What an atrocity! I've not posted here in weeks!
Damn me and my wretched schedules...not to mention my abhorent lack of artistic ingenuity, these days.
However, I am soundly optimistic that the posting frequencies will be shifting shortly! Do keep in touch, my eight regulars!
See you all shortly.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Monday, May 30, 2005
Light
Sitting in the coffee shop—Tim Horton’s—at the corner of the two main streets.
She sips at a coffee. The taste is bitter. It’s gotten very cold. She’s been sitting in that store since the early morning. Early morning being about three thirty.
The truckers hadn’t even stopped in by then. Neither had the commuters. It was just her and the two women manning the front counter.
They didn’t bother her. Even though she bought a single large coffee over three hours ago.
Their nametags—the two behind the counter—read as “Karen” and “Melanie”.
They never once questioned her. Never once made a double take. Didn’t whisper when she turned away and sat down. Didn’t even both go into the back room to whisper.
They smiled. Took her order. Gave her a free sugarcoated treat—a croissant they had glazed with frosting and chocolate—and left her alone.
The croissant is a hybrid creation of two twenty year-olds working the midnight shift. It’s not something the Timmie’s offers.
It’s something they were going to snack on, before giving it to another whom neither women ever met.
As the sun climbs past the horizon, more people begin to saunter into the coffee shop.
That’s her cue to leave. As more and more people come inside, the chances of her being recognized increase dramatically. It’s a ridiculously small town—village, more like—and it seems that every other person knows her family—her father, at the very least.
Leaving her cold and barely touched coffee sitting on the table, she slips from the shop and stands outside, by the back of the building, away from the eyes of anyone coming in.
She stands there for a long time. She’s craving a cigarette.
If only, she thinks.
It’s not nicotine she wants, it’s something else. Something more powerful. Something she hasn’t had in almost seven hours. Something to explain the wounds in her arms, behind her knees, and between her toes.
But the nicotine curbs those cravings…at least a little—sometimes.
She doesn’t have any more smokes. She hasn’t got the money for them—yet.
Her eyes start to scan the ground, looking for a butt that’s got some meat left. Looking for something she can get a little drag from.
That’s when the door opens. The Employees Only door. The big metal one that makes a loud and echoing clang as it hits the brick wall behind it.
The door that causes her to jump out of her skin and almost crawl away, arms folded around her body, and eyes never leaving the ground.
The conversation dies. She can only imagine what’s about to happen. She was caught looking through the ashtray of sand in the big blue barrel…with her jacket on the ground, her bare arms exposed to the world.
She hadn’t noticed that door.
“Hi,” says a voice.
She nods her head in acknowledgement.
“Waiting for a ride?” asks the same voice.
Another brief nod.
“Hey,” says another voice, “Do you have a light?”
At this inquiry, she lifts her eyes. Melanie and Karen. Shining nametags in the morning sunlight. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a flip-open lighter with a Canadian flag on the front. Slowly, and cautiously, she offers the lighter.
“Thanks,” says Karen, her smile warm and inviting.
Karen passes the lighter to Melanie, who lights her own cigarette and inhales deeply.
Both young woman look at the midnight owl, staring down at her jacket on the ground, trying to cram her arms deep into her shallow pockets.
“Want one, Hun?”
She looks up again, and sees Karen’s hand stretched out to her, a fresh cigarette held between her thumb and forefinger.
Both Karen and Melanie watch carefully, neither woman approaching the stranger.
If others had been watching, the scene would resemble two young women offering a treat to a stray cat.
Finally, after hesitation and caution on all parts, she reaches forward, flips open the lighter, and takes a long and deep breath.
Karen smiles. Melanie sighs with a little relief.
That’s when she crouches and grabs her coat. But she doesn’t put it on. There’s no point, anymore. The bruising on her face tells enough of the story. The pin-sized bruises on her arms don’t add anything to that plot—except the sympathy context.
“New to town?” asks Melanie.
She smiles a little, taking another long drag from the lit cigarette, relishing the sensation of the nicotine being absorbed into every capillary vein of her body. “Nope. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“Really? I’ve never seen you around here. Or at the high school.”
“Well, I live out in the farmlands. Never went to school here, though.”
“That’d explain it,” says Karen, smiling.
“But you look familiar,” says Melanie. “Ever work at the grocery store?”
She says nothing for a minute. Panic swarms her. She’s been recognized. She can’t afford to be recognized. Not here, at the very least. “Nope.” The word slips from her lips without any hindrance, with calm, cool, casual confidence.
