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.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Sakee & Rayne :: UNAFFECTED
Sakee & Rayne :: September 14-2004 (19:39)
UNAFFECTED
Kay's sitting on the edge of the bed. Her barefeet are planted firmly against the cold hardwood floor. Only her toes are visible -the rest of her feet hidden within the wide-ankled khakis she's wearing. Her elbows are planted squarely -painfully- into the tops of her knees. Her fingers are tented. Her index fingers press against the bridge of her nose, the tips almost wanting to pierce into her skull between her eyebrows. Her shoulders are hunched forward. Her eyes are shut. Her hair would be covering her eyes if it weren't for her fingers there.
The window is open. It's been raining for over an hour now. She woke to the sound of the rain. Normally it's the thunder that wakes her. This time it was the rain. It's always the sound of rain now. The trillions of water droplets, hurtling toward the ground in a grand kamakaze style. She used to love listening to the rain. She could sit in this place and listen for hours on end. Now she hates the sound. With rain comes memories. With rain comes conversations. With rain comes pain.
She opens her eyes and stares down at her toes. Her pants are rumpled and wrinkled. Her shirt is, too. She fell asleep in her clothes. She's been doing that a lot these days.
The computer in the other room hums. The sound is a loud droning. It's not even quiet anymore. Once upon a time, it was a calming white noise. Now it almost seems to be screaming at her. She can nearly hear it saying "You see what I can do? You see the kind of pain I can relate?" She sighs and shuts her eyes again. There's music playing from the computer. She wants to get up and shut it off. She wants to take the three speakers, tear them from the tower, and hurl them out the windows to watch them shatter on the streets below.
Kay wants so very many things. And she knows she can never have any of them.
"We could have made it work, we could have found a way.
We should have done our best to see another day.
But we kept it all inside, until it was too late.
And now we're both alone, the consequence we pay,
For throwing it all away, for throwing it all away."
Kay shuts her eyes against the music drifting through her home. She shuts her eyes tight, squeezing her eyelids together, forcing a wall around her body. Forcing the lyrics to stay away from her thoughts.
Her eyes break open and she stares outside. The rain is falling from the sky. The lightning is cutting through the heavens. The thunder is echoing in her ears. The music is still not drowned away.
She stares at the window. The raindrops keep hurling themselves against the glass. Like bugs being crushed against the windshield of a moving vehicle. How many times now has she felt like a bug being quashed underfoot? How many more times will she feel like this?
The music in the other room changes a little. She tries to pay it no attention. She could easily just stand and shut off the speakers. Or shut down the entire computer. It's late, after all. The clock on her nightstand is reading a little before four o'clock in the morning. She's been awake for over an hour, now.
A soft ruffle silences her thoughts. She hears long, calm, and dense breathing. The rain pounds against the window now. She reaches forward and closes it. The outside world is suddenly cut away.
"What's wrong?" asks a groggy voice.
"Nothing," answers Kay, always looking outside.
The ruffle of blankets again. "You sure?"
"Yes."
A few moments of silence pass by. The blankets ruffle a little again, softly. It's a strong contrast to the howling wind and rain outside. The storm has suddenly become so much stronger.
"There's nothing left to prove.
My heart's forever true."
The music keeps playing in the other room. Though the volume hasn't changed at all, Kay hears it louder than before.
"Sakee?"
Kay shuts her eyes again. Her toes press into the cold floor for a moment before leaving it entirely. She lies back on the bed. Her arms pillow her head and she stares up at the ceiling. She is suddenly aware of just how uncomfortable she is in her clothes.
"Sakee."
"I'm fine, Rayne." Kay stares at the ceiling without blinking, listening to the storm outside and the raging music. "Go back to sleep."
The blankets ruffle again. A soft sigh slips from someone's lips. Kay really isn't sure if it's her own breathing or Rayne's.
"You should change into pyjamas," says Rayne softly after a very long silence.
Kay looks to her left. There's just enough light filtering through the storm. She can see Rayne watching her. The sheets are drawn up to her chin. There's a pained and concerned expression on the young woman's face.
"I'm not tired."
Rayne shuts her eyes. "Was it a nightmare?"
"No."
"Was it the storm?"
"No."
A pause. "Do you want me to shut off the computer?"
Several moments of hesitation. "No," is spoken very softly, very slowly, very cautiously.
"Okay."
The storm outside all but stops suddenly. Kay looks out the window and watches as the raindrops fall in a methodical rhythm against the street lights. It's much slower now. Not the horribly suicidal mission from above.
Rayne's breathing is much slower now, too. Kay smiles a little and turns on her side. She watches her friend sleep. That's all they are. Friends. Other than that one kiss, nothing has happened. Nor will anything ever happen. They tried that, once, not too long ago. It didn't work-out.
'So many things haven't worked-out,' she thinks to herself, watching her friend.
Kay reaches forward and pulls the blankets up over Rayne's shoulder. "Sleep well," she whispers.
The rain starts its destructive bombardment again. The sound is harsh against the glass windows. She sighs and shuts her eyes.
"So what should I do?
Just lay next to you?
As though I'm unaffected?
And who should I be
When they're judging me?
As though I'm unaffected?"
Kay sits up again, planting her feet on the cold floor. She stands now, moving through the rooms of the appartment. She reaches her computer and pushes three keys. The music stops. The humming dies away. The screen goes blank.
She stares at the darkness in the room for a long while, standing in front of the metal desk. She runs both hands through her hair. Her fingers pressing into her scalp, her neck, her jaw. She runs her palms over her face and stands that way for a while -face buried into her hands.
'Why can't I be unaffected?' she asks herself silently, stepping back into her room and lying on the blankets, staring at the ceiling, compeltely unaware that the storm has stopped, and that she has fallen back into a dreamless sleep.
UNAFFECTED
Kay's sitting on the edge of the bed. Her barefeet are planted firmly against the cold hardwood floor. Only her toes are visible -the rest of her feet hidden within the wide-ankled khakis she's wearing. Her elbows are planted squarely -painfully- into the tops of her knees. Her fingers are tented. Her index fingers press against the bridge of her nose, the tips almost wanting to pierce into her skull between her eyebrows. Her shoulders are hunched forward. Her eyes are shut. Her hair would be covering her eyes if it weren't for her fingers there.
The window is open. It's been raining for over an hour now. She woke to the sound of the rain. Normally it's the thunder that wakes her. This time it was the rain. It's always the sound of rain now. The trillions of water droplets, hurtling toward the ground in a grand kamakaze style. She used to love listening to the rain. She could sit in this place and listen for hours on end. Now she hates the sound. With rain comes memories. With rain comes conversations. With rain comes pain.
She opens her eyes and stares down at her toes. Her pants are rumpled and wrinkled. Her shirt is, too. She fell asleep in her clothes. She's been doing that a lot these days.
The computer in the other room hums. The sound is a loud droning. It's not even quiet anymore. Once upon a time, it was a calming white noise. Now it almost seems to be screaming at her. She can nearly hear it saying "You see what I can do? You see the kind of pain I can relate?" She sighs and shuts her eyes again. There's music playing from the computer. She wants to get up and shut it off. She wants to take the three speakers, tear them from the tower, and hurl them out the windows to watch them shatter on the streets below.
