Journal Entry//Red Flag

April 7, 2015

9:25 pm

The Pit

Braid a rope of I-Love-You's,

fasten it to futility.

The streetlights don't reach down here - 

neither does your hope.

Ponderings (Facebook Exit/Return)

My return to Facebook caused a bit of a stir among my friends, especially after my seemingly solid declaration that I was leaving a few weeks ago. One of the best parts was that no one directly asked me what the reasoning behind this maneuver was upon my reappearance; however, I still feel an explanation is desired.

Some of you may call it weakness - the inability to keep myself away for even a couple weeks. You may continue to believe that if you like and I will be the picture of shame in your head, but that is not the truth. If going someplace withdrawn and unusual to find oneself and sort some things out is not shameful, then neither is this.

The problem with Facebook was that it made me feel too good of myself and not at all in a beneficial way. It was encouragingly smothering me and I had to dig my ego out of the horrible mess I willingly subjected myself to. In retrospect, I realize that this was my way of stepping back; I had been so concentrated on all of the little, unimportant things that I was asphyxiating. Thus, relinquishing my “precious” profile for a couple weeks helped me take a deep breath and see just what needed to be revealed to me.

In the end, there are some people that I just can’t let go of and the simplest way to keep in contact is via Facebook. Mind you, these people don’t even live in this country, so please keep your nose-upturning thoughts to yourselves. Anyhow, I realized that I didn’t need to go all out (deleting my profile) in order to achieve previous happiness, but merely had to weed out the people I didn’t care to follow on the magical blue-and-white website anymore. This has undoubtedly been a breath of fresh air for me, an epiphany I am glad I had. So, lessons were learned, thoughts were pondered, and balance has been reinstated.

Thanks for your time. You may shake your head and laugh at me, but these thoughts never came to me while I was being suffocated. I appreciate your jest, at least.

That being said, I will most likely not be posting a whole lot of anything on Facebook and will rather be doing more here on my blog. This is going to be the only place to come and see recent writings (if you really care about that sort of thing) and perhaps little updates from me. I'm sure every once in a while I will post something on Facebook, but don't count on it. Not that you do, anyway.

Again, thanks for your time.

Til next time,
V

Dormancy

Heya,
So I haven't been writing a whole lot lately and I'm thinking it's mostly because I've got a large idea stewing around in my head and I don't want to write anything on it/write anything else to pollute it. Well anyway, this is something I wrote the other night at least concerning a couple of the main characters. It's not really apart of the story in any way.

Till next time,
Vicki

---

The smoke filled her lungs. The gunfire unloaded into her mind. Her chest grew cold and hot simultaneously. Blood oozed.

Her vision blurred and came sharply back into focus – she closed her eyes against the suddenness of it all.

When she opened her eyes again she realized she was lying in the mud. When did I fall?

Rapid, frantic feet raced toward her and warm arms cradled her.

“Riley? God, Riley, can you hear me?” a quivering voice whispered. Hopeful.

She’d been parched of hope for a long time. He’d find none with her.

She nodded and realized how difficult it was, how much strength it took.  A surge of lethargy washed over her and she slumped into him more.

She felt as if she was watching it all unfold from above, as if she didn’t really exist and was a passing spirit, pausing for a moment to see. To see the unbecoming of a powerful boy.

“Why does it have to end like this?” she heard him murmur brokenly. “I can’t ever make it in time to save you, I can never beat the clock.  No matter how hard I try, it’s like running into a brick wall.“

“Fixed point,” she slurred slowly. He clutched her harder, closer, as if that would banish her words. She could smell his effort – all the grime and dirt and sweat he endured to get to her. Pity it was all wasted.

“I just want you to come home with me, to come back home and laugh with me, tell me I’m doing it wrong, tell me you can’t understand me sometimes,” he said. She could hear his throat closing up. Liquid warmth seeped into her shoulder and she realized he was actually crying.

“I feel no pain, Malachi,” she said feebly. Her mind was beginning to go fuzzy the more she felt blood ooze. It painted his shirt red, but he didn’t care. Who really cares about stains when your love is dying in your arms?

“Good,” he choked out, partially in relief and partially to humor her. He began to tremble against her body and she wanted to comfort him, but there was no strength and no ground to stand on. What could she say to make him feel better, anyway?

“I love you.”

He sobbed.

I guess that wasn’t the right angle, she thought as her mind began to drop off completely. She was being whisked away with the wind.

“I love you, too. I’ll miss you,” he replied as steadily as he could manage. His body gave him away.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Me too.”

He felt her heart stutter and stop against his soaked chest. It rattled finality throughout his entire being and he started to realize she was dead and he could never bring her back. From the place she was going he couldn’t retrieve her.

"Murderer" is spelled C-R-A-Z-Y

She was bleeding beneath him.

