Aria of the Whales

The silence of the place was terrifying. The stillness pregnant with hesitations and the ghosts of regret. The buildings were crumbling into the cacophony of merging earth and ocean. The devastation, the detritus of former existence, lay across the land like a tattered dress. Everywhere you looked there was evidence of the destructive loves of mankind.

In the midst of the deterioration arose an aria. It crashed into the silence, careening through the airless space, shattering the stillness. It reverberated through the emptiness, emitted from the throats of the whales.

They flowed through the remains of civilization, the melody rising above the wreckage of humanity's silence. Their skin glowed, the veins of circuitry pulsing just beneath their ivory chassis. The matriarch drifted ahead, the waves dispelled by her bulk destroying another part of the forgotten cities below. Her calves swimming in time with the pulsing waves.

Their song rose higher and higher into the dome of sky; cracking the ceiling of stars with it's intensity. The pod seemed to dance through this Atlantis, this forsaken piece of the modern world. Their chassis glittered in the radioactive moonlight, arcing rainbows across the wasteland.

The tangled jungle of skyscrapers swayed with the tide their passing. They rose and fell in tandem with the invisible waves. The abandoned streets below echoed with each fallen construct. The lullaby of the whales answered from the flotsam below, stretching into the darkness.

With each passing season, the whales made their pilgrimage through the cities. Marring the architecture and obliterating a piece of history with every excursion. The songs and the circuitry slowly decaying with each voyage. The metropolitan casually becoming a cemetery, a monument to ivory chassis and glittering circuits.

They fell slowly, as if gravity could not bear the death. One by one, they collapsed into the abyss of the modern world, broken machines in a broken city. Their songs were ceaseless notes repeating through the haze of the apocalypse. They lingered for years, long after the last of the whales broke down, haunting the abandoned landscape.

In the darkness of the cracked sky, the ghosts of their chorus played on loop in the emptiness of the radioactive city.

The Sky is Alive

When the world began we all shared one name, one in flesh and bone. In a chasm of time we all separated, drifting like pieces of wood out into the ocean of the sky. We lost our name in the abyss of this crazy gift called time. The sky is alive, your name is a whisper in the dark and your smile a ribbon of stars. I kiss your starry lips and we have one name and body and you are my soul.

The Harlot's Blush

It is impossible to say how long they had been insane. The madness was a black pool in which they had, long, been drowning. It was toxic, yet it seemed to give them an almost ethereal loveliness. A tainted beauty enveloped their house and clung to them like so many flecks of ivory colored mud.

He had been a soldier. The blood stains of war could be seen beneath the slowly cracking facade. He lost himself somewhere in the torn jungles of a foreign land and between the legs of a beautiful, young, girl with soulless eyes. His infidelities, to both his wife and himself, often stirred the fires of madness to the point of a break. He would fling himself into a scalding tub of water and scream at God for just a moment of peace. When it had passed he would remind himself that God had died, with him, in those war torn jungles long ago.

She had been a victim of incestuous desires, forced to run from her home to escape an older brother. She had run as far as her twenty dollars and sixty-two cents could take her before she began hocking the only thing left to her. She married the first man that asked and lied, saying she was eighteen. She was his wife, a leash on the madness, already creeping in, until the war. Everything changed after that. While he was gone, she took a lover and began to drink. The scars building on her arms and torso were just to bleed, not to kill. There was no one there to care.

After another fifth of whatever alcohol she can find, she stumbles into his arms. He is shaking and whispering. He looks afraid, as if he were a wounded rabbit being hunted by something more sinister than a fox.

"God is dead. He died between that girl's legs in those forsaken jungles. What a waste. What a tragedy." He whispers into her tousled amber hair as he plants a small kiss on her pale earlobe. He is speaking nonsense, he always does after the nightmares begin. And they always begin this time of year.

~~~

The couple next door have finished moving in and are having a celebratory dinner. They invite their neighbors, though they feel uneasy around them. They can sense the wrongness beneath the calm, everyone can. At first the young wife pleads with her husband not to invite them. There is something there that makes her frightened. Proper etiquette and good manners win in the end.

The evening begins, quietly, with a few casual drinks and pleasantly neutral banter. It grows into a robust game of chess, unwitting pawns in the world of questions. It fades into a hulking paranoia, and resentment, as the guests are politely introduced to the door. Good nights and good byes are given and received as they part for the night.

~~~

The paranoia sits on his chest as he tosses and turns. He must have the beautiful young woman next door. She is perfect, so wonderfully fresh and new. He must have her. His wife doesn't matter, she doesn't even compare. The young woman next door is all that matters.

He watches her, day after day. He follows her as she walks home from the store. He memorizes her curves as he stalks her. He is waiting for the moment to take her, the moment where she will be his alone. He waits, patiently, for a year, writhing in the heat of his lust and the agony of his madness.

He takes her. Takes her just as he did a young girl in a foreign country years ago. He strings her up and rakes his hot hands over her body. He says he will take his time, enjoy her, but impatience is a cruel master. It drives the knife into her writhing body over and over. It is impotence and rage, tempered with insanity, that drives the knife. He can no longer satisfy his wife or himself. Not since that girl in the jungles where God died. He can no longer be a man.

~~~

She finds him in the shed in the fenced-in backyard. He is wallowing in blood and praying to his crucified Madonna. He is crying and has cut himself. She finds his severed manhood lying beside the young neighbor's wilting corpse. Gently, she lifts it from the dirt floor and places it in an empty firefly jar.

She goes to him then. She kneels beside him and takes his head into her lap, caressing his tangled hair. She pries the knife from his hand and twines her fingers with his. She bends over him to kiss his cheek, all the while murmuring words of comfort. She imagines a crown of thorns on his beautiful head as she slits his throat.

She ties him up beside the neighbor woman and begins to devolve into her own wickedness. Her eyes glitter with hatred and insanity, the madness a poisonous balm to her breaking heart. She hums an off-key melody as she lines up jars. They are mostly empty, but in her mind they are holding the parts of every man that harmed her.

She croons, softly, to his body as it, too, begins to wilt. She glances into his tear-bright eyes, still wide in shock at his sudden demise. She sings to him, as if he were a sleepy child. Brushing a stray wisp of hair from his face, she pats his cheek.

"A beautiful forest, a sea of green, nestled at the foot of the mountain. God stands within, laughing at the rotting demons strung amongst the autumn leaves. Their eyes cry out and ghosts weep, quietly. No mortal loves his life in that forest.

"You look so peaceful," she whispers, caressing his cooling face. His eyes seem to be screaming at her. "so calm and beautiful. You didn't have to take her when I would have given myself up to your knife. Was my blood not perfect for this exorcism? Was my heart not beating for you as the blade graced your throat?

"What a waste. What a tragedy. What a beautiful blush the harlot has upon her snowy cheek. She fell in love with you, even as you wielded your blade against her. She parted softly with your name, a hallowed prayer, upon her bloody lips. She was a rose and you stole her petals, a goddess in flesh and you freed her from imprisonment.

"What now, my husband? What now, my love?"

She sees him stir at these last words. A strangled scream escapes her mouth as he sways toward her. His hands, once secured, now reach out to choke her, to deny her breath. She claws and gnashes her teeth, sinking into his cold flesh and tearing it. She hears him howling, like a werewolf, his screams beating against the drum of her skull. All her struggle is in vain.

~~~

They found her with her own hands wrapped around her throat. Red teeth marks and torn flesh lay in abundance. The two bodies, hung from the rafters, seemed to be in a lover's pose. A bloody heart was drawn on the wall behind them.

When she was revived all that could be discerned from her garbled speech was "heaven." They led her away from the scene in a white coat, given to her by the nice man also in white.

What they could not understand she knew all too well.

She had tasted heaven in her final scene.

The Lady

We stood outside the doors, afraid to enter and afraid to leave. And though they gave under the pressure of our small hands we could not see within. It's funny how often we think about that moment, staring into the midnight blackness with just a glittery cape of stars.
She appeared then, out of the darkness and out of those stars. Her veil filled with them so that she glowed like the moon in the night sky. Upon her striped unicorn, she seemed a goddess of sorts, a soft smile of mischief gracing her porcelain face.
You kissed me then and we were all a part of this dance in the sky. She flit out of existence and into the next, leaving behind the memories of her starry veil and your strawberry flavored kiss.

The Ring of Roses

Mama's face is hot and flushed. Her once creamy complexion is now worryingly florid.

Our neighbours stay away and have taken to lighting bundles of twigs around our house to warn others. We all know that it means death is visiting. We are called "roses," my sister and I, and people cross themselves as we walk by. They ring the house, at night, with fire, hoping to cleanse the air of disease. It won't work. It never does.

Mama insists we keep posy petals in our pockets to protect us from what we cannot see. She is delirious oftentimes and can't seem to see that it is too late. Papa died last week and my sister and I dragged him out to be burned with the myriad of other dead.

We had been safe, but then Mama's face, once so clear and bright, became something else. The blisters gathered, like a vulture to carrion, around her beautiful lips and the "roses" bloomed upon her cheeks. My older sister, Mary, tends her while I chop wood for our meager fire.