Kay wants so very many things. And she knows she can never have any of them.
"We could have made it work, we could have found a way.
We should have done our best to see another day.
But we kept it all inside, until it was too late.
And now we're both alone, the consequence we pay,
For throwing it all away, for throwing it all away."
Kay shuts her eyes against the music drifting through her home. She shuts her eyes tight, squeezing her eyelids together, forcing a wall around her body. Forcing the lyrics to stay away from her thoughts.
Her eyes break open and she stares outside. The rain is falling from the sky. The lightning is cutting through the heavens. The thunder is echoing in her ears. The music is still not drowned away.
She stares at the window. The raindrops keep hurling themselves against the glass. Like bugs being crushed against the windshield of a moving vehicle. How many times now has she felt like a bug being quashed underfoot? How many more times will she feel like this?
The music in the other room changes a little. She tries to pay it no attention. She could easily just stand and shut off the speakers. Or shut down the entire computer. It's late, after all. The clock on her nightstand is reading a little before four o'clock in the morning. She's been awake for over an hour, now.
A soft ruffle silences her thoughts. She hears long, calm, and dense breathing. The rain pounds against the window now. She reaches forward and closes it. The outside world is suddenly cut away.
"What's wrong?" asks a groggy voice.
"Nothing," answers Kay, always looking outside.
The ruffle of blankets again. "You sure?"
"Yes."
A few moments of silence pass by. The blankets ruffle a little again, softly. It's a strong contrast to the howling wind and rain outside. The storm has suddenly become so much stronger.
"There's nothing left to prove.
My heart's forever true."
The music keeps playing in the other room. Though the volume hasn't changed at all, Kay hears it louder than before.
"Sakee?"
Kay shuts her eyes again. Her toes press into the cold floor for a moment before leaving it entirely. She lies back on the bed. Her arms pillow her head and she stares up at the ceiling. She is suddenly aware of just how uncomfortable she is in her clothes.
"Sakee."
"I'm fine, Rayne." Kay stares at the ceiling without blinking, listening to the storm outside and the raging music. "Go back to sleep."
The blankets ruffle again. A soft sigh slips from someone's lips. Kay really isn't sure if it's her own breathing or Rayne's.
"You should change into pyjamas," says Rayne softly after a very long silence.
Kay looks to her left. There's just enough light filtering through the storm. She can see Rayne watching her. The sheets are drawn up to her chin. There's a pained and concerned expression on the young woman's face.
"I'm not tired."
Rayne shuts her eyes. "Was it a nightmare?"
"No."
"Was it the storm?"
"No."
A pause. "Do you want me to shut off the computer?"
Several moments of hesitation. "No," is spoken very softly, very slowly, very cautiously.
"Okay."
The storm outside all but stops suddenly. Kay looks out the window and watches as the raindrops fall in a methodical rhythm against the street lights. It's much slower now. Not the horribly suicidal mission from above.
Rayne's breathing is much slower now, too. Kay smiles a little and turns on her side. She watches her friend sleep. That's all they are. Friends. Other than that one kiss, nothing has happened. Nor will anything ever happen. They tried that, once, not too long ago. It didn't work-out.
'So many things haven't worked-out,' she thinks to herself, watching her friend.
Kay reaches forward and pulls the blankets up over Rayne's shoulder. "Sleep well," she whispers.
The rain starts its destructive bombardment again. The sound is harsh against the glass windows. She sighs and shuts her eyes.
"So what should I do?
Just lay next to you?
As though I'm unaffected?
And who should I be
When they're judging me?
As though I'm unaffected?"
Kay sits up again, planting her feet on the cold floor. She stands now, moving through the rooms of the appartment. She reaches her computer and pushes three keys. The music stops. The humming dies away. The screen goes blank.
She stares at the darkness in the room for a long while, standing in front of the metal desk. She runs both hands through her hair. Her fingers pressing into her scalp, her neck, her jaw. She runs her palms over her face and stands that way for a while -face buried into her hands.
'Why can't I be unaffected?' she asks herself silently, stepping back into her room and lying on the blankets, staring at the ceiling, compeltely unaware that the storm has stopped, and that she has fallen back into a dreamless sleep.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Sakee and Rayne :: Just A Kiss
Just A Kiss
“Sakee?”
“Mmm?”
“You asleep?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Liar.”
Kay turns over, facing Rayne. With her eyes still shut, “You know it.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I am sleeping very well, thank you.”
“We should get up.”
“I have no desire to get out of bed today.”
“We should still get up.”
“We should also not be in the same bed.”
“That’s why we should get up.”
Kay opens her eyes and sighs a little—softly. “Rayne…” Her voice trails away. She looks at her friend, and quietly slips out of bed. She strides into the kitchen and puts the kettle on to boil. Her palms anchor into the counter top and she shuts her eyes, leaning on her arms and staring into the empty sink.
“We didn’t do anything,” says Rayne, stepping into the large kitchen and leaning against the fridge. “Just a kiss.”
Kay sighs her reply, “I know.”
Both women stand in silence, neither one looking at each other. Kay bows her head and stares at the countertop. Rayne shuts her eyes and listens to the clinking fridge. The kettle starts to whistle softly. Within a second or two, the sound it makes is a screaming cry to be removed from the hot element.
Neither women move.
The small dark blue, metal kettle begins to shake under the pressure of the boiling water. Rayne reaches over and pull it away from the element. She turns the dial on the stovetop and the fire-red metal of the hot burner slowly begins to fade a little—even though heat continues to ripple the air.
Kay pulls two mugs from the cupboard. Rayne draws a couple of spoons from the dishwasher. Kay stares at the empty mug and leaves the kitchen for the security of the living room. Rayne follows. Both mugs remain empty on the counter, the spoons sitting idly by, and the boiling kettle finally calming itself.
Kay sits on the couch. Rayne follows. They sit at opposite ends—almost skirting further away from one another. They remain in silence for a long while more.
Outside the cars are speeding by. They splash and honk at each other. The window is open; the sound is so much louder now—suddenly. There’s a cool breeze filtering into the room. The air smells fresh—wet. It must have rained last night.
“I don’t know why it hurts so much,” says Rayne suddenly, looking over at her ex.
Kay stares at the floor. The empty bottles aren’t beside the couch anymore. She wishes they were. She wants to break each and every one of them now. Shatter them. Reduce them to minute fragments of gleaming rubble.
She doesn’t say anything to Rayne’s words.
“I wish I could make it go away for you, Sakee,” says Rayne softly, moving over to sit beside her friend.
“Why do you call me that?” asks Kay softly, looking to her ex.
Rayne shrugs and smiles a little. “Not really sure. I think it has to do with all that Sake liquor we drank. Remember that?”
Kay smiles a little, “I remember the initial ordering. I remember the drinking. But after that, it’s all a blur!”
Rayne smiles and laughs a little. Kay laughs, too, gently. They both fall to silence.
“Are you okay?” asks Kay, looking over to Rayne.
“Yeah,” she answers with a small smile. “I’m a lot more okay than you are,” she adds softly, her hand finding Kay’s and holding it gently.
“I’m fine.”
“You wish,” says Rayne in a soft whisper.
