Saturday, May 15, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Bit 18
Squeezing at their plastic containers, I splash little glossy puddles onto a thick white canvas.
Barn red, Deep Ocean Blue, Canary Yellow. What if barns were painted yellow? Barn Yellow?
Painting on canvas is so restricting. It's like when you're a child and you're only allowed in the yard to play. There's some much more space than that! But you've got to stay in the yard otherwise you'll have to come inside and do the dishes instead.
I want to lift my canvas above my head with its gobs of primary colors and let it slowly drip down onto my hair. Why can't paint be in my hair?
It makes the walls seem too tall, all of the reality that surrounds material objects. Shampoo is for washing, not for dancing. Carrots are for eating, not for jewelry.
I want to sleep in a giant mixture of paints, possibly contained in the bathtub.
I want to make love in it.
I want slick, sliding walls of purple and saffron that just pours down over the floor.
------------
For real though, I would like a sandwich right now.
Squeezing at their plastic containers, I splash little glossy puddles onto a thick white canvas.
Barn red, Deep Ocean Blue, Canary Yellow. What if barns were painted yellow? Barn Yellow?
Painting on canvas is so restricting. It's like when you're a child and you're only allowed in the yard to play. There's some much more space than that! But you've got to stay in the yard otherwise you'll have to come inside and do the dishes instead.
I want to lift my canvas above my head with its gobs of primary colors and let it slowly drip down onto my hair. Why can't paint be in my hair?
It makes the walls seem too tall, all of the reality that surrounds material objects. Shampoo is for washing, not for dancing. Carrots are for eating, not for jewelry.
I want to sleep in a giant mixture of paints, possibly contained in the bathtub.
I want to make love in it.
I want slick, sliding walls of purple and saffron that just pours down over the floor.
------------
For real though, I would like a sandwich right now.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Happy "Mother's" Day
I wrote this on an especially bitter day. There's a twist of fiction to it, and I've got a headache, so this is today's chunk.
Bit 17
God willing, my mother was going to beat the Devil out of me.
By now she'd caught a glimpse of Him, dancing at the corners of my mouth, and she'd tried scrubbing Him out, forcing that fifth commandment down my throat with toothpaste and scalding water.
`````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Our home was more than immaculate, which it always needed to be.
Its grey siding was pressure-washed monthly, as were the white shutters of every window. I would spend my weekends scrubbing the front door clean after it had been tarnished and corrupted by the hands of children. Our hard green sofa with its dozens of pillows - arranged by size - ran parallel to the kitchen table, polished and always completely set. The kitchen, a blinding shade of hospital white, tasted like bleach and lemons, made complete with a pantry that was always stocked but disappointing to the neighborhood kids, its shelves and crevices filled with unsalted almonds and rice cakes. The Twin Hall held both my sister and I; two closets on the left with their doors properly shut, and two bedrooms on the right with their doors wrenched wide open. My sister's room was a little porcelain miniature of my mother's with its pale chiffon drapes and the solemn mahogany of her armoire, her bedspread ironed into a perfect pane of glass. You could catch her rolling socks mechanically if you walked by slowly enough, her translucent skin stretched taut over blue and green wiring.
In my own room I could feel my mother's insults, a broad, violent garnet across her walls. I could see them snarling, revolted by the forbidden laundry sprawled across her dark blue carpet, the artwork pinned up with tacks that pierced their eyes. They stood heavy and severe, towering beneath her wallpaper, sneering at me with my mother’s carefully polished fangs:
Worthless,
Disgusting,
Pig.
I would pray to her God on the worst nights; a child begging him to turn my stone mother to nectarine. I wanted to slice her open and see more than just spotlessly clean rock, to nuzzle her sticky skin against my cheek.
Most nights I just begged her for mercy, which she consistently told me I did not deserve. Every apology letter was torn to pieces and thrown away as I stood silently, illicit tears biting at my throat. To my mother apologies and tears were insignificant. Empty.
```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Some days we would visit neighbors, sharing cookie recipes and discussing holiday decorations competitively. My mother would slowly loosen her shoulders when she saw their cluttered living rooms, and her smirk would inch toward her ears as she saw stains on their kitchen counters.