He licked the blood off the knife like a red Popsicle and it dribbled down his chin.

“Does it hurt yet, love?” he whispered, biting her earlobe with his canine until it was punctured. Her lip was seized between her teeth and he could see crimson lining it.

“No,” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut.

He smiled wide. “Good.”

He plunged the knife into her stomach for the third time. The wounds made a small triangle just below her rib cage. He watched in sick satisfaction as her muscles clenched and her back arched, her fingernails digging into the dirt below her while it caked her clothes and hair into a matted mess.

“Scream for me,” he cooed into her ear, running the blade softly down her neck.

And she did.

She gulped down the chilly night air in an attempt to soothe her sore throat, raw from torment, but it did nothing more than hurt worse.

“Honey,” he murmured while grabbing her wrist. “You’re bleeding quite a lot.” He held the warm flesh tightly in his grasp, flipping it so that her palm was facing him. He could see the color fading from her face, her lips turning paler as the seconds ticked past.

Her eyes rolled around in her head while she panted hard, trying to restore the depleted oxygen in her lungs. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt heavy as lead. She cringed and groaned at the knife cleanly slicing away the tender skin of her wrist. Blood poured over his hands and onto her shirt.

“Are you going…to kill…me…?” she gasped when he slid the knife down her leg just hard enough to break the jean material and skin that lay beneath.

“No,” he whispered plainly. He took her trembling hands into his bloody ones, wrapping her fingers around the handle of the blade. “You are going to kill you.”

Fear flashed in her eyes, but before she could summon up enough strength to stop him, he shoved the knife down.

Right through her left breast.

She cried out, wriggling feebly under the knife that pinned her to the ground before lying very still. Darkness poured in on her and she couldn’t escape it.

He chuckled and twisted the knife, laughing louder at the blood that squirted out at him. “‘It’s all your fault’; I can hear you say it. ‘Jay, it’s all your fault. You did this to me. It’s always been your fault.’” 

He tugged the blade from her body and wiped the crimson on her tattered jeans. “Well darling, I’m sorry to say that it’s not my fault. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because, guess what?”

He burst from laughter, clutching his stomach as tears filled his eyes. “You’re dead!”

-----------------------

Yeah, the title kind of sucks, but oh well. 

 I can't remember what state of mind I was when I wrote this, but I do know it wasn't recent. Almost a year at this point I would imagine. Maybe I was having some crazy dreams. And maybe I was just channeling the inner-psycho that was brought out while watching The Uninvited. Who knows. Those darn scary movies don't scare me; they make me scary. Interesting how that works.

See? Looney bin.

Ta~

-Vicki

Do You Dare Dream a Dream of Me?

She stands tall, elegant and graceful in her black leotard at the very center of the floor. Music begins to play and she leaps and tumbles to the violent tempo, the notes seemingly tossing her about, as if in control. The audience in the bleachers doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, it doesn’t make even a sound. Perhaps that’s because they're lifeless dolls, mannequins that only begged to be freed from their inescapably plastic existences.

No one notices as red water slowly fills the room, coming up the girl’s ankles as she splashes through it, uncaring, or perhaps just utterly oblivious. 

The desperate cry of a baby booms like thunder through the place and the babe writhes on the lap of a still mannequin. There is no one there to calm it, or shush it, so it continues to wail for the relief that will never come.

The girl pays no mind and flips high into the air before landing on her knees. Her small body falls backwards into the water, now up to her waist, and she lies still for a breath or two. The music fades out like a dream when you awake and she stands, tall and elegant before the motionless audience. The baby continues to scream and fuss. 

No one notices.

The girl walks neatly off the blue performance floor and into the bathroom. She stops in front of the giant mirror and leans her elbows onto a counter made of liquid fire. Her skin blisters, cracks, and peels under the heat’s intensity, but she doesn’t cry out in pain even as the fire boils and sloughs the skin and muscle off her, leaving only bone. The water, up to her shoulders now, gives no mollification, no healing.

She sees that her face is crowded with innumerable white heads as she scrutinizes herself in the mirror. She poises two sharp nails by one, pinching it until it pops, revealing the shiny, pearl head of a pinning needle. Undistressed, she pulls the two inch needle from her face and examines it like a foreign object. Blood begins to drip down from the hole it left. Again and again, she pops the needles from her head and lets them fall down into the flaming liquid until not a trace of them remains. She’s weeping blood now.

The water is way beyond her head, but all the same, she walks back out to the performance floor and finds the bleachers empty, all but for the skeleton of a small infant. 

Where have they gone, she wonders, as her gaze pulls down to her chest to reveal a gaping crater of missing muscle and skin. Five left ribs are snapped off, leaving splintered edges, and a number of unattached arteries hang down like bloody threads over her stomach. 

And where, she wonders, is my heart?