A long silence follows. There never used to be this kind of silence between them. Now, it seems to hover between them. A soft, gentle, and comforting silence.
“I’m sorry about kissing you last night,” says Rayne, looking out the window.
“Don’t be,” answer Kay.
“Shouldn’t have done it.”
“Why not?” presses Kay, looking her friend in the eyes. “I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t emotionally shattered. I was in control of my own thoughts. I could have said no.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Unless…”
“No,” says Rayne, “I was in control, too. I saw this coming with Sara almost from the get-go of the relationship. We both knew it would never possibly work-out. But we tried anyway.” She’s silent for a while. Finally, she releases Kay’s hand. “We’re too strong together,” she says, standing and moving into the kitchen to boil the kettle again.
“Sakee?”
“Mmm?”
“You asleep?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Liar.”
Kay turns over, facing Rayne. With her eyes still shut, “You know it.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I am sleeping very well, thank you.”
“We should get up.”
“I have no desire to get out of bed today.”
“We should still get up.”
“We should also not be in the same bed.”
“That’s why we should get up.”
Kay opens her eyes and sighs a little—softly. “Rayne…” Her voice trails away. She looks at her friend, and quietly slips out of bed. She strides into the kitchen and puts the kettle on to boil. Her palms anchor into the counter top and she shuts her eyes, leaning on her arms and staring into the empty sink.
“We didn’t do anything,” says Rayne, stepping into the large kitchen and leaning against the fridge. “Just a kiss.”
Kay sighs her reply, “I know.”
Both women stand in silence, neither one looking at each other. Kay bows her head and stares at the countertop. Rayne shuts her eyes and listens to the clinking fridge. The kettle starts to whistle softly. Within a second or two, the sound it makes is a screaming cry to be removed from the hot element.
Neither women move.
The small dark blue, metal kettle begins to shake under the pressure of the boiling water. Rayne reaches over and pull it away from the element. She turns the dial on the stovetop and the fire-red metal of the hot burner slowly begins to fade a little—even though heat continues to ripple the air.
Kay pulls two mugs from the cupboard. Rayne draws a couple of spoons from the dishwasher. Kay stares at the empty mug and leaves the kitchen for the security of the living room. Rayne follows. Both mugs remain empty on the counter, the spoons sitting idly by, and the boiling kettle finally calming itself.
Kay sits on the couch. Rayne follows. They sit at opposite ends—almost skirting further away from one another. They remain in silence for a long while more.
Outside the cars are speeding by. They splash and honk at each other. The window is open; the sound is so much louder now—suddenly. There’s a cool breeze filtering into the room. The air smells fresh—wet. It must have rained last night.
“I don’t know why it hurts so much,” says Rayne suddenly, looking over at her ex.
Kay stares at the floor. The empty bottles aren’t beside the couch anymore. She wishes they were. She wants to break each and every one of them now. Shatter them. Reduce them to minute fragments of gleaming rubble.
She doesn’t say anything to Rayne’s words.
“I wish I could make it go away for you, Sakee,” says Rayne softly, moving over to sit beside her friend.
“Why do you call me that?” asks Kay softly, looking to her ex.
Rayne shrugs and smiles a little. “Not really sure. I think it has to do with all that Sake liquor we drank. Remember that?”
Kay smiles a little, “I remember the initial ordering. I remember the drinking. But after that, it’s all a blur!”
Rayne smiles and laughs a little. Kay laughs, too, gently. They both fall to silence.
“Are you okay?” asks Kay, looking over to Rayne.
“Yeah,” she answers with a small smile. “I’m a lot more okay than you are,” she adds softly, her hand finding Kay’s and holding it gently.
“I’m fine.”
“You wish,” says Rayne in a soft whisper.
A long silence follows. There never used to be this kind of silence between them. Now, it seems to hover between them. A soft, gentle, and comforting silence.
“I’m sorry about kissing you last night,” says Rayne, looking out the window.
“Don’t be,” answer Kay.
“Shouldn’t have done it.”
“Why not?” presses Kay, looking her friend in the eyes. “I wasn’t drunk. I wasn’t emotionally shattered. I was in control of my own thoughts. I could have said no.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Unless…”
“No,” says Rayne, “I was in control, too. I saw this coming with Sara almost from the get-go of the relationship. We both knew it would never possibly work-out. But we tried anyway.” She’s silent for a while. Finally, she releases Kay’s hand. “We’re too strong together,” she says, standing and moving into the kitchen to boil the kettle again.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Sakee
Sakee and Rayne
One's sitting in the comfortable office chair at the desk. A bottle -still nearly full- of Bacardi's Raz sits in a small puddle of cool water, soft droplets of thick condensation forming over the bottle.
She's playing something at the computer. It looks like Minesweeper.
The other one is sitting on the couch. She's got an empty bottle of Smirnoff Ice -Green Apple- clenched between her palms. Her feet are tucked under her body. She's staring blankly into space. There are two more empty bottles beside the couch.
"She doesn't love me."
The other looks over from the computer screen. "Kay, stop drinking."
"All right."
A long silence follows. Then, the sound of wheels rolling across hardwood flooring echoes softly -slowly.
Kay looks to her friend. "What did I do? I mean, what? Did I do something? Did I not do something? How can she say it, Rayne?"
Rayne sighs, taking the empty bottle from her friend and placing it on the floor with the others. She sits on the couch. "Kay, you didn't do anything."
"Then why did this happen?"
"I can't answer that. And I won't even try to give reasons. She's the only one who knows."
Kay turns and looks to Rayne. "I don't think even she knows."
Rayne smile and pulls her friend into a hug. "Oh, Sakee," she says gently, using the pet name. "It doesn't really matter. I really don't know why this shit happens. But better to cry over it than be angry."
Kay looks to her friend, "Guess so."
Rayne smiles a little and hugs her friend closer. "I do know how you feel, though. Feel the same way about this whole Sara break-up. We're a good pair, you and I."
Kay sighs softly. "So what happened with you two anyway?"
"I don't know," answers Rayne, resting her head back against the couch and shutting her eyes, face turned toward the ceiling. "She too whimpy, maybe? I'm too tough?" She's silent for a minute. "We're just way too different. Two completely opposite extremes."
Neither woman says anything. Kay watches her friend for a long while in silence.
"We were good together," says Rayne suddenly, quietly.
Kay nods her head. "We were."
Rayne looks over. "You never once backed-down from an argument," she says with a smile.
"You never let me."
They watch each other silently.
"I think we're too strong together," says Kay after a long time passes.
Rayne nods her head.
"Another drink?" asks Kay, standing and moving toward the kitchen.
Without warning, Rayne takes her ex's hand softly and tugs. Kay follows the soft beckoning and sits on the couch beside her friend. Rayne's body moves forward until her lips press Kay's gently.
The movements are slow and cautious. But there is an underlying urgency -a desire- in the motions.
Rayne shuts her eyes, always moving slightly forward. Kay leans backward until she's lying on the couch.
The only sounds in the room are coming from the hum of the computer, the clicking of the refridgerator, and the angry traffic outside. Both women are silent. Even their thoughts are hushed as their bodies take control of the situation.