It was on these days that you could see the juices leaking from her eyes; the stringy pulp stuck between the teeth of her smile.
Bit 17
God willing, my mother was going to beat the Devil out of me.
By now she'd caught a glimpse of Him, dancing at the corners of my mouth, and she'd tried scrubbing Him out, forcing that fifth commandment down my throat with toothpaste and scalding water.
`````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Our home was more than immaculate, which it always needed to be.
Its grey siding was pressure-washed monthly, as were the white shutters of every window. I would spend my weekends scrubbing the front door clean after it had been tarnished and corrupted by the hands of children. Our hard green sofa with its dozens of pillows - arranged by size - ran parallel to the kitchen table, polished and always completely set. The kitchen, a blinding shade of hospital white, tasted like bleach and lemons, made complete with a pantry that was always stocked but disappointing to the neighborhood kids, its shelves and crevices filled with unsalted almonds and rice cakes. The Twin Hall held both my sister and I; two closets on the left with their doors properly shut, and two bedrooms on the right with their doors wrenched wide open. My sister's room was a little porcelain miniature of my mother's with its pale chiffon drapes and the solemn mahogany of her armoire, her bedspread ironed into a perfect pane of glass. You could catch her rolling socks mechanically if you walked by slowly enough, her translucent skin stretched taut over blue and green wiring.
In my own room I could feel my mother's insults, a broad, violent garnet across her walls. I could see them snarling, revolted by the forbidden laundry sprawled across her dark blue carpet, the artwork pinned up with tacks that pierced their eyes. They stood heavy and severe, towering beneath her wallpaper, sneering at me with my mother’s carefully polished fangs:
Worthless,
Disgusting,
Pig.
I would pray to her God on the worst nights; a child begging him to turn my stone mother to nectarine. I wanted to slice her open and see more than just spotlessly clean rock, to nuzzle her sticky skin against my cheek.
Most nights I just begged her for mercy, which she consistently told me I did not deserve. Every apology letter was torn to pieces and thrown away as I stood silently, illicit tears biting at my throat. To my mother apologies and tears were insignificant. Empty.
```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Some days we would visit neighbors, sharing cookie recipes and discussing holiday decorations competitively. My mother would slowly loosen her shoulders when she saw their cluttered living rooms, and her smirk would inch toward her ears as she saw stains on their kitchen counters.
It was on these days that you could see the juices leaking from her eyes; the stringy pulp stuck between the teeth of her smile.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Bit 16
"Father Thomas I've been a bad, bad girl... and I'm in desperate need of confession." she pulled at the edges of her plaid skirt, trying to adjust it back to it's proper place. Her hair was messily pushed to one side and she reeked of her Daddy's gin.
Father Thomas coughed into the back of his hand.
"Bless ye, child. You have - "
"Well aren't ya gonna ask? Aren't ya gonna ask what I did? Or am I supposed to tell you myself?"
"Um, well -"
"Don't answer that, I'll just tell ya I guess." she had a giant wad of bubble gum she kept smushing between her lips.
"I made a pretty serious mistake, Father. And I mean, we ain't talkin' just the regular old thirteen-year-old Gossip Girl bull. I'm talking like, the whole sixth commandment is shot to Hell. But I'm not all that sorry about it, you see? So I dunno if this whole Confessional thing is really gonna play out like it should, ya know?"
Father Thomas clears his throat.
"Oh but ya DO know, don'tcha Father?" her tone turned a little darker, and the Father squirmed a bit in his chair, pulling at the sleeves of his robe.
"I mean wasn't that you that was upstairs with my mother when daddy was workin' late the other night?" She sat up a little straighter, crossing her legs.
"I heard the two of you screwin' around in there. I heard what she was yellin' when you was touchin' her. Oh, I heard what she was sayin'. Couldn't have been anyone else but you, 'Fathaaaaa Thomassss!' "
Her rather loud interpretation of her own mother made Father Thomas more than nervous, so he turned abruptly to face her through the copper meshing.
