'Once you've been loved once and have loved once, you cannot forget it.'

LJI Second Chance

cheapxdate — Tue, 21 Feb 2017 17:41:46 GMT

Let's try this again, shall we?

I byed out of LJ Idol this season, but hopefully I can re-enter the game successfully!

The Real LJ Idol - Week 4

cheapxdate — Sat, 07 Jan 2017 00:46:04 GMT

This is my entry for Week 4 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).
Prompt: “I don't skate to where the puck is. I skate to where the puck is going to be."

A blast of thick, cold air hit my face as I pulled open the heavy glass door leading into the rink. The familiar rubber flooring added a spring to my already peppy step and I found myself half-jogging down the ramp to the ice. The door to the home side player’s bench was already propped open and as soon as I passed through the opening I saw Max leaning lazily against the boards.

“You’re late,” he said with a grin. “Give me 10 herbies.”

“You’re early,” I replied, setting my heavy equipment bag down on the bench. “Stuff it.”

Our exchange was familiar and comforting, but I couldn’t ignore the tug of melancholia that nagged at my heart as I pulled off my sneakers and unzipped my bag to find my practice skates. Max was in light pads, so I suited up the same.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Max remarked, hoisting himself up over the boards and onto the ice with ease. “Somehow being here one last time feels both significant and insignificant at the same time.”

I shrugged and rummaged around the bottom of my bag for a puck. When I located the small black disk, I tossed it onto the rink and then followed. The moment the blades of my skates connected with the slick ice, my entire body seemed to relax. I sighed, working my stick between my hands as Max stretched.

“I don’t think it feels real yet,” Max said, raising his arms above his head. “Feels like we’ll be back here tomorrow running stop-and-goes.”

“I won’t miss those,” I answered with a small chuckle.

Max blinked at me thoughtfully and then sighed. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. Now grab my stick, will ya?”

I pressed my lips together and tilted my head, considering his words for a moment, then reached back over the boards to grab Max’s stick. I tossed it to him and then he was off like a shot, gliding down to the other side of the ice.

Of course, Max was correct to question my conviction. While I wasn’t particularly fond of stop-and-goes, or any of Coach’s punishment drills, they’d fostered camaraderie among the team. They were a part of our conditioning and, thus, I’d become a better player for having done them. And, they made me feel sore as hell, but in that satisfying way that signified you’d really worked hard. After tomorrow, after I’d laid everything I had out on the ice one final time, that feeling would be but a memory. And somehow, I knew the stop-and-goes that I had once loathed and resented would become an activity I cherished fondly and actively missed.

“Let’s go, let’s go! What am I running here? A hockey practice or a daycare?” Max was headed back my way, weaving down the ice with the puck and doing his very best impression of our coach.

“You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take!” I bellowed in the same gruff tone, smacking the heel of my stick against the ice.

“Don’t skate to where the puck is. Skate to where the puck is going to be!” Max added a signature frantic arm wave before easily passing me the puck.

It was quiet for a moment before we both burst out into a loud fit of laughter.

“Coach really fancied himself a Gretzky, eh?” I said in between chuckles.

“Yeah. Shame he was more of a Lindros,” Max replied, wiping at his eyes with the backs of his gloved hands.

“Ouch. Cold.”

Max shrugged and grinned. “Nah, but really, he’s a hell of a guy. And he got us this far.”

He had. Tomorrow we would play in the NCAA Men’s College Championships, in a winner-take-all final. The last game of the Frozen Four would also signify my last time on the ice, at least competitively. What felt like a lifetime of ice hockey was drawing to a close, and in it’s wake a brand new chapter in my life would begin. One void of 5 am practices, the ripe scent of sweaty pads, sore hamstrings and the perpetual rubbery taste of mouthguard. And, God, was I going to miss it.

Max had been scouted by a farm team in Michigan. His hockey journey didn’t end tomorrow. In some ways, it was really just beginning. But my life and my passions were veering away from hockey. I was going to grad school and focusing on my studies and venturing down a career path that would put me in a laboratory instead of on a rink. I was looking towards a different kind of future, skating to where the puck would be, you might say. Only this puck was a fancy degree and residency hours.

“Yeah, well, he got us here. But now it’s our turn to take it all home.” The loud smack of stick against puck echoed in the large, empty rink as I angled a slap shot towards the goal. It flew over the crease and into the net.

Max retrieved the puck and shook his head. “It’s a shame that shot won’t make it to the minors. You’re really doing the sport a disservice by keeping it to yourself.”

“Consider it a favor.” I winked. “If the scouts knew I was interested, you’d probably have been passed up. You can thank me for your career later with a signed jersey when you make it pro.”

“I’m gonna aim a slap shot at your head,” Max laughed. “Then we’ll see who’s packin’ the heat.”

We continued on like this for awhile, skating around and passing the puck, trading chirps and reminiscing on our time together on the ice. Max was a best friend and I admired him greatly. Where hockey had been an almost accidental talent for me, Max had worked harder than anyone I’d ever known to hone his skills and earn his spot. His love for the sport was evident in every practice and every game and every late night workout. He belonged on the ice, where as I had only ever been temporarily stationed there. But for a significant amount of time, we’d shared the rink. We’d shared in the highs and the lows, the blood and the sweat and even the occasional tears. Tomorrow morning, we’d head to an unfamiliar rink and take up our sticks for one final battle.

And then, we’d be off, chasing after new pucks, in different directions.

The Real LJ Idol - Week 2

cheapxdate — Sun, 04 Dec 2016 06:01:34 GMT

This is my entry for Week 2 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: "That One Friend."

“I’m not even supposed to be here.” You sigh, unceremoniously tossing your backpack onto the lab desk and sliding into the seat next to me. It isn’t a hostile declaration and your tone isn’t unkind, but I’m unsure if it was meant for me and so I simply offer you a small smile and flip open my notebook. You twist around to face the group of students still lined up at the back of the classroom, waiting to be randomly paired up and assigned to lab desks of their own. You toss a pointed half smile to a tall, slightly disheveled boy who returns a thumbs up and then turn back towards me, as I’m unsuccessfully fishing around the bottom of my bag for a writing instrument.

“I’m Alex,” you offer, though the teacher has already said as much. I introduce myself again as well and smile warmly. It’s the first day of my freshman year in a very large, very promising high school, after all, and my first order of business is making as many friends as possible. You return my smile with an equally friendly grin of your own and then blink expectantly.

“Oh, um, so, Alex, where are you supposed to be?”

“Fork Union,” you answer. “It’s a military high school. I got in and everything, but my parents didn’t want to pay the tuition.” You shrug and then pause, staring at me in a way that makes me feel slightly antsy, but not particularly uncomfortable. “But, I guess it’s not so bad here.” You pluck a pen out from behind your ear and slide it across the black table top to me with a wink.

* * *

We fall into a friendship effortlessly. Our relationship during freshman year is, of course, the mere ripple of a wave that will eventually swell and crest and then crash, but we don’t know it yet.

You’re pessimistic and sarcastic and, quite frankly, a bit of an asshole. Not mean-spirited, per say, nor malicious, but crude and somewhat abrasive. You read people well and know the right buttons to push to illicit a response. Somehow, though, you’re softer with me and much more gentle. Your friends consider you the grumpy, old man of the group and often remark on how you’ll likely be the perpetual bachelor. Eventually, they become my friends too, independant of you, and they sometimes comment on how you seem to treat me differently. They tease you about it, but you brush them off, unbothered.

Your parents are divorced. Your dad owns a couple of Hooters restaurants in the area and looks like Billy Bob Thorton. He isn’t around a lot and I can count on one hand the number of times I ever see him, which is fine by me because he makes me feel uncomfortable. Your mom is nice enough, but she lives a few towns over with her partner Theresa and they’re often busy and distracted. Theresa is a psychologist that likes to pry and I can tell you like to avoid her.

You enjoy hockey and football and video games and movies. You listen to rock music and your bookshelves are filled with history texts and books about the military. You’re smart and you don’t shy away from deep, intellectual conversation. You also don’t shy away from conflict.

Slowly and organically, we learn about each other. We’re highly compatible and complementary, filling in the empty areas where the other is lacking. I like that you challenge me and you like that I don’t back down. I take on the role of manager for the school hockey team on which you play and we spend even more time together. Our friendship grows and we nurture it to the best of our ability. Eventually it begins to blossom.

* * *

Your birthday is in early October. You fail your first attempt at your driving test when you hit the curb during the parallel parking assessment. You blame your instructor for being a hard ass and I, of course, mercilessly tease you about it in the weeks leading up to your next attempt. The second time, you nail it and even after the delay you’re still one of the first in our class to have your licence. Your dad buys you a silver Mazda 3 and the passenger seat is mine. We go out to lunch together most days and you drive me home from school even though it’s in the opposite direction from yours. One day, when the weather's still warm, we cut school and you just drive. At every intersection, you let me choose a direction, and we see where it takes us, listening to Green Day and talking about all the very important things that plague the lives of high schoolers. The newfound freedom awarded to us means we can now spend even more time together, and we do. We go on all kinds of adventures, and sometimes you just drag me along for the more monotonous of errands. We've become a recognized duo, a team, and it's comforting to have you in my corner.

* * *

Jessica loves you, but I love you more. Not in the same way of course, but I am completely sure of it. I do whatever I can to pull you away from her and make my dissatisfaction known. I tell us both that she’s not good enough for you, that she’s more trouble than she’s worth, that you’re too incompatible. I effortlessly plant and cultivate seeds of doubt. You agree with me, like you usually do, and rebuff her advances. You take the credit, convinced you’re making the decision on your own, and I let you because it makes me feel less selfish. I’ve placed myself firmly between you and her, blocking her from reaching you. I make a show of whispering to you and hanging on you in Italian class, flexing and preening as I draw your attention onto me as she watches from across the room. As soon as the bell rings, I'm dragging you into the hallway, limiting her window of opportunity. She isn’t the first nor the last I bare my teeth at, staking my claim. It's a partial claim of course because I don't want you in that way, but I also can't bear the idea of letting anyone else have you.

I know it sounds horrible, but my immature brain is having trouble properly sorting my feelings. These actions come naturally and in some twisted way, I've convinced myself that I'm protecting you. I trivialize your possible relationships because I want you for my own, without the burden of having to actually make you mine or slapping a complicated label on it. In my defense, you do the same in your own way. I date and you're partially sidelined, but you find unique ways to pull rank. We argue sometimes about how you're tormenting my boyfriends and you shoot back that they're just too insecure to handle our friendship. We never actually acknowledge what's happening here or the real conflict that's weighing on our minds. Somehow, though, it lessens, or maybe we come to an understanding. I back off a bit and you become slightly more sneaky in how you attempt to undermine my relationships.

* * *

“Give me your phone,” you demand, holding your hand out expectantly.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of your bathroom with my back against the cool tub, tears rolling down my red cheeks and dripping into my lap. I shake my head.

You sigh and lean against the doorframe, rubbing the heels of your palms against your eyes. “Kel, stop being so stubborn. Give me the phone. And then get up. I have to piss.”

I sniffle and roll my eyes, but push myself up off the floor anyway. As always, I know which fights are worth picking with you and this one would take far too much effort. I hand you my phone and you slide it into your back pocket before letting me pass.

You see, Paul and I have broken up. It signifies the birth and the death of my first real, bonafide, romantic love and my heart is absolutely shattered, the sharp pieces stabbing my soft insides every time I breathe. My world is melting into an endless sea of darkness, sucking the joy and the life from my surroundings. There will never be a wholly consuming love like this again. I’m spent and destroyed, cursed to roam the Earth as a depleted shell of my former full and vibrant self. At least, that’s how it feels to a very dramatic seventeen year old me.

I’ve taken up a habit of doing things I wish I wouldn’t, things I’m not proud of once the dust has settled and my head has cleared. You do your best to thwart me and save me the embarrassment of begging on Paul’s doorstep or leaving yet another unreturned voicemail. You protect me in the only ways you know how, stepping out of your own comfort zone to try and guide me back to mine.

It ends up being the best and worst summer of my life. There are more tears, of course, more than I sometimes even know what to do with, but you do your best to help shoulder the burden of my broken heart. We are inseparable. You take me to the driving range and we play endless games of Madden on your Playstation 2 where I beat you just often enough to keep you on your toes. We begin a Friday night ritual of seeing a movie and then going to a restaurant, tucking into a booth and ordering only appetizers, talking for hours and hours about everything and nothing. On one particularly tear-filled afternoon, you challenge me to inflict onto you the chick flickiest of chick flicks that Blockbuster has to offer. We walk there and you let me rent Win a Date with Tad Hamilton. You complain the entire time, but we watch the whole thing, my head resting on your lap.

I’m hurting so much, but you are too. Deep down I know, but I never acknowledge it or speak of it outloud. It’s cruel, how easily I take comfort in you, leaning on you both physically and emotionally without ever pausing to wonder if you’re buckling under the weight of it. I wrap myself up in you, in your affections and your warmth and in the countless hoodies of yours I claim as my own. Only once that summer does your pain ever bubble to the surface and even then you can’t bring yourself to pressure me in any kind of meaningful or necessary way. We’re play fighting over something in your dining room, almost certainly initiated by me, and for the quickest of moments, I catch you off guard. We tumble to the floor and I land on top of you in the most cliche fashion. There’s a pause and I feel my stomach lurch. I’m afraid you might kiss me and it’s a legitimate fear because somehow I know you’re considering it. What I’m most afraid of is changing us or losing you or ruining this incredible friendship, especially now, and so I never acknowledge that I’m also afraid that I might actually want you to kiss me. I roll away from you, laughing nervously, but you gently grab my arm. Your expression is serious when you tell me that if I ever want to try to take things further with us, you’d be game. And then the moment is over and your mouth is pulled into your signature boyish grin and you’re playfully pushing me away, a gesture too heavy with symbolism for me to ignore. I can’t even recall your exact words from this day because I shoved them out of my head so quickly, panicked, never to be acknowledged or spoken of again.

Years later, I find out you and Paul got into a fist fight in the locker room after a hockey practice. It’s only just now, as I write this, that I realize this brawl would have happened months before our eventual break up.

* * *

The tall, slightly disheveled boy from the back of the freshman year biology classroom has grown up and filled out. And, when prom rolls around, we’ve been dating for awhile. Some time during my Summer of Heartbreak, you and I had agreed to go to prom together, and I know one day I might regret it, but there’s just no way I can bring myself to follow through and tell him I’m going with you. You don’t see the issue with keeping our arrangement and I know you’re annoyed. You’re distant and cold towards me that Spring and I do my best to appear unaffected. Still, we gravitate towards each other and by the time prom rolls around, our friendship has begun to stabilize and level back out.

We share the same limo and you help me in and out, always a step ahead of my date even after first seeing to yours. Still, you’re slightly distant. This persists through most of the night, until, in the midst of my dancing, the jeweled, decorative pin that holds the gathers of my gown at my hip pops open, poking me painfully in the side. I think you notice the panic in my face as I move away from the dance floor, and you follow, tucking us into a dark corner of the venue. The pin is placed awkwardly and hard to close around the fabric.

“I didn’t even know it was a real pin!” I exclaim. “Why would they design it like this? Ow!” Every time I move the pointy end jabs into my skin.

You laugh and shake your head, slipping your arms out from the sleeves of your tuxedo jacket. “Only you. Here, hold this up. I’ll fix it.”

I nod and do as you say, holding your jacket up and out in front of my body, shielding us. And then there you are, knelt down in front of me with your hand under my dress, pushing the pointly sliver of the pin back under it’s clasp within seconds.

“Oh my God, thank you!” I squeal, throwing my arms around your neck and hugging you with such force that it almost sends you toppling backwards. A very precarious prom night has just been saved as far as I’m concerned and you, as usual, are my hero.

“Well.” You gesture towards the dancefloor where our classmates are moving about to the classic sounds of Sean Paul. “Get back out there.”

“Come with me!” I hand you back your jacket and then try to pull you along by your arm, but you brush me off.

“I don’t dance. Go. Have fun!”

I hesitate, but I know you more than well enough by now to recognize a futile battle. I thank you again and then scurry off to the dancefloor. Later that night, as the last few songs are being played, you ask me for a slow dance and I gladly oblige.

* * *

Before I know it, we’ve graduated, and what seemed like a final summer full of possibility and promise is drawing to a close. We didn’t spend as much time together as I’d hoped, but I wonder if we’ve subconsciously started separating from each other, relearning after four comfortable years how to survive without the other to lean on. I’m headed to Rutgers, you to Rowan, and while they’re only a few hours apart, I know that our lives are moving away from each other in a way that surpasses physical distance.

“I hate this,” I say, half laughing, half crying. “I wish you were coming with me.”

“We’ll visit each other. I know I can’t get rid of you that easily.” You’re leaning into the passenger side window of my car, smiling that cheeky half grin of yours.

“I won’t have a car…”

“I will. I’ll come visit you.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

I sigh and run my palms along the outside of my steering wheel, blinking away hot, prickling tears. My chest is tight and full of sentiments I’ll never find the proper words to articulate. In this moment, I know there’s going to be so much left unsaid, and the cold reality of it squeezes my heart like a vice.

“I can’t believe this is it,” I whisper.

You come around to the other side of the car and open my door. I stand and we embrace and I’m hoping you understand just how much you’ve helped to shape the girl before you, how many times you’ve pulled her back from the edge and given her somewhere soft to land, how utterly thankful she is to have been blessed with such a selfless and kind friend.

“This isn’t it.” You release me and ruffle my hair. “Besides, I want to get my hoodies back.”

As I drive away, hiccuping back sobs as I watch you toss me a small wave in my rearview mirror, I feel very much like this is goodbye. In retrospect, I suppose I was right. Things never would be quite the same.

* * *

You do keep your promise and visit a few times. You’re more bulky and your hair is shorter, but your smile is the same and your humor is just as crass. You still find small, thoughtful ways to put me first and your eyes always find mine, checking in on me and making sure I’m okay. I show you around and introduce you to my friends and you fit in so seamlessly that it makes me long for an alternate universe where you had joined me here for college. The visits, however, begin to sharply taper off. You’ve joined Rowan’s ROTC program and I’m juggling my own set of academic and social responsibilities. We’re growing up and growing apart and soon months are slipping by in between our conversations.

You join the military, like you’d always planned. I get my teaching certification, like I’d always wanted. More time slides by, slipping like grains of sand between our fingers, and the space between us is filled with new and unique experiences, ones we don’t share. I miss you, of course, but it’s a fleeting, ghost of a feeling, itching the back of my brain, like a familiar song I can’t quite place.

A couple years pass. I log into an old AIM screen name on a whim and yours unexpectedly pops up on my friends list. My chest swells with nostalgia and guilt for not having kept in touch better, but before I can even swallow these feelings down, your message blinks to life on my screen.

You’ve been deployed. In fact, you’re messaging me from a trailer on top of a hill less than a mile away from a town that doesn’t even have the luxury of running water. We muse over the incredible state of technology for awhile before you vault the conversation forward. You’re getting married. Your fiance is pregnant. Being in the military has changed you and there’s subconscious pressure to settle down and plant your roots quickly. Plus, there are benefits. You can live on base, in a nicer house. It’s all working out for the best.

Behind the computer screen, in the comfort and safety of my bedroom, the news hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m crying. I reach up and touch my wet cheek, genuinely surprised. I’m keenly aware of the fact that you’re not here to comfort me or tell me to buck up, that you haven’t been for quite some time now. I’m neither happy nor sad, but rather a complicated tangle of the two, my feelings woven together in a tight knot that has lodged itself in the middle of my throat.

We say goodbye and promise to talk again soon. I hesitate to close my laptop, even after you’ve already logged off, my entire body frozen, feeling the weight of this moment. Memories of you, of us as a team, as a duo - precious, invaluable memories wash over me. I click the laptop lid closed and slide it off my lap, then crawl across the carpet to my dresser. I pull the deep, bottom drawer open and rifle through it, pushing clothes out of the way until I’m almost at the bottom. There, tucked away, I find one of your sweatshirts, an oversized, grey Penn State Hockey hoodie, that I so long ago claimed as mine. I pull it over my head and slip my arms into the sleeves before climbing into bed, my heart feeling full and heavy; wistful and content. I wish so desperately that I could remember what we talked about during all of those freshman year Biology periods, snickering behind our textbooks; the countless movies we watched together curled up on your living room sofa; the afternoons spent walking around the park or driving around aimlessly in your car with no destination to speak of. I wish I had said more, thanked you more, been more diligent about keeping in touch. I wish I had been less selfish and less afraid. I wonder if you know that I did love you, perhaps in different ways than you loved me, but truly, all the same. I wonder if the things unspoken between us will ever find their way to the surface.

We never talk again.

cheapxdate — Fri, 04 Nov 2016 03:41:04 GMT

Welp...

I'm doing the LJ Idol thing again, so... GOOD LUCK TO ME lol.

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 18

cheapxdate — Fri, 15 Apr 2016 21:53:29 GMT

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 18

This is my entry for Week 18 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: “We must bear witness so that it scars us."

