Lights

The lights in this building need to be replaced.

I can't see myself in the window reflection anymore. I'm nervous in the dark, I like to be able to see my eyes and remind myself I'm not dreaming. It's been hard to separate those dreams from reality lately. Sometimes I don't think I would even be surprised if that fat old woman down the hall knitted her fingers into her never-ending scarf. Maybe she really does turn into a green-eyed cat when I'm not looking.

The dreams started a few months ago, normal dreams, quiet dreams, the ones that you'd tell your best friend about. Little, impossible things would happen... I cut down trees with a pair of scissors and a little man in yellow followed me around the garage. He frightened me, but when I woke up he was just lemon mist in the cold steel of reality. Sometimes I'd try to write the dreams down, maybe turn them into stories to tell people when I couldn't entertain any other way, but my attention span was too short and the dream journals were left unfinished and sorrowful.

After a time, the dreams started switching around. Sometimes I'd be sitting in that fat old woman's living room, smelling the curry she was always burning and watching her knit and listen to her talk about highschool sweethearts and limited-edition tea. I'd done this thousands of times, counting it mentally as assisting the elderly, like it was a wild card for the Good Person title. So she'd knit, and talk, and I'd eat stale cake and sit and sit and listen, and then her fingers would weave in and out of the knitting and stretch down her arms. Soon the scarf was up to her shoulders, half yarn and half fingers. The cake would fall out of my mouth and I'd just watch, her voice drifting into the background.

I'd wake up after that.

The walls in my apartment were never very solid. The woman next door can't stand her boyfriend anymore, but is too shy to say anything to his face. She just cries whenever they have a disagreement, and he turns into a long green snake and the room starts filling up with shoes and broken bracelets.

And I'd wake up.

The lights in this building need to be replaced. They're yellow and dreary and remind me of horror flicks and too much caffeine. I can't see my reflection in the window anymore and it's uncomfortable. I think that I'm dreaming when I listen to that poor woman next door crying, but I don't hear the sound of that green snake and broken bracelets don't come pouring out of the air shafts.

Maybe I'm not.

I'll go and replace those spooky yellow lights and they'll be nice and bright. I forget to look in the mirror on my way out the door, but when I walk down the hall again, it's all back to how it was before. It's too dark to see my reflection. I hurry to the fat old woman's apartment and eat her stale cake like it's the only food I've ever tasted... but her arms never knit into her scarf and her stories keep dragging.

The woman next door tells her boyfriend it's over.

And again the next night.

And again.

The fat old woman has four hundred and thirteen scarves and none of them have her fingers in them. I counted them all while she was baking more cake, already stale from the oven.

The lights go back and forth from shiny-white new to Frankenstein-eye yellow. I cut off my hair and it's down to my ankles when I wake up. I sleep and I'm tired, I drink and I'm thirsty. The lights still need to be replaced. My reflection talks to me when insomnia is my only friend. Memories bounce back and forth, numbers stand on their hands and strangle the letters. Books are too hard to read; I forgot everything I knew.

Yet when I wake up, the lights are white and the woman next door is still crying and the fat old woman is still working on the same scarf she's been working on for the past month. Or year. Or seventy years. My reflection blinks at me, perfectly lined up with my own eyes. I'm sure I forgot my college thesis, I think I've been fired from my waitressing job. I wander down to the restaurant anyway and they put me to work as if nothing's happened.

"Are you losing your mind?" I ask myself. Nobody answers.

I turn in my college thesis and graduate.

That night, I scramble to finish the paper, proofreading it four times before noticing I spelled "fanatic" with a K and an E. I spill my tea and have to rewrite a whole page. The woman next door screams that it's over, it's over, it's over. Bracelets flood my carpet. I can't remember how to read, the letters bunch up and fall over and it's just scribbles. I wrote my whole paper scribbling like a child.

I wake up and it's quiet.

So quiet.

And white.

I sit up and the bracelet on my wrist falls to the ground.

Beyond Deception as a Victor

It was then that I knew that my world was ending. Jamie took my hand and squeezed it, her lips spilling words I didn't hear, her eyes releasing her surplus of emotion. And so came the end in the middle of the beginning, a breath taken in and released, and I knew my world was ending.

When the funeral procession dragged across my bleeding thoughts, I saw Jamie standing a little bit away, pouring forth a river from her never ending soul. Inside my heart a voice cried out to her, but she had long been blinded to my words and I had forgotten how to communicate.

My life had been a veil and I unwillingly hid behind disabilities and handicaps, two words that shaped my future like patronizing hands. If I could perhaps discover my tongue inside the folds and caves of tender silence, maybe I could show that titles are simply a name. But for now I only had eyes and a mind that could not be quieted, and I watched with a dead sort of eagerness.

I saw him with Jamie often enough, even after the grass was green over the disturbed soil and the stone worn of gloss. He showed a reckless, daring sort of love that Jamie countered with her gentle and tearful ways. In time he became part of her, part of the idea she held, part of the air she breathed. It was counterintuitive that she hold him to her body when all in all, he would one day rest under the same soil, with or without the beautiful girl that seemed to float on insecurities.

The tutors came and went, but each had a shortcoming that sent them down the path of the Condescenders. Therapist and counselors were discarded with old memories, and although I clung to the milestones, they left Jamie's mind like unimportant insects. She had a Laugh-Giver and a Love-Offering and the words associated with my face grew until they were all anyone could see anymore.

I fought to believe that I wasn't drowning and that there was still air at some indefinite height that I could reach if I swam long enough. The dreams I stored were like butterflies and I prayed that they wouldn't leave in my sleep.

When Jamie was in white and was beautiful, I sat on the steps and I watched her, invisible to the cultured and forgotten to the thoughtful. Like a day, my world had ended and with it left the prizes I had gained and the truth I had entrusted in a fallible mind. Now controlled the assumptions, the impressions, the judgements, and the nights were a startling release from the tongues that did not rest.

Before long, Jamie had disappeared and left me with an empty house full of haunting illusions. And yet I struggled and I breathed and I worked, and the untarnished pages refused to burn with my wishes.

My mind was still young and my thoughts were not dull, but my voice had been lost in the wind and with death, and before death, and before life, and it was predestined and it was how it should be.

Of the two expressions I had not lost, only one was screaming. The other was more subtly discovered, like a face never forgotten or a sound always remembered. In my youthful desperation, I had misplaced the power of no names and had started believing the lies that Jamie lived. But I was not dead and I was not dull and I will not be silenced.

And when the music played, my voice mingled with the notes and again I breathed.

Life As Practical

It's a bloody business, this war and killing and all. I suppose you get used to it eventually; deaf to the gunshots like you callus to hard labor, blind to the gore like the sun becomes dim to your eyes. One letter after another floats in from unfamiliar hands, with unfamiliar writing tracing familiar dust-pictures of familiar faces, and one begins to wonder how long it will take to be hard to the pain like one is deaf to the noise.

It's bloody brutal, though, bloody brutal business, and I've seen enough of it to be eternally dulled to the reason behind it all.

Eventually, though, you learn. You learn how to deal with it. You learn to crush the pain and loneliness down into a hard stone in your chest, and you learn how to swallow sand and you learn how to drink saltwater and to look away. You learn to be the seeing blind, you learn to be the hearing deaf, you learn to be ignorant. I don't cry anymore. You gotta learn to stop crying. There's not much question about it. You've only got two choices, and that's either to be soft and continually hurt, or to be hard and emotionless but never injured.

You learn that physical pain is infinitely easier than emotional pain, and physical pain is far easier to control. I've got scars on my arms from that learning process. When one inflicts injury on one's self in a physical manner, it's a sign of emotional weakness. I didn't know that then. I'm better now.

It's still a bloody business, and you still see sights horrible enough to make your soul shatter, and you'll still hear screams long into the night when, in a perfect world, we'd all be sleeping and content. You still see corpses of former acquaintences, but you don't recognize them on an emotional level. Emotions are dangerous when you're here. You can't let them affect your vision or you'll be sightless for the rest of your life. You've gotta be hard. Like me. Gotta be hard like me.

You learn not to make friends, too. Friends, in a perfect world, would be there to get your back when you fall, but not here. Nah. Here friends are a danger to your soul, because if you're soul's not as solid as ice then you'll never survive. What's worse, to see your love die in a friend or to see that love turn to hate in the moment of betrayal? Doesn't matter. You can avoid it both.

Never said I liked it. Never said it's what I would want, but it's what's gotta be, and you gotta learn to survive here. You gotta learn that silence is better than words in any situation, and to show feeling is to bare your chest for the blade. It's just how it is. It's a hard lesson to learn but it's the only one worth teaching.

Bloody brutal business, though. Bloody brutal.

Picture, one [incomplete]

Everything is quiet now except for the sad song playing in the back of my mind, and I lay my head down on your shoulder because it reminds me that I'm small but I'm protected and that makes everything okay all over again. I wish for a thousand things and try to remember all the normal things that stress me out, but you in such close proximity makes it hard to think. You short out all my circuits and I sit there brain dead in the best way, thinking of beautiful things and happy things that just might be made better by the contrast of that sad, sad song that has left me crying so many nights before.

Sometimes I feel like I hatched too early, that my skin is too soft, that my eyes are still unacustomed to what's going on around me. Sometimes I feel like I need to be locked up so I won't do anything stupid, and sometimes I wonder what would happen if I disappeared, like a puff of smoke, like time when I'm with you. I close my eyes and I don't mean to start crying but it happens anyway. I don't think you would have noticed if I hadn't accidently dropped a tear on your arm.