"Sarah I don't think this is an appropriate place for us to discuss that."
"Um, fuck you."
He smiled. "No thanks, sweetheart."
She spit as heavily into the grate as she could, wrapping her fingers around the copper that surrounded the two of them, sneering into the little windows of his face she could see.
"Go. To. Hell."
"Father Thomas I've been a bad, bad girl... and I'm in desperate need of confession." she pulled at the edges of her plaid skirt, trying to adjust it back to it's proper place. Her hair was messily pushed to one side and she reeked of her Daddy's gin.
Father Thomas coughed into the back of his hand.
"Bless ye, child. You have - "
"Well aren't ya gonna ask? Aren't ya gonna ask what I did? Or am I supposed to tell you myself?"
"Um, well -"
"Don't answer that, I'll just tell ya I guess." she had a giant wad of bubble gum she kept smushing between her lips.
"I made a pretty serious mistake, Father. And I mean, we ain't talkin' just the regular old thirteen-year-old Gossip Girl bull. I'm talking like, the whole sixth commandment is shot to Hell. But I'm not all that sorry about it, you see? So I dunno if this whole Confessional thing is really gonna play out like it should, ya know?"
Father Thomas clears his throat.
"Oh but ya DO know, don'tcha Father?" her tone turned a little darker, and the Father squirmed a bit in his chair, pulling at the sleeves of his robe.
"I mean wasn't that you that was upstairs with my mother when daddy was workin' late the other night?" She sat up a little straighter, crossing her legs.
"I heard the two of you screwin' around in there. I heard what she was yellin' when you was touchin' her. Oh, I heard what she was sayin'. Couldn't have been anyone else but you, 'Fathaaaaa Thomassss!' "
Her rather loud interpretation of her own mother made Father Thomas more than nervous, so he turned abruptly to face her through the copper meshing.
"Sarah I don't think this is an appropriate place for us to discuss that."
"Um, fuck you."
He smiled. "No thanks, sweetheart."
She spit as heavily into the grate as she could, wrapping her fingers around the copper that surrounded the two of them, sneering into the little windows of his face she could see.
"Go. To. Hell."
Friday, May 7, 2010
Bit 15
I pour a glass of orange juice for each of us in the crystal wine flutes his mother got us last year. We'd already finished off the two bottles of Chardonnay last night, first screaming and fighting and cursing, then weeping until we just had to laugh. So here we are with orange juice, lots of pulp but no alcoholic content. Damn.
Usually I'd be walking about in just the deep burgundy sheet off of our bed, smiling seductively as I came with just one chilled glass to our bedside, but we weren't "us" anymore. "Us" used to entail sticky, salty sex and cinnamon schnapps. It used to mean I'd cook us dinner and we'd have to sit next to each other instead of across because the few extra inches of distance stung our skin. "Us" meant fighting until four in the morning because he hadn't walked in the door until two hours earlier and his phone'd been off all night.
Now it's him, and it's me.
We were sitting at the kitchen table, the single light above us the only one on. The sun was pulling herself up above the horizon, eager to remind us that time doesn't pause for anyone.
"So," I pouted with a sigh as I sat at the chair across from him, "what do I do now?"
He seemed a little offended at the question. With his favorite, most condescending tone he said to me- "Well, Jenna, what have we been discussing this whole night? The last 12 hours have been nothing but us discussing what you're gonna do. And that's up to you now, Jenna. You're an adult, you decide."
Ooooh, he had some nerves, Billy. He always knew exactly what to say to make me feel like a child, and he enjoyed doing so. The sizzle of anger I felt was enough to make me want to rise out of my seat.
"Oh no, Oh no, William. This is up to you, now, to figure out what I'm 'gonna do.' You see, it wasn't up to me when you stayed out alllll night with some green-eyed floozy and then it was NOT UP TO ME when you lied about said floozy the several times I asked where you were at two, three, four in the -"
"Jenna we've discussed that enough. What we're discussing currently are your plans for the future." He spoke in that patronizing monotone that made me want to smash his head in.
I smashed my glass against the wall instead.
