This empty life…

He called me “hon”.

He is not prone to terms of endearment. This isn’t a man who slips into language like a diner’s waitress.

After no communication for days. Maybe a week.

I’ve lost track of time.

These days time is like taffy. Stretching, clinging, sticking.

The point is it just slipped out so casually.

And I want to bash my head into a wall repeatedly.

There’s a reason I grew up loving paperback mysteries, Stephen King, and Wes Craven movies. This isn’t a girl who believes in fairy-tale-happy-ending bullshit.

I am my father’s daughter.

And I know better.

I know that there isn’t some white knight who is gonna swoop in at the last minute and make all the hurt disappear. There isn’t even a constant weight on the other side of my bed, much less in less explicit facets of my life.

I am on my own. Always. Regardless of where I’m stuck in time.

Only a single friend has told me “You deserve to have him stay. You give so much.”

All others are silent. And it shows me what I already know, in that deepest heart of mine. That truest heart. That constant companion that’s been there since when I was little.

There’s no point in giving. There is no deserving.

There is only the taffy stretch of time and the constant stickiness of pain.

“Cigarettes” by The Wreckers

First session

“I’m lying there wondering what happens next and I hear a voice. It says, ‘Man, this is not a way to live. This is a way to die.'” -Cornell, “28 Days”

---

Today was the day. As the alarm blared, and a hand reached from under the covers to slam it off.

Fuckin’ alarm

She shrugged off the echoing words, well-used to strange thoughts and ringing words she didn’t remember thinking. It matched well with scrawled notes she didn’t remember writing and stacks of books earmarked at pages she didn’t remember reading.

The strange bruises and cuts on the canvas of her body. A quick glance in the bathroom before dressing showed there weren’t any new ones today.

Her stomach felt strangely hollow, but she ignored it. Breakfast wasn’t happening anyway. Running too late. She shoved a wad of cash into her hip pocket. She’d get food at lunch. The worshipful caress of her sharp hipbone said otherwise, but it wasn’t noticed.

Time hop-skipped and she was at her locker. The hopscotch jump of lost time didn’t faze her. Thankfully it was a routine school day and she could easily see by the clock on the wall that all she missed was the trip to school and maybe a bit of pre-homeroom socializing. Nothing she would be required to recall at a moment’s notice. But then a post-it on the inside of her locker caught her eye.

Meeting with the counselor today- after lunch

Panic rose. She would have to discuss “things” with this woman. Explain why her schoolwork was slipping and why her friends never saw her eat.

“Hey. Today’s the day.” said a voice to her left. She jerked silently before noticing it was a real person standing next to her. Katherine.

“Yeah. Today.” She replied.

“Are you still mad at me for telling your mom?” Katherine’s bright blue eyes were concerned and Kit momentarily wondered why she wasn’t mad. Normally she would be. She had been furious at Sarah back in middle school. Telling the school guidance counselor about having to prevent her from drinking bleach at a party. That anger seemed to bubble and overflow for weeks. Months.

But Katherine telling her mom about not eating? Nothing. Even though it was the missing piece in the mystery of “Kit’s mental status” that her mother was trying to untangle.

“I’m not mad.” She replied honestly. She had a sudden flirty urge to play with her hair. She squinted for a moment, trying to place the urge. It didn’t feel like hers. Katherine raised an eyebrow.

“What are you planning to talk about? Josh? Texas? Your dad?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Depends on the person.” She shoved the locker closed and twirled the lock compulsively.

“I think you should tell them about everything.” Katherine pushed. Kit’s eyes cut away, fluttering.

Another pair looked up.

“Everything?” came the sharp reply. The eyes accompanying the harsh word seemed in contrast. They were a bit shy, but also warm. Katherine turned a bit pink. Her turn to glance away.

“Well. That’s up to you.”

The sharper eyes fiddled with her small green purse, pawing through it with purpose. Suddenly a rattling sound announced success and she pulled out a small bottle of painkillers. Katherine frowned. “More headaches?”

“There’s always more headaches.” Midori replied. “Today’s upcoming party isn’t exactly a help.”

“So you are mad.”

“Jesus Katherine. I said I wasn’t.” Midori huffed, tipping the bottle expertly and dry-swallowing a couple of the oblong white pills. “I’m going to be late.” She shoved the bottle back into the purse and looked expectedly at the dark haired girl in front of her. Katherine glanced at the clock.

“Oh. You’re right. I’ll walk you?”

“Whatever. Your tardy record.”

“Media doesn’t care. As long as we turn in projects, we can pretty much be wherever.”

“Should have gone the media track.” Midori replied, automatically falling into step next to Katherine. Sometimes their arms brushed. It was one of Midori’s favorite parts of the day and she hoarded the feelings jealously.

---

It was lunchtime by the time Kit was aware and she automatically headed to the table she shared with Germany and a couple other friends. She avoided glancing where Josh and Texas would be sitting, half in each other’s lap.