One's sitting in the comfortable office chair at the desk. A bottle -still nearly full- of Bacardi's Raz sits in a small puddle of cool water, soft droplets of thick condensation forming over the bottle.
She's playing something at the computer. It looks like Minesweeper.
The other one is sitting on the couch. She's got an empty bottle of Smirnoff Ice -Green Apple- clenched between her palms. Her feet are tucked under her body. She's staring blankly into space. There are two more empty bottles beside the couch.
"She doesn't love me."
The other looks over from the computer screen. "Kay, stop drinking."
"All right."
A long silence follows. Then, the sound of wheels rolling across hardwood flooring echoes softly -slowly.
Kay looks to her friend. "What did I do? I mean, what? Did I do something? Did I not do something? How can she say it, Rayne?"
Rayne sighs, taking the empty bottle from her friend and placing it on the floor with the others. She sits on the couch. "Kay, you didn't do anything."
"Then why did this happen?"
"I can't answer that. And I won't even try to give reasons. She's the only one who knows."
Kay turns and looks to Rayne. "I don't think even she knows."
Rayne smile and pulls her friend into a hug. "Oh, Sakee," she says gently, using the pet name. "It doesn't really matter. I really don't know why this shit happens. But better to cry over it than be angry."
Kay looks to her friend, "Guess so."
Rayne smiles a little and hugs her friend closer. "I do know how you feel, though. Feel the same way about this whole Sara break-up. We're a good pair, you and I."
Kay sighs softly. "So what happened with you two anyway?"
"I don't know," answers Rayne, resting her head back against the couch and shutting her eyes, face turned toward the ceiling. "She too whimpy, maybe? I'm too tough?" She's silent for a minute. "We're just way too different. Two completely opposite extremes."
Neither woman says anything. Kay watches her friend for a long while in silence.
"We were good together," says Rayne suddenly, quietly.
Kay nods her head. "We were."
Rayne looks over. "You never once backed-down from an argument," she says with a smile.
"You never let me."
They watch each other silently.
"I think we're too strong together," says Kay after a long time passes.
Rayne nods her head.
"Another drink?" asks Kay, standing and moving toward the kitchen.
Without warning, Rayne takes her ex's hand softly and tugs. Kay follows the soft beckoning and sits on the couch beside her friend. Rayne's body moves forward until her lips press Kay's gently.
The movements are slow and cautious. But there is an underlying urgency -a desire- in the motions.
Rayne shuts her eyes, always moving slightly forward. Kay leans backward until she's lying on the couch.
The only sounds in the room are coming from the hum of the computer, the clicking of the refridgerator, and the angry traffic outside. Both women are silent. Even their thoughts are hushed as their bodies take control of the situation.
Monday, August 23, 2004
Memories with the Shamaan
You sit in the big armchair. Your elbows lean over the arms, your hands hang limply above your thighs.
The woman sitting across from you has her legs stretched-out, her feet resting on the coffee table. She's sort of lounging on the couch -the one you should, in all theory, be lying on.
"How long will you sit there?" she asks, looking at you from behind her glasses.
You say nothing. In all truth, there's absolutely nothing to say. Mark found you back home. She knows that. Her called you New Year's Eve. She knows that. He did it again. She knows that, too.
Who cares if your silence wastes an hour's worth of tape? You've become very tired of telling this woman all of your secrets. Of knowing that the tape-recorder on the coffee table is making a direct and complete copy of everything you say.
She sighs and looks at you, sitting-up and planting her feet on the floor as she removes her glasses. Classic demonstration of irritation. Maybe she'll let you go early today. Maybe she'll send you off and tell you to never come back...only in your dreams.
Neither of you says anything. Time begins to pass at a tortuously slow rate. But there's no way that you're going to let this woman -this professional psychoanalyst- win. You've done nothing but pour your soul to this woman. You're sick and tired of listening to what others have to say about your psyche. Fuck them all.
"How are things going since we last spoke?" She asks the question as she places her glasses back over the bridge of her nose.
You say nothing. Five minutes pass.
She sighs a little. "How did your friends react to what you told them?"
You say nothing.
"How was the group counselling?"
Still silence.
She sits up and glowers at you. "Don't you dare start this sulking bullshit! I raised three teenagers. I know what's going-on in your head. You! The whole world revolves around you! Don't you start this bullshit of saying nothing. Got it?" She's silent for a few minutes. "You are a child," she says strongly, almost with an accusing tone. "Yes, I know that you're twenty-one. But you are still a child. And, unfortunetly, you are a child that has taken more shit than you should be able to bear."
She's silent again. She pulls off her glasses, drops them onto the table, and runs her hands over her face.
"And that's saying a lot, hon. I've seen people who've lost everything and not get up. I've never seen anyone take this much shit and still be standing."
You want to say so much, but you can't find the most basic form of communication. Insolent teenager remains.
"I know that you resent the fact that I keep poking into your thoughts. But you have to accept it. And you have to start letting everything go."
How's that for a different approach to psychological therapy? The last counsellor you saw a definite fan of dancing around with a night-light and a rifle. This woman, however, prefers to run full-out into the deepest shadows carrying nothing more than bawled fists.
She watches you now. Waiting for you to make the next move.
Your eyes lock onto hers. And, immediately, flashbacks swarm through your thoughts. Everything flashes before your eyes.
Joanne isn't sitting before you now. Mark's watching you. He's sitting there, staring at you with a...a hunger in his eyes. You know exactly what he's about to do. You know that, in only a few seconds, he'll be on top of you again and you won't be able to fight him this time.
A cold sweat is pooling over your skin in heavy beads. You can feel them slipping from your forehead, along your temple and cheeks, and down your neck.
His eyes are roving over you -his beautifully dark, emerald green eyes. His perfect teeth, that form the most enchanting smile, now become his ravenous grin of hunger.
He stands, slowly, and stalks toward you. He's within arms reach. The corner you're pressed into provides no possible means of escape. You're trapped -physically and mentally.
Vanilla and cigarettes. The scent invades you. Your poor-excuse of a lunch -an apple and toast- begins to rise from your stomach and slips along your throat.
His hand grabs at your shoulder. Your breath stops and starts in a chaotic mess of panic. You can feel your heart slamming against your chest cavity. A dull throbbing begins to pound at the inside of your skull, all along your right temple. Your right eyes stings and, with a twinge of horror, all vision therein fades to shadows and darkness.
"Please don't," you whisper pathetically as you pull your head under the quasi-protective shield of your hands and forearms.
He's never relented before. He's never shown a solitary ounce of mercy.
His fingers clench around your upper right arm. His nails, always so seemingly dull, dig and tear into your flesh. The grip tightens. He whispers something hoarse and incoherent. The grin on his face is now nothing but the most malicious and terrifying smile. The once beautiful eyes glower at your from beneath dark brows with a merciless, ravenous, and violent desire.
Panic swarms you as tidal waves of horror slam you almost through the floor. Your breathing is so ragged, stressed, and irregular that everything is beginning to spin. Perhaps, by some form of miracle, you'll pass-out before you can remember anything.
Silently, you beg for death -mercy, really.
The God you grew-up with showed mercy and kindness. Yes, His wrath was vengeful and His judgment absolute, but what could you have possibly done to incur this horrible wrath?