The ashes. The ashes fall down, they are forever falling, and they leave nothing untouched. There is no respite to this wickedness, this plague. Only the ashes. The fires, the ashes, the stench. It never ends. All of the men in our village, those who have not died, pile the corpses in the ditches and light them. These, once human, torches blaze so brightly that day and night are indistinguishable. And the ashes fall like snow over the trees and the pastures.

Mama collapses and Mary tries to lift her. But they have both become too weak. The roses have bloomed on Mary's cheeks and it is only a matter of time before she succumbs to this terrible curse.

I place her rosary about her neck and begin to plead with the Virgin to spare what is left of my family. My cries fall on deaf ears, for, in the morning, I discover my mother dead.

There is a ring around the roses, a small ring of light to brighten the night as I bury my mother with a pocket full of posies. The ashes, the ever-present ashes, fall into my hair and my eyelashes as I struggle to lay my sister to rest.

It comes for us all, in time. From the strongest of men to the weakest of babes.

We all fall down.

Not how it feels

I wish I had the words to tell you just how lonely I've become.
I wish I could somehow explain this emptiness building in my bones.
Are there words that can conjure how this feels? Is there an expression?
A turn of phrase?

It's a lie, it's a lie. I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm alive, I should be happy.
But I keep feeling that, somehow, I've come full circle and this time
is for keeps. It's a devastating compromise and I can't help it but I'm
falling into a wormhole and I'm not sure how to escape.

I should be over the moon with excitement, with joy and happiness.
I should be happier than any girl has a right to be. I have everything
I could possibly want, but I'm not content to let things lie as they are.
I was born to soar and I'm still walking uphill.

I keep telling myself that this is a phase. I'll get over the urge to jump.
I have no worries, nothing to bring me so far down, but I'm still living
in a dream, a dream that doesn't stop when I wake. And the storms that rage
inside my head, the monsters that shatter the sky with their lightning just
keep playing inside of me. I wreak havoc on myself.

I'm happy, so the other shoe is waiting to drop and I'm holding my breath.
Everything is going well and I am terrified. I'm fine, I'm fine. It's a lie,
it's a lie. The same song keeps playing and I'm still waiting.

Honesty: To J.(C.)W.M.

Pulling my heart out on piano wire, playing out the chords that will never come. I've lost no love nor ire, just playing out my sorrow on the piano wire.

Its easy to miss you when I think I never have. Its easy to believe you were wonderful when I don't think about all you've done. This is all to say you were never the one I should've trusted, never the one I should've loved.

You exist now, simply to torment me, a rabid ghost that refuses to fade into that sweet good night. So I will sit here, writing you useless words full of useless meaning because you will never understand me and you never really knew me.

Pulling my heart out, drawing it down the spiral staircase of my ribs and down into the pit of my stomach. If I were a man, I would eat your heart to replace the one you stole, so cruelly, from me.

You weren't really who I thought you were. You were not kind, nor loving, nor caring, nor anything I would normally associate with what you were supposed to be. You were selfish and cold, rude and hateful. You were a cancerous being trapping me in the prison of my skin, cringing behind the bar of my skull.

I'm too tired to fight you any longer. Too tired to continue raging against your machinations. Too tired to wake into your reality. I know I need to let this go, stop letting you kill me with your words. The abuses, the pain, the heartbreak, the loss, I need to let it go.

Grant me this last courtesy, let me be.

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Four

"You what?" He asks, a quizzical look on his face.

"I still love you." I say, simply. I shrug, as if to say I don't get it either.

"I thought you hated me." He says, his voice somewhat mocking and full of unrepentance.

"Of course I hate you. And I love you. I wish you were dead and I wish you were inside of me. I wish we had never met, but I wish you were still mine. I'll probably always love you, David. We were together for a long time. We were in love for a long time, or so I thought. I may never stop being mixed up when it comes to you. Part of me loathes this confusion and part of me wishes it would go on forever because it is a connection to you. All this doesn't matter though."

"Why is that?" He looks tired. Is he exhausted by his sins? Or is he just tired of having to put up with my rambling? I've lost all sense of who and what I am during this time of rebellious destruction. Will it matter if I say what needs to be said? I am suddenly full of doubts. I've done all this for nothing. He'll never understand me and I'll never understand him.

"I have to let you go." I say, all of my body slowly caving in, much like a flan left in a cupboard. I have no strength left, no more bravado. I am just a broken-hearted girl, full of unfulfilled hopes and deferred dreams. I feel like a raisin forgotten in the withering gaze of the sun.

For a moment he doesn't say anything. He just stares at me. He sucks in a deep breath and let's it puff out into the night air.

"What happens now?" he asks.

"I let you go and begin to repair my life. What's left that I haven't destroyed, that is."

"Just like that?" he asks, puzzled.

"I need a change of scenery." I say, throwing my arms out wide as if to grasp the sky. "I need time, but I am determined to let your memory fade to the point of death."

"That's morbid." he says.

"I don't know how else to say it," I cry. "I can't let you continue to exist inside of me, no matter how much I want you to. You have to be let go and for that I need the memories of you to die."

He stares at me, but I can't stand it. I have to get out of here.

"You hurt me, David, surely you can see that? Most of it I've let you do. I let you walk away without a fight, believing I was doing the right thing by you and my best friend. I let you be my entire world when I wasn't even in yours. I let you destroy me. I used you as an excuse to destroy myself. I can't do that anymore. I can't continue to love you, I can't continue to punish myself pretending I am hurting you. I haven't hurt you at all, except for maybe your nose.

"I gave you my virginity. I gave you some of the best and worst years of my life. I can't take them back from you. I can't take anything back. And there are so many things I wish I could. If I could I would take back that moment when I let you in so far that I couldn't think about anything else. I would take back all those years I spent loving you, caring for you, being with you. I wish I could give those times back to myself, maybe share some of them with Alice. Maybe I'd have tried to stop you from hurting her the way you hurt me. Maybe I'd just let her have all that time, because she clearly loves you."

"Why let her have that time?" He interrupts, confusion clouding his features. Or maybe it is the tears in my eyes that are clouding things.

"I would give it to Alice because she loves you. Because I would give anything to still be her friend, the friend that I used to know. I wish I could take those years she spent trying to ignore her feelings and give them back to her. You don't deserve her, David. You never did. You didn't deserve me either. But that isn't the point, is it? I'm just rambling now."

"Something you have always done." he points out.

"I hate you." I say. No venom, no anger. A simple statement. It is the simplicity of it that makes him stop short and look at me. Possibly looking at me for the first time. I feel the phantom of our first time making love. I feel the phantoms of him proposing, of our life together. I feel them all and I let them go, drifting under the bridge and out to open water, like candles on the water. I don't try to hold onto them. I don't try to erase them. I let them come and I let them go.

"I hated you." I say. "I can't let hating you destroy me any longer. I loved you and I am going to learn to let you go. I should've let you go long ago. The past can't be undone, but I'm not going to let you control my future. I have to let you go."

"Why bring me here? Why tell me all of this then?" He is getting angry, like a vengeful spirit fighting against the tide of banishment.

"Because you had to hear it. Because I thought it would make it easier for myself. Because I have to purge myself, I guess. You're like a drug and I'm trying to go to rehab. You're like a ghost and I'm exorcising you. I'm done, darling. And as part of my treatment, my closure, you had to hear it." I approach him, he backs up cautiously.

"Goodbye." I say, standing on my tip toes to kiss him, softly, on the mouth. I begin to walk away and he doesn't try to stop me. He doesn't try to follow me either, something I am thankful for. It's time to let him go and it is time to move on.

I don't know how long I walk, but I find myself back at my car by the book store. I lean against the car and stare at the sky for a few minutes. I no longer feel chilled. I no longer feel like I have to destroy myself. I feel a little lighter. I call Clark and ask him to come fly kites with me. I call Noah to come as well and we all congregate on the beach.

While the kites drift lazily above us, I tell Clark and Noah everything. The plans I had made, the things I have done. I leave nothing out. I conclude with David and I on the bridge. Breathless and teary, I look up at my friends and wonder what they think of me now. I used Clark and I have ignored Noah. To my surprise, and happiness, they both hug me at the same time.

"Buck up, little camper." Noah says. "The worst is over. And now that you recognize that you can't keep doing this we can begin to change it."

"We'll always be here to help you." says Clark, kissing my forehead.

We watch the sunrise over the beach, our kites waving like happy children to greet the dawn.

"I'm moving," I say, after a few quiet moments.

"Where?" asks Noah.

"Not far," I say. "just to the next town. I am hoping to try and get my job with the accounting firm back. And I need to change the scene if I'm ever going to move to the next chapter of my life."

"Are you sure you aren't just trying to run away from this whole situation?" Clark asks, gently.

"No, I'm done running. I just can't keep doing what I've been doing and I can't stay stuck in this same rut. I have to move forward and, to do that, I need to move out of here. It's too hard to stay. I'll be running into David and Alice all the time. I'll be running into old lovers all the time."

"Some of your old lovers still love you." Clark says, softly. I know deep down he still wants me, but I can't. I love him as my friend, but not as a lover or husband.

