Theater of the mind

Seasonal Fashion

2009-11-23T22:26:26Z

The world outside my window
Donned shades of winter fashion:
Pewter, onyx, and ivory.
The sky, the pine trees, and the houses
Prepared themselves for the runway,
Human eyes waiting to dissect
The wintry style,
But one tree raged against the fashion:
Autumn's fiery head stood higher
Than the rest,
Its gold and crimson
Devouring the dreariness of Winter.
It strutted down the runway,
Turning and posing
Until Time called Autumn
Back behind the stage.

Unworthy

2009-10-17T05:43:23Z

I don't deserve to be homecoming queen,
I'm just a kid with a simple dream:
To be happy, to love, to be loved...
What else can I ask for?

I won't achieve glee
If the crown was given to me,
I couldn't care less for it;
I don't need the title.

But I thank the voters,
Friends, teachers and other doters,
There's something they made me realize,
I truly am loved.

Thank you.

Mescaline Eyes

2009-09-20T04:00:57Z

Commuting from Atlanta to Chicago
In a fated airplane
Nearly killed a girl
With lovely mescaline eyes,
The plane came crashing
Toward Lake Michigan
That cloudy fall day
In the middle of September,
As people screamed
The girl stayed calm
Because she somehow knew
She was going to be alright,
She glanced around
At the crying children
And the fear-struck woman
In the adjacent seat,
The girl hoped
She didn’t look like her
Because she had no fear
In any corner of her heart,
She was no coward,
She was better than that,
She had a reason to live,
She wanted to lead people,
She wanted to give to the world,
She wanted to save lives,
She wanted to do more than live;
The girl with mescaline eyes
Could have died that day…
But she didn’t.

My, what strange weather you have there.

2009-09-14T03:22:19Z

I feel as though I live in Hawaii. It has rained four times today, but it is still warm outside. Last week the temperature hit the 80s and 90s. What's up with this weird weather?

I guess I don't really mind. We need the rain because we're in a drought, and I like the sound of the droplets hitting the ground and fallen leaves.

It has been decided

2009-09-12T03:25:49Z

I plan to major in architecture.

One of the last things I wrote

2009-08-12T19:07:40Z

This is the first essay in which I received an A, at least in my English 11 honors class. (The only other A I received was on my final.) My classmates expected me to do well because the theme of the paper was "new journalism." They knew I was a staff member of the school newspaper, but we don't do new journalism, just classic stuff.

Oddly enough, the subject of my essay is "stoners." And I'm not the kind of person who would go out and do drugs with people. However, I AM friends with people who do them.

The “heavenly” scent of marijuana saturates the disgusting pea green room in which 17-year-old Ben Gardner and his three friends sit on a shabby gray mattress and a chair as they smoke. They are unmindful of the graffiti-splattered walls that are decorated with holes larger than a person’s head, exposing the wooden planks that act as the framework of the tiny three-story house. They don’t pay attention to the linoleum floor, whose carpet consists of cans, bottles, ash, cigarette butts and other garbage. Even most of the furniture remain unobserved by the teens: the television set in the corner, the computer on the side and two small tables bombarded with various knick-knacks. They only have eyes for the weed-stuffed pipe in Gardner’s large hand.

Gardner stretches his neck as he puts his lips to the pipe, which he illuminates with a cheap lighter. He breathes in the impure smoke and holds it in for as long as his lungs allow him. One-two-thr... A stream of smoke escapes his pursed lips as his body wracks with coughs. The three other guys laugh at him; one of them snaps a picture, while the person next to Gardner eagerly takes the pipe and lighter. Tommy Halen leaps onto Gardner’s lap, knocking off his hat and nearly his glasses. He playfully grabs Gardner’s chin with one hand and holds the back of Gardner’s head with the other. As the photographer presses the button on his camera, Halen sticks out his tongue and scrunches his nose.

Although Gardner and his friends are typical teenagers, Gardner is not a typical stoner.

---

The cloud-blotted sky is a deep sapphire blue that late afternoon, and countless miles beneath it, Derek Foley stands with his feet firmly planted on the earth, attempting to take pictures of the azure blanket above him. He shuts his left eye and uses the right to peer through the viewfinder on his camera, but a shot of pain zaps his brain when he opens his eye. The throbbing worsens when he glances at the LCD screen on his camera; his blurry peripheral vision makes it difficult to focus on a single point.

It would have been a normal day for Foley, except his eyes have been irritating him. In fact, they have been preventing him from doing everyday tasks for a week. When he sits inside, watching hockey on TV, an idea strikes him like a jolt of electricity. He recalls that some people with glaucoma smoke to ease optical pressure, so he wonders if marijuana would reduce the throbbing.

Foley grabs his baggie of pot and sits in his chair on the apartment deck. The darkened blue sky peers down at him as he lights up for the first time in two to three weeks. Smoke languidly drifts toward the sky, who does not mind because she has no nose to smell the burning leaves, nor eyes to dry up from the lazy haze. After several relaxing minutes with his pot, Foley ambles inside and makes himself dinner, which he eats as he watches Curb Your Enthusiasm on HBO. Within 15 to 20 minutes, the pressure behind Foley’s eyes has faded like smoke.

---

Both Gardner and Foley are not stereotypical stoners, which seems to have gotten a derogatory connotation as of late, even among those who smoke marijuana. The word “stoner” does not define the individuals who enjoy the effects of smoking Cannabis sativa. There is much more substance to the person than the façade on which people base their judgments. However, others often associate the stereotype with rock music, hippies and lazy unintellectuals. Not all “potheads” listen to rock; many prefer hip-hop or rap, while others find beauty within classical music. More importantly, they can be intelligent or insightful.

“I imagine a long-haired 17- to 19-year-old male who listens to primarily generic heavy metal with a relatively low IQ,” Gardner said, describing what he believes is a typical pothead. “But I’m wicked smart. I hate generic music. My hair's not that long.”

For much of Gardner’s life, he believed in practicing a straightedge lifestyle: no drug or alcohol abuse and no promiscuous sex. He is aware of marijuana’s negative effects, which include distorted acuity, poor coordination and difficulty in thinking. Despite this, he chose to experiment with the drug two months ago during a party with about eight close friends. Around that time, his life had taken a nosedive, and he chose to use marijuana as an escape method.

However, the drug, along with his personal issues, has not dominated his life. He continues to maintain a 3.8 to 4.0 GPA in school, ranking him in the top 25 of his class.

“More often than not, I feel like my mind is all I have. Thus, my grades are all I have,” he said.

Gardner hopes to major in recording arts technology and to open his own recording studio. He is, after all, a musician—a guitarist, in fact. He also writes CD reviews and show reviews for websites, such as www.absolutepunk.net. Music and education are his life, and he would do anything to prevent the erosion of the two foundations of his existence. Even smoking.

“If I wanted to, I know for a fact I could stop today. But I don't want to, or see a need to at the moment. There’s no reason to stop,” he said. “If I found a band to play in that wanted me to quit, I probably would. [Smoking is] not the most important thing in my life. If it ever gets to that point, it will be because things have gone significantly downhill in all aspects of my life.”