"I will say when we've discussed YOUR CHEATING ON ME 'enough!' But I know one thing for damn sure, and that's that twelve hours of 'discussing' your ADULTERY was not enough. Not by a long shot, William. I'll call you up every day if I have to, if that's what is going to make ME feel better, I'll call you up and tell you what a miserable, insufferable pig you are. And once you stop taking my calls, oh you can bet a silver dollar I'll be showin' up at your place to tell you in person you despicable COWARD!"
I collapsed to the floor, sobbing into a glittery mess of citrus. My head was already pounding out of my skull from the last several times I'd burst into tears just hours before.
"Jen - Jenna, please." His tone broke into something soft and tender that I recognized. It was the same voice he used when we chatted about baby names over our honeymoon breakfast. He'd liked David for a boy but I thought it was much too stuffy. He'd giggled and hugged me close, just because he wanted to hug me.
"There's glass in your hand, Jenna. Let me clean it out." He'd already grabbed a pair of tweezers from the junk drawer in the kitchen, and was meticulously, gently pulling the bits from my palm and into his napkin.
I pulled away from him as much as I could.
"Thanks." I grumbled at my feet.
He wiped my hand clean, then got up to get a compress for it, but I put my hand on his knee.
"Let it bleed."
He shrugged and sat against the wall next to me, knowing that sometimes I just want things to be unkempt, and sometimes I don't make much sense. He knows a lot about me, Billy. He knows a lot.
"Jenna I fucked up. Royally. I had so much going right for me, with you. Remember that summer we spent together, in college? We'd get drunk in the middle of the day, eating watermelons and Popsicles, and that one time we scared the neighbor's kids so badly that - "
" - that they called the police." we laughed together. I could feel the blood from my hand drip delicately onto the linoleum.
"I don't know what I'm going to do without you, Jen. You've added so much life, and fun, and spirit into me. I just don't know what I'm gonna do..."
He lifted his hand to my chin, and when I looked into his eyes I swear it seemed his pupils were cracked in half with the pain.
"...kiss me? Just one last time." A layer of tears wobbled in the front of his eyes.
I pressed my eyelids together and tried to ignore that feeling you get when everything is coming apart. Like the ground is crumbling right out from under you.
"Oh, Billy..." I raised my own, bloodied hand towards his scruffy cheek.
I flattened out my palm and wiped it across his mouth, staining it red as I stood from my spot on the floor.
"I think you'll fucking manage."
Bit 14
When we were ten, we hung out in my parent's basement, blowing soap bubbles out of plastic pipes and playing dress up in my mother's winter clothing.
The heat and the humidity never stopped us; we'd run about outside, collecting different types of leaves to make into a heaping, muddy stew for 'dinner' that day. We'd share secrets and laugh obnoxiously loud just because we were outside and we were allowed to do that. We'd share those twin Popsicles and we'd wipe our sticky mouths with our sleeves.
We'd steal my brother's pocket knife and dig it into our plastic dolls to see if they'd still cry like they do when they need to be changed.
We had so many questions, and the answers, no matter how detailed, never seemed satisfying enough.
I pour a glass of orange juice for each of us in the crystal wine flutes his mother got us last year. We'd already finished off the two bottles of Chardonnay last night, first screaming and fighting and cursing, then weeping until we just had to laugh. So here we are with orange juice, lots of pulp but no alcoholic content. Damn.
Usually I'd be walking about in just the deep burgundy sheet off of our bed, smiling seductively as I came with just one chilled glass to our bedside, but we weren't "us" anymore. "Us" used to entail sticky, salty sex and cinnamon schnapps. It used to mean I'd cook us dinner and we'd have to sit next to each other instead of across because the few extra inches of distance stung our skin. "Us" meant fighting until four in the morning because he hadn't walked in the door until two hours earlier and his phone'd been off all night.
Now it's him, and it's me.
We were sitting at the kitchen table, the single light above us the only one on. The sun was pulling herself up above the horizon, eager to remind us that time doesn't pause for anyone.
"So," I pouted with a sigh as I sat at the chair across from him, "what do I do now?"
