into the kitchen to boil the kettle again.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Sakee
Sakee and Rayne
One's sitting in the comfortable office chair at the desk. A bottle -still nearly full- of Bacardi's Raz sits in a small puddle of cool water, soft droplets of thick condensation forming over the bottle.
She's playing something at the computer. It looks like Minesweeper.
The other one is sitting on the couch. She's got an empty bottle of Smirnoff Ice -Green Apple- clenched between her palms. Her feet are tucked under her body. She's staring blankly into space. There are two more empty bottles beside the couch.
"She doesn't love me."
The other looks over from the computer screen. "Kay, stop drinking."
"All right."
A long silence follows. Then, the sound of wheels rolling across hardwood flooring echoes softly -slowly.
Kay looks to her friend. "What did I do? I mean, what? Did I do something? Did I not do something? How can she say it, Rayne?"
Rayne sighs, taking the empty bottle from her friend and placing it on the floor with the others. She sits on the couch. "Kay, you didn't do anything."
"Then why did this happen?"
"I can't answer that. And I won't even try to give reasons. She's the only one who knows."
Kay turns and looks to Rayne. "I don't think even she knows."
Rayne smile and pulls her friend into a hug. "Oh, Sakee," she says gently, using the pet name. "It doesn't really matter. I really don't know why this shit happens. But better to cry over it than be angry."
Kay looks to her friend, "Guess so."
Rayne smiles a little and hugs her friend closer. "I do know how you feel, though. Feel the same way about this whole Sara break-up. We're a good pair, you and I."
Kay sighs softly. "So what happened with you two anyway?"
"I don't know," answers Rayne, resting her head back against the couch and shutting her eyes, face turned toward the ceiling. "She too whimpy, maybe? I'm too tough?" She's silent for a minute. "We're just way too different. Two completely opposite extremes."
Neither woman says anything. Kay watches her friend for a long while in silence.
"We were good together," says Rayne suddenly, quietly.
Kay nods her head. "We were."
Rayne looks over. "You never once backed-down from an argument," she says with a smile.
"You never let me."
They watch each other silently.
"I think we're too strong together," says Kay after a long time passes.
Rayne nods her head.
"Another drink?" asks Kay, standing and moving toward the kitchen.
Without warning, Rayne takes her ex's hand softly and tugs. Kay follows the soft beckoning and sits on the couch beside her friend. Rayne's body moves forward until her lips press Kay's gently.
The movements are slow and cautious. But there is an underlying urgency -a desire- in the motions.
Rayne shuts her eyes, always moving slightly forward. Kay leans backward until she's lying on the couch.
The only sounds in the room are coming from the hum of the computer, the clicking of the refridgerator, and the angry traffic outside. Both women are silent. Even their thoughts are hushed as their bodies take control of the situation.
One's sitting in the comfortable office chair at the desk. A bottle -still nearly full- of Bacardi's Raz sits in a small puddle of cool water, soft droplets of thick condensation forming over the bottle.
She's playing something at the computer. It looks like Minesweeper.
The other one is sitting on the couch. She's got an empty bottle of Smirnoff Ice -Green Apple- clenched between her palms. Her feet are tucked under her body. She's staring blankly into space. There are two more empty bottles beside the couch.
"She doesn't love me."
The other looks over from the computer screen. "Kay, stop drinking."
"All right."
A long silence follows. Then, the sound of wheels rolling across hardwood flooring echoes softly -slowly.
Kay looks to her friend. "What did I do? I mean, what? Did I do something? Did I not do something? How can she say it, Rayne?"
Rayne sighs, taking the empty bottle from her friend and placing it on the floor with the others. She sits on the couch. "Kay, you didn't do anything."
"Then why did this happen?"
"I can't answer that. And I won't even try to give reasons. She's the only one who knows."
Kay turns and looks to Rayne. "I don't think even she knows."
Rayne smile and pulls her friend into a hug. "Oh, Sakee," she says gently, using the pet name. "It doesn't really matter. I really don't know why this shit happens. But better to cry over it than be angry."
Kay looks to her friend, "Guess so."
Rayne smiles a little and hugs her friend closer. "I do know how you feel, though. Feel the same way about this whole Sara break-up. We're a good pair, you and I."
Kay sighs softly. "So what happened with you two anyway?"
"I don't know," answers Rayne, resting her head back against the couch and shutting her eyes, face turned toward the ceiling. "She too whimpy, maybe? I'm too tough?" She's silent for a minute. "We're just way too different. Two completely opposite extremes."
