Bed Time Stories

                Rachel had become accustomed to sleeping in Millie’s bed. For the first few weeks following the murder of her mother, she would sulk to her own room and pace back and forth, back and forth in a panicked kind of hurry. When she changed direction, she jerked to the left instead of allowing for a gentle arc. And when the blood pounding in her ears deafened her and she was scared of screaming, she would squeeze her eyes, swallow hard, and jog in place. Then she would, as calmly as her jittery body allowed, crawl into bed with Millie. But after a while, she dropped the act. Millie loved her and never protested, but Millie was becoming more uncomfortable with each passing sleepless night. Rachel wasn’t really sleeping at all it seemed.

Rachel had announced one night, lying next to Millie, that she would tell bedtime stories every night. Millie thought it was a cool idea—she sang, and maybe Rachel could be a storyteller. It was so easy to forget Rachel was 13 because she was so small, but her bedtime stories were the stories of someone who was finally able to see what had been broken in her life—what was keeping her broken now. For the first time, she understood how weird her life had been. Now that she was living the life of a “normal family,” she was surprised to find that even those things which she thought were commonplace in Mother’s home were not found in Aunt Tracy’s home. Mother was a sick fuck, she thought as she tried to adapt. This family showered her with love. They hugged her when she came home. They talked to her when she misbehaved. They helped her with homework. Somehow, however, Rachel felt uneasy. Maybe she just didn’t know how to respond to their light touch. Or maybe she was still grieving her mother. Her bewildered family had a hard time pinning down her quite palpable unrest. But more likely, Rachel was feeling guilty. Guilt accompanied each hand on the shoulder, each kiss on the forehead, each “I love you…”

When you are loved, you are expected to love back. You are expected to be honest when others have been honest with you. But lying was all she knew. And so she told these broken tales—horror stories from a reality she somehow wanted to preserve—because they were some backwards way of sharing truth, and because a large part of her wasn’t ready to be fixed. If normal people fuck up, then they’re just fuck-ups, but when broken people fuck up, it’s expected, she would tell herself every time she considered honesty. It was so easy for her to validate her dishonesty: self-defense.

                Millie had taken to recording these dark stories during her study hall as nearly as she could remember them. This was partly because they were disturbing and she was considering showing someone, but mostly, she had a sickening suspicion that these characters and their lives were quite true. She reread the stories constantly, hoping Rachel would mess up. She could resurrect a character, much like a soap opera in that this slip up would make it cheesy and unrealistic. She could have told a fantastic twist that would have stripped the legitimacy from all the others… but Rachel never messed up. And although the names and even genders changed, Millie thought she could guess most of the characters.

                They all began the same. “Once upon a time, there was this lady. She lived in a small town.” And the stories kept coming and coming and coming. Every night there was a new one, each more disconcerting than the last until they took a turn towards indisputably sickening. Every night there was a new one until they stopped. “Once upon a time, there was this la—“

                “—STOP!” Millie had had enough. She loved Rachel, but this was getting out of hand. Neither of them was getting sleep. Millie couldn’t sleep after what she heard, and Rachel was far too restless to sleep. Millie told her she needed to sleep in her own room. And Rachel almost threatened to tell on Millie for being a lesbian or having tattoos or for being a liberal. But she didn’t. Because deep down Rachel knew she’d crossed a line. These stories were a fucked way of telling Millie what it had really been like to live with Mother. She wanted to just tell her what she’d been through without all the bullshit, but she was so scared that if she started talking, she would never stop, and then everyone would know everything—then everyone would know she was a killer.