Charlotte peeked out and saw. She rolled her eyes, knowing she was better at pleasing Josh anyhow. Not her fault he preferred the sane.

Germany never asked why she just drank a diet coke. The excuse of headaches and migraines worked well for Kit’s supposed closest friend.

Lunch didn’t last as long as Kit hoped. As her other friends threw the remnants of their lunches away and headed towards the classrooms, Kit clutched her half finished diet coke and walked towards the faculty side of the building.

It felt like a death march.

The kids all knew where “special meetings” were held at the school. Whether it was tutoring, discipline discussions, or counseling, there was only one area it happened. Kit opened the door to the lobby and tried to dodge the eyes of a secretary she’d never met before.

Blackness

It was Roms who surfaced this time and timidly walked up to the counter. She recognized the sign-in sheet, similar to the one for when she arrived after third bell. She filled out the body’s name, then finally met the eyes of the secretary. The woman was obviously judging her, but Roms tried not to think about that. Someone important needed to attend this meeting. This meeting could not be lost entirely. That’s something a crazy person would do. Sane people remember. The primary goal was to appear sane.

The secretary glanced at the sheet, then at something on her computer screen.

“Room three. It’s the last one.” She pointed down a short hallway. Roms gave a brief nod and headed towards Room Three.

She opened the door and saw a woman already in there. She paused.

“Are you K____? You’re in the right place.” The woman said, a smile on her face. She was younger than Roms expected. Barely out of college. She entered tentatively, the diet coke held in front like a shield.

“Is this all right?” She asked. The woman nodded with a smile.

“Sure. I’m Joy.”

A derisive snort exploded in the back of Roms’ mind, but she ignored it. Fought to not let the offensive sound reach the air verbally.

“K____.” She lied automatically. Joy nodded.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Because my father won’t pay for a real psychologist and doing it through the school is free.” Midori interjected bluntly.

Roms pushed back the sensation of a blush but wasn’t positive if her face remained passive. Lately, her and Midori had less of a wall. They synced in many of their goals for the body, so perhaps that was why.

Joy had about as good a poker face as Roms herself so there was no way to tell if the blush avoidance was successful.

“What are you hoping to get out of these meetings?” Joy asked

Roms paused, considering.

“You can be honest. It stays between us.” Joy encouraged.

“I suppose it would be whatever is needed to reassure my parents and friends that I’m fine.” Roms answered truthfully.

“Are you fine?” Joy asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to elaborate on that right now?” Her tone seemed hopeful. Rom felt the immediate upheaval and internal lip curl.

“Probably not.” She said quietly. Joy nodded easily.

“That’s fine. We don’t know much about each other yet. Please do sit.” She offered the open seats at the round table she was at. Roms chose one diagonal from the therapist. Not across, not next to. That seemed the most comfortable. Joy made a note in her pad.

“Let’s start with some easy stuff. Any pets?” She asked, her tone disarming. The buzzing bees of Roms’ head increased. Suspicion was high. Roms pushed back as much as she could, trying to focus on the fact that getting through this meant parents backing the fuck off. That thought decreased the buzzing.

“Two cats. Girls. Velvet and Ashes.” She went ahead and supplied the names. Knowing that was the logical next question. She’d handled enough guidance counselors to know the line of questioning.

“Do you take care of them mostly? Or your parents?”

“They’re only at my father’s house. But I mostly take care of them. He will on the weekends I’m at Mom’s.” This commentary caused another note made to Joy’s pad.

“Do you see your parents equally?”

“That’s the technical deal. But since school is here, I’m at my father’s more. Most of my friends live here.”

“Understandable. And your parents are okay with that arrangement?”

“Yep. Friendliest divorced parents you’ll ever meet.” Roms’ tone edged on facetious as Midori crept out slightly, “Their separation was a business arrangement. Neat, organized, timely, and emotionless.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Joy said, her expression remaining fixed. Midori rolled her eyes.

“Okay.” She replied without argument. Joy seemed to react to this, and made another note.

“Why do you say it’s like a business arrangement?”

Midori slumped slightly in the chair. She definitely hadn’t taken enough painkillers for this woman. It was ridiculous that Roms thought to go along easily with this bullshit.

Midori debated a moment on letting Rika out to just end the session bluntly. But that could end with further counseling and possibly school faculty involved. Rika was not good at censoring her language.
Last time in Geography when the boy had made a crude pass at Kit, Rika’s response got her kept after the bell. Thankfully the teacher liked Kit, and had heard part of what the boy said. So the discussion was mostly for show. Not a true disciplinary action.

Rika in this situation would end differently, Midori was pretty sure. She sighed heavily.

“Look. I get that I’m here to ‘sort things out’ or whatever. But I really hate the constant ‘why’ follow up questions to things I say. Can we do this a different way?”

“I appreciate the honesty, K____.” Joy replied matter-of-factly. She did not make a note on her pad. Midori wasn’t sure what that meant. “Any suggestions on the best way to do this?”