Neither woman says anything. Kay watches her friend for a long while in silence.
"We were good together," says Rayne suddenly, quietly.
Kay nods her head. "We were."
Rayne looks over. "You never once backed-down from an argument," she says with a smile.
"You never let me."
They watch each other silently.
"I think we're too strong together," says Kay after a long time passes.
Rayne nods her head.
"Another drink?" asks Kay, standing and moving toward the kitchen.
Without warning, Rayne takes her ex's hand softly and tugs. Kay follows the soft beckoning and sits on the couch beside her friend. Rayne's body moves forward until her lips press Kay's gently.
The movements are slow and cautious. But there is an underlying urgency -a desire- in the motions.
Rayne shuts her eyes, always moving slightly forward. Kay leans backward until she's lying on the couch.
The only sounds in the room are coming from the hum of the computer, the clicking of the refridgerator, and the angry traffic outside. Both women are silent. Even their thoughts are hushed as their bodies take control of the situation.
Monday, August 23, 2004
Memories with the Shamaan
You sit in the big armchair. Your elbows lean over the arms, your hands hang limply above your thighs.
The woman sitting across from you has her legs stretched-out, her feet resting on the coffee table. She's sort of lounging on the couch -the one you should, in all theory, be lying on.
"How long will you sit there?" she asks, looking at you from behind her glasses.
You say nothing. In all truth, there's absolutely nothing to say. Mark found you back home. She knows that. Her called you New Year's Eve. She knows that. He did it again. She knows that, too.
Who cares if your silence wastes an hour's worth of tape? You've become very tired of telling this woman all of your secrets. Of knowing that the tape-recorder on the coffee table is making a direct and complete copy of everything you say.
She sighs and looks at you, sitting-up and planting her feet on the floor as she removes her glasses. Classic demonstration of irritation. Maybe she'll let you go early today. Maybe she'll send you off and tell you to never come back...only in your dreams.
Neither of you says anything. Time begins to pass at a tortuously slow rate. But there's no way that you're going to let this woman -this professional psychoanalyst- win. You've done nothing but pour your soul to this woman. You're sick and tired of listening to what others have to say about your psyche. Fuck them all.
"How are things going since we last spoke?" She asks the question as she places her glasses back over the bridge of her nose.
You say nothing. Five minutes pass.
She sighs a little. "How did your friends react to what you told them?"
You say nothing.
"How was the group counselling?"
Still silence.
She sits up and glowers at you. "Don't you dare start this sulking bullshit! I raised three teenagers. I know what's going-on in your head. You! The whole world revolves around you! Don't you start this bullshit of saying nothing. Got it?" She's silent for a few minutes. "You are a child," she says strongly, almost with an accusing tone. "Yes, I know that you're twenty-one. But you are still a child. And, unfortunetly, you are a child that has taken more shit than you should be able to bear."
She's silent again. She pulls off her glasses, drops them onto the table, and runs her hands over her face.
"And that's saying a lot, hon. I've seen people who've lost everything and not get up. I've never seen anyone take this much shit and still be standing."
You want to say so much, but you can't find the most basic form of communication. Insolent teenager remains.
"I know that you resent the fact that I keep poking into your thoughts. But you have to accept it. And you have to start letting everything go."
How's that for a different approach to psychological therapy? The last counsellor you saw a definite fan of dancing around with a night-light and a rifle. This woman, however, prefers to run full-out into the deepest shadows carrying nothing more than bawled fists.
She watches you now. Waiting for you to make the next move.
Your eyes lock onto hers. And, immediately, flashbacks swarm through your thoughts. Everything flashes before your eyes.
Joanne isn't sitting before you now. Mark's watching you. He's sitting there, staring at you with a...a hunger in his eyes. You know exactly what he's about to do. You know that, in only a few seconds, he'll be on top of you again and you won't be able to fight him this time.
A cold sweat is pooling over your skin in heavy beads. You can feel them slipping from your forehead, along your temple and cheeks, and down your neck.
His eyes are roving over you -his beautifully dark, emerald green eyes. His perfect teeth, that form the most enchanting smile, now become his ravenous grin of hunger.
He stands, slowly, and stalks toward you. He's within arms reach. The corner you're pressed into provides no possible means of escape. You're trapped -physically and mentally.
Vanilla and cigarettes. The scent invades you. Your poor-excuse of a lunch -an apple and toast- begins to rise from your stomach and slips along your throat.
