If she had been more careful, they wouldn't have found out. Found out that she was a liar, a betrayer. If she had been more careful her ex wouldn't have told his ex. If she had been more careful his ex wouldn't have felt the need to tell her that he had cheated on them both. If she had been more careful he wouldn't have been crying to his best friend. If she had been more careful things would still be the same. If she had been more careful she wouldn't be cutting her fingers on the broken glass of her mind. If she had been more careful everyone involved wouldn't be in this much pain. If she had been more careful maybe she wouldn't hate herself more that they did. If she had been more careful maybe she wouldn't have cried herself to sleep for a week. If she had been more careful none of this would have happened. If she had been more careful she wouldn't be as broken as she is now. If she had been more careful she never would have had sex with a guy she barely knew.
If she had been more careful, maybe her heart wouldn't hurt so much.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Late Nights and Bad Thoughts
Whenever she sees someone with scars on their arms she always wants to ask "What's your trauma?" She knows her own well enough, everyone keeps telling her what it is. She has learned not to speak of the time when she stayed up late, when he shoved his tongue in her mouth and his hand down her jeans. It didn't happen to her anyway. She watched it happen, floating above her body, limbs useless and mind frozen in shock. She has learned to laugh it off when people ask why she gets so still at the sight of a can of Skoal Green Apple flavored chewing tobacco.
The kid who sits next to her in the Intro to Psych summer course she is taking has cigarette burns all over his left forearm. She wants to ask him his reasons so badly she has to cough sometimes to dislodge the words in her throat. She doesn't wonder why the professor hasn't called him out on it, she learned long ago that people see what they want to see, they way they see cat scratches in the thick scars on her arms. She wants to laugh at their self imposed blindness. The way she is now people have a hard time believing that she would ever purposely hurt herself. She has learned how to act happy and always have a smile on her face, she learns quickly.
Sometimes, though, she forgets the way she is supposed to act and she cries herself to sleep. All she really wants most nights is a warm body beside her to keep the nightmares at bay, someone to sing her to sleep the way her mother used to do when she was a small child, and rub her back and pet her head and tell her everything is okay, it was just a bad dream, go back to sleep, when she wakes up screaming and shaking. She doesn't want to wake up with someone's hand down her pants again, ingraining in her mind that people are not to be trusted. Sometimes she thinks about going somewhere where no one knows who she is or who her parents are and getting a small loft and filling it with so many books that she can't hear her own thoughts anymore. Maybe her own pack of dogs to guard her from humans and nightmares while she sleeps. She knows that life could never be as simple as she imagines it, so she sits in her Intro to Psych course next to the kid with the burns on his arm, choking on her questions because she wants to know so badly it almost makes her cry, and tries to learn other things. Maybe she can learn enough that she can fix herself, patch the bits that are crumbling away like old castle walls. It's a long shot, she knows, but these days what isn't?
The kid who sits next to her in the Intro to Psych summer course she is taking has cigarette burns all over his left forearm. She wants to ask him his reasons so badly she has to cough sometimes to dislodge the words in her throat. She doesn't wonder why the professor hasn't called him out on it, she learned long ago that people see what they want to see, they way they see cat scratches in the thick scars on her arms. She wants to laugh at their self imposed blindness. The way she is now people have a hard time believing that she would ever purposely hurt herself. She has learned how to act happy and always have a smile on her face, she learns quickly.
Sometimes, though, she forgets the way she is supposed to act and she cries herself to sleep. All she really wants most nights is a warm body beside her to keep the nightmares at bay, someone to sing her to sleep the way her mother used to do when she was a small child, and rub her back and pet her head and tell her everything is okay, it was just a bad dream, go back to sleep, when she wakes up screaming and shaking. She doesn't want to wake up with someone's hand down her pants again, ingraining in her mind that people are not to be trusted. Sometimes she thinks about going somewhere where no one knows who she is or who her parents are and getting a small loft and filling it with so many books that she can't hear her own thoughts anymore. Maybe her own pack of dogs to guard her from humans and nightmares while she sleeps. She knows that life could never be as simple as she imagines it, so she sits in her Intro to Psych course next to the kid with the burns on his arm, choking on her questions because she wants to know so badly it almost makes her cry, and tries to learn other things. Maybe she can learn enough that she can fix herself, patch the bits that are crumbling away like old castle walls. It's a long shot, she knows, but these days what isn't?