Dear Diary,

Today Mother scolded me. I don't understand why she is so uptight about things! She knows I'm just coming into my powers and I can't always control them. I couldn't reach the top shelf of the bookcase, and while I was grabbing for a book, it just kind of shot into my hand, like it was pulled by an invisible piece of thread. I didn't will it to do so, but it did so anyway and of course Mother saw. She's always watching, always waiting for me to make a mistake. I wasn't near an open door or window so no one could have seen, lest they were spying on us which seems like a much greater crime than having a book move a hair or two on it's own. She sent me to my room without supper and told me to think about what I'd done, but I haven't done anything and so I refuse to think! Mother certainly seems rather crazed these days, at least when she's not doting on Anne and busying herself with the wedding preparations. I think it will be strange to see my sister married off, not because she isn't of age or beautiful or lovely, but because her choice of suitor is rather odd. George is nice enough, I suppose, but he's not particularly kind or good-looking or charming. He is, however, the son of Magistrate Williams, something that seems to be of much more importance. He is very wealthy and is family is very revered, but those things never seemed to matter much to Anne and, if you ask me, these days she seems more like a thief going off to the gallows than a young woman about to be wed. Anne used to smile and dance and make me crowns of flowers from the meadow, but now she rarely smiles and she never dances and she definitely doesn't pick flowers. She wants to wait for Pa to return so he can give her away to her husband properly, but Mother seems impatient. I do wonder why she's so eager and if it has anything to do with her constantly reprimanding me for the smallest of things. Perhaps she's tired of being a mother and once Anne is wed and moved into George's home, she'll send me to live with them. I think I would hate that.

Dear Diary,

I am afraid. I am afraid and I understand things more clearly now than I ever would have wished to. It seems that I've been pulled unceremoniously into adulthood far too early, but Mother says that is the way for a young witch. I remember, as a child, loathing the way Mother kept me cooped up inside while the other children my age roamed the town freely, running and laughing and picking flowers in the meadow. She was always screeching at me and scolding me and hiding me away and it all seemed so unfair, but today I learned that she simply loved me more than she could bear. It began as a grey, solemn day; Mother was quiet this morning and she seemed to have a difficult time looking directly at me. She prepared me a dish of bread and cheese, but did not eat anything for breakfast herself. She appeared nervous and unsettled, but she did not rush me, nor did she speak, which is something she tends to do a lot of when she's uneasy.

I could talk about the way the mud squished beneath my boots as Mother pulled me along to the square, the way she gripped my hand more tightly in hers than necessary. I could talk about the way the town felt eerie and empty, the way the wind whipped my skirt around my ankles and stung the tips of my ears. I could talk of many things I felt and heard, but they would all pale in comparison to the things that I saw:

Three women were hung today.

Two of the women were old; older than Mother and older still. Their small, frail bodies were incapable of protest and their lined, weathered faces were strangely calm as they stood on the platform, listening to all the horrible charges brought against them. The third was a woman who frighteningly reminded me very much of Anne. She was youthful with bright red hair and pale skin and she cried and howled fiercely, clawing at the rope around her neck as the crowd jeered and spat at her. She begged and pleaded until her throat became raw and hoarse and after awhile I could no longer hear her over the crowd's taunting and the moaning wind. I didn't want to watch. I tried to hide my face, to bury myself in Mother's side, but she pushed me forward and held me still. "Mary," she whispered. "It pains me to have you see this more than you can know, but we must. We must watch. My Love, we can not shy away from the truth before us. We must bear witness so that it scars us. I know you're afraid, but you are strong. You must never forget that we are unwelcome in this world. Our fear will be our survival."

And so, I watched.

As their delicate bodies went slack, one by one, swinging back and forth in the breeze, suspended by the noose, I felt a sorrow so deep and profound that my stomach felt as though it was swallowing itself up. I could feel the air around me begin to hum and crackle, my skin buzzing like I was covered in a blanket of bees. Mother hugged me tightly, but it was not a gesture of affection. She was trying to quell the energy that was radiating from my body and suddenly I understood.

These women were accused of witchcraft.

I suppose deep down I've always known the precariousness of our situation. I've always been taught that my powers are something to be hidden and rejected, if it all possible. The wonder of them was stomped out by Mother as soon as they appeared and while that always felt unfair, it also felt necessary. I didn't see the harm in a few uncontrollable outbursts of magic - moving a spoon here, adjusting a rug there - but Mother always did and it manifested in lashings or being sent to bed without supper and so I did my best to subdue them. Now, I know true fear. I know that Mother has been protecting me rather than punishing me. I am truly scarred by what I have seen and I will not forget.

Dear Diary,

I have the most wonderful news! Pa has finally returned home! He arrived by wagon cart and while he is much thinner than I remember, his hugs are still familiar and warm. He walks with a limp now and his hands are a bit clumsy, but Mother says to give him time. He was sorry to have missed Anne's wedding, to not have been able to give her away properly, but he says he is proud of us for moving forward as a family in his absence. He asked if I've had any gentleman callers and I assured him I have not. I did not tell him about the afternoons I've been spending down by the river with the Reverend's boy, John. I did not tell him how John reads me poetry and picks me flowers and stares at me in a way that makes me feel warm and alive. Only Anne knows and I've sworn her to secrecy.

Mother still hovers, but she's become more relaxed as I've gotten older. She lets me leave the house more often and the freedom is intoxicating. I love to walk around town, watching people go about their business, wondering what their lives are like and how they differ from mine. Sometimes, I go out and lay in the meadow and stare up at the sky, watching the clouds float by above my head for hours. Mostly, however, I sneak off into the woods, to a place where the trees are twisted and grown close together. There, I practice my craft.

I know I shouldn't. I know if Mother found out, she'd chain me to my bed posts and forbid me from ever seeing the light of day again. I am still scarred and I still remember the things I saw that day. I have not forgotten and I do not live without fear. But, sometimes it feels as though I will explode from the pressures of my powers. Some days, it courses through my veins with such a crawling intensity that it makes me want to claw at my skin. Mother refuses to teach me herself. She refuses to even discuss it. I know what is at risk and I know the immense dangers, but I've spent so long actively rejecting such a huge part of myself that I often feel like I don't even know who I am at all. I have lived a life of hiding and supression and it's as though it has done nothing but build my powers to be stronger. I am much better at controlling them now, but I fear that one day I will not be able to contain them. And so, I go out to the woods and I make that which is dead live again. I make flowers bloom in the winter and broken birds soar back into the skies. I wonder if all witches can do this or if I am a healer of sorts. Can Anne make rotten things grow as well? Can she repair things beyond repair? I think I may ask her.

Dear Diary,

Things in the town have gotten bad. Just this week alone, two more women were hanged. Mother has tightened her grip again and I am rarely allowed to leave the house. She and Pa argue when they think I'm asleep. She begs him to take us away from this town and he quietly tells her that it's impossible. There's no where to go. I haven't been to the woods in weeks and I can feel my powers vibrating beneath my skin. My fingertips ache and spark and tingle. I am afraid. Mother says these women are not witches, but I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse. The townspeople don't seem to care if they are right or wrong and it's frightening to watch their fear take down innocents so swiftly. We do our best to keep to ourselves, but Pa says it's important to strike a balance. Hiding away in our home too much is suspicious on it's own. And so we attend the hangings as a family, mixing ourselves in with the cruel and barbaric crowd, seemingly unaffected by the sickening snapping sound of necks.

It pains me to hear the general chatter of the town - blood rituals, consorting with Satan, scorned lovers eating hearts and killing small animals in sacrifice, cursing harvests and bringing down plagues. Witches don't do any of these things. We aren't even capable. The absurdity of these claims is only exacerbated by the fear mongering and the stories and accusations get more and more ridiculous and far-fetched by the day. And people are dying, but no one seems to care.

There is one bright spot in an otherwise dismal situation - Anne is with child. Though even that joyous news comes with a dark cloud. Anne fears her child will be a witch like us and it doesn't help that George and his father have been integral parts of hanging the recently accused. She smiles less now than ever before. With every day that passes, she is seeming less and less like the sister I've loved. I wonder if I am changing as well. I wonder when the angry mob will find itself on our doorstep.

Dear Diary,

John has been writing me letters! He hides them behind a crate under the kitchen window. He writes me poetry about the afternoons we used to spend by the river and the color of my hair and the way the sun shined brighter when we were together. He tells me of his dreams and his hopes. He tells me he loves me.

I haven't been able to meet him by the river for many weeks now. No one moves about the town much anymore. It seems that just being seen out in public these days is enough to find a cold, accusing finger cast your way. I wonder if people are more afraid of being called a witch than they are of actual witches now.

Anne looks as though she'll pop at any moment and Mother says the baby must be big and strong. But Anne's eyes are sallow and her once joyful glow has dimmed. She doesn't sleep or eat as much as she should and she cries often. I know she's worried that the baby will be a witch and that somehow George will know. Pa tries to comfort her. He tells her that neither she nor I showed any signs of powers until we were at least 5. He tells her to enjoy these moments and to not let the fear ruin this gift. Pa doesn't know that the fear has scarred us.

Dear Diary,

I have entered a nightmare from which I can not wake up. Something awful has happened. Anne had her baby - a healthy, adorable, green-eyed boy. But the stress and the worry and the labor was too much for her. She gave her life for another; for a son. I wish I could stop there. I wish I could properly grieve for my darling sister, my beautiful sibling who made this cursed life so much more bearable for me, but i cannot. She wasn't herself in the end. This town and these people and their wretched lies sucked the life out of her long before my sweet, innocent nephew. And they have not stopped. God, they have not stopped and they now turn their vile, accusatory eye at Mother. While in the throws of labor, Anne lost herself. Her powers consumed her and she was too weak to fight them. The midwife ran from the room screaming, claiming Anne had lifted up off of the bed like a demon, like a possessed puppet on invisible strings. Mother and I were left to tend to her, but it was far too late. The guilt drowns me like an endless ocean of sorrows, but even in such a state I can not mourn what is lost because there is still so much more that I have yet to lose. Anne's husband George is beside himself and he blames Mother. He refuses to believe that his beloved Anne was a witch and surmises instead that Mother had cursed her somehow. Jealousy over having a son when she herself only had girls, he says. It's mad! It's preposterous! But these people see no logic, no reason. Hate has filled their hearts and I dare say it is beginning to fill mine.

John has stopped writing letters. It seems like such a small thing to mention, but I mention it nonetheless.

Dear Diary,

I watched Mother hang today. The crowd was small as the frequency of hangings has thinned the population. The jeers and shouts were not nearly as enthusiastic as they once were. I stood beside Pa who had instructed me to show no emotion. The Magistrate was to believe that we had already cast her out of our hearts. Being a witch was, of course, the ultimate betrayal. I hugged my nephew in my arms and I watched. Mother said we must bear witness so that it scars us. I am scarred. But, I am also tired of witnessing. This grotesque land is littered with the corpses of innocents and I have seen the true abandonment of God. We will wipe ourselves off this earth in the name of fear and I refuse to meet my end in this fashion. Mother sacrificed so much for Anne and I. Her life became consumed with protecting our secret, until she could no longer protect herself. The coldness in my heart is tempered only by the love I've had for my family, a love that still flickers just barely beneath the darkness. This town seems destined to find a witch to truly fear.

The Reverend says John has gone missing. Pity, that is.

Dear Diary,

I've been waiting and biding my time, but I've seen the path laid out before me for some time now. It would appear it has finally reached it's end. I am accused of consorting with Mother, practicing witchcraft and honoring Satan as my savior. The Reverend has named me the cause of his son's disappearance. Today, Hell has arrived on my doorstep and in just a few moments they will come to take me to the gallows where I will be readied for hanging.

I recall a time so many years ago, when Mother took me by the hand and led me to the square. Three women were to be hanged that day and while one was making a scene of herself, the other two women were calm. They were older, but even so there was a wisdom in their eyes that measured well beyond their years. Their lined, weathered faces were resigned. I had been distracted then - by the cheering crowd, the horrific scene, the wails of the third hysterical woman, but I somehow remember them clearly now. And, I understand.

I am a witch and today, what is left of this treacherous town will have won. They will have cast out a true evil, but I am not an evil that was born. I am an evil that was created.

But I am also a healer. I can fix things that are broken. I can mend that which is beaten down. They can hang me and spit on me and say awful, terrible things about my family, but my magic will only grow and manifest with their hatred. The harder they fight to crush me, the more brilliant I will rise again. They will know and see real power and they will learn what it is like to truly fear that which they do not understand. I will be gone, but only just for now.

I am a witch and I will walk this world again.

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 17

cheapxdate — Fri, 08 Apr 2016 23:54:08 GMT

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 17

This is my entry for Week 17 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: “Cardboard"

When you call and ask if it's okay to stop by, I'm surprised to find that I hesitate. It's not that I mind you stopping by, not since we reconnected, but there's something uncharacteristically earnest in your voice and it makes me feel slightly unnerved. Even though we've been back on speaking terms for six months, I'm still not exactly sure how to handle you or my conflicted feelings for you, and that makes my resolve a hair fragile and a lot wary. Despite giving myself plenty of time to reconcile things and compartmentalize all the affections you'll never return, I don't know if I was really ready for your reappearance in my life or if I just missed you enough not to care about the details. However, there's no real reason to deny you the opportunity and so I agree to having you over. I've been keeping you at arms length, but, the important part is that I've been keeping you and so it seems silly to not be a little more open to letting you back in. I do know, though, that something drastic needs to be done in order for me to fully accept you again; in order for this to feel more normal and less like a dress rehearsal.

You say you'll be by in an hour.

I retrieve a medium-sized cardboard box from the attic and place it on the middle of my bedroom floor. It's a bit crushed and dusty, but I know the things I intend to fill it with are already worn and tattered so I don't bother wasting time trying to clean it out.

I start with the big things: a large, blue, stuffed rabbit I insisted you win for me at the boardwalk on a warm summer night; a green sweatshirt emblazoned with your favorite sports team, fraying around the cuffs, but still smelling like you near the neck; a large pile of trust; thirteen broken promises; a Tupperware overflowing with things I wanted to say, on my own terms, but never got the chance to, two mason jars filled with white sand from an impromptu trip to the beach last autumn; a tomb of sweet words and double entendres meant to trick me into believing in the existence of something that wasn't there; four tubs of hope; a manila envelope filled to bursting with 2,102,400 glorious minutes of time spent together.

When I've packed the big things, I move onto the small: fifteen movie stubs; three creased and faded notes; twenty-three forced smiles, a handful of greeting cards, all from varying holidays and celebrations; a silver chain with an aquamarine pendant you unceremoniously tossed to me on my birthday; ten small vials of tears; a notepad from a hotel we once stayed at; six shoulders to cry on, still damp.

I split the memories in half, keeping some of the fond ones for myself and tossing the rest into the box with the other discarded things. I keep the things you've taught me, a canteen of water from your ever flowing fountain of knowledge, and a few research papers you've written just for my benefit.

When I feel satisfied with the purge, all of the most painful parts of our history neatly tucked away, I close the flaps over each other and hoist the box up off the floor. I'm just in time to hear your car pull into the driveway and I'm already at the door when you ring the bell, literally lugging our baggage along with me.

It still hurts to recall the way things played out for us, and more specifically, your role in what I now only refer to as the Terrible Act. A year and a half ago, I was in love with you and you, I believe, were in love with my attention and affection. Or, at the very least, your ego was. It's hard to define what our relationship was at the time. Were we friends? More? Less? Were we really anything but strangers? I know you considered yourself above me intellectually and I found you robotic and emotionally barren. We challenged each other over almost everything - you always provided logic and reason and fact while I implored you to see the less defined, human side of things. Some of your opinions outright disgusted and angered me, and my inability to separate my 'weak,' irrational emotions from our discussions made you frustrated. We were incompatible in so many devastating ways.

But there were refreshing instances where you'd surprise or humor me or do something unexpectedly sweet. You hated to see me cry, especially at the hands of others, and you liked to make me blush. You knew my likes and dislikes, occasionally using then to your advantage or to purposefully get under my skin. And your sweeping knowledge and passion for learning about any and everything was so fascinating. You'd spend hours pouring over texts and websites, absorbing information like a sponge. Your curiosity and need to know all things was visceral and enchanting. It was also, I believe, the catalyst to our downfall.

You see, one day, you suddenly needed to know too much. You greedily took without asking, requiring information that was not yours to know. You told me you loved me and I reciprocated it only to learn that you'd been lying, simply for your own personal gain. You wanted my confession, needed to know just for the sake of knowing. The signs had been there for awhile, but you needed fact and assurance and definition. Not because it was important or because it mattered, but simply because you wanted to tuck that morsal of information away and I wasn't offering it up of my own free will. It was a challenge for you and not much more. In that instance, I had been a barrier, keeping you from discerning another infallible truth, and you'd been determined to root it out just for confirmation and entertainment.

We didn't speak for a year and a half after that.

I hated that I missed you and that you'd hurt me and that I'd been so easily fooled. I hated the way my cheeks flushed when I remembered the Terrible Act. I hated that, by most accounts, you were not a good person, but I had still somehow cleared out a corner in my heart for you. It didn't make sense, which was ironic considering your distaste for the irrational.

With a resigned sigh, I open the front door and there you are, standing on my front porch looking as unaffected as ever. You eye the box in my arms curiously and I don't invite you in, but I do offer you a smile. You return it and ask how I've been.

We talk about inconsequential things and tease each other like usual, my teasing light while yours has that familiar barbed edge. You playfully accuse me of being absent more often than not and I say that's not true, but we both know I'm lying. There's a rift between us and I think you're trying to figure out how to patch it without actually having to acknowledge all the ways you've failed me. When the conversation seems to be stumbling a bit and we've hit a particularly long stretch of silence, you clear your throat and I can tell by the way your eyes lose focus that you're organizing your thoughts.

"So." You look directly at me then and I know instantly that we're teetering on the edge of something important.

"So," I echo.

"You want honesty, right?"

I know then that I wasn't wrong about this. I wasn't wrong when I perceived something earnest about our meeting. I'm also incredibly aware of how easily it will be for you to manipulate me, lure me in and leave me vulnerable. You asking if I want honesty feels like a trick question, but I nod anyway because, even knowing all that I know, I couldn't stop myself even if I tried.

"Right, well, I can give you some honesty. Only if you promise to believe me and expect me to tell the truth. This won't work if you don't. I know that's asking a lot, but I'll be serious."

I'm at a loss for words so I simply nod again and hope you'll take that as my promise. The words that you're saying are simultaneously so you and also so not you and even though I know there are a thousand ways this could go wrong, I'm banking on beating the odds. I don't even know why I want to believe that so badly, but I do, and so I clutch the edges of the box so tightly that my fingers ache.

"I didn't intend for things to happen the way they did. I didn't have some kind of evil plan from the beginning and there's no way I would've wanted what happened to happen. True evil is one that persists to the end and I'm not evil."

I stand there blinking at you, unsure of how I'm supposed to interpret this. Is it an apology? An admittance of guilt? Before I can decipher exactly what you're words are trying to convey, you're speaking again.

"I guess what I'm saying is that I would love to love you if you want," you say, and it seems more like a business proposal than a candid romantic declaration, but it somehow sounds sincere. You shove your hands roughly in the front pockets of your dark jeans and rock back on your heels, staring intently down at the concrete beneath your feet. Your mannerisms might give the impression that you're nervous, but I know that you're not. You don't operate like normal people or get tied up in trivial, fleeting emotions like vulnerability or embarrassment. However, I can tell by your fidgeting that you have more words to share and so I wait patiently.

"Honestly. Just to be sure here, I'm 100% serious. I would love to love you. And, I guess I'm saying that weirdly because..." You trail off and rub your hands up and down your face. When you glance back down at me again, there's something in your eyes that's raw and unfamiliar and I feel myself being pulled into you even though I'm still standing in place. I look down just to be sure my feet haven't magically slid across the porch on their own accord.

"I guess I'm saying that weirdly because I don't feel like I have the right to say I love you."

To say I'm taken aback would be an understatement. I hug the cardboard box against my chest like a shield - trying to keep my insides from exploding outward, but maybe also in an attempt to protect myself from the words and feelings you're hurling at me.

"I guess there's a hidden meaning there that I just kinda spelled out, but... I didn't want to leave it up to too much interpretation."

I don't respond and you don't look surprised or offended. Instead, you shrug and take the box from me.

In that moment, nothing and everything is happening all at once and the weight of it is both crushing and lifting me at the same time. You've weaved these words with a finesse I've come to expect, but I'm still drowning in the heaviness of them. I want so badly to deny you, to have you taste the same bitter humiliation that I've felt, but my heart is swelling and blocking out my vengeful desires. I don't know why it's chosen you when there are so many others out there who are undeniably a better, more deserving fit, but maybe we're meant to balance each other out in a ying and yang sort of way. I know that if I pretend, you'll see through it because you know me in ways that are profound and unfair, so I don't waste time with mind games. This is the most imperfect confession and the completely wrong time, yet my walls are already crumbling.

"One minute," I say, pulling the cardboard box back and hugging it against my chest. "Just... give me a quick moment."

You nod and I take a few steps backwards before turning and retreating to my bedroom.

Unceremoniously, I dump the contents of the box onto the floor. The moments and the movie tickets spill across the carpet and the minutes roll under the bed.

