thedarksiren2: (SQUID!)
that number was like a song I can't get out of my head; the worst sort of earworm.

There was a woman walking down a stale hallway. Her hair was put up in a bun, brown, perfect. her dress was tan, a suit-dress, just below her knees. She wore a great hat, one of those with the netting and flowers, but not to gaudy or froofy - just feminine and classy.

She walked with haste, her heels echoing down the hallway past nurses and people drooling in wheelchairs who, generally speaking, didn't pay attention to much. However, there was a bowl in her hand, a large, glowy-green bowl with a bumpy texture, and it was easily the prettiest bowl I've ever seen. Green like that doesn't exist, not without radioactivity anyway.

She stormed into the doctor's office, taking a sharp, sudden left through his door. His back was turned to her, looking at chemicals and books on metal shelves. His office smelled like a cross between old paper and formaldehyde.

"He has intelligence, it's there! I have proof now!" she said to him excitedly, clinging to her bowl in such a way that, had it been made of any sort of malleable material, she would have dug her claw-like nails into its sides in her excitement.

The doctor sighed, and kept looking on his shelves.

"I had a twitch, a tick on my temple. I've had them forever, but this one was more intense than all the others."

I got a peek then, and saw the image of her temple, her left temple, twisting in a circular motion, her flesh twisting clockwise and creating a whirlpool-like effect beside her eye.

I also got a gist of her son, the boy in the wheelchair. He didn't blink, let alone move. She felt him smile sometimes, and she smiled back of course. She knew when he would laugh, when he would cry, although, physically, there was no physical evidence of such events. There never had been, and really, everyone felt sorry for her. She had lost something along the way, and her making these claims encouraged their belief in her madness.

"He knew I was in pain, and tried to help me. Instead, he simply let me know he understood. The bowl, the bottom of the bowl...he made it twist, like my temple."

I saw this happen in her vivid memory. Her face had twisted, and he saw her, or at least knew she was in discomfort. He couldn't help her, obviously, but he could let her know she wasn't alone. The bottom of the green bowl twisted and turned, imitating his mother's face. I felt her heart stop momentarily, and I was back in the office like a wall fly.

She continued telling the doctor about the situation, violently enthusiastic that her boy wasn't a vegetable, that he had intelligence, a super-intelligence and the ability to communicate, just not in standard ways.

The doctor turned eventually, and I remember a feeling something like childhood and watching The Exorcist for the first time.

He interrupted her: "First, I'm going to hurt your feelings, make you sad. Then, I'm going to make you mad, because that's all part of my job. You're going to get hysterical, but you're going to control it because I'll shoot you up with a large dose of Thorazine..."

and I woke up.
thedarksiren2: (Default)
[ profile] tiktiktok had to leave for work fairly early. I had half a thought to get up when he did, but when the time came, my eyes wouldn't stay open for ANYTHING.

I decided instead to set my alarm for like 9:45, simply because I wanted to get some things done before work.

Snooze was my master, however.

Actually, no. Not the snooze. It was the dreams. Crazy-vivid insane dreams. They own me.

Like, Eric Whitacre was at camp with me and a few other people, and this crazy cat-like critter came scavenging under the table, but decided my boot was tasty. I was happy the boot was strong and not penetrated, but then Mr. Whitacre went on about how I needed to get rid of the thing before the kids got hurt. Whose kids??? Oh yeah, kids playing EVERYWHERE. Most cacaphonous playground surrounding our little kitchen-tent thinger, and I head indoors because the meercat...that's what it was, and how it's spelled, even if it's not; dreams are like that...will only follow me. And inside, Laura Geyer is smiley, wanting coffee but in kind of a hurry. I try to explain about the cat, who is right on my heel and for whatever reason won't bite Laura, but she seems oblivious.

I mention there is a flood. She says she just went that way. I recall the waters rushing over masses of land, mountains crumbling, mud and speed killing us off if we even set a toe in. It's like a web of some sort...the spider sees you move, you touch her fortress and that's all she wrote.

Laura pushes past me, ignoring my trying to keep the meercat outdoors on the porch. Wait, is was! It was Catherine Greubel's home, and the porch was hers as well. I clung to her yellow-stained curtains, kicking and flailing my leg out the door, trying to get the meercat off me. He won't budge. IN the meantime, Laura heads down the stairs, yelling back at me that she'll meet me there...


So I finally got up at around 11. Butthead has been going since the first time I woke up, but for whatever reason, it's not bothering me. Like, I can tune him out sometimes. I imagine it's how most pet owners don't see or notice the little things their pets do that irritate the crap out of other people. His screechy tweets are just background noise to me most days anymore. He's old and crabby, and well, I prefer his old and crabby to that of a dozen elderly people whining, so whatever. At least i know all he wants is Chloebearmonster within his sight. Freak bird...fucking love him though.

