Fire
It takes months, sometimes even years, to get everything back to its place. All the plants in their right corner. All the books up on the shelves, in the order you like them in. All the cloths back in their drawers or neatly hung up in the closet. All the shoes, two by two, right at the door where you need them.
The pictures are always the hardest to put back. If you take the proper time to fix them, all in the places they were before, taking care to aline them perfectly, then everything goes back to the way it was. But this, above everything else, is the most time consuming, and not to mention painful, part of the healing process. Having to look at all the times you were happy, sad, angry, lost, it get’s a little heavy. Sometimes you don’t even bother with this.
“What’s the point?” you ask yourself. “Someone new is just going to show up and knock them all down again. Hell, they might even give a new ones. I can hardly deal with the ones I already have, how am I suppose to managed with all the news ones?”
But that’s just it, isn’t it? You always let some bloody ass hole walk right into your neat house and burn it down. Hell, you sometime ask him if he’d like a cup of tea!
The cold hard truth is: you’re what’s wrong. No matter how many times you pick up and “deal” with all the shit people bring in, you always let them burn you down in the end. You’re condemning yourself to walk the earth, half put together, not really knowing why you’re hurting.
And the worst part of it all: they don’t know, nor care, that you’re slowly dying.
Orchids
The black eye got the idea in her head, but they tear stained face and blood shot eyes convinced her.
Everyone knew Andrew got knocked around by the school’s assholes. Well, almost everyone took an occasional swing at him. They always stopped before they left marks of their attacks. So, why not this time?
No one knew Andrew, not really. No one could have guessed the depth of his story. A story she knew right away he wanted to forget, cover up, run away from. Overall, he did a decent job at hiding it, but his sad blue eyes were like open books. Inviting anyone to just look deep in to them, to take just a glance. Just a glance and you would know.
Andrew had never once shed a tear after an encounter with a bully. He had always held his head high, although he never truly looked anyone in the eyes, he was not ashamed. But for whatever reason, this time, he cried. Andrew walked with his head down, holding back sobs.
His black eyes caught her attention like an orange constriction vest. She could tell it wasn’t recent. She could tell it had hurt in more than one way. An overwhelming despair took hold when she realized it. It was a deep feeling of guilt and sorrow that prevented her from looking away. She just started at Andrew from across the room. His sandy blond hair shinned in the early morning sunlight. His tears hit his desk and he would automatically wipe them away. Jessica knew then, she had to save him.
She drove to his house on a Saturday afternoon. She’d stashed pepper spray in her pocket and held her keys in between her fingers. She was ready for a confrontation.
Jessica was calm, cool, and collected as she walked towards Andrew’s front door. Ringing the door bell without taking her eyes away from the door, a small part of her wished Andrew would be the one to answer the door. No such luck.
A tall, slender man opened the door. An irritated look on his face and an even more annoyed tone to his voice were apparent as he asked what the hell she wanted.
“I’m here to see Andrew, sir.” Her voice was steady, almost monotone.
The man looked her up and down a couple times before he called up for Andrew. “Andrew, there’s a girl here to see you!” There was a hint of surprise and disgust in his voice. When Andrew didn’t answer, the man called for him again.
“What!?” a muffled voice came from upstairs.
Not wanting to waste anymore time, she decided to just got up for him “I’m just going to go up to see him. He’s expecting me.” At this point, she was willing to push past the man to get to Andrew.
The man narrowed his eyes but let her in. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she had to remind herself not to run.
“It’s the last door on your left!” the man shouted as Jessica went up the stairs.
She didn’t know what to expect, Andrew was a teenage boy after all. Opening the door without knocking, she found him fiddling with a camera. The bed was not made and the room was dusty. It needed some serous cleaning.
“What the hell,” he was a little surprised to see a girl in his room, “who the hell are you?” He was even more surprised by her simplistic beauty.