A horn goes off, nearby. Both women look over. Karen waves.
“Have a good day,” says Melanie, walking off toward the waiting car.
“You, too,” she calls, smiling a little.
Karen looks her over, the smile she was wearing fading away. “Good luck,” she says, giving a brief but warm hug, before slipping her nearly full pack of cigarettes into the shallow pockets. “Thanks for the light.”
She sips at a coffee. The taste is bitter. It’s gotten very cold. She’s been sitting in that store since the early morning. Early morning being about three thirty.
The truckers hadn’t even stopped in by then. Neither had the commuters. It was just her and the two women manning the front counter.
They didn’t bother her. Even though she bought a single large coffee over three hours ago.
Their nametags—the two behind the counter—read as “Karen” and “Melanie”.
They never once questioned her. Never once made a double take. Didn’t whisper when she turned away and sat down. Didn’t even both go into the back room to whisper.
They smiled. Took her order. Gave her a free sugarcoated treat—a croissant they had glazed with frosting and chocolate—and left her alone.
The croissant is a hybrid creation of two twenty year-olds working the midnight shift. It’s not something the Timmie’s offers.
It’s something they were going to snack on, before giving it to another whom neither women ever met.
As the sun climbs past the horizon, more people begin to saunter into the coffee shop.
That’s her cue to leave. As more and more people come inside, the chances of her being recognized increase dramatically. It’s a ridiculously small town—village, more like—and it seems that every other person knows her family—her father, at the very least.
Leaving her cold and barely touched coffee sitting on the table, she slips from the shop and stands outside, by the back of the building, away from the eyes of anyone coming in.
She stands there for a long time. She’s craving a cigarette.
If only, she thinks.
It’s not nicotine she wants, it’s something else. Something more powerful. Something she hasn’t had in almost seven hours. Something to explain the wounds in her arms, behind her knees, and between her toes.
But the nicotine curbs those cravings…at least a little—sometimes.
She doesn’t have any more smokes. She hasn’t got the money for them—yet.
Her eyes start to scan the ground, looking for a butt that’s got some meat left. Looking for something she can get a little drag from.
That’s when the door opens. The Employees Only door. The big metal one that makes a loud and echoing clang as it hits the brick wall behind it.
The door that causes her to jump out of her skin and almost crawl away, arms folded around her body, and eyes never leaving the ground.
The conversation dies. She can only imagine what’s about to happen. She was caught looking through the ashtray of sand in the big blue barrel…with her jacket on the ground, her bare arms exposed to the world.
She hadn’t noticed that door.
“Hi,” says a voice.
She nods her head in acknowledgement.
“Waiting for a ride?” asks the same voice.
Another brief nod.
“Hey,” says another voice, “Do you have a light?”
At this inquiry, she lifts her eyes. Melanie and Karen. Shining nametags in the morning sunlight. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a flip-open lighter with a Canadian flag on the front. Slowly, and cautiously, she offers the lighter.
“Thanks,” says Karen, her smile warm and inviting.
Karen passes the lighter to Melanie, who lights her own cigarette and inhales deeply.
Both young woman look at the midnight owl, staring down at her jacket on the ground, trying to cram her arms deep into her shallow pockets.
“Want one, Hun?”
She looks up again, and sees Karen’s hand stretched out to her, a fresh cigarette held between her thumb and forefinger.
Both Karen and Melanie watch carefully, neither woman approaching the stranger.
If others had been watching, the scene would resemble two young women offering a treat to a stray cat.
Finally, after hesitation and caution on all parts, she reaches forward, flips open the lighter, and takes a long and deep breath.
Karen smiles. Melanie sighs with a little relief.
That’s when she crouches and grabs her coat. But she doesn’t put it on. There’s no point, anymore. The bruising on her face tells enough of the story. The pin-sized bruises on her arms don’t add anything to that plot—except the sympathy context.
“New to town?” asks Melanie.
She smiles a little, taking another long drag from the lit cigarette, relishing the sensation of the nicotine being absorbed into every capillary vein of her body. “Nope. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“Really? I’ve never seen you around here. Or at the high school.”
“Well, I live out in the farmlands. Never went to school here, though.”
“That’d explain it,” says Karen, smiling.
“But you look familiar,” says Melanie. “Ever work at the grocery store?”
