You Are At The Archives for April 2011

Monday, April 25, 2011

Things take time.

Hello. It's spring <3 This week at the Indie Ink Writing Challenge I was challenged by FlamingNyx
Their prompt for me was:

"Things take time"

I apologize for the rather depressing tone that my entries have had these days, it's just how I'm feeling and it always radiates to my writing. It should be said, though, that I have been very happy for the past few days =)

Things take time

I wake up to the vibration of my phone; the alarm doesn’t even have time to go off before I grab my phone from the desk, unfledged and undecided, staggering in the semi-darkness portrayed by my tired eyes. I’ve gotten used to the emotional anvil that settles upon my ribcage after the early hours of the morning when my dreams become dark and my body goes to defense mode, ready and at the same time not for the day to come. I open my door and find her shoes sprinkled carelessly on the carpet and without going inside her room I know she’s staying home again. The lights hurt my eyes as I wash my face in the sink, too tired to go nag her about how unclean it is. My eyelids are so swollen that if you put a needle in something would have to come seeping out — it’s as though last night’s tears never rolled down my cheeks but shrunk and stayed there instead, soothing away the unwanted things I have seen, the monstrous infidelities of the way my life was supposed to continue, or the way that it, overall, was supposed to start.

I listen in my room while she drags herself to the bathroom, eyes at her ever-sinking bowl, an eternity of disgusting, thick fluid escaping through her teeth staring back at her, starved and angry. She turns the tap on so I don’t hear.  But I wish it were the only sound in my ears, not the steps, not the tap, not the long, sharp fingernails on the plastic, not the same song on repeat from her computer once she lies back down…

The walls comfort me by leaning in as I lay my head against the cold metal headboard of my bed, my insides curling into a slow and agonizing false-death, making me coil up against my blankets and pillows like a snake. They said she needed a lower low-point. They said I wasn’t the parent. They said that I should live, while giving me new meds to help my sleep. They said things like this take time.

I cut myself with a needle, yearning for a knife, the pain giving me more energy than breakfast. It’s all I need to survive another day. They give me no alternative, so I blame it on them, rejoicing in my tiny clamshell of a heart as I watch a part of me seep away.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Melt pt. 5


Melt pt. 5

Emily and I were classmates since first grade. Our school had us seated in alphabetical order and, since her last name came just after mine, we were always seated close to one another. I never minded sitting behind her, her red hair had me mesmerized since day one, it reminded me first of a mermaid and later on of another, rather different barely-clothed character. No matter the circumstance I would drag my lazy ass to school every morning, hoping to switch lunches with her. The day she started wearing heels to school only added more superglue to my gaze. I was literally dead inside my brain. The heels (black with purple soles) made her hair look even more mermaid-like; her back was bare in her dress, sending a series of hot waves across my limbs as I held her books while she put on her coat. She had just turned eighteen the week before and I was jealous since I had another seven months of waiting.

“Haley?”

I shook myself awake from my trance, handing over her books.

“Do you need me to give you a ride home? It’s raining.”

“Yeah, sure. It would be nice to avoid getting,” I breathed in, swallowing air, “wet.”

She smiled at me as my face turned a shade of purple. “Are you coming over on Saturday?”

“Saturday?”

She tilted her head, looking almost hurt. “Sarah’s birthday.”

Her sister was turning sixteen that weekend. We used to be pals what seemed like a decade ago. “Yeah—“ I stammered. “Of course. Of course I’m coming.”

I put my bag on the floor while putting on my denim jacket. She picked it up, handing it over to me. I took it, my hand almost shaking. She raised her eyebrows at me, leaning over to her side to catch my eye. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah—“ I trailed off, walking towards the doors. “It stopped raining.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I can walk—“

“No, no,” she said, grabbing my shoulder. “Come home with me. I’ll help you with your Spanish.”

“French.”

“Oh, right,” she murmured, holding her hand to her collarbone. “Please, come.”

“Well, if it’s okay with your—“

“It is. Mom’s busy writing anyway,” she said, waving her hands around. I could have fallen through the floor right there. She kept her hand at my shoulder as she walked me to her car, my toes squirming around inside my shoes. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured as she looked at the clearing sky. 

I kept my eyes on the wet ground. “Yeah, straight from a romance novel. I think I saw a rainbow right above those trees.”

She stuck her index finger into my ribcage, laughing softly as she unlocked the doors. “Someone’s a bit cynical,” she slurred into my ear, or at least it seemed like it as she opened the door for me, leaning her head on my shoulder, her hand lingering at my ribcage.