"What's the matter?"

The surprise in your voice is hard to listen to. I blink and try to pretend that I wasn't crying, but you are too smart for my stupid plans, and you make me sit up and look you in the face.

"What's the matter, love?"

Everything inside me wells up and pours out, and I can't stop it because that sad song is getting louder and louder and it doesn't make sense to cry and I think that's why it's happening, because it always happens when I am happiest and least likely to be trying to hold anything back.

Statue

I think I could remember your face forever. I am a scientist, I am analytical, I am a nightmare of  charts and lists and schedules. I have a thousand disorders that make me the envy of every other student in my high school, yet drove me over the brink of insanity long before I ever knew they existed. God was merciful when he did not answer my prayer to die, but I shall ever be a scientist, tightly-lined geometry on graph paper.

Emaleigh spells her name like a rebel, but it wasn't her choice. There have been fifty-seven people who have spelled it wrong while I was watching, and forty-two who pronounced it incorrectly. Emaleigh says she's used to it and doesn't mind anymore, but I imagine brainwashing and reteaching them so they are never, ever wrong again.

I keep charts of unnecessary things, like the number of times I dropped my toothbrush into the sink on Sundays for the past year, or how many red trucks drive down my street on average per day. All my schoolwork is done fourteen hours in advance, and if that time isn't possible then I take no breaks until it is complete. Saturdays without friends are spent sitting in the middle of the yard, my legs crossed as evenly as my imperfect body can get, counting red trucks until someone picks me up and takes me inside.

But I think I could remember your face forever. I cried thirty-three times trying to keep from charting out your features, and another fourteen times when I couldn't remember some minute detail. I have a folder with the face of every person I've ever known, and nobody knows about it because they would lock me up or shoot me or be afraid of me. I live with the constant fear of forgetting, or losing, or being without something I need, and in order to combat this fear I must chart everything out. Everything must be listed and graphed mathematically so it always makes sense.

Emaleigh is a little angel with black clothes, and she works sporadically, without lists or charts, relying purely on her memory. She wore her hair down 5/16ths of the second semester of her junior year, and 18% of the time she spent outside she wore Converse high tops that didn't match the red of her vibrantly dyed hair. She changes her look so unpredictably often that all my charts of her will never be accurate. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose just to increase the level of discomfort she bestows upon me.

I spent forty-six minutes tying my shoes so that they matched, and it took me twenty-eight minutes to shave my head when I couldn't get my hair to be even. Father lectured me for seventeen minutes and Mother cried for four, but I had that much less to worry about. I recharted my face.

You don't know why I watch you as much as I do, but I love the amount of simplicity you carry. The consistency you give off is attractive, it is beautiful, it is comforting. I think I could remember your face forever, and I would never have to chart it out because you are just there in my mind, a picture, a never-changing idol of personal imperfection.

Emaleigh laughs when she turns in an assignment late or even completely forgets about it. She ties her hair with a different colored hairtie every day of the week, but is never constistant on which color belongs to which day. She cries when there is nothing to cry about and always puts off her homework until the hour before it's due. One day she painted her nails each a different shade of blue and left a streak of polish up her leg. It took her sixty-one seconds to realize my distress, and told me that she liked my hair better short anyway.

I rewrote and recounted my 2000 word paper until it was exactly 2000 words, and my English teacher gave me a low grade for lack of creativity. In art, all my work is geometrically perfect, and in math I am never, ever wrong. I have started to shave my head every morning, which removes another seventeen minutes from my previous alarm. Everything is tightly bound in uncrossable wires, everything is a map, everything is a Roman road. I have never been praised for my poetic ability, because I do not understand metaphors, and yet at times they are all I can speak in. I am a horror to myself, with my inconsistent tendencies that I cannot fix no matter how many steps I take to get there. The temptation to control the numbers on the scale is terrifying, but they made me promise not to go there.

I think I could remember your face forever, even if they took you away and never brought you back, I think I would still remember your face. I think I would remember the way you're always smiling, the way you always look like you're waiting for me. It's strange to think that you would wait for me, but I am never late because I control my time just like I control all the other numbers.

And you know... I think I love you. Love is irrational, and unconditional love even more so, but you have always shown me unconditional love and it makes sense for you to do that. You're beautiful in all the ways I don't know how to explain. I have never been good with words. Emaleigh loves like a beating heart. She said that to me herself.

I think I could remember your face forever.

Unique

I'm not going to cry.

The stray hairs hanging out of my ponytail remind me angrily that I look better with fly-aways and every other girl out there looks better when their hair is perfect. I am imperfectly beautiful, stunning... Unique. Oh, how they love to use that word. Unique. It lets you deceive without lying. Oh, my darling, how very unique your face is...

I'll show him the pictures that stream from my pencil. Of course I'll show him. I always show him. It's a constant, unspoken dare. I let him look at the pictures that reflect my "inner turmoil" and I dare him to get up and leave. I dare him to stop loving me. I'm too unique for someone like him.

And I won't cry. I never cry. The tears that slide down my stunningly original face are tears of rebellion, not sorrow. Tears of rebellion. Not crying.

The lead snaps and flies across the room. I let go of the pencil and it clatters to the floor. My eyes burn and I bury my head in my arms. Go away, go away, go away—

"Baby."

My muscles spasm and tighten. The hand on my shoulder stays.

"What do you want," I mumble from my fake hiding place.

"Come out."

I raise my head, keeping my eyes stubbornly fixed on the far wall.

"Get up," he says, almost irritably. "We're going for a walk."

"I don't want to."

"I'm not going without you."

I close my eyes for a moment, imagining my perfect eyelashes resting on top of my flawless cheeks.

The air is cold outside, and I keep my arms wrapped around myself. He keeps his distance, which does nothing for my mood, but I pretend to ignore him. I need my pencil, my paper, I need to be alone.

"What's wrong?"

His voice startles me. We've stopped walking. I don't know where we are and I don't care. He'll get me home. No matter how little I want to go back. I tempt him too much, with my reckless talk of running away. Sometimes I don't even try to make it sound like I want to stay, if only for him. He knows. But I still tempt him.

I dare...

"Nothing's wrong," I snap.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'll lie when I feel like it," I reply heatedly. He's quiet. I don't mean what I say.

We're quiet again. I'm staring out at this endless stretch of street, wondering how far I could get before he caught me.

"Not far," he says, as if reading my thoughts. I narrow my eyes.

He watches me for a moment. "Assuming I was running after you."

"Would you?"

My voice is still sharp.

"Not anymore, love."

I turn away and stare at the road. My face burns. Tears of rebellion...

"Don't cry," he says, but he doesn't come nearer. "If you're going to leave, at least do it with a straight face. I don't want to feel guilty about this."

I bend my neck so my chin touches my chest. And I keep crying.

"I'm not chasing you anymore," he says behind me. "I'm not keeping you anywhere. You want to go; leave. I'll be here waiting if you decide you miss me."

The hard bitterness in his voice hurts.

"I'm not going to leave you," I say harshly.

"Stop. You want to. Go on. Your chance is now."

"I'm not going."

"I'm letting you go," he says, half angrily, half resigned. "I'm done holding on when you're ready to move on."

"I'm not ready!"

"Then stop pretending you are!"

I'm shaking; my whole body is shaking. I haven't cried so hard in months.

The moments go by; the street before me blurs and I close my eyes.

He takes me in his arms.

"I'm never going to be ready," I say, as if strangled.

"I know."

"I'm sorry, love."

"I know."

The light flickers and goes out. It's quiet again.

Unique.

Paralyzed

The cigarette in my fingers draws a beautiful line of smoke into the air. The television flashes its lights, soundless mouths moving and heads nodding. Paper piled high around my house ceases to remind me of my job, of my boss that will be angry, of everyone who depends on me to get them columns for their paper. That doesn't really seem to matter right now.

I've wiped the window down so I can see outside. Everything seems still and silenced, and I imagine that the hills are red and brown with the blood that I know has been spilled.

The match bites my finger and I throw it down.

For awhile, it is amusement enough to try to read the lips of the muted politicians on the air. Folks talk about disaster far more than they ever try to do anything about it. I think they get tired of it. They think the public wants to hear about something else.

Anger floods through my blood, the blood that I have unfairly kept inside of me, and I go outside. I need to do something. I need to stop sitting around and watching noiseless faces talk about something they haven't publicized enough. I need to get up, clear my head, stop smoking for a little bit...

The air is thick and hard to breathe. I keep my head down, refusing to look out over the fields, refusing to meet anybody's eyes. I feel as if I have failed them. Somehow I have let them down. I should be cold and lifeless on the very bottom of the heap of bodies we haven't had time to bury yet. I shouldn't be walking here. I shouldn't be getting calls, demanding me to turn in my papers. I shouldn't be alive at all.

The radio has been calling me. They want me to record another song.

I have somehow lost my cigarette when I get back to my house. I don't have any more. I sit down at my table, pull the papers closer to me. Remember when this used to hold comfort? Remember when writing was the only thing that kept me from going slowly insane?

I have avoided my papers of late. They remind me of too many things.

The phone rings. I don't answer it.

I don't want to write them a three minute song so they can help people forget about things for another three minutes. They could play my song on repeat and just my song, and everyone would get sick of it and then they would never want another one of my songs. That would be better. But they won't do it, because everything they do is controlled by the people.

This doesn't seem right.

I put my head down, but I know I won't fall asleep. The phone rings again.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Gregory Talls?"