                But this fear is so good. I feel alive for the first time. It’s like I woke up when I killed Mother and never went back to sleep. And she was thinking this as she apologized while trying to hide her brimming tears from Millie. She thought of all of that because she couldn’t slow down her thoughts. She just. Kept. Thinking. And her heart was starting to pound in her chest. She quickly left so Millie wouldn’t see her cry. And Millie laid her head on her pillow, alone for the first night in many, and considered what she should do for Rachel. She prayed to God for an answer. She asked that He may free Rachel of her demons. Through only a few inches of plaster, Rachel lay in her bed opposite Millie, their heads together. She was thinking thinking thinking thinking about Mother, about the paint on the ceiling, about whether or not she wanted to have children, about her paper due next week. Her thoughts moved rapidly and almost painfully. These thoughts sped, turned, and wrecked in their flight to gain ahead long enough for her to consider it. But things were moving so fast in there, that she hadn’t enough time to be considered. She didn’t believe in God.

No Music In Mother's House

A lot of people went to Mother's funeral. Most came out of curiosity rather than concern, but there were a precious few that worried for Rachel and wanted to pay their respects to a life ended so soon. The death of a young person is tragic. But truthfully, very few people knew Mother. They knew Tracy and they had heard of Rachel. Rachel took piano from Miss Lisa, a popular woman in town. She played church organ for the Presbyterians. Miss Lisa talked Rachel up to her women's circle at church. Many people wanted to meet the famous Rachel and had been presented with no other opportunity.

 Rachel played at the funeral. She played her favorite song--it was one Mother hated. She had played it at a recital when she was 11, and Mother left in the middle of the performance and waited in the car. She said it was conflicted- and cruel-sounding. Rachel smiled as she played. The "mourners" assumed Rachel was remembering good times with her mother. Perhaps it was "their song." But Miss Lisa wondered. She would never forget the day Mother walked out of the concert hall. She had been so offended and was angry for Rachel's sake.

Millie sang at the funeral because Rachel had asked her to. She sang Music In My Mother's House--another her mother had loathed. The preacher of the church in which Mother was baptized wasn't sure what to say about her. The night before, he had slept little trying to think of general statements about the woman. But he didn't believe a woman who had taken her life would be welcomed in heaven. And he didn't believe that she had accepted Jesus as her Lord and Savior. She never came a day to church. What generic statements are appropriate, then? He called Tracy and she didn't have much. He asked to speak to Rachel, and she reluctantly agreed. "Mother was in to photography," she said grimly. He had heard about the horrible pictures--

The preacher stuck to a short (short, short) message about how much she'd be missed and the church wish they could have known her better. There was absolutely nothing else. No one really knew her. Rachel had to have known her best...

After the burial, the Tracy steered Rachel back towards their car. Miss Lisa  asked if she could speak with Rachel first. Tracy looked at Rachel, who nodded and said, "I'll meet you guys in a bit." She then turned back to Miss Lisa's worried face. Rachel could tell Miss Lisa was questioning her decision to have this conversation.
"I know this is a hard day for you. But... I have to know. Did your mom beat you? Were you were abused. It doesn't matter now. You can't be in trouble for telling me."
"She never had to lay a hand on me until the day she died." Rachel said this rather pointedly, making deliberate eye contact with Miss Lisa. Miss Lisa knew exactly what those words meant. She was a smart woman, and Rachel was aware of this.
"I understand. But I'd like for you to clarify, which will take some guts. So I'll say the words, and I want you to nod or shake your head. Then we'll hug each other and you can go to the car with your family. Okay?" at this, Rachel nodded. "Your mom didn't hit you. You were too scared of her to do anything that would make her that upset. The day she... died, she was more out of control. Am I correct?" Rachel began to nod, then stopped herself.
"Almost." she said. "I was out of control that day. I wanted out." And then she sobbed. She couldn't stop. She didn't cry for the death of Mother. She was so much happier without her. She cried for the tears she had suppressed. For the hair she had pulled out. For the punishments she'd delivered to herself. For the fear she never expressed. It was reminiscent of the day she had snapped; but there was so much less to let go of now. It was a little easier.

And Miss Lisa was scared of the new information she'd gathered. She knew what that meant. But she would never tell anyone. Miss Lisa wanted her out too. Miss Lisa would continue to instruct Rachel free of charge. And they didn't speak of it again for a long, long time.