“Sorry.” I stepped inside the car, dumping my bag on the floor.

She walked around the front, tracing her fingertips along the hood of the car. She stepped inside, droplets of water shaking on the window as she pulled it closed. “Well, my cynical little friend. There is one positive thing in my little romanticized moment.”

“And what is that?” I turned to look at her, biting down on my tongue.

She leaned in, so close I could feel the tip of her nose at my cheek. “You didn’t get wet.”

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Melt pt. 4


Melt pt. 4

I step out the door and into the foggy street. It’s as though the night is still lingering in the air, weighing it down, making it impossible to see clearly.  It’s still early so the whole street is empty except for me, and an elderly lady walking her two dogs, just like every other morning. I tug at the seam of my dress shirt, feeling a tad bit too naked with the thin line of skin visible between my shirt and my pants.

“Aren’t you that young lady who served me coffee yesterday morning?”

I turn around to find the elderly woman standing behind me, her dogs, a pair of Chow Chow’s too cute for their own good, staring at me with their eyes almost crossed, their heads tilted. I offer my hand while greeting her, holding my bag with the other.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t think I was. I live down the street from you. I leave for work around the time you walk your dogs.” I smile, pointing at the two cuties. “I work at that Italian restaurant a few blocks from here.”

“Oh,” she says, her face falling a little. 

I find myself still holding onto her hand, as her eyes seem to turn into glass. “I’m Haley Bellman.” 

She raises an eyebrow at me. “Bellman?”

“Yeah, my father was Swedish,” I stammer, shaking her hand around. She isn’t letting go.

“Oh, right. That explains it.”

Her dogs start barking in unison, making my head throb. I try and wriggle my hand out of hers. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I should be going. I have work—“

“Yes, right. Of course. Sorry,” she says, finally letting go of my hand, leaving it cold and sweaty. I step aside to let her pass, waving at her even though she doesn’t even see me anymore. I laugh to myself for a moment before continuing on, my toes already half dead in my heels.
 
I arrive at the restaurant a glorious 20 minutes early, tiptoeing my way to Mark’s office after letting myself in. He’s snoring, leaning back on his chair, his legs on his table on top of the newspaper. 

“Knock, knock.”

He stirs, almost falling back. “Wha—“

“Morning, Mark.”

He wipes at his eyes like a little boy awoken from his nap. “Morning, Hales. What are you doing here at,” he checks his watch, “seven-thirty-nine in the morning?”

I laugh, hanging my jacket by the wall. “My shift starts in twenty minutes.”
“Does it? What day is it?”

“Monday.”

“Oh, right! You have the morning shift! I forgot. Sally made me start up on the breakfast buffet thing weeks ago and I still don’t remember—“

“Well, I’m here to do some cleaning up, actually. Sarah said you’d been painting?”
“Yes, yes, the south wall. Sally hated it.”

Sally, the lovely wife, was pretty much Mark’s not-really-paid-for assistant. Her opinion was always, and I mean always the law. She had suggested we start a breakfast buffet to get more customers in, and of course, three days after, Mark had us filling out forms for new tables and chairs for the designated “breakfast area”. I speak in the past tense because Sally had caught Mark cheating on her with Olivia under one of the designated breakfast tables.

“How is she, by the way?” I say almost sarcastically, sitting down on the armchair at the corner of the room to get my heels off for a moment.

“How the hell should I know?”

“But you’re still painting the south wall because she thought it was hideous?”

“Yes, precisely.”

I shake my head, blowing on my toes. They’re a little red. “Does she have the twins now?”

He takes the newspaper from beneath his feet, opening it. “Mmhmm, half the month there, half the month here.” He sighs, peeking at me from over the paper. “Since Sally’s gone, though, I could let you girls wear some more comfortable shoes,” he says with a chuckle, looking me up and down. 

I crunch my toes together, my mouth falling open from the pain. “Yes, Mark. I would appreciate that very much. My feet are not made for six inch heels.”

“Good. Then it’s settled. Though,” he trails off, setting the paper down on his thighs.

“What?”

“Nothing, never mind. Go on,” he says, ushering me away. I grab my heels, holding them with my fingers as I walk out into the hall barefoot, thinking of someone whose feet (and legs) were made for wearing heels.

Dear safety pin(s)


Hello world. This week on the Indie Ink Writing Challenge I was challenged Illogical Being 
Their prompt for me was:

"Pick a favorite object that has useful or sentimental value. Write this object a letter of appreciation."

So here we go... Beware, if you are easily scared/disgusted by self-mutilation I'd turn back.