"This is she."

I am silent and let the man on the other end of the line speak. I know what he will say. I can tell by that dead, emotionless voice. I know. I already know.

I don't cry because I don't cry anymore.

My car starts after I throw up just outside the door. The office is still dark, but everything that anyone thought was valuable has already been taken. The door broken. It reminds me of so many black things, but they tell me to put them behind and move on. They tell me to forget that I should be the faceless, decaying body at the bottom of the pile.

I pack up his things. He was a nice man. I think it would be better if I told the wife in person.

Her belly is full.

My voice is no less dead and emotionless than the man on the other end on the line. I catch her as she falls, and imagine the baby inside her shedding a tear.

I buy more cigarettes on the way home.

The phone rings, and I  answer simply out of terror.

It's my boss, and I tell him I'll come in tomorrow with all the work he needs.

The politians on the television are still talking silently to one another. I hate them more than I have ever hated anything before, and I imagine the guns blowing up and the blood that I will never be able to stop seeing on the ground. So helpless. So small. I should be that body.

I don't cry anymore, but that's just fine. There's others who will cry for me. I still have hope for them.

Twenty Rules to Survive Today

It's strange that out of all the things you know, you feel very few of them for what they are. Truth almost seems like walking in the dark, afraid of something you know isn't there. And because you know they aren't there, and you know you have no reason to be afraid, you can't tell anyone about it.

1. Don't admit to an irrational fear.

Irritation is just as irrational as most of your fears. It's strength is dependent on how much sleep you got last night, and how much stress is controlling your brain. You can't stop it when it comes, but you aren't supposed to let it show. It's like your fears. But irritation has so many excuses, so many that people begin to put them down, assuming that you don't really have any reason at all to feel the way you do.

2. Don't let irritation show.

When you're around people, you've made some sort of barrier for yourself. Certain things won't happen when you have people around you, talking to you, making you listen to conversations regardless of how interesting they are. You can't help but be grateful to them. You can't help but try to smile and look as happy as they feel.

3. Stay around people. It keeps you from crying.

Of course, you can't always be around people. They'd get tired of you. You know this, somewhere deep down inside where you think you all the truths necessary to keep you on that tightrope. You know that if you say around Miss Wonderful, then Miss Wonderful will eventually realize you aren't at all close to the Mediocre you were pretending to be. And you don't want that to happen, because then Miss Wonderful will turn into Miss Helpful, and you don't want to have to  learn how to avoid Miss Helpful.

4. Be careful of how long you hide behind your walls.

There will indeed be that time when you are not around people, and Miss Wonderful hasn't yet turned into Miss Helpful. This means you're just alone. Being alone can be a good thing. You can cry. And no one will ever know or ask if they should get Miss Helpful.

5. Take avantage of being alone.

6. If interrupted while crying, tell them your eyes are red because you swallowed something funny and had a coughing fit. Or got something in your eye. And it hurt a lot.

Hugs are a great way to tell people you're feeling better than what you can't hide from your eyes. As long as it's full of exuberance and excitement to be hugging the person, they'll reluctantly assume that you really are as fine as you say, and that must have been a heck of a something in your eye.

7. Hug people a lot.

If you hug someone after you have just finished crying, you will probably start crying again. If you have control over this, you can stop again before you look up, granted the hug is a few seconds long. If this is not possible, you are in an unwelcome situation.

8. Don't hug anyone just after you're done crying.

When people say they want to know, and that you really should talk to them when you need to, sometimes they don't mean it. Sometimes their problems are worse than yours and it's not fair to rant while they're going through something you can't even reasonably compare to. They'll never tell you that themselves, so you have to make that distinction.

9. Be careful who you really can rant to.

10. If someone needs you, never turn them down. You never matter more than they do.

Frustration is part of life. You will be told this your entire life. It's best if you start getting used to it now. Nobody likes it when you complain. Sometimes you can even turn it around and make it work for you. That's the best way to handle problems anyway. Sometimes that's not the easiest thing, and it's okay to go to your room and cry if you need to. Just don't let anyone find out, because you won't be able to explain without sounding like you're being pathetic.

11. Get over it.

Talking helps. It's also okay to talk to yourself if you need to. You know why you say things better than anyone else, and it takes other people so long to figure you out.

12. Rant even if no one will ever read it.

13. When something hurts you, it's okay. These things happen.

14. You are never the most important.

15. School is a good way to distract yourself. Work hard.

16. Care more about your teachers and the people around you than your grade. Remember, the people around you keep you from trying.

17. Go outside. Safer place to cry than indoors.

18. Write.

19. Procrastination kills.

It matters what people say about you, but you have to be careful of what you take to heart. Remember that people say they have a higher opinion of you than they really do. That's okay, because it's good to be able to see yourself in the correct light. If you look smart, it will help you feel better about yourself. But you don't have to look smart if you sound smart. Sometimes not talking makes you sound smarter than if you do.

20. It's all going to be okay.

To Remember

Part One

She is more beautiful than she has felt in weeks and weeks and weeks and a day. Her smile is more of a helpless expression of secrets than she has ever been able to put into her eyes for that one-take picture. Stretched to the limitless sky, her arms are a symbol of her emotion, an amazing sort of glory that only she can show.

"Are you ready, Kate?"

Her eyes open, and her smile drifts down, down, down to earth where we all live in shades of grey. She likes to believe she is a queen, somehow more beautiful in her mind than she is seen by the eyes of those she loves. She likes to live far, far away in the folds of her memories, safe and secure, too content to be afraid to come out.

The color of her fingers is a transparent sort of white as she reaches out. Her face stretches as she smiles, a cold sort of look, a death sort of feel. His fingers slip through hers and a little bit of life enters her eyes, like she's learned to breathe again. Tonight is not a night to worry. Tonight is a night to enjoy her presence, for her to enjoy his presence, to feel beautiful in a long dress and black lines around her eyes. That's all tonight is. Tonight is another memory to add to her mental library, a date to store and bring up when the sun goes away. But there's no need to think of it that way.

"I'm ready." Her voice is careful and light, beautiful like she's pretending she is. Her thin hair has been curled in an attempt to bring whatever sort of vibrance her expression used to hold back in.

He smiles. It's too easy to let her go, too easy to make her happy, to easy to bruise her hungry little heart. But it's okay tonight. Tonight is a memory in the making, and that's all that matters, all that will ever mean anything.

The floor spins beneath them, and the lights flash, and her eyes reflect back the colors in a mirror sort of fashion. Their gazes bounce back and forth between her mirrors and his, and that's all that will ever mean anything...

"Kate."

How many layers deep does one have to go? Which is the surface? How do you get back up? Her arms are wrapped around his neck, standing on her tiptoes, her face hidden against his neck. Everything that burns in her mind is current, a desperate camera struggling to remember every detail: the warmth of his body, the feeling of security that his arms pressing against her create, but why is it that she can never later remember what it feels like at that amazing, firework-filled moment when he kisses her?

"Why are you crying?"

This isn't the memory she wanted to make.

Everything spins, spins beneath her like the way she wants to dance, like the happiness she remembers feeling a long time ago. Everything spins, and she clings to the only constant in her equation, afraid to let go and fall down, down, down to the earth where we all live in shades of grey. And he doesn't know why, he doesn't know why she's crying, or why her little world is perfectly imperfect, or why she's holding on like she will never be able to let go... he doesn't know, but he doesn't need to know.

She kisses his cheek, but she is frantic now, afraid he is about to walk away and leave her with that feeling of emptiness that she doesn't know how to fill. She doesn't understand why she is so desperate to keep him there with her. She doesn't know why she feels like the light goes out when he's not there anymore. Her stomach tightens with something like guilt, but she's so used to it now.

It seems again that all that is necessary to make him understand is to tell him she's sorry, but she's said that so many times she wonders if he still believes her. She wonders if the writing on her hands means to him what it means to her. She wonders if the painful struggle that battles constantly beneath her ribcage is something he feels just as tightly as she does. She wonders if it's easier to run in a rull circle than a semi one, and she wonders where the other half of her circle went.

"Don't cry, Kate," he says. It's the only thing he knows for sure. "Don't cry. It's all going to be okay."

How many times has she heard those words? She closes her eyes and the colors flood back over her. It's too easy to give in, to let the dreams come back, to think that she's still wrapped up in his arms even when he's walked away to where she can no longer see his retreating shadow. It's so very easy.

And she is beautiful... more beautiful than she has felt in weeks and weeks and weeks and that day when he kissed her when the sun was shining.  Her arms around that solid statue where he used to stand, symbolizing her freedom, running forever in the fields of memories, drowing painlessly in old joys and old cautions. Maybe he's calling her back, somewhere up there in the sky, somewhere where everything isn't perfect. There's only one layer of perfection, and she doesn't want to leave anymore. She doesn't want his arms to leave her alone again, she doesn't want to cry in a corner where nobody is watching, she doesn't want to daydream about one more dance before she dies. She wants thinks to make sense. Here, here is where everything makes sense. Here she never has to admit to being selfish. Here she never has to cry, because everything is just how she wants to remember it.

She is so beautiful.

Part Two

It's been getting colder, but she doesn't care. She is desperate. She must stay here, here with her memories. She has kept them so well. Caution, precautions, everything necessary to keep everything in it's place, safe from rust and safe from age. Everything is correct. She can watch it again whenever she needs to. She can see that beautiful girl running to him again, and she can see him hold her close and she can hear her laugh. And she can watch them walk together, in that beautiful finished circle, hand in hand just like it feels like it's supposed to be. And she can see everything that has ever meant anything to her --  except for that firework-moment when he kisses her. She hasn't been able to see that. And it's getting colder.