He seemed a little offended at the question. With his favorite, most condescending tone he said to me- "Well, Jenna, what have we been discussing this whole night? The last 12 hours have been nothing but us discussing what you're gonna do. And that's up to you now, Jenna. You're an adult, you decide."
Ooooh, he had some nerves, Billy. He always knew exactly what to say to make me feel like a child, and he enjoyed doing so. The sizzle of anger I felt was enough to make me want to rise out of my seat.
"Oh no, Oh no, William. This is up to you, now, to figure out what I'm 'gonna do.' You see, it wasn't up to me when you stayed out alllll night with some green-eyed floozy and then it was NOT UP TO ME when you lied about said floozy the several times I asked where you were at two, three, four in the -"
"Jenna we've discussed that enough. What we're discussing currently are your plans for the future." He spoke in that patronizing monotone that made me want to smash his head in.
I smashed my glass against the wall instead.
"I will say when we've discussed YOUR CHEATING ON ME 'enough!' But I know one thing for damn sure, and that's that twelve hours of 'discussing' your ADULTERY was not enough. Not by a long shot, William. I'll call you up every day if I have to, if that's what is going to make ME feel better, I'll call you up and tell you what a miserable, insufferable pig you are. And once you stop taking my calls, oh you can bet a silver dollar I'll be showin' up at your place to tell you in person you despicable COWARD!"
I collapsed to the floor, sobbing into a glittery mess of citrus. My head was already pounding out of my skull from the last several times I'd burst into tears just hours before.
"Jen - Jenna, please." His tone broke into something soft and tender that I recognized. It was the same voice he used when we chatted about baby names over our honeymoon breakfast. He'd liked David for a boy but I thought it was much too stuffy. He'd giggled and hugged me close, just because he wanted to hug me.
"There's glass in your hand, Jenna. Let me clean it out." He'd already grabbed a pair of tweezers from the junk drawer in the kitchen, and was meticulously, gently pulling the bits from my palm and into his napkin.
I pulled away from him as much as I could.
"Thanks." I grumbled at my feet.
He wiped my hand clean, then got up to get a compress for it, but I put my hand on his knee.
"Let it bleed."
He shrugged and sat against the wall next to me, knowing that sometimes I just want things to be unkempt, and sometimes I don't make much sense. He knows a lot about me, Billy. He knows a lot.
"Jenna I fucked up. Royally. I had so much going right for me, with you. Remember that summer we spent together, in college? We'd get drunk in the middle of the day, eating watermelons and Popsicles, and that one time we scared the neighbor's kids so badly that - "
" - that they called the police." we laughed together. I could feel the blood from my hand drip delicately onto the linoleum.
"I don't know what I'm going to do without you, Jen. You've added so much life, and fun, and spirit into me. I just don't know what I'm gonna do..."
He lifted his hand to my chin, and when I looked into his eyes I swear it seemed his pupils were cracked in half with the pain.
"...kiss me? Just one last time." A layer of tears wobbled in the front of his eyes.
I pressed my eyelids together and tried to ignore that feeling you get when everything is coming apart. Like the ground is crumbling right out from under you.
"Oh, Billy..." I raised my own, bloodied hand towards his scruffy cheek.
I flattened out my palm and wiped it across his mouth, staining it red as I stood from my spot on the floor.
"I think you'll fucking manage."
Bit 14
When we were ten, we hung out in my parent's basement, blowing soap bubbles out of plastic pipes and playing dress up in my mother's winter clothing.
The heat and the humidity never stopped us; we'd run about outside, collecting different types of leaves to make into a heaping, muddy stew for 'dinner' that day. We'd share secrets and laugh obnoxiously loud just because we were outside and we were allowed to do that. We'd share those twin Popsicles and we'd wipe our sticky mouths with our sleeves.
We'd steal my brother's pocket knife and dig it into our plastic dolls to see if they'd still cry like they do when they need to be changed.
We had so many questions, and the answers, no matter how detailed, never seemed satisfying enough.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Bit 13
There once was a little girl who couldn't make her eyes stop leaking.
She tried to fill the holes up with happy memories and glitter stickers and good books.