"I know," I say, cautiously. "but it isn't fair to them to have to see me all the time either. I need a change. This is the best way to do it."

Noah, having been quiet most of the conversation, stares at a kite and sighs.

"I suppose," he says. "you'll have to do what you think is best. All we can do is be supportive. I just hope you know what you're doing."

We sit silently on the beach for a time before Clark and Noah eventually head home, leaving me sitting as the sun comes up. I can't help but feel like this is symbolic of my new beginning.

I salute the new born sun before packing up my kite and going home to get some sleep. Today is my new day.

Returning to the Font

What is it about you that makes me want to write? To scream and cry and dance around like an idiot?

What is it about you that draws me in, even when I tell myself I won't waste anymore verbs or adjectives or nouns on you?

I hate you one moment and then I love you the next. I miss you and then I wish we had never met.

You wreak such havoc on me, emotionally and spiritually, sometimes physically. You make me want to laugh and write volumes of poetry and purple prose.

I want to kill you sometimes, remove the root of you from my soul. Others I wish I could kiss you or be held by you.

I'm so tired of these contradictions. Is it worth it? Will you be the muse that I need to stimulate the growth of the words in my garden? Or will you be my downfall, the weed that chokes everything else out but the hate and the tears and the unforgiveness?

I don't know anymore. I have no idea what I'm doing or where I'm going. I'm feeling things I keep telling myself I'm not and you are there asking how I am after so long?

Wasn't it you that said we had to stop talking? I may take the credit in some verses, but in reality it was YOU that said you needed to stop talking to me, but you follow me, haunt me, sabotage me. I don't get it. I'm so confused. Why? Why now?

I guess I'll take the chance, time heals all wounds, right? Can we rebuild? Do I want to? Why am I suddenly cold, just thinking about you and all that lies in the not-so-distant past?

God, I'm confused and you're a drug that keeps taking me higher and higher until I'm too scared to look down. I feel like I've lost track of who I am any time you are near. And you aren't near, but you are. You are as close as my skin and yet further than I can imagine. Why do I let this bother me?

And to think, the only bait you use is "how have you been?"

Paradiso

Stay awake with me through this long and frightening night.
Don't close your eyes, there will be time to sleep in the future.
I'm losing faith in you, in this, in us. I'm losing faith in
the words we say.

Do you really mean it when you say "I love you."?
Why don't you call me baby or darling? Why do I hear those
endearments from men who are not my husband? From men who
aren't you?

Why don't you seem to want to spend time with me anymore?
Who are you?
Who am I?
Have we worked so hard for so long to lose it now?

You aren't worried about my affections. I've made my loyalty clear.
I've never, purposely, betrayed your trust. I've always worked
hard to maintain this. Up until now I'd have said you were working too.
We've become lazy. It feels different than it used to.

You never use our silly words for love anymore. I don't either.
I'm miserable, darling. I want you. I want this to work, but sometimes
I think it'd be better to give it up. I'm tired of working so hard.
I'm tired of feeling like this. Do you even notice?

Have you noticed how we don't really talk anymore? Have you noticed
that when we do it is usually an argument? Have you noticed that all of
our intimacy seems to have dissipated? Have you noticed anything besides
what exists in your own world?

All is not well in our paradise. Eden is slowly crumbling from
underneath our feet and you don't seem to notice. Or is it that
you don't care? Don't close your eyes, love. Please, just stay
awake tonight. Help me figure all this out before we lose it all.

Dear Mr. President,

August 01st, 2012

Dear Mr. President,

It's a funny (as in weird) time right now, don't you think? All this insanity with your upcoming election (I am confident in your abilities as you can see) and the world is all a stage (as Shakespeare once said) set with chessmen. In the end it's kind of like that, a political checkmate with more than a chessboard at stake. Of course chess players don't usually play for keeps.

Mr. President, I am going to be honest, I'm not sure why I am writing you. My previous letter (before I was married I sent you a glittery Paris themed card) had a point. I wanted to tell you how much I supported you. I still support you (and not just because you were the first president I got to vote for). But this wasn't really going to be about that.

We're moving, not just as a country. Moving towards something ill-defined and frightening. I'm afraid, sir. Afraid that we're moving not for the better. We (the collective "we") have grown so lazy, prejudiced, paranoid and irrational. I feel like I'm trapped in the collective body of a rabid dog. I resist, but get pulled in again. It seems insane because it is.

Frankly, Mr. President, I could care less about your religious beliefs. The constitution (last I checked) said nothing about religion. I care that you have morals; compassion, honesty, etc. I don't care if you were born overseas or not (not that I believe you were, but I hear this ALL the time at work) because you were born to American citizens so it wouldn't matter anyway.

What I care about is you visiting the Colorado victims. I care about you paying the same amount of taxes I do. I care about you donating your Nobel Peace prize money. I care about you fighting for equal pay for equal work.

I care about you standing up for GLBTQ rights. I care about those things, Mr. President. I don't care if you worship Buddha or Krishna or Zeus for that matter. I do care if you use your power for good rather than "evil." Be Luke not Vader (well at the beginning Vader, you can be Vader overthrowing the Emperor. Huh, the Emperor could be Romney or big business and you could be Vader throwing them over the railing... Somehow I don't think I'll be getting a job creating your ads any time soon).

I'm sorry I ramble so, Mr. President.

I'm sorry I don't have more money. I want to donate. I want to have a chance to have dinner with you. I want to be more than one voice, but it's very hard being an adult, don't you agree?

I want so many things! I want my freedom. I want my health. I want my liberty and to pursue my happiness. I want to be a part of this so-called "Great Nation."

In truth, I just want to be happy. I want more than what I've been told I should want.

I hope I haven't bored you to tears, sir. I hope you and yours are doing well. I hope you continue the good fight, even if letters from supporters stop coming. Even if it looks bleak. There are people, like me, who can't afford Mr. Romney, sir. Especially those who think he is a good option.

Please beat him. Please continue to be the kind and wonderful human being you are. And please say a prayer (if you believe in that, I don't really anymore) for me.

In all sincerity and with great respect,
Sarai Smith
(formerly, Sarai Lillie)

Soar

I was born with a wandering soul, how is it that I have remained in one place so long?
I crave the adventure, the sights, the ephemeral of the world waiting just outside my door, how is it I am still in the same place?
I am jealous, admittedly, of those I know who get to travel or live in foreign places.
I keep waiting for these wings of mine to work, but they seem to be stuck, like me, in the same places.

Another Moment

I was eleven in 1999. My brother was nine and my sister was almost four.

I don't think it was the first year that my mother let us stay up for New Year's Eve, but it was one of the first years she let us.

Y2K was everywhere. It was the new Communist scare; the newest trend in fear. We were going to be set back from the technological age.

For me it was exciting. I have always dreamed that we would be forced back in time. It is an idea that I've tried to write about too. I love history so much that it made me think that we would start dressing like we did in the 1800's again, start speaking properly and acting like we were civilized. Much to my chagrin, that isn't what would've actually happened if technology had been decimated.

On this particular New Year's Eve, on the brink of a new millenia, my brother and I were staying up for midnight. Hannah had already been put to bed, mostly against her will as she had wanted to be a big girl and stay up too. She fell asleep shortly before ten and I carried her to our shared bedroom. Chris and I hadn't fully decided what we wanted to do.

If I recall correctly, we played some records before we decided to watch a movie.

Of course our first choice was "Much Ado About Nothing."

My mother has always been very eclectic in her tastes (which is where I got it!) and her love of classical things is what influenced me in my love for the same. Shakespeare was one of my first loves. Elvis came first, though.

Anywho, this was one of our favorite films. It still is. So we watched that. That killed some time, but not enough for midnight.

It was around this time that Ivan, a dear family friend, called to wish us Happy New Year. I told him that Mom had gone to bed with a migraine and that Chris and I were watching Shakespeare movies until midnight. He offered to come over and watch movies with us. And bring pizza.

When he arrived we decided to watch "Henry V."

Which, in case you didn't know, is a war movie. It is one of the only war movies I enjoy, because it is Shakespeare in all his glory. And Kenneth Branagh. That helps too... Because it is a war movie, that automatically means that it is bloody. As in VERY bloody. Nothing like blood and pizza on the brink of what was supposed to be the Technological Apocalypse, right?

Anyway, Ivan kept covering his eyes. He isn't fond of blood and gore. Neither am I, usually, but for this particular movie I make an exception. Did I mention Kenneth Branagh is in it? Where was I? Oh right, the movie.

So, Chris and I, being terrible children, kept teasing Ivan and telling him that the blood was gone. Of course he would peep out from between his fingers and see there was still plenty of blood on the screen and cover them back up. And we would giggle like it was the funniest thing ever. Which, at the time, it was.

I don't know why, but I've been thinking about this particular memory a lot lately. Nostalgia in my old age? Who knows.

I miss those times. I miss believing that everything was going to be fine. I miss believing that we were all going to make it somehow. I miss being closer to my sister. I miss having a family.