Sometimes she thinks about waking up and feeling something real, but then she remembers that if she leaves, she won't be able to see any of this again. She'll go back to her harmful daydreams, the ones where she dies a slow death, the ones where she keeps reaching and reaching but can never quite take his hand. She'll have to go back to where she feels guilty for that strange thing they call love, and guilty for needing, and guilty for being anything less than what she calls perfect. She doesn't want to go back to feeling empty when he steps back and says goodbye. She doesn't want to feel her throat swell up and her eyes spill over with those burning bits of her soul. She doesn't want to feel cold again, and if she wakes up, she'll be cold. She'll be colder than she is now.

She tells herself that the images aren't fading. She's done so well at keeping them in good shape. When a detail was lost, she painted it back in, a romanticized version of a reality she had become afraid of. The rain from the sky must just be something she doesn't remember at the moment. The negative memories are just below the horizon, but she's kept the sun from setting.

She watches one more time. One last time. She means to stay, and watch it again, like a knife in her skin just to remind her that pain isn't in her mind. She watches that beautiful girl in his arms, and she smiles without meaning to. He looks so happy. She remembers him looking happy. The girl looks nothing like she feels like, but that's okay. Memories are never quite what really happened.

And she still doesn't see that firework-moment. She's never cried in here before, but the tears on her face refect everything she's cold without, everything that leaves the sky raining, everything as a grey shadow, everything that she thought she had built for herself.

"Kate."

She opens her eyes.

The daydream of one more dance drifts away immediately. It doesn't matter. She doesn't need it right now. She doesn't need the cold feeling of loss on her skin to remember what she has.

And he smiles.

Part Three

She is more beautiful than she has felt in weeks and weeks and weeks and a day. Her hair is down and feels free against her neck. She spins, and the world spins around her, and she lets it go. She doesn't need to hold on, there is nothing left to take her away. She doesn't go away anymore. Her memories dance in her mind, a recollection of everything that was and everything that maybe can be.

"Why are you crying, Kate?"

She spins again. She is beautiful. Beautiful...

"Kate."

Ironic, somewhat, how the only constant in her dreams was the one thing she was afraid most of losing.

"Are you ready?"

She turns, and her arms around his neck are her wordless apology, her silent smile, her request. She doesn't need to remember that firework-moment when he kisses her, because she doesn't have to stay with her functioning mind. She is no longer limited to what she can take in.

Maybe she'll remember this one.

Dreaming

Mmm.

There's me, and then there's you, and between us is an ocean of possibilities with an endless amount of endings. I liked it that way, because I was unpredictable, and you were unpredictable, and together we were a wonderful force of randomness that crushed all logic. We liked it that way.

Words create a sort of stable world that's just for you and me. We add to it as we go along, increasing the infinity of possible endings exponentially. We are going walking today, because the train to take us home is late and time to kill is the best time of all.

Your hand in mine feels right and safe, and our arms swing back and forth against the offbeat of our steps. Your voice mixes with mine, and it doesn't matter what we say because happiness limits nothing. Especially not in a perfectly imperfect world with those mountains of tears and those beautiful, beautiful valleys of smiles.

Exaggeration is never needed in the imagination; things in your mind will always be built upon and swallowed up with bigger and better ideas. My fingers through yours tighten for a moment, a casually in-casual acknowledgement of the pause our voices met. Your eyes smile before your mouth does, and because we can, it begins to rain.

It doesn't really matter how things connect. You and I, we aren't programs inside a box of forced thinking. We are spiderwebs, a weaving of any color we like, a cloud that won't keep it's shape. Our thoughts make sense in this little world. The rain grows heavier, and I stop walking.

You look at me for a moment, and I close my eyes to your expectant face.

I'm going to go to sleep with your arms around me and my head against you, like a happy dream that spins on after the dreamer has awoken. Your mouth near mine is a surprise, but a sweet one, and you kiss me with the rain downpouring on both of us — a cliche point that even I love.

The train comes to pick us up, but I fall asleep against you and even this doesn't have to end.

Strange Words

There's too many pages of strange things, too many books written by strange people, too many strange words that nobody uses anymore. There's too many pictures lining the halls of famous museums, there's too many symphonies that shake those concert halls. There's too much power in speeches, too much feeling in music, too many pages of strange things.

Disconnecting what I see and what I feel has never been easy. They always seem to go together, pasting smiles over the old magazines, laughing when I don't remember how to tip my hat. Who needs respect now? Constantly, we beg for honor and then throw it down. We are offended when we are complimented. The ink has been spilled, and the stain will never fully disappear.

I like to try to wear different hats, and different gloves, and boots, and see how many people tell me I don't match. People tend to have a nerve that they won't admit to. They pride themselves on the tact they possess, but the rest of us can see what they really are. Just a shell. One of those little dolls that has a smaller doll inside of it, and a smaller doll inside that smaller doll, all the way down to the little bean-sized one.

They seem to assume that if they keep pouring water over their heads, they will look more and more beautiful until the sun looks like a cold little rock next to their glory. They burn and scald themselves, starve the life out of their eyes, paint colored clay over their faces until they are simply a broken little bean-sized doll, locked inside a smiling robot, one of those serial killers that leaves you awake all night.

And then you turn on your television and watch the ball players run around and wonder how long each of them will live, and what their favorite colors are... regardless of the flags of their team. The paint in the cup by your wrist stirs itself, trembling, waiting to spill and ruin some other treasure in your possession.

And the voices trail on in that off-beat fashion called harmony, a subtle reminder that colored lights really don't work like colors on the paper does, and the way your mind works has to sift through the different modes until it comes to the right one. Maybe you'll get together with someone you call a friend, and you'll make that sound called harmony, but one of you always has to take a melody, and the melody is what everyone knows...

And you haven't eaten in you don't know how many hours, but that's alright because as soon as you start getting faint, you'll pick it all up again and make your schedule even more unbalanced than it is now. It separates you somehow, but you don't mind, because that's all you've ever wanted. That sort of respectful disrespect that appears to be attached to your words and actions. It's all you've ever known; how could it be wrong? You were born this way. They always say you don't have to change.

Your stomach hurts, but you're not sure why, and to be quite honest you don't really care. The newspapers blare out that there's been a murder, another life that slipped away, and not enough people care. The train will keep leaving with your magazines, and information slides down the wall where it's been thrown. But it never really affects anything, because there's always going to be another newspaper... another murder.

And now there's a reason to smile but you can't quite put your finger on it. Who cares about the cause as long as the effect was good? They say they do, but they don't. It's all lies. They like to lie, and they like to change words to make themselves appear more adorable. Why is it that the affection of other half-dead humans is what we chase after? Why do we want more of what we are? Are we all such hypocrites?

But then again, why do you care? It's not you're problem. It's probably the government's problem. They like to solve those things for you anyway. The paint spills, the power flickers, the television dies. It's dark again. Too many strange words.

House

The house is best when there's no one here but me. The only air that I inhale and exhale, over and over again, is just mine. I'm not sharing precious oxygen with the lungs of those occupying the same residence as I. It's all mine.

No one is here to hear the second heartbeat that is pounding hammers against my skull.
No one is here to warn me that the pills I've swallowed will knock me out for at least six hours.
No one is here to make me drink water and sit by the fire. No one is here to notice me.
No one is here to care.

The house is best when the only noises are mine, and I have control over what sounds reach my ears. Except for the haunting thudding in my head, I am the monarch of this building, and of everything inside. I am a dictator. I tell things to stop, I tell them to start again. I am angry when it is not anyone's fault. It is mine.

No one is here to look at my drawings and try to interpret them.
No one is here to sit by my side on the couch and listen to me spill my mind.
No one is here to watch me cry, no one is here to comfort me.
No one hears.
No one is here to care.

The house is best when the music can sail through it without anyone being annoyed with my choices. My songs are my songs, and I take them for my own pleasure, not for anyone else's. I share my original music only with the stillness, and I shatter the stillness. It is mine.

No one is here to read the words I have so carefully written onto these pages.
No one is here to smile, or frown, or agree. No one is here to understand my explanation.
No one is here to contradict or to converse.
No one speaks.
No one is here to care.

The house is quiet when it is just mine. It breathes and sways like a creature hungry, and fear breeds on my echoed gasping. A thousand ghosts seem to appear, leering at me, taunting me. My words spill from my mouth, a desperate attempt to keep my mind from wandering. The instrument that burns in my fingers crumbles, a tuneless heap, a failure. Those in the other rooms speak to each other, and I can hear them laughing...

But...

No one is here to care.

Unworded Paradise of Lies

"There's such an incredible infinity of lights!"

My lips moved and words poured out, but my hand was still trembling on the frozen grass. I don't think this grass will ever thaw; it's already turned grey as it is, and grey grass doesn't seem like it would ever really be alive again.

The apparition beside me stirs, its open mouth breathing out unfelt thoughts. Since when do ghosts breathe? A silent photograph in my mind smiles, a forgotten thought slipping to and fro over the waves of memories. Music was always a nice way of putting things.

A cool finger touches my lips and a shudder runs through my veins. The apparition smiles detachedly, and I gaze through its eyes. There was never much emotion involved here. There was never much emotion needed. Why would you ever bring feeling... and everything that comes with feeling... into such a cold, beautifully empty space?

"There's such an incredible infinity of lights."