But the holes just got bigger and bigger until the holes got hungry.
The holes got hungry and they wanted more than tears.
They wanted her confidence. Her smile. Her strength.
They're starving, so the girl has to find new things to feed them.
Things that little girls shouldn't even dream of in their nightmares.
There once was a little girl who couldn't make her eyes stop leaking.
She tried to fill the holes up with happy memories and glitter stickers and good books.
But the holes just got bigger and bigger until the holes got hungry.
The holes got hungry and they wanted more than tears.
They wanted her confidence. Her smile. Her strength.
They're starving, so the girl has to find new things to feed them.
Things that little girls shouldn't even dream of in their nightmares.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Bit 12
"I mean seriously, does Mr. Williams think all we've got to do all weekend is study? For real? Who has time for reading when we've got loads of parties to hit!" Jenna smiles at me and bumps the side of her hip against mine playfully as we close our school lockers.
Jenna's hair always fell in perfect gold curls down her shoulders. She only wore three colors - black, red, and gray. But however she wore them, she still had an innocence deep inside of her that always found it's way out, glowed around her face. An innocence that easily bought her whatever she needed from her parents, A's from the gym teachers, and dates with the hottest guys in our grade, and even a few above us. I'd heard a rumor the year before that Jenna had done "everything" necessary to get an A in her French class, and Mr. Jameson the French teacher, sure did seem awfully happy with her that year.
But we're a duo now so I can't let her know I think this sort of stuff about her. I'm the wingman that spreads even nastier rumors about the girls who are spreading rumors in the first place.
(brb to write more. and better, hopefully.)
"I mean seriously, does Mr. Williams think all we've got to do all weekend is study? For real? Who has time for reading when we've got loads of parties to hit!" Jenna smiles at me and bumps the side of her hip against mine playfully as we close our school lockers.
Jenna's hair always fell in perfect gold curls down her shoulders. She only wore three colors - black, red, and gray. But however she wore them, she still had an innocence deep inside of her that always found it's way out, glowed around her face. An innocence that easily bought her whatever she needed from her parents, A's from the gym teachers, and dates with the hottest guys in our grade, and even a few above us. I'd heard a rumor the year before that Jenna had done "everything" necessary to get an A in her French class, and Mr. Jameson the French teacher, sure did seem awfully happy with her that year.
But we're a duo now so I can't let her know I think this sort of stuff about her. I'm the wingman that spreads even nastier rumors about the girls who are spreading rumors in the first place.
(brb to write more. and better, hopefully.)
Whoops!
So I wrote yesterday's bit of fiction on the back of my math final... and then I turned it in. So I felt like I wrote yesterday, but I guess technically I didn't. So you guys get two today, and I still owe another extra piece in the future. :)
Bit 11
We sit awkwardly over dinner, sharing the very basics of our lives. He asks questions and I give him monosyllabic answers because I don't think he deserves much more.
A waitress walks by and refills my sweet tea. I smile a bit and thank her.
"Heh, you always did like sweet tea. That's something you and your sister have in common" my father smiled and tried again to make a connection.
"Stepsister. Sarah's my stepsister, Dad."
My father nodded slightly and stared down at his plate.
"I - I know. I just..."
Seeing that much weakness in my father made me angry, volatile almost. He's supposed to be my rock, and here he is, being broken down by his own daughter. How'd this happen?
"You just what? Got your new life confused with your old one for a minute?" I jeered at my father.
hah. "My Father." The man who left when I was seven and began a whole new life with some blonde woman from work, who I eventually learned was his assistant. I know the cliche emotions that a child goes through during a divorce - My mom bought me lots of books on it to avoid having to actually talk about it - but I can't seem to avoid feeling them. I'm angry and I'm hurt and I feel kind of guilty whenever I even see him. I remember him teaching me how to build a fire, how to play basketball, how to cheat in a game of cards.
He had a lot of life back then.
Now he's got this emptiness in him that I don't understand, that I don't have a place for.
I know I love him. But all I can feel is the sharpness of my anger.