We're Just Not Set Up For It

Sarah was feeling kind of dizzy and warm. When she stood up, she felt an urge to lean on someone, and so she did. She leaned on the frat boy nearest her. He was a pledge, she could tell. He wasn't drinking, and there were only two reasons for that. She hoped to God it was her pledge theory.
"You a pledge?" she asked, trying to stand on her own.
"Yeah," he said, trying to help her.
"Good, good," she said. "You got a big bro?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Take me to 'im pretty please." The pledge put his hand respectfully around her waist to support her. She buried her face in his shoulder. He smelled like Axe and sweat--but not quite body odor. Just a good smell. She told him so. She smiled a small smile at no one in particular, and he looked at her with raised eyebrows. "What year are you?" he asked, purely conversationally. "Sophomore," she said. That's only a year older than me, he thought. He had thought she seemed very mature. She had one of those faces--it looked smart.

"Here he is, ma'am," he said, aiming for silly, but presenting formal.
"Hey boy. Wuss your name?" she was nearly incomprehensible now.
"Uh, Tyler." he said hesitantly. And he braced himself for the kiss that he had seen coming. He kissed her for a moment, but when her hands made her intentions clear, he gently pulled her off. "You're too drunk. I can have my lil bro drive you home.
Her feelings were hurt and she was embarrassed. She started to walk away, and Lil Bro followed her. He didn't know if she had a ride, and she knew he would follow her. She had planned this out. She wanted it to happen in the house, but she knew a pledge wouldn't live there. She wasn't giving up.

He held her around her waist again, trying to be the boy his mama had raised; the man his fraternity expected him to be. They didn't take advantage of girls. She was just too drunk. But she is hot. They marched on towards the car. They both knew where that night would end, although Lil Bro was still trying to talk himself out of it, deep down he knew his mind was made up. In the car, he kept his eyes forward and started driving. "Where am I taking you?" he asked, aiming for formal, but presenting silly. "You're taking me to your room," she said. He smiled, trying not to laugh. He was so nervous.
"How do you know my hall doesn't have a guest policy?"
"Your parking pass. You live in McNary. That's coed floors. They don't give a shit. Besides. It's Friday night." Maybe she wasn't as drunk as he had thought. He already felt less guilty.
"Very observant, " he said. And he pulled into a spot that was remarkably close considering the time of night. Someone must have just left.

In his room she made him uncomfortable. She touched his things. She picked up his pictures. She was rough with him. She was not a small girl. He became unsure, but he was in too deep now. He couldn't make her leave, and she was still hot. He still wanted her...

And when they were finished she said, "Good thing I won't remember that tomorrow," she said. "What's your name again?" He answered her. Then she took the bed and made it clear his place was on the floor. Then she put her phone in her bra. She'd already set an alarm on vibrate for 9:00am, which was earlier than any college boy would wake up on a Saturday morning.

She woke up to a buzzing between her breasts. And almost intuitively she redressed herself. Found her purse, and in her red stilettos she stepped on Lil Bro's hand as she left his room. He looked up at her, awakened by the pain. His face was all confused sadness. Her's... was complicated.

Her brows were furrowed, and her smudged liner and mascara gave her the pathetic eyes worn on every Walk of Shame. But her eyes did not hold the anger that her brows attempted to shape. They held desperation. And her nose. Her nose wrinkled part in disgust and part in apology.  Her lips curled in on themselves, hiding their artfully sculpted, full body. Their absence made clear the intention behind the placement of her heel, but the downward arc of the crease spoke of regret.

And suddenly she dropped to the ground. She cried and cried. Unsure of what to do, Lil Bro watched until he finally willed himself towards her. He knew she'd stepped on his hand on purpose. She'd practically beat him the night before, had forgotten his name, and had sad cruel things... but he held her in his arms. He rocked her and was silent. She let him. She felt she had hurt him enough. She stopped crying, but put her head in his lap.