Like Gardner, Foley received high grades while he attended high school, but he had “some troubles” at the end of his ninth grade year, in which he had a cumulative GPA of 3.7. As a result of his issues, which he clearly stated was irrelevant to his drug-usage, he ended up homeschooled. Despite this, he earned an ACT composite score of 26 out of 36; in 2008, the average was 21.1 (“ACT”). Foley plans to continue working on his education with a major in English, starting the fall of 2009.

“I hope someday to be a writer, but that dream may change to something more practical along the way,” Foley said.

Writing has always been his passion, and his eloquent vocabulary shows in his speech and works of worded art. Sometimes marijuana can even strengthen his “creative juices” by allowing him to come up with ideas that he would not usually think of in a state of sobriety. The drug clearly harms the brain, but it also frees an individual from mental restrictions, allowing people to discover “different phases of reality” (Ambrose).

People who do not take drugs like marijuana may not fully comprehend that liberty and other feelings that one receives from smoking pot. Some of the same people have a one-sided view of stoners; all potheads are supposedly depraved people, simply because they abuse an illegal drug. A single thing, action or thought does not give others enough information about a person to make a valid judgment.

Without a doubt, humans naturally categorize things, ideas, groups and even individuals, but labels may not always describe an object accurately. Stoners can be idiotic, intuitive, liberal, reserved, talented, quiet, loud, mature, immature and everything in between. One who supposedly fits that stereotype is actually an individual with exclusive thoughts and a distinct personality, and no label can truly describe him or her. Only the person’s name can provide the definition that humans tend to seek.

O theater

2009-07-15T17:08:46Z

I didn’t think I was ever going to talk about my trip to Las Vegas directly because I wanted to keep my experiences, discoveries, and feelings to myself. While this may seem as though I have strong emotional ties to the place, I must say I do not; I don’t like the idea that I was in a place called Sin City. Even though I may not enjoy gambling or such things, the grand shows always get me. (I admit the architecture there is quite lovely, too.)

This time it wasn’t just the characters and emanating feelings from the performances that stole my heart; this time it was the actual theater. As far as I remember, the O theater within Bellagio is the largest I have been in. Seats spread across the room like a vast ocean. The ceiling was a magnificent blue, with countless lights—Fresnels, ellipsoidals, spots—hanging off it. The stage was an entirely different world; from where I sat, I couldn’t even see the other side of the stage. The curtain, however, was out of this world.

Within the 17 years that I have lived, it is safe for me to say that this rich, scarlet curtain is one of the most majestic and beautiful things I have seen. The mile-high curtain was a breath-taking color of raw, profound love. Embellished with gold trim, it creased flawlessly as it covered the stage: Each crease appeared the same distance from each other, all like perfect, deliberate folds of honeycomb shades.

Maybe it was my biased theatrical mind that caused me to fall in love with this curtain and theater. If I wasn’t the least bit trained in performing arts—which I hardly am—then I don’t think I would have cared so much about the glorious O theater. I would have returned to my room that night, filled with fantastical thoughts about Cirque du Soleil’s crazy world and its colorful characters, but I wouldn’t have cared less about the beautiful place that ultimately houses the world of O.

∞

2009-07-02T18:13:05Z

Dear Eugen, my Eugen,
Does love rip your heart
As slow and as hard
As it tears mine?
My life will blow out,
While yours will last forever;
I will turn to dust,
Only as your hair turns grayer;
Nevertheless, my love--
Eugen, my love--
Was, is, and will be
Infinity.

Solus

2009-07-02T18:06:09Z

Despite the abundance of hominal living souls,
Humans are lonely creatures
That insist on being left alone,
Even as they beg for another's company.

To suffer as they do

2009-06-29T04:16:49Z

William Hayes was a gray, young man

With a long, gaunt face,

Pewter eyes,

And hair the color of moonlight.

Each day he gazed outside his window,

Beyond the rose bushes,

The neatly trimmed grass,

The stone fountain,

And the black iron gate.

His eyes followed the pitiable, ant-like humans

That scurried throughout the town,

Leading their secretly torturous lives;

William yearned to walk among them,

To be seen as one of them,

To suffer as they do,

But he knew that none of these things were possible.

William Hayes only interacted with the rich, unfortunate souls

Whom his parents invited to frequent parties.

Sometimes his parents’ friends brought their children:

Equally rich,

Equally unfortunate,

Some younger than William,

Some older,

Some about the same age.

Young maids found William attractive;

His permanent stoic expression,

Tall, lanky body,

And apparent loneliness

All made the young maids flock to him.

They desired to keep him company,

And they offered him kisses on the cheek

As “friendly” greetings when they met;

William accepted them out of courtesy.

He did not return them,

He did not smile,

He hardly even winced.

There was not a single aristocrat

Who ambled around his ornamental house

That could feed him satisfaction;

So he spent each day,
Gazing outside his window,

Beyond the rose bushes,

The neatly trimmed grass,

The stone fountain,

And the black iron gate,

Yearning to walk among the tortured ant-like humans,

To be seen as one of them,

To suffer as they do.

The Pain of Imagination and/or Reality

2009-05-18T22:56:51Z

Does it hurt
when you sleep?
when you imagine?
pretend?
dream?
Or does it hurt
when you open your eyes?

Without destruction

2009-04-15T02:50:00Z

There is something beautiful about destruction:
Majestic, roaring fires of ruby, amber and gold,
Consuming verdant giants and stoic homes;
The mushroom cloud made of dust, ashy snow and carnage:
The result of Truman's plan that killed thousands and saved thousands,
Oceanic rage formed by invisible steady breaths,
Crashing into sand, cities and hearts,
The pearls of tears that follow,
The glistening, crimon blood,
Binding humans together,
Closer than brothers and sisters,
Closer than the atoms that make us up;
Don't tell me those aren't beautiful;
Without destruction, there is no life,
Without life, there is no beauty.

We are wanderers

2009-04-15T02:04:23Z

Not only in our hearts,
But in the desolate streets of our minds,
We wander like homeless men--
Not the kind that stand on street corners
With cardboard signs,
But the ones who push treasure-filled carts,
The truly disturbed ones,
The ones with the voices in their heads,
The ones who are as lonely as stars,
We're not that different from them,
We share our disturbances
And our fear of being lonely forever--
Donnie, you're not the only one who is afraid;

We're just Joel,
Who fall in love with anyone
Who shows us the least bit of attention;
But where is our Clementine?
Oh, we forgot, we scared her away
With our irrational panic.
(You see, we fear love, but we search for it,
When people love us,
We push them away because we're terrified
That we can't give them enough--
That we're just not good enough.)

Maybe that's why we spend time
With ourselves at 6 a.m. in the backyard
Under the overcast sky,
Bound by spotty, wooden fences
But not our heads,
We talk to ourselves,
Verbalizing the lines of a play we made up
By ourselves--
That's all we ever are;
Maybe that's why we're trying to escape
Ourselves
By attempting to fly--
Pasting craft featers to our arms;
Our attempts never work,
But we don't know why,
We never know why;
Maybe that's why we're wandering
The streets of our minds like homeless men
For--
For what? Love? Yes, we almost forgot.

Repair me

2009-04-14T02:57:49Z

What difference does it make
That I’m made of flesh
And you of alloys?
Although your cold metal skin
Didn’t give me company
As we laid together, shivering
Under the moonlit sky,
I offered all the warmth I could give,
Even if hypothermia
Nearly snatched me away.
When my fingers snapped off
From tightening your bolts by hand,
The places where they broke
Cried like an infant’s eyes;
But neither of that matters,
I repaired you,
Will you repair me?