Stars are an astonishing sort of phenomenon. Sometimes I wonder how far the incredibly simplistic black-and-white could go. The tears stream down my face, but I scarcely notice their presence. Crying is just another one of those useless forms of seeking sympathy.

I haven't learned yet to stop using my voice. The ghosts around me never speak, no, they are too transparent and beautiful to mar themselves with sound. Sometimes, the weight of the silence is so strong that I say something, anything, whatever I am thinking... just to remind myself that I am still as sinful and disgusting as any other. For now, anyway.

They say words die when they are spoken! Dead, dead, dead like wasted emotion and crushed dreams. The apparition nods, very gently, to encourage me. I understand it now. At first I was frightened, but it showed me the endless, endless stars and the frozen grass, the blue blood that sailed in the streams in place of water, the angels that stood still like stone. Oh, stone, stone is beautiful.

"Such an incredible... incredible infinity... lights."

They say that if I sleep, it will all be better when I wake. It will all make sense. The air is unspeakably cold; I can almost see frost forming on the softly indistinct line of the wonderful apparition beside me. It's chest falls and lifts, an imitation, for since when do ghosts breathe?

A finger traces mine, but there is no feeling. Feeling is unnecessary. Hurt. Trust. Love. Unnecessary. It is better without.

I smile contentedly. Neither lies nor truth matter anymore. That is what the ghosts told me, their bodies against mine, removing the fire of fever and bringing blue blood in place of water, silence instead of words of empty comfort.

"Such... infinity..."

And I sleep.

Vinegar

It is an uncomfortably large room that I have stationed myself in -- perhaps exiled would be a better word. My world of illusions is delicate and intricate and the detail are perhaps the only thing that keep me from sinking into insanity. I would ask you if you have ever experienced anything like this, but usually you haven't. It's a rare and terrible creature who has. But I am content to be the only terrible creature living in my beautiful mansion, and I am content to have only one room that is consistently destroyed.

Only one room. An uncomfortably large one. I can afford to be just a little bit over-the-top in my decorating tastes. I've never seen anyone have a room as large as mine, with so very little furniture. I have a chair. A wooden one, with a straight back and simple carving. And I have a desk. A very large desk. It is in the very center of my wonderfully, awkwardly large room.

The walls are the true masterpiece. The walls are coated, floor to ceiling, in mirrors. When I write, there are hundreds of images of myself staring at me, commanding me to live up to what I say I am, pulverizing my self-esteem with their angry pairs of identical eyes. And they all look at me at the same time. It's amazing, really.

Here I have exiled myself until I can talk to people without cutting their skin, without bruising their faces, without crushing anyone. I have a solid habit of maltreating people when they get on my nerves. I know when it's going to happen, because my hands clasp each other tightly and I start smiling. Smiling is a bad sign.

And then, they say something that cuts the last wire that holds old Pinocchio down, and I let loose.

Words are beautiul, like knives. Knives are a beautiful danger, and I am far too skilled and confident to be let alone with knives. My words are my knives, and no one seems to realize that. They tell me to be quiet, can't I see how I've hurt their feelings? Go to my room, I shan't be allowed to visit people if I can't keep ahold of my tongue.

I'm proud to be sent here -- I'm proud to look around at all the criminals trapped in here with me, all the profanities I've written into the floor on some of my worse days. I've been getting better with the curse words, though. I've been trying. Cursing is such a weak way of letting emotion loose. It's too simple. Too easy. Naturally, I can't do anything too simple or too easy.

And here I am exiled, self-exiled, mostly, and I sit on my chair and hold my hands tightly behind the back. The pens on the desk are all fountain pens, all beautiful old-fashioned instruments of hate and glorious love, all sharp and glaring just like the knife-words I know how to wield so skillfully.

I've spilled enough of the ink on my desk to drown the wood, and my blood is probably mostly black and blue, but if I die of poison from tools of beauty, how can I complain?

My fingers are already shaking, but the clock is slow and I can't give in prematurely. The pens and the inks are waiting for me, the pale, dead paper waiting to breath again, the mirror images waiting to revel in our wordful triumph. And yes, it will be a triumph, for triumph is what I live for... triumph in all its glory, its different perspectives.

My reflected images are smiling, waiting. The paper before me trembles, my fingertips burning. I imagine the ink to be boiling inside the little bottles.

The clock strikes; the chains break and adrenaline shoots through every vein in my body, sending my mind into a beautiful frenzy. The word-knives bleed ink onto the waiting sheets, and I can hear the heatbeat beginning again. The pain of growth is nothing compared to the raw exhilaration of release.

Time speeds, or stops, or shuts me out as long as the pen is scraping the page. My writing is curved and beautiful, the result of years and years of unintentional practice. The clock strikes again, but I don't stop. I'm not ready to stop yet. It's not ready to stop, it wants to go on, it begs to go on, it burns to go on...

Someone knocks.

The inkwell falls, my arms and my desk are stained a wonderful black.

The paper breathes, sighs, and closes its eyes.

"Ready to behave now?"

My tongue jumps; my fingers convulse over the splintered wood. I am not ready to behave. I am ready to stand downstairs like a demonic angel and wait until you practically beg an insult out of me.

Bowl of Cherries

It's a cheery thought, really, despite its outward appearance. Most things can be cheery if you really try. You just have to come at it from a different angle. Most things. There's an exception to every rule... don't tell me about the paradoxical circles that makes. I don't want to hear about them.

Cheery thoughts.

How many hours left? I don't know; I'm getting tired of counting. The clock blinks a bright four-in-the-morning at me, but I'm too awake to even begin to think of trying to sleep... I can't. I've filled my belly with ice cold water in an attempt to freeze the butterflies into blue crystals, but I haven't stayed still enough to find out if it's working.

It can be a cheery thought... Cheery is red. I don't like red. But red is the color of cherries and strawberries and blood, and I like cherries and strawberries and blood keeps me alive and able to make cheery thoughts...

I'm tired.

I roll over on my bed, my face pressed into the pillow. If it's four-in-the-morning now, that means in twenty-four hours it will be four-in-the-morning again, and a nice seven hours from then... Cherries and strawberries and blood, and a train will leave and I'll be the only one there at the station again. So how many hours is that? Thirty-one? I can't do math anymore. I'm sorry. I tried. I really did.

So.

What do you want to talk about?

It's four-in-the-morning, but I will make lists and pictures and then I'll know what to say to you in seven hours and in thirty-one hours.

Cherries?

I can make cherries. Thoughts are like cherries. Cheery thoughts are like cherries without stones. Oh, that's a song, and I know how to sing it... But you'll be long gone before I think I have the courage to sing you my song about cherries with no stones.

I have a cherry, a cherry without a stone. You'll get to go where you've always wanted to go, all your life. I know you'll be happy. And I'll be happy that you'll be happy, so somewhere along there, I should be content. You'll get to go and see all the things you've always wanted to see, and do all the things you've always wanted to do, and then... then maybe, when you come back, you'll tell me about it and I'll get to rest in your arms and listen to your voice.

If you come back.

Of course you'll come back.

And maybe, when you tell me about everything you've been waiting to tell me, I will be so amazed and interested that you will say, "You should go sometime."

But it's four-in-the-morning, and the future is still so very far away, and I have to have a bowl of cherries with no stones for you in seven hours.

My eyes sting and I drag my hand angrily across my face. I'm not supposed to cry.



The alarm startles me awake. I hate my alarm. It's a cherry stone in audible form. I move around in some sort of brain-dead mode, because I'm not ready to remember that I only have twenty-six hours left. Change clothes. Brush teeth. And hair, if I remember. Try to look decent. I don't care if I look decent. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, because I will be so very very beautiful in twenty-seven hours... that's how it always works.

I somehow manage to swallow some sort of nourishing breakfast and tie my shoes in a horrendous knot that I'll never get undone. I don't care how it happened. My bowl of cherries without stones is only half-full, so I hope you've remembered to get some too.

It's too bright and warm outside to think. I let my deadened mind take me to the woods and I wander around, quite unprotected and vulnerable, pretending I don't know I'm crying. My bowl of cherries without stones might spill. But no. Not yet. Not till you're here to help me pick them up.

I stop walking and blink. I need to laugh. I need to pretend, I need to deny, I need to die in my head for awhile so I never, ever, ever have to think about all the stones I've left at home under my bed.

"Hello."

I wrap my arms around my stomach, holding down the ugly, clawed butterflies that want to make my intestines bleed.

"Hi," I say.

Turning around is too risky. In a moment. Just a moment.

"You okay?"

Stop sounding so concerned! I am fine. I have a bowl of cherries for you -- cherries without stones. Your favorite.

"I'm fine," I say, and turn around to smile. It's easy to smile at you. You look relieved to see my now tearless face, and you reach to grab my hand.

Twenty-five-and-a-half hours.

But we talk. We talk and I give you all my cherries, one by one, and they make you smile because you don't know how very carefully I've removed the stones and hidden them. I hide them so that you don't know how very jealous I am and how very selfish I am and how very much I wish you wouldn't go away. I am a good friend. I am a good friend, a good friend who loves you, and I don't want you to know how very much I want you to stay...



It's four-in-the-morning again. I'm awake, too awake to even begin to think of trying to sleep, and I'm out of cherries and only have a bowl of stones. I used up all my cherries. I gave them all to you. I don't know how to make these thoughts cheery anymore. You are going away from me, going to all the places that I've always wanted to go, all the things I've wanting to see, going to do all the things I've ever wanted to do... without me. I don't know what I'm going to do, I don't know how my cherry tree will survive. How did it grow without you, anyway?