I still have a family, but it feels different. It has changed so much from the family it used to be. We are still Debra, Sarai, Chris and Hannah. But we are different. We are much changed from the people we used to be. Sometimes I don't think we are changed for the better.

Sometimes I miss living in that little blue trailer, in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by fields full of alfalfa and woods that held such beautiful mysteries. I miss riding my bike up and down that gravel road. I miss our dogs. I miss my knitting lessons and sneaking peeks of naughty movies while babysitting. I miss sharing a room with my baby sister, with an old and tattered poster of a Degas ballerina. I miss listening to Simon and Garfunkel on the record player. I even miss listening to old sermon tapes.

I miss the deer heads and the mounted fish. I miss fishing and playing in the snow.

I miss making homemade pizza with my mom. I miss playing chess with my brother. I miss reading to my mom.

What I miss most is what you can see in our pictures.

I miss what we used to be, when we were happy. Not when we were fighting, not when we were being abused, not when we were miserable. I miss those sparkling moments that linger in my memory where we were happy and we were a family.

The Moment

When I was young there was a lot of stress in my life (there is still a lot of stress in my life). Back then I didn't know how to deal with it (who am I kidding? I still don't know how to deal with it!). I was self-destructive because it was a way to express the turmoil inside me. I was cruel to my body because I perceived it as my enemy. I still perceive it as my enemy, sometimes. Depends on my mood of course.


My step-father's mother used to cook all the time. I don't know if she still does because I am not in contact with her really. She used to fill my plate to the brim any time I was there and I would be told to eat every bite because "there are children starving in Africa." God, I must've heard that SO many times. This, and my growing dissatisfaction with my appearance, ushered me into what I call the "bulimia stage."

I could never finish a whole plate. Ever. I would try, valiantly. But I just couldn't do it. At first I smuggled food in my napkin and excused myself to the bathroom, where I would dump it in the toilet and flush. This quickly got old. I could only carry so much in my napkin, after all.

That's where the moment happened. That moment when I realized that my aching stomach could be purged and then I'd eat more and purge later. I could eat everything, clean my plate and be free of guilt for those poor starving African children or Chinese children or whatever starving children. It wasn't truly a waste, because I did eat it. I just threw it up later.

I did this off and on for a few years. I didn't become what one would call a "full-fledged" bulimic because you can tell when I've been throwing up. The pressure is too much for my poor blood vessels and they burst when I throw up. In my face. So it looks like someone splattered my face with blood or that I suddenly have bloody freckles. This can also happen in my eyes (which I discovered when I was in high school. Rather unfortunate experience since I looked like a demon for a week or two).

Sometimes, though, when I became ridiculously stressed I would throw up to feel better. It was like purging out all the stress building up inside of me. I didn't do it often, but I always felt better. Even now I will sometimes force the point if I feel sick to my stomach. It's not hard.

The difference between now and then is that I don't need to throw up to feel better about my stress. I may still need to if I'm sick (which is the only time I'll push the proverbial envelope), but not to deal with the stress.

I tried to commit suicide at seven. Don't ask me why, because I can't remember. I just know that I was too afraid to continue living and I was so tired of everything. I overdosed on my inhaler. That wasn't the first time.

For that particular incident, I was punished. The head pastor at the church we went to told my step-father that I was in rebellion and needed discipline. I received a "spanking." For the record, I don't disagree with spankings. I am for a good spanking (both for discipline and sexual pleasure) in certain cases. I believe you should never spank a child in anger and that you should never use anything besides your hand. You feel the sting, if you use your hand. You can gauge how much pain you are delivering and I feel like this makes the difference between abuse and discipline. Personally speaking, of course. I was "spanked" with a switch by a man who enjoyed wielding it a little too much.

I became very good at lying about my overdoses. They were "accidents." Even the one time I emptied an entire inhaler, with my step-father in the room. I did this by sitting close to the speakers of our radio/tape player/record player while he was listening to a tape and waiting until it grew loud enough to cover the sound of the inhaler. I explained them all away. And they never did me any good anyway.

As I got older I realized that killing myself by inhaler was a bad idea. All it did was make me shaky. So I decided to cut my wrists.

We lived in a house by this time. A beautiful house, really. My room was the master bedroom upstairs (as my step-father changed the basement into another level of the house), complete with my own bathroom. Perfect for a teenage girl! One day, I locked myself in the bathroom, sat in front of the door and tried to drag a knife across my wrist (which I now know wouldn't actually work). I didn't even get so far as cutting, because the phone rang at that moment. Heaven only knows why I had it with me.

It was my best friend, Jo. At the time, I took that as a sign from God, because she said she didn't know why she was calling. She just suddenly had a bad feeling and called to see if something was wrong. I cried when I told her what I was trying to do. She talked me out of it and that was the end of that.

I am actually surprised that I didn't start cutting sooner than I did because of all the pent up anger (at myself, at my mother [I'm not mad at you anymore, Mom], at my father, at my step-father, at God, etc.), stress and previous suicide attempts. It just makes sense that I would cut. In the scheme of things, anyway.

The first time I cut myself on purpose, I was at church. My boyfriend (My Edward Cullens, if you will) had just broken up with me. This was a boyfriend I was keeping secret from my friends at school because he was eight years older than me and he was a convicted child molester. Actually, I was doing a poor job of keeping him a secret. I had mentioned him to a couple friends and they freaked out (rightly so, I might add). They told me it was a terrible idea and questioned my sanity (once again, rightly so).

I lied and said I had made it up. He was a hypothetical boyfriend. Well, I guess I'm admitting that he wasn't a hypothetical. He was real. And yes, you were right. It was an awful idea. I'm sorry that I lied about lying, but panic set in and I hate conflict.

It wasn't so much that he broke up with me as it is that we decided to break up until I turned eighteen. Oh yeah, I was sixteen (a week from seventeen) when we met. Seventeen when we started dating. I, foolishly, believed I loved him. He was the only guy who seemed actually interested in being with ME not my BODY. He liked me for me, or so I thought. And things went way further with him than they should've.

I was devastated when we broke up. I hid myself in the Sabbath School room (because I was a Seventh Day Adventist at the time) and took out a little pocket knife a guy friend had given me for protection. I was wearing a skirt that day, with shorts underneath. I pulled up the skirt a little and sliced at my inner thigh until I saw blood. My ex came in right after I had put the knife back in my pocket.

He asked if I was okay. I lied and said I was fine, though I had been crying. He said we were still going to be friends. A week later we were going out again.

Dating him was self-destructive on three fronts:
1. I started cutting because of it.
2. I pushed myself, sexually, even when I knew I wasn't ready for it (and I knew he was a bad idea).
3. I was only dating him to get my step-father's attention.

We dated for another two weeks before I found out he was cheating on me (had been the whole time, by the way) and I broke up with him. Again. He came over to my house and tried to seduce me back to him. He played a stupid ICP (Insane Clown Posse) song while we were in his car. We made out a little bit, but I didn't say I'd go back out with him. Despite my "love" for him, I couldn't take him back after the cheating. Also, that ICP song was INCREDIBLY stupid and un-romantic. Bad choice in seduction music, dude.

He's in prison somewhere. I think.

I cut for a time after that. I cut until I was nineteen, if memory serves. Secretly, of course. And I attempted to convince everyone that they were cat scratches. That didn't work, by the way. Everyone tried to stop me, to their credit. I finally quit because I knew I couldn't keep doing that to myself. I also knew that my ass would get kicked if I continued. Plus, right around the time I finally stopped I "ran away" from home to deal with my issues. Which also didn't work.

A few major reasons for my various amounts of self-destruction:
1. My emerging sexuality. I'm bisexual. Anyone who has read my blog knows that (or my dA journal). Anyone who knows me personally should know that. But I was very closeted at the time because of my step-father, because of my God, because of my church friends, etc. My desire to be with a woman sexually was reprehensible according to my beliefs. Another portion of this was my realization that I was not "vanilla," not just bisexually. This also seemed to clash with who I "was."

2. I was surrounded by death. A lot of my family, friends and people I knew were dying all around me. It was terrifying. And disheartening. It is rough when you have been to more funerals than you ever been to weddings or baby showers.

3. My step-father was abusive. Still is, but not to me and his ways have become more subtle. We carried on an emotionally incestuous relationship for most of my formative years. He was also physically and emotionally abusive to me and my brother. My own inability to protect my brother from him played a big role in it too.

4. I was being sexually abused. By several different people and for far longer than I should've been. Sexual abuse is usually perpetuated by someone you trust and know. My ex-boyfriend was only one perpetrator of this.

5. My step-father was emotionally distant from me. Looking back I realize that I just wanted to feel like he loved me. I know, now, that he probably never did. Which stings. I was trying so hard to get his attention. I was trying to get any kind of attention from him. Anything would've been better than nothing.

6. My mother was sick (I don't blame you anymore, Mom). A lot. My mom has a lot of health issues and sometimes she wasn't there when I really needed her. It wasn't her fault, but it pissed me off as well as depressed me. I have always had a close relationship with my mom, her being unavailable when I felt like I needed her was disheartening. Plus, her almost bleeding to death on our bathroom floor from a horrific miscarriage didn't help matters. Every time she got sick I was afraid she was going to die and I'd be alone with my brother, sister and step-father. This was combined with my desire that she die so that she wouldn't be in pain anymore, which lead to a tremendous amount of guilt. Why would I wish my mother dead when I loved her so much?