I give up for now

2009-04-13T19:46:51Z

I'm trying to write about something, but nothing comes out the way I want it to. I have written my one idea three different ways.

Guess what? I deleted them all.

Let's just say that I have no right to feel jealous.

Fear within love

2009-04-09T03:31:05Z

I don't tell my parents I'm depressed because
I fear they won't believe me.
I don't bother to cut myself because
I fear infection.
I don't try to run from home because
I fear I have no place to stay.
I don't bother to hate people because
I love them too much.

Quiet, not peaceful

2009-04-09T03:29:50Z

I live in a house
On a quiet street
With a quiet family
Who couldn't care less
About the things I did
Specially for them;
People inquire why
I seem so quiet,
But if I open my mouth
To answer their question,
They shut their ears
And forget I'm there.
Where can I run to
If I have no friends
Who'd take me in?
Where can I live
If there's no place where
I feel at home?
Where can I hide if
My own heart and mind
Are too barren for life?

Noises

2009-03-25T03:38:01Z

I can't take
the noises they make;
my ears magnify
the sounds
into ear-splitting yells
that stab
my brain.

Urban Catalyst

2009-03-17T03:12:22Z

I imported this from my old LJ account. Originally dated Aug. 6, 2008.

I thought I had seen it all at what the city called a "skate park". A couple graffiti'd ramps and scarred iron railings. That was all it was. A skate park? Pfft. It didn't even have any quarter pipes, but most of the city's decent skaters hung out here because it beat the streets and definitely the backyard. Without it, we'd be tearing up the city; they would call us another catalyst of urban decay. Some people, mainly tourists and other outsiders, found beauty within the deterioration, but all I saw were blackened sidewalks, fulsome hobos, a miasma of smog, and piles upon piles of trash. But maybe we were also classified as city trash. I knew some people certainly thought so.

So we all thought we had seen it all, but just as scientists discovered new species of living organisms every so often, I found my own new, colorful creature. She stood out against us guys, even when she skated, weaving in and around us. Most of us stared at her, wondering where she came from and who she might have arrived with.

"Did you see that?" My buddy, Jon, nudged me.
"You mean the girl?" I asked.
"Yeah, she does a wicked pop shove it."
"Anyone can do a pop shove it."
"But she's so good at it."
"You think it's amazing simply because she's a girl." Jon shrugged. "Do you know if she came with anyone?"
"Yeah." He pointed at four guys. "Aaron and David."

My heart sank. Aaron and David were younger than Jon and me, but they were good, like hardcore-skater good. You didn't talk to them about random crap; they came here to skate, so if you spoke to them, you discussed skating, naturally--and maybe smoking. I had never talked to them, let alone made eye contact, but from what I heard, mainly from Jon, who skated with them once, they were chill but dead serious about skating. I couldn't go up to them and ask about the girl because that was tacitly restricted. I couldn't approach the girl either because a) I didn't want to risk a fight with Aaron or David, in case she "belonged" to either of them and b) I was a girl/make-out dwarf.

Most girls didn't expect sixteen-year-old guys to be sex gods, but they assumed that we knew how to kiss properly, which, by the way, I had no knowledge of. At parties Jon introduced me to girls and initiated coversations for me, and each time I thought I was doing well, I'd screw up somehow. Usually I said something stupid, or I acted so astute, I sounded like a smart ass. I also messed up the few times when luck rolled my way. One time I bit a girl's tongue while we made out, and I squeezed another girl's breast so hard that she screamed and slapped me.

I wanted to put those things behind me and make myself believe I could speak to the girl, even if it resulted in a quarrel with Aaron or David. If I did it, I would finally prove to myself that I might not be a girl/make-out dwarf after all. Either I did it now, while she sat alone on a stone bench at the side of the skate park, or I would never be able to do it. Other guys might approach her, and I-- I needed to stop think about it and just do it.

From far away she appeared to have jet black hair and dark brown eyes, but when I sat down and glanced at her, I realized her eyes were actually hazel. She smiled at me, and I felt the corners of my lips turn up a bit. From the corner of my eye, I watched her nice legs, crossing and uncrossing. She wore those skinny jeans most girls--and some guys--had nowadays, but if she wore shorts or a skirt, I bet her legs would look great. I forced myself to tear my eyes away from her legs and set them on her face instead.

"So," I said. She turned her body toward me and returned the gaze. "What kind of board do you have?"

She flipped it over and showed me the graphics on the bottom of the deck. "An Enjoi."

"Lots of girls have Enjoi decks."

I didn't know any girl skaters, but I heard countless guys complain about the "gay" Enjoi panda. Apparently they were popular among girls, though.

She shrugged. "My friend, David, gave me the board after he bought a new one."

"Oh."

I glanced at Jon, who shook his head and grinned impishly when he spotted me.

"I'm Travis, by the way."
"Steph." She smiled. "I was watching you skate earlier."
"You were?"
"Yeah, you messed up the tre flip."

Heat rose to my cheeks, and Steph laughed at my apparent embarrassment. She set her hand on my arm as she did so, her hazel eyes squinting from the smile. A goofy grin slid across my face, and I began to feel more relaxed.

"It's funny when you blush because your neck turns red, too," she pointed out.

"My neck? How come nobody told me before? I could only feel the heat in my face."

"It's really cute," she said softly.

I smiled a little, and she squeezed my arm.

"Do you think you're good at skating?"

I shrugged. "I'm okay. David and Aaron are better."

Her gaze softened. "You shouldn't compare yourself to them."

"But everything is relative," I argued. "How do I know whether I'm good or not if I don't compare my skills to theirs?"

My voice sounded loud in comparison to the constant clacking of wood against cement, but nobody glanced at our direction. Steph was quiet, and she had removed her hand from my arm.

"There will always be someone better than you," she murmured.

"But I'm just as good as the rest of this city's trash."

She shook her head. "Don't say that."

"I already did."

A somber expression settled on Steph's face. Her lips were parted, as though she wanted to say something.

After a long pause, she muttered, "You're not like the others."

I glanced at her disconcertingly. "What others?" I was beginning to feel annoyed, but she still looked so pretty.

"The other guys." She gazed at the scene in front of us. "The city trash."

I didn't really know what happened, but suddenly her lips crashed against mine, both hungry and thirsty for the little I had to offer. As she grabbed the sides of my face with her warm, soft hands, I placed mine on her waist. Steph thrust her body closer to mine, her small chest rubbing up against me. I slid one of my hands on her leg, and she led it to the higher, inner part of her thigh. My insides burned with passion; I wanted Steph more than any other girl I had seen or touched.

Nobody stopped us as I expected, but when I pressed my lips harder against hers, gums meeting teeth, she pulled back quickly. Then I realized why. A dribble of blood oozed down from her bottle lip to her chin, and I tasted the metallic flavor on my own lips. I was doing fine, and I just had to bite her.

I reached out to wipe the blood away, but she raised her hand to her mouth before I could do anything.

"I'm really sorry," I said.

She shook her head and waved me away.

"I--I better go," I stuttered, walking briskly toward Jon.

As we left the skate park, he said, "You two looked like you were having a great time. Why didn't you say good bye to her when we passed by?"

"I already did," I lied.