Every day of your existence was lived according to His will and His laws. Every ounce of who you were was devoted to His name. Only after Keith started to lose control did you waver beneath His eyes. It only after Keith took his own life that you defied God's omnipotence. It was only after the man before you took every remaining fragment of your soul that you defied God's will and left Him in search of your true beliefs.
How can it be that, with nearly two billion souls on this planet, God would hold such a cast-iron grip on your existence? Why would He who is 'all-mighty' give a damn about how you lived? Or better yet, how could such omnipotence cast you into such a hellish existence? How could anyone do that?
You pull your knees up to your chin and shut your eyes as tightly as you possibly can. Your entire body is shaking. The unforgiving and ice-like grip of death slips into your chest and envelops your heart, lungs, and soul.
Searing tears creep along the sides of your face. Your voice shatters between sobs. Your words are only desperate pleas that he stop, that he not take the minuscule bit of you that has survived everything.
The wall that you're pressed against is beginning to spin -faster and faster. The floor is moving in sync with the walls. Your breathing is coming faster and faster, too. You know that there isn't enough oxygen in the room. You know that the merciless grip on your elbows is dragging you away to some god-awful destination. You know exactly what awaits you at the end of that road.
And then, everything stops. The spinning, your lurching stomach, your racing heart, your thoughts. Everything dies.
"Sweetie?"
You shut the word from your mind. Keith's voice is soft and apologetic as he speaks.
"I never meant to hurt you," he says, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and holding you close.
"You never did," you answer gently.
He frowns and kisses your temple. "Don't lie to me. Please. Even if you think it's going to help. Please don't lie to me about the things I've done."
You look up into his dark eyes. "I'm not lying. Bones and bruises heal. The important thing is that you're getting help."
He smiles, though only a little and brushes the side of your neck with his fingers. "I won't ever hurt you again. I will never do it again."
The warmth from his body pools between you both. You step a little closer and hold him, resting your head against his chest.
Every word he says is the truth. He won't ever hurt you again. You believe him now. You know he won't -can't- ever do anything again.
You can feel him kiss the top of your head and hug you close. His breath on your neck is warm and soothing.
Nothing matters anymore. All the things you've both endured -survived- melt away into the earth you're standing on. Everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be. No one will ever hurt you again. Keith will protect you. He'll hold you, share your grief, help you stand, never let you fall. He will forever be with you. He'll never hurt you again. Nobody will.
"Sweetie? Can you hear me?"
That wretched voice again. Damn imagination trying to ruin everything!
You shake your head softly and shut your eyes. You take a deep breath and absorb Keith's scent. Dragon's blood and lavender. The Dragon's Blood is his favourite incense, but the lavender is something you only discovered after having lived with him.
"I like the shower stuff," he explained with a trace of embarrassment. "It smells really nice and my skin doesn't get irritated."
You had smiled and, the following day, had bought him a mess of lavender-scented shower products.
"I remember that day," he says to you very softly. "It was probably one of the sweetest things you ever did for me."
You look up into his eyes and wonder how he knows what you were thinking.
"Precious," he says gently, "It's time that you go."
Go? Go where? You can't help but feel panic rising in your throat as the air surrounding him becomes ice-like.
"Precious, just let me go. Nothing will happen. You'll be happier this way. Just let me go."
He says all this with a very warm smile.
"I can't lose you again," you whisper as soft tears escape you.
He says nothing. His smile fades to a frown and his eyes darken to empty sockets. An instant later, you stand completely alone. Your breath floats before your eyes in small white clouds.
"Sweetie?"
Again that voice. And with this third calling comes a flood of memories.
Very slowly, you open your eyes to see Joanne kneeling before you. There's nothing to say as you breakdown and beg that the gods just end your existence. There's nothing to stop your tears anymore. The world has turned its back on you. It did that a very long time ago. And now -only now- do you realize just how very alone you are.
The woman sitting across from you has her legs stretched-out, her feet resting on the coffee table. She's sort of lounging on the couch -the one you should, in all theory, be lying on.
"How long will you sit there?" she asks, looking at you from behind her glasses.
You say nothing. In all truth, there's absolutely nothing to say. Mark found you back home. She knows that. Her called you New Year's Eve. She knows that. He did it again. She knows that, too.
Who cares if your silence wastes an hour's worth of tape? You've become very tired of telling this woman all of your secrets. Of knowing that the tape-recorder on the coffee table is making a direct and complete copy of everything you say.
She sighs and looks at you, sitting-up and planting her feet on the floor as she removes her glasses. Classic demonstration of irritation. Maybe she'll let you go early today. Maybe she'll send you off and tell you to never come back...only in your dreams.
Neither of you says anything. Time begins to pass at a tortuously slow rate. But there's no way that you're going to let this woman -this professional psychoanalyst- win. You've done nothing but pour your soul to this woman. You're sick and tired of listening to what others have to say about your psyche. Fuck them all.
"How are things going since we last spoke?" She asks the question as she places her glasses back over the bridge of her nose.
You say nothing. Five minutes pass.
She sighs a little. "How did your friends react to what you told them?"
You say nothing.
"How was the group counselling?"
Still silence.
She sits up and glowers at you. "Don't you dare start this sulking bullshit! I raised three teenagers. I know what's going-on in your head. You! The whole world revolves around you! Don't you start this bullshit of saying nothing. Got it?" She's silent for a few minutes. "You are a child," she says strongly, almost with an accusing tone. "Yes, I know that you're twenty-one. But you are still a child. And, unfortunetly, you are a child that has taken more shit than you should be able to bear."
She's silent again. She pulls off her glasses, drops them onto the table, and runs her hands over her face.
"And that's saying a lot, hon. I've seen people who've lost everything and not get up. I've never seen anyone take this much shit and still be standing."
You want to say so much, but you can't find the most basic form of communication. Insolent teenager remains.
"I know that you resent the fact that I keep poking into your thoughts. But you have to accept it. And you have to start letting everything go."
How's that for a different approach to psychological therapy? The last counsellor you saw a definite fan of dancing around with a night-light and a rifle. This woman, however, prefers to run full-out into the deepest shadows carrying nothing more than bawled fists.
She watches you now. Waiting for you to make the next move.
Your eyes lock onto hers. And, immediately, flashbacks swarm through your thoughts. Everything flashes before your eyes.
Joanne isn't sitting before you now. Mark's watching you. He's sitting there, staring at you with a...a hunger in his eyes. You know exactly what he's about to do. You know that, in only a few seconds, he'll be on top of you again and you won't be able to fight him this time.
A cold sweat is pooling over your skin in heavy beads. You can feel them slipping from your forehead, along your temple and cheeks, and down your neck.
His eyes are roving over you -his beautifully dark, emerald green eyes. His perfect teeth, that form the most enchanting smile, now become his ravenous grin of hunger.
He stands, slowly, and stalks toward you. He's within arms reach. The corner you're pressed into provides no possible means of escape. You're trapped -physically and mentally.
Vanilla and cigarettes. The scent invades you. Your poor-excuse of a lunch -an apple and toast- begins to rise from your stomach and slips along your throat.
