Random Works

[schizorain]

My Favorite Lines
(written 4-18-07)

I sat in the bar, off to the side by the wine, like always. There was something wrong, but I just couldn't put my finger on it. We had just argued and your pacific blue eyes were now arctic.

Time doesn't fly by fast enough when we argue. It creeps. Slowly, and painfully like getting caught in a meat grinder whose motor is dying. Not the first analogy I've pulled from my a** to define the time, but certainly the best. It was your fault, so I wasn't just about to apologize. Not this time, I had earlier announced that I was going to start thinking of my own best intentions now. This was one of those moments, wasn't it?

I fought the tears back, and you must of noticed me bite my lip while I pretended to watch the news. If it were anyone else, I would just tell them I know people who go to Virginia Tech. A tasteless lie, but you know better and so should I.

So you came over and asked if you were allowed to touch me. You didn't wait for an answer, because you know me all too well. You began to rub my back and I put my head on the table and cried softly. Your lips met my cheek and all was well again.

Your boss gave you a break and you apologized, something I can't remember you doing since we began dating. And I needed to write. I don't know why, but your simple "I'm sorry" made me need to put out everything that's been floating in my head since Monday.

I had a pen in my pocket. Blue. I hate writing in blue. I never used to. She bleeds in blue ink. The line caught me off-guard. Just a line I came up with sometime last year. But it hit me hard... She bleeds in blue ink. When was the last time I had used that line?

Not that it mattered. I needed to write. Bleed. Whatever. I had a pen, and I was in a bar. I bothered the bartender, who gave me an odd look, but gave me the napkin I requested anyway.

I returned to the table and just started writing. The words were all connected, but not in the right order. Nothing perfect. Writing on bar napkins... Perfect squares for imperfect words. Now I know I don't know where that line came from. So crown me the queen of one-liners.

Ramblings of the bar napkin. An epitah of a depressed, confused girl? Hah, that would be a laugh. Looking back at my blue-blood stained napkin, I should rearrange the words. But they're so bitter, and I don't want to force the taste back onto myself. Not sooner than necessary at least.

Until then, I'll keep my napkin safe. Those words might become my new favorite lines.

 

[schizorain]

Blood and Bricks
(written 5-28-07)

There was a sickening crack as his fist hit the wall. Not only had the young man probably broken a handful (he would've snickered at the irony at that had he not been in pain) of bones in his knuckles, but the rough brick texture had torn through his skin, and the warm blood dripped down his fingers.

Funny thing about hitting a wall, walls can't fight back. They're the most defenseless structures he could think of. Walls are prone to everything. Weather, people, cars, bombs. But what did the bricks do to deserve this blood?

He couldn't think of an answer, and this made him angry. He clenched his fists tighter, his right one pulsing and pounding in pain. At this point he had forgotten why he had punched the wall in the first place. Some insignifigant thing probably. He was focused on the wall now.

Part of him was wishing the wall would fight back. Swing at him. Something that would make fighting the wall seem less useless. Granted, in a fistfight of Brick Wall vs. Human, the wall had the upper hand. Bricks were a lot stronger than flesh and bone.

He apologized to the wall. Not only for hitting it, but for bleeding on it. He looked down at his hand again. The pain still searing just as badly as it had been. He wished he hadn't looked down at it again. Seeing it had only reminded him that he was in pain.

He walked back inside so he could ice his hand. Numb it a little before driving himself to the hospital. They knew him there. He was "that guy who loses fights with walls."

 

[schizorain]

Ink and Plaster
(written 6-14-07)

She scrawled her letter to no one in particular quickly. A bitter taste was rising in the back of her mouth; one that you'd taste after running too long while you had a sore throat. Ignoring the soapy taste now filling her mouth and throat, she read over her words. She was careful not to miss a single letter.

Time after time, you abuse my trust. You take abuse the fact that I am always the one to apologize, that I never blame you, and that I feel guilty whenever you blame yourself.

Time after time, you take advantage of my willingness to forgive, to turn my head, to stand up and walk it off. You take advantage of my weaknesses, and my dependence on others.

A child who cannot stand up for themselves, becomes an adult who will not stand up for anything.