I regretted not telling her goodbye because she didn't return the next day. The guys wondered why, but only I knew. It didn't seem as though her friends had any idea either, and that was fine with me. Part of me wished for her to stop by again, and another part didn't want to deal with the humiliation. But with her gone, trash was all that remained.

The World Has Ears

2009-03-17T02:44:04Z

I imported this entry from my old LJ account. Originally dated Aug. 6, 2008.

"Hi, Ray." Mrs. Fletcher motioned him inside to the heated household. "You look frozen. The weatherman says there's a chance of rain today, but I think it's just extremely cold."

Ray listened and nodded. He wanted to reply, but if he hand-signed something, Mrs. Fletcher wouldn't understand.

"Sammy is in her room, by the way. I don't think she feels like skateboarding. She looked lethargic when she came out from her room this morning."

Ray's right hand flashed two signs. Then he touched his chin and brought down the back of his hand to his palm.

Okay. Thanks.

He knew Sammy taught Mrs. Fletcher a couple things when she was taking the American Sign Language class last school year.

Ray weaved his way through the halls of the house with his skateboard in his left hand. He knew his way around the Fletcher home as though it was his own. The things concealed by closed doors were not unknown to him, and the last door in the hallway contained Sammy. He knocked. One heavy rap, then two quicker, quieter taps. It was his way of letting Sammy know it was him and not her mom or dad.

"Go away," a voice whined. "I'm busy right now. I don't want to skate."

It sounded muffled as though Sammy was speaking into her pillow. Ray immediately knew something was wrong, so without another knock, he slowly opened the door. The girl lay face down on her bed, turned away from the doorway. An open shoebox sat by her side, its contents scattered in front of her. Ray leaned his skateboard against the wall and carefully took a seat on the mattress without shaking it. He observed the items on the bed: birthday cards, pictures, a folded sheet of paper, and a necklace.

Sammy turned away from him so that he couldn't see her face. Ray stared intently at her until he noticed a clue to why his best friend was acting strangely. He snatched a photograph from Sammy's hand.

"Hey!" she screeched.

As she glared at him, he understood why she didn't want him to look at her. Tears filled her red, puffy eyes, and streaks stained her rosy cheeks. Ray knew she hated being caught acting weak because she "had" to stay strong for everyone.

He signed to her. Why are you crying over your ex-boyfriend?

"I found out Alex liked Mariela while we were going out." Sammy sighed.

Mariela was one of the girls she hung out with at school when she wasn't with Ray.

So? He was with you, not her.

"But he flirted with her." Sammy rolled over and placed her head on Ray's thigh. "He'd tickle her, and he would call for a group hug. Mariela would join us, and he'd squeeze her shoulder, just like he did to me when I felt stressed. I can't believe I didn't notice these things before."

I did. I watched him from far away, and he always hit on your friends.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" Sammy asked, irritated.

I did, but you didn't listen.

Guilt crept into Sammy's eyes. "I don't remember. I'm sorry."

She grabbed one of Ray's hands and squeezed it. He squeezed back and took his hand away to sign something.

How did you figure this out?

"About Alex and Mariela?" Ray nodded. "Yesterday Alex apparently visited our school. You know, he's a freshman in college now, and he has a brother our age."

Ray's eyes widened in disbelief. He's in college?

Sammy nodded. Shame was written all over her face.

I can't believe you dated a senior last year. We were only freshmen.

"I know. Anyway, he apparently flirted with Mariela again, and he told her he liked her while he and I were together. Mariela called me up and spilled everything."

Sammy sat up, hugged Ray's midsection, and nuzzled his neck. He tightened up at first, but after a couple seconds, he slowly began to relax, wishing Sammy would hold onto him forever. When Sammy started to shiver in her thin long sleeved shirt and jeans, he wrapped his arms around her and settled his head on top of hers. She scooted closer, and Ray's heartbeat kicked up several BPM. He hoped she couldn't hear the drumming of his heart.

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. I love you. I love you. I love you.

If he could do this right, then maybe the issue with his brother would be set straight. He didn't care much for Ma, and his dad deserted them years ago, so all he had was Ryan. Ray would do anything for his older brother. This time, he could only rescue him by getting him into trouble. Dear God, he hoped Ryan would understand.

"Ray?"

Sammy's quiet voice shattered his loud thoughts.

"Thanks for staying here, even though I told you to go away." He smiled. "Alex was a sadistic jerk. I can't believe I liked him, but he always had the best kisses."

Ray felt a pang of jealousy.

"I never liked guys who went crazy with the whole 'I-want-to-stick-my-tongue-down-your-throat' thing. That disgusts me. Alex always kissed me tenderly."

Maybe he had a lot of practice.

"I was his first girlfriend."

Ray was shocked. But he was a senior. He should have more experience. Besides, he could have kissed girls even though he wasn't their boyfriend.

A small, evil smile played on Sammy's lips. When it faded away, her face became serious. She peered up at Ray.

"Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to date my best friend instead."

Ray didn't hand-sign anything in return, but he stared back. She was testing him, and it wasn't fair because best friends weren't supposed to test each other. Did Sammy know he liked her? Probably not. He hid his feelings well--at least he thought he did.

It wouldn't be the same. I'm not Alex.

"You're right. You're Ray."

You wouldn't have ever tasted Alex's kisses.

"No, but I would have tasted yours instead."

Ray was failing Sammy's test, and they both knew it. They broke free from their embrace.

I wouldn't like to hurt our friendship.

"Is that true? Or would you be willing to risk it, just so you could kiss me?"

No, it wasn't true. Yes, he'd risk their friendship. A slow, profound anger began to sprout within him.

He evaded her questions. You don't even like me. You'd rather date a jerk than someone you know who actually loves you.

Ray was already hopping off her bed, ready to leave the house.

As he reached out for his skateboard, Sammy asked, "Do you love me?"

Ray flipped around and stared. She looked so vulnerable, just like an orphaned child. Her heart was unraveling, and Ray hated himself for wanting to fix it, to fix her.

"Do you love me as a best friend? Or do you love me even more?"

Ray simply stared.

"Tell me!"

He felt too afraid to answer.

So he left.

--------------------------------------------

As soon as his brother exited the apartment, Ryan dashed to his room. His blood screamed for crank. Meth, amp, speed! He only needed one line of that pretty, yellow crystal. One line and he would feel satisfied. The eightball under his mattress was waiting for him--or so he thought.

When he reached his room, he couldn't find the plastic baggy anywhere. He tore through his bedsheets and clothes, his closet, and all the crooks and nannies in his bedroom. Adrenaline pumped through his meth-starved bloodstream. Where the hell did he put it?

Panic began to surge through him when he realized that Ma might have found out. Ryan didn't care much about getting in trouble as to the cash he spent on the one-eighth ounce of meth. He foraged the couch, on account of that was where his mom slept. It wasn't there. Damnshitfuck.

Then it hit him.

His brother found out, not Ma. He probably went to warn her. Stupid cunt. Usually the kid would keep secrets to himself because mute kids didn't talk, but this time... It blows.

Ryan sat down on the worn, lumpy couch, which faced the doorway. As soon as his brother strolled in, Ryan would leap for his throat. A malicious, fox-like smile touched his lips.