His hand grabs at your shoulder. Your breath stops and starts in a chaotic mess of panic. You can feel your heart slamming against your chest cavity. A dull throbbing begins to pound at the inside of your skull, all along your right temple. Your right eyes stings and, with a twinge of horror, all vision therein fades to shadows and darkness.
"Please don't," you whisper pathetically as you pull your head under the quasi-protective shield of your hands and forearms.
He's never relented before. He's never shown a solitary ounce of mercy.
His fingers clench around your upper right arm. His nails, always so seemingly dull, dig and tear into your flesh. The grip tightens. He whispers something hoarse and incoherent. The grin on his face is now nothing but the most malicious and terrifying smile. The once beautiful eyes glower at your from beneath dark brows with a merciless, ravenous, and violent desire.
Panic swarms you as tidal waves of horror slam you almost through the floor. Your breathing is so ragged, stressed, and irregular that everything is beginning to spin. Perhaps, by some form of miracle, you'll pass-out before you can remember anything.
Silently, you beg for death -mercy, really.
The God you grew-up with showed mercy and kindness. Yes, His wrath was vengeful and His judgment absolute, but what could you have possibly done to incur this horrible wrath?
Every day of your existence was lived according to His will and His laws. Every ounce of who you were was devoted to His name. Only after Keith started to lose control did you waver beneath His eyes. It only after Keith took his own life that you defied God's omnipotence. It was only after the man before you took every remaining fragment of your soul that you defied God's will and left Him in search of your true beliefs.
How can it be that, with nearly two billion souls on this planet, God would hold such a cast-iron grip on your existence? Why would He who is 'all-mighty' give a damn about how you lived? Or better yet, how could such omnipotence cast you into such a hellish existence? How could anyone do that?
You pull your knees up to your chin and shut your eyes as tightly as you possibly can. Your entire body is shaking. The unforgiving and ice-like grip of death slips into your chest and envelops your heart, lungs, and soul.
Searing tears creep along the sides of your face. Your voice shatters between sobs. Your words are only desperate pleas that he stop, that he not take the minuscule bit of you that has survived everything.
The wall that you're pressed against is beginning to spin -faster and faster. The floor is moving in sync with the walls. Your breathing is coming faster and faster, too. You know that there isn't enough oxygen in the room. You know that the merciless grip on your elbows is dragging you away to some god-awful destination. You know exactly what awaits you at the end of that road.
And then, everything stops. The spinning, your lurching stomach, your racing heart, your thoughts. Everything dies.
"Sweetie?"
You shut the word from your mind. Keith's voice is soft and apologetic as he speaks.
"I never meant to hurt you," he says, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and holding you close.
"You never did," you answer gently.
He frowns and kisses your temple. "Don't lie to me. Please. Even if you think it's going to help. Please don't lie to me about the things I've done."
You look up into his dark eyes. "I'm not lying. Bones and bruises heal. The important thing is that you're getting help."
He smiles, though only a little and brushes the side of your neck with his fingers. "I won't ever hurt you again. I will never do it again."
The warmth from his body pools between you both. You step a little closer and hold him, resting your head against his chest.
Every word he says is the truth. He won't ever hurt you again. You believe him now. You know he won't -can't- ever do anything again.
You can feel him kiss the top of your head and hug you close. His breath on your neck is warm and soothing.
Nothing matters anymore. All the things you've both endured -survived- melt away into the earth you're standing on. Everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be. No one will ever hurt you again. Keith will protect you. He'll hold you, share your grief, help you stand, never let you fall. He will forever be with you. He'll never hurt you again. Nobody will.
"Sweetie? Can you hear me?"
That wretched voice again. Damn imagination trying to ruin everything!
You shake your head softly and shut your eyes. You take a deep breath and absorb Keith's scent. Dragon's blood and lavender. The Dragon's Blood is his favourite incense, but the lavender is something you only discovered after having lived with him.
"I like the shower stuff," he explained with a trace of embarrassment. "It smells really nice and my skin doesn't get irritated."
You had smiled and, the following day, had bought him a mess of lavender-scented shower products.
"I remember that day," he says to you very softly. "It was probably one of the sweetest things you ever did for me."
You look up into his eyes and wonder how he knows what you were thinking.
"Precious," he says gently, "It's time that you go."
Go? Go where? You can't help but feel panic rising in your throat as the air surrounding him becomes ice-like.
"Precious, just let me go. Nothing will happen. You'll be happier this way. Just let me go."