I know it's going to hurt. I can already feel my chest tightening in protest of the imminent trauma. I lean against my dresser, pretending to think my decision through more thoroughly, but I already know my mind is made up and I'm just trying to drum up some nerve. With a deep breath, I lift my hands and grasp my heart firmly between them. It's warmth is familiar, but the firmness is something I'd forgot and I can distinctly feel the rough ridges of scar tissue against my palms. I wiggle it a bit and tug gently, like I'm trying to dislodge a loose tooth. My heart aches in response and beats defiantly against my finger tips, but I bite my lip and pull a little harder. With a thwack, it pops free and my stomach flips. I cradle it in my hands, turning it this way and that, wondering how it will be received. It looks like any regular heart, really; slightly bruised and battered, but still recognizable and in working condition. With a sigh, I gently place it in the box, now wishing I'd taken the time earlier to clear out the dust.

The box is much lighter now, but my arms are shaking when I return to the front door.

"Here," I say, and I thrust it out at you.

You look somewhat pained and the edges of your mouth droop downward. It's an expression of dissatisfaction that I've seen many times. Immediately, I wonder if I've made a huge mistake and my remaining insides seize with worry. The anticipation of a second rejection is almost more than I can bear and so I grasp the door frame with both of my trembling hands, digging my fingernails into the soft molding to steady myself. Then, with your face still twisted in disappointment, you give the box a shake. I hear my heart tumble around before I feel the pain of it, but I still can't stop myself from wincing and doubling over.

"Oh." You freeze and your mouth forms an 'O' of surprise. I'm not sure that I've ever surprised you before. "Oh! I'm sorry! I didn't... I didn't know! I thought..."

"It's okay," I say, straightening again and regaining my composure. I offer you a weak smile. "Just be careful."

You nod seriously and hold the box steady.

A storm is brewing, I am sure of it. I remember the nights when you'd read me the original Brothers Grimm versions of my favorite fairy tales, gleefully destroying my memories of happy, romantic little tales with ones far more gruesome and upsetting. I wonder if you were preparing me for my own story and the less than perfect way it would unfold. I know that our ending will be as rough as our beginning, but I also know that there is no one else like you in this world. I don't know if you could ever possibly see me that way too, but I hope.

I make the consciously choice to invite you in, knowing and preparing myself for the fact that I might never get you out.

If you are so moved, please give me a vote over at therealljidol this week!

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 16

cheapxdate — Fri, 01 Apr 2016 21:02:17 GMT

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 16

This is my entry for Week 15 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: “When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it."

The music is loud and I can feel the force of the bass thumping in my chest. Strobes of colored light slice through the darkness casting strange shadows across the club goers' faces. I finish the last of my drink in one large, continuous gulp and then slam my glass down onto the bar. With a wave of my hand, I signal the bartender for another and then glance around at my surroundings once again. The dance floor is filled with sweaty, writhing bodies. Couples are tucked into the backs of the red booths lining the sides of the room, their heads bowed close together as they share private conversations. Around me, people loiter at the bar sipping drinks or waving fist fulls of money to get the bartender's attention. To the untrained eye, I'm just taking it all in, but the truth is that I'm looking for something very specific.

"Can I get you a drink?"

Out of the corner of my vision, I'd seen the guy in the tight grey Henley approach from my left, hop up on a bar stool and then scoot it slightly closer to me. I'd also willfully ignored him, but now he was leaning in and demanding my attention.

"I have one," I answer curtly, just as the bartender places a cocktail napkin and my drink refill down on the bar in front of me.

"Oh, well, want to buy me one then?"

I turn and stare at him, one eyebrow arched curiously. His boldness has caught me off guard, which is no an easy feat, and I find myself smirking in response.

"Sure. What do you want?"

"I'll have whatever you're having, sweetheart." He inches his bar stool even closer and offers me what I assume to be his most confident and charming grin. He smells like body odor and tequila.

"No," I snort. "I don't think you will."

His well rehearsed smile falters slightly and he tilts his head as I laugh to myself before leaning across the bar to wave the bartender back over.

"Get this guy a Corona, Mitch, will you?"

Mitch looks from me to the stranger and then back again. There's something melancholy about his expression, but he nods slowly and then sighs before turning on his heels to fetch a bottle from the beer well.

"So, you know the bartender?" The stranger to my left is talking again.

"I know everyone here," I answer. I idly run my finger around the rim of my glass.

"You don't know me."

"No, but I know your type."

The stranger's mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally just shrugs sheepishly. I appreciate his honesty.

"And what type are you?" he asks. I can feel his greedy eyes roaming up and down my body.

The music sounds like it's getting louder and I glare in the direction of the DJ booth as I massage my temples with my pointer fingers. The mass of tangled bodies on the dance floor squirms like a single, unified organism and it makes my stomach turn. The flashing lights are tiny, prickling explosions in my vision, exacerbating the headache I feel forming in the center of my forehead. I grit my teeth and force a glowing smile. Then I lean up close next to the stranger, pushing my chest purposefully against his arm.

"The type that knows what she wants," I coo, my lips brushing lightly against his ear. "Do you want to come back to my place?"

When I pull back, his eyes are wide and his tongue has all but rolled out of his mouth. He's already pushing himself off the bar stool and fishing his wallet out of his back pocket.

"Hell yeah," he says as he tosses a few loose bills down onto the bar.

I link my arm around his, pulling him with me. He reaches down and runs his hand over my ass. I shudder, but I know he'll mistake my shiver of disgust for excitement.

Just as we move away from the bar, Mitch returns with a Corona in hand.

"Sorry, Mitch. Gotta go. Put it on my tab."

Mitch shakes his head sadly and I narrow my eyes in warning. I see him take a resigned swig from the beer bottle before I turn my attention back to the stranger.

"Come on."

--

After a fifteen minute cab ride, we pull up out front of my place and I am flooded with relief. My tight, manufactured smile turns genuine for the first time in the past 40 minutes. The stranger has spent the majority of the trip with his hand fumbling around under my dress and I've spent it making noises that I hope sound more like passion and less like the wretching that they actually are. The opportunity to pull away from him, if even for just a moment, makes me feel like singing with joy. Of course, once we reach the stairs, he's back to my side, his bony arm wrapped around my waist and his leech-like mouth sucking on my neck. The bile in my thoat tastes sour and sick and I grimace as I try to fish my keys out of my purse.

"Just a sec," I say sweetly as I gently try to push him away so I can unlock the door. I quickly find the correct key and slide it in.

"Hope you're ready for this, babe," he murmurs. Refusing to be deterred for even a moment, he roughly snatches my free hand and pushes it against his crotch.

"I hope you are," I respond humorlessly as I push the door open and lead him into the foyer.

He is exactly the type that I expected him to be - naive and overzealous and far too quick to trust a strange young woman he just met. He's too dumb to know that there's no turning back now, too horny to want to try. He's skinnier and shorter than what I would've chosen on my own, but he presented himself to me so easily that I couldn't say no. He'll have to do.

"Come," I say, grabbing the hem of his shirt with one hand, pulling him seductively towards me as I make my way backwards down the hall. My other hand still tightly grasps my key ring and my fingers are expertly filtering through them to find and separate the large, ornate silver ones. When we reach the bedroom door, he tears his eyes away from my chest to glance up and I notice his expression becomes puzzled.

"Um, what kind of shit are you into?" he asks. His eyes are narrowed suspiciously, but there's a hint of excitement and curiosity in his voice.

"Oh, you'll see."

I turn towards the thick oak door and set to work. There are four large, silver locks barring entrance, each with their own designated key. Despite the routine nature of my motions, my fingers tremble slightly as I push each key into it's slot with a click. Familiarity and desensitization has mostly stomped out the fear in my heart, but every now and then it flares up again with an unexpected spark.

When the last lock gives way I turn back to him and bite my lower lip, my hooded eyes filled with what I know will appear to be lust. He grins down at me and leans in for a kiss, which I allow. In fact, I return it with gusto, forcing our lips to smash together as he blindly paws at my arms and chest. I reach behind me and find the door knob with my outstretched fingers then pull my head back slightly so that the stranger has to lean in further to meet my mouth. When I can tell his balance is precarious, I twist the knob and push, side-stepping out of the way all in the same swift motion so that he pitches forward through the doorway. I give his back a shove for good measure, then quickly pull the door closed, trapping him on the other side. I've already begun to make quick work of the locks when I hear his muffled cursing.

"What the fuck?" he yells and there's a series of loud crashes as he kicks at the bottom of the door. "Seriously, bitch, let me out!"

"I'm sorry," I say under my breath, and I mean it sincerely. It's easier now, to trap them like this, those who stumble into the wrong place at the wrong time, but the guilt still weighs on me heavily. "I'm sorry."

I press my hand flat against the outside of the door and feel the vibrations of his kicks and punches. He's still yelling, his voice getting more hoarse and panicked. There's a new sound then, mingling with his howls. It's the tinny sound of metal against metal, the sound of chains. A scratching sound. A snarl.

"What the...?" His voice trails off and he's quiet for a moment. The grating sound of metal dragging against wood fills the silence. And then he's screaming. It's not the pointed, demanding yelling like before, now it's just anguished, terrified wailing. It chills the blood in my veins and I rest my forehead against the door.

The begging comes next. It always does. Through his hysterical sobs, he's begging me to open the door, to let him out, to stop. He calls out to me, to God, to the approaching creature in the darkness, but no answer will come. An inhuman scream joins his and I tightly close my eyes. There's a sound of scratching against the door - his fingernails or hers, I don't know, but before long he's choking and gurgling and I've had enough of this twisted voyeurism.

I push away from the door with a tired sigh and head down the hallway to the laundry room. Piles of discarded clothes lie in heaps around the room, all stained with various nauseating shades of red and brown and green.

I shimmy out of my dress and pull on a pair of old sweats and a stained Yankees t-shirt from a clean-ish pile near the dryer. Then I grab two rubber yellow gloves and a mop from the slop sink in the corner. In a few minutes, she'll be full and I'll need to clean up the mess, as I always do. I am the big sister, after all, and it is my duty to care for her in all the ways that no one else ever could, if they even even would. I lure, I deliver, I discard the evidence. I keep her safe and fed and hidden.

When is a monster not a monster?

When God has abandoned her and the cruel, twisted fingers of fate have turned her into something grotesque and unnatural, but she still needs you in order to survive.

When she's your baby sister.

When you love her.

If you are so moved, please give me a vote over at therealljidol this week!

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 15

cheapxdate — Fri, 25 Mar 2016 22:50:44 GMT

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 15

This is my entry for Week 15 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: "Just put a bandaid on it...!"

TW: Abuse

I know I'm taking a risk writing something that some people will understandably opt out of reading, but the prompt spoke to me on a very personal level and once it was in my head I just could not find the inspiration to write about anything else. I hope that those who can will read and those who can't know that their decision is very much respected and understood.

The 1st Time

The air is frigid and a strong breeze whips my skirt around my knees, but I stay planted on the porch, shuffling from one heeled foot to the other. The street is bathed in darkness, but ours is the only house on the block without a single light on. It's unwelcoming and cold and I can feel my heart begin to thump faster in my chest. Gripping my keys tightly in my fist, I shiver, but it's not triggered by the seasonal January weather. Something much more ominous lies beyond the threshold and it's making the blood in my veins turn to ice.

I consider turning around and descending the stairs, going back to my warm car and driving off. I could spend the night at my parent's place or maybe even Becca's, but I know that I'll only be prolonging the inevitable and the consequences will only be that much more severe. I readjust my grip on the keys and convince myself it will be better to just accept my punishment and get it over with as soon as possible.

I quietly let myself into the house and close the door behind me, cringing as the lock latches into place with a click. The sound seems to echo like an explosion against my ears and I can feel the color drain from my face. I hold my breath and wait, my hand still glued tightly to the knob, but nothing happens. A painfully desperate sliver of hope pricks at my insides. Maybe you're asleep. Maybe you haven't noticed it's after midnight when I said I'd be home by ten. Maybe I can inconspicuously slip in and avoid any confrontation at all.

Just like the outside, the inside is completely cloaked in darkness. It's more disorienting, however, to be without the glow of the moonlight and so I feel my way across the foyer, sliding my fingers along the wall to steady my steps. I could flip on the hall light, but I don't dare. Instead, I hold my breath and inch across the rug, gripping my keys so tightly that they stab into my palm. The hallway seems to stretch on for miles and it's an agonizingly long journey to the living room. By the time I reach the doorway, my eyes have adjusted to the dark, but I still don't have the chance see you coming. I've only just rounded the corner, but it seems you've been ready and waiting there for awhile.

Your knuckles connect with my jaw and I go reeling back into the hall. The blow is unexpected and strong and even though my anxiety has heightened my senses, I've had no forewarning of your presence. My ankles wobble over my heels and I trip, my back connecting hard with the wall behind me. I slide down to the carpet and then slump over to my side with my arms over my head and my eyes scrunched closed. I'm like a wounded animal playing dead. I want to sink into the floor, to disappear, to open my eyes and be in my warm, safe bed having a bad dream, but the reality of the situation is sobering.

You've never hit me before. Not like this. You've screamed at me and pushed me and even slapped me a few times, but you've never taken a close-fisted swing at me before. My heart is wrenched in terror and my brain is positively swimming, desperately trying to make sense of this ridiculous alternate reality I seem to have stumbled into.

"Get up," you say, and I do, even though my head is spinning and my face is throbbing and I feel completely and utterly bewildered. "It's twelve fucking seventeen."

I nod, but say nothing. It's as if you've punched the words clear out of me, and I'm not even sure if I can open my mouth anyway. My jaw is hot and screaming in silent agony and all I can think about is how badly I want to be back out on the porch, still weighing my options.

"Let's go to bed."

I nod again, but you've already turned your back to me and started stomping off towards our shared bedroom. My right ankle aches as I hobble after you and I realize I must have twisted it in the fall. I'm such a clutz, I think to myself, and for some reason, this is the singular thought that makes the tears well up. I shake my head slightly and grit my teeth as I climb under the sheets next to you, refusing to cry.

I awaken to the sounds and smells of frying bacon and the sensation of having been hit in the face by a metal bat. The memories of the night before rush back to me and I tentatively flex my jaw with a wince. It feels like a golfball has formed under my skin, but I'm surprised when I check the bathroom mirror to see there's not much visual evidence of the blow, save for a round, black, knuckle-sized bruise. I go through my usual morning routine, pop a few aspirin and then shuffle out to the kitchen where you're busy preparing breakfast - a rarity for a weekday morning and a complete admission of your guilt.

"Good morning!" you say brightly. I slink quietly into a chair at the kitchen table and watch you serve us both a plate of bacon, eggs and toast. "How was your party?"

"It wasn't a party," I answer softly. The act of speaking makes my jaw ache, but I try to ignore the sting. "A vendor took us out after work. I was able to make a lot of really good connections. My boss said I made a very good impression and that they specifically asked to continue working with me on their future orders."

"That's great, babe! Of course they love you!" you exclaim with a mouth full of half-chewed egg.

"Yeah," I say quietly. I push a piece of bacon around with my finger. It's floppy and under-cooked. I hate floppy, under-cooked bacon. "I'm sorry I was home later than I said I would be. It would have been rude of me to leave earlier."

You drop your toast crust onto your plate and I flinch unexpectedly. Something akin to horror and regret and maybe even tears pool in your eyes and I find myself feeling oddly remorseful.

"I'm so sorry," you say as you drop your head into your hands. "I'm so sorry about last night. I just missed you so much and... and... that wasn't me. That wasn't the real me. I love you."

I feel my body rise up off the chair and move to your side before I've even made the conscious effort to do so. The movements feel strange and robotic, but I'm suddenly wrapping my arms around your shoulders and hugging you to me. My jaw throbs in protest as I comfort you.

"It won't ever happen again," you cry.

"I know." I give you one more tight squeeze and then start to release you and move away, but you grab my wrist, gently, and keep me close.

"Babe?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind putting a band-aid on..." You gesture towards my face and I instinctively reach up and touch the place where you hit me.

"It's just a small bruise,' I say. I attempt a reassuring smile, but it's halfhearted and I'm sure it shows.

"I know, but I just don't want to have any rumors start. I wouldn't want anything to ruin all the goodwill you've got going with your boss now."

I agree.

The Nth Time

I already know it's coming and my stomach twists anxiously as I try to distract myself with cleaning up the kitchen. It's a typical September Sunday and your friends have been over all day watching the game and making a ruckus in our living room, but they're grabbing their things and shuffling towards the door now, even though my brain is silently begging for them to stay.

Your team lost, again, and I over-cooked the potato skins. I also forgot the sour cream and dared to ask if anyone needed another beer during a very important play. After my inturruption, you glared at me in a familiar way that made my skin crawl and my blood run cold. It's odd how I can be so used to this and also so... not. I have a girl's night out planned with some friends for tomorrow and so I'm hoping you'll avoid my face. Their prying questions and my feeble excuses are uncomfortable for everyone and I'd much rather be able to just avoid the whole charade of me pretending I'm fine and them pretending to believe me.

Your friends call out farewells from the hallway and thank us for the hospitality and then I hear the door click closed and for a few seconds it goes eerily silent. Then you stomp down the hall, heavy-footed from the alcohol, and return to the living room. I hear the couch groan as you add your weight to it and then the sound of the tv flicking on and I breathe a small sigh of relief. Although I've gotten very good at reading you and anticipating your reactions, sometimes the moment passes and your anger subsides and things stay good for a little while longer. The possibility elevates my spirits and I focus on preparing dinner, letting my guard down just enough so that I don't hear it when you get up and enter the kitchen behind me.

I'm chopping carrots when you clear your throat, demanding my attention, and I've barely turned around when you lumber towards me with your arm extended. I feel an unfamiliar crack across my cheek and instantly the pain begins to blossom, blurring my vision. It happens so quickly that I'm completely and utterly stunned by it. I never even have a chance to see the remote control gripped in your fist until you pull it back away from my face. The world feels suddenly lopsided and I drop the knife. It hits the floor with a deafening clang and I brace myself against the counter as the kitchen spins.

Familiar... the instant feeling of pain and humiliation and anger and fear.

Unfamiliar... the wet trickle rolling slowly down my cheek

Familiar... your expression, a perverse mix of rage and regret.

My fingers move to my face and when I pull them away they're stained red. You caught me right across the cheekbone and split the soft skin there. It's the first time you've ever drawn blood and it makes the edges of my vision go dark. I sway and then sink slowly to the floor, holding my face and looking up at you.

For a moment you sway on your feet a bit yourself and I wonder if you might comfort me, but then your mouth twists into a snarl.

"Just put a band-aid on it," you spit, and then you leave the room.

You don't apologize or cry like you once did, but by the time dinner rolls around, you're bright and chipper and offering me compliments on my cooking. You're acting as though it never happened. The large welt on my cheek and the bandage attempting pathetically to cover it, however, are a clear sign that it did. More than that, I'm smiling and laughing, which would seem to lend credibility to your version of events, but you don't know that my good spirits are genuine. I've made a choice and I'm done pretending.

The Last Time

I wash my face in the bathroom sink and then stare at the strange reflection in the mirror. The bruised, battered girl beneath the makeup looks back at me, rough around the edges in ways she shouldn't be at twenty-four. My face aches with both new and old, phantom pains, but my heart feels light and full of hope. Of course, there's an edge of fear, but fear is something I've grown so accustomed to that it's more comforting than alarming.

I throw my hair into a high ponytail. Over the past year and a half, I've learned how to style it in ways that cover has much of my face as possible, but tonight I want you to see it in all of it's resilient glory. I feel empowered and strong and, more than anything, I feel ready. Unceremoniously, I flip off the light and exit the bathroom. I don't need a pep-talk or a few more moments to collect my thoughts. I don't need to hide or buy some time or empty an unsettled, churning stomach.

I do spend a few moments giving the bedroom another once over, making sure I haven't forgotten anything important. I've been surreptitiously bringing my possessions and clothes over to Becca's for two weeks now, but I still have three bags worth of my things packed and waiting on the bed. I anticipate you'll fly into a rage like never before when you see this and register what it represents, but I'm ready for it. The angrier the better. Might as well go out with a bang.

As usual, I'm preparing dinner when you arrive home from work. I hear you remove your shoes in the hallway before calling out to me.

"Just me, babe! Smells great in here!"

You enter the kitchen and wrap your arms around my waist, hugging me from behind.

"I like your hair like this," you say before pressing a kiss against the back of my neck. I don't miss the irony in the fact that the reason I rarely wear my hair pulled back like this is because of you.

Your affectionate gestures are just as familiar as your abusive ones. Because, truth be told, when you aren't beating the shit out of me, you're loving me in all the right and expected ways. That's why I've stayed. That's why I've wavered. Until now.

I fight the urge to shudder with disgust and twirl away from you instead, making a show of having to retrieve an ingredient from the refrigerator.

"Need any help?"

"Nope. Almost ready."

You give me a thumbs up and back out of the kitchen with a grin that I once found charming, but now only see as contrived and phony. I know you'll head to the bedroom now to change into something more comfortable and my heart begins to race with the knowledge of your imminent discovery.

I chop broccoli with a steady hand, my ears straining to hear any sound that might give you away, but it's silent for longer than I expect and I begin to worry that you either didn't notice or are chosing to exercise your expert skill of pretending that something isn't there. But then it happens.