--------------------------------------------

Sammy tore up the sidewalk with her skateboard as she endeavored to chase Ray back to his apartment. He had a two minute head start; she had to pile on the layers of clothing, and she had to grab her board from the garage. Then Mom pestered her about getting home before sundown, even though they couldn't see the sun. Luckily, the chilly weather begged people to remain indoors, so Sammy didn't worry too much about crashing into other human beings.

As she ollied over a gaping crack in the sidewalk, she thought about how funny it was that she and Ray skated to chill out and relax. In her current position, she faced the opposite of that peaceful feeling she usually received while she rode. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest, and her foggy breath came in ragged gasps. The cold bit at her frozen face, numbing it even more. With each push of her back leg, she didn't think she could go on for much longer.

Then she thought of Ray. She felt stupid for all the things she said, but he wanted to know if he loved her because she doubted he would tell her before she said anything. After her disastrous relationship with Alex, she realized Ray would be the only guy for her. He comforted her when she broke up with Alex, and he always knew how to console her.

Ever since she stood up for him that one day, they had always been close. Although Ray couldn't talk, he was still allowed into the same high school, which had a special program for deaf or mute students. Most people accepted them, but there were, as there always were, the jerks who didn't want to share the air with students who were supposedly different from them.

The king of jerks, Jonah Cross, pinned Ray up against the wall of a classroom, and Sammy would never forget the defiant but fearful expression on Ray's face. He looked about ready to spit on Jonah, but he never did. She wished he would have done it, though. It would have been the greatest fuck you in the history of their high school.

If it weren't for Ray's priceless facial expression, she didn't think she would've tapped Jonah on the shoulder and popped him in the mouth. Neither Jonah or Ray expected it because their confused looks screamed, "What the hell?" After a couple more bashes in Jonah's face, she managed to wipe off the disgusting expression. A teacher discovered Jonah's unconscious body, and she waited for him to come to so that she could I.D. his assailant. Although she suspended Sammy for five days, Sammy won respect for the deaf-mute students, and she attained Ray's friendship.

She could not lose it now.

--------------------------------------------

"Hey, Ray. Where've you been?"

Ryan scowled at his brother from the ratty couch. He had waited; Ray had finally come home.

Sammy's house, Ray signed.

"Did you go anywhere else along the way?" Ryan stood up and took frighteningly slow footsteps towards Ray.

No, just the police station. He shook his head.

"Are you sure you didn't, like, visit Ma to tell her about my damn stash?" He bellowed the last part.

Ray glowered and shook his head fiercely, as though he could fling the lie out from his head. Staring straight into Ryan's eyes, he gave him the finger and turned away.

Ryan grabbed his brother by the shirt front and punched him. Hard.

--------------------------------------------

Sammy had to apologize to Ray. Otherwise, their friendship was over. The dread had begun to sink in, and it felt a hundred times worse than any breakup. When she walked into the apartment, she felt as though her heart dropped to her feet.

Ray shielded his face from Ryan's reckless blows and kneed him in the groin. The older brother collided into the kitchen's linoleum floor, breathing curses into the dirty plastic, while Ray glanced impotently from him to Sammy. As Sammy scurried over to Ray, Ryan dragged his brother down, and the two rolled around the apartment as they attempted to choke each other and yank at their hair.

"Stop!" Sammy shrieked. "What the hell are you both doing? Stop!"

Ryan bashed Ray's head against the floor and lunged for Sammy. He pinned her down on her back, forcing her to stare up at his wild, bruised face. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her ear.

"Make another sound, and I'll hurt you, too."

"GODDAMN ASS-FUCKER, GET THE HELL OFF ME!"

Sammy struggled to sit up and throw Ryan aside, but his strength and weight outmatched hers. Before he could do anything to hurt her further, a booming crash came from the doorway. Two cops aimed their guns at Ryan.

"Get off the girl now," the shorter one demanded.

Ryan stood up and held his hands in the air. The taller police officer twisted Ryan's arms behind his back and slapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. Ray slowly stood up and held his pounding head, while Sammy stared at the two cops in confusion.

"Is this your brother, the one you referred to earlier?" Short asked Ray, who nodded. "Who's the girl?"

Sammy pushed herself off the floor and answered, "I'm Ray's friend."

"Both of you will have to follow us to the station. You can ride in my car, and the tweaker--" Short gestured to Ryan. "--can go with Officer Singh."

"I can't believe you ratted me out," Ryan hissed.

Officer Singh shoved him out the door. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law..."

The short cop nodded and motioned for Ray and Sammy to follow.

Ray tapped Sammy on the shoulder. I'm sorry for bringing you into this.

Sammy shook her head. "Just explain everything to me later. I'm sorry for saying what I said back at my house."

It was Ray's turn to shake his head. He grabbed Sammy's hip and pressed his lips against hers. He kissed her tenderly, and she kissed him back with her hand running through his hair. It didn't taste like anything, but Ray enjoyed the simplicity of it. The kiss was soft, gentle but passionate, loving, perfect, and most of all, pretty much beyond words.

Ray broke off, and Sammy breathed, "Wow. I was not expecting that." She shook, not unpleasantly. "It was so out of the blue. I just-- wow."

Ray shook mildly, too. The ardent love held within the gentle touch of their lips rattled their bones-- in a pleasant way. It was unlike anything either of them experienced before: the love, lust, desire... Powerful yet tender.

"I guess we better follow the police officer," Sammy murmured, shattering the kiss' effect.

Ray nodded and took Sammy's hand. They both slid into the back of the police car, Ray by the window and Sammy in the center seat. Remembering all the times Ray had listened to her, she leaned against him, pressing her ear to his chest. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Goodnight Without the Good

2009-03-17T02:42:59Z

I imported this entry from my old LJ account. Originally dated Aug. 6, 2008.

The moon's effulgence shattered the darkness of Sander's room. It illuminated the numerous San Jose Sharks posters on the white walls. Some contained shots of hockey players, while the others had the Sharks logo itself. As Sander stared blankly at one of the posters, he remembered when he feared the shark's open mouth, but Dad always reassured him that it wouldn't eat him.

Dad.

Sander missed him. Two years ago, when he was still nine, his dad rode down from San Jose to Santa Cruz to visit his grandparents the weekend prior to Thanksgiving. The heavy rain caused the roads to beome extremely slippery. On Highway 17, Dad zoomed along one of the sharp turns, and the car collided into the side of the freeway. Two sedans and a truck crashed into his dad's car, killing him with the impact. Sander even remember that the vehicles were a Honda, an Audi, and a Ford; he kept the newspaper article with the information on the car accident in a Nike shoebox underneath his desk.

His mom took Dad's death hard. She wouldn't step out from her bedroom for days, at least not while Sander was present. Sometimes Sander tried to coax her outside by speaking through the heavy locked door. He finally began to spot her around the house after about two weeks, but Mom evidently wasn't the same yet. It turned out that she would never heal completely. As her heart began to mend, she diffidently dated other men. Then it became an addiction. Men came and went by the handful. Last week she went out with four guys none of whom lasted for more than a day. For the past two days, however, Max was all she could think about. Sander met him once, and he didn't like him very much. Max's booming voice stabbed his ear drums, and he held Mom's waist in a way that made it seem as though he owned her.