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Thoughts at an Obscene Hour
It is a beautiful hour in the darkness before dawn. There is no one in the hallways, and for a brief time almost everyone is asleep, and those who aren't are silent. It is easy to believe that the Apocalypse has come and I am the only one who did not receive the memo, with the dorms silent around me and no light in the skies. When I am awake in these hours, I feel at peace. Peace that I only feel floating in water, with my eyes closed and my ears submerged, surrounded by nothing but my breathing and my heartbeat loud in my ears. Living in a landlocked state it is hard to find a body of water that has a pulse, like the ocean. Here I must make do with the roaring arteries, waterfalls of veins, instead of the beating heart of the waves. But in this hour when the moon has set and the sun has yet to rise, when the stars are the only meager light, I can feel the ocean beat in my blood, relaxing the tension of the future. Sitting on the roof, where I am not supposed to be, a slight breeze teases my hair into dance. I can feel it leap with a joy awoken by the wind, a joy that I wish I felt.
I watch the sun rise, it does so quickly, like a nature video on fast forward. Ruby turns to amethyst turns to sapphire turns to periwinkle. The dew catches the light and sets the grass on fire, newly emerald stalks blazing with light. It is beautiful, these hours when I am the only one awake, caught in stasis that I wish could last forever, building dreams made of gossamer and glass. An alarm clock shatters the silence and I am pulled back to reality. If only the night could last forever.
I watch the sun rise, it does so quickly, like a nature video on fast forward. Ruby turns to amethyst turns to sapphire turns to periwinkle. The dew catches the light and sets the grass on fire, newly emerald stalks blazing with light. It is beautiful, these hours when I am the only one awake, caught in stasis that I wish could last forever, building dreams made of gossamer and glass. An alarm clock shatters the silence and I am pulled back to reality. If only the night could last forever.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Tapping the Crazy Keg: Entry 1
I have noticed lately that my life has become suspiciously like the song 'Shy' by Ani di Franco. I am not sure how I should feel about this, other than I do so enjoy the song. I am also worried about my math class tomorrow, as I have missed the last one because of a migraine. Waking up with migraines, I must confess, is one of the greatest pleasures life has ever given me (I hope that you can see the sarcasm dripping from that sentence). We are learning about annuities and such things, but we have probably moved on already to something new. It's something that no one really teaches you, college classes move so fast compared to high school, being taught something new each and every class. I must confess it is exhilarating, but if you miss a class you are so fucked it's almost funny.
I'm currently taking a break from my catch-up maths homework, writing this and talking to a friend of mine (the one who is currently making my life seem like that song I mentioned earlier) about his troubles and doubts. I wish I was human at times like this, instead of just acting it. When I say 'I wish I was human' I don't mean that I am some type of cryptid (although that would be pretty cool, I think). What I mean is that I don't feel emotions the same way others seem to, I can understand other species more than I can understand my own, which is kinda sorta sad. I know the underlying motives for people, group dynamics and herd/pack instinct and all that, but interacting with humans? Ha. Been on my own, lost among pages and fur, for to long. I can hold a conversation and I've even had a boyfriend, which I suppose makes me a damn good actress, but I just wish that all these feelings and emotions and all the things I pretend were real and I didn't have to pretend anymore... If I didn't have morals, I think I would make a damn good psychopath.
Anyway, I think that's enough for a little while, hahahaha. Hope I haven't scared any readers off (if I actually have any). The next bit of Ghost Girl should be up soon!