Dear safety pin(s),

It is a puzzled course that our little world has taken. Not very much one that you saw coming when you were substituting buttons in my denim overalls (yes, both the brown and the blue ones, you have been helpful, I give you that), shiny and silvery when the sun or any other source of light spared you some of their luminance.

I’ve used you for crafts, and also while sewing things, I’ve made little moons and lockets and creatures out of you — but never, dear safety pin(s), have I used you for that very thing in your name; safety. Now, I know you may be taking me for one of those morons who take things too literally — hell, then I’ll be a double moron if that makes you feel more powerful an object — but how, in all simplicity of your metallic being, are you safe?  How are you more than a needle, curled and polished and with a little lock on your head to keep you closed?  How are you more than just a weapon hidden within its being?

I suppose I ought to stop teasing you before you grow disgusted of the cutesy little creatures I’ve made out of you. As a matter of fact, I’m growing quite disgusted myself. I’m growing disgusted of the too-many ways that I can take advantage of you with when you’ve only been good in one…

Approximately fifteen minutes ago you did a glorious job in soothing away some of the incessant throbbing within my limbs. Needless to say it is just some psychosomatic outcome of all the things stuck in this head of mine. But you, my dear, have handled it so well I feel bad I cannot reward you with anything.

You are better than the anti-depressants I have forgotten to take for about a week now. You are better than the three — or maybe four or five — different kinds of sleeping pills I have tested. You are better than the evil, liquid creature coursing through my veins, telling me, whispering in its delicate, frail voice about how I am not but another woman suffering from self-inflicted madness, turning each and every slightly metallic and sharp object into a weapon against myself. How sickening it is that my weapon, my remedy, is you — you and the lovely minute, yet fulfilling pain you create when piercing the skin of my wrist.

You could never have me killed. Never. You give me exactly what I want without a risk, always drawing just enough blood for me to see it, for it to hurt, for me to feel my pulse radiate from my cuts instead of my heart…

Thank you.
(For making me despise myself.)

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Darling Demon


 This week on the Indie Ink Writing Challenged I was challenged by Peter
 His prompt for me was:

"A fictional snippet based around where your life would be if you had done ONE thing differently in your past.  (Went to a different college / studied something completely different / married someone you dated in high school / etc.)"


Darling Demon

She sat on the edge of the bed with her suitcase crunched between her ankles, her hands gripping the handle as though the floor beneath her would soon dissolve and disappear. The police cars passing along the small driveway lit the room up with green and blue shades of light, bright enough to have her squint and shrink down against the bed. In the darkened windows she searched for those familiar faces, their hands cuffed, their bodies like those of ghosts, their lives slipping away because of her words. No tears left her eyes but she knew she was crying as her body slowly convulsed, her vacant, breathless cries echoing about the green walls of the hospital room. What had she done?

She began thinking back to the moment she had been led around the labyrinth-like ward, her feet cold on the floor, her nails digging into her sides as she saw the female police officer greet her from the other end of the hall.  

With a mild hello she extended her hand to her, only to return it to the other holding onto the briefcase that had in it the small printer she called a miracle of modern technology — the girl wouldn’t speak; she wouldn’t speak to the hand whose fingers would type down the demons squeezing her body into a little cube. Pushed into the doctor’s office she dragged herself to the chair at the furthest corner, her eyes examining books of psychoanalysis, schizophrenia, modern psychiatric practices: anything and everything on the white-painted wooden bookshelf that would have to stand her glares for the next two hours. Anti-depressant advertisements on the table, pictures of suns, of happy people…

“Now,” the officer clapped her hands together so loud the books seemed to shudder. “You do know that you are entitled to tell me nothing else but the truth, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“And that if you tell me something else it will have consequences?” 

The woman’s voice was so high-pitched you’d think each sentence to be a question. She nodded, hugging her knees, blowing at her frozen toes. It was as though she was naked, powerless, the darling demons residing within each limb having her talk of things that were true but at the same time fabricated.

She watched the tiny miracle printer print her words up, her body trembling. But the demons were happy; oh yes, they rejoiced within her veins that the two monsters who locked her up in this labyrinth were gone. How could she cry on such a happy day?

But she did. She wept like the baby that was about to be taken away from her mother. She wept like her sister about to be taken away from her home. But most of all, she wept like the father, the innocent father who was crammed into a police car because of her daughter’s demonic delusions that, thanks to her brilliant ways of talking to nurses, were fed and fed until they were plump and full of life, ready to ruin lives and ready to give the nurses false joy in how they’d saved another young one from abusive, disgusting parents.