"Uh, babe?"

Your voice is gentle and questioning to the untrained ear, but I recognize a familiar edge that gives away your growing anger. When I don't answer, I hear you opening and slamming drawers and then the closet doors.

"What the fuck?" You shout now and then I hear your heavy footsteps getting louder as you approach the kitchen. Unfazed, I continue chopping broccoli.

"You want to tell me what's going on? What the fuck you're doing? Are you leaving me?" You're screaming at me from the doorway and the tone is familiar, but it's a half an octave higher than normal and more shrill than I ever remember. You're panicked and torn and not quite sure if you should approach the situation as Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde. "Baby?"

"I am." I answer. My voice is steady and sure.

"The fuck?"

Even before I see or hear you, I know you're coming at me, lurching towards me in that bumbling fit of uncontrolled, exploding rage like you always do. Both arms are stretched out and I think you might be intending to go for my throat, but you never reach me. I twirl around and this time I don't drop the knife. Instead, I grip it tightly in my hand and jab the sharp end out at you, slicing you in the side. It's not very deep, but it's deep enough to surprise and wound you and immediately you crumple to your knees, clutching your middle. Your face is stark white and contorted with shock when you look up at me, all the anger gone and replaced by pure bewilderment, but I don't soften. Instead, I keep the knife held out in front of me - threatening you, warning you, daring you - as I inch towards the door.

"What did you do? I... babe..." You look down and see a dark crimson spot blooming across your shirt. It's not much, really, but it's enough to frighten you and you let out a strangled, pleading sob. "Don't go! It hurts."

I shake my head at you as you pathetically writhe around the kitchen floor sniffling.

"Put a fucking band-aid on it," I say, and then I'm gone.

If you are so moved, please give me a vote over at therealljidol this week. Also, check out all the entries from Team Norbert and give them a vote as well!

cheapxdate — Sat, 12 Mar 2016 00:06:32 GMT

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 13

This is my entry for Week 13 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: "Love & loss"

The sheets are tangled around our bodies, weaved between our legs in an intricate pattern of passion and playfulness. Your head is resting on my chest and your long, dark hair spills out over me like ink. The obsidian strands are splayed out, looking like a web of cracks across my bare skin. It tickles when you move. Your breathing is steady and shallow and someone with far less knowledge of the intricacies of your being would assume you're asleep, but I know you're just as wide awake as I am. Beneath you, my arm is starting to ache and cramp from the lack of circulation, but I'd sooner have it sawed off than disturb this peaceful moment. These times are fleeting, though they could stretch on for an eternity and I'd still feel them over far too soon. It is a blessing, our time together, and a curse in knowing that it must eventually and inevitably end.

I trace circles around the beauty marks that speckle your shoulder with my thumb. I know them well. I've touched them, kissed them, drawn constellations between them in my mind while you've slept. My movements, our closeness - innocent, yet intimate in a way that still makes me blush and stutter like a teenager. I press my lips against the crown of your head and let them linger there, breathing in deeply the swirling scent of you - an intricate bouquet of strawberry and pear from your shampoo, the remnants of lavender from your perfume and the slightest hint of sweet perspiration from our earlier rigorous activities. I wish I could bottle it somehow, keep it locked in a velvet-lined box for the moments when you feel particularly far away from me. I'm selfish and desperate and silently begging the Gods, pleading with any one of them that might be listening, to take pity on a broken man. Please, let her stay.

I feel you start to sigh and shift and my heart wrenches in agony. I know the routine. I know what comes next. A sliver of light is peaking through a space in the heavy curtains, stretching across the floor like a makeshift sundial, letting you know the proverbial clock has struck twelve and you must be on your way. I've considered boarding up that window so many times, shutting out the sun forever in the hopes of keeping the room veiled in darkness and you here with me, but it's an unrealistic fantasy. The world spins on and on as it must and you are the moon, coming and going with the night.

I let you pull away from me, as capable of stopping you as I would be of stopping the tides from pulling the ocean away from the shore. My newly freed arm tingles as the blood pumps down to my fingers again, but it's more uncomfortable now than it was before. The silence is deafening and as the bed creaks beneath your weight and then again in protest of the absence of it, I have to fight the urge to cover my ears with my hands. With your back to me, you dress, and somehow I find the act of you pulling on your wrinkled clothes even more sensual then when I was pulling them off of you hours before. Neither of us speak. There is no half-hearted attempt at dilatory conversation like there might have once been. The routine is familiar and marked, though it has yet to get any easier. Before I know it, your pulling your hair back and securing it, taming it, pulling it together along with yourself. It is the period, the coda, the conclusion - a simple and mundane gesture that let's me know I have but a few seconds left to bask in your aura before the curtain falls and you walk out that door.

We don't exchange 'I love you's.' Instead, I choke out a hopeful "until next time," knowing all too well this could be our final encounter. You nod and offer me the most brilliant, beautiful hint of a smile and I return it the best I can. The space between us is filled with sonnets and poetry and dozens of words that have yet to be invented that could properly express the depth of our feelings. There's nothing more to say.

In a few short weeks, you'll be wed; not to a person of your choosing, but rather to a person chosen for you, a person who is right for you in all the ways but one. In all the ways, but the most important. I know with a zealous certainty that no one could ever love or cherish or celebrate you the way that I do. You know it too. Maybe that's why you don't look back when you float out of the room and out of my life, leaving behind nothing but an ache and a memory.

I sit on the edge of the bed and cradle my head in my hands, letting the loss of you swell around me like a rough and turbulent sea. For the night, filled with the warmth of your presence, this house felt like a home, but it has returned to a cold and empty four wall dwelling now that it's devoid of your effulgence. I don't know if you'll be back, but I pretend that you will be, even if only to keep myself sane. The cost of loving you is losing you and I pay it over and over, but, in your presence, wrapped up in your love and affection, I am the richest man in existance. I'd pay it a hundred times to call you mine again, even if only for the night.

Thank you for reading!

Besides the prompt, I was also inspired by this piece of music, so if you'd like, give it a listen (either while reading or before) to set the mood. :)

As always, if you enjoyed this, please give me a vote over at therealljidol. Also, check out all the entries from Team Norbert and give them a vote as well!

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 12

cheapxdate — Fri, 04 Mar 2016 22:33:31 GMT

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 12

This is my entry for Week 12 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: "Just don't look."

Just don't look, I tell myself, but I look anyway. I cycle through your social media and, as expected, nothing has changed. It only takes a few quick keystrokes. My search bar history easily picks up your name and all the websites associated with it, auto-filling in the addresses for me. You haven't used your Instagram in two years. Your last activity on Facebook was changing your profile picture back in November to include the French flag overlay, followed a few days later by changing it back to the original photo. Your Twitter has been quiet since the summer and I hastily removed you from Skype weeks ago so there's no inside information to collect from there. You were never big on social media in the first place and all of you're accounts are just as stagnant as ever. All is quiet and empty and unchanged. The storm inside my heart rages on.

I play this game every few days, which, in all fairness, is an improvement over when I was playing it every few hours. I tell myself not to look; I try to talk myself down from the ledge, but my fingers betray me time and time again. It's so easy to fool ourselves when our minds are desperately grasping for even the most ridiculous of excuses. In the beginning, I convinced myself it was because I wanted to make sure you were okay. I wanted to make sure you hadn't done anything stupid. A mutual friend had tagged you in a post about a work event three weeks ago and I felt relieved, but unsatisfied. Once I knew you were going about your life, I couldn't justify my prying as something I was doing for your benefit. I couldn't pretend that I was simply looking out for you with no ulterior motive. Worse than that, it proved that you were able to carry on and that stung.

It's a hypocritical thought, of course, because I too have been carrying on and finding pockets of happiness and joy even in the shade of this ever present dark cloud. It would be unrealistic to expect you to just completely stop your daily routine or to shut yourself away from everyone and pause your entire life. That's not how it works. And, it doesn't mean that you can't be hurting too all the while. I should know because I'm doing it myself. I am going through the usual motions all while feeling very much unlike my usual self. I am proof that there is room for regret and turmoil and pain, but also friends and fun and normal activity. Knowing this should undoubtedly make me feel better, but it doesn't. You always wore your heart on your sleeve while mine was tucked carefully away behind years of walls. You were always more outspoken, more vulnerable, more willing to put your neck on the line to resolve things while I hid or shut down or cowered behind my stubborn pride. But, you're not coming forward now and I have to wonder if you've tired of being the one to walk out in front of the firing squad first.

Don't look, I tell myself, and it's getting easier to listen. It's not that my self discipline has improved or that I've finally started to care less, but rather that my curiosity has been replaced with anxiety. My brain has started to go into self-preservation mode and enough time has passed that I'm beginning to anticipate that the results of my searches will yield things that I'd rather not see. Because weeks ago, when I originally took on my role as Social Media Super Sleuth, I was hoping to find something, anything that might reveal a flicker of your feelings for me, but now I'm hoping that when I look things will still remain unchanged.

I wonder why we do this. Why we dance around like this, torturing ourselves and prolonging the moving on process when we logically know better. What is it about love and the subsequent loss of it that makes us act so irrationally? Why do we seek out things that only serve to hurts us more? Are we trying to rip off the band aid in one go? Are we trying to purposely touch the hot stove so that we aren't tempted to do it again? Are we doling out some kind of sick self punishment for letting things dissolve so unceremoniously? Do we get some kind of weird pleasure out of the pain? Out of justifying our tears and our hurt and that terrible twisting feeling in our gut?

I find myself swaying between two extremes on a regular basis. There is the prideful, angry side of me that resents you and the pain you've caused. This side loudly (and unconvincingly) shouts at the top of her lungs about how much she doesn't care and how much better off she is now. This side of me swears that even if you reached out right this minute, I'd ignore it and go on with my day. Then, there is the desperately sad version of me that keeps setting arbitrary ultimatums and goals. It takes 21 days to break a habit. I convince myself that somehow you too have heard this random fact (that very much relates to changing diets or quitting smoking and not at all to relationships) and I assure myself you'll understand the implications and contact me before then. You don't, of course, because this is a ridiculous assumption to make. A month, I tell myself. Surely, after a month you'll reach out. Four weeks pass and you don't, so I move the bar. We last spoke on January 28th so maybe you consider February 28th a month instead. That date comes and goes and so I move the bar yet again. I readjust the goal posts hoping against all hope that you'll make even the smallest attempt, meet even the tiniest of my expectations. I throw myself into anything and everything all while my brain plays a constant game of tug of war between thinking about you and thinking about anything but you. I spitefully convince myself that if I get a character to max level in a game we used to play together, you'll either come back or I'll be over it. Time will have passed. The state of things will have changed.

I constantly move between these two planes of being while my feelings get tossed and tumbled, switching between empowered and defeated all at a moments notice. I am simultaneously empty and also so incredibly full of words and thoughts and doubts and hurt that I fear I might suddenly burst.

That is not to rule out the middle ground I occasionally find myself resting on. Here, I can breathe for a moment and evaluate things from a more rational standpoint. I can remember that I am a smart, logical, well-educated adult who is acting very much like a heartbroken teenager. Absorbed in my melancholy, I realize that far too much damage has most likely been done. Whether this time apart has served to make you miss me or forget me, there is no going back. And, although I may be strangely loathe to admit it, I'm not as bad off as I was in the beginning and the stretches of time between looking or thinking or expecting are getting longer and easier. Accepting this, however, means accepting that you too may be feeling the same way and that thought, well... it makes it incredibly hard to breathe. Because we can laugh and smile and tell ourselves we're okay (and mean it!), but the smallest bud of hoping has rooted in our heart and it's just waiting for the chance to bloom and blossom into something much bigger. We're unsettled and folded awkwardly into the wrong shape and so everything feels strange and foreign. Ourselves, but also very much not.

This is what it is like to open our hearts and make a home there for someone else, someone whose feelings and actions and thoughts are out of our control. This is what it means to rely on someone's presence in our lives, knowing that they can tear themselves away at any moment. We are human and even our very best efforts can sometimes fall short. Was I not enough? Was I too weak? Too stubborn? Too harsh? Can I blame you, even just in a desperate attempt to lessen my own guilt? Have things truly ended like this? Can they end like this, with so little closure, so little explanation?

I can't bring myself to delete your number or our lengthy 2 year history of texts, but as your name gets buried under those who've sent more recent messages, I wonder if it's poignantly symbolic. Am I doing myself a disservice by leaving you there, letting other things pile on top of you, hiding you, but not getting rid of you? Can I heal if even a splinter of you stays lodged within my heart? Only time will reveal the truth.

Don't look, I tell myself, and today, I don't.

If you're on my friend's list and reading this and finding yourself alarmed, please note that this is a work of fiction, though based very much on past experiences. ♥

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 11

cheapxdate — Sat, 27 Feb 2016 00:54:02 GMT

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 11

This is my entry for Week 11 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: "You will feel a mild tingling sensation, followed by death."

This piece is set in the same world as my previous entry, Afterlife, BUT you don't need to have read that to understand this.

Although they served the same purpose, Ace's lounge was much different than Milo's. Where Milo's was lavish and luxurious, outfitted with velvet and brass and sweeping curtains, Ace's post was much more humble and homey. The walls were adorned with various neon signs, kitschy posters and a dart board riddled with thousands of tiny holes. There was a giant jukebox in the corner and a string of icicle lights wrapped around the entire room. The bar was always sticky and the floor was worn and dull in the places that Ace often paced. It was casual and comfortable and it fit him perfectly. He wasn't about frills or extravagance or swanky fabrics. Of course, it wasn't exactly how he'd pictured spending the majority of his Afterlife, but the numbers didn't lie, and when he'd been classified, he'd been a clear candidate for escort. In fact, he'd scored even higher than Milo in the field, something that both horrified and annoyed Milo and served as ammunition for Ace to use to get under his colleague's skin when he was bored. Ace liked to pretend that ushering the newly deceased in to the Afterlife was just a way to gain access to unlimited booze and a cushy place to call his own, but the reality was that the position made him feel needed and important, two things that had been notably missing from his life before a particularly icy stretch of winding road had landed him here.

He was sitting atop the bar now, cleaning his fingernails with a cocktail pick and humming along with the raspy voice of Bruce Springsteen that was filtering out from the jukebox speakers. Everything dies baby that's a fact; but maybe everything that dies someday comes back. There was a loud click and Ace looked up to see the counter mounted on the back wall flick from 1653 to 1654. With a sigh, he pushed himself off the bar and stuck the pick between his teeth. A few seconds later, a short, balding man in a business suit wandered in through the saloon-style door beneath the counter looking anxious and confused.

"Oy, over here," Ace called, motioning him over to the bar. When the man hesitated, Ace added, "Let's go! I don't bite."

The man blinked a few times then scurried over, choosing the least ripped leather stool near the middle of the bar. He tugged nervously at his tie, a gaudy thing emblazoned with a drawing of Garfield beneath the words "is it Friday yet?" and cleared his throat.

"I, um, I..."

"Why don't you stay awhile, eh?" Ace interrupted. He motioned to the man's suit jacket and the man quickly pulled it off and folded it neatly onto the stool next to him. "Nice tie, by the way," he added with a snort.

"Oh, um, thank you. It was a birthday gift from my daughter."

Mentally, Ace kicked himself. He could really be an ass sometimes and he instantly regretted his sarcasm.

"Ah. Now then, what can I get ya...?" He trailed off leaving an opening for the man to offer his name.

"Sam."

"What can I get you, Sam?"

"A beer would be great, actually," Sam answered. He was still fidgeting, but his shoulders had relaxed and he appeared to be slightly more at ease now.

Ace turned around to prepare the man's drink. He didn't need to be told outright to know exactly what Sam desired. It was a kind of intuition that came with the job. Singing along with the music floating through the room, he pulled a round, metal tray off of a shelf above his head and placed on it the things he instinctively knew that Sam wanted. When he spun around to offer them, however, Sam was leaning over, ruffling through his suit jacket.

"Uh?" Ace leaned against the bar and cocked an eyebrow, balancing the tray expertly on his fingertips.

"Oh!" Sam straightened with a start and then slid a small, rectangular photo across the bar towards Ace.

With his free hand, Ace picked up the picture. In it was a young, pretty, blonde girl wearing a green graduation cap and gown. She was laughing and holding up a diploma with one hand while giving a thumbs up with the other.

"That's my daughter," Sam said proudly. He was grinning from ear to ear. "She just graduated from college. Beautiful, isn't she?"

"She is," Ace answered honestly. He handed the photo back to Sam and held out the tray.

Sam slipped the photo in the pocket of his shirt and gave it a pat, then took the pint of beer and bowl of orange wedges off the tray with a smile.

"Blue Moon," he said with an appreciative nod. "I drink a few of these every Sunday while I watch the game."

"Good choice."

"So," Sam said, spinning the pint glass between his hands. "What's going to happen after I drink this?" It was clear that he was starting to become more aware of the reality of his situation. Most people started to connect the dots on their own and realize that they hadn't just aimlessly wandered into a bar on their way home from work that day. However, many of them needed help getting the full picture.

"Well," Ace drummed his fingers against the bar and shrugged nonchalantly. "You will feel a mild tingling sensation, followed by death."

"Really?" Sam paused suddenly and then pushing the glass away, his face white and terror-stricken.

"No, not really."

"Oh!" He laughed nervously and then took a swig of beer.

"Your actually already dead."

Instinctively, Ace held up the tray to block his face as Sam spit out a spray of beer.

"I'm dead?" He sputtered between coughs.

"You're dead," Ace echoed, handing him a napkin over the top of the tray.

It was quiet then, save for the music playing from the jukebox. Sam was patting the wet spot on the front of his shirt and staring down into his beer silently, so Ace busied himself with rinsing off the tray. It was often best to give people some time to come to terms with the revelation without pushing or interfering. Ace wasn't the most compassionate escort to ever come along, but he knew how to most efficiently do his job.

"I think I had a feeling," Sam said quietly. 'Had a feeling that I was... you know."

Ace dried his hands on his pants and turned back around. "Most people do," he replied.

"So, is this what you do? Your job is to tell people they're dead?"

"Something like that," Ace said dryly.

"Sounds pretty important."

Ace leaned his elbows against the bar and considered Sam's words. He supposed there was some level of importance to his job in that people might just otherwise spend their eternities wandering around in limbo, but it was a very small part of a much bigger, much more well oiled machine. Not to mention that there were hundreds of other escorts who could easily take his place and probably do it better. Definitely with more empathy. He ended up giving a noncommittal shrug in answer and Sam clicked his tongue.

"You know, I worked a mid-level desk job for most of my life. Insurance claims and the like. I wasn't saving lives or changing the world, but I got a paycheck and I put food on the table. Put a roof over my family's head. Helped my little girl get through college. It wasn't an important job, but the job was important. You're doing a good thing here. You should be proud of it."

Ace was used to people trying to impart wisdom on him before moving on. It was a natural response to realizing you were dead and that this could be your last chance to say something meaningful and profound. Life is short. Don't take things for granted. Don't take a chance on eating ground beef you accidentally left out on the counter overnight. He'd heard a plethora of tips and wise words and most of them went in one ear and out the other all while he politely nodded along, wondering if he'd meet his daily quota. This, however, was making his head buzz and his cheeks burn.

Ace was pretty sure no one had ever been proud of him, not during his lifetime and not after it. He'd never done anything worth a damn that he could remember. In his living years, he'd been a slacker and a troublemaker, and now he did a job that was assigned to him with very little ulterior investment. But, maybe, there was something more to it. Maybe.

"Thank you," Ace said, feeling unnaturally flustered.

Sam nodded and finished the last of his beer. He swirled the orange wedge around the bottom of the glass and sighed before sliding off the bar stool. He picked up his jacket and draped it over his arm.

"I hope my daughter will be alright." He patted his shirt pocket affectionately.

"I'm sure she will be," Ace said. "She was lucky to have had you as a dad."

Sam smiled and dipped his head, then held out his hand.

"It was nice to meet you..."

"Ace."

"It was nice to meet you, Ace."

"It was nice meeting you, Sam," Ace said, and he meant it. He took Sam's hand and gave it a firm shake.

"Now, I just...?"

Ace motioned back towards the door. "Head out that way. You'll know where to go from there."

Sam gave Ace's hand a final squeeze and offered a kind smile, then headed towards the door. Ace watched him the whole way, but he didn't look back.

Ace stretched his arms up towards the ceiling and gave himself a shake to clear his head then turned back towards the bar. There, under the empty pint glass, was the photo of Sam's daughter. He must have taken it out of his pocket again at some point and accidentally left it behind. Ace picked it up and smiled at the joyful girl in the picture, then slid it into his back pocket. He found himself wanting to wipe down the bar a bit, something he very rarely worried himself with. Today, however, he felt a little bit lighter and his chest puffed out a little bit farther. Any minute now, someone else would be wandering into the bar and he wanted to be ready.

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 9

cheapxdate — Sat, 13 Feb 2016 00:54:31 GMT

This is my entry for Week 9 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: "404"

Milo was carefully adjusting the various liquor bottles so that all of their labels faced properly outward when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. With a sigh, he turned to see Tenshi descending the metal spiral staircase at the back of the room, clipboard in hand and an unenthusiastic Ace in tow.