That night, like any other night, Mom and her man of the day slammed the front door shut with a fit of hushed giggles. Sander always wondered what they were laughing about. It always grew louder as they bounded into Mom's bedroom. He didn't think she had anything funny in there. His mom never cracked good jokes either, and she usually didn't understand the ones he told her. Sander found the resonant laughter somewhat derisive, so he promised himself to find out the reason why they giggled so much.

With a final glance at one of his sharks posters, he warily slithered off his bed, so as not to create any creaking sounds. His sock-padded footsteps against the soft carpet made few, if any, noises. He would feel ashamed if Mom caught him spying on her for such an "inane reason," as she would say, so he took extreme caution as he crept past the bathroom because the floor around the doorway squealed when there was pressure. His mom's room was only two doors down from his, but it seemed like an eternity before he reached it.

The tall door was open a crack. The pungent scent of alcohol and sweat hit Sander's nostrils. Animalistic noises reached his ears. They grunted between giggles, and they giggled between grunts. Sander peered through the crack and spotted two sweaty, gleaming, bare bodies on the wide king-sized bed. A bulkier figure was on top of a familiar slender one, whose back was arched like a bridge. The mattress complained as Max quickly inserted himself, creating a whole deal of a lot of friction. Max's enormous hands tenderly caressed the woman's glowing skin, brushing the tips of his fingers against her voluptuous breasts. He cupped them as he explored her insides. She groaned and asked for more, please, more.

Sander knew what they were doing. All the sixth graders at his school had to watch videos about the anatomy of growing adolescents and about making babies. He never imagined "it" to be like this, all this grunting and exploration. Everything he observed shocked him, and he felt too--impotent against their pleasure to feel aroused. He wondered if all parents did it, even after they made children. No, he thought dejectedly, only the bad moms and dad did.

A Mellifluous Murder

2009-03-17T02:41:42Z

I imported this entry from my old LJ account. Originally dated Aug. 6, 2008.

NOTE: I do not own these lyrics; they belong to Death Cab for Cutie.

She drank in his words, allowing the sweet-sounding melody to warm the depths of her dying heart. Every line he sang brought her closer to her death; he unknowingly held her heart in his large, dark hands.

Love of mine, some day you will die.

Eyes shut, he strummed his black guitar.
Somehow, he knew how to play all her favorite songs. Every time he played one of them, however, he stole a tiny part of the girl.

But I'll be close behind. I'll follow you into the dark.

Three years. Three whole years of embracing, then refuting her on-off love for him. It drove her to the edge of insanity. She didn't want to reserve a spot for him in her heart, but he already implanted himself in it, spreading like a malignant cancer.

The blackest of rooms.

She desired for it to take over her completely.

If heaven and hell decide...

The euphonic words enveloped her with its eloquence.

...that they both are satisfied...

Three years. Only a couple more, and she would die from his cancer.

Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs.

'One day,' she thought, 'I'll tell him.'

If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks...

She sighed and allowed herself to get carried away by the mellifluence of his murderous song.

...then I'll follow you into the dark.

I'll follow you
into
the
dark.

The Satisfaction of Broken Bones

2009-03-17T02:39:54Z

I imported this entry from my old LJ account. Originally dated Aug. 6, 2008.

He smelled the sweet bitterness of alcohol from across the kitchen. Even though Brandon didn't drink, he recognized it from his old childhood days. They were bittersweet, too.

That was the past.
The present wasn't any better.

+++
Mr. Marconi slowly decantered the Scotch into the crystal cup. Placing the stopper back on the glass bottle of Glenfiddich, he imagined cupping his large, meaty hands around Julianne's voluptuous breasts. He loved the way she groaned after he caressed her down and rubbed his hands over her delicate pink nipples. Simply thinking about it made him hard.

She probably didn't get enough from her other man.
Mr. Marconi smirked.
+++
Brandon stealthily crept through the shadows of the kitchen. Careful not to crash into the expensive mahogany table, he endeavored to maintain the quietness of his footsteps. His heart drummed wildly in his chest. He thought the slippery wooden floor would make everything more complicated, but as seeing that his target had not sensed his presence, he felt confident about it all.

As he edged closer, the scent of alcohol made his head spin. The target's expensive cologne didn't do any good for Brandon either. Raising his right arm, he readied the metal bat in his gloved hand.
+++
Mr. Marconi mused over the last few nights of rapture.

He hungered for more. More intimacy, louder groans, faster insertion.

As he took a sip of the Glenfiddich, he thought he saw something at the corner of his eye.
+++
Brandon bashed the man over the head. The crystal cup in the man's big hand shattered when it struck the floor. Alcohol raced under Brandon's cheap shoes and mixed in with the ruby blood by the man's hunched body.

With his hands over his head, the man attempted to protect himself from the ceaseless blows. Brandon pommelled him with thoughts of innocent Julianne in his mind. Adrenaline and rage surged through his blood. Finally, after a myriad hits, he stopped when he heard the satisfying crunch.
+++
BREAK-IN AT MARCONI'S

Napa, CA-- This morning at 2:47 Greg Marconi, the affluent owner of Marconi's Winery, was found dead in his own home. Officers Aguilar and Spetti discovered no signs of breaking and entering, but the Napa Valley police are continuing to inspect his residence. Marconi's girlfriend, Julianne Faye, "did not conjecture anything until [she] heard the shattering of glass", as she was sleep in an upper story bedroom.

When she came to check on Marconi, she "spotted his lifeless body next to a bloodied metal bat". The suspected murder weapon and the victim's corpse were sent to a local crime lab for inspection. As they are being studied for cause of death, the police are currently searching for evidence of possible murderers.

Ditch the Scene and Stumble

2009-03-17T02:38:41Z

I imported this entry from my old LJ account. Originally dated Aug. 6, 2008.

If you don't like fanfictions, particularly band-fics (Fall Out Boy... Haha.) don't read.

Part One

I shouldn't have drank that much. I really shouldn't have.

If I hadn't drank so much alcohol that night, then maybe I wouldn't have hid in Patrick's bathroom, my eyes heavy and red from sobbing. Pete already knocked on the door twice and endeavored to coax me outside. My heart throbbed with remorse from saying the mouthful of drunken words I spat at him and the rest of the band.

It first started when Patrick practically begged me to meet his band, Fall Out Boy. I never liked their music or their stuck up, show-off bassist, Pete Wentz. Who did he think he was, posing half naked in magazines and on the Internet? It sickened me to think about what he was like in real life, but I politely agreed to meet him, along with Joe and Andy. If Patrick and I hadn't been such great friends, I would have refused immediately.

I came to Patrick's house, vowing to keep my cool. I told myself I wouldn't mention disliking their band to ensure we would have nice, polite conversations. Everything was fine at first. Then I drank my first glass of sherry. After that I subconsciously downed several more. I didn't realize it until they started talking about a new song, and that was when things got messy.

"First of all, what do you think of the drums during this part?" asked Andy.

Patrick rubbed his chin. "I think it sounded great when we practiced yesterday."

"I agree," Joe added. "Pretty fricken sweet, if you ask me."

"Yeah, they're great. But what about the lyrics?" said Pete, wrinkling his nose. "It just sounds-- I don't know-- weird."

"You're the one who wrote them," Joe laughed.

I giggled.

"What do you think, Jenna?" Patrick asked me.

I opened my mouth to say something. All of a sudden my head felt like it was tossed into the wash and spun for hours on end. I felt sick in the stomach, but I held it in and focused on thinking of what to say. I wanted to at least stutter something polite or helpful, but my scattered thoughts prevented me from finding anything to answer back to them.