I have seven hours.

The clock flashes an aggressive reminder into my eyes, but I can't blink or I'll start crying and I can't start crying because I'll never stop, and saltwater kills trees. Especially cherry trees. Especially my cherry tree.

I need to laugh.

I roll onto my back and stare at the pictures I've drawn on the ceiling. There's a lot of cherries, but I'm not obsessed or anything. I just need visual representations of things or I go insane and cry and kill trees. Cherry trees. My cherry tree.

There's also a train, stretching far away into a vanishing point that I don't know how to reach, and a sun that's dripping onto the train, and a very very small little girl standing beneath the train, holding a giant cherry in one hand and a giant stone in the other.

I'm very proud of my drawings.



The alarm wakes me up, and I remember how very much I hate my alarm. My eyes are swollen and tender and I wonder how long I cried. I don't sleep much anymore. I know a song about cherries with no stones, and now I only have two hours and I'll never sing it for you, and I never told you about my bowl of cherry stones and I don't think you know how very many cherries you've had.

I brush my hair down smooth and pretty today. Red seems appropriate for the occassion, so a small red ribbon is fastened around my ponytail. I wash my face and brush my teeth and I have tiny little sparkles of earrings that also seem somehow appropriate.

And I pull on my ratty shoes, cut the laces off with scissors, replace them with red braids that I made for this moment, and wander mindlessly outside.

I know where I'm going.

You're already there at the station, but we are an hour and a half early, and there's no one else here to hug you and take up your time and give you cherries. I think I'm the only one who gives you cherries. I've been careful. I've seen the look in your eyes when people show you the stones and cry about how much they'll miss you. I watched Lizzy kiss your cheek, and then burst into tears. I watched you hug her awkwardly, and you didn't know I saw. But I did. And I don't want to cry when I say goodbye. I want you to hug me like you're happy.

"How are you?" You ask. You sound happy, I think.

I smile. "I'm fine. How are you?"

You don't answer my question. You're watching my eyes.

"How are you?" You ask again.

Repetition is a bad sign.

"I said I was fine."

"How are you?"

"Fine."

"How are you?"

I stop and look away. The tracks stretch away forever, to that horrible vanishing point. I imagine another girl, perhaps not so small, perhaps not so fragile... perhaps a little prettier, perhaps looking like Lizzy. Lizzy never had cherries, but maybe this other girl will. Many cherries. Cherries to keep you from remembering me.

"Look at me," you say. Your voice is commanding.

"I'm going to cry," I reply.

"I was hoping so."

Your arms are around me, holding me close and tight, and the tears burn down my face but I don't try to stop them now.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, muffled.

"Never be sorry for letting me hold you."

"I'm sorry for crying."

"I'm sorry for leaving you."

My breath drags over my throat.

"You're a brave girl," you say, and I turn red to hear the smile in your tone.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes."

"I'm crying."

"I know."

You know about the cherries. I don't know. I never told you.

When you let go to look at me, I am embarrassed for my red eyes, red like strawberries and blood and ribbons and laces and cherries, but somehow it doesn't really seem to matter.

"I'll be back," you say. And you smile.

It's a cheery thought...

Rag Doll

It's been two moments. A day, a year, a minute, a second, each one of those are moments. It has been two moments. You are an idea, an image in someone's mind. You probably have a name. Right now you are Child, a shapeless form of wool stuffing, waiting to be put inside a body, a mind. It's early enough in the process that all you have seen are the good things in life, and all you have felt is joy and anticipation. You are waiting to become something.

The moments go by. Someone takes your shapeless lump of stuffing and looks at you. So many things can be done with thoughts this pure, a mind this tender. The fingers caress you, impressing you gently with permanent marks. You start to take form.

The moments continue to go by. You have something that resembles an arm coming out of the side of your chest. For the first time, you see a whole Doll on the workbench. Her arms are not raw wool; they are covered in soft, pale cloth. In fact, her whole body is covered in linen. She is tall and slim and her red mouth smiles stiffly. She is Complete.

You now have someone to aspire to be. One day, perhaps, if you work hard, you too can be held together by soft fabric, revealing who you are and what you do.

Your mind is changed now. There is more to life than being shapeless and happy. The moments go by, and you soon realize your raw wool face is covered with something warm and soft. Your face has been covered. You have a certain unique look to you now. Expressions of your very own.

The moments go by, and as you continue to explore the other Dolls you come across, you gain fabric on your limbs. You have a shape now. It is lumpy and imperfect, but it is who you are. You are ridiculously pleased with yourself. You have become someone.

You use your new powers in the moments to come. You find something long and black; it leaves a dark mark where you press it to the table. Carefully, you draw a smile across your lower face. Eyes. A nose. Suddenly your face has life to it — you can smile, blink, smell! Never mind that your eyes are uneven and your mouth is crooked. It is who you are.

Moments pass. You are happy with who you are. You are a Doll now. You are the Doll with the lumpy body and the crooked smile. You are happy.

You come across other Dolls. These Dolls are all Complete, just like you. You are Conplete because you are someone; you have eyes to see and a nose to smell and a mouth to smile. You have a mind to learn and discover. You are a Completed Doll. You find Society, and you join in.

You explore, eager to learn, eager to grow. Everything fascinates you. You are the Doll with the lumpy body and crooked smile, but that is you and no one else looks just like you. You are unique.

You rediscover the tall Doll from many moments ago. She is even more beautiful than you had remembered. She has sparkling blue eyes, so unlike your black ones. They are spaced evenly, while yours dot your face like a misguided case of two measles. Her mouth, her red mouth, is curved in a perfect smile. Suddenly, you feel small and flawed beside her. You cover your crooked smile with a lumpy hand and back away. She looks at you with her perfect blue eyes and stunning red smile, and you hide from her. You aren't fit to come before her.

You go home. You take a wet cloth and you wash your black eyes from your face. Your mouth comes next. You are blank except for your nose. You lose some of your individuality.

You find an old Doll who is willing to draw you new eyes and a new mouth, for only the price of your old black marker. You give it without a thought.

Not three moments later, you have blue eyes and a red, red mouth. You peer at yourself in a pane of glass and are pleased with your new beauty. You are different now. You are not as unique as you once were, but you do not think on that. You return to society and join the Dolls.

Moments go by. You are sitting outside, feeling the sun on your red mouth and your blue eyes. A Complete Dollstrolls by. He smiles at you, and goes on. Something was different about him, you know for sure. His eyes were blue, and his mouth was red, but you are used to that now. It no longer appears so beautiful. He had shimmering golden hair on his head. You have never seen anything so spectacular.

Your own head is bare. You are not perfect. You rush home and find a brown marker. Desperately, you attempt to give yourself makeshift hair. You look in a pane of glass, at you scribbled brown hair. You smile and think to yourself that you are much better now. You think that maybe, that Doll's hair wasn't as amazing as it had first seemed. The sun was on it.
You are just as beautiful now.

Once again, you enter society. You realize that many Completed Dolls have gorgeous hair like you saw before. Their wonderful, yarn hair makes you feel small and ugly with your scribbled marker hair. You go home, and you wash your brown hair off your head.

You find an old Doll who is willing to sew you some long, golden hair. He asks only for your brown marker. You give it gladly, and do not think twice about it.

You sit still through the delicate, painful procedure. When it is completed, you stare at yourself in the pane of glass. You are beautiful now. You are less special, you do not stand out as much from the crowds. You decide that is a good thing, and you go back into society.

Moments pass. You are pleased with yourself. You look wonderful. You have golden hair, blue eyes, and a red mouth. You are perfect.

One moment, you follow a group of Completed Dolls down to a beach. You watch from a distance as they remove their towels and reveal their smooth, even arms and legs. There is not a bump on their bodies where it does not belong. You slowly realize that your lumpy legs and arms look nothing like these amazing, slender ones.

You run home and give yourself a massage, trying fractically to even out the lumps of wool beneath your cloth skin. You cannot do it.

You find an obliging Doll who will kindly replace your lumpy arms and legs with pre-made, slender, smooth ones. She asks only for your old legs and arms for pay. You promise her that, eager to be rid of them.

This process is even more painful than the one before. Tears leak from your blue eyes as the needle pierces your cloth flesh again and again.

The horrible pain is finally over. You view yourself with glee in the glass pane. You look like the other Dolls, with no lumps or black eyes or brown scribble hair or crooked mouths. You see yourself as perfect once again.

Societly welcomes you more sweetly than ever. You revel in your newfound glory, feeling like pure beauty.

As you are coming home one moment, you stop and think. Three times you have found something wrong with yourself, and three times you improved. Perhaps your eyes are not open to your own flaws? Perhaps you are too blind to see what was mistakenly done to you during your crafting? This idea latches hold, and you become insecure and sensitive.

The next moment, you go to find a "Specialist Doll". That is what the sign above her door says. You ask her to tell you if you have any flaws.

She explains with a voice like honey. You discover you are too short. Your stomach pokes out where it should be flat. Your face is too round; it should be more teardrop shaped. You have no eyebrows. Your nose is too big. Your feet are too flat. Your hands are nothing but ovals on the end of your arms. Your hair is all one color. And your cloth skin color is just not the fashion.

You hear all this and you start to cry and curse the person who crafted you. Whoever they were, they made so many mistakes that it was hardly worth keeping your life. You tell this to the Specialist Doll.

"I can fix you," she says sweetly. "I only ask for a few things in return..."