He tugged a damp rag out from his belt loop and busied himself with wiping down the bar, pretending not to notice them and hoping that by some miracle they would just go away.

No such luck.

"Milo," Tenshi snapped, hoisting her small frame up on top of a stool and dropping her clipboard unceremoniously down onto the bar with a loud smack. "We have business."

"Alright." Milo balled the rag in his fist and looked up. "What is it?"

The most obvious thing one first noticed about Tenshi was that she had the physical appearance of a child. Her small, round face was smattered with freckles and her white blonde hair hung down her back in two fishtail braids. Her wide, glossy, blue eyes were framed by long, feathery lashes. She was tiny in stature and her voice had an innocent, high-pitched tone to it. Her skin was translucently pale and smooth, free from any time worn imperfections. This, however, greatly contradicted the way she would constantly and condescendingly bark orders from over the top of her clipboard. She also acted as though everything was of the utmost importance and needed to be handled with extreme expediency. Lots of things about her got under Milo's skin, but her impatience annoyed him the most. They were, after all, dead. Time was not exactly of the essence.

Ace had taken a seat on the stool beside her and was drumming his fingers against the shiny, wooden bar top looking bored. Ace always looked bored. He was handsome, by earthly standards, with dark hair that fell over his deep green eyes and a sharp, chiseled jawline. He never buttoned his black vest and his tie always hung down loosely around his neck. It was the kind of boyish dishevelment that Milo guessed women went crazy over, but he just found it unprofessional and careless.

"You'll be training a new escort today. She'll be debriefed, prepped and sent down here within the next twenty minutes." Tenshi pulled a pen out from behind her ear and scribbled something down on her clipboard.

Milo braced himself against the bar and shook his head.

"I don't have time for this. I'm already behind for the week. Can't Ace do it?" He gestured towards the large, digital counter above the stairs. '404,' it read. It was only Wednesday and he was already behind about 600 shells.

"No." Tenshi was curt and direct, and Milo had enough experience to know that pleading his case any further would have no effect. To punctuate the end of the conversation, she shoved her clipboard under her arm and hopped off of the stool.

"Yo, make me something for the road?" Ace grinned and gestured over Milo's shoulder towards the line of spirits. "You can add it to my tab."

"You don't have a tab. And anyway, you're out of things I want."

Tenshi, who was already halfway across the room, paused and cleared her throat.

"Oh, and Milo?" she called. "You may no longer be among the living, but let's try to handle this one with a little warmth and liveliness, yes?"

She snapped her fingers and continued towards the stairs.

Ace groaned, pushed himself away from the bar and loped off after her.

>>>>>> <<<<<<

Milo held the position of escort in Lounge 7. It was one of the larger lounges - cozy, rich and smelling of wood. The walls were lined with heavy, sweeping curtains, plush, velvet, over-sized couches were arranged in the center and a long, dark oak bar stretched across the entire front of the room. There were leather accents and shining, polished brass knobs, and two massive chandeliers that cast everything in a dim, yellow light.

Drinks comforted people, whether they were alcoholic or not - an egg cream from your childhood, a hot chocolate like your mother used to make, the dry champagne you drank the night of your wedding after all the guests had stumbled home and you'd retreated to your hotel suite. Familiar beverages made people feel safe and soothed and reminded them of a happier time when things actually made sense. Milo could pull any number of things out from behind the bar. Whatever you ordered, it was always in stock and ready to be served. Such was the job of an escort - part bartender, part guide into the Afterlife. All day, people (or shells, as the escorts referred to them) would trickle in down the spiral staircase near the back of them room, each with varying degrees of understanding of where they were and why they were there. Milo would welcome them to The Lounge, offer them a drink of their choosing and then bring them up to speed.

Some accepted their fates quickly, with open arms. Some knew the reality of their situation before he even had a chance to speak. Some were angry or distraught and would loiter in the lounge for hours while Milo busied himself with polishing the silverware and cleaning glasses. This week in particular had ushered in a large number of laggers and Milo was sitting at a measly 404 shells sent on their way - hopelessly below quota. And now Tenshi wanted him to train a new escort.

He glanced up at the counter and began to sigh, but it caught in his throat suddenly and he ended up making a strangled, coughing sound instead. Standing atop the stairs was a very beautiful, very lost looking young woman.

Speak of the devil, he thought, humorlessly. Newbie.

"Down here," he called. "Let's get on with it."

The woman peeked over her shoulder and then began slowly descending the stairs. Milo tried to divert his attention to lining up a pile of cocktail napkins, but glanced up again before he could stop himself.

Her hair was long and dark and poker straight, and it fanned out behind her like a cape as she walked, the contrast of it against her creamy skin eliciting an ethereal glow. Her lips were small and pink and curved into a mischievous half-smile. She wore a simple sundress that hung perfectly on her willowy frame and it twirled playfully around her knees with each step. There was a boldness about her, in the way she carried herself, head held high, that exuded confidence and determination. It wasn't until she had crossed nearly a third of the room that Milo was able to snap his focus back to stacking the napkins. When she reached the bar, she noisily cleared her throat.

Milo hesitated before looking up. There she stood, with her hands on her hips, one eyebrow cocked in an expression akin to amusement. Now that she was closer, he could see her eyes. They were brown, but not a dull, drab brown. No, they were warm and bright like the color of burning firewood, familiar and inviting like the color of the bar. They were the color of earth, the color of whiskey, and they easily sized him up in a way that made him feel bare.

"Sit," Milo demanded, tugging slightly at the neck of his tie.

She bowed slightly, then hopped gracefully atop one of the bar stools, tucking her feet onto one of the wooden rungs beneath her.

"So..." She smiled and ran a hand along the top of the bar. "Are you going to offer me a drink?"

"No. We have work to do."

"Aw, but it seems like such a shame to not take advantage of all of this!" She pouted slightly and gestured around the room.

"We're not permitted to drink on the job."

"Well, I'm not on the job," she retorted.

"Yet," Milo muttered under his breath, but she didn't hear him. Instead, she was now swinging her legs back and forth, her lips stretched into a wide smile.

"I'm having the weirdest craving for a Margarita. I haven't had one of those since college. I don't even know what made me think of it!"

Milo was used to requests like these. It was an effect of the bar. He wanted to tell her that they didn't have time for this, that he needed to start her training immediately so he could get back to his real job. If he had any hopes of hitting 1000 shells before Last Light he needed to get through this session as soon as possible. However, something about the pure look of delight dashed across her face rendered him unable to do so. Instead, he made a sweeping motion with his hand and then reached beneath the bar.

"Here." He lifted a large glass towards her. It was filled to the top with icy, light green Margarita.

"I didn't even say frozen. How did you know?" She hurriedly reached across the bar and grabbed a napkin, her scramble leaving the rest of the pile in disarray. Milo pursed his lips together and narrowed his eyes in irritation as she took the glass, but again she was too enthralled with her drink to notice.

"Intuition. It comes with the position," Milo answered coldly.

"Does abject annoyance come with it as well?" she teased, sipping her drink coyly.

Milo didn't answer. He busied himself with re-stacking the napkins into a neat pile until a hand unexpectedly flew in front of his face.

"Mira," the woman said. She was practically laying across the bar now, with her arm extended towards him, her dark hair spilling over the wooden surface.

"Milo," he returned, accepting the handshake. Her grip was stronger than he expected. "Now, we need to get star-"

"Oh!" She gasped, interrupting him, and he crossed his arms tightly over his chest in frustration. She was patting the front of her dress, a look of dismay written across her face.

"Now what?" he asked, exasperated.

"I- I don't have any money. For the drink."

"Money?" Milo snorted. "We don't deal in paper and coins up here."

"Oh, well, I see." She looked up and tilted her head curiously.

Clearly, Ace had slacked off during her debriefing. It wasn't a surprise, but Milo could feel his head ache with annoyance.

"The currency here is memories," Milo explained, grabbing a rag out from under the bar and wiping the places where the condensation from Mira's glass had dripped.

When he looked up, she was staring at him blankly.

"Did they not cover this?" Milo sighed. "Ok, so, your Afterlife can only be made up of things you know and can accurately recreate. My Afterlife is different from your Afterlife, is different from any of the thousands of others who pass through here daily. You can't recreate a beach you've never been to. Your subconscious doesn't have enough information saved. If you've never had caviar, you'll never find it served at the banquet hall. Unless, of course, you barter for it somewhere along the way. Here we trade in experiences."

"I'm sorry. I... I don't think I understand," she said, her brows knitting in confusion.

"Ok." Milo exhaled and tossed the wet rag over his shoulder. His explanation was obviously not clear enough. This is why he didn't handle the debriefing process. Instead of uselessly trying to put it into words again, he reached beneath the bar and pulled out a round, white, ceramic plate. He placed the dish down onto the bar in front of her and pointed at it.

"Think of something you've never eaten. Something you know you've never tasted. Picture it in your mind and then picture it on this plate. Be as specific as possible."

Her expression was skeptical as she glanced between him and the plate, but eventually she shrugged and looked down, focusing her attention on the empty dish.

Milo squinted up at the staircase and then at the counter which still read 404. Ace was probably pissed about earlier and had thrown this girl down here after a very simple crash course explanation as pay back. If she was this behind, it was going to take forever to get her up to speed and ready for Lounge 2. Milo's thoughts, however, were interrupted by sudden movement out of the corner of his eye.

The air above the plate had begun to shimmer and Mira jumped back on her stool with a gasp.

"Keep going," he pressed. "Do it again."

She nodded, eyes wide, and leaned towards the dish a second time, now biting her lower lip in concentration. Again, the space above the plate began to warp. The air spun and rolled and folded in on itself, becoming increasingly opaque as it moved. There was a low hum and then a crack, as through two edges of air had solidified and smacked together, and then there on the plate were two round, green lumps, each flecked with slivers of dark brown.

"Ice cream?" Milo scoffed, reaching out and spinning the plate from side to side to examine it. "You've never had ice cream?"

"Mint chocolate chip," she said with a wry smile. "I'm severely lactose intolerant. Was."

"Ah." His expression lightened slightly and he reached under the bar again, this time to retrieve a spoon. He handed it to her and pushed the plate closer. "Try it."

She tucked her hair behind her ears and grinned, bouncing a bit on her stool. Her excitement was palpable and child-like. Milo rolled his eyes and tugged the rag off of his shoulder, busying himself with buffing out a dull spot on the bar top and trying to ignore the way the edges of his mouth threatened to twitch upward.

"Well?" he asked as she scooped a spoonful into her mouth.

"It tastes like... It tastes like...," Mira's eyes popped open and then her lips pressed into a tight line of disappointment. She glared at him, tossing the spoon down onto the bar. "Nothing. It has no taste at all! It's not even cold!"

"That's right," he said, pushing the dish away. "You've never had it and so you can't recreate it. But, now let's say I want you to cover an extra shift for me or run something up to the office. I have leverage. I have something to offer you in exchange for the favor."

He pulled out a second clean plate from beneath the bar and placed it down on the surface between them. Then he raised his hand, nodding his head towards it.

"Here. Put your hand against mine."

Mira shifted on the stool and tilted her head. She hesitated slightly and then slowly lifted her hand and pressed her palm flat against Milo's. Playfully, she pushed her fingertips against his and her mouth twisted into a cheeky half-smile, but Milo did not return it.

"Focus," he scolded, and she straightened, pursing her lips and pulling her expression into one of over-exaggerated seriousness.

He was suddenly very aware of how warm and soft her small hand felt against his larger, rougher one. And she was now looking into his eyes with an intense expectancy that was making it very difficult for him to focus.

"Close your eyes," he demanded, even though it was an arbitrary request and not a necessary part of the process. She raised an eyebrow in response, but did as she was told.

Milo took a deep breath and then he visualized mint chocolate chip ice cream in his mind. He thought carefully about the sweetness, the lingering taste of mint, the gritty texture of the small flakes of chocolate against the smooth creaminess. He imagined every small detail as clearly and thoroughly as possible and then, mentally, he pushed it through the palm of his hand and into her's.

He heard her sharp intake of breath and knew the transfer had been successful.

He cleared his throat. "You can open your eyes."

Mira blinked her eyes open slowly as Milo pulled his hand away and pushed the plate towards her with the other.

"Now, try again."

Mira seemed to pause and consider him for a moment. The way she was looking at him was unnerving him again and he shifted under her gaze. It was as though she was simultaneously seeing through him while also seeing all of him at once, parts of him he kept far below the surface. It made him feel naked and exposed and he found himself subconsciously taking a step back away from the bar. She gave him another of her playful half-smiles, rubbed her hands together and then looked down at the empty plate. After a few moments, the air above the dish again took on an iridescent hue, reflecting the light in the room as it began to ripple and spin. As before, there was a low buzz and then a snap, and then two roundish, light green lumps materialized on the plate. Wordlessly, she lifted one finger and swiped it along the ice cream, scooping up a gob. Her eyes widened in surprise.

"It's cold!"

Milo snorted derisively. "It's ice cream."

Ignoring him, she slowly lifted her finger to her lips and popped it into her mouth. She let out a small sound of surprise and then laughed. It was a deeper, louder sound than he expected and it caused her entire small body to shake. She threw her head back, her long, dark hair cascading down over her shoulders, and laughed some more. It was pure and real and more beautiful than any sound Milo had ever managed to recreate in his Afterlife. He found himself frozen behind the bar unable to tear his attention away from her raw show of emotion and delight. She threw herself forward, doubled over from the force of her own cackles, and wiped at her eyes. A second sound joined in with her's and it took Milo's ears a moment to register that he too had started laughing. The foreign, unexpected sound made his chest instantly feel both heavier and lighter and the lounge seemed to tilt and blur. Without thinking, he reached out and ran his own finger through the softening ice cream, then licked it clean. Immediately, he felt his face heat and his laughter caught in his throat. Mira straightened suddenly and quieted.

"It's amazing," she whispered. "That's incredible."

Milo surreptitiously wiped his wet finger against the leg of his pants and nodded, the tips of his ears burning hot.

"What else can you do?" she asked, raising up her hand. Her voice was laced with breathy excitement.

"Anything. Anything I've experienced, I can share with you. Roller coaster rides, sunsets, storms, more ice cream..." He smiled sheepishly and started to lift his hand to hers.

"Milo!"

Startled, Milo looked up and over Mira's shoulder. Ace was standing at the bottom of the staircase with his arms crossed over his chest, his face contorted into a look of confusion and annoyance.

"Um, excuse me a moment." Milo dropped his hand and sighed, then hoisted himself up over the bar and walked slowly to where Ace waited. He was vaguely aware that his chest was tightening with every step he took.

"Milo," Ace hissed, grabbing him by the arm and spinning so that both of them were facing away from the bar. "Why is 404 still here?"

"404?" Milo squinted at the counter above their heads.

"Yes." Ace reached out and flicked Milo against the forehead. "404. You haven't sent her on yet? We sent her down here over half an hour ago! She's an easy one! Why is she still here?"

Milo blinked and felt his hands ball into fists at his sides.

"Tenshi is going to have a fuckin' fit. You've gotta be backed up, like, fifty shells by now. Not to mention you've got your trainee waiting in the wings. Get 404 moving. Now."

"404," Milo echoed, the truth slowly dawning on him.

"Dude, what's with you?" Ace went to flick Milo again, but Milo blocked it this time. Ace's eyes narrowed and he took a step forward, grabbing Milo tightly by the bicep. "I don't know what your deal is, but just get back on track, man. I'm not covering for your ass today."

With that he released his grip and headed back up the stairs, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. Milo watched until he'd reached the landing and disappeared down the hall, then his chin fell to his chest and he stared numbly at the floor.

Mira wasn't the trainee. Mira was number 404.

With a deep breath, Milo headed slowly back towards the bar. Mira was still sitting atop a stool, swinging her legs back and forth and sipping the last of the Margarita from her glass.

"Um..." Milo was finding words difficult and his tongue felt clumsy and dry in his mouth. His words, however, turned out to be unnecessary.

"I have to get going, don't I?" Mira said quietly, spinning her empty glass between her palms.

Milo swallowed and nodded. She already knew. This is what Ace had meant by 'an easy one.'

"Well, Milo." She held her hand out to him with a small smile. "It was nice meeting you. Thank you for the drink. And the ice cream."

Milo took her hand and shook it. Her grip was just as strong and as sure as it had been before and it made him feel strangely weak. Wordlessly, he lead her away from the bar and towards the foot of the stairs.

For a moment, they both just stared at each other. It had only been a half an hour, forty minutes at most, but somehow their time together had seemed to stretch out longer. Milo felt a strange flutter in his stomach as Mira nodded and turned away. Quietly, he watched as she ascended the stairs, feeling very much unlike himself. She seemed to be hesitating with every step, but he wasn't sure if that was the reality of her movements or just what he wanted to see. He waited there until she had reached the top landing and then, with a small wave, she disappeared into the shadows.

With a loud sigh, he turned and returned to the bar, hoisting himself back up and over to his station with a groan. His mind was buzzing in unfamiliar ways and he quickly busied himself with washing in an attempt to ignore the strange tugging sensation.

"Milo!"

Milo spun around suddenly, holding a glass tumbler in one hand and a rag in the other.

"Milo," Mira gasped from the top of the stairs. Her fingers were clutching the railing so hard that he could see that her knuckles were white.

"The recreating thing," she yelled. "You said you can only recreate things you know, right? Things you've experienced yourself."

Milo nodded. "Yes."

"People," she shouted, hunching over slightly to catch her breath. "Can you recreate people?"

Milo felt his eyes widen and something in his chest twisted painfully. Slowly, he nodded again. "Yes."

Mira straightened and offered him a magnificent grin.

"Ok," she said softly. "Ok, then." Her eyes shimmered and her smiled widened impossibly further. "I'll be going now."

Milo dipped his head and gave a small wave.

"Wish me luck!"

He opened his mouth, but she was already gone. With a deep breath, he leaned forward against the bar and pulled the half-melted plate of mint chocolate chip ice cream closer. He was vaguely aware that his mouth had pulled into a smile as he retrieved a spoon. He finished the remaining cold treat and wiped down the bar top, all the while feeling oddly light and refreshed. He glanced up at the counter.

405.

>>>>>> <<<<<<

This piece was loosely inspired by the manga/anime Death Parade. So, if you enjoyed this, I highly encourage checking it out! It's even dubbed!

If you enjoyed this it would mean a lot if you could vote for me here >> LJ Idol. I'm on Team Norbert and I highly recommend checking out my teammate's pieces as well! TY! ♥

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 8

cheapxdate — Sat, 06 Feb 2016 00:50:40 GMT

This is my entry for Week 8 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: "They said it couldn't be done."

From my place by the window, I watch you gracefully prance around the snow-covered backyard. It's a little after 2pm and although the air is crisp and cool, the sun is shining brightly through the twisted, bare tree branches, scattering crystal-like reflections across the freshly fallen powder. You twirl and jump and kick up a shower of white flakes, giggling and shrieking all the while. Your blonde, curly hair flies wildly around your shoulders, unable to be tamed by the bright yellow, knit hat pulled down over your forehead. Matching yellow mittens cover your soft, tiny hands and a pair of big, brown boots come up to your knees. You're wearing your brother's old blue snowsuit; it's baggy around the middle, but I know it's warm. Despite the clashing color palette, your father has done well bundling you up for your afternoon winter romp. Off to the side, your brother is working hard at packing together a rather large ball of snow, but he occasionally glances over to where you're playing, keeping a watchful eye on you as I knew he would.

- - - - - - - - - -

I was young when I was diagnosed with skin cancer and newly pregnant. It seemed unfair to have my exciting and wonderful journey marred by such a dark cloud. Finding out I was pregnant had been such an emotional and surreal experience, but then so had finding out I had cancer just a few short weeks later, though in a very opposite way. It wasn't the death sentence kind of cancer, but it also wasn't the kind where they could simply cut it out and then send me on my way. I had always been extremely fair - I didn't fake tan and I always wore sunblock when I went to the beach. I didn't have any particularly irregular moles, though I suppose I could have been more diligent in checking them. There was no family history to speak of, but my paternal grandfather had died before I was born so I could only trace my line back so far. The doctors and the specialists all agreed that it seemed to come down to an unlucky roll of genetics, but I couldn't fold the cards I'd been dealt and so I tried to take it in stride. It was an absolute whirlwind of difficult and painful and terrifying. What had started out as a routine pregnancy was suddenly completely overwhelming. There were suddenly so many scary, important choices to make and decisions to think about. The fear that something that I did to make myself better might have adverse effects on my unborn child was agonizing. Consultations between my many doctors often took hours; time that I spent with my increasingly swelled body stuffed into uncomfortable hospital chairs, gnawing at my cuticles as I silently prayed they would find a solution that would be safe for the both of us.

News of my conditions quickly spread - the happy followed closely by the unfortunate. While my protruding belly easily gave away one, it seemed I was wearing an equally obvious scarlet "C" on my chest to announce the other. I quickly tired of the pained looks of sympathy and soft hand pats of pity from local acquaintances. "God has a plan," they would offer quietly, as if that somehow made any of this easier to bear. In my mind, the only plan God seemed to have was making me miserable and trying to greedily take back the precious gift he had bestowed upon me. God's plan sucked.