Stop making me feel like I'm not worth standing up for.

She felt a knot forming in her chest. It burned with anger, and hatred. Not for anyone in particular, but for everyone who had hurt her like this in the past four years. "Best years of our lives, my a**," she mused. The knot was still there though, and the girl felt a wave of violence rush through her.

She stared at the wall. The smooth plaster and it's undeserved perfection mocked her. She would have liked very much to put her fist through the pretty paint and plaster. Then another, then another until there was nothing left of the wall that sat in front of her.

She breathed heavily and thought it over. Punching the wall wasn't worth it in the end. She'd need to explain to her family why the wall was in shambles. Then there would be any medical costs if she damaged her hand, and knowing her family, she'd have to fix it.

It was the needless explinations that she didn't want to deal with. A chorus of "what's wrongs" and "are you okays" that weren't worth dealing with. "Nothing" would be a lie, and there was nothing to explain. She could imagine the conversation now.

"Honey. What happened?" her mother would ask, and there would be concern in her voice with a twinge of irritation.

"I'm angry, so I punched the wall. What's it look like, mom?" The reply would be curt, eyes starting to well up with tears.

"What are you angry about?" would be what she said, but what her mother would really mean is, "You're only a teenager, you don't have any reason I can deem valid to be angry or depressed, so what the hell is your problem?"

"Everything." One word, and the conversation would take two possible turns. Choice A) her mother would give up, drop the subject, tell her to clean up, then leave. Choice B) the argument would start. The argument was the same every time, the words were different, but the point was perpetually driven. You're too young to have any problems. Get over yourself.

The thought of this made her angrier. She felt the knot in her chest drop and tighten, growing the more and more she thought about it. She wanted to yell, to scream, to tear down the walls around her. But her voice caught in her throat and her previous logic kept her still.

She tore the paper she had written her letters to no one on. Tore it, crumbled it, ripped it, chewed pieces of it.

It wasn't the hard, perfect plaster, but it was enough to loosen the knot.

 

[schizorain]

Personal Inventory
(written 5-22-07)

"You're exactly where you should be at sixteen."

Your words made me cringe a bit. One, I'll be seventeen in less than three weeks. And two, if this is how all sixteen year olds feel, I pity each and every other one.

You finish your advice... rant... whatever it is, and I read it. I read it again. That's the benefit of talking online, I can re-read everything. The letters seem harsher, shaper, more angular. I try to ignore that and pay attention to the actual meaning behind the words than the letters that make them.

I'm quiet. I need time to reflect, to think. I take too long, and you're gone. I needed that, though. I needed your "tough love" or whatever you wanted to call it. However, I'm alternating between relief and silently crying.

I'm a product of my environment, a Hollywood centered, romanticized, narcissistic environment. Still, even after everything you've said, I just want you to hug me and tell me it'll get better when I get older.

My personal inventory consists of seventeen years of self-loathing, two and a half years of loneliness, and four years of pretentiousness. Also a touch of curiosity. Okay, so it's more than a touch.

I imagine myself with a screwdriver in hand, trying to pick apart your mind. Your body. What makes you tick? What happens if I poke this? What happens if I hit this nerve? Why are you such a private person? I'm looking for an emotional scar, something broken to serve as an explanation.

I'm trying too hard again, and you catch me. You take my tools away. I've found nothing. And it infuriates me, and I'm manic.

So now I take a step back and I stare at this child with the screwdriver, and I hate her. I hate how she needs to constantly and consistently ruin every personal connection I've ever made with her incessant need to take everything apart and see how it works. This girl with the screwdriver has ruined my life.

Then I feel guilty. I shouldn't blame this little girl for my problems. They're all my fault. I'm perfectly capable of taking responsibility for my actions. However, I take another step back and I see a girl tearing herself to pieces. She's said the wrong thing, she's made the wrong move, she feels like she'll never be able to stand back up.

I stare at her and it saddens me, you catch me there too. You tell me to stop beating myself up over it, it's getting annoying. And I blame myself, and I'm depressed.