His hand grabs at your shoulder. Your breath stops and starts in a chaotic mess of panic. You can feel your heart slamming against your chest cavity. A dull throbbing begins to pound at the inside of your skull, all along your right temple. Your right eyes stings and, with a twinge of horror, all vision therein fades to shadows and darkness.
"Please don't," you whisper pathetically as you pull your head under the quasi-protective shield of your hands and forearms.
He's never relented before. He's never shown a solitary ounce of mercy.
His fingers clench around your upper right arm. His nails, always so seemingly dull, dig and tear into your flesh. The grip tightens. He whispers something hoarse and incoherent. The grin on his face is now nothing but the most malicious and terrifying smile. The once beautiful eyes glower at your from beneath dark brows with a merciless, ravenous, and violent desire.
Panic swarms you as tidal waves of horror slam you almost through the floor. Your breathing is so ragged, stressed, and irregular that everything is beginning to spin. Perhaps, by some form of miracle, you'll pass-out before you can remember anything.
Silently, you beg for death -mercy, really.
The God you grew-up with showed mercy and kindness. Yes, His wrath was vengeful and His judgment absolute, but what could you have possibly done to incur this horrible wrath?
Every day of your existence was lived according to His will and His laws. Every ounce of who you were was devoted to His name. Only after Keith started to lose control did you waver beneath His eyes. It only after Keith took his own life that you defied God's omnipotence. It was only after the man before you took every remaining fragment of your soul that you defied God's will and left Him in search of your true beliefs.
How can it be that, with nearly two billion souls on this planet, God would hold such a cast-iron grip on your existence? Why would He who is 'all-mighty' give a damn about how you lived? Or better yet, how could such omnipotence cast you into such a hellish existence? How could anyone do that?
You pull your knees up to your chin and shut your eyes as tightly as you possibly can. Your entire body is shaking. The unforgiving and ice-like grip of death slips into your chest and envelops your heart, lungs, and soul.
Searing tears creep along the sides of your face. Your voice shatters between sobs. Your words are only desperate pleas that he stop, that he not take the minuscule bit of you that has survived everything.
The wall that you're pressed against is beginning to spin -faster and faster. The floor is moving in sync with the walls. Your breathing is coming faster and faster, too. You know that there isn't enough oxygen in the room. You know that the merciless grip on your elbows is dragging you away to some god-awful destination. You know exactly what awaits you at the end of that road.
And then, everything stops. The spinning, your lurching stomach, your racing heart, your thoughts. Everything dies.
"Sweetie?"
You shut the word from your mind. Keith's voice is soft and apologetic as he speaks.
"I never meant to hurt you," he says, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and holding you close.
"You never did," you answer gently.
He frowns and kisses your temple. "Don't lie to me. Please. Even if you think it's going to help. Please don't lie to me about the things I've done."
You look up into his dark eyes. "I'm not lying. Bones and bruises heal. The important thing is that you're getting help."
He smiles, though only a little and brushes the side of your neck with his fingers. "I won't ever hurt you again. I will never do it again."
The warmth from his body pools between you both. You step a little closer and hold him, resting your head against his chest.
Every word he says is the truth. He won't ever hurt you again. You believe him now. You know he won't -can't- ever do anything again.
You can feel him kiss the top of your head and hug you close. His breath on your neck is warm and soothing.
Nothing matters anymore. All the things you've both endured -survived- melt away into the earth you're standing on. Everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be. No one will ever hurt you again. Keith will protect you. He'll hold you, share your grief, help you stand, never let you fall. He will forever be with you. He'll never hurt you again. Nobody will.
"Sweetie? Can you hear me?"
That wretched voice again. Damn imagination trying to ruin everything!
You shake your head softly and shut your eyes. You take a deep breath and absorb Keith's scent. Dragon's blood and lavender. The Dragon's Blood is his favourite incense, but the lavender is something you only discovered after having lived with him.
"I like the shower stuff," he explained with a trace of embarrassment. "It smells really nice and my skin doesn't get irritated."
You had smiled and, the following day, had bought him a mess of lavender-scented shower products.
"I remember that day," he says to you very softly. "It was probably one of the sweetest things you ever did for me."
You look up into his eyes and wonder how he knows what you were thinking.
"Precious," he says gently, "It's time that you go."
Go? Go where? You can't help but feel panic rising in your throat as the air surrounding him becomes ice-like.
"Precious, just let me go. Nothing will happen. You'll be happier this way. Just let me go."
He says all this with a very warm smile.
"I can't lose you again," you whisper as soft tears escape you.
He says nothing. His smile fades to a frown and his eyes darken to empty sockets. An instant later, you stand completely alone. Your breath floats before your eyes in small white clouds.
"Sweetie?"
Again that voice. And with this third calling comes a flood of memories.
Very slowly, you open your eyes to see Joanne kneeling before you. There's nothing to say as you breakdown and beg that the gods just end your existence. There's nothing to stop your tears anymore. The world has turned its back on you. It did that a very long time ago. And now -only now- do you realize just how very alone you are.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Walk Away
The coffee shop is bustling with people. Sundays, for some reason or another, always draw such a crowd. You watch as people come and go. Laughing and smiling without any cares in the world -at least, without much thought of their worries.
Four women are seated inside. You watch them chat and laugh together. The warmth of the spring morning pools over you. And yet, your body remains irreversibly cold. Even with the thick jacket, the long-sleeved black shirt, double pair of socks, and shorts under your blue jeans. The only part of your body that's warm is your stomach. Life is warm. Yours is over. Or at least, it will be in a decade. So the doctors have said anyway -over and over again.
"...The cerebral damage is going to accumulate..."
"Nothing to be done."
"We can send you to some specialists who should be able to give you a definitive time."
"Your personal progression is astounding...Nothing to be done, though."
"Ten years."
"We can't offer you anything."
"Gradual loss of control..."
"Vancouver. Toronto. New York. London, maybe."
"...emotional and then physical..."
"Specialists around the globe..."
"...Maybe fifteen..."
"...it can't be prevented."
"Twenty years...if you're lucky."
"No matter how much you fight..."
"I'm so sorry."
"Condolences, hon."
"I'm so very sorry."
Fragments of conversations forever imprinted into your thoughts. Ten years, at best. Thirty-one years old. Tenth birthday...maybe. Only maybe.
The four women inside the coffee shop were supposed to be told about those conversations. They were supposed to be informed of your pregnancy, of the extent of the damage to your body, and the generalities of what would be in your near future. But now you watch them smile and laugh, and you can't bring yourself to take a single step toward the doors.
Once upon a time, you had jokingly asked them what they would do if you simply disappeared. What would they say if you suddenly stopped all means of communication, and never looked back. Their replies were mostly anger.
"I'd kick your ass," was Leeda's reply.
"Provided you found me," was your own.
"You wouldn't do it though," was Sam's soft and slightly nervous answer, her eyes penetrating into your thoughts with that silent demand of hers.
"How can you be sure?"
Kate was next on the list, "It would be like leaving your family forever. I know I wouldn't be able to do it. And I don't think you would either, hon. I'm not saying you're weak. But I just don't think you'd be able to up and leave without so much as a goodbye."
"People do crazy things, though." You weren't serious. You would never have been able to leave those women, then. They were sisters to you. Your only family, really.