Instead I sputtered, "Your guys' songs all sound the same. None o' them make any sense either. Bad riffs. Sucky drum beats. And worse of all are the lyrics." Pete blinked. "And you," I stabbed my finger into his chest, "you must be the most conceited person on this whole fricken world."

Before I realized what I had said, I found myself locked up in Patrick's bathroom, vomiting into the toilet, and bawling my eyes out. I felt ashamed for letting myself get out of control, especially since I gulped down all those glasses of sherry. If I ever came out, it would not have surprised me if none of them spoke to me again. But there I was, listening to a light rapping on the door, accompanied by four distinct voices.

"Jenna, please come out," Patrick pleaded.

They waited for a response.

"We know you didn't mean to say that," said Pete.

"We all forgive you," Joe added.

Another pause.

"Maybe you were right," Pete confessed. "Maybe I am conceited, and maybe we do need to work a little on the things you referred to."

A fresh set of tears streamed down my face. How could they forgive me so easily? I practically yelled "screw you" to them and all of who and what they are. If someone did that to me, I would never let them get away with it.

"I'm so sorry!" I sobbed, throwing the door open.

Patrick hesitantly stepped forward to embrace me in a hug, followed by everyone else. I reeked of the pungent, raw scent of barf, while they all smelled either of clean laundry or cologne. Finally they released me, and I apologized a hundred more times before they could shut me up.

"Look, Jenna," said Joe. "We said we forgive you."

"You've had too many drinks, so its no surprise that it happened," Andy added.

"Know what?" said Pete. "To prove how much I accept your apology I want to invite you to come along with us to my favorite club tomorrow night. At first it was just going to be the four of us and no one else, but I think we can make an exception this time."

Patrick sent me a look that seemed to say, 'Please try it.' If I hadn't I dissed their band, which I did and more, I would have made a lame excuse just to get myself out of it. Patrick was also one of my closest friends, and I needed to make up for the times he helped me out by accompanying me to all the parties I went to. Oh woe is me! Why did I have to care about him so much?

"Sure," I answered politely. "That's very kind of you."

"Don't mention it," Pete replied. "Hey, I'll even drive you home right now!"

I groaned, mentally of course. Tomorrow Patrick and I were going to have a nice, long talk.

Part Two

"You'll have a fun time," Patrick reassured me. "I promise."
"Didn't you say that yesterday?" I asked.
"I did, didn't I? Hey, just because Pete is a little full of himself, doesn't mean he isn't a great guy, okay? Give him another chance. Please?"
I set my compact on my lap and glared at him. "Fine."
"Hey, look! There's the club. Jenna you look fine, so put away your makeup and let's go."

I sighed, tossed everything into my makeup bag, and stashed it in the back seat. I didn't feel like dressing up too much, so I threw on a simple pair of dark wash jeans and a yellow tank top. It wasn't like I had anyone to impress, right?

"Jenna, you look great!" Pete exclaimed, running up to me for a hug.

I gave him a slanted smile. "Thanks."
His breath already smelled slightly of alcohol.
"How long have you been waiting for us to arrive?" I screamed.
"About ten minutes," Pete yelled back, dancing to the blaring music. "Came with Andy and Joe. They're over there." He pointed to a small table by the bar. "Talk later. Dance now."

He pulled me into a heavy throng of dancers, shaking their hips to the music under the fluorescent lights. It felt like being tossed into the ocean; you just had to let it carry you. If you fought, you would be tossed in deeper until you couldn't find your way back to the surface. Just like love, I guess.

"What kind of music do you listen to anyway?" Pete asked.
He held my sides, but I forced him to let go by dancing around him.
"Pretty much all kinds of rock," I replied. "But I've been into electronic and powerpop lately."
"Cool."

Several minutes later we dropped by the bar and sat at the table where we spotted Joe and Andy. They were busy dancing by then, leaving Patrick all alone. He held a small cup of water, which he pretended to seem quite interested in. Every time a beautiful woman walked past, he glanced down at his glass to observe it closely.

"Aren't you going to dance?" I asked him, taking a seat.
He looked up and smiled ruefully. "Nah, I'm not that much of a dancer."
"Sure you are," I replied. "You just need a pretty girl to dance with."

He blushed. I chugged my glass of beer and pulled him onto his feet. At first he was reluctant, but after a few more tries he set down his glass of water and stood up.

Pete pulled me into a one-armed hug and pressed me close. "Take care of my little boy, okay?" With a wink he let me go and pecked my cheek.

The spot where his lips met my skin burned like wildfire. I shot him a clumsy smile and took off to the dance floor with Patrick trailing behind me. He took it quite well for someone as shy as a child behind his mother's back. Before you know it, Patrick was having a wonderful time, moving along to the music's pulsing beat. We waved our hands in the air and grinned at each other. Maybe this night was better than I thought it would be.
Part Three

"Hey," I yelled over the noise of the club. "Is that Pete?"
Patrick glanced over to the direction I pointed to. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I think so."

Pete had his hands all over a blond girl's skinny body. She had streaks of blue and violet in her hair, and a silver stud shone over her left eyebrow. The girl wore a skimpy red shirt and a pair of tiny gray shorts. Even if she sported jean overalls and pigtails, the girl would still put a diamond to shame. That was how pretty she looked, despite her emaciated body.

I snatched Patrick's wrist and yanked him over to the bar, where I ordered another glass of beer. Patrick, on the other hand, stuck to a virgin peach and lime daiquiri. Meanwhile, Pete and the blond continued to grind against each other, having the time of their lives. Before I could ask for another beer, Joe plopped onto the barstool next to me.

"Are you watching them?" He jerked his head in Pete's direction.
"Yeah, so what?" I retorted.
"Just asking."
"How have you and Pete been getting along anyway?" Patrick asked.
"Just fine," I grumbled.
"Who said what about me?"
"Hey, Pete!" Joe exclaimed. "No one said anything about you. Right, Jenna?" He dug his elbow into my ribs.
I punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Sure."
"Where's that girl you were getting it down with?" Joe kidded.
"Ha-ha. Very funny." He shot a wary glance in my direction. "And her name is Kat."
"Ooooh, you even know her name!"
"Would you cut that out, Joe? C'mon, Jenna, let's go."

Once again Pete dragged me into the crowd of sweaty dancers, only this time I felt more than happy to follow. I would show that Kat person how much more fun it was to hang out with me and not her. Then I found myself thinking the same thing as before. You had to let the ocean carry you. If you fought, you wouldn't find your way back to the surface, just like... What did I think it was?

"Why don't you dance with Kat?" I jeered.
Pete concealed his guilt and replied, "Because I would much rather dance with you, especially now that we're starting to get along. Besides, she has a boyfriend."
"And what do you think he's going to say after he finds out that you had your hands all over her?"

Pete was drunk. I could tell by the goofy grin on his face and how funny he looked when he danced. He couldn't focus his eyes in one spot, but it appeared as though he tried to direct as much attention to me as much as he could. I also had a few beers myself, and I felt pretty funny, too.

"Kat's boyfriend isn't here," Pete explained. "Girls' night out to have fun."
"Yeah, fun."
"Look, Jenna. Forget about her." He shot me a sweet smile. No wonder why girls always fell for him. "I really like you, know that?"
"Sure you do."
"Jenna." He gently pulled me close. "I do. Honestly."