7. I was desperately lonely. I had friends, but they weren't around all the time. And I felt like I only had the one really close friend, Jo. I was also desperate for any sort of validation. Which is another reason why my step-father being so emotionally distant was destructive for me. I craved validation that I was pretty, smart, etc. That lack of validation has embedded in my brain that I'm useless and stupid so that, no matter what anyone says, I can't believe it.

8. Abandonment issues. My father and I stopped talking when I was thirteen. I sent him a letter telling him I never wanted to talk to him again, that I hated him and it was his fault my Memere was dead (she had died three years prior). His acquiescing to my demands has always felt like abandonment. Part of me wanted him to verbally slap me and continue writing me. I didn't actually hate him. I just missed my grandmother. And I was angry at her for dying, for missing so much of what was to come. I was angry that I didn't get to go to her funeral. I felt like she had abandoned me. My dad had abandoned me. My step-father was emotionally distant and my mother was physically unavailable. I just felt abandoned on all fronts.

So, what was the point of all this you may be asking? I don't know. Maybe it's going to help me realize that I don't have to be self-destructive to deal with my stress? Maybe it's a way of working out externally what has been going on inside me for years internally? Why post it?

Because it is part of what will eventually be written in the book of my life, when I am old and gray. Because it is who I was. I don't need pity, I don't need the attention. Not anymore. I just need to get it out of me, like I have always needed to get it out of me. This is a lot better than a knife, or throwing up dinner. Plus, maybe there are people out there who will read it and be able to diagnose what is going on in their lives too. Help them to see that you can come away from all that crap mostly intact.

Do I have scars? Yes. I have lots of them. I do not cover them up and I am not ashamed of them. They are what has made me, ME. I would not be Sarai if not for the scars that have built Sarai.

The Golden Man

Dear ____,

I keep telling myself that I will stop missing you, stop writing you. I tell myself that I never really loved you and you never really loved me. It doesn't make anything hurt less, it doesn't change how I feel. No matter what I do, I keep thinking about you. I miss you. I wish things had been different.

I was seventeen. I had just gotten out of a bad relationship. I had finally broken up with the Edward in my life. My home life was deteriorating. I was losing faith in God, in religion, in love. I was wilting, like a forgotten flower in a too sunny window.

And you came in to my picture. You came into the darkness and pulled me out. Or so I thought.

I had a crush on you. You were so smart, strong and funny. You were sweet and wonderful, it was easy to fall for you. I didn't even have to try. But you had a wife and I valued our friendship too much to say anything. Not that you couldn't see it written all over my face. I can say I never tried to take you from her. I am still her friend, though I still feel the shame bubbling up in my cheeks sometimes when I talk to her.

I worshiped you. I adored you. I loved you. I wrote so many poems in your honour, though I have often said I would not waste another verse on you. I say I will not waste another tear in your name.

I keep thinking back to when I told you that I had a crush on you. You said you had already known. I blushed because I couldn't believe I had been so obvious.

I told you that I wanted to have sex. You said you would ruin me for other men. I told you I wanted to be ruined. Sometimes when I think about that I know you ruined me anyway.

I can still feel your fingers tracing the soft part of my neck up to my ear and back down as I was trying to write that mythology I was creating. I had dedicated a character to you. The most beloved man created by the Gods and Goddesses of my world. I called you Zimri. How fitting that, in the Bible, Zimri is a traitor and the name itself means "my song" (Or mountain sheep, but that fits less perfectly.)

I remember how strongly I wanted to kiss you. I remember making you blush, twice, and marveling at my ability. I remember how badly I wanted you, while feeling the guilt creeping around the edges. Your wife. Your son and your daughter. Your life that I was so desperately wanting to be a part of.

I was seventeen, though, ____! You should've resisted me, should've told me no. Told me that it was inappropriate. Why didn't you? Was I Lolita, seducing you away from God and family?

I blame myself for inviting you to the prom. I blame myself for asking you to go with me. I wish I'd never gone. I wish I'd never said anything. But I wanted that experience. I wanted to experience prom, to experience a dance. It was my first dance and I was so excited to be dancing with you. I remember all the moves we created for "Beep" by the Pussycat Dolls. Sometimes, when I'm reminiscing, I play it. I dance and I think about you.

Sometimes I look at the pictures from that night. The night we stopped being friends. The night we became something more than friends, but less than lovers.

I abandoned you when you said you were leaving her. When you said you no longer believed in God. I was afraid, more than anything. And I was angry. I don't even know why I was so angry. I know I felt ashamed and betrayed for everything that happened between us. But that wasn't the reason I stopped talking to you. You had left me, now you were abandoning God and family. The whole time that I knew it could never be, even when I was hoping it would be, I prayed you would stay married. I prayed you would stay with your wife. I prayed I would forget you.

My prayers were for nothing. I still lost you.

The wound still aches every now and then. It still throbs. I still dream about you. I still miss you. I still love you. The truth of the matter is that I always will.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to remove you from my life. I wish I hadn't, now. But where would we be? You wouldn't have come back to me. You wouldn't have fulfilled my dream. You couldn't. We couldn't

Some days, I admit, I still want you. I am comfortable admitting that. I wouldn't do anything now, because I am happily married, but I still wonder.

I think my problem is that I wonder if you still think about me. I just want to know that you miss me too. And I don't know why I want to know that. Do you ever think about me? Do you ever miss me? Do you ever want me still? I wish you would message me. Just once, let me know that you still love me like you said you always would. Even though we still can't be. Even though I shouldn't let you back in.

Darling, I miss you, but this is another in a series of confessions I've written on my way to letting you go. I won't e-mail you. I won't message you on Facebook. I won't try, though I want to sometimes. I will eventually come to terms with this.

In the meantime, I hope you are doing well. I hope you are happy and healthy. I hope all sorts of beautiful hopes for you.

Love,
Sarai

What Dreams May Come

If I die, don't mind me, I'll be alright. Eventually.

If I keel over, don't worry at all, I'm just a little done under, a little silly, a little not sober.

If I should fall, don't bother to pick me up, just let me go. It's been too long since I looked at the sky from this angle.

If I should drop to my knees, it's not a sign of weakness, it's not a sign of giving up. It means I've decided it's time.

Time to live and let live.

Time to give in to a belief in miracles.

Time to lose my heart and my mind.

It's time to let it all go.

I am not afraid.

I embrace what dreams may come. I am open arms to the sky.

Omphalos: Chapter One: Carly

Dominic Adams and I met at a party. A New Year's party, to be specific, hosted by my best friend, Aurora.

"Carly, you have to meet this guy!" she said. Her green eyes were sparkling from more than just the champagne.

"No, Rory. Not another set-up. I want to start this new year right. Single." I sipped my drink and avoided her eyes.

"Oh come on, Carly! He's a peach! A real gentleman. And he is so handsome! Plus, he is Irish." She nudged me with her elbow and winked. "At least let me introduce you!"

"You sound so old fashioned, Rory. A 'peach'?"

"It's the perfect description of him though. He is sweet and absolutely delicious looking." She winked at me, again.

"Fine, fine. But only so you  stop pestering me about it." I sighed.

I let her drag me, by my elbow, across the room to meet this guy. This would be the fourth guy she had "introduced" me to in the past year. Ever since Andrew, my Scottish knave, deserted me, she had been bringing me any cute European guy she could find. I was beginning to get tired of it, thinking maybe Europe and I were not meant to be. All the other gents (Roderick, Ambrose, Donovan and Keegan, respectively) had been boring and incredibly self-centered. I was in no mood to meet another "gentleman."  However, though I acted differently, I was not disappointed with what I saw.

Dominic had black hair and vivid blue eyes; a Pierce Brosnan look-alike in a leather jacket. Besides his jacket he was wearing ripped blue jeans and a t-shirt that hugged the curves of his sculpted muscles. I couldn't help but gawk. He was so beautiful, so absolutely perfect. Unlike his predecessors.

"Dominic, this is my friend, Carly. Carly, this is Dom." said Rory. He took my hand in a firm, but gentle, handshake.

"Nice to meet you." he said. He had a slight Irish brogue and, though I tried to hide it, I melted a little bit. We shook hands for at least a minute, eyes locked and electricity sparking like lightning between us.

I had never believed in love at first sight. I thought it was a pretty fairy tale told to naive school girls. I was resisting the urge to call it love. Inwardly calling myself ridiculous and silly. However, as corny as it sounds, I fell for him immediately. His voice, his whole stance, everything was drawing me in. I told myself it could be a trap, but I completely ignored that voice and continued to revel in the feel of his hand on mine.

Aurora cleared her throat and gave me an "I told you so" look. We let go, leaving me feeling sheepish. He grinned, rather foolishly, and we stood awkwardly, not speaking, for a few minutes.