I'm currently taking a break from my catch-up maths homework, writing this and talking to a friend of mine (the one who is currently making my life seem like that song I mentioned earlier) about his troubles and doubts. I wish I was human at times like this, instead of just acting it. When I say 'I wish I was human' I don't mean that I am some type of cryptid (although that would be pretty cool, I think). What I mean is that I don't feel emotions the same way others seem to, I can understand other species more than I can understand my own, which is kinda sorta sad. I know the underlying motives for people, group dynamics and herd/pack instinct and all that, but interacting with humans? Ha. Been on my own, lost among pages and fur, for to long. I can hold a conversation and I've even had a boyfriend, which I suppose makes me a damn good actress, but I just wish that all these feelings and emotions and all the things I pretend were real and I didn't have to pretend anymore... If I didn't have morals, I think I would make a damn good psychopath.
Anyway, I think that's enough for a little while, hahahaha. Hope I haven't scared any readers off (if I actually have any). The next bit of Ghost Girl should be up soon!
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Ghost Girl; Chapter 5, Part 2
Chapter Five, Part Two: Between Idea and Reality
It is the weekend. He has no business being awake this early on a Saturday, but he can't go back to sleep. After about an hour he gives up on sleep and gets dressed. Downstairs he make breakfast for himself, his parents are already at work. Five eggs, scrambled with cheese and tobasco. Two pieces of toast with butter. Six strips of crispy bacon. A large glass of milk. It takes him approximately five minutes to polish everything off, another ten to clean the pan and put things in the dishwasher, and then he is out the door. He knows, at least subconsciously, where he is going. He is going to the place he should not go, trying to find the girl that he should not talk to. The woods are cool, a reminder that winter will soon be there. He walks quickly, hoping to see the silent girl with coppery brown hair, surrounded by dogs. He wants to ask her who she is, tell her about the Ghost Girl in his school. He wants to hear her speak, he wants to know what class she is in, if she goes to his school. He wants to know why he has only seen her the one time and why he can't get her out of his mind. His feet move quicker as the questions build in his mind, imaginary conversation playing out and ending and starting again. He can see paw prints frozen in the mud, and he thinks he will see her again before the reality hits him. Disappointment, for something he hadn't know he was looking forward to, makes his breakfast sit like lead in his stomach. She is not here. He has combed the woods almost daily since he saw her, looking for her, wanting to see her again. He has neither seen nor heard a trace of her or her mismatched pack. He keeps coming back here in hopes that she will be there again one day. It will be two and a half more years before that day comes.
It is the weekend. He has no business being awake this early on a Saturday, but he can't go back to sleep. After about an hour he gives up on sleep and gets dressed. Downstairs he make breakfast for himself, his parents are already at work. Five eggs, scrambled with cheese and tobasco. Two pieces of toast with butter. Six strips of crispy bacon. A large glass of milk. It takes him approximately five minutes to polish everything off, another ten to clean the pan and put things in the dishwasher, and then he is out the door. He knows, at least subconsciously, where he is going. He is going to the place he should not go, trying to find the girl that he should not talk to. The woods are cool, a reminder that winter will soon be there. He walks quickly, hoping to see the silent girl with coppery brown hair, surrounded by dogs. He wants to ask her who she is, tell her about the Ghost Girl in his school. He wants to hear her speak, he wants to know what class she is in, if she goes to his school. He wants to know why he has only seen her the one time and why he can't get her out of his mind. His feet move quicker as the questions build in his mind, imaginary conversation playing out and ending and starting again. He can see paw prints frozen in the mud, and he thinks he will see her again before the reality hits him. Disappointment, for something he hadn't know he was looking forward to, makes his breakfast sit like lead in his stomach. She is not here. He has combed the woods almost daily since he saw her, looking for her, wanting to see her again. He has neither seen nor heard a trace of her or her mismatched pack. He keeps coming back here in hopes that she will be there again one day. It will be two and a half more years before that day comes.