She says nothing for a minute. Panic swarms her. She’s been recognized. She can’t afford to be recognized. Not here, at the very least. “Nope.” The word slips from her lips without any hindrance, with calm, cool, casual confidence.
A horn goes off, nearby. Both women look over. Karen waves.
“Have a good day,” says Melanie, walking off toward the waiting car.
“You, too,” she calls, smiling a little.
Karen looks her over, the smile she was wearing fading away. “Good luck,” she says, giving a brief but warm hug, before slipping her nearly full pack of cigarettes into the shallow pockets. “Thanks for the light.”
Monday, May 02, 2005
Whispering
Lie in bed and listen to the sounds.
Blankets shifting. Lungs working. Kitten purring. Demons rising. Shadows whispering.
Always whispering.
Her breathing is soft, low, deep—asleep. Her body moves, occasionally. Limbs changing position so as not to be aware of each other.
A long and pointed ear flicks. The blankets shift, nudge her black back a little. A head rises, two eyes blink, a pink tongue stretches out as she yawns. Two eyes disappear behind heavy lids. She curls into her herself, resting and nuzzling.
The purring becomes soft and shallow. She, too, falls into sleep.
Whisperings rise again. Echoed words. Dead voices. Rage. Hate. Fear. Tyranny.
The shadows are nearly invisible. Most cannot see them. Seldom few have witnessed what is blatant. Once they sleep, the walls climb, tall as they ever were. The only protection attainable. Invisible barriers that climb and climb—trying to reach the skies above. Trying to prevent the shadows from rising and toppling it all.
The night is their domain. The darkness is where they thrive. No matter how tall or indestructible the walls are, they topple and climb above them.
“Bitch,” they echo. “Teach you once and for all,” they scream. “Don’t think it’s over,” they screech. “Bitch,” he shouts.
The whispering never ends.
When the sun’s light disappears, behind the invisible and receding line that is the day’s horizon, the darkness swallows everything. Swallows the safety, the security, the comfort, the bliss, the warmth and strength, the indelible birth. The darkness destroys all living things. Reverts life to death, growth to barest survival.
Stand outside and the world dies. Find the walls and there’s a chance to wake again.
Sometimes, even standing within the walls, survival is the only option. The shadows and the darkness follow some everywhere. The demons give life to others—in the shadows—with every death they cause—help along.
The whisperings come stronger, louder. There’s no escape. There never will be.
The soft and rhythmical breathing in the room fades. The only sounds are those from the past. Boots on hardwood. Boots on tiles. Boots on concrete, asphalt, carpeting, flesh, and bones. Wood on wood. Wood on boots. On tiles, carpeting, flesh, bones, muscles…
The sounds are figments of an imagination. Yet the sounds are more powerful than factual reality. Sometimes the sounds take over during the day. Though it is more likely to occur when the horizon is swallowed by the shadows.
A whimper echoes through the room. The purring stops. The soft and deep breathing catches. A warm hands touches cold skin. Soft and gentle whispers are uttered. The purring begins once more. Arms wrap around one another.
The shadows retreat. The demons flee. The walls fall to shattered chunks of rubble and dust.
The loud purring becomes faint and sleep enveloped.
The muttered whimper becomes non-existent as sleep envelops another.
Two warm arms never release as they both drift off to sleep. Safe again in the retreating darkness.
Blankets shifting. Lungs working. Kitten purring. Demons rising. Shadows whispering.
Always whispering.
Her breathing is soft, low, deep—asleep. Her body moves, occasionally. Limbs changing position so as not to be aware of each other.
A long and pointed ear flicks. The blankets shift, nudge her black back a little. A head rises, two eyes blink, a pink tongue stretches out as she yawns. Two eyes disappear behind heavy lids. She curls into her herself, resting and nuzzling.
The purring becomes soft and shallow. She, too, falls into sleep.
Whisperings rise again. Echoed words. Dead voices. Rage. Hate. Fear. Tyranny.
The shadows are nearly invisible. Most cannot see them. Seldom few have witnessed what is blatant. Once they sleep, the walls climb, tall as they ever were. The only protection attainable. Invisible barriers that climb and climb—trying to reach the skies above. Trying to prevent the shadows from rising and toppling it all.
The night is their domain. The darkness is where they thrive. No matter how tall or indestructible the walls are, they topple and climb above them.
“Bitch,” they echo. “Teach you once and for all,” they scream. “Don’t think it’s over,” they screech. “Bitch,” he shouts.
The whispering never ends.