“The way that gets me out of here and my parents no longer pissed.” Midori answered.

“Well I’m going to be honest with you then, K____. That’s going to have to involve some whys. I have to be able to see why things are not fine. Eventually. Or the parents probably won’t be cool.”

Midori picked up on Joy trying to make her speech more high school causual in its rhythm and some word choices, but it mostly sounded odd. It put the whole head on edge. Even distant parts of the pieces who were truly unaware of there being a system.

“I’m not sure what to tell you.” Midori said stubbornly.

Then there was a push and Roms gave way. “I guess I should say I just got out of a long relationship. For high school. Almost a whole year. I was dumped a couple weeks ago. He’s going out with one of my former best friends now. Found out they were already doing stuff behind my back for months. My other best friend that I sit with at lunch hasn’t noticed I haven’t eaten at school in three weeks.” Roms paused, hesitant with the last big tidbit. Then she focused again on the goals of just getting through this as honestly as they could without getting committed.

“And my third best friend…she’s the only one who’s noticed anything different about me. But I think I have a crush on her. I don’t know how to feel about that. I’ve only liked boys. I still like boys. I’m not a lesbian.” Roms’ tone became desperate at the end as pieces of emotions breathed in from other corners of the system.
Being more abnormal was a fucking disaster.

Why couldn’t they just be normal.

Joy was silent for a long time. It felt like forever. Roms was resisting the urge to give way to The Compulsives, who would pick or scratch, or toy with something and make the abnormal even more obvious. She remained rigid, in body and head. The headache increased.

“Thank you. That’s very helpful.” Joy said, finally starting to make some notes on her pad. “I think having feelings for people who care for you can be good, healthy, even if they seem confusing. I think we really got through a lot of stuff today for a first session. Is it okay with you if we stop early today? I think you need to pause after telling me all that. And I need to pause too before talking to you about all that. But I’m glad we were able to open a little bit of this box you keep.”

Roms stared, resisting the urge to drop her jaw in open-mouthed surprise. Joy knew about the box. Joy carefully didn’t meet her eyes while she finished writing and Roms composed herself, mentally running through all that had happened in this room. With Joy.

It was vital that Kit be aware of this whole first session.

Roms had a feeling these sessions with Joy would determine some important direction for the future. Others were more skeptical, but Roms was the one who was usually right about those sort of predictions.

Something important was at work here.

Tracking Dirt

Sometimes family isn’t about blood. And sometimes it is.

---

She was eleven when she first knew he was not trustworthy. Her mother had married him and was expecting the second brother.

Sitting on the couch, she read a Baby-Sitters Club book. The house was quiet. She still felt jittery in this unfamiliar place. She wished they would spend 100% of the time at the house on the corner lot, instead of a mere 40-50% (at best).

Bang!

She flinched at the door slamming and glanced up. Her stepfather loomed near the front door, staring down at the floor. He quickly looked up at her and snarled, “Did you track dirt into my house? You know to wipe your feet!”

She looked down at her bare feet, clean of any dirt or debris. She tried to remember if she’d been outside recently. Logic said no. She was a good ways into her book and she was pretty sure she’d read it in only one sitting so far. The tracks on the carpet were outlined in shoe treads. Her shoes were neatly placed on the mat next to the front door. She looked back up with a pleasant expression, preparing to relay all these steps that had given her the logical conclusion that she had not tracked dirt into his house.

Her stepfather was now closer, stomping his ways towards her. His expression ferocious. She dropped her book.

“I didn’t.” She whispered, “I take them off when I come in. I don’t wear them on the carpet.” Her voice seemed to be swallowed by the shadows of the room. He stopped just above her and leaned down. She made herself very still and her eyes did not meet his. She would be a good girl. Good girls do not cry or plead. Good girls merely listen.

“You will treat this house with respect. You will not dirty it. Do you understand me??” He hissed. She quickly nodded. Good girls respond to questions without complaint.

The stepfather did not agree with these rules apparently. His hand was suddenly clamped around her wrists. Her breath froze deep in her chest. She was a statue. She was ice. She was far away. Someone listened though.

“Did you get dirt on your hands too??” His hand tightened as he examined her palms. She made no sound. She was above pain. Good girls do not feel pain. “Wash your hands this instant.” The command registered with who listened and the moment the wrists were released, the girl was upstairs and in the bathroom.

Click

She does not remember who locked the bathroom door. She does remember that she is supposed to wash her hands. It is done quickly, barely noting the fact that her hands are already clear of dirt. An angry part of her catalogues that fact away though.

Asshole it murmurs. It can say that word silently, deep in the recesses of the girl’s brain. Things are safe there.

She finishes and carefully opens the door and peeks out. Coast is clear. She darts quickly to her room and closes the door.

Click

Again, there is no memory of locking the door. But it is locked. That is certain.