"It's been five years, Dad, and that's enough for you, I guess. But not for me. I still have a hole where my Dad used to be. My REAL Dad."
I saw him nod his head again and bite at his lip to keep from crying. He stayed seated, staring at his plate, as I collected my things and walked away.
Bit 11
We sit awkwardly over dinner, sharing the very basics of our lives. He asks questions and I give him monosyllabic answers because I don't think he deserves much more.
A waitress walks by and refills my sweet tea. I smile a bit and thank her.
"Heh, you always did like sweet tea. That's something you and your sister have in common" my father smiled and tried again to make a connection.
"Stepsister. Sarah's my stepsister, Dad."
My father nodded slightly and stared down at his plate.
"I - I know. I just..."
Seeing that much weakness in my father made me angry, volatile almost. He's supposed to be my rock, and here he is, being broken down by his own daughter. How'd this happen?
"You just what? Got your new life confused with your old one for a minute?" I jeered at my father.
hah. "My Father." The man who left when I was seven and began a whole new life with some blonde woman from work, who I eventually learned was his assistant. I know the cliche emotions that a child goes through during a divorce - My mom bought me lots of books on it to avoid having to actually talk about it - but I can't seem to avoid feeling them. I'm angry and I'm hurt and I feel kind of guilty whenever I even see him. I remember him teaching me how to build a fire, how to play basketball, how to cheat in a game of cards.
He had a lot of life back then.
Now he's got this emptiness in him that I don't understand, that I don't have a place for.
I know I love him. But all I can feel is the sharpness of my anger.
"It's been five years, Dad, and that's enough for you, I guess. But not for me. I still have a hole where my Dad used to be. My REAL Dad."
I saw him nod his head again and bite at his lip to keep from crying. He stayed seated, staring at his plate, as I collected my things and walked away.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Bit 10
Rock bottom in Mel's Story. I've been watching too much 'Intervention'
I know that feeling, that feeling that's behind his skin. Right about now the whole room just got fifty times smaller, and in a few moments all he'll be able to hear is his heart beating and he won't be able to breathe evenly. I've felt that before dozens of times because I've seen a lot of scary shit. Shit you wouldn't believe. Now my brother's seeing it, too.
"Mel. Put that fucking needle down." Afton's face was blank with this really frightening mixture of shock and disgust.
I had my palms pressed against my temples, the slick tip of a needle slicing ever so gently into my forehead. Yeah, it's kind of messed up, but that dissection, the splitting of my skin puts everything into such a pleasant perspective. It's like when you're a little kid and you get to lick the icing off the bottom of all the candles on your birthday cake. Because it's your birthday, and those are your candles.
Afton doesn't get it.
"You can't understand, Afton. There's - there's a pressure, in the back of my skull and it just builds and builds until I can't see anymore. And this shit gives me sight! It let's me live. It gives - "
"It is going to kill your unborn child. Jesus, do you hear? Did you hear the words that I just said? YOUR UNBORN CHILD. This isn't about you. How you feel, what you want. It's about someone else now. Jesus Christ." Afton started crying and I could see all of our memories dripping down his nose.
"I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. But I need it, alright? I mean I think after this one time, then I could probably stop. But just this one more time." I was getting a little disgusted with myself as well, but it wasn't really me talking at this point. My mouth tasted salty and I realized I was crying, too.
"Melanie. Come the fuck on. Seriously? This is where we are? I mean look at yourself -" Afton grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me in front of the mirror above the dresser.
"That's YOU, Mel. That mess is what is now you. It isn't the drug, this is who you've become." Afton could hardly speak, but he was getting angrier. I couldn't see myself like he wanted me to, the pressure was in the way. Like when you smear your glasses and everything is just a runny mixture of colors. But I could taste my tears.
"Go ahead and fuck up your life, if that's what you want. But at least -" Afton had to take a second to breathe because he was so upset "at least be fair to that baby. I'll turn you in if I have to, Mel. If that's what it takes to make you save your own God Forsaken child, I'll turn you right over. Just fucking think for a second. Quit "feeling" and think."
He grabbed my hands and pressed them against my own belly with him sobbing into the back of my hair.