“I’m Jessica,” she didn’t have time to introduce herself property, she was too busy looking around his room. “Do you have a suitcase handy?”
“What? Why the hell are you here? Why do you want a suitcase?” Andrew was standing right behind her as she opened his closet. He could smell her shampoo. Orchids.
“I am saving you from your abusive father.”
Prolific Time
He fought tooth and nail to get to his father’s bedside. A storm and a fire stood in his way, but nothing slowed him down.Through old bridges and even older villages, the young man rode his black steed. Leaving the small village in western Germany at down, it was now the dead of the next night. It was at least a two day’s trip, under the best circumstances, but mercilessly, he managed it.
The once powerful king laid on his deathbed. Surrounded by servants upon servants, he was almost lost among the covers, the tapestry, the art that hung from the walls. A mere shell surrounded by countless other shells. One could almost see his time weathered spirit slowly flouting away, like a feather drifting in the wind. With each breath he took, it seemed to get closer. The Almighty’s kingdom seemed within the poor king’s grasp.
As his son, the once vanished prince, opened the great, heavy doors to the king’s chamber, the young 19 year-old felt over whelming joy. A joy that would fill him pride, honor, and valor from that point forwards. Until the end of his own time. The king of France took his last breath as his sole heir arrived.
A Rose Out of Season
The pale, dark haired women steeped into the alleyway. One hand firmly pressed up against her nose, warm blood running down her forearm, dripping off the tip of her elbow. The other, rummaging through a small bag, desperately looking for tissue. She couldn’t help but shiver a bit in the chilly October air.
Chucking the cigarette from his hand, a tall, slender man approached her from the back of the alleyway. Reaching one hand for his handkerchief, he got closer to the woman. “Excuse me, ma’m” his voice was deep, yet inviting, “you might need this.” He extended his arm, handkerchief in hand, to her.
A synester, yet seemingly coy smile bloomed on her face, like a rose out of season. She had found her new victim.
Open Windows
I’d always followed the rules. Always tried to be friendly. I had nothing to show for it. No friends, no companions. And now, not even a clean record.
A shiver crawled up my spine as the intimidating man placed the open file in front of me. The images where horrifying. Blood everywhere, but I didn’t look away. I didn’t close my eyes. I examined them closely, taking in every detail. The positioning of the body. The spatter patterns. The blank expression on her face. Her eyes.
In life, they had been bright blue, filled with calm serenity. They sparked in the sunlight. Brilliant sapphires reflecting her inner beauty.
In death, they were cloudy. Their brilliance covered by a dark film, almost gray. They were lifeless, empty.
“Admiring your work?” The intimidating man sat in front of me. His dark, auburn eyes locked on mine. Despite his big, bulky physic and intimidating voice, I was not scared.
“What was it?” He leaned in closer to me, not breaking eye contact. “You couldn’t keep it in your pants, could you? How many times did she reject you before you had enough?”
He leaned back his chair, folding his giant arms around his chest. “5, 6 times? Did you not see it in her eyes?”
I didn’t answer, yet didn’t look away. I couldn’t. I was being consumed by a deep curiosity. Why did everyone just assume it was me?
My silence aggravated him. He got up, pushed the chair back hard enough to knock it over. Smashing his hands on the table between us, he screamed. “WHY DID YOU KILL HER?”
It was only then that I looked away. I looked down at the file once more, tried to keep all the details fresh while I spoke. “I never spoke one word to her. Not one word. I only knew her name. Eleanor. I saw her everyday, standing at the very same spot, after school. She was always alone, yet, she smiled.” I then asked the question that had been burning in my chest ever since I first laid eyes on Eleanor. “Why did she smiled, if she was always alone?”
I looked at the man, more out of curiosity than anything else. I wanted to see the answer in his eyes. Eyes never lie. Not to me.
And they didn’t. They told me the answer.
The answer was in the dark auburn. Shinny, as if he’s about to cry, yet clam. The kind of calm that only comes after the storm. And with that, we both knew.