She kicked the suitcase aside and dove for the writing table, her stash of needles at the bottom of one drawer. It would end today. It would end on the hospital floor. Not very glamorous but it was enough. 

It was enough.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Come back.


Hey hey. This week at the Indie Ink Writing Challenge I was challenged by Karla V, her prompt for me was short and simple,

"Come back."

Well, this is what my heartstrings decided to let out today. It's more of a poem than anything else. I haven't been writing that much poetry this week so I my mind had a sort of craving...

Come back

The ground grows cold beneath bare feet.
It could have been summer but I chose otherwise.

The snow melts against warm skin.
And I’m screaming inside this bubble.

Come back to me.

It is a vivid emotion,
A black scar that floats in space,
Dead molecules surround my being.

Come back.

Why should I surrender?
You never gave my body up,
It is lying limp in your arms
Like a puppet, rid of its strings.

Come.
Back.

It’s not the time of day,
It isn’t the weapon,
It isn’t the words sprinting out of your mouth.

It is the sign that I never got to show.
It is the infamous font on the paper
    that tells you of my pain.

Come back to me.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Melt pt. 3

Melt pt. 3

I open the door, pushing all the mail from the past week across the floor and against the wall with it, the rustling sound making me recoil. I drop the suitcase and carrier bag on the worn-out carpet in an almost synchronized motion, a muted thud sounding off into the empty apartment. Holding my hands to my temples I stagger towards the bedroom, my only desire to sleep away and dream of the time I spent in my little semi-paradise. 

I jump as I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, not remembering that I’d put it there. I wiggle around from the tiny electric shocks sent through my body before being able to fish it out, zooming in on the name flashing on the screen.

“Em,” I whisper into the phone, only able to hear her intake of breath.

“Hey,” she murmurs after a moment of silence, breathing into the phone. 

“Wha—“ I am stopped short as I hear her gasp for air, holding her breath for a moment the way she does before she bursts out crying. “Emily?”

“I called Kim,” she says, her voice frail and shaky. “He’s coming home in a week or so.”

“Well that’s good,” I say out of habit, counting with my fingers how many fuck buddies that adds up to. Maybe six? No, is that excessive? Four and a half — maybe he asked his secretary to join but she left halfway through. 

I am such a bitch…

“He sounded different,” she says, almost whimpering now. 

I sigh, closing my eyes. “Sweetie, he must’ve been tired from all that work.” 

“Well, he did say they were wrapping some things up with a big client—“

“See? I told you.”

“Haley?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I threw you out today.”

I bite on my lip, letting out a painful laugh. “It’s fine. I needed some fresh air. Plus I had a mountain of mail by my door.”

“You left your shoes.”

“You didn’t let me put them on,” I demur, backing up to rest my head against the wall.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’ll bring them over, okay?”

I breathe in, biting down on my tongue. “Yeah, that’s—“ I shake my head. “That would be great.” I press my fingertips to the bridge of my nose as my head begins to throb. “Listen, I was going to clean the apartment up a little—“

“Okay.”

“I lo—“ I bite down harder. “I’ll see you later.”

I hold the phone away from my ear as she says her goodbye, hot tears trickling down my cheek. What a great play we were putting on. I drag my aching body to the bed and let myself collapse, a cloud of dust jumping off the covers. My feet haven’t fully melted yet so I curl up and squeeze my toes together, pulling the blanket up over my shivering body to hide away from the mess surrounding me.
 
I wake up sweating, my feet electric, growing numb again. I shake my head around. Is it Monday? I turn the radio on from the bedside table, listening to the comfortable slur of words. I’d left it on some conversation channel, apparently. I snap my eyes open as I hear the mail being pushed in through the slot. It fucking is Monday.

I kick the covers off, greeted by the cold emptiness of my apartment. I try to blind myself from the clothes scattered around, the coffee mugs lying on various tabletops, shuffling out of my clothes. The water in the shower is cold again but it does a great job in waking me up as I step in, exclaiming loudly. I let it soak my hair; seep through to my skull, sending that electric wave through the rest of my body. 

The water begins warming up slowly, allowing me to breathe in some of the steam rising. I turn the tap off and back toward the wall, my shoulder blades sticking to it like a magnet. Her voice echoes about the shower, causing a bunch of slow, hot waves to travel toward my aching core, my eyes slowly closing from the vacant rush of longing passing through me.  

Snapping out of my trance I step out, bouncing around the apartment in search of unused clothes. Mark would have to accept the fact that today, I would be everything but a glamorous waitress he so very ardently taught us to be.

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