He says all this with a very warm smile.
"I can't lose you again," you whisper as soft tears escape you.
He says nothing. His smile fades to a frown and his eyes darken to empty sockets. An instant later, you stand completely alone. Your breath floats before your eyes in small white clouds.
"Sweetie?"
Again that voice. And with this third calling comes a flood of memories.
Very slowly, you open your eyes to see Joanne kneeling before you. There's nothing to say as you breakdown and beg that the gods just end your existence. There's nothing to stop your tears anymore. The world has turned its back on you. It did that a very long time ago. And now -only now- do you realize just how very alone you are.
The woman sitting across from you has her legs stretched-out, her feet resting on the coffee table. She's sort of lounging on the couch -the one you should, in all theory, be lying on.
"How long will you sit there?" she asks, looking at you from behind her glasses.
You say nothing. In all truth, there's absolutely nothing to say. Mark found you back home. She knows that. Her called you New Year's Eve. She knows that. He did it again. She knows that, too.
Who cares if your silence wastes an hour's worth of tape? You've become very tired of telling this woman all of your secrets. Of knowing that the tape-recorder on the coffee table is making a direct and complete copy of everything you say.
She sighs and looks at you, sitting-up and planting her feet on the floor as she removes her glasses. Classic demonstration of irritation. Maybe she'll let you go early today. Maybe she'll send you off and tell you to never come back...only in your dreams.
Neither of you says anything. Time begins to pass at a tortuously slow rate. But there's no way that you're going to let this woman -this professional psychoanalyst- win. You've done nothing but pour your soul to this woman. You're sick and tired of listening to what others have to say about your psyche. Fuck them all.
"How are things going since we last spoke?" She asks the question as she places her glasses back over the bridge of her nose.
You say nothing. Five minutes pass.
She sighs a little. "How did your friends react to what you told them?"
You say nothing.
"How was the group counselling?"
Still silence.
She sits up and glowers at you. "Don't you dare start this sulking bullshit! I raised three teenagers. I know what's going-on in your head. You! The whole world revolves around you! Don't you start this bullshit of saying nothing. Got it?" She's silent for a few minutes. "You are a child," she says strongly, almost with an accusing tone. "Yes, I know that you're twenty-one. But you are still a child. And, unfortunetly, you are a child that has taken more shit than you should be able to bear."
She's silent again. She pulls off her glasses, drops them onto the table, and runs her hands over her face.
"And that's saying a lot, hon. I've seen people who've lost everything and not get up. I've never seen anyone take this much shit and still be standing."
You want to say so much, but you can't find the most basic form of communication. Insolent teenager remains.
"I know that you resent the fact that I keep poking into your thoughts. But you have to accept it. And you have to start letting everything go."
How's that for a different approach to psychological therapy? The last counsellor you saw a definite fan of dancing around with a night-light and a rifle. This woman, however, prefers to run full-out into the deepest shadows carrying nothing more than bawled fists.
She watches you now. Waiting for you to make the next move.
Your eyes lock onto hers. And, immediately, flashbacks swarm through your thoughts. Everything flashes before your eyes.
Joanne isn't sitting before you now. Mark's watching you. He's sitting there, staring at you with a...a hunger in his eyes. You know exactly what he's about to do. You know that, in only a few seconds, he'll be on top of you again and you won't be able to fight him this time.
A cold sweat is pooling over your skin in heavy beads. You can feel them slipping from your forehead, along your temple and cheeks, and down your neck.
His eyes are roving over you -his beautifully dark, emerald green eyes. His perfect teeth, that form the most enchanting smile, now become his ravenous grin of hunger.
He stands, slowly, and stalks toward you. He's within arms reach. The corner you're pressed into provides no possible means of escape. You're trapped -physically and mentally.
Vanilla and cigarettes. The scent invades you. Your poor-excuse of a lunch -an apple and toast- begins to rise from your stomach and slips along your throat.
His hand grabs at your shoulder. Your breath stops and starts in a chaotic mess of panic. You can feel your heart slamming against your chest cavity. A dull throbbing begins to pound at the inside of your skull, all along your right temple. Your right eyes stings and, with a twinge of horror, all vision therein fades to shadows and darkness.
"Please don't," you whisper pathetically as you pull your head under the quasi-protective shield of your hands and forearms.
He's never relented before. He's never shown a solitary ounce of mercy.