Somehow, however, despite the complicated and unorthadox path it took to get there, I managed to successfully carry to full term. I was weak and bruised and had been poked and prodded more times than I cared to count. There had been scares and coin-toss decisions and tears and anger and hope. So much hope. And when I finally gave birth to my son, healthy and perfect, I knew it had been his strength that had pulled us both through. Once he entered the world, a weight had been lifted, both literally and figuratively, and I felt renewed. Looking down into the precious, pink face of my tightly swaddled child, I felt like I could take on anything.

My son wasn't the only miracle I was blessed with that year. It was declared soon after that my cancer had gone into remission. And, while this was wonderful news, it also came with an alarming revelation: remission did not mean cured. You see, normal, every day people who have not had their lives touched by the cold, cruel fingers of cancer often think that remission means the person is all better and the cancer is gone. The truth, however, is much different and something that no one actually bothered to explain to me until ridiculously long after my diagnosis and after weeks of throwing the word around like the Holy Grail. Remission had been seen as the finish line, but it was more akin to a comfortable pit stop where you would hope to set up camp for the long haul. Remission meant the cancer was being managed and I was no longer at risk of dropping dead at any moment, but it did not mean it had vacated my body completely.

I had thought my doctors were pretty candid and open with me about the situation. They'd always been quick to pull out numbers and odds and study-backed statistics when it came to my cancer and it's links to my pregnancy, no matter how grim. But only after I had birthed my son did they admit how dire things had been and how unexpected it was that the both of us had pulled through the entire ordeal. And despite the fact that I was holding a baby who was only a few weeks old when I posed the question, it was one I knew I wanted to ask: Could I safely have another child?

No, they said. It couldn't be done.

The answer was heartbreaking, but it was abundantly clear that the doctors strongly advised against it. I had grown up with two brothers and a sister and I understood the deep and meaningful bond that could be formed between siblings. I wanted so badly for my son to have a brother or sister of his own, someone with whom he could grow and play and rely on, but apparently the toll it would take on my weakened body would be too much. It would be almost impossible that I would be able to carry to full term and even if I did somehow manage that miracle a second time, it was highly probably that one of us would not survive the actual birth. My immune system was shot and while I had achieved the coveted plateau of 'remission,' it simply wasn't enough. It was a crushing blow to hear. Cancer had robbed me of any real enjoyment of my first pregnancy and now it had stolen my chances at having another at all. Still, my job first and foremost now was to be the best mother I could be to my son, my little living and breathing miracle. I certainly didn't think I could do that from six feet under and so, with a heavy heart, I packed away my dream of carrying another child and went on two forms of birth control, as instructed and monitored by my gynecologist.

- - - - - - - - - -

You seem to have grown tired of frolicking around in your own little world and you've now joined your brother, crouching down beside him with a look of concentration on your face. Your nose and cheeks are bright pink and even from my place inside the house, I can see the tiny, diamond-like flakes caught in your long lashes. The large ball of snow your brother was creating has doubled in size and he's started to roll together a second one. I watch you nod seriously as he talks, explaining to you how to pack the snow together to create the shape, his breath creating gentle, white puffs in the air. Through the glass, I can only hear snippets of your conversation, but I can tell he's being patient and kind, and although he might be a little less so when his third grade peers are around, I am proud. Together, you carefully build a snowman, and my heart swells with love.

- - - - - - - - - -

I don't understand how it happened. The odds were astronomical and I'd already had my fair share of falling outside of the statistical norm... but the test was definitive.

"You're definitely pregnant," my gynecologist said, her face grim and apologetic.

My husband was in the chair beside me, his fingers pressed together in front of his lips, forming a kind of hand-pyramid. I don't know what he was thinking, but he wasn't saying anything and I was finding myself at a loss for words as well. The room stayed silent save for the ominous ticking of the clock above the door. Was it counting down the remaining seconds of my life? The doctors told me that a second pregnancy would very likely be fatal. Was I just going to drop dead at any moment? Was the cancer blooming and blossoming in my body at an alarming rate as we sat there in awe-struck silence?

"What are our options?" I said finally, as my husband lowered his hand to grab mine.

My gynecologist sank down into her desk chair and sighed, tossing her clipboard unceremniously on top of a nearby filing cabinet. And then she gave it to us straight.

-

I'd met with so many doctors in such a short amount of time that my head was spinning. The window of opportunity was closing quickly. If I was going to decide to terminate the pregnancy without risking my remission, I needed to do so as soon as possible. But, for every fifteen doctors who claimed that was my only real option, there would be one who offered the slightest sliver of hope, even if he ultimately advised against it. My husband and I talked and we cried and we prayed for the first time in years, but no magical voice from the heavens told us what to do. In the end, the decision was ours alone and, while it may seem silly, I could not shake the idea that this baby wanted to be born. It had circumvented multiple methods of birth control and proven once again that I was not bound to the odds. Beating the statistics seemed to be a trend for me and I believed that this too would work out in my favor. This is, of course, a slight oversimplification of the decision process, but ultimately, I decided to try and keep the baby.

There's a lot that could be said about this pregnancy - about the fear and the disapproval and the many many sleepless nights, but what matters is that in the end, somehow, someway, I once again defied the odds and gave birth to a gorgeous baby girl. AND I did it all while keeping cancer in remission. My world felt like it was complete and I was beyond grateful to have been blessed with so many miracles. Looking down into my baby girl's angelic face, her big brother beaming by my side, the cancer seemed like such a small price to pay.

Or so I thought.

We had a few short months together as a perfect, happy family and then the news dropped down like an ACME anvil. Just as I'd been warned, the pregnancy had been too rough on my body. The cancer had returned, and this time with a vengeance. This time, it had a different name. Melanoma.

- - - - - - - - - -

You shriek with laughter as your brother secures the head on a third snowman. It's the smallest of the three, flanked on both sides by larger snowmen. You're digging in the snow now, searching for rocks to create the snowperson's eyes. I lean closer to the window pane, my lips inches from the glass, but my breath causes no fog. I watch as you triumphantly hold up your tiny fists and then reveal two grey stones. Your brother helps you push them into the soft snow of the snowperson's head and then you both step back to admire your work.

"We still have to make a mommy snowman," you say, after a few moments of appreciation.

"Yeah, we do. Come on."

My vision blurs with tears as you both set back to work, rolling the snow together. I don't know how much longer I have to watch you like this, but I savor every single moment. It's just another miracle that I've been blessed to experience and I don't take it for granted. I'm sure I'll eventually have to move on, as they say, but for now I'm content with quietly watching your grow and play and learn and love.

They said it couldn't be done, and, in the end they were right. I traded my life for yours. I put up a damned good fight, but after four long, tumultuous years, my body could simply do no more. The final miracle that I was blessed with was being given the honor of bringing you into this world, and although it came at a great expense, I never once regretted my decision, even for a moment. I know that not everyone agreed with my choice and that I've left pain behind in my place in the hearts of my loved ones, but seeing you here, now, living... it's all the consolation I could ever ask for. My only worry was that you wouldn't remember me - not my choice, not my sacrifice - just... me, your mother. We had such a short time together that I can't imagine you remember how I smelled or how we shared the same curly, blonde hair or how I would sing you to sleep or anything specific like that. But, as you put the finishing touches on the mommy snowman and then step back, hand in hand with your brother, both of you grinning at the snow-version of our perfect little family, I know I am in your heart, as you are in mine. Forever.

* * *

While this story is fiction, it is largely based off of the real life of an incredible woman and mother, Susan DeSalvo. This May will be 10 years since she lost her battle against skin cancer, but she will never be forgotten by the people who knew her. If found early, skin cancer can be very effectively treated. Please make yearly appointments with your dermotogist even if you don't tan or sunburn. It is SO worth it.

If you enjoyed this it would mean a lot if you could vote for me here >> LJ Idol. I'm on Team Norbert and I recommend checking out my teammate's pieces as well and voting if you are so moved! TY! ♥

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 7

cheapxdate — Fri, 29 Jan 2016 22:44:27 GMT

This is my entry for Week 7 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: "When you live for someone you're prepared to die"

We met when we were eight. It was the summer and the air was sticky and heavy with heat. The wind carried along the smoky scent of charcoal and grilled meats and the familiar summer sounds of growling lawn mowers and dogs barking in the distance. I was sitting on top of the monkey bars, chewing strawberry bubble gum and swinging my legs back and forth in the breeze, humming quietly to myself. The rest of the park was empty, but it was almost dinner time and the thick humidity had sent most of the neighborhood kids home early. I didn’t mind though, as I didn’t much like playing with the neighborhood kids anyway. Most of them were mean to me and often assigned me the least appealing roles in the games we played or made fun of my glasses. I was happy to have the entire playground to myself, so when you walked across the wood chips to where I was sitting, my eyes closed against the strong, August sun, I know I was more than a little annoyed.

“Hey, you!” you called to me. I blinked in the harsh sunlight before looking down.

“What do you want?” I asked defensively, shielding my eyes against the blinding light.

You were smiling. It was a huge grin that stretched across your entire face, bright as the August sun burning above our heads. The irritation in my voice had been clear, but your expression didn’t waver and you didn’t hesitate.

“Do you want to be friends?”

The question caught me off-guard and I stopped swinging my legs. No one had ever asked me to be their friend before, at least, not in such a direct and pointed way. There were plenty of kids I spent my free time with, but even then I knew they were friends of convenience rather than choice. The concept of friendship at age eight was a very loose term. Sure, the neighborhood kids always made me “It” when we played tag and sometimes put rocks in my shoes, but we played together often and even if I was always picked last for teams or never had a partner for the see-saw I was still involved and included so surely that was enough to constitute friendship. Still, this skewed view of what could be considered a friend made me wary of adding any more to my network. Besides, I had never seen you before and so your offer was somewhat suspicious.

“No," I scoffed.

“Please, be my friend?!” you yelled and your smile faltered slightly.

“No. Go away.” I stood my ground, but you were still not deterred. Instead of leaving like I’d hoped, you jammed your small hands into your pockets and pulled out two Matchbox race cars.

“Wanna race 'em down the slide?” You looked up at me hopefully, holding the cars out on your palms. “I’ll let you pick the one you want!”

My interest had been slightly piqued. No one had ever let me pick first. In fact, I would probably normally be relegated to the task of retrieving the cars and returning them to the top of the slide for the racers. The idea actually sounded pretty fun, but I was still mistrusting of your motives and the sun was starting to slide down behind the line of trees in the distance; the daily cue that it was time for me to start heading home.

I pushed myself off of my throne atop the monkey bars, landing expertly on my feet next to you.

“I have to go,” I said and you curled your fingers around the miniature metal cars with a sigh of disappointment.

Your smile finally fell and with it my resolve. Because in it’s absence, I realized quickly that I liked your smile. Defeated, you turned to leave, probably realizing that I wasn’t worth your time or effort, but much like my late appreciation of your easy, wide grin, I found myself already longing for more of your attention.

“I’ll be back here tomorrow after lunch, though,” I added, trying to look as nonchalant as an eager eight year old could muster.

You turned back and I was relieved to see your bright smile firmly back in place. I returned it with one of my own and felt my cheeks flush with a warmth I didn’t yet understand. The sensation lasted throughout my entire walk-skip home and, as it would so happen, much longer after that.

- - - -

When we were eighteen, you teased me about our first meeting. We were laying in a tangle of blankets in the back of your pick-up truck under a darkening summer sky. I shoved you playfully, but you swiftly grabbed my arm and pulled me down with you, kissing the bridge of my nose after I’d landed softly on your chest. I wore contacts now and a C cup, but I was still the same awkward, unsure girl who was happy just to be along for the ride that I’d been back in the playground ten years before.

“I was on a mission,” you said, pushing my hair out of my face with gentle hands.

“I know,” I laughed. “You just showed up there begging me to be your friend!”

“I didn’t beg.”

“Basically!”

You threw your arm around my shoulders and I snuggled into you. Even though the weather is warm and sticky, I never hesitated at the opportunity to be close to you. The sun was falling behind the horizon and it would be cooler soon anyway. We laied like that for awhile, until you cleared your throat and pulled me in even tighter.

“I just wanted to make my mom happy,” you whispered quietly, your lips pressed close to my ear.

Your breath was warm against my soft skin and I shivered slightly, but I didn't move away. Instead, I listened silently as you told me about your dad for the first time - how he threatened your mom and screamed at you and often stumbled home just before dawn smelling of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke. You told me how you and your mother left quietly in the middle of the night in a strange blue car that made a high pitched squeal when it made a left turn. You told me how you worried, even after the hours and the miles had passed, that the sound would be your undoing; that somehow your father would hear it from his bedroom and angrily come chasing after you. You told me how your mother cried and apologized for taking you away from your school and your room and your belongings and how you tried to comfort her. And then you told me how that day in the park you’d been determined to make a friend, to be able to go home and tell your mom and show her that everything was going to be alright for the both of you.

After you got quiet, I shimmied away from you slightly so that I could see your face. It was the first time you’d ever opened up to me about your past and I knew that the memories were weighing heavy on your heart because your mouth was drawn into a tight line and your brows were deeply furrowed. I was filled with a rush of emotions I could only just barely comprehend - gratefulness for being allowed such a personal glimpse into your life, sadness over what you’d been forced to endure at such a young age, protectiveness, sympathy, respect... love. And also the strongest longing to see your goofy, boyish grin replace the sad, contemplative look stretched across your face.

“Of course, you had to come upon the most stubborn, unfriendly brat in the whole town!” I teased. And there it was - that bright, warm smile that made my cheeks flush and my stomach flip. You offered it to me like a gift and I greedily basked in it.

“I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” you answered and above our heads the first firework spiraled into the air and then split into a shower of color with a loud crack. We didn’t even notice.

- - - -

When we were 28, much to no one’s surprise, we got married. It was a simple affair, but the guest list was long and the outpouring of love on that day was breathtaking. We held the ceremony outside, on the grounds of the reception venue. It was on a beautifully decorated patio surrounded by tall, flowering trees with billowing, gauzy, white fabric hanging down from the wooden gazebo that housed the alter. I wore my hair down and curled, the way you liked it best, and your wore black Converse sneakers with your tux, just as I’d expect.

As my father walked me down the aisle, my mind raced with frivolous doubts: Was my dress too poofy? Were the flowers right? Was my makeup too heavy? Too light? Would I trip on my hem and go head first into the alter? Would my parent’s house feel lonely without the constant presence of me and my dirty laundry? But then you turned to see me and you gave me that brilliant, comforting, familiar smile and in that moment nothing else mattered. Everything else melted away.

On a warm, sunny day at the tail-end of summer, in front of all our loved ones, I wed the love of my life. In your vows, you mentioned our fateful meeting in the playground and my thick rimmed glasses and how I had challenged you every day since then in all the best ways. My voice shook as I recited mine, but I had no trouble telling you how much you’d changed me for the better and how much love and affection you’d brought into my life and how thankful I was that you hadn't been deterred by the stubborn girl who had rebuffed you. You squeezed my hand before sliding on my ring and kissed me hard when the officiant instructed you to do so. It was everything I'd dreamed of and more.

The reception was an affair to remember. Our families got along great due much in part to their ability to party. The drinks flowed and the food was delicious, though I only managed a few bites here and there. Our cake toppers were two Matchbox race cars - one white and one black. At one point in the night, your father asked me for a dance. You had reconciled a few years prior and he was now four years sober. You were working on your relationship and it was a difficult, on-going process, but I was immensely proud of you for it. As we swayed to the smooth sounds of the band, your father thanked me for bringing you happiness and love and for giving you the chance to be a better husband than he had been. I wanted to tell him how I only ever returned the love and happiness you had given me, but instead I nodded quietly.

That night, before folding into bed and into each other, you kissed my nose and grinned.

"Will you be my friend?" you asked, pulling down my dress.

"Yes."

"Will you be my wife?"

"Forever."

- - - -

When we were 38, I gave birth to our third child. It was a beautiful, healthy baby boy and even though you’d repeatedly insisted you’d be happy with another girl, I know you were positively giddy to have a son. After expertly coaching me through another successful labor, you ran around the hospital hallways pumping your fists in the air and relaying the happy news to our patiently waiting parents. Then you quickly returned to my bedside to feed me ice chips, your mouth pulled into a proud, glowing grin.

You were an amazing father to our children and it was clear that you were determined not to make any of the mistakes you’d suffered at the hands of your own. You were gentle with them, but stern when you needed to be. You built them forts and tree houses and swing sets. You carried them to bed at night and drove them to school in the morning. You played dress-up with our daughters and wrestled with our son. You taught them all how to ride a two-wheel bike and how to swing a baseball bat and on Sundays we’d all watch football together, dressed head to toe in our favorite team’s colors.

After they were tucked into bed, we’d meet in the kitchen and share a glass of wine or a piece of cheesecake. We’d muse over our luck and the twists and turns our lives had taken. We’d share anecdotes from our day or interesting things we’d heard on the news. Sometimes, you’d help me wash the day’s pile of dishes or sort out the laundry, spraying me with water from the faucet or flinging tee-shirts at my head, a playful, boyish grin stretched across your face. This was my home, our home, a place we had built together over the years and it was filled with a love and a warmth that I never could have expected.

- - - -

When we were 88, you admitted you hadn’t been feeling well for the past week and I made you a doctor’s appointment right away. A few days later, we found out it wasn’t good news. Cancer, the doctor said, aggressive. Your age would make fighting it a difficult affair and you were quick to opt out. Sitting in front of the doctor’s large oak desk in two of the most uncomfortable, stiff chairs ever made, you grabbed my hand and squeezed, offering me your signature grin, just as wide and boyish as ever. I pushed my glasses up onto my nose and smiled back.

When you passed away, I didn't cry. I knew you wouldn't have wanted me to. But that didn't mean a heavy, unfathomable sadness wasn't weighing on my heart. I missed you greatly, from the very moment you left me, but I knew it was temporary. For so long, we had been one and the same, our lives so deeply intertwined that it was impossible to seperate the two. You had given me love and happiness and a beautiful family and we had shared all of those things for so many blissful years. I knew that without you, there was no life for me and so I was ready.

When I passed just a few short days later, it was no surprise to anyone. And I knew you would be welcoming me home with that brilliant grin that I loved more than anything in the world, or any worlds to come after it.

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 5

cheapxdate — Fri, 15 Jan 2016 21:44:00 GMT

This is my entry for Week 5 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: Void

I would like to preface this by saying everything that I have written here is 100% true, non-fiction. I would also like to sincerely thank you for reading. This is a story I've never told, but it means so much to me and putting it down into text and remembering has been really incredible. The fact that I am able to share this is so special, so again, thank you for taking the time to hear my story and for letting me introduce you to the wonderful woman who was my Mama Helen.

x x x

When I was still but a fetus, tragedy befell my family. My grandfather, whom I would never get to meet, was found dead in his car at the train station. The cause of death was a bullet wound and the gun from which it had come was sitting on the seat next to him. The circumstances surrounding his death were odd and suspicious at the time, and although we’ll never know for sure what happened the probable truth is much clearer now.

My grandfather worked for The Bank. I don’t know which branch or where it was located because everyone I know who has met him and spoken of him only refers to it as such. There was talk that he owed money or had given loans to the wrong people or was in some kind of financial crisis stemming from his position at The Bank, though no concrete evidence to support these rumors ever came to light. All that we do know is that a few weeks before I was born, my grandfather drove his mother to the train station, dropped her off at the platform and then went to fetch her luggage. But, he never returned from the car with her bags.

I know now that it was most likely suicide. My family believed there was foul play. My grandfather was a gentle man of few words who loved nothing more than his family and the thought that he would leave his mother on the train platform, waiting, stranded, is something they couldn’t wrap their heads around. That was almost 30 years ago and in the time since, we’ve come to understand depression and the way it manifests itself much better. We know now that people can suffer silently or choose to take their lives at any moment. We know that it is not always rational or in line with the behavior we may expect from a person. That’s not to say that we can now definitively know what happened, and I’m sure in some weird way it comforts my family to consider the alternatives, but, this is not a story about my grandfather, nor is it meant to be sad. This is a story about love, friendship and one of the greatest women I’ve ever known.

My great-grandmother, Helen, was a heavy set Polish woman with a large bosom and short, curly, white hair. She was feisty, she always said what was on her mind and she loved to cook. She also, unfortunately, endured a lot of tragedy in a very short period of time. They say that deaths come in threes and my grandfather's rounded out that morbid number. Within a year, my Mama Helen had lost her husband, her son and her brother-in-law to untimely deaths. She was smart and strong-willed, but that much heartache would be enough to break even the toughest of customers. I’ve been told she didn’t leave her bedroom for weeks after my grandfather’s funeral services and refused to eat. The void in her heart was just too much to bear. She shut down and gave up.

Until I was born.

I came early, but my mom says that I came at just the right time. My family, especially my great-grandmother, was really struggling, and I somehow must have sensed that I was needed because out I popped, 4lbs 5oz of wrinkled newborn, though I was not expected for almost another four weeks. I was tiny and my skin was yellow and they kept me in an incubator, hooked up to all kinds of wires and nodes, though my doctors were confident that I was healthy and would be completely fine after a few extra days in the hospital. My birth shifted the attention away from grandfather’s death and refocused it onto my life - the first niece, the first grandchild, the first great-grandchild.