"Would you like to go out onto the balcony?" he asked, gesturing toward the French double doors of Aurora's apartment. I could only nod meekly, too shy to speak. He took my hand and began to lead me toward the outside. I turned, slightly, to look at Rory. She gave me a thumbs up and smiled. I turned back toward Dom and allowed him to open the door and usher me out onto the balcony.

It was chilly, snow lying like powdered sugar all over everything, and we were the only ones on the porch. It was clear outside, in spite of the snow, the moon hanging low on the horizon and a million glittering stars scattered across the darkness like fallen diamonds. A shooting star raced across the sky, just above the New York skyline. It was like a sign. This was fate, right?

"Make a wish." he whispered, coming up behind me. I didn't realize I was shivering until he wrapped his arms around my shoulders. He was so forward, so touchy-feely, so sexy. I had to remind myself to breathe. I couldn't wish for a more perfect moment.

"Did you make a wish?" I asked, looking back and up into his beautiful blue eyes.

"No need." he said, winking. I blushed, flattered and feeling a little like swooning.

"How long have you been in New York?" I asked. I was trying to start a real conversation, get to know him better before I jumped into bed with him. My brain said "This is easy" and my heart said "Skip the chit-chat." He made it very difficult to think.

"A year and a half now." he replied. "I've been in the states six years, but I've always wanted to see New York. So I hitch-hiked my way here, doing small jobs to get by. I lived in Seattle, Denver, Indianapolis, DC and finally made it here."

"Sounds interesting." I said, more than a little awestruck by his wandering. I had always wanted to back-pack across Europe and he had back-packed across America. "What are you doing for work now?"

"I've been working for Macy's six months now. Before that I worked for an art magazine in Soho. I'm also attending school, trying to get a degree of some sort."

"What did you do for the magazine?" I asked, my curiosity peaking.

"I was an arts editor. I decided what was and was not art. Apparently my opinions were no longer desired and I quit."

"What kind of degree are you wanting to get?"

"I'd love to be an art critic, or an actual artist. In the meantime however, I'm studying business."

"What made you decide to move to America?" I asked, a little timidly.

"I actually moved for my girlfriend. She got a job here and we decided to make a go of it." He looked at me, very intently, gauging my response.

I pulled away from him, slightly disgusted with myself for allowing his behaviour, knowing he had a girlfriend. I knew it had to be some sort of trap, he was too perfect to be available. At least that is what I thought at the time.

"You have a girlfriend and you act like this with strange women?" I asked, indignantly.

"We broke up. Shortly after I moved here, in fact. She had found someone better and she was never that interested in hiking."

"How old were you when you decided to move here?" I asked, trying to recover from my rudeness.

"Eighteen. She was twenty, then."

Slightly ashamed of my knee-jerk reaction without any explanation, I allowed him to pull me back to him. We were quiet for a few moments; pondering the beauty of the night sky, our feelings, our conversation. He held me closer than he had before, as if my reaction had confirmed his first impression of me. I wouldn't know until later why that was.

I forget how long we stood there, in the snow and chill. For most of it we stood quietly, staying warm by being pressed against each other. We chatted a little more, though I can't honestly remember what half of it was about. We stood there long enough that I heard the countdown to midnight begin inside Rory's apartment. He turned me towards him, pressed against his chest, and, as they said one, he kissed me.

In my head there were explosions of pleasure. In my memory of that night I will always see Cary Grant and Grace Kelley kissing with the fireworks exploding behind them. He made me weak and, if it was possible, even more attracted to him. I wanted to take him home and curl up with him like a good book. Of course, I wouldn't be reading when we curled up.

Rory opened one of the doors, interrupting our moment. I pulled away quickly, blushing furiously. He smiled, his grin quirky and slightly flustered. His hands moved in front of himself, hiding any growing evidence of attraction. I grabbed Rory's arm and steered her back inside.

"It's a little too cold out on the porch, don't you think?" She whispered, smiling wickedly.

"Hush!" I exclaimed, flustered with arousal and embarrassment. "This is your fault anyway, you are the one that introduced us!"

"I wasn't quite expecting you to move so fast. Especially not on my balcony." she replied, smiling like a Cheshire cat. She nodded toward the door and I looked over to see Dom coming back inside. He smiled at me, even as he began a conversation with another girl. I felt a surge of jealousy that he would be talking to someone else, especially after that show stopping kiss. Leaving Rory smirking, I sauntered over to Dom and put an arm around his waist, pulling him as close to me as possible.

I smiled, a feral smile, at the girl he was talking to and she quickly excused herself to the restroom. Once she was gone, I smiled again, this time sweetly.

"Would you like to escort me back to my apartment? I live in Greenwich Village and I'd rather not go alone."

He apparently liked this idea and I winked at Rory as we left, arm in arm. When we arrived at my apartment, instead of jumping into bed, we ended up staying up until eight in the morning talking about our interests. I discovered his love for art and the National Gallery in DC. He talked about how he worked for an art gallery in Belfast, when he lived in Ireland. He talked about painting and drawing. He talked about how beautiful I was and how he wanted to draw me someday.

We talked about our favorite foods. He loved peanut butter and fried banana sandwiches. I loved white chocolate and apple fudge. We sipped at rose wine and nibbled on cold crepes I had fixed for breakfast. We talked about our favorite books. Mine being 'Exquisite Corpse' and his being 'Flowers for Algernon.' We talked about our favorite movies, plays, music, pieces of art. Anything we could think of, we talked about. We even discussed politics. Whenever I disagreed with one of his points he would kiss me so that I forgot what I was saying.

We fell asleep, curled on my futon, watching "Much Ado About Nothing."

When we woke up, I fixed us some hazelnut crepes with white chocolate drizzle. We talked some more about things we enjoyed. We spent an hour playfully arguing over a game of chess we ended up forgetting about. We watched "Henry V" and discussed Shakespeare's use of insults, his creation of words and some of his sonnets. He read to me from one of my many books of sonnets. We acted as though we had been together for years, perfectly at ease and secure in this new romance.

When he finally left, he gave me his number and kissed me goodbye. We agreed to meet up again as soon as possible. I waved goodbye as his taxi drove off, clutching his number to my heart. I couldn't have imagined any meeting going better. I silently thanked Rory for her insistence.

And I started off the new year right. With a new boyfriend.

Omphalos: Prologue: Carly

I suppose it is no secret that this whole mess is my fault. I accept full responsibility for it.

I am the one who committed adultery.

I am the one who stopped communicating.

I am the one who grew lazy and stopped trying.

I am the one who burned all my bridges.

I take full responsibility for this. And I regret it with all my heart.

I have always known that relationships, especially marriages, take maintenance. I knew that it would take one hundred percent on both parts to work. I knew, but I grew lazy. I let my husband do all the work. I let him try to compensate for my shortcomings. I let him believe it was through some fault of his and not my own.

So it should not come as a surprise that this marriage, and friendship, is coming to a bitter end. It should come as no surprise that my behaviour, and stupidity, has caused all this. I know I should let this go as gracefully as possible. I've already caused enough damage. I am sorry.

I am so sorry. I know we will never be the same again. Just like with a broken leg, our gait will never be the same as it once was. But I want to try! I want to attempt to fix this, attempt to rebuild. I want a second chance, even though I know I don't deserve one.

Is there anyway to fix it?

Would you be willing to try?

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Three

I decide, at random, to go to the library and check out some movies. I have grown bored with most of Clark's avant garde collection, though I like some of them. I wander the aisles, browsing titles and remembering times I wish I could forget. I stumble upon "Titanic" and the memories bubble up before I can suppress them.

I had just turned sixteen. I was still a virgin, though David's pressure for us to have sex had been building. I felt like I was going to explode, because I wanted him just as badly. I was just nervous, a little afraid even. For my birthday that year my sister, Anna, bought me "Titanic," knowing my love for the main male protagonist. I decided that, after watching the movie, I would finally allow David to have my virginity.

I planned everything meticulously. I bought a new bra, a new pair of panties, a lubricant and condoms. I set up candles around my room for the "mood." My mother and Brad would be out of town for their anniversary and my younger sisters would be stay with Kevin. Anna would almost certainly be over at Greg's house all during the weekend; they were planning their wedding after all. I had the house to myself.

On the appointed day I invited David over, after confirming my sister's midnight blue Mazda was gone from the driveway. He showed up with my favorite flowers, white hyacinths. We put them in a vase and I fixed us dinner. It was the first time I made my fancy BLT's for him. Then I coaxed him into watching the movie with me. At first he refused, claiming it was such a "girl's" movie, but he eventually settled in and we snuggled. His hand would stray toward my breasts during and, instead of smacking his hands away like I usually did, I reveled in the sensation.

After the movie, I excused myself to the bathroom where I put on my new "lingerie," digging the lubricants and condoms out from behind the tampons and maxi pads under the sink. I re-entered my bedroom decked out and nervous. David looked shocked, though obviously aroused.

"Are you sure?" he said, as he gently pushed me back on the bed. I nodded meekly, allowing him to touch me in places I had never been touched.

"Promise me something," I moaned, his hands caressing.

"What?" he breathed, nipping the skin of my neck. I stopped him and looked deep in his eyes. I wanted him, but I wanted this promise more.