When the sun’s light disappears, behind the invisible and receding line that is the day’s horizon, the darkness swallows everything. Swallows the safety, the security, the comfort, the bliss, the warmth and strength, the indelible birth. The darkness destroys all living things. Reverts life to death, growth to barest survival.
Stand outside and the world dies. Find the walls and there’s a chance to wake again.
Sometimes, even standing within the walls, survival is the only option. The shadows and the darkness follow some everywhere. The demons give life to others—in the shadows—with every death they cause—help along.
The whisperings come stronger, louder. There’s no escape. There never will be.
The soft and rhythmical breathing in the room fades. The only sounds are those from the past. Boots on hardwood. Boots on tiles. Boots on concrete, asphalt, carpeting, flesh, and bones. Wood on wood. Wood on boots. On tiles, carpeting, flesh, bones, muscles…
The sounds are figments of an imagination. Yet the sounds are more powerful than factual reality. Sometimes the sounds take over during the day. Though it is more likely to occur when the horizon is swallowed by the shadows.
A whimper echoes through the room. The purring stops. The soft and deep breathing catches. A warm hands touches cold skin. Soft and gentle whispers are uttered. The purring begins once more. Arms wrap around one another.
The shadows retreat. The demons flee. The walls fall to shattered chunks of rubble and dust.
The loud purring becomes faint and sleep enveloped.
The muttered whimper becomes non-existent as sleep envelops another.
Two warm arms never release as they both drift off to sleep. Safe again in the retreating darkness.
Monday, February 21, 2005
I Don't Care
What exactly are you supposed to do when the entirety of your existence revolves around the mood swings of one other person? How are you supposed to exist when someone else is constantly threatening to end that existence?
What are you supposed to do when you know full well that this existence can be completely destroyed by a single mood swing?
Right.
Lets see you answer that one as quickly as you’ve answered everything else.
How are you supposed to help me? How can you help anyone? You’re supposed to control and create. So then you created this monster. And you created me. Why do you create something so vile, dangerous, evil, miserable, and filled with pain?
I just don’t see why you’ve done this. Why you continue to do this.
Do you derive some sick pleasure from watching us suffer? Are you trying to prove a point? Is this some twisted form of punishment for a sin that was committed eons ago?
Because none of those explanations are what you’re trying to make them. You can’t know what this is like. You, sitting up there. Mighty and completely untouched.
If my suffering hurts you, then why won’t you stop it?
Never mind. Don’t bother to answer that. I know that you won’t anyway.
You’ve never answered me. You’ve never helped me. Now, I know that you’ve never existed. You’re an excuse used by radicalists. That’s all.
You are not my God.
I don’t care about you.
See how it feels?
What are you supposed to do when you know full well that this existence can be completely destroyed by a single mood swing?
Right.
Lets see you answer that one as quickly as you’ve answered everything else.
How are you supposed to help me? How can you help anyone? You’re supposed to control and create. So then you created this monster. And you created me. Why do you create something so vile, dangerous, evil, miserable, and filled with pain?
I just don’t see why you’ve done this. Why you continue to do this.
Do you derive some sick pleasure from watching us suffer? Are you trying to prove a point? Is this some twisted form of punishment for a sin that was committed eons ago?
Because none of those explanations are what you’re trying to make them. You can’t know what this is like. You, sitting up there. Mighty and completely untouched.
If my suffering hurts you, then why won’t you stop it?
Never mind. Don’t bother to answer that. I know that you won’t anyway.
You’ve never answered me. You’ve never helped me. Now, I know that you’ve never existed. You’re an excuse used by radicalists. That’s all.
You are not my God.
I don’t care about you.
See how it feels?
What Good?
Running rampant down the streets. Never thought she’d have the strength. Never thought he wouldn’t. Tiny little piece of lead. Amazing what just one can do. Good thing she’s not afraid. Maybe it’s not, though. She’s not afraid of anything. She watched the other get gunned-down in the street. She saw the blood. Saw the tears. Heard nothing for a long time. She still doesn’t feel anything.
Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. At least, it wouldn’t if she let it all go.
But why let it go? What good will that do? It’ll only cause her to breakdown and realize that she’s doomed. She can’t let it go. If she does, then there’s no telling what will happen. She’s got to shut up, accept the settlement without so much as a smirk or a tear, and start doing what she’s been planning.
What they’ve all been planning.
This’ll work. It’s got to work.
It’ll work.