It is especially certain when the knob is tried mere minutes later and the door does not give way.

“What the hell?!” yells the stepfather from outside. The girl curls up into a small ball on her bed. Perhaps she can stop resembling a person. That might help. “Did you lock my fucking door? This is not your house!” The door is rattled. Girl is a tiny stone. She is a pebble. She is not a person.

The door is rattled again.

Then suddenly it splinters open.

Her breath freezes deep inside again. She unravels herself and lets the bits float up and away. It is a tactic she is good at. She can be seeds on the wind.

He is above her on the bed.

She is dandelion fuzz, granting wishes to all the little children of summer.

Her wrists are clamped again. He thrusts a small rectangular object in her face. Only part of the title registers in her fractured brain. B-A-B-Y-S-I-

“Don’t leave your shit downstairs.”

She is the fizz in a root beer float. The bubbles in a bath. She bobs on the surface with the rubber dolphin and Mermaid Barbie.

“Do you understand me?”

She is the spray of a sprinkler in summer. The droplets making tiny rainbows in the air.

“Hey. Do you understand me?!” The grip on her wrists tightens again. The pain crackles her brain and gives rise to someone. The eyes undeaden and she is no longer a pebble. She stares up at the stepfather.

“Yes.” Her voice is barely a murmur, but it is enough. The wrists are released and he leaves as suddenly as he came in.

The fractured doorframe and her splintered brain the only looming reminder.

And she had been doing so well.

Lies to my mother

It would be beautiful to say that my mother and I have always been close…

But that isn’t the case.

I know that childlike part of me didn’t understand why she couldn’t save me from the trips to the alley. Didn’t understand that she truly had no idea and had so much on her plate striking out as a single mom. That if she had known, obviously it wouldn’t have continued.

But I didn’t tell her.

I wanted my mother to be Super Woman. To read my mind and see all the horror, know all the pain. All the moments I couldn’t speak of. I wanted to see her fury strike out against Him and her love carry me far away from the dirty gravel behind the garage.

I wanted her to see the spell on my mouth. The invisible glue that sealed my lips the moment I thought of saying anything. I wanted her to take one look and gasp in horror. In comprehension.

But my mask was strong. It was impermeable. My box was strong. It held all it needed to. Nothing overflowed. Nothing got past.

It went like this for longer than I care to describe in true numeric fashion. In the child’s mind, it was a lifetime. A lifetime of secrets, of masks, of boxes. A lifetime of playing hide and seek.

Then we moved.

This is a rare picture of me smiling. It was taken in front of the new house. Far from the alley and the garage of horror. Far away.

Super Woman had, in her own unknowing way, come through. I was free.

But the shackles left their scars. Their marks.

And smiles like this were still rare. And blame lasts a lot longer than you’d think.

It wasn’t until well into high school that I tentatively tried to reach out. To turn a rickety relationship into a bond. And it wasn’t easy.

And I will never forget the look on her face when I finally broke the seal on the box and peeled off the mask for a moment. When I found that long buried courage and told her.

And even then, I looked around to make sure demons wouldn’t crawl through the walls and report my words.

(lies lies lies- He said- no one will ever believe)

But all I was confronted with was the expression of my mother as a part of her withered in horror. In remorse. In blame.

And in that moment, I knew without a doubt- that I never truly blamed her at all.

Torn Canvas

Most of you are familiar with this story.  The beginning, so to speak. It is what caused the initial coping of fracturing, of splitting. It wasn’t until much later that the coping technique was used to it’s maximum…

Trigger warning (pretty obvious from the title)
__________________________________________________________________

It was always about the words. The sentences. The phrases. That charismatic speech.  The way they curled about and slithered into the deep recesses of Pen’s mind.

The saying may be that a picture is worth a thousand words; but Pen was always fascinated by a good story.

This story started out simple enough…

Once upon a time there was another child of divorce- Katherine. Another girl who struggled to form normal relationships with people. A girl who was not repulsed by the idea of Pen being more than just Pen.

Pen did momentarily hesitate due to the gender. She had never considered a relationship with another female. Not for any particular reason, it simply hadn’t occurred to her.

Katherine spun the story’s web of beauty tighter. A complicated pattern to entice and confuse.

A woman would never hurt another woman. She knows how men can be too brass, too rough. They can trigger Pen.  They only want to brand Pen.

She tells these lies, even as she hides her own branding iron behind her back.  Pen never even tries to look.

The first time is so very tentative, unsure. Pen is concerned she’s doing everything wrong. Katherine seems enthralled by the innocence. Pen doesn’t notice, too focused on trying to please.

Katherine is quick to demand more of Pen’s time. It seems so easy at first. Pen has so few friends anyway. But soon the few friends she does have are noticing. And commenting. Pen brushes them off. They just don’t understand true happiness.

It doesn’t take long for Katherine to turn rougher. Pen is startled at first, but Katherine uses those charismatic phrases to sweeten the deal. And of course, it is nothing but ecstasy for Charlotte.