"Promise you will marry me someday." I said, a little breathless, tears welling up in my eyes. He looked at me, with an expression I took for serious sincerity at the time. His breathing slowed and I felt my legs being separated.

"I promise." he said. With those words my virginity was lost.

Staring at the cover of "Titanic," I know I have to watch it again. I haven't seen it since that night, almost eight years ago now. Maybe it is a way to come full circle, a way to heal. Or maybe I will be beset by memories the entire time and unable to enjoy any of it. I almost wish I would run into Jae so that I can make new memories with someone else. Instead I run into David.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, clearly surprised by my being out in public.

"Checking out movies, obviously." I reply, holding up my movie selection. His eyes snag on "Titanic" and linger. He looks at me and then back at the cover.

"I haven't seen that in years," he says, pointing to it.

"I know." I reply. "Its been eight almost."

"Yeah. It has been. I thought you didn't really like it. Why are you checking it out now?"

"I used to love this movie." I say, somewhat defensively. "I just never watched it after that night because the memories were too powerful."

"I would think you would have watched it more then, not now."

"What does it even matter to you what I do and do not watch, David?" I ask, irritated by his manner and tone. How could I ever love this man? Why did I love him? Why did I let him have all those years, all those secrets and trusts? He shrugs his shoulders, so nonchalantly.

"It doesn't. I was just curious. I suppose I'll leave you now." he says and as he walks away, I can't keep the acid from dripping off my tongue.

"You left me a long time ago." He stops, but doesn't turn, at first. Slowly, almost painfully, he turns and looks at me.

"We're in a library, so I won't make a scene." he says. "But you are wrong. I didn't leave you until that day at the altar. I suppose I just couldn't stomach you any more."

His words bite like a snake, quick and poisonous. I feel like I've just been slapped.

"You left the night I gave you my virginity." I whisper, vehemently. I check out my videos and head out the door, David close behind.

"No. I cared for you at that point." he says. I turn to face him, my eyes searching his face as though trying to see a chink in the armor. Anything to give me a chance to strike back.

"You never cared." I say, struggling to keep from yelling. "You may have cared for my body, but only when you wanted to use it. You never cared for my mind or my heart. If you had you never would've played with them like you did."

"Girls are like toys to be played with, really." He says, a cocky grin on his face. "Like living Barbie dolls. Its amusing. I watched you and Alice disintegrate like you'd been blasted with fire. I had Alice convinced that being with you was the right thing to do. That her love for you should let me stay with you, even as I kept professing my undying love and my desire to be with her. She put up no fight. No resistance."

I blink. Once, twice. Tears sting my lids. I have to force myself to start breathing again. My lungs feel like they are on fire. And, without thinking, I drop my movies, haul off and punch David right in the nose. He stumbles back, startled by the suddenness of it, and then clutches his nose which begins spouting blood. I pick up my movies again and walk away. No one tries to stop me and the only person that tries to help him is his unlucky wife, who screams profanity at me as I walk away.

I know that that was incredibly stupid. I know that I shouldn't have punched him and that I will pay for it. My hand is already throbbing. However, it felt so amazing to finally do that. To have my moment of feeling justified. To have my moment of, so-called, revenge. Its the only thing I've done that actually hurt him. Of course it hurt me too, but it still hurt him. Why didn't I just do that in the beginning? Why didn't I do that when he first tried to seduce my engagement ring away from me? Why didn't I do that when he tried to sleep with me? Why did I let him into me, no resistance, when I could've done what I did just now?

I know Alice will seek me out. I know her well enough to know that she will want to confront me. I almost turn around so that she can do it now, instead of having to wait. But I don't, I keep moving forward. I swear to myself that, from now on, that will be the only direction I move.

It takes some time, and convincing, but I convince my former boss, at the book store, to allow me to return to work. I move out of Clark's apartment and into a tiny apartment above the store, which my boss gives me a discount on. I take up painting, in my spare time. My favorite subject becomes Snuggles, who refuses to sit still for a portrait. I stop going to the bars, I stop having sex, though that part is a lot more difficult.

I do give in a couple of times, after running into Adam one day at the store. And once more after running into Niya at the library.

I know that my confrontation with Alice will happen eventually. Just because it hasn't yet, doesn't mean it won't. I know her better than that. Because of this, I am not at all surprised when she comes to see me at work.

At first she doesn't say anything. She ignores my presence and my attempts to assist her in finding a book. She wanders the store, never in a position where she can't glare at me. Finally she brings a book up to the counter and slams it down, in an attempt to gain my attention.

"May I help you?" I ask, politely. I don't look up, instead I continue to pretend to be fascinated with my tea.

"I'd like to purchase a book on how to get rid of a slut." she says. I look up at the book and see that it is a book of sexual positions.

"I'm afraid you won't find what you are looking for in that particular book." I say, seeming un-phased.

"This book is for me and my husband. Who recently got attacked and is still recovering from a broken nose." Being a bitch, I can't help but smile at that. My hand was tender for a few days, but I have fully recovered, physically, from our "encounter of the violent kind."

"Well then you won't want to try the position on page thirty-five. It may re-break his nose." I go back to stirring my tea, refusing to be riled by her insinuations. Did I whore it up? Yes. Did I break David's nose? Absolutely. Am I going to fight with her anymore over it? No. She fumes, silently for a while, but I don't care.

"You are a whore. I don't know what he ever saw in you." she spits.

"I don't believe he ever saw anything in me. Nor in you, really. He just knew how to manipulate us both. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of dancing like a puppet on a string with no choices or free will. You may continue dancing if you like, but kindly leave me out of it."

She doesn't say anything at first, letting the words sink in. Then she turns bright red. I look her in the eye, the first time I've done it since everything fell apart. She knows that what I said is true and that there are no words to redeem him at this point. She knows I am right and it pisses her off, even as it frightens her. She still loves him. She married him. Like me, she lost her virginity to him. I'm sure she can't help but wonder if I was a better lover or if he ever truly loved me.

"I'm leaving." she says, leaving the book on the counter. "I don't want to see you again, Abra. I will get a restraining order if I have to."

"Good luck." I say. "It isn't exactly the biggest town. We will run into each other by accident all the time. I have as much control over that as you do over the sun shining in the morning. I promise not to intentionally bother either of you anymore, however."

With a last sharp look, she turns on her heel and walks out. I sigh and sit back down, stirring my tea. I don't even look up when I hear the bell over the door jingle again.

"Forget one last cutting remark, did we?" I say, taking a sip of tea.

"No," she says. "I forgot this."

I look up just in time to see her hand flying toward me. The contact echoes and I can only look up at her in shock. She looks shocked as well, her hand reddened by the slap. My cheek throbs, tears well up and one slips down my cheek.

"Is this what we've come to, Allie?" I ask, using a nickname I haven't used since we were children. "We have lost everything for a man. A stupid man who probably never actually cared for either of us. He used us both, can't you see that? Don't you see what is happening here?"

A tear slips down her cheek as well, but she shakes her head at me.

"He loves me." she says. "You just can't handle that he never loved you."

She turns then and walks away. I don't stand to follow her, I don't move at all. I can't. We've broken beyond repair, corrupted from the inside out and there is no cure for it. I catch a glimpse of her face, she looks back at me before she opens the door and disappears into the outside world.

I wonder if she has any doubts about her husband now. I wonder if she will think about what I've said in the years to come. I wonder if it did any good. I doubt it, as I sip my tea. It was only after he left me that I realized how bad David was for me.

I lock the store up for the evening, a cool breeze whistling by. I am feeling down with all sorts of thoughts drifting through my head. I walk slowly, dreamily. I attempt to not let the anxiety, and depression, slowly creeping in get any foothold, but it is hard. I feel terribly alone and isolated. I haven't seen Noah in ages, my best friend and I have fallen completely apart, my ex-fiance is a tool and I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I'm actually a little terrified of what will happen to me.

I manage to find myself on a bridge, a couple miles from the store and my car. I stand on a rail, gazing into the midnight blue water and wonder. I wonder what it would be like to just jump. I wonder what it would be like to feel nothing ever again. I wonder if I would see Annabelle again. I feel like Rose in "Titanic." Nowhere else to go. I've never felt this overwhelmed, this lost.

No one else can save me, I have to save myself. I have to be my own saviour. And at this point I don't care that much about being saved. I lean forward, grasping the railings so that if I lose my balance I will still be hanging on. A still voice tells me to just let go, let everything go. I can't change anything, it says.

I could let go. I could let go and slip over, falling into the cool water below. I imagine the water slipping like poison into my lungs and filling me until I can take no more. I imagine the water like satin sheets, burying me in softness that erases any desire to leave. I imagine the darkness closing my eyes and I shiver when I realize I wouldn't fight it at that point.

I don't let myself think about David or Alice. I don't let myself think about Noah or Annabelle or Liam. I don't think about Jae. I don't think at all. I just dangle above the water wondering what will happen next. A car honks at me, startling me out of my reverie and I, guiltily, climb down. I go to a payphone and deposit my last two quarters, punching buttons like a madwoman.