She won’t allow that death to go wasted. She won’t ever allow her wife’s death to have been for nothing. Not. Ever.
Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. At least, it wouldn’t if she let it all go.
But why let it go? What good will that do? It’ll only cause her to breakdown and realize that she’s doomed. She can’t let it go. If she does, then there’s no telling what will happen. She’s got to shut up, accept the settlement without so much as a smirk or a tear, and start doing what she’s been planning.
What they’ve all been planning.
This’ll work. It’s got to work.
It’ll work.
She won’t allow that death to go wasted. She won’t ever allow her wife’s death to have been for nothing. Not. Ever.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Game Warden
Ever get the feeling that no matter how hard you try, no matter how well you do, and no matter how perfectly you execute something, it still won’t be enough? Ever get the feeling that you’re never going to be anything but a disappointment in someone’s eyes? Ever get that shot of fear—like lightning charging down your spine, spreading out through your nerves, lighting your body on fire—when you see that familiar shadow cross someone’s face?
Probably not. Most people don’t get that. Wait. No. That’s not true. Most people do. They just aren’t heard. See? It’s the silence that’s killing us. It’s silence that kills. It’s not the anger or the hate or the strength or the blood. It’s the perpetual and terrified silence. The reason nobody says anything. The fear of death. Of punishment. Of earning the marks on the skin, and the tears in our eyes.
It’s not their fists or boots or bats or clubs or anger that kills. It’s the silence. And it’s not that we don’t say anything. The problem is that not a lot of people listen. We can talk and talk and talk and talk, but unless someone is willing to stop and listen, it’s better for us to just shut the hell up and by a package of bandages.
They once called me a victim. I hate that word. I hated that word then, and I hate it more now.
I wasn’t a victim. I was prey. Prey tries to run, tries to save itself, tries to survive. Victims just sound like people who lied down and took their beatings like good little, well, victims. Victims have been out to be these pretty little people who aren’t supposed to fight back. Pretty little people who were good little soldiers under the reign of a sociopathic dictator.
I wasn’t a victim. I was prey. I was hunted. I was tracked. I was gouged, shot, beaten, skinned, and ultimately devoured.
Prey. Or was it pray?
I don’t really know.
I was the praying prey, I guess. I prayed to every single higher power I knew existed. I pleaded with Them to help me. Not to get me out, but at least to give me some sort of assistance. Even to just let him trip, give me enough time to run.
But nothing ever came. Nothing ever happened to help me. Every single time I saw something that could be used to my advantage; every single time I thanked Them for Their help, I was made to regret my praise when he would find me, rape me, beat me, devour me.
I lost my faith long ago.
Not my faith in the possible existence of some sort of higher powers. Not that faith at all. The faith I’m talking about is my own. I lost all faith in myself. Every single time that I cried after he’d left the room. Every single time that I begged him to stop. Every single time that I went home after work or school. Every single time that I gave him satisfaction, that I proved to him that he was in control. I devoured my own faith.
Victim.
I hate that word. Victims don’t exist. Everyone who’s been dubbed a victim hasn’t just sat back and let things happen, as though they can’t change anything. Sure, maybe these people didn’t take a gun and blow off the head of the sociopathic dictator, but at some point, they all thought out ways to survive. To run away, protect themselves, protect their children, survive.
That’s what prey does.
And sometimes, prey can run and run and run and run, but the predator, the hunter, the dictator, just keeps coming. Sometimes you can’t run away. Sometimes you can’t survive. But you’ll try. Even if it means taking every single beating.
Then again, sometimes surviving means dying. Your physical body may still survive, but unless your non-physical self is alive and surviving, you’re as good as dead.
That’s another thing that kills us. It’s what killed me, anyway. And every other person I’ve met here died the same way.
Yeah, I died. A long time ago. I made him a huge supper to celebrate a promotion at work. I thought everything was perfect. Turns out, though, that the pork roast was too dry, the potatoes were too soft, the asparagus was limp, the lettuce was old, the tomatoes were rotten, the feta was stale, and the pie was burnt. Even the wine wasn’t chilled enough.
The wine was the clincher.
The bottle was smashed over my face. I bled to death. The police showed up when a neighbour got tired of hearing me screaming, again.
He was taken away. I don’t know what happened to happen. I heard a rumour that the hunters end up here, too. Only not really. A part of them ends up here. But only a small part. The scared and sad part. The rest, well, no one knows what happens. I don’t really care.
I feel bad that I don’t care about him.