We lived in the upstairs apartment of a two-family house that my grandfather and great-grandmother owned together. In the years to come, my dad’s brother and two sisters would all make their first homes here, as my grandfather had intended - a starter house to launch their own families from. During the time that we lived there, however, my great-grandmother occupied the apartment below us.

During the first few months of my life, while I was still mostly just an infant, my mom says that my Mama Helen would come up to visit often, usually barely paying my parents any mind as she made her way to me. She would talk to me or read to me or sometimes say nothing at all and just watch my chest rise and fall as I slept. She loved to hold me and cuddle me and she was constantly shooing my parents out on date nights so that she could have me all to herself. I gave her purpose and a reason to wake up and look forward to every day. Little by little her spark began to return.

It wasn’t until I was a toddler, however, that we really made our bond.

Mom says that even before I’d perfected the art of crawling, I’d learned to slide down the stairs on my belly, feet first, to my great-grandmother’s apartment. I would sit outside her door and yell, not cry or scream or ever get impatient, but just call for her in baby jibberish until she let me in. And I did so daily. We became best friends. I was her pride and joy and she spoiled me with unlimited love, attention and affection. Eventually, we formed a routine.

Every morning, I would make my way downstairs and climb into her lap. Her arms would jiggle as she scooped me up into a suffocating hug, a warm, wide smile stretched across her wrinkled face. We would always do the same puzzle (x) and read the same book (x) and then we’d watch The Price Is Right religiously at eleven. After that she’d make me lunch - usually Rosół (a Polish chicken soup) with butter-slathered white bread on the side - and then send me back upstairs to my parents.

Things went on like this until I was almost five. At that point, my parents were ready to move out of the starter house and into their own home, making room for my aunt and new uncle to take their turn and begin their lives together. My great-grandmother’s sister had been pitching the idea of moving down to Florida for almost a year and although she’d repeatedly refused, the winters were becoming difficult for her and the cost of living was more affordable down south. She sold her share of the two family home to my grandma and then packed up her things. When she left New Jersey, she was whole again and although I'm sure the deaths of her loved ones still weighed heavily on her, she herself was not done living.

I’ve been told more than once that I saved her. Even now, knowing all that I do, it seems like an awfully huge accomplishment to attribute to such a tiny human. In any case, while I only feel like I ever reciprocated the love that she gave to me first, it has always given my life the most incredible sense of purpose. I've never had to struggle with wondering whether or not my life has had any meaning because I know that it has and I am thankful and honored to have been given that task.

It would be a long time before I saw Mama Helen again, though she would call often and regularly send me packages filled with random little gifts and keepsakes. It was often things she probably just had laying around the house - Costume jewelry and figurines and blankets and stuffed animals - things she no longer had use for, but couldn't bring herself to throw away. Most of it was probably junk, but I cherished it all anyway.

I was nine when we took a family trip to Florida to see her. She was old and her health was failing, but she was as stubborn as ever and insisted on spending hours in the kitchen cooking extravagant meals for us and meeting all the new great-grandchildren who had joined the fray in the time since she’d left New Jersey. She had always been rough around the edges, but now it showed in physical ways that I had trouble comprehending. Her hugs were not as tight and smothering as I’d remembered, and her bones poked at me uncomfortably. Her arms still jiggled, but they were not as warm and her skin was sallow and loose. She’d taken on a yellowish tone and the soft flesh beneath her eyes was dark. And yet, she was still beautiful and she was still strong.

During our visit, I remember being so enamored with a shadow box that hung on the wall in her kitchen. It was a cross-section of a three story house, decorated with adorable, miniature dollhouse furniture. She gifted it to me right before we left, well aware of how I'd lingered near it while I watched her cook. It was the last present I received from her, but it was far from the last thing she ever gave me.

Only a few short weeks after our visit, she passed away in her sleep. It makes me happy to know that she went peacefully, in her own home, though I wouldn’t have expected any less. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and refused to take anything less. She was sassy and stubborn and strong-willed right until the very end.

My memories of her funeral are vague. I remember sitting on the big, black couch in my living room after the services not really understanding my feelings or what I was supposed to do with them. My mom told me it was okay to cry, and so I did, but I’m not sure I really even knew why or where the tears were coming from. The unfortunate truth was that most of my memories of Mama were fleeting. I had been so young that despite the heavy presence she'd had in my life, it was hard to recall our time together. However, the bond we shared was there regardless. This woman was extremely special to me, even if my nine year old self was having trouble remembering exactly why.

This is where the story could end. My Mama Helen was an absolute force and I loved her fiercely, as she did me. Telling you that she existed, sharing her life and her strength and her impact would be a fitting tribute. However, in true Mama Helen fashion, she was not yet finished making her mark on my life.

Years later, when I was 16, I was involved in a very serious accident. I’ll tell you now that I’m okay, but at the time, I’d fractured my neck, among other injuries, and the possibility of things being much worse was very real. I was intubated and calling a small, cold, ICU room my home, while surrounded by worried loved ones.

The part of the story that I am about to share is one that was relayed to me by multiple family members who were present at the time. I was on one hell of a drug cocktail and lost about three solid days of my life where I can recall absolutely nothing. My very atheist father, however, swears up and down that this happened and one of my uncles can't even be in the room when we talk about it because he gets so emotional.

As mentioned, I was intubated, which is not only extremely uncomfortable, but also makes it impossible to talk. I couldn’t move my arms or my legs, as my doctors wanted to keep me immobilized until the swelling had gone down and they could assess the damage my neck fracture had or hadn’t caused. To help me communicate, my mom had printed out the alphabet on a sheet of paper and I would spell things by blinking when she pointed to the correct letter. The process was very tedious, though, and I didn’t have much to say anyway, so I didn’t make use of it often. At one point, however, I kept straining my eyes to glance at the empty chair beside my bed, then back at the alphabet sheet until my mom held it up. What transpired next is something that I can’t explain and my family will never forget.

I started my blink-spelling, getting noticeably agitated and impatient with the slow process, but it only took three and a half words for my mom to figure out the phrase. I had spelled out “The Price Is Right.”

“The Price Is Right?” my dad had echoed, confused. “You can’t watch that right now.” But my mom was grabbing at his arm. They’d both lost sense of the time. Staying at my bedside throughout all hours of the day and night had completely thrown them off.

“It’s 10:57," my mom corrected. "The Price Is Right comes on at 11.”

My parents both stared at me, but I wasn’t looking at them. I was looking at the empty chair beside my bed. It’s worth noting that something else I wasn’t looking at, or rather couldn’t be looking at, was the clock. It was hanging above the head of my bed and I was completely immobilized. There is no way that I could've known the time.

“Is Mama Helen there?” my dad asked.

I nodded and my mom held up the alphabet sheet with shaking hands.

M-a-d, I spelled out.

“Mama is mad?”

I nodded and my eyes kept darting to the empty chair.

“Why is she mad?” my dad asked quietly.

I rolled my eyes impatiently and once again started spelling out ‘The Price Is Right.’

“Mama is mad because she wants to watch The Price Is Right?”

I nodded and smiled as best I could around the ribbed blue tube in my mouth.

My parents put on CBS at almost the exact moment The Price Is Right’s theme music had started playing. I watched the entire show and it was the most coherent I’d been in three days. Every once in a while, I’d look to the chair beside my bed.

My parents relayed the story to my family members who were hanging out in the waiting room for support. Some peaked in, some of them cried and some of them laughed. My grandma, however, didn't seem surprised.

“They had a very special bond,” she said. “It makes complete sense that she’d be here for her now.”

I am not a religious person. I know about internal body clocks and the insane amount of drugs and pain killers that were running through my system at the time, but I believe that she was there somehow, when I needed her the most. She watched over me, as I had watched over her so many years ago.

And, so, this is the end of the story; the story about a woman who was my best friend as much as I was hers; a woman who I remember very fondly and think about often. There are so many things that I wish nine year old me would've known to ask. I wish I could've known more about her childhood and about her life in Poland. I wish I could've written down all of her now lost recipes that no one will ever be able to recreate. I wish I could've comprehended how precious our time together was, how much I'm sure she would've had to share. And yet, I know we shared the most important thing of all - love and a bond that was so strong it transcended the physical world. I am so thankful to still have so many keepsakes from our time together. The lion book and the alphabet puzzle are stored in the attic of my parent’s house and the shadow box hangs in my bedroom. One day, I’ll share them with my children, along with this story and hope that they can love and admire Mama Helen as much as I did.

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 4

cheapxdate — Fri, 08 Jan 2016 21:07:24 GMT

This is my entry for Week 2 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: We All Have The Movie. The One We're Supposed to Hate. Talk About... In Depth. Spoil it and explain WHY you love it despite mostly everyone else.

***

“Harry’s eyes aren’t even green! They’re blue! And then they have the nerve, after 7 movies of people going on and on and on about his eyes being like his mother’s, to cut to a young Lily with brown eyes! Brown!”

“I know,” I say and shrug. “I read that Dan had a bad reaction to the contacts.”

“And Hermione’s hair? What’s the excuse there? It’s supposed to be consistently bushy and brown, not progressively blonder and more tamed! Who thought that was a good idea? You know the scene in The Half-Blood Prince where the cauldron explodes in her face and her hair looks like she stuck her finger in an electrical socket? That’s the type of hair she should’ve had the entire time!”

“I agree.”

“I can’t believe how many important characters were left out! No SPEW or Winky, no Teddy Lupin, no Percy or Peeves! What about how they butchered and oversimplified so many story lines. And do not even get me started on how Harry broke the Elder Wand and tossed it into the abyss at the end. HOW!? WHY!?”

I nod.

Let's chat.

There are so many flaws within the Harry Potter movieverse and for every one person who was satisfied, you’ll find four who were deeply disappointed with the adaptations. This was not something I realized right away, however, because every time a movie was released, I excitedly rushed to the theaters to see it (in robes during my younger years and with hidden airline bottles of "butterbeer" when I got older) and every time I would leave the viewing feeling... magical, and filled with an intense longing for a place that didn't really exist. (I am aware that it may be laughably cliche to say that the Harry Potter movies left me feeling magical, but there is really no other way to describe it.) And the people around me in my every day life felt mostly the same. I will readily admit that some of my favorite characters and character arcs were changed or completely left out and I was disappointed to see that some of my most favorite book moments were omitted, but I would’ve honestly been happy to just watch the trio carry out their day-to-day routine at Hogwarts for four hours. Because there was just something so completely right about the way the castle and Diagon Alley and Quidditch and the whole Wizarding World was brought to life on screen, and I think you’ll at least find that most fans can agree on the visuals being phenomenal. Watching the films, I wanted so badly to be a part of it all; to climb up and into the screen and live within this truely incredible vision that was brought to life. But, once I started seeking out more nuanced discussions and opinion pieces on the internet, I quickly learned that not everyone was as enamored with the movies as I was.

And I understand it. I really, truly get it. I see fans’ frustrations and their critiques and they are completely valid. There are definitely some directors who did better jobs than others and I can easily pick out many weaknesses in the storytelling. I know that maybe I should be more critical of how the source material that I loved so much was handled in it’s translation to film, but I just can’t bring myself to dislike the series. In fact, I love it. I love every single movie in all of it’s flawed glory.

Harry Potter was and will always be a huge and important part of my life. I am so glad to have been a part of the generation that got to experience the phenomenon first hand, as it was happening, because it was such a unique cultural experience. Every year, I re-read at least a part of the series and, on average, at least one night a week, I’ll fall asleep to one of the movies. They are a source of comfort - like a security blanket or a stuffed animal. A few years ago, I spent over a month in a physical therapy rehab facility and the only way to get any sleep was to drown out the other strange, unfamiliar noises with those of your own. I played Harry Potter movies every single night. I think I can recite the entirety of Prisoner of Azkaban just from repeated viewings during those weeks alone.

Over the holiday season, my boyfriend and I had a marathon of sorts, watching one movie every weekend leading up to Christmas. Sharing the movies with him meant a lot to me, especially because it was something we'd first talked about doing almost two years ago, when we started dating. He had seen most of the movies, but never all of them in order and watching his reactions was priceless. I bought him Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Botts JellyBeans for his stocking and I think he was just as excited about it now as he would've been had he received them when he was eleven.

My ten year old cousin has been reading the series for the first time and it’s so wonderful to be able to talk to him about the books during family get-togethers and hear his reactions to moments that I experienced for the first time so many years ago. Listening to him make predictions and articulate his theories is just so cool and fun and, well, the kid loves Lupin so with my knowledge it's also a little bittersweet. I promised him that once he's finished the series, he can borrow my DVDs and I hope to be able to watch a few of the movies together. It's so incredible to find a common ground like this despite our very large age gap.

I’ve met and connected with and forged friendships with people through the Harry Potter fandom and that has enriched my life in so many ways. Harry Potter was my very first foray into fanfiction (Portkey! Yes, I was one of ~those!) and I can remember being blown away by the scope of participation and feedback that was out there. Since discovering it, I’ve participated in countless writing challenges and fests and exchanges. My writing has improved more because of fanfiction than because of any writing courses I've ever taken. I’ve made fanvideos and graphics and icons with the movie footage. (Also received my first and only warning letter from my ISP for pirating oops.) Harry Potter is directly responsible for so many unique skills sets I’ve acquired over the years whether it’s a better understanding of Photoshop, proficiency in Sony Vegas or even just the creativity to conjure up a writing piece response to the prompt “Harry enjoys Draco’s wand.” Of course, the fandom existed and thrived before the films, but I credit the movies with giving the fandom longevity and breathing new life into it with every release.

I'm not sure if anything could've ruined the movies for me. Without even realizing it at the time, I went into them with a very open mind, enjoying them for what they were instead of comparing them to source material they would never be able to live up to or completely cover. I was a fiend (and still am!) for any and everything Harry Potter related. I've played every game, collected every "making of" book and given shelf space to an array of Funko Pops and figures. I hope that one day the movies are redone or retold as a miniseries or television show, but not because I think the original adaptations were bad, but because I want MORE. I'll always want more. And, I'll always be waiting for my letter.

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 2 - "Follow Me"

cheapxdate — Mon, 14 Dec 2015 23:58:45 GMT

This is my entry for Week 2 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

Prompt: Follow me

Disclaimer - I spent the weekend rereading one of my favorite Stephen King novels. As such, despite the upcoming holiday being Christmas and not Halloween, this piece is inspired by Mr. King. Read a your own risk. ;)

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

"This is the worst day of my life," I groaned as I raised the volume on the radio.

"And it's looking like Rt. 80 is still a mess. The pile up has yet to be cleared so we're estimating delays of at least an hour and a half. Try to plan your commute accordingly."

"You don't say," I spat sarcastically, reaching out and jabbing the seek button with much more force than necessary. The station changed and Bruce Springsteen's rough voice filled the car. I snorted. He was singing Backstreets. Thanks for the advice, Bruce, I thought humorlessly.

There was nothing but brake lights as far as I could see and as the digital display on my dashboard flicked to 7:52 am, I leaned forward and banged my forehead uselessly against the steering wheel. Things like this didn't happen. Not to me. I was always punctual and I was always professional and I was always one step ahead of my peers. In a career considered a 'man's world' I had to be. Today, however, I was due in the office in an hour and 8 minutes. No, actually, I was due in the conference room in an hour and 8 minutes. I was supposed to be sitting in on a very important, very boring financial planning meeting with the board. It would likely consist of 10 minutes of actual business discussion and 50 minutes of boastful, aging white men patting each other on the back and comparing the sizes of their bank accounts. They would likely leer at me and brush off my questions with phrases like "but you probably don't understand all this business talk mumbo jumbo" or "you don't need to be worrying yourself over knowing that" all while dismissively calling me hun or sweetie. I scrunched up my nose at the thought. Unfortunately, I would have to plaster a smile on my face, feign interest in the retellings of their most recent business conquests, and somehow manage to avoid punching one of them in their age spot smattered noses when they would inevitably touch my ass as they tried to squeeze through behind me. The audacity of these men was something I could barely stomach, but it was supposed to be a means to an end. Sitting in on this meeting and appeasing the board members would likely solidify my promotion, and a promotion at this level would not only mean significantly more money, but the opportunity to do a lot of traveling, all on the company's dime no less. Best of all, I, a woman in an office full of socially awkward men, would gain some power and respect. However, as the clock flicked to 7:53 am, I realized that unless my Mazda suddenly sprouted wings and carried me to work on a strong wind there was no way I'd get to the office on time. At this rate, I'd be lucky if I got there before lunch. My only hope was that the board members were sitting here in traffic somewhere with me and would be just as late. I sighed as the car in front of me moved up a total of six inches.

At 7:59 am, I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and scrolled through my apps. I opened Tetris and started mindlessly guiding the shapes into place, glancing up occassionally to see if the car in front of me had rolled forward at all.

At 8:48 am, I'd moved a whole 4 more feet and I was now distracted by a chip in the concrete divider to my right. My cell phone started ringing in my hand and I jumped at the unexpected vibration. I gritted my teeth. I didn't need to look at the display to know who was calling. A quick swipe of my finger and I pressed the phone to my ear, bracing myself for the caller on the other end.

"Where the hell are you?!" An angry, male voice filled the speaker. I hadn't expected any pleasantries, but my boss was even more irrate than usual. I could picture his bloated, red face hissing into the receiver.

"I'm in traffic," I answered calmly. "I left my house an hour ago and I'm only at exit 63 on 80."

"Why didn't you leave earlier?" My boss wasn't known for his warmth and compassion, but at the very least he was usually logical. My own anger bubbled and I took a deep breath before answering.

"The accident causing the traffic happened after I'd left. I had no way of knowing that my normal time of departure would be insufficient."

"So, you'll be late." He sighed. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Mr. Masulli. I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do. Surely some of the board members must be stuck in this mess as well."

"None who are being considered for a possible promotion," he replied coldly. "We can't wait."

Another bubble of anger rose up in my throat, leaving a sour taste. I wasn't sure how to respond to that, but apparently I didn't need to because as I opened my mouth there was a click and the line went dead. With a groan, I tossed my phone into the center console and then banged my fists against the steering wheel. I knew I looked like a crazy person to the people sitting in their cars around me, but I didn't care. The tantrum made me feel slightly better. Once I had collected myself, I smoothed my black skirt against my legs and sighed

At 9:06 am my phone chirped, alerting me of a text. I picked it up and swiped left, opening the message.

Two of the board members are still en-route. They won't be starting the meeting until 9:30. Good luck!

It was a message from Shelly, She was my boss' secretary - one of the very few other women in the office and my only confidant. We often grabbed lunch together, spending the time laughing over the accountant's latest toupee mishap or how Mr. Masulli's pant legs never quite hid his mismatched socks.

I breathed a small sigh of relief and typed out a quick thank you. Arriving by 9:30 am was still highly improbable, but there was a small chance that the roads would clear up and, at the very least, I'd only miss the beginning of the meeting.

At 9:17 am I was feeling particularly sour. I had not moved at all since my text from Shelly and it was looking more and more like my best option was to just go back home, crawl into bed and hope that another chance at this promotion presented itself some day. I'd have to toss out my folder of real estate information as none of the apartments I'd been interested in would be financially feasible without said promotion. Ironically, most of the apartments were significantly closer to the office and, had I been able to afford them in the first place, I wouldn't be sitting in this God forsaken mess.

An old junkheap of a car whizzed past me on the shoulder and I cursed under my breath. Asshole. But, as the words left my lips, a picture of Mr. Massuli materialized in my head. I could imagine the rare glimpse of glee on his face as he not-so-regretfully called into question my commitment to the company and harped on the value of punctuality before telling me they'd decided to hand the promotion to someone else. Blood rushed to my face and my cheeks instantly felt hot. No, I thought, I would not allow him the satisfaction of arbitrarily giving my promotion to someone less deserving, and probably male. My phone chirped again and I looked down hopefully. Maybe the meeting had been pushed off again, I thought, but there was no message. Instead, it was alerting me that I had a low battery, probably from the hour of Tetris I'd played earlier. My phone was an older model iPhone, something I'd hoped to be upgrading with my promotion, and apps sucked the battery dry. There was a car charger somewhere in the backseat, but I didn't care much to retreive it. I would charge it at my desk when I eventually made it there, and if it happened to die and I missed a second irate call from my pompous boss, all the better. The knowledge, however, that the meeting was not likely to be pushed off any further cemented a decision I'd made the minute Mr. Massuli's puffy face entered my head.

I'd always been a law abiding citizen. I didn't litter and I didn't often speed. I crossed at crosswalks and I always wore my seatbelt. I'd only ever received tickets for parking and I paid them all on time. But, today, there was too much on the line. Today, I had to do everything I possibly could to get into the office before the meeting ended and if that mean a traffic violation and a few pissed off drivers, so be it. If I followed the old car that had past by a few moments earlier, I too could ride the shoulder to the next exit, get off and take the back streets to the bridge. Legally and ethically, this was wrong, but no one ever got to the top without breaking a few rules, I thought.