Ghost Girl; Chapter 5, Part 1
Chapter Five, Part One: Sand and Blood
She hates days like this. When she opens her eyes it feels like all the sands of the Sahara Desert have found their way between her eyelids. When she tries to move pain flares in every corner of her body. She curses at the people she didn't know who thought it would be sooooo hilarious to push her down some stairs. The fingers on her left hand hurt because some random person stepped on them while she was trying to peel herself off the floor at the bottom of said stairs. The nurse had questioned her about how she had gotten hurt, and all she had told the nurse was the truth. She had fallen down the stairs.
It is a Saturday morning and the alarm doesn't go off on Saturdays. She can feel Whisper at her side, warmth radiating from the dog like heat from a woodstove. Two other dogs are draped across the foot of her bed, she doesn't want to move to see which ones they are because the pain has only just started to subside. She sighs and feels Whisper sigh along with her, before snuggling closer to her human's bruised side. The dog's heat makes the constant ache there fade a little. She sighs again.
She thinks back to the day, two days ago, a Thursday, when she had been licking her wounds (so to speak) in the library. She hadn't realized that he went to the same school as her, which was stupid, considering that this school was the only high school in the district. She still doesn't know his name, still doesn't know why he interrupted her thoughts so often. Still doesn't know why he helped her. If she concentrates hard enough she can still feel his hand taking hers, warm and dry and real. Human contact that she, other than her parents, has never had. She is craving it now, like she imagines a junkie craves the next fix.
And suddenly she misses her old school, her old life; where she was ignored, but not hated. Where she didn't think of a boy she had only seen twice, crave the feeling of his hand in hers. She wishes that she had never come here, wishes for her old house, her old woods. She feels tears start to slid down her face, falling from the corners of her eyes into her hair and ears. She raises an arm, oblivious to the pain that shrieks down her side, to cover her eyes as silent sobs shake her.
Yeah, she definitely hates days like this...
She hates days like this. When she opens her eyes it feels like all the sands of the Sahara Desert have found their way between her eyelids. When she tries to move pain flares in every corner of her body. She curses at the people she didn't know who thought it would be sooooo hilarious to push her down some stairs. The fingers on her left hand hurt because some random person stepped on them while she was trying to peel herself off the floor at the bottom of said stairs. The nurse had questioned her about how she had gotten hurt, and all she had told the nurse was the truth. She had fallen down the stairs.
It is a Saturday morning and the alarm doesn't go off on Saturdays. She can feel Whisper at her side, warmth radiating from the dog like heat from a woodstove. Two other dogs are draped across the foot of her bed, she doesn't want to move to see which ones they are because the pain has only just started to subside. She sighs and feels Whisper sigh along with her, before snuggling closer to her human's bruised side. The dog's heat makes the constant ache there fade a little. She sighs again.
She thinks back to the day, two days ago, a Thursday, when she had been licking her wounds (so to speak) in the library. She hadn't realized that he went to the same school as her, which was stupid, considering that this school was the only high school in the district. She still doesn't know his name, still doesn't know why he interrupted her thoughts so often. Still doesn't know why he helped her. If she concentrates hard enough she can still feel his hand taking hers, warm and dry and real. Human contact that she, other than her parents, has never had. She is craving it now, like she imagines a junkie craves the next fix.
And suddenly she misses her old school, her old life; where she was ignored, but not hated. Where she didn't think of a boy she had only seen twice, crave the feeling of his hand in hers. She wishes that she had never come here, wishes for her old house, her old woods. She feels tears start to slid down her face, falling from the corners of her eyes into her hair and ears. She raises an arm, oblivious to the pain that shrieks down her side, to cover her eyes as silent sobs shake her.
Yeah, she definitely hates days like this...
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Ghost Girl; Chapter 4
Chapter Four: His Ghost Girl
The first time he notices her at school it is the flash of blue hair that draws his eye to her. She is wearing an oversized black hooded sweatshirt, loose faded blue jeans, glasses with thick black frames and purple earbuds in both ears. Tattered sneakers that looked as if they had been mud wrestling with lawnmower blades complete her outfit. He can't remember seeing her around before and he asks the group he hangs out with who she is that day as they all gather around the lunch table. This is the first time he will hear rumors about the ghost girl. His ghost girl, because as he listens to the rumors he can feel himself growing protective over this girl he has never spoken to and has only just noticed.