You agree, in near hysterics. Anything to become perfect.

Too many excruciating moments later, you are finished. You are taller, more slender. Your stomach doesn't poke out any longer. Your face is a perfect teardrop. You have thin, delicate eyebrows and your nose is neat and tiny. You have four fingers and a thumb. Three red strands hang down your head, in place of three discarded golden ones. And every thread of your skin has been replaced with a warmer, browner, more incredible cloth.

The Specialist Doll takes your discarded hair, your old skin, your lump hands, the filling from your stomach and face that she removed. She leaves with a smile and you do not see her again.

You are delighted with yourself. Everywhere you look, you see beauty equal to yours. You have become what society wanted, and there is no where else to ascend to. You look around and are happy.

The moments go by. No one smiles at you anymore. No one sees you at the corner of two streets. No one speaks to you. You are part of society now. They don't see anything different than everyone else. They hold no respect for who you are, because you are just like everybody. You do not know what to make of this.

One moment, you sit on the beach and watch the waves roll in. You are thinking. You think that perhaps, if you could find one more flaw in yourself and fix it, you would become noticed again.

A young Doll comes by. She is very young. Her eyes are black dots, her mouth is drastically bent. Yet she is smiling. You notice her because her body is short and lumpy.

She looks up at you, and she looks amazed. You look at her little black eyes with your blue ones. She looks in awe, then in uncertainty, then in shame.

"Child," you say softly.

She stops, looking up at you, embarrassed to be seen, unfit as she is.

You lean closer. You want to say a thousand words, warning her, telling her that she is perfect just the way she is. You open your red mouth. Three words. You say three words.

"You are beautiful."

Green

"What's on your mind, love?"

I lean against you to let you know that  I'm trying to think. There's a lengthy process in my mind before anything comes out of mouth.

What's on my mind?

I don't know. I am almost completely content just to hear your voice, to be with you, to take your hand and know you won't mind. You might even like it. You probably will, but I pretend you just don't mind so that when you take my hand first I bubble up with a surprise happiness.

What am I thinking of?

I... I like your smile. You should smile more often. I think you and I should go on a walk and you should tell me that you really want to be with me and you're not doing it out of guilt. I'm thinking about how small and stupid I feel when I want to hug you but all I know how to do is stand dumb and keep my mouth shut. I'm thinking about wishing you would tell me you want nothing more than to hold me forever and ever and tomorrow. I'm thinking.

I know you love me, just say it again because I'll never get tired of hearing it. And I love you too. I love you more than words can say. You can't beat that. Heh.

Years are such a bothersome way to measure time. Time is a line, stretching from forever to forever, and maybe, if you want, you and I could share a little bit of forever. If you wanted to. You know. If you wanted to go psycho and stab me multiple times and tell me you hated the blood that gave me life, I'd probably let you do that. If you wanted to.

Because if you went psycho and murdered me, at least I'd be dead and not living for the rest of my forever knowing you hated me and that I was annoying you with my helpless little attempts of affection.

That's not really very funny.

I'm thinking about how very much I've missed you lately, and how sorry I am for being shy around you when I don't have to be. I'm sorry for wanting you to hold me so much. I'm sorry for wanting you to tell me you'd hold me forever.

Heh.

I'm sorry for being such a silly girl.

I'm like a broken robot who isn't supposed to have emotions. I'm trapped with my arms waving frantically, with only one way of expressing a need for communication. I can see all those images of me laughing at my more robot-self, and then my daydream ends with my robot-self being pumped full of lead and falling over in a sad little heap.

I die a lot in my daydreams.

Really, it's not funny, but I know how to laugh at it. I watch too many bad cartoons. Heh. Sorry.

And I love you.

Remember.

More than words.

And that's saying something. I am the master of unsaid words. The queen. I'm a queen.

I want to be with you.

"What's on your mind, love?"

I smile, and look up to your eyes, which are a lot higher than mine.

"I like the color green..."

Queens and Ruby Gems

"I am two inches tall. Two inches tall, half a voice loud, a dance step between half-way and full."

I pause for a moment, my breath held and reluctant. Three pairs of expectant eyes are on me, waiting for the last sentence. The last sentence is always the most important. I think they finally understand that.

"And I am your worst nightmare."

Four released sighs come, and the paper slides out of my hands to settle alone on the floor. There's a fake relief pressing against the back of my throat, because they don't understand how immensely pleased with myself I am right now. They don't understand.

Jack gets up and picked up the paper on the floor. He gives it a once-over, acknowledges that I didn't write the last sentence on the page, and throws it away. Frankie is pretending to sleep, her arm resting over her eyes, a sign of irritation. Royal is watching me, and I imagine his eyes to be drowning in disappointment. I swallow my hurt and encourage indignance to burn a little brighter.

"You don't understand," I say, angrily, but with the acute feeling that I wouldn't be taken seriously.

"We understand," Frankie said from the couch. "We understand, sweetie, and that's why we're trying to help."

"I don't want you to help. I'm happy this way."

"I know you don't want our help. But you're not happy." Frankie flings her arm from her face and stands up, forcing a weak smile. "You were doing good, sweets. You can do it. Just keep trying."

I avoid her eyes so she doesn't know that I don't try. I never really try.

"Write us another one, will you?" Jack looks cheerful, but I am almost sure he's faking it. He was hoping that I'd come through and do things their way, but I won't. I like my way. My way helps me feel better.

"Yes."

"Thanks." He hugs me and plants a brief kiss on the side of my head.

***

They don't understand.

I have taped all my past speeches onto the wall of my room. I don't sleep here, but it's my room nonetheless. It's the room I'd like to have as my bedroom, but there was always some obscure reason I couldn't. It doesn't matter. It has everything I need: bright colored walls, too many pillows and bean bag chairs, crayons and an endless supply of paper, a laptop and a printer, cupboards for junk food, and an old ratty couch that I absolutely love. My room has the perfected form of cliche, and that's where I go with Jack and Frankie and Royal when I read my speeches.

I practically live in my room, but no one needs to know that.

All my speeches end the same way. "I'm your worst nightmare." "I fall and shatter like china." "I am a shadow and a lie." They all end that way. Frankie first found out when I sent her a letter. She told Royal and Royal told Jack... and Jack...

I suppose I should love them for it.

I smash my fist into a pillow and wait heatedly until the clock says 11:11pm. And then I start to write.

"I am a queen. A queen, a queen of words and of expression. I know how to love. I know how to be... I know I am real. I am a walking masterpiece, a ruby gem, a candle floating on the ocean. I am... I am."

The keys are muffled, the sound pounding against my ears, but I can't stop to think. Jack will be able to tell; Frankie and Royal, probably not. Sarcasm has always been a strong point of mine.

Ruby gem. Ha.

The hours flash by and I know that I will regret my late nights, but Mom doesn't care when I get home and there's no school over the weekends. At least Jack cares about me. Really only one person need have concern, and I don't have the time. So Jack nominated himself. I'm not complaining. He's better at it than I am.

The paper ends. Of course I am pleased with it. I am always pleased with my work. I have to be pleased with it, because that keeps the horrible drug of insecurity from burning my hair off. Insecurity makes me do funny things.

I'm lost and wandering in circles, and writing is a long delayed detour that brings me out of repetition for awhile.

I don't put the last sentence in, because that's a spur-of-the-moment necessity that comes with a sacrifice. Everything comes with a sacrifice.

I print my paper, turn off the lights, jerk my boots on and tramp outside. The walk to my house is a short one, but it's four in the morning and even my anger can't keep that little bit of fear from stiffening my back.

Mom's already asleep. I knew she didn't care.

***

"Hey, sweetie," Frankie says, throwing her thin arms around my neck. I hug her back tentatively; it always unnerves me when they're here before I am. I gave Jack a key so I suppose it makes sense. Jack's on the old couch, and I go sit by him while Frankie goes to make some sort of snack that I shouldn't eat.

"Royal's coming," she calls back. I'm already half asleep on Jack's shoulder.

He's in a good mood today. I open my eyes uncomfortably; he's probably expecting today's speech to end well. He always expects that. He expects too much of me. I'm not that perfect. Anger bubbles in my stomach for awhile, and my eyes sting, but it's not hard to remember that he's still here with me and hasn't disappeared because I wasn't good enough...

Royal bursts in, his eyes alive and brisk. He's probably been up since five in the morning, milking cows or some other ridiculous task -- for the fun of it. He's a strange boy. Sometimes I wonder what Frankie sees in him.

"Morning," he booms. He nods to me, but I pretend to be asleep again.

Jack smiles against my hair. "Sleep well, girl?"

"I didn't sleep," I reply.

"Writing?"

"Always."

"How was it?"

"Wonderful."

"I'm sorry, love."

"Me too."

"You okay now?"

"I'm a ruby gem."

He knows me too well to say anything to that.

Frankie brings cocoa and crackers and Jack pushes me off his shoulder and tells me to eat. I do only out of irritation. I want to go back to pretending to sleep. Royal is chattering about his wonderfully fantastic morning, and Frankie is laughing because she's so beautiful and I am silent because I am angry.

"It's unfair to be angry," I blurt, interrupting Royal's story about some stupid goat giving birth.

Jack and Royal are quiet; Jack because he knows me and Royal because he doesn't. Frankie doesn't even look at me. "Why's that, sweets?"

Why does she have to call me that?

"I'm angry," I say.

"I can see." She eyes me. I hate how beautiful she is.

"It's not fair."

"Why's that?"