And then Lynn stepped into the conversation. "I wouldn't look twice at you in the future."
Her response had shocked you a little. It seemed to have the same reaction with the others as well.
She continued, softly and with a deep bitterness in her tone. "I wouldn't. If I saw you on the street years later, I wouldn't look at you twice -even if I knew it was you. You disappear without saying anything, then fine. I'd be hurt for a while, but I'd get over it."
You knew it was a scare tactic. But she was also very serious. And as you stand outside the shop, leaning against the neighbouring building, you know that such a reply is what you were looking for -deep down, anyway.
The women inside are happy and young. They have ages to live. They have dilemmas, not catastrophes, to deal with. This paper is due in three days and I haven't even started it yet! There's isn't enough time to study for the exam and get that project done! Those are the situations they're faced with. Nothing like, How am I going to support myself and a baby? Or, I can avoid paying the phone bill for two months before they disconnect the line. Or, better yet, Who's going to take care of my child come ten years?
You bow your head and shut your eyes, fingers pressing into your temples and massaging the throbbing flesh. You cherish these women. You would never have survived without them. And yet, you survived a sudden and violent detox on your own. You just stopped using heroine. Destroyed your supplies of crack and stopped it all. You did all that on your own.
Really and truly, what have these women offered you? A shoulder to lean on has been inaccessible since September. A compassionate hug has come only at holidays. They have listened to you. They have stood by and offered advice. But other than that, what have they ever really done? None of them has made a great effort to come to your door and sit with you through the long and terrible nights. None have come out and demanded that you make time in your schedule so that they may attempt to help you, comfort you, to show you their love and concern.
In all truth, you have been completely alone. Few people have been told everything. You explained the events that would have betrayed you through odd behaviour. Some things are not able to be hidden. You told them what they needed to know. And now, you stand outside their world. You stand alone, on the outside of their inner circle. You always have been an outsider.
Silently, you turn away from the bustling coffee shop. There is no need to step inside and tell them that you're pregnant. There is no need to tell them about what you discovered. There's no need to interrupt their worlds.
They saved you -time and time again. They've never been anything less than the most awe-inspiring friends. You never really deserved the love and support they've always shown you. No matter how much you try and paint them as traitors, as liars, you're lying to the world. They've never left you alone. They've never turned you away. Not once.
The warm sunshine splashes over your face. The iridescent beams of invisible light heat you from the outside in. You'll survive what's been cast upon you. You haven't any other choice. At least, not for another decade.
Four women are seated inside. You watch them chat and laugh together. The warmth of the spring morning pools over you. And yet, your body remains irreversibly cold. Even with the thick jacket, the long-sleeved black shirt, double pair of socks, and shorts under your blue jeans. The only part of your body that's warm is your stomach. Life is warm. Yours is over. Or at least, it will be in a decade. So the doctors have said anyway -over and over again.
"...The cerebral damage is going to accumulate..."
"Nothing to be done."
"We can send you to some specialists who should be able to give you a definitive time."
"Your personal progression is astounding...Nothing to be done, though."
"Ten years."
"We can't offer you anything."
"Gradual loss of control..."
"Vancouver. Toronto. New York. London, maybe."
"...emotional and then physical..."
"Specialists around the globe..."
"...Maybe fifteen..."
"...it can't be prevented."
"Twenty years...if you're lucky."
"No matter how much you fight..."
"I'm so sorry."
"Condolences, hon."
"I'm so very sorry."
Fragments of conversations forever imprinted into your thoughts. Ten years, at best. Thirty-one years old. Tenth birthday...maybe. Only maybe.
The four women inside the coffee shop were supposed to be told about those conversations. They were supposed to be informed of your pregnancy, of the extent of the damage to your body, and the generalities of what would be in your near future. But now you watch them smile and laugh, and you can't bring yourself to take a single step toward the doors.
Once upon a time, you had jokingly asked them what they would do if you simply disappeared. What would they say if you suddenly stopped all means of communication, and never looked back. Their replies were mostly anger.
"I'd kick your ass," was Leeda's reply.
"Provided you found me," was your own.
"You wouldn't do it though," was Sam's soft and slightly nervous answer, her eyes penetrating into your thoughts with that silent demand of hers.
"How can you be sure?"
Kate was next on the list, "It would be like leaving your family forever. I know I wouldn't be able to do it. And I don't think you would either, hon. I'm not saying you're weak. But I just don't think you'd be able to up and leave without so much as a goodbye."
"People do crazy things, though." You weren't serious. You would never have been able to leave those women, then. They were sisters to you. Your only family, really.
And then Lynn stepped into the conversation. "I wouldn't look twice at you in the future."
Her response had shocked you a little. It seemed to have the same reaction with the others as well.
She continued, softly and with a deep bitterness in her tone. "I wouldn't. If I saw you on the street years later, I wouldn't look at you twice -even if I knew it was you. You disappear without saying anything, then fine. I'd be hurt for a while, but I'd get over it."
You knew it was a scare tactic. But she was also very serious. And as you stand outside the shop, leaning against the neighbouring building, you know that such a reply is what you were looking for -deep down, anyway.
The women inside are happy and young. They have ages to live. They have dilemmas, not catastrophes, to deal with. This paper is due in three days and I haven't even started it yet! There's isn't enough time to study for the exam and get that project done! Those are the situations they're faced with. Nothing like, How am I going to support myself and a baby? Or, I can avoid paying the phone bill for two months before they disconnect the line. Or, better yet, Who's going to take care of my child come ten years?
You bow your head and shut your eyes, fingers pressing into your temples and massaging the throbbing flesh. You cherish these women. You would never have survived without them. And yet, you survived a sudden and violent detox on your own. You just stopped using heroine. Destroyed your supplies of crack and stopped it all. You did all that on your own.
Really and truly, what have these women offered you? A shoulder to lean on has been inaccessible since September. A compassionate hug has come only at holidays. They have listened to you. They have stood by and offered advice. But other than that, what have they ever really done? None of them has made a great effort to come to your door and sit with you through the long and terrible nights. None have come out and demanded that you make time in your schedule so that they may attempt to help you, comfort you, to show you their love and concern.
In all truth, you have been completely alone. Few people have been told everything. You explained the events that would have betrayed you through odd behaviour. Some things are not able to be hidden. You told them what they needed to know. And now, you stand outside their world. You stand alone, on the outside of their inner circle. You always have been an outsider.
Silently, you turn away from the bustling coffee shop. There is no need to step inside and tell them that you're pregnant. There is no need to tell them about what you discovered. There's no need to interrupt their worlds.
They saved you -time and time again. They've never been anything less than the most awe-inspiring friends. You never really deserved the love and support they've always shown you. No matter how much you try and paint them as traitors, as liars, you're lying to the world. They've never left you alone. They've never turned you away. Not once.
The warm sunshine splashes over your face. The iridescent beams of invisible light heat you from the outside in. You'll survive what's been cast upon you. You haven't any other choice. At least, not for another decade.
Trademark
She sits there, on his bed, staring into the darkness. He hates the morning sunshine. She loves it. Really, it's the only thing that keeps her alive anymore. That faint trickle of light, the one that just manages to escape over the heavy black drapes and skirt across the ceiling.