The story changes quickly. Soon Pen is the caged songbird. The collared fox. She was okay with being tamed, but this seems like much more.

The marks are hard to hide. She has to purchase special makeup that is technically for concealing tattoos. Katherine says the marks are better than tattoos. The burns last for months. She says she is working on “proper branding”. Soon Pen will truly belong only to Katherine.

There is jewelry as well. Necklaces and rings so that a person they encounter out in public may be quickly made aware that Pen is not available.

The waiter grins as he hands Pen a refill on her Coke. Pen gives him a hesitant smile. It takes mere seconds before she feels the harsh pain of Katherine squeezing her hand and digging her nails into the soft flesh. She hisses a warning. Even a polite smile means fraternizing to Katherine, especially when it involves males. Pen doesn’t register the abnormality of this. She merely aligns her face to “completely disinterested” when around men. Midori helps.

Pen delves into books regarding domestic abuse and sees little correlation. And yet, she feels this sense of camaraderie with the victims that she cannot explain. It puzzles her.

The sex is so extreme now that Pen’s migraines have become frequent and debilitating  It does not occur to her that perhaps her body has realized how repulsed Katherine is by an upset stomach and has devised a way to try and snag some time to heal from the bites, burns, scratches, and welts. The doctors are at loss on how to treat the migraines, since they do not respond to standard medication. Katherine becomes frustrated that treatment is not happening easily.

It is surprising how it comes to a roaring halt. Or perhaps it is not. The relationship started out with a sweet lie.  It seems only fitting it should end with a harsh true.

Another woman? It makes no sense to Pen. Pen has thrown her whole self into their relationship. Katherine claims to have done the same. But obviously this is not true. She so easily finds another and leaves Pen a torn and incomplete canvas. Left to rot in a forgotten room.

Despite the words that started this story, it is the picture left behind that does the damage.

__________________________________________________________________

It takes years and multiple partners to relearn how relationships are supposed to work.
The most recent partner has taught the best lessons:

-Independence is allowed. And is healthy.
-It’s okay to cry or yell if something has truly upset Pen. She doesn’t have to pretend everything is fine.
-Teeth are not acceptable below the belt.  For either party.
-It’s all right to smile at another person in a friendly manner.  That actually does not equal flirting.
-Pen does not have to have sex on her period.  If fact, Pen can actually decide at any point whether she actually wishes to have sex or not.
-She can eat what she likes without judgment.
-The scars she has are part of her past, not part of her.
-Slow and soft cuddling is sometimes the best way to spend time together
–She is beautiful

The Home on the Corner Lot

When is a house truly a home?
___________________________________________________

Once upon a time there was a house…

(No, not that house.)

This house was lovely, and beautiful to the young girl.  Many thought it was a bit run down.  Her father thought that it was too large for a mother and two small children.  He said it would be expensive to heat and keep cool.

It was on a corner lot and had the biggest yard on the block.  The play area/jungle gym in the backyard seemed tiny in such a big yard, but the girl loved it.  It was neat that a park was at the end of her block, but that didn’t compare to one in her own yard.  Plus, there was a park right next to her father’s house.  Old news.

She got to pick her room.  She picked the one that had two huge windows overlooking the front street.  She could keep an eye on the comings and goings of everyone.

There was an alley in the back, with a carport.  The alley was the part that gave her the most pause.  It reminded her of the bad parts of the previous house.  It reminded her that people could sneak in.  People could take her to a secret place behind the garage (but it was a garage- not a shed) and tell her not to make any noise or bad-bad-bad things would happen to her. To her mother. To her baby brother.

But no one ever came through the alley.  The girl shied away from it for weeks.  She met the neighbors.  There was a girl two doors down her own age.  That had never happened before.  The neighbor’s name was Brittany (“that’s Brittany with an a-n, not an n-e” she would say).
Brittany was fearless.  She roamed the streets of that neighborhood without a care.  And soon, the girl went with her.  They went to the park.  They went by the church that had a huge empty parking lot (good for skating in).  They went down the alley.

And the girl learned that the alley wasn’t a monster that bit; breath stinking, eyes sparking, teeth sharply glinting.  That monster had been left far behind.

This new house was wonderful.

She got to watch Grey grow from grinning baby into a timid, sensitive toddler.  She held her birthday there for two years in a row (father was miffed).  She told the walls her secrets, fed the carpet her tears.  But the roof also got the echo of her laughter and the stairs happily took her excited, pounding feet.

She grew up there.

Sure, there were other places.  There was Father’s two houses (the walls got whispers and the carpets were dry- no yelling or crying in his presence).  There were piles of schools.  There were friends and relatives houses.  But they hardly mattered.  They didn’t course through her veins like a sweet melody.  The trees there didn’t welcome her with bowing branches, waving leaves.