He bagan to speak, but a knock on the door behind him interrupted. His face was blank, confusion only flashing past a moment before he turned his attention to the door.
Another man was behind the door. This one less intimidating. He pocked his head through the small opening of the door. The two men whispered to one another for several minutes. All the while, the second man’s eyes never left mine. He didn’t know. How could he?
How could anyone?
Reflection
“No one wants what you’re offering.”
Reflections always tell the truth, she thought.
“No one wants what you’re offering.”
This time her reflection said it with a smile.
An open heart isn’t worth much. She, above everyone else, knew that.
“No one wants what you’re offering.”
She touched her chest and winced. That last one had hit a nerve. There was no reason to postpone it for any longer.
Reading the letter for the last time, very carefully to check for any spelling or grammar mistakes, she couldn’t help but shake a little. She didn’t want to be know as the girl with the worst written suicide letter ever.
There was no real reason to leave a letter either. Just logistics. No, she did not want any measures to be taken to save her life, and yes, she was an organ donor.
Just because no one wanted what she was offering, didn’t mean someone wouldn’t benefit from a spare kidney or heart. Her organs weren’t the problem, so there was no sense in burning them along with the rest of her. That would be a very big waste.
Once she’d made sure her latter stated the point clearly and was mistake free, she signed it. She didn’t bother with her signature, but made sure to print her full, legal name bellow it. Nice and clear.
Her reflection demanded to be looked at once last time. So she granted it that. She took one last, hard look at herself.
Everything about the women that stared back at her screamed average. 5’5”. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Overweight. Plain complexion. Not up to society’s standards of “beautify”. Actually, quite bellow those standards.
“I bet there’s loads of ugly people in hell.”
She agreed with her reflection.
And with a newly found sense of enlightenment, she smiled at her reflection and moved the festivities to the bathroom.
The tub was already filled. The water was icy. Her iPod was hooked to the little snowman shaped speaker. All she had to do was hit play and get into her chilly bath.
Five days. That’s exactly how long it took her to decided what song to play. It got so difficult, she even started thinking about making a playlist. But after five days, there was no doubt in her mind that there was only one song she could play. I’m Only Sleeping from The Beatles’ 1967 album, Revolver.
And so it played, as he sat in the cold water. She was even in the mood to sign along a couple times before she took the knife in her hands.
Fifty five seconds into the song, she touched the blade to the inside of there left wrist. Pressing down firmly, she dragged the knife up her arm. Across all her scars. She dug the tip of the blade into the inside of her elbow.
The water turned a dull pink as her heart hammered in her chest.
She found it harder to breath. Harder to keep her eyes open. Her whole body was on fire.
She knew there was something she was forgetting. Her mind was foggy. Everything was slowly fagging away.
As she took in her last breath, she remembered.
“You have nothing to offer.”
Metal
Besides a few broken bones, some new scares, and a couple bruises here and there, she was physically the same. Her eyes color, height, and hair color hadn’t changed. She was a lot paler, and you could start to see her bones more clearly under her skin.
That’s what a coma does to someone. Dylan had laid in the same bed, unmoving, for three and a half months, “recovering”.
No one even knew if there was anyone left in her shell.
MRI or CAT scans where out if the question. There were just too many metal plates and screws keeping her together.
So for three and a half long months, all I could do was wait by her side. Hopping, willing her to give me a sign she was still in there. Fighting.
Nothing. Not a single finger twitch, or an eyelid flutter. Not a grunt. If her chest didn’t slowly move up and down, I would have thought the paramedics had never restarted her heart.
Dylan didn’t deserve this. She was a good kid. Good marks in school, great personality, and enough natural talent to make any dancer or musician green with envy.
On January 7th, 2—-, while waiting at a curve for me outside of our apartment, Dylan was hit by a drunk driver.
I will never forgive myself for that.
Random Daze theme by Polaraul