I work tonight, first time all week. ~8/ I hope there's a new schedule up. I hope I'm on it more than two nights next week. I think that's shady, and I feel like I'm kinda getting screwed somehow, but I need the work. *sigh* Damned if I do, ya know?

I saw some spoilers for the new Harry Potter book. I'm hoping [ profile] wraptboy doesn't see them -- he gets his new book tomorrow, and well, he's been really excited about it. I like that he has something to get lost in this weekend, something that will surely make him smile and excited like a kid. I enjoy it when my friends get giddy like that. There's so much seriousness and misery in the's just refreshing and encouraging when I get the chance to see joy overcome those things.

Speaking of joy...

One year ago...

[ profile] nomadoh -- even a year later, thank you for getting me out that night. Who knew how much it'd change my life?!! ~8)
thedarksiren2: (just below transcendence)
Small, childish frame, I know I just saw a movie about children, but the lucidity is useless. I hide beneath the dinner table, knees close to my chest, tears staining my cheeks. Everyone eats , chewing and smacking their lips between laughter. I don't remember laughter hurting this badly, but each bout leaves me more nauseous than the last, shivering, wishing I could be at the cliff in Yorktown, listening to the waves crash below, the trees whispering their secrets. I close my eyes and try to go.

I am dreaming a dream inside a dream, coming home to an empty bed, wondering where Chris B. is for the first time every night he is gone. And there are too many nights. Nauseated, I curl into a ball beneath a dingy sheet, shivering yet too warm to close the winter out. I remember liking the cold, feeling something other than hollow and sick. My fingertips begin to bleed, and the bed is drenched in blood by the time he comes home. I pretend to sleep, because I don't want him to think I have waited for his sorry ass, yet he has the audacity to wrap his arms around me, to kiss my on the back of the neck and press his hard penis against my back. I try to ignore him, but soon we are having sex, and I am crying. His eyes are catarachs of light blue, he sees nothing but himself, like internal mirrors. I lift my arms to touch him finally, icicles forming on the small beads of sweat formed over the hairs on them. The blood has turned to ice as well, and as I run my fingers down his back, I cut him instead.

Open my eyes, everyone has left the table, I can smell food rotting above me. I push chairs out, scared, alone. I cry and begin to scream, kicking the harder, heavier chairs to move them, and begin to run. Out from under the table, out of the kitchen, through the old dusty living room...I loved my childhood home in California, but in this dream it is so cold, so empty. No beautiful, vivid memories, just dust in my lungs. I gasp for fresh air, and as I push the front door open, I trip into a parking lot. There is a bar about a 100 yards away, so I stand, wiping the dust and rocks from my knees, and walk to the door.

Inside, my friend [ profile] bigjohnsinging is sitting at a table inside. I think it's the old Akron Agora, and I can smell the big-hair hairspray-sex-musty-filth from the back room. It always smelled like that, and he took a drink from a cocktail. I ask him when he began drinking again. He tells me that he never quit. There is a woman there, and there is a show going on, but I do not recognize all the shadows, and think it is karaoke but am uncertain of my abilities to differentiate anything anymore. I fill in a sheet, and try to take my slip up but the KJ won't accept it, and he won't give me a reason. I beg with him, tell him that this is all that is left, my music...he tells me it's not mine, it never was. I tell him I have my own, and he tells me it sucks, and he won't play crap in his show.

[ profile] bigjohnsinging and his shadowy lady friend bellow with laughter behind me. I turn to see myself as a little girl, crying beneath their chairs. She looks up at me, tears falling from my eyes as I stand in the red and green lights. She waves at me, tells me, "Go!" So I run through the back room, past big hair make-out sessions, spilled beer bottles and graffiti, out the doors into blinding light.

I am suddenly standing on the cliff in Yorktown. Everything feels peaceful for the first time in a dream-lifetime. The air is warm, breezy, perfect. The skies are the most gorgeous blue, large billowy clouds float by with sea gulls whose cries are the most perfect symphony I've known in forever. I have vague rememberances of nights sleeping with the light on, wishing someone, anyone would call, because picking up the phone when you are so weak is impossible. There was too much uncertainty then. But now, now I am strong, and I take a deep breath as I finish taking off the final band aid from my fingertips, the scars almost gone. I can feel the air like heaven in my lungs, the salt cleansing my spirit one final time. I stand at the ledge, lift my arms out to hug eternity, and as I fall toward the ocean below, my eyes are wide open, my body and mind brave, challenging anyone to take this moment from me, and proving the true answer to a Bjork song.


thedarksiren2: (Default)

July 2009

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