Pretentious. It's funny you used that word to describe how I act. I read a quote once, "There is nothing individual about me, I am a collection of everyone I've ever known." I picked that quote up, and put it in my inventory. I can honestly say I don't know where this one came from though. Pretentious, the word sounds pretty. Maybe I adopted it as my own one day, and let it become part of me.

Some nights, I forget where I'm going as I write.... Like, right now.

 

[schizorain]

2:22 am
(written 5-19-07)

She was clenching her teeth again. So hard that she felt the dull pain in her temples that would become a migraine if she didn't stop soon. She stared at her ceiling for a little while before rolling over to check her clock. The LCD display read 2:21am. A smile spread across her face, she couldn't help but make a wish when the numbers changed.

Her amusement by the clock was short-lived, and not even a minute had passed before she felt the stress again. The buzz against her arm startled her, and she grabbed her vibrating phone and opened it.

"Hello?" her voice was a whisper. She pulled the phone away from her ear for a moment so she could see who was calling. The screen read "Grahm" and she had to smile.

"You called?" his tone was confused. A touch of worry even? The idea of someone being concerned about her played around in her head for awhile. It was a comforting idea, and one she wasn't quite used to.

"Yeah... I..." the girl sighed, pushing her hair out of her eyes and rolling onto her stomach. "I couldn't sleep. Mind talking awhile?"

"Kayla," the boy on the other end sighed, "you know I hate being on the phone. Get some sleep." He knew his pleading was worthless though, and he knew Kayla.

"Please? C'mon, Grahm. We haven't talked in such a long time. Not since you moved," Kayla pouted a bit. Being 50 miles away, he couldn't see it. "I'm making pouty faces in your general direction, boy."

"Oh really? Pouty faces won't work on me. I have a heart of stone."

"Jerk. I miss you." She bit her lip. She did miss Grahm. Not just his being a walk away. His whole being. They'd hardly talked any more since he moved.

"Miss you, too."

"Come visit me."

"Kayla, you know I can't aff-"

"You can't afford s**t, Grahm! You're down here every weekend. It wouldn't kill you to get here an hour earlier. I wouldn't even make you drive when you got down here!"

"I'm sure Diego would love that."

"Hon, we've been over for almost three years now," she was trying to convince herself that she was over him. Not just him. "Diego will understand. Besides, I've got more to worry about than he does. Speaking of which, how is the boyfriend?" Kayla grimaced a bit.

"Mike and I are doing well, thank you," he laughed and she couldn't help but smile again. "How about you and Diego? Things okay?"

"I guess..." she yawned, "Merf... You still owe me a dance."

"I know. I know. Get some sleep. I'll see what I can do about Friday, okay?"

She knew he wouldn't. He never did. She had asked him countless times. "Okay. G'night, Grahm. Love you."

"Goodnight, Kayla."

Kayla hung up the phone and put it on her nightstand. She finally cuddled up against her pillow and fell asleep. She was satisfied. For the first time ever, one of her clock wishes had come true.

 

[schizorain]

Caught in the Moment.
(written 8-3-07)

This is an experimental piece. It's second person, but the perspective is written as a boy, but hey, nothing will stop you from imagining it from a girl's point of view.
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You sit on the dock, twisting the filter of your lit cigarette between your fingers. You look at her, then back down at the waves crashing on the posts holding you up. The city lights are about a mile behind you, and as bright as they are, the sky is clear and the stars above the ocean are beautiful.

You take a pull, and as you take in the smoke, you take in the night. The smell of the ocean and the night overtake your smoke and you drown in the sensations around you.

The girl shivers and you take off your jacket and give it to her. All the small talk you have been making is lost in the ocean's crashing. And although lips are moving and words are being made, everything is silent and beautiful.

You're still talking, but there's a pause. Without thinking about it, you gently put your lips to hers. It seems the kiss was scripted, just meant to fit in that perfect moment. Your hand finds her neck and you move it upward to brush the back of your fingers against her cheek as you pull away.

She tilts her head and smiles at you, as if waiting for an explanation. You open your mouth to apologize, but your words are met by her lips and you find her tongue exploring your mouth. You return the gesture and find yourself pulling her closer. Still, nothing but the waves crashing and the occasional screaming of the gulls.