"Hello?" he says. He sounds sleepy and stuffy. Probably from the broken nose I gave him.

"David, don't hang up." I say, lamely. I know I need to say something to him, or I'll never really heal.

"What the hell do you want?" he whispers, angrily.

"Who is it, darling?" says a soft voice in the background. He mumbles something, a lie of course.

"I have to talk to you. Will you meet me?"

"So you can re-break my nose?" he asks. He must've gone into another room, because I no longer hear Alice.

"No. Because I need to get something off my chest and I can't do it over the phone. Bring Alice, we'll make a party of it."

"We don't need to involve her." He says, hastily.

"Why? Are you afraid she'll see the truth and leave you without a plaything?"

He is quiet for a few moments and then I hear him sigh.

"Where do you want me to meet you?"

I give him directions as best I can, considering I walked here in a daze. He says he'll meet me in fifteen minutes and hangs up. I shiver as I replace the receiver. There is a slight chill in the air. Or maybe that is the fear of what will happen next. Maybe it's the exhilaration of finally getting to say what I have needed to say since the beginning of this soap opera.

Fifteen minutes passes quickly and I see him walking toward me, his black leather jacket and jeans recognizable even in the semi-darkness. I stand under a street light and wait. There is nothing else around, no sound. It's like the whole world has stopped to watch this newest drama unfold like rose petals in the moonlight. I try to stifle a smile, a nervous habit, as he approaches. He is scowling and his nose is swollen and bandaged. I don't feel guilty for it, though I know I should.

After what feels like years, we are both standing under the street lamp, only a foot or so of space between us. I look into his eyes and wonder if he ever really saw me. Did he ever know me? I can't help but want to kiss him right now. A silly attempt to erase all the time and distance between us. A romantic attempt to save us from the erosion and betrayal.

"I still love you."

Roulette

I
"It's a game." he said. "You'll love it."

"What kind of game?" she asked, eager to be accepted by this new boyfriend. She knew he didn't mean Monopoly. She knew that she should be wary. He was different, dangerously so.

His slightly pointed teeth glimmered in the light of a naked bulb. They were slightly pointed like a vampire's. He always wore colored contacts, she had never seen his real eyes. Tonight he was wearing a gory shade of red. They glinted in an evil, almost demonic, way as he produced a gun. His dangerous beauty and the silver etched pistol both frightened and aroused her.

"Have you ever played Russian Roulette?" he purred. Looking into his eyes it was easy to believe he was a demon, a modern Mephistopheles, come to seduce and murder her.

"Isn't that illegal?" she whispered, her voice quivering and her stomach turning to jelly.

"Of course. All the best things are." he said. "But for your first time we won't play with a real bullet."

He opened the chamber and slid the bullet into place. He spun it before snapping it closed. The snapping echoed in the heavy silence. She shivered, not sure if she should trust him. What if it was a real bullet? What if he had the chamber rigged? He smiled again, revealing his shiny white teeth, and she imagined him laughing over her still body.

He took a few steps back, his wicked grin never leaving his face. She smiled nervously as he put the muzzle to his temple. She braced for an impact that she wouldn't feel. His smile never wavered, turning manic as he positioned himself. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. Just a click. He laughed at the terror on her face, cajoling her with his eyes.

"Not afraid, are you, love?"

She straightened, stiffly, telling herself it was just a game and she wasn't a coward. But her stomach twisted and her bowels cramped as he handed her the gun.

"Cock it back like this," he said, showing her what to do. "when you are ready, pull the trigger. You can close your eyes if that'll help."

It was a little heavier than she had expected and she could feel her muscles bunch and strain to keep her hand from shaking.

"Don't be afraid." he said, nibbling on her earlobe. She tried to swallow, but her throat had closed. She felt her heart beat triple in speed. It pounded in her ears so that she could barely hear. He guided the muzzle to her temple, caressing her as he positioned her. He kissed her, a slow kiss that made her frantic. He pulled away before she could get a full grip on his leather jacket and positioned himself across from her.

Under the dimming bulb, she imagined that the bullet was real, that this would be the end of her. The end of everything. She gulped for air, feeling like her heart would burst through her chest. This was the moment. She would prove she was brave. She just had to make it through this test. That was all it was, a test.

"Pull the trigger, darling." he cooed, gently. She closed her eyes, bracing for an impact of some sort, and squeezed. The hammer clicked, but nothing happened. Her legs felt like water suddenly released from a dam and she collapsed with a rush of adrenaline and relief.

He was beside her in a moment, lifting her back up.

"It's quite the rush isn't it?" he asked, prying the gun from her stiff fingers.

"Yes. A real... rush." she murmured weakly.

"Let's play a variation," he said, his smile eerily painted across his face. "instead of holding the gun to your own head, aim it at me."

"Variation?" she gulped.

"Of course." he said. "All games have variations. Even this one. When I tell you to, pull the trigger. And this round we'll have a real bullet."

He opened the chamber, slipped out the false bullet and replaced it with a real one. He spun it, as before, and snapped it into the chamber. He smiled as he handed it to her.

He positioned himself about three feet away and winked at her.

"Pull the trigger."

II
The rush of a bullet wasn't enough. The rush of sex and death were no longer drug enough. She played Russian Roulette alone in the darkness of her apartment in front of a mirror. She sat in the darkness, every click like a shot of heroin into her blood. Sometimes she would masturbate, watching her reflection achieve orgasm to the click of the hammer.

It hadn't taken long for that boyfriend to end up dead from their little "game" and the police didn't need much convincing. All it took was a pretty young woman in a blood spattered white dress. She cried, genuinely, for that dangerously handsome idiot. Not because she loved him, but because she would have to find a new partner to play with.

She hadn't even waited for his body to cool before she seduced one of the officers at the scene. She begged him to point his loaded Centerfire Compact at her head during and she climaxed remembering her previous boyfriend's final words.

It hadn't taken long to become addicted to the rush. The heady mix of life and death, intertwined with lust and sex, was enough to pull her in and keep her. It hadn't taken long to discover that she could no longer enjoy life without a click inside her head.

It hadn't taken long for the clicks to no longer be enough. She couldn't sit in her room alone forever, waiting to lose to herself. She needed the rush with someone else. Another body to hit the floor. Another blood spattered dress.

She found him outside of a club.

"Want to play a game?" she asked, looking up through her lashes, luridly.

"What kind of game?" he asked, already succumbing to the 'come fuck me' look in her eyes.

And she showed him. She taught him how to play. She taught him how to die. He didn't like the variation she had been taught, too vanilla for that. They played the traditional way and she didn't even blink an eye when the bullet zipped through his temple and out the other side of his skull.

She had been very lucky so far. Every night she would kiss the bullet, placing it in the gun that had originally belonged to that dead boyfriend.

For her luck she praised Bes. She would plead with Shai that this next day she would continue to breathe. She called out to the Norns that they continue to weave her fate with that of luck. She praised Gefion for continuing to shine on her. She laughed when she blessed the name of Fortuna and cried when she asked the Moirai not to cut her threads. Luck and fate became her religion, the click of the hammer representing favors from the gods and every sexual encounter an addictive gift.

The latest pawn in this game kissed her breathless before he taught her another variation. He filled the chamber with four bullets. She kissed each one before he placed them. She agreed to sleep with him if they both survived the game.

That first time, with that first game, they had practically torn each other's clothes off; the need to feel alive overwhelming any other sense. She had cried then, as he slid into her and kissed her into a frenzy. It was the best she had ever had and she had wondered, as he followed her lead, at what cost? Now she didn't even think.

The need to feel that chemical rush was an animal waiting to tear out of her body. There was no thought, no feeling except the adrenaline and the climax.

She survived that variation. Her teacher was kind enough to die quietly in the basement of an abandoned warehouse. She kissed his lips before taking the gun and disappearing into the darkness of the night. She always played with the same gun.

The next pawn was a young woman, about her age, so naive and innocent. She taught her everything and let her walk away. The game didn't always have to end immediately after beginning. Sometimes it continued through the loose connections made. That other woman was not as lucky, they found her dead a week or so later, another unlucky victim of the game.

It really all came down to that moment, she would tell herself. The moment when she stood before the mirror and watched her face; imagining it imploding on itself.

"Pull the trigger."

III
"It's a game." she said. "You'll love it."

"What kind of game?" he asked, intrigued by the strangeness of her.

Her lips were dark red in the dim light of the alley. They reminded him of a mouthful of blood and they turned him on. It was cold outside, snow hanging on the edges of the clouds. Just glistening gray, waiting to fall. Her look was full of lust, when she produced a silver etched pistol. Her eyes glittered in the light of the street lamps. Her eerie smile and the pistol, both, frightened and aroused him.

Her smile widened, revealing shiny white teeth, slightly pointed like a vampire's. Just one bullet was no longer enough. There were so many variations to explore, so many rushes to be had. This would be the last variation. There would be no coming back from this one. No greater rush than this, knowing that her life stood precariously on a hidden ledge. This would be the last round, all the chambers filled but one. The very last rush with someone's life about to end in the darkness.

"Have you ever played Russian Roulette?"