Then again, it’s his fault that I’m always going to think of him as the sociopathic dictator. I was also told, though, that when the scared and sad part of him comes here, I won’t think of him as a sociopathic dictator. Well, not as much anyway.
Hey, even I can’t hold a grudge forever. And it seems that I’m going to be here for a little while still. Kinda’ hoping that next time around, things turn out differently. I don’t want to be the prey anymore. And I really don’t want to be the hunter. Can’t I just be the game warden?
Probably not. Most people don’t get that. Wait. No. That’s not true. Most people do. They just aren’t heard. See? It’s the silence that’s killing us. It’s silence that kills. It’s not the anger or the hate or the strength or the blood. It’s the perpetual and terrified silence. The reason nobody says anything. The fear of death. Of punishment. Of earning the marks on the skin, and the tears in our eyes.
It’s not their fists or boots or bats or clubs or anger that kills. It’s the silence. And it’s not that we don’t say anything. The problem is that not a lot of people listen. We can talk and talk and talk and talk, but unless someone is willing to stop and listen, it’s better for us to just shut the hell up and by a package of bandages.
They once called me a victim. I hate that word. I hated that word then, and I hate it more now.
I wasn’t a victim. I was prey. Prey tries to run, tries to save itself, tries to survive. Victims just sound like people who lied down and took their beatings like good little, well, victims. Victims have been out to be these pretty little people who aren’t supposed to fight back. Pretty little people who were good little soldiers under the reign of a sociopathic dictator.
I wasn’t a victim. I was prey. I was hunted. I was tracked. I was gouged, shot, beaten, skinned, and ultimately devoured.
Prey. Or was it pray?
I don’t really know.
I was the praying prey, I guess. I prayed to every single higher power I knew existed. I pleaded with Them to help me. Not to get me out, but at least to give me some sort of assistance. Even to just let him trip, give me enough time to run.
But nothing ever came. Nothing ever happened to help me. Every single time I saw something that could be used to my advantage; every single time I thanked Them for Their help, I was made to regret my praise when he would find me, rape me, beat me, devour me.
I lost my faith long ago.
Not my faith in the possible existence of some sort of higher powers. Not that faith at all. The faith I’m talking about is my own. I lost all faith in myself. Every single time that I cried after he’d left the room. Every single time that I begged him to stop. Every single time that I went home after work or school. Every single time that I gave him satisfaction, that I proved to him that he was in control. I devoured my own faith.
Victim.
I hate that word. Victims don’t exist. Everyone who’s been dubbed a victim hasn’t just sat back and let things happen, as though they can’t change anything. Sure, maybe these people didn’t take a gun and blow off the head of the sociopathic dictator, but at some point, they all thought out ways to survive. To run away, protect themselves, protect their children, survive.
That’s what prey does.
And sometimes, prey can run and run and run and run, but the predator, the hunter, the dictator, just keeps coming. Sometimes you can’t run away. Sometimes you can’t survive. But you’ll try. Even if it means taking every single beating.
Then again, sometimes surviving means dying. Your physical body may still survive, but unless your non-physical self is alive and surviving, you’re as good as dead.
That’s another thing that kills us. It’s what killed me, anyway. And every other person I’ve met here died the same way.
Yeah, I died. A long time ago. I made him a huge supper to celebrate a promotion at work. I thought everything was perfect. Turns out, though, that the pork roast was too dry, the potatoes were too soft, the asparagus was limp, the lettuce was old, the tomatoes were rotten, the feta was stale, and the pie was burnt. Even the wine wasn’t chilled enough.
The wine was the clincher.
The bottle was smashed over my face. I bled to death. The police showed up when a neighbour got tired of hearing me screaming, again.
He was taken away. I don’t know what happened to happen. I heard a rumour that the hunters end up here, too. Only not really. A part of them ends up here. But only a small part. The scared and sad part. The rest, well, no one knows what happens. I don’t really care.
I feel bad that I don’t care about him.
Then again, it’s his fault that I’m always going to think of him as the sociopathic dictator. I was also told, though, that when the scared and sad part of him comes here, I won’t think of him as a sociopathic dictator. Well, not as much anyway.
Hey, even I can’t hold a grudge forever. And it seems that I’m going to be here for a little while still. Kinda’ hoping that next time around, things turn out differently. I don’t want to be the prey anymore. And I really don’t want to be the hunter. Can’t I just be the game warden?
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Survival
“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.”
“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 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.
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