I gripped the steering wheel and gently pressed the gas pedal, pulling out onto the shoulder. I could feel the drivers around me shooting daggers in my direction with their eyes, but I ignored it. The exit was only about a half a mile in front of me, a distance that would have taken another 30 minutes had I stayed in my lane, but I was now traversing it with ease. As I reached a bend in the highway, I could see that a few people had a similar idea. The old sedan that had passed me was sitting at the end of a small line of cars. A BMW at the front was attempting to merge back into the traffic, blocking the exit and, subsequently, the cars behind him. As a rolled to a stop at the back of the line, I reached for my cell phone. It buzzed again to remind me of the low battery, but I ignored it and brought up the GPS. I already had a pretty general idea of the back roads I would need to take, but I just wanted to be sure. As I waited for the screen to load my position and map out the appropriate directions, I glanced at the car in front of me. Up this close you could really see how rusted and worn the sedan was. It had definitely been blue at some point in time, but most of the paint had since flaked and chirped away. There was no back bumper and the rear window was covered in what appeared to be drips of grey paint. All the chrome had oxidized and the passenger side rear-view mirror was missing.

My phone blinked, catching my attention. The GPS had mapped out the best route and I quickly looked over it and committed it to memory just as the cars in front of me started to move. I rolled along with them, bearing right along the exit road.

It was 9:25 am when the left brake light fell off the back of the once-blue rusted sedan and it was 9:26 am when something moving in the space it no longer occupied caught my eye. Something was poking out from the hole and waving in the wind. I had to pull up closer and squint to see, but when I got a better look, a lead ball formed instantly in the pit of my stomach. The something in question was a finger and it wasn't waving in the wind, it was wiggling. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes with the back of one hand, keeping the other securely clutching the steering wheel. I'd been sitting in traffic for so long I was probably going a bit stir crazy, but then a second finger pushed through the break light opening and I could no longer chalk up the vision to traffic induced delirium. I could feel my heart begin racing in my chest. Someone was in that trunk.

Things like this didn't happen. Not to me. Things like this happened in movies or books and my part was played by someone like Ashley Judd or Matt Dillon. There had to be an explanation or a misunderstanding. This couldn't be real.

Except it did happen. And it was happening now. Very much to me.

My mouth was completely dry and my tongue felt like sandpaper. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the wriggling appendages poking out from the left corner of the car as I followed it along the single lane back road. I hadn't noticed before, but we were driving slowly, very slowly - 34 MPH the speedometer read. I pulled my car slightly to the right and craned my neck to see around the old sedan. As I expected, all the cars that had once been in front of it had long since disappeared into the distance. I swallowed against a hard lump that had formed in my throat and reached for my cell.

It was 9:28 am when I used my thumb to key in 911. My hand was shaking as I brought the phone to my ear.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I, um." I'd never called 911 before. The experience was unnerving and I found my thoughts stumbling over each other in my brain as they attempted to make something coherent come out of my mouth. "Well, I'm driving and uh, I'm pretty sure there's someone in the trunk of the car in front of me."

"Ok, ma'am, and what makes you believe there is a person in the trunk of the car in front of you?"

"Fingers," I breathed out. "The brake light fell out a mile or so back and there are fingers sticking through the hole. They're wiggling. I wasn't sure at first, but I'm certain. I need someone to come. Right now. Quickly, please."

"Ok, I need you to calm down, ma'am. Can you please give me your location and the license plate number off the car in front of you?"

"Right." I realized my voice was shaking. "License plate." I scanned the back of the car only to realize the license plate had gone the way of the back bumper. "There is no license plate!" My throat tightened. "There's no license plate, but it's a rusted blue sedan. It's hard to make out, but it might be a Ford? It's missing the back bumper and the passenger side rear-view mirror as well. We're on Squirrelwood Road about three miles off of exit 61."

"I'm going to put you on hold, ok? Please don-"

My phone beeped and I pulled it away from my face, looking down in horror. The screen had gone black.

"No, no, no. Fuck!" My voice sounded unusually hysterical and shrill. I couldn't believe this was happening. I reached behind me with one arm, trying to feel around for my charger. I knew I'd thrown it back there at some point, but my fingers couldn't find it on the seat. I leaned back further, trying to keep the car steady while my free hand stretched towards the floor. I felt the plastic cord brush against my fingertips and breathed a sigh of relief as I retrieved the charger and sat up straight in my seat. The rusted sedan was still there, a few feet in front of me.

You gave her all the information you had. Surely they track calls like this, I told myself as my shaky fingers pushed the charger into the cigarette lighter. You can call back when your phone gets some charge.

Despite the reassuring things my head was saying, I didn't feel any better. My stomach was still churning and my palms were sweaty against the wheel. I noticed the fingers were still sticking out from the hole, but they were no longer moving. Could the person have suffocated? My throat filled with sour bile. I knew my turn off was coming up, but my phone was still displaying the charge symbol and hadn't yet turned on. I couldn't stop following the car. Not yet. I thought of Mr. Masulli and his stupid, bloated face and then glanced at the clock.

It was 9:35am. At this point, even if I took the back roads to the bridge, I'd miss the meeting. Even if the rest of my route went smoothly, I wouldn't get into the office until at least 10:30. The promotion was slipping through my fingers no matter what decision I made. It was an easy choice and, morbidly, I was grateful for the distraction. There would be plenty of time in the future to wallow in my self pity and resign myself to a life of ramen and garage sales. I could cry over my lost pay raise later. Right now, I needed to follow the car.

As I passed by my turn off, the fingers began to wiggle again and I let out a giant sigh of relief. I slowed down, realizing I had gotten quite close, and allowed some distance to form between our vehicles. The comfort of knowing whoever was in the trunk was still alive, however, was short-lived as the car made a very sudden right turn. The action caught me off guard. There was nothing but trees to our right - no roads, no service areas. The car bounced along the grass and then disappeared into the foliage. Had the driver caught on? Did they know they were being followed?

It was 9:38 am. I glanced around hoping to see that cop cars had arrived, but I was the only one on this stretch of road. It was oddly unfortunate. My phone was still displaying the charge symbol, but surely it would turn on any minute now. I had to keep up. My knuckles were white as I gripped the steering wheel and followed the tire tracks the old sedan had left behind. My Mazda bumped through the grass and I could see now that the old car had actually squeezed through an opening between two massive tree trunks. The forest floor was flattened here and the tire tracks deep. This wasn't the first time a car had passed through this gap. I followed the makeshift road slowly, doubting my decision the entire way.

Things like this never happened to me. They never happened to anyone sensible, actually, and I considered myself very well educated. This was exactly why I hated horror movies; the protagonists were always making the most unlikely choices and putting themselves in danger like morons. I was not a moron, yet here I was. There was this nagging sense of duty, a need to help, that was overriding all of my logic and self-preservation.

I came upon the rusted sedan so suddenly that I gasped out loud. My hands slapped over my mouth and I held my breath. It was parked in a small clearing; up ahead the trees started to become thick and grew too close together for the vehicle to pass. The trunk had been popped open - I could see a small, dark sliver of space where it was detached from the back of the car.

My heart was now thudding against the inside of my chest so hard that it ached. Every Darwin-approved warning bell was going off in my head. Just back up. Just leave. But, I couldn't. I had to know if the trunk was empty. I had to have all the information possible to pass on to the police. My whole body was shaking as I reached for the door handle next to me. Nausea washed over me and my stomach turned as I pushed open the door. This was stupid. This was all wrong. I was supposed to be getting a promotion, one that I had earned with my smarts, and yet here I was now making what was likely the stupidest decision of my life. Leaves crunched under my feet as I stepped out of the car, the sound of it was deafening. I inched forward as my head swiveled around, taking in my surroundings. What if the abductors were watching me? What if they had realized they were being followed and had purposely lured me in here? My stomach rolled as I reached the trunk. The car was empty, but still I crouched down, sliding my hands up the back of the car. I lifted the trunk slowly and braced myself. I hadn't considered that there might be something in the trunk that I didn't want to see. What if it was something gruesome? What if the person who had been trapped back there was dead? The need to know, to help, pushed me forward. I slowly rose from my squatted position and peeked inside.

Empty.

I turned to the side quickly and retched, my breakfast coming up and splattering against the fallen leaves. Terror and nerves had gotten the best of me. And there was something else ominous gnawing at my gut - the trunk was empty. Why I had hoped it was empty was beyond me. The trunk being empty meant the person had been taken further into the woods and the information I'd relayed to the 911 dispatcher was now useless. I swallowed down another wave of nausea and massaged my throbbing temples. How was this happening? What did I do now? Why hadn't I just stayed on the highway?

My thoughts were interrupted by a shriek and my head automatically snapped up in the direction of the scream. I could make out two figures among the tree in front of me. It was hard to make out among the shadows, but one of them was large and bulky, clearly male. The other was small, tiny even. A child. I felt vomit rise in my throat again as her long hair whipped around her. Her abductor was pulling her deeper into the woods, despite her struggling. She screamed again and I started, my muscles firing and propelling me back towards my car. I needed to call 911, now. Panic had seized me and I wasn't sure I was breathing, but it didn't matter. My worries about promotions and traffic jams seemed so silly and meaningless now. I was just reaching for the handle of the driver side door when something heavy and hard whacked against the side of my head.

"Oh!" I cried out as my knees buckled beneath me. My fingers slid against and then off of the door handle before everything went black.

* * *

"Look Lucy! This good Samaritan came to help you!"

My head was throbbing as I blinked my eyes open. Everything was blurry and a mix of shapes and colors danced in my vision. I groaned and reached up to touch a particularly painful spot on my head. My fingertips felt something wet and my stomach lurched.

"You followed me," a small, sing-song voice cooed.

"What do you think of that?" A man's voice now.

A sudden, unexpected, high-pitched giggle made my blood run cold. The feeling was sobering and I felt myself become instantly more alert. I rubbed at my eyes with the palms of my hands. The lighting in the room was dim and I had to squint as my eyes adjusted.

I could tell now that it wasn't actually a room at all. The floor and the walls were made of dirt and a few gnarled roots hung from the ceiling. It was some kind of makeshift cave. I had known I wasn't alone, but I could now accurately make out the figures sharing my space. Two men stood far across from me, leaning back against one of the dirt walls with their arms crossed over their broad chests. One of them must have been dragging the girl into the woods while the other had attacked me by my car. My head throbbed again, reminding me of the painful blow. Directly in front of me, however, was something much more unnerving. This was saying a lot as the two grown, muscular men were quite terrifying in their own right. A small girl sat on a wooden chair in the center of the open space. She was leaning forward and swinging her legs back and forth in a child-like manner. Her long, dark hair was matted and ratty and hanging down in greasy tendrils in front of her face. She was humming quietly to herself.

My aching brain chided my choices over and over again. How had I been so stupid? How had I gotten into this mess? I would've given anything to be back on Rt. 80, sitting in traffic and banging my head against the steering wheel. The frustration would be a welcomed feeling. Things like this didn't happen to me. Please, I though, I'm sorry for riding the shoulder. I'll eat nothing but ramen for the rest of my life. I'll let any of the creepy, old board members take me out for lunch. It was such a stream of ridiculous thoughts, but I could feel my brain teetering on the edge of hysterics.

"Well, get on with it already," one of the men's voices barked out.

The girl abruptly stopped swinging her legs and made a whining noise in her throat. Then she snarled in a way that was neither child-like nor human. I was suddenly and certainly very aware that I did not want to see what hid behind her dark curtain of hair.

"Just wanted to help me, didn't you?" she spat, her voice rough and hoarse and sounding nothing like the sing-song tone she had used before. "Well, you're going to help me now."

It was 10:21 am when I watched her slide down off the wooden chair and start crawling towards me in an unnatural, jerking motion. I scrunched my eyes closed, the sight unbearably terrifying. I fleetingly wondered how the meeting was going, if any of the board members had inquired about me, or even remembered I was supposed to be there. I had to stifle a hysterical bought of laughter, but it was quickly quieted when I felt the girl's greasy hair brush along my shins. She was closer now and I squeezed my eyes closed tighter. The weight of her small body was pressing against my legs as she slithered towards me. The stink of something rotten, something long decaying in the summer sun, wafted up to my nose and I gagged. She let out a bark of laughter that echoed in my ears.

"Thank you for helping me," she said. The whimsical, child-like tone was back and it caught me off-guard. My eyes popped open in surprise, a decision I regretted immediately. The twisted, fleshy nightmare that met my gaze made me scream, a bloodcurdling, visceral scream, but it was short-lived. She leaned forward suddenly and I felt a sharp, piercing pain in the side of my neck followed by something warm and wet running down my collarbone. I tried to swallow, but my throat just made a sickening gargling sound. My head swam.

"Thank you for helping me," she whispered again.

This is the worst day of my life, I thought, and then everything went black.

The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 1 - Trust everyone; but cut the cards

cheapxdate — Sun, 06 Dec 2015 04:02:29 GMT

This is my entry for Week 1 of LJ Idol (therealljidol).

********************************************************

"I think I like Ricky," she says, twirling a tendril of long brown hair around her index finger. "Like like him."

"Ya think?" I answer, grinning knowingly at her from across the table.

"Shut up." She sticks her tongue out and tosses the pack of cards at me.

As she muses about Ricky's baseball team and how he walked her home from the park, I pull the cards out from their pack and begin to shuffle. I attempt a riffle shuffle, but the motion is unnatural and my fingers are clumsy. The cards fan out all over, flying across the table and on to the floor. She helps me collect them, but doesn't miss a beat. She's still talking about Ricky's smile and how he can do a backflip off the bottom of the slide. I shuffle more carefully, only half listening, and then slide the deck back across the table to her.

"Cut them."

She does, but not before asking, "do you think he likes me too?"

"Of course," I say, taking the cards back and dealing them out evenly between the two of us. "It's obvious."

And it is. Ricky has been not so subtly flirting with her for the past two weeks, which, in the life of a thirteen year old is almost like forever. She seems satisfied with this answer and happily pushes her half of the cards into a neat little pile.

"War?"

I nod and we both throw down a card.

**

"Ok, so the big news is," she plops down on the floor across from me with an excited hand wave, "me and Ricky kissed."

"About time," I tease. "You have been dating the guy for a month."

"Shut up." She pouts and tosses the pack of cards at me.

"How was it?" I ask, sliding the cards out from their container as I tuck my leg beneath me.

She takes a deep breath and then quickly launches into a detailed retelling of the kiss as I shuffle the cards. I nod and make affirmative "mhmm" noises where appropriate and laugh when she tells me how he accidentally pinched her bottom lip between their teeth. I attempt a riffle shuffle, but some of the cards slide out of place. My fingers are fast enough to catch them and push them back. She's still talking as I slide the deck across the carpet to her.

"Cut," I say, only momentarily interrupting her deep contemplation over which flavor lip gloss she should wear for the next time.

She does as instructed and I deal the appropriate number of cards out.

"How about the strawberry one you got at Mandee's?" I suggest.

"Strawberry?" she says, tilting her head in thought as she stacks her cards. "He does like strawberry bubble gum. What game?"

"Spit," I say with a grin.

She leans over and flicks my shoulder before lining up her cards.

**

"Ricky asked me to go to his prom," she squeals, running in and bouncing down next to me on the bed. "He called me right before I came."

"Were you under the impression he might actually ask someone else?" I ask, playfully tossing a fluffy blue pillow at her. "You're his girlfriend."

"Shut up." She throws the pillow back at me and then pulls a pack of cards out from the front pocket of her hoodie.

"Well, did you say yes?" I ask sarcastically, taking the pack from her and sliding out the cards.

"Of course I did! And I already told him we're going to go in matching pink."

I stifle a laugh and start to shuffle. She's already listing off possible hairstyles and makeup options and trying to decide between gold or silver accent jewelry. She's wondering if she should choose shoes that look cute or more sensible ones that will be comfortable for dancing and whether or not her boobs will look good in a strapless gown. I offer my opinion where it fits - silver jewelry, comfortable shoes, yes your boobs will look great - and move the cards between my fingers. I attempt a riffle shuffle, but when I lift the cards they fall flat instead of creating a satisfying bridge.

"Do you think we'll... you know," she says, her eyes wide. "Prom night and all."

I arch an eyebrow and smooth the bedspread between us before sliding the deck towards her. "If you both want to, I guess. Cut them."

She does and then sighs, pushing them back to me. She seems lost in thought as I deal out the cards, but she picks up her hand and fans them out.

"Rummy?" I suggest.

She nods and offers me a smile.

**

"Ricky..." she says, her voice cracking in her throat. Her eyes are red and puffy and she sniffles as I pull her off the porch and into the house. "I just... I don't know. I trusted him..."

"I know," I say, hugging her tightly. "I know you did. I'm so sorry. Do you want me to go chop off his balls?"

"Shut up." She makes a hiccupping sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"You didn't say no." I give her a shrug and she grins, though her eyes are still sparkling with tears.

She follows me into the living room and collapses down onto my couch with a heavy sigh. As she kicks off her boots, I crouch down and open the cabinet beneath the tv to fetch a pack of cards.

"He said it would be okay. He said we could do long distance while we were away at college. We were supposed to be committed. I don't even know how long this has been going on!"

I listen intently as she tells me everything. Her voice is hoarse and rough, but it's a voice any seasoned best friend could easily decipher. The cards move between my fingers, but it's habit now and I don't even have to glance down. The pain in her voice is palpable, but she manages to laugh and smile here and there throughout and I know that she'll be okay. I successfully complete a perfect riffle shuffle, the cards fanning out and then flat as I bend them back, but I don't even notice.

"I can't believe I wasted so much time on him!" She huffs, taking the cards from my hands. Without cutting the deck, she starts forcefully dealing them out.

"What are we playing?" I ask, picking up my allotted cards.

She wipes the wetness from her cheeks with her palms and grins at me.

"Old maid."

*************************************

This is a riffle shuffle!:

SCI Post

cheapxdate — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 02:17:03 GMT

So... second chance idol? LET'S DO THIS!

SCRAPBOOK 2011

cheapxdate — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 16:06:17 GMT

DEFAULT ICONS

WALLPAPERS

MOVIES
>> Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightening Thief >> Robin Hood >> Buried >> Toy Story 3 >> No Strings Attached >> Black Swan >> Due Date >> Nightmare on Elm Street >> Never Let Me Go >> The Roommate >> Easy A
BOOKS
>> Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightening Thief >> Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Sea of Monsters >> Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Titan's Curse >> Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Battle of the Labyrinth >> Harry Potter: Film Wizardry >> The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo >> The Haunting of Hill House >> Cardturner >> Unraveling Anne >> A Song of Fire & Ice: Vol 1 Game of Thrones
FIC
WRITTEN READ
MUSIC
>> Flowers for a Ghost - Thriving Ivory >> The Crow & The Butterfly - Shinedown >> Do It Like A Dude - Jesse J >> Afterlife - Avenged Sevenfold >> Boyfriend - Big Time Rush ft Snoop Dog >> The Harold Song - KE$HA >> Lover I Don't Have to Love - Bright Eyes
OBSESSIONS
>> Kellan Lutz >> Mark Reads The Hunger Games >> Post-Hardcore bands >> Game of Thrones
RANDOM STUFF WORTH REMEMBERING

094: my life; a movie.

cheapxdate — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 14:22:26 GMT

STOLEN FROM fakeplasticsnow <3

RECASTING YOUR LIFE
This is a mega-meme: it's the union between a PICSPAM and a FANMIX. IT'S YOUR LIFE!

>> You have to choose the actors who will play:
~ Yourself alias the main character
~ The true love
~ The "mistake"
~ The true love's best friend
~ The rival
~ Mom
~ Dad
~ Sister/brother (or both)
~ The Best Friend
~ The Best Gay Friend
~ The pet
~ The city

>> And now you have to choose YOUR PERSONAL SOUNDTRACK, of course:
~ Opening credits
~ Falling in love
~ The Kiss
~ Sex
~ The break up
~ The psychological breakdown
~ Shopping with friends
~ The getting back together
~ End Credits

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

>> You have to choose the actors who will play:

~ Yourself alias the main character:

RACHEL MCADAMS

~ The true love

SCOTT MICHAEL FOSTER

~ The "mistake"

JESSIE BRADFORD

~ The true love's best friend

ZACH GILFORD

~ The rival

ELISHA CUTHBERT

~ Mom

SALLY FIELD

~ Dad

BILLY BURKE

~ Sister/brother (or both)

ALEXIS BLEDEL

~ The Best Friend

KRISTEN BELL

~ The Best Gay Friend

ADAM LAMBERT

~ The pet

~ The city

NYC

- And now you have to choose YOUR PERSONAL SOUNDTRACK, of course:

~ Opening credits
BECAUSE I'M AWESOME - THE DOLLYROTS

~ Falling in love
BEATING HEARTS BABY - HEAD AUTOMATICA

~ The Kiss
WONDERWALL - OASIS

~ Sex
RIVER FLOWS IN YOU - YIRUMA

~ The break up
SHATTERED - TRADING YESTERDAY

~ The psychological breakdown
CLOSER - KINGS OF LEON

~ Shopping with friends
OUR TIME IS NOW - PLAIN WHITE T'S

~ The getting back together
EVERYTHING - LIFEHOUSE

~ End Credits
STARLIGHT - ADAM LAMBERT COVER (MUSE)

GOOD TIMES :D

01: FRIENDS ONLY.

cheapxdate — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 03:46:26 GMT