"I heard she's a lesbian."
"Oh yeah? Well I heard that she killed some people in the last place she lived in and moved here to get away from the cops."
"I heard that she's a whore. You can buy her for a fiver any night of the week."
"I heard she accused the football team at her last school of raping her. As if anyone would touch her with a ten-foot pole."
"I know, right? She fell from the top of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down."
Laughter follows each comment. His friends start to remind him of hyenas and the laughter is cloying in his ears. He leaves the table and no one notices, to absorbed in trying to out do each other with rumors about the chick that nobody will talk to. He finished lunch on one of the library couches, his back to the librarian's desk so they can't tell he is eating. Five minutes before the class bell rings he is done. He gathers the wrappers of his lunch and gets up to go. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and is turning to go when he sees something that he hadn't noticed before.
His ghost girl is on the floor, huddled in a corner created by two bookshelves. She is trying to make it look like she is interested in the books on either side of her, but he can see the way she is holding her wrist. He can see the way she is using her hair to hide the fact that her left cheek is red, like someone slapped her. her can see that the frames of her glasses have been cracked. He can see the minuscule flinch that moves her when he drops the remnants of his lunch into the trash bin. When he goes over to her and holds out his hand, he can see her trying to make herself smaller. It takes almost half a minute before she takes his hand.
He helps her up and he can see the way she holds herself, like her ribs are bruised or cracked. He holds her hand as he takes her to the infirmary. Neither of them say a word on the walk there, neither of them say a word as he leaves her by the infirmary door.
It will be two and a half more years before he hears her voice.
The first time he notices her at school it is the flash of blue hair that draws his eye to her. She is wearing an oversized black hooded sweatshirt, loose faded blue jeans, glasses with thick black frames and purple earbuds in both ears. Tattered sneakers that looked as if they had been mud wrestling with lawnmower blades complete her outfit. He can't remember seeing her around before and he asks the group he hangs out with who she is that day as they all gather around the lunch table. This is the first time he will hear rumors about the ghost girl. His ghost girl, because as he listens to the rumors he can feel himself growing protective over this girl he has never spoken to and has only just noticed.
"I heard she's a lesbian."
"Oh yeah? Well I heard that she killed some people in the last place she lived in and moved here to get away from the cops."
"I heard that she's a whore. You can buy her for a fiver any night of the week."
"I heard she accused the football team at her last school of raping her. As if anyone would touch her with a ten-foot pole."
"I know, right? She fell from the top of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down."
Laughter follows each comment. His friends start to remind him of hyenas and the laughter is cloying in his ears. He leaves the table and no one notices, to absorbed in trying to out do each other with rumors about the chick that nobody will talk to. He finished lunch on one of the library couches, his back to the librarian's desk so they can't tell he is eating. Five minutes before the class bell rings he is done. He gathers the wrappers of his lunch and gets up to go. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and is turning to go when he sees something that he hadn't noticed before.
His ghost girl is on the floor, huddled in a corner created by two bookshelves. She is trying to make it look like she is interested in the books on either side of her, but he can see the way she is holding her wrist. He can see the way she is using her hair to hide the fact that her left cheek is red, like someone slapped her. her can see that the frames of her glasses have been cracked. He can see the minuscule flinch that moves her when he drops the remnants of his lunch into the trash bin. When he goes over to her and holds out his hand, he can see her trying to make herself smaller. It takes almost half a minute before she takes his hand.
He helps her up and he can see the way she holds herself, like her ribs are bruised or cracked. He holds her hand as he takes her to the infirmary. Neither of them say a word on the walk there, neither of them say a word as he leaves her by the infirmary door.
It will be two and a half more years before he hears her voice.
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