I glare at her.

There are no words, and I lean against the couch back stiffly. Jack is eating and doesn't pay any attention to me. Part of me is glad he's not patronizing my fit of irritation, and part of me wishes he'd treat me like he loves me more than anything on earth.

Really, though, that's what he's doing. Even if I won't admit it.

Royal goes back to talking, Frankie back to laughing, and I close my eyes and pretend I'm sleeping. I listen to Royal's voice without hearing his words, and pretend that Frankie is as ugly as I am, and pretend Jack isn't here and that's why he's not holding me.

"Hey," Jack says. Quietly. Royal and Frankie are gone, happily ignorant in their bubble of Royal-and-Frankie.

"Hello," I say. My voice is hard. I am still angry. It's unfair.

"Will you read what you wrote?"

"Gladly."

Jack squeezes my hand once and I stop being angry. It's kind of funny how it works that way.

The paper slides off the printer into my hands, and I don't read over what I've written. It's better if I just start. My heart fell onto this page last night, and the only four people in the world who understand that are sitting in this room.

I meet Jack's eyes briefly.

"I am a queen..."

It flows. It breathes. I created life, life with this piece of paper and ink. I am the words. I am words. I am what makes the words, I am words. I am. That is who I am. I am...

It comes to a close, and I enjoy the short second of suspense as I draw my breath.

"...I am a queen, as a queen is a chess piece, as a chess piece is broken when the game is over."

And I drop the paper.

Oh, it was beautiful. It was my most beautiful yet. Pride burns against my throat, but I know they will be disappointed. They wanted me to end with a lie. They wanted me to say I was still a queen, a ruby gem, a candle... that's what they want me to say. That's what they want me to believe.

Frankie stands up. Her eyes have lost some of that glow, and she crosses the room to hug me. "Good attempt, sweets."

I don't say anything.

Royal looks down, looks up, looks away. He's such an awkward person for being so smart. He also gets up, comes over, gives me an uncertain clap on the shoulder. I want to laugh in his face. Don't touch me.

Frankie is mad. She says they have to go. Royal is an obedient puppy and he follows her out the door.

Jack hasn't looked up yet.

"I'm sorry, Jack." My voice lies. I am not sorry. I am glad. I am glad I made Frankie mad, and I am glad I made Royal unsure. I am glad. I am...

He gets up and picks up the paper from the floor. He gives it a once over, again taking note that I did not write the last sentence on the paper. His mouth curves in a funny little smile.

"Hey, love..."

I watch him warily as he throws the paper away and comes near me. My face is suddenly wet. I don't know when I started crying. He puts his arms around me and holds me close and I hide against him, safe, safe, so very safe now...

The game doesn't have to be over yet.

Rafiq-Ayman and the Man-Who-Reads-The-Stars

An Original Arabian Tale


Rafiq-Ayman was born with the moon between the earth and the sun, and the first sound out of his mouth was laughter. His mother went to pray at the temple to the great and all-powerful Allah, her lips against the ground, giving up her thanks for her child.

In the fourth week of his eighth year of life, Rafiq-Ayman was approached by a Man-Who-Reads-The-Stars. His mother was in great awe, and offered many rich foods and good wine at his feet, to gain his good opinion. He blessed her with his hands on her head and presented prayers to heaven before her.

And he bent before Rafiq-Ayman, who was trembling with fear, and spoke these words to him: "O my son! There has been a sign among the heavens that you are of great strength and will save many from an unwanted death."

Rafiq-Ayman did not understand, and he fell prostrate onto the ground and wept. His tears wet the ground and created mud which soon covered his hands and his face.

"Arise, O my son," said the Man-Who-Reads-The-Stars. "Arise and do not weep."

Rafiq-Ayman arose and stood once again, his features much covered with the mud of the earth.

The Man-Who-Reads-The-Stars touched a finger to the dirt on the lad's face. "Just as your tears have created this mud on your face, so your tears will move the hardest of hearts. May it be well with you, O my son."


It was many summers later when Rafiq-Ayman's mother died and was buried under the red sand. There was a great crying in the city, and many tore their clothes and sprinkled themselves with white ashes. Rafiq-Ayman stood still beside the grave and no words came from his mouth.

And in that time, there came a imam who was cruel and unjust, and many were killed under his command. Those who lived in the village with Rafiq-Ayman were greatly distressed, and some began to lose their minds and lie screaming, with wildly rolling eyes, in the dirt outside the village gates.

The elders of the village could not use their tongues to soften the heart of the cruel leader, and all seemed lost. They at last came to Rafiq-Ayman and pleaded with him to try and convince the imam to be merciful to the children and women of the village and not to let young and beautiful blood run red in the streets. Rafiq-Ayman bowed his head, and said, "I am young and foolish; but I will try, as hope is flown away as the birds of winter."

And so Rafiq-Ayman went before the imam and bowed with his forehead touching the ground. "O mighty one," he said.

The imam looked down at him, and his eyes were hard and lacking of any feeling. "Arise, dirt of the earth, and speak before I have my men run your chest through with spears."

"O mighty one," Rafiq-Ayman said. "May the gods have mercy on you! May the great Allah himself resist from burning you with his anger!"

The imam was scornful. "I do the bidding of the gods and of none other."

"No, O mighty one. You have been deceived by the devils of the earth. Listen! Can you hear? The voices of a thousand babes are wailing in the street! Take up a bowl of water! Do you see? The blood of those who worshipped you as a god has contaminated even the water you drink! The gods are not pleased with you."

The imam raised his hand to command his men to stab Rafiq-Ayman. But Rafiq-Ayman raised his eyes to the heavens and cried in a loud voice, "O almighty Allah!" And tears fell from his eyes and wet the floor before the imam's feet.

The imam was startled, and as he watched the tears of sorrow fall from Rafiq-Ayman's eyes, he began to soften inside. His heart was torn by those tears like acid on stone, and his soul wept. He rose to his feet and his hand came to his side.

"Abdul," he said to Rafiq-Ayman (Abdul is the name that means "servant). "Arise and send yourself back to the village. I see now that I have wronged the gods and the almighty Allah. For each drop of blood that runs in the streets, I will give bread and wine to the poorest. For each body that lies in heaps outside the walls, I will repay with coins and gold. May it be well with you, O my son."

And Rafiq-Ayman returned to the village and was from then on known as the Man-Who-Cried.

Binds of Writing

Binds of Writing

What if you and I got in a convertible and drove away?

What if I kissed you on the cheek when you were driving? What if you were distracted and someone from behind hit us? What if we spun out?

What if you died?

I close my eyes and spread my hands over the still-wet ink. I can't stop this anymore. I can't stop the words. The hills I make turn into mountains until I'm writhing under their weight, screaming with pain, my voice echoing forever off the air and the sky.

I can't stop those words from coming.

The pen is an easy escape. It burns through my mind and cuts open my skin with its scalding blade. My blood comes from my wrists, decorating those horrible white pages, sending it on and on through the layers until everything quietly, peacefully goes dark...

No.

The pen is an easy escape. It builds towers. Beautiful towers. Words upon breathing words, making me alive again. The pen is a mystery, a channel, something to keep me from constantly calling your number and crying to you in hysterics because I just can't keep up anymore. I love to be near you because you make me feel like I really matter, but won't you get tired of it? And so the words come; an artificial respiration, a protection, a guarantee that you'll never ever ever stop loving me.

The words I have written smear on the pages, and my fingertips are black from the ink. My what-ifs are growing. I can't starve them. I can't destroy them. They crawl back up my arms and into my mind, freezing me, torturing me, killing me.

No. No, they don't.

I hate words. Words are a distraction. A misconception. An excuse. Words build shadows and keep me away because I am afraid to share. Words have a seductive beauty, whispering their superiority to actions, to pictures, to me. Words are who I am. They told me so.

No, I'm not.

If I couldn't use my words anymore, would you still know I loved you? Words keep me from talking to you. They press down on my shoulders, driving nails through my throat, sewing my lips shut in an eternally painless manner. The torment is mental, emotional — never physical. But oh, so beautiful... So beautiful...

What do I want to talk about?

I want to talk about my words.

I want to talk about my eyes, which burn with days gone without tears. I want to talk about my hurt, the hurt that spreads so evenly I can't place the origin. I want to talk about loneliness, the dull aching anguish that removes my hunger and creates the most pleasant feeling of nausea.

I want to talk about my words.

The sheets of paper blur for a moment before my eyes, but I blink away the tears. I have no reason to cry. Why do I cry? Crying is the difficult escape, the escape that shatters invulnerability and crushes confidence.

Flames enjoy my words, they thrive on my words, they are addicted to my words. They devour any page I let within their reach. My paralyzingly frightening what-ifs disappear into a charred freedom that sits warm and pulsing beyond my redemption.

But they never leave.

In my mind, I take hold of your hand and keep it tight, a wordless apology for my failures, for my stumblings, for my words. I am ashamed of my words. I want to be able to speak without using my words. So many people don't understand.

Do you?

Sleep is relief only because the endless task of translating is temporarily ceased. It's simple language now, visual language, my native tongue. Everyone speaks words to communicate, and so I learn. I keep learning. I learn for you.

The clock strikes three, all is dark and silent, cold and empty. The fire has eaten my lettering and is now relaxed. Sleep drags me into dreams, and I see you and for once I can tell you exactly what I want to without my metaphors and seemingly unrelated thoughts. The what-ifs disappear into a cloaking blackness, leaving me safe and secure and thoughtless.

Thoughtless.