I felt a pair of soft lips press against my neck. My head spun from excitement (and drunkenness), causing my thoughts to disperse. Pete was all that mattered to me at that moment. I traced his outline with my eyes, trying to capture every detail and commit it to memory.

He smiled and said, "Later do you want to go to my apartment?" Pete planted a kiss on my lips. "We'd have a great time." Another kiss. "Just you and me."

I saw the drunken hunger and lust in his eyes but didn't recognize it at that time. I wanted to fully prove to him that I liked him now. Or did my body also hunger for his like he did mine?

"Sure." I pressed my body close to his and laid him a wet one. "Just you and me."

He licked his lips and grinned. "After we get outta here."

Never before had I felt so good. The ocean swallowed me into its deep dark waters, sending me further down to the sandy bottom. I already knew it would be too late to try and find the surface, so I didn't fight the strong raging currents. Whether I did or didn't, it wouldn't have mattered; either way I knew it would end in tears.
Part Four

"Have you seen Pete?" I asked Andy.
"He left about half an hour ago. Mm..."
I twitched at the sight of Andy sticking his tongue down a girl's throat.
"Would you stop making out with her for a second?!" I screamed.

Andy and the girl on his lap stared at me. He continued to stroke her bare leg with his finger although his eyes focused on me. Obviously he had not appreciated the disturbance, but I just couldn't find Pete anywhere.

"What do you want, Jenna?" he grumbled. "I told you. Pete left."
My mouth dropped.
"Let's go." I pulled him to his feet, causing the girl to scramble off him. "We are getting Patrick and Joe. I am not being dissed. I cannot believe him!"
"Andy!" the girl whined.
He yanked his arm from my grasp. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Pete was supposed to..." I was still drunk and tried to think of a decent lie. "...drive me home."
"Get Patrick to do it. I was busy here!"
"Look, we're leaving, and Patrick will drive me to Pete's place to teach him a lesson."
"But--"
"Let's go!"

I dragged Andy along, who desperately tried to apologize to the girl but to no avail. She angrily crossed her arms and stomped off. After that, Andy gave up trying to fight me; it was as though his fire had just been doused. In other circumstances I would have felt sorry for him, but I had my own problems to worry about.

"Jenna, what..." Joe began.
"Down your drink. We're leaving."
"Joe," Andy warned. "Do what she says, or she'll drag you by your ear."
"Where is Patrick?" I asked, ignoring Andy.
"Right there." Joe pointed to a spot down the bar counter.

He was chatting with a shy-looking lady, sharing what seemed to be a piña colada. As soon as he spotted me, concern crossed his face. The lady spun around but quickly averted her eyes. She returned to her drink and silently listened to the conversations around her. During normal times, I would have introduced myself, but this was a special situation.

"Patrick, do you mind if we leave now?"
"Why? Is there something wrong?" Patrick asked.
"I need you to drive me to Pete's apartment. That stupid bastard left me here. He was supposed to take me home, and he, um, has something of mine."
"Can't you get it tomorrow?"
He took a glimpse at the lady.
"Please, Patrick," I pleaded. "Just do me this one favor."

He sighed. The woman nodded and smiled considerately at him. Patrick wrote something down on her napkin and presented her with a quick peck on the cheek. They both blushed a deep scarlet, smiles slowing creeping onto their faces.
Okay, he said to us. "I'm ready to go."

-------------------------

I angrily stomped up the steps to Pete's apartment, number forty-seven according to Patrick. They waited in the parking lot in case Pete refused to do anything for me, which was more than likely. I didn't know what I would tell them when I came back empty handed, but I worried even more about what to say to Pete.

The subsiding alcohol made me feel more and more sober with each step. What the hell was I doing? I would knock on Pete's door and possibly yell at him. Then what? Would I forgive him? Would he forgive me? Maybe we could fall into each other's arms, lie in his bed, and watch the cow jump over the moon.

I stared foolishly at Pete's door. If I tapped lightly enough, maybe he wouldn't hear it. Then I could tell the guys that he was asleep and didn't know I knocked. I wasn't exactly telling the truth, but it wasn't really lying either. Right? Then it would contradict my rushed pleads back in the club. I had to confront him. He left me back there. Hell, he might as well break my heart right then and there.
I pounded the thick heavy door and put on the hardest face I had.

"Hm?"

The door swung open to reveal Pete, wearing only a pair of gray boxers. The salty scent of sweat hit my nose right when the door cracked open, but it was mixed with the candied smell of a woman's perfume. He rubbed his droopy eyes but quickly woke up as soon as he realized who I was. Smeared lip stick and kiss marks decorated his face and other parts of his body. His disheveled hair stuck out in all directions like a pile of dead twigs, adding to his cluttered, sleepy look.

"What are you doing here?" Pete asked soberly.

I wiped the shock off my face and tried to ignore what I saw beyond the doorway. A woman's clothing and lingerie littered the tan carpet, seemingly alien compared to Pete's grungy and masculine ambiance. On top of his bed, backed into the corner of his apartment, lay a naked woman, covered only by a light blanket. Her bare shoulders shone milky white in the shadows, like the moon itself, while her eyebrow stud glinted in the darkness.

My mouth hung open, unable to emit a sound.

"Jenna, please don't--"

I didn't hear the rest of the sentence because I ran. I ran recklessly and fast, speeding down the steps with droplets of tears racing down my cheeks. Deeper and deeper I sank. The ocean filled my heart and lungs with its power, tossing me around like a tiny fish. I didn't bother to struggle against its indomitable strength, for I knew as soon as I hit the monstrous waters, I would be captured, just like love had ensnared me.

This heart is already frozen

2009-03-17T02:36:52Z

I imported this entry from an old LJ account. Originally dated Feb. 11, 2008.

There is something special about winter. Its dreary overcast skies, naked trees, icy sheets of rain... Winter is a place, and everything about it makes me feel at home. I don't belong in summer because it's way too hot, and nothing feels right.

During the winter I can sense death, can't you? It's there. It's EVERYWHERE. If it wasn't, why would the sky be weeping all the time?

I love how people flirt with death and not even know it. 'Flirting with danger.' Old people have a right to fear the winter; I don't blame them. They can sense death much better than any of us because they feel the chill in their bones, in their mind. It gets to them.

All they can do is stay inside, unlike us. We tend to feel invincible. Against the cold, heat, injuries, etc. Not them. Not the aged. What if they don't have a wife or a husband or children? They are simply wasting away. Alone. Praying for the winter to pass.

Maybe it's the strength I gain from the winter, or maybe it's the satisfying feeling of being welcome to mourn in this dismal season, this death-filled place. When the sun begins to peek out from the clouds, winter retreats and makes way for spring. During the winter most of us become stronger and possibly wiser, whether we realize it or not. I mean, if you were to walk through the land of the dead, knowing that you would return into the land of the living, wouldn't you gain something from it? You would feel somewhat stronger and more knowledgeable, right? The same goes for winter.

"I seize the day. Make it mine. I need it to be mine. These days are our days. Cold or not. Go seize one of your own. Soon we will be on a schedule again, sleeping in tiny, silent coffins. Hovering through the night." -Brendan Ekstrom (Circa Survive)