His fingers clench around your upper right arm. His nails, always so seemingly dull, dig and tear into your flesh. The grip tightens. He whispers something hoarse and incoherent. The grin on his face is now nothing but the most malicious and terrifying smile. The once beautiful eyes glower at your from beneath dark brows with a merciless, ravenous, and violent desire.
Panic swarms you as tidal waves of horror slam you almost through the floor. Your breathing is so ragged, stressed, and irregular that everything is beginning to spin. Perhaps, by some form of miracle, you'll pass-out before you can remember anything.
Silently, you beg for death -mercy, really.
The God you grew-up with showed mercy and kindness. Yes, His wrath was vengeful and His judgment absolute, but what could you have possibly done to incur this horrible wrath?
Every day of your existence was lived according to His will and His laws. Every ounce of who you were was devoted to His name. Only after Keith started to lose control did you waver beneath His eyes. It only after Keith took his own life that you defied God's omnipotence. It was only after the man before you took every remaining fragment of your soul that you defied God's will and left Him in search of your true beliefs.
How can it be that, with nearly two billion souls on this planet, God would hold such a cast-iron grip on your existence? Why would He who is 'all-mighty' give a damn about how you lived? Or better yet, how could such omnipotence cast you into such a hellish existence? How could anyone do that?
You pull your knees up to your chin and shut your eyes as tightly as you possibly can. Your entire body is shaking. The unforgiving and ice-like grip of death slips into your chest and envelops your heart, lungs, and soul.
Searing tears creep along the sides of your face. Your voice shatters between sobs. Your words are only desperate pleas that he stop, that he not take the minuscule bit of you that has survived everything.
The wall that you're pressed against is beginning to spin -faster and faster. The floor is moving in sync with the walls. Your breathing is coming faster and faster, too. You know that there isn't enough oxygen in the room. You know that the merciless grip on your elbows is dragging you away to some god-awful destination. You know exactly what awaits you at the end of that road.
And then, everything stops. The spinning, your lurching stomach, your racing heart, your thoughts. Everything dies.
"Sweetie?"
You shut the word from your mind. Keith's voice is soft and apologetic as he speaks.
"I never meant to hurt you," he says, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and holding you close.
"You never did," you answer gently.
He frowns and kisses your temple. "Don't lie to me. Please. Even if you think it's going to help. Please don't lie to me about the things I've done."
You look up into his dark eyes. "I'm not lying. Bones and bruises heal. The important thing is that you're getting help."
He smiles, though only a little and brushes the side of your neck with his fingers. "I won't ever hurt you again. I will never do it again."
The warmth from his body pools between you both. You step a little closer and hold him, resting your head against his chest.
Every word he says is the truth. He won't ever hurt you again. You believe him now. You know he won't -can't- ever do anything again.
You can feel him kiss the top of your head and hug you close. His breath on your neck is warm and soothing.
Nothing matters anymore. All the things you've both endured -survived- melt away into the earth you're standing on. Everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be. No one will ever hurt you again. Keith will protect you. He'll hold you, share your grief, help you stand, never let you fall. He will forever be with you. He'll never hurt you again. Nobody will.
"Sweetie? Can you hear me?"
That wretched voice again. Damn imagination trying to ruin everything!
You shake your head softly and shut your eyes. You take a deep breath and absorb Keith's scent. Dragon's blood and lavender. The Dragon's Blood is his favourite incense, but the lavender is something you only discovered after having lived with him.
"I like the shower stuff," he explained with a trace of embarrassment. "It smells really nice and my skin doesn't get irritated."
You had smiled and, the following day, had bought him a mess of lavender-scented shower products.
"I remember that day," he says to you very softly. "It was probably one of the sweetest things you ever did for me."
You look up into his eyes and wonder how he knows what you were thinking.
"Precious," he says gently, "It's time that you go."
Go? Go where? You can't help but feel panic rising in your throat as the air surrounding him becomes ice-like.
"Precious, just let me go. Nothing will happen. You'll be happier this way. Just let me go."
He says all this with a very warm smile.
"I can't lose you again," you whisper as soft tears escape you.
He says nothing. His smile fades to a frown and his eyes darken to empty sockets. An instant later, you stand completely alone. Your breath floats before your eyes in small white clouds.
"Sweetie?"
Again that voice. And with this third calling comes a flood of memories.
Very slowly, you open your eyes to see Joanne kneeling before you. There's nothing to say as you breakdown and beg that the gods just end your existence. There's nothing to stop your tears anymore. The world has turned its back on you. It did that a very long time ago. And now -only now- do you realize just how very alone you are.
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