But he caught that light not too long ago. Took a roll of heavy gray tape and covered the remaining piece of outside. He managed to cover the last fragment of sanctuary she had.
She hasn't anything anymore. She knows she didn't have anything to begin with. But now it's just so much more pronounced -so much more real. She has friends. She has family. But they don't know what's been happening all these years. How can they? He's a master actor. He goes to school for English, but he should be going to school for Drama. He would do well in Drama. Or maybe she would. She's the one who has no sense of dramatics anymore. Everything just melts together. The differences between what is real and what isn't don't exist. Maybe she should take a Drama course next semester.
He's in the shower now. She doesn't shower with him. She never has. Now she knows it's safer that she never did. It's easier to slip in the tub. The wet ceramics are dangerous. She could easily slip while he holds her close. She could easily smash her skull against the faucets, the side of the tub, and bleed to death. The tub would be slippery. A horrible accident. He would cry like a toddler. He really should go into the Drama department.
The water's been running for ten minutes now. She won't be able to have her turn for another twenty minutes. Even then, she'll have to wait for him to shut off the hot water. He doesn't like wasting the hot water. It takes her five minutes in the shower. She rushes. She has no choice. If she does go longer than that, he's likely to explain why she shouldn't be wasting so much water. His house, his rules. Even though she's the one who pays the rent and the bills.
She's got another twenty minutes. She always does the same thing while she waits for her turn in the cold shower.
The razor blade in her hand is very small. She peels a new one off every morning that she wakes-up here. It's just the blade from those cheap little pink razors women use to shave their legs. They're sharp though. She's become a master at popping them out from the plastic casing. Her fingers don't even get cut anymore. Which is a good thing, less likely to have people ask why her fingers are cut, bleeding, and swollen. Less likely that he'll get defensive at their questions, and explain to her why people shouldn't have a need to ask such questions about their relationship.
It's almost too dark in the bedroom to do this with much accuracy. But she's come to know where the older wounds lie. She's able to avoid them with the utmost precision -often with nothing more than the width of the blade's edge separating old blood from fresh.
The small metal object is clenched between her thumb and index finger. Her pinkie sticks straight out, as though she's having tea with British Aristocrats. She runs her ring finger over her cold flesh. She doesn't feel any scars.
The small point of the sharp blade presses into her skin. She can feel a tinge of pain -like being poked by a needle- at her side, just above her waistline. She very slowly drags her hand toward the front of her stomach. The sensation is astounding. Like dozens of tiny needles all poking into her body at a furious pace, forming a thin line of minute pain.
She stops. Her hand remains motionless for a moment. She basks in the stinging pulse that streams over her entire body. She waits until the count of fourteen, and starts once more, a few centimetres below the initial gash.
She does this four times. A five inch gash. It takes ten seconds to make. She counts to fourteen. She starts again. She makes four -almost identical- slashes over her skin.
The pain she feels is wonderful. She feels the broken skin pulsing and demanding to be told what is happening, why this occurs again and again. Her body demands that this abuse stop, but her mind continues to beg for more.
She releases a long and soft sigh, shutting her eyes. She waits a few minutes before wrapping the razor back into its piece of tissu paper, and tucking it into her shoe.
Her fingers run over the first slash on her flesh. The blood is fresh. Small globules of deep red forming where the blade struck deeper. Thin red smears of her own blood paint themselves on her skin as her fingers run over the four cuts.
The shower is still going strong. She can hear the water. He never notices the cuts. He just assumes its his own handy work. He smiles when he sees the bleeding parallel lines. Even if it's not his hands that physically create the wounds, it's still his trademark. It's his own personal graffiti painting 'Keith was here'.
But he caught that light not too long ago. Took a roll of heavy gray tape and covered the remaining piece of outside. He managed to cover the last fragment of sanctuary she had.
She hasn't anything anymore. She knows she didn't have anything to begin with. But now it's just so much more pronounced -so much more real. She has friends. She has family. But they don't know what's been happening all these years. How can they? He's a master actor. He goes to school for English, but he should be going to school for Drama. He would do well in Drama. Or maybe she would. She's the one who has no sense of dramatics anymore. Everything just melts together. The differences between what is real and what isn't don't exist. Maybe she should take a Drama course next semester.
He's in the shower now. She doesn't shower with him. She never has. Now she knows it's safer that she never did. It's easier to slip in the tub. The wet ceramics are dangerous. She could easily slip while he holds her close. She could easily smash her skull against the faucets, the side of the tub, and bleed to death. The tub would be slippery. A horrible accident. He would cry like a toddler. He really should go into the Drama department.
The water's been running for ten minutes now. She won't be able to have her turn for another twenty minutes. Even then, she'll have to wait for him to shut off the hot water. He doesn't like wasting the hot water. It takes her five minutes in the shower. She rushes. She has no choice. If she does go longer than that, he's likely to explain why she shouldn't be wasting so much water. His house, his rules. Even though she's the one who pays the rent and the bills.
She's got another twenty minutes. She always does the same thing while she waits for her turn in the cold shower.
The razor blade in her hand is very small. She peels a new one off every morning that she wakes-up here. It's just the blade from those cheap little pink razors women use to shave their legs. They're sharp though. She's become a master at popping them out from the plastic casing. Her fingers don't even get cut anymore. Which is a good thing, less likely to have people ask why her fingers are cut, bleeding, and swollen. Less likely that he'll get defensive at their questions, and explain to her why people shouldn't have a need to ask such questions about their relationship.
It's almost too dark in the bedroom to do this with much accuracy. But she's come to know where the older wounds lie. She's able to avoid them with the utmost precision -often with nothing more than the width of the blade's edge separating old blood from fresh.
The small metal object is clenched between her thumb and index finger. Her pinkie sticks straight out, as though she's having tea with British Aristocrats. She runs her ring finger over her cold flesh. She doesn't feel any scars.
The small point of the sharp blade presses into her skin. She can feel a tinge of pain -like being poked by a needle- at her side, just above her waistline. She very slowly drags her hand toward the front of her stomach. The sensation is astounding. Like dozens of tiny needles all poking into her body at a furious pace, forming a thin line of minute pain.
She stops. Her hand remains motionless for a moment. She basks in the stinging pulse that streams over her entire body. She waits until the count of fourteen, and starts once more, a few centimetres below the initial gash.
She does this four times. A five inch gash. It takes ten seconds to make. She counts to fourteen. She starts again. She makes four -almost identical- slashes over her skin.
The pain she feels is wonderful. She feels the broken skin pulsing and demanding to be told what is happening, why this occurs again and again. Her body demands that this abuse stop, but her mind continues to beg for more.
She releases a long and soft sigh, shutting her eyes. She waits a few minutes before wrapping the razor back into its piece of tissu paper, and tucking it into her shoe.
Her fingers run over the first slash on her flesh. The blood is fresh. Small globules of deep red forming where the blade struck deeper. Thin red smears of her own blood paint themselves on her skin as her fingers run over the four cuts.
The shower is still going strong. She can hear the water. He never notices the cuts. He just assumes its his own handy work. He smiles when he sees the bleeding parallel lines. Even if it's not his hands that physically create the wounds, it's still his trademark. It's his own personal graffiti painting 'Keith was here'.
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