Ezra started kicking.
Everything changed right then.
Rock bottom in Mel's Story. I've been watching too much 'Intervention'
I know that feeling, that feeling that's behind his skin. Right about now the whole room just got fifty times smaller, and in a few moments all he'll be able to hear is his heart beating and he won't be able to breathe evenly. I've felt that before dozens of times because I've seen a lot of scary shit. Shit you wouldn't believe. Now my brother's seeing it, too.
"Mel. Put that fucking needle down." Afton's face was blank with this really frightening mixture of shock and disgust.
I had my palms pressed against my temples, the slick tip of a needle slicing ever so gently into my forehead. Yeah, it's kind of messed up, but that dissection, the splitting of my skin puts everything into such a pleasant perspective. It's like when you're a little kid and you get to lick the icing off the bottom of all the candles on your birthday cake. Because it's your birthday, and those are your candles.
Afton doesn't get it.
"You can't understand, Afton. There's - there's a pressure, in the back of my skull and it just builds and builds until I can't see anymore. And this shit gives me sight! It let's me live. It gives - "
"It is going to kill your unborn child. Jesus, do you hear? Did you hear the words that I just said? YOUR UNBORN CHILD. This isn't about you. How you feel, what you want. It's about someone else now. Jesus Christ." Afton started crying and I could see all of our memories dripping down his nose.
"I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. But I need it, alright? I mean I think after this one time, then I could probably stop. But just this one more time." I was getting a little disgusted with myself as well, but it wasn't really me talking at this point. My mouth tasted salty and I realized I was crying, too.
"Melanie. Come the fuck on. Seriously? This is where we are? I mean look at yourself -" Afton grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me in front of the mirror above the dresser.
"That's YOU, Mel. That mess is what is now you. It isn't the drug, this is who you've become." Afton could hardly speak, but he was getting angrier. I couldn't see myself like he wanted me to, the pressure was in the way. Like when you smear your glasses and everything is just a runny mixture of colors. But I could taste my tears.
"Go ahead and fuck up your life, if that's what you want. But at least -" Afton had to take a second to breathe because he was so upset "at least be fair to that baby. I'll turn you in if I have to, Mel. If that's what it takes to make you save your own God Forsaken child, I'll turn you right over. Just fucking think for a second. Quit "feeling" and think."
He grabbed my hands and pressed them against my own belly with him sobbing into the back of my hair.
Ezra started kicking.
Everything changed right then.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
I missed a day. I'll write twice some day to make up for it.
Bit 9
I can feel all of my potential solidifying, cementing itself into my tendons.
I remember when weekends were the only thing I wanted, when I would eat sugary cereals and wake up at 7 a.m. just to watch Charlie Brown. When my sisters and I would wear the same pajamas in different colors and sing along with Celine Dion songs while scuffing around on the living room floor in our fuzzy socks.
Now all I can think about is time, how much of it I'm wasting, how much more I need, how little energy I have left to give. It hurts to try and work at anything, it makes me emotionally exhausted.
After just ten hours of being awake I'm ready to pass right back out, but I'm never completely asleep. His dark shadow creeps up from beneath the little glowing creases around the edges of my bedroom door and I can't breathe.
There's a glint of silver and I can hear the air in front of me rip open, the stink of his skin, and I'm never completely asleep.
I can feel all of my potential solidifying, cementing itself into my tendons.
I remember when weekends were the only thing I wanted, when I would eat sugary cereals and wake up at 7 a.m. just to watch Charlie Brown. When my sisters and I would wear the same pajamas in different colors and sing along with Celine Dion songs while scuffing around on the living room floor in our fuzzy socks.
Now all I can think about is time, how much of it I'm wasting, how much more I need, how little energy I have left to give. It hurts to try and work at anything, it makes me emotionally exhausted.
After just ten hours of being awake I'm ready to pass right back out, but I'm never completely asleep. His dark shadow creeps up from beneath the little glowing creases around the edges of my bedroom door and I can't breathe.
There's a glint of silver and I can hear the air in front of me rip open, the stink of his skin, and I'm never completely asleep.
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