She watched her mother find someone new.  She watched her tentatively move into his house.  She noticed how her mother did not move many belongings.  Next to no furniture.  She noticed how her home on the corner lot was kept.  Guarded.  Hoarded.

As it should be.

Her home on the corner lot was there for her when the locks were changed at her father’s house.  Her father did not want her.  It was high school graduation day and the girl thought she would have no where to go.

The home sang it’s reprise and she remembered.  The walls expanded.  She no longer had a simple corner bedroom.  The rooms were her’s.  She reveled in it.

But not for long.

Then the shadow that was Katherine injected her poison into the very foundation.  The girl had to work.  Go to school.  She was not there a lot.  Katherine claimed to want to take care of the house.

It was a lie.

The house suffered.  And it broke the girl’s heart.  She frantically tried to keep her imprint on the big, old, beautiful structure.  She wasn’t strong enough.  And Katherine smelled it, repulsed.

The house still loved her unconditionally.  When she curled into it’s tattered recesses, broken-hearted, the house swept her in softly.  Carefully.  It tucked her into it’s soul.

She thought that might not be the worse way to go.  A home always there for her.  It was better than all the things and people that were not.

When she took the pills the first time, the walls seemed to sing and bend and whisper sweet nothings.

She merely slept after the concert put on for her though.  She was never good at understanding pills and dosage and 6 or 7 seemed like a lot.

The second time the walls and ceiling hummed mournfully.  They did not sing.  The windows gaped and shattered in her mind.  The doors spit fire.  She ran down to the deep, dark bottom of the house.  The dank basement.  It was silent there.  It was cool.  She painted lines of red onto her arms and chest with the sharp black paintbrush (knife) while her heart skittered, scattered, then debated on beating with slow, languid pulses.

It was the house that called to that sober part of her.  It was the house that sang softly that this was not the way to go.  The home on the corner lot was flattered by the love showed with this ultimate sacrifice, but it knew there would be other houses.  It knew there would be those that could heal her.  It knew there would be those that would miss her.  Those that could not shoulder the pain of her loss.

The home on the corner lot could.

She lived.

The house was lost to foreclosure (she did not blame her mother- she couldn’t have saved it either).

She still dreams of the corner bedroom.  The spacious kitchen.  The sparkling sunroom.  The enormous backyard.  Many of her dreams take place in that house, even though she hasn’t set foot in it in years.  She dreams of Zoe running up and down the stairs, though her canine lifeguard has never laid eyes upon the property.

Her first lifeguard.

Someday, perhaps, she might be able to give her heart and soul to another house.  Make another home.

For now she is content with her semi-gypsy life and constant moving.

Plus, she needs a place that sings.

A terrible Google map version of the house. Looks a wreck in this, of course. I wish I had something that would do it true justice…

An Excerpt (from the new story)

So remember when I mentioned I was composing a new story?

I have a portion here I’d like to share 🙂

Let me know what you guys think!
_______________________________________________________

It was watching the newly emerging sensation Harris Rainey that Claire first truly learned about the Touched.

Harris was a decent musician with a smooth voice that could get girls (and some boys) easily aflutter.  But what really set him apart was that he could play almost any instrument handed to him on the first try.  He traveled around doing more of a novelty act than a show.  She’d seen him on TV where he’d had audience members hand him things while he was blindfolded and request a tune.  And he’d respond with perfection.

Clarissa didn’t think much of him.  There were a lot of weird people doing weird shows like that on television these days.  She had better things to worry about.

But when she ran away from home at 16, she made the fateful decision to stop at a backwoods bar to get a ride.
A decision that would change her life.

When she slipped onto a stool at the bar, the bartender narrowed his eyes briefly.

“I am not giving you a drink.” He stated firmly.  Her eyes skittered up to his for a moment, then she blinked and her whole posture changed.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to order.” The response was coy, almost flirty.  The bartender blinked.  She seemed to age before his eyes.  Her expression was no longer lost girl.  It was all woman.

“What do you want?” He asked hesitantly.  She started to grin, then the expression slipped off her face.  Her eyes hardened.

“Just a coke please.” She said firmly. She reached into her jeans and pulled out a five.  The bartender sighed and waved the money away.

“Nah, on the house.” He quickly set the glass in front of her.  She sipped at it while her eyes flicked around, accessing.  She saw the bartender was still watching her and she met his gaze brazenly.

“I’m trying to get a ride.  To the city.” She paused for a second, “Not that city.  I mean outside of Illinois.”

“I wouldn’t recommend looking for one here, darling.” The bartender said, his tone kind.  Her eyes flashed.

“I can take care of myself.”

It was that moment that a handsome young man sat next to her.

“Don’t question her, Tom.” The new gentleman said with a chuckle, “She sounds like she can handle herself fine.  Did you have a city in mind? Besides Chicago, obviously.” 

Tom shrugged and set a shot glass and bottle in front of the new guy before wandering down to the other end of the bar.  Claire frowned.

“And you might be?” She knew she recognized him and if he had anything to do with her father, she was prepared to turn tail and run.  A small part of her was even prepared to stay and fight.

He stuck out a hand, “Harris Rainey, at your service.”

“Rainey…” She paused, remembering who he was.  He had the grace to turn faintly pink.

“Ah. I see you’ve seen that god-awful show I do on TV.”

Despite herself, a small smile slipped out of Claire at his embarrassment.  He tossed back a shot of the brown liquid easily.  The label of the bottle was turned away from her, so she wasn’t sure what type it was but brown was the favored color of her father too.  She frowned.

“You don’t seem to be in any condition to be of service in driving to another city.” Her voice clipped.  He let out a low chuckle and Claire found herself relaxing unconsciously.

“You are quite right.  Which would be why I employ a driver.  Otherwise I would never manage to remain in this lovely condition.”  He saluted her with the open bottle.  She was now pretty sure it was whiskey.  The label looked vaguely familiar. “But it is entirely up to you.  No pressure.  You were the one requesting a free ride.”  He tossed back another shot.  She glanced down at her own drink, playing with the straw while she debated.

“Ok.” She replied softly.  Harris broke into a grin.

“Fantastic! I hate riding in the back all on my lonesome.  My driver’s a complete mute.” He stood.  “Now, I must play a brief set, but we can leave right after.”  He left the shot glass and bottle on the bar and headed for the stage.  Someone handed him a guitar and set a microphone in front of him.  Claire was prepared for his normally goofy antics he did on TV.

She was blown away.

The music he played was deep, thrumming through her whole body, his voice seeming to breathe directly into her ear.  She’d never heard anything like it before.  And he kept his eyes shyly downcast, none of the arrogantly flirty glances he tossed around on his show.  When he finished, a couple people politely clapped and he stepped down, handing off his guitar.  He was back at Claire’s side within minutes.  Her jaw was still slack.

He caught sight of her expression and smirked.

“A surprise, huh?  Yeah, there’s a reason I find these tiny skeevy bars to play my real music in.  Any of my TV fans would be disgusted, I’m sure.”

“Disgusted??” Claire stammered, “That was…it was…indescribably beautiful.  That’s the stuff you should be playing on television.”

“Ah the naivety of youth.” Harris said as he sipped directly from his bottle, “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get out of here.”

She had been sure she wasn’t going with him when she found who he was, saw the whiskey, heard his jokes about being alone in the back of a car. 

And yet she got up and easily followed him out the door and into the dark limo discreetly parked half a block away.

She told herself it was the music.

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(I just wanted to mention that Harris is not a bad guy.  I know he’s coming off as skeevy.  I should mention that the point of view is unreliable because of Claire’s past.  Harris is a doll. I’m thinking I may share some character bios next.)

Spark of Inspiration

I dreamed last night.

It was a simple clip of a scene (a man, a woman, a secret), but it wiggled it’s way into my head and now a seed of a story is struggling to grow.

I’m excited.  I haven’t had that in a long time.

And I wanted to tell you lovely readers a secret…

The plot involves DID.

I’m sure that doesn’t come as a huge surprise- writers write what they know.  But I’m taking this in an unusual direction I think.

I don’t want to reveal too much when it’s still just a little spark- not yet a flame.

I am so excited.

When I’m in creative writing mode, it tends to heal us.

I can only hope it will this time.

I think I want to share this story with you readers a bit as it develops.  That feels right.

But perhaps that will be silly and boring to you?

Tattoos

I got the new tattoo!

And I got my previous one touched up- the outline fixed and the butterfly color’s changed a bit.

It was, honestly, one of the most painful experiences of my life.  I learned the wrist is an extremely painful place for me when it comes to tattoos apparently.  I’m hoping it isn’t going to need touched up because I’m not sure I can go through that again.
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It’s caused a bit of turmoil in the system, which surprises me.
The fox/butterfly tattoo didn’t cause any turmoil at all- if anything, it sort of brought us more together.

But there’s something about this new one that’s causing issues.
It was made clear when we figured out the design that the treble clef is for our love of music in general, not just Midori’s piano playing.  And the rune Algiz is not just a religious related symbol for Roms.  We’ve purposefully designed both our tattoos to have multiple meanings because we are a multiple system.

I am sad that we seem to have failed on this account- especially since I was so involved in figuring out the design and location.

Here are some pictures for you though.  Keep in mind they were taken with a crummy phone camera before they’ve healed.  Once they are good and healed, I’ll take some better ones.

The new one- a combination of a treble clef and the rune Algiz

 

The previous one after being touched-up.

 

Learning to Ride a Bike (Claire scribble)

My parents didn’t teach me to ride a bike without training wheels.

Daddy tried to.

We lived next to a park at the time, and one day after school when we were about 7 or 8, he had this momentarily flash of parenting.  He insisted I get my bike out, he’d take the training wheels off, and then we’d go to the park and he’d teach me how to ride it.

His parenting urge and patience only lasted so long.

The second time I fell down, he heaved a big sigh.

“Maybe you’re just not able to ride a bike right now.  I guess we can try again some other time.”  He stared at me a moment, then turned to walk back to the house.  He didn’t look back.

To be fair, our house was a mere 100 yards or so from the open grassy area of the park where we’d attempted this.

But I still remained on the ground, my knees skinned and bruised, trying not to cry.  Daddy hates when I cry.  Crying makes you worthless.

I pull away from myself as someone steps forward to handle the skinned knees for me.  Mute does not have emotions, so it does not have to worry about the possibility of crying. Mute heaves to it’s feet, pulls the bike firmly upright, and trails after Daddy silently.

We make sure the bike is safely stowed in the garage before entering the house, carefully removing our shoes before stepping on the carpet.  Daddy is nowhere to be seen.  He must be in his room.  We go the opposite direction, to the kitchen and Mute calmly gets a glass of water to drink.

“You need to clean those cuts.” says a cool voice behind us.  Mute is gone and Rika swings around defensively.  Daddy is looking at our knees, a strangely regretful expression on his face. “Come on.” He leads us to the bathroom, where Middi pops out to handle the sting of the alcohol and carefully applies the band-aids herself (Daddy does not like to touch us).

The next afternoon, the training wheels are back on our bike.

He doesn’t offer to teach us again.

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We don’t have a bike at Mom’s house, so there’s nothing for her to teach us on.  Plus, over there she and Roms are too busy looking after Grey.  He is a feisty toddler.

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Daddy moves to a big house in a nice neighborhood.  It is down the street from the high school and only a little further from the local middle school I start attending.  I have to walk.  I’ve never walked to school before and at first, it’s a liberating experience.  However, it takes awhile to get there and I don’t like how early I have to get up.

I see other kids riding to school on their bikes and it occurs to me that this mode of transportation would be much faster than walking.  My old bike is in the garage and I pull it out one day after school.

Daddy isn’t home- the new job that caused the move has him working late.

With a bit of help from Rika (she’s surprisingly tool-savvy), I manage to get the training wheels off myself.  I wheel it into the driveway and start attempting to ride it.

It goes horribly.  I am frustrated and puzzled.  It seems so easy for all the other kids at school.  What on earth is wrong with me?

The next day, a contractor arrives to start working on Daddy’s upstairs room.  He has the whole second floor and is converting it into one huge bedroom with a walk-in closet.  We are never to go up there.  Ever.

I watch the contractor and his helpers when I get off school.  I am a bit wary, as they are men, but most are older than even Daddy, and that is a relief.
I’m only truly edgy around one of the helpers who is in his late teens, though I’m not sure why.  When I try to think about it, I hit a brick wall in my head.  Angry whispers tell me to leave well-enough alone.

The lead contractor, Terry, goes out of his way to talk to me, in a uncle/grandfatherly sort of way.  I finally get comfortable enough to stop just sitting silently on the porch or in the living room and go about my business.

Which includes struggling to ride that bike.  I haven’t given up.  I know it has to be accomplished at some point.

Terry comes out to get something out of his truck one afternoon a couple days later and sees me.  He stops and tilts his head at me, calculating something.  I freeze in embarrassment, both for my age (too old to not know how to ride a two-wheeler), and that I’m still not able to smoothly handle it.  He lets out a soft chuckle.

“Well now, no wonder you’re having trouble. Your tires are almost flat.”  He goes to his truck purposefully and pulls out a black box with a wand and hose attached.  He motions to me.  “Come here, I’ll pump ’em up for you.”

I glance down at the white tires of my femininely pink and purple bike.  I study it for a moment, but can’t determine how he’d come to that conclusion.  However, I slide off the seat and bring it over to him.

He fits the wand into a part of the tire and flips a switch on the box.  There is a roaring noise and I jump.  He glances at me.
“It’s okay, just the noise the air pump makes.  Loud, ain’t it?”  He laughs, then looks back at the tire and pulls out the wand, “They aren’t all the way flat, just enough to hinder you.”

“I-I-I know I’m sort of old to be…” I trail off nervously.  He gives me a soft smile.

“I learned late too. Just didn’t have a reason to ride a bike for a long time. Better late than never.”  He fits the wand into the back tire for a brief minute, and then pulls it out and pushes the handles of the bike towards me.  “There ya go.  Should be a lot easier now.  Go ahead.”  He stands and waits, watching.  I hesitate.  I don’t like being watched.  But he had nicely filled the tires and he wasn’t judging me for being in middle school without having learned to ride two-wheeler.

I clamber onto the seat, settle myself for a moment, then push the pedals firmly.

The bike flies smoothly forward, perfectly balanced and I don’t wobble a bit.  A grin slips onto my face as I make multiple loops around the driveway.  Terry cheers.

It’s amazing how a little air in the tires makes all the difference.