"You know what isn't fair?" she asked him.
"Tell me," he said.
"We're just not set up for it. Women can't rape men."

It was a Saturday morning in early October.

Give Yourself to Love--Part 3

It was about a year-and-a-half later. With the kids safely fed and in bed, the couple lay together, talking awkwardly about the day. Sarah had something she wanted to say, and He could tell she did. Sarah stopped mid-sentence when talking about Molly.--"I was raped. In high school." She said it quickly and haltingly. This was the first time she said rape. It would take several more years to say it without flinching.

He was so overwhelmed. He didn't know what was right to do or say, so He allowed himself to react. "Oh, my God, Sarah. Who? Who did it?" Now He couldn't say it.

"Who doesn't matter." she said firmly.

"Of course it does!" He said raising his voice too much. She gave him a look that quieted him immediately.

"It doesn't because he's a grown man with his own life that I've no intentions of ruining. He has children that don't need to know what their father did. And I'm convinced, now that I've had time to think about it, that he didn't mean it. I know that sounds crazy. But he was really messed up that night. Like drugged or something..."

"It was in that park?" He was kind of breathless. And to his surprise, she laughed.

"No! Silly! It was at a party--someone's house. Some football player, I think. Maybe Matt Ingred's? I don't know. Someone's. Funny how the details slip, isn't it? I just... I went to that park to mourn, I think. I never told anybody, and so I told the trees, I guess." And with those words she understood for the first time the role those trees had played--they had been her confidant. She held her wrist, with its tattoo--a simple hourglass--just two triangles. He softly took her wrist from her. He traced the line with his fingertip. He had never known what it meant, (or even that it was an hourglass) and had never thought to ask. It just seemed like one of those tattoos you get in college; just to get one.

"It's an hourglass," she said smiling. "That's probably another story for another day, but it all ties in. And all my scars... I suppose I was coping in one way or another. You never asked about them, and I probably would have lied if you did, but since I'm sharing secrets, I may as well give that one up, too..."

"Oh, Sarah," He was horrified, but tried to portray worried. He was doing a decent job.

"Don't 'oh, Sarah,' me." she said. "I'm so much better now. You kind of broke my hourglass metaphor. You made me feel like a person again. I had to trust myself, but when I finally did, you were naturally the next person to trust. You saw my face first. So I gave myself up to you. And you've never failed me."

There was silence... then,

"I love you." they both said at the same time, and laughed. And in the hysteria of this release of their repressed, emotional tension, they couldn't stop. They laughed for what seemed like hours. They fell asleep spooning, with smiles still on their faces.

Give Yourself to Love--Part 2

He knew a lot about nature. He'd been an Eagle Scout and a camp counselor for years. He loved being outdoors. He could make fires and tell when it was going to rain. He knew which plants were okay to touch, and which pebbles, when rubbed together, made clay paint for decorating little faces and bodies. Just has his wife had passed on a love of music to her children, He had shown them how to enjoy and respect nature. Their middle child, Molly, best understood this connection. He loved taking Molly on hikes with him and teaching her what he had so loved to be taught. They all enjoyed the outdoors to greater and lesser degrees, but Molly in particular, understood trees the way He did. She had her mother's nose--a funny, little button nose. But like her mother, He could tell she was going to be womanly in appearance. She was round, like six year-olds can be, but she had such a face. That was going to be an intelligent face, just like her mother's.

Molly headed the line with her father. He quizzed her over the different kinds of trees, and on special occasion, animal tracks. The eldest, Patrick, was in Boy Scouts, and although he was proficient enough, his true passion lay in reading. The seven year-old had read through both his parents' favorite series' as children. Now he was starting Harry Potter. He wanted to be sure he was reading everything correctly, so during the day at school, he would read three chapters, and then before bed  his mother read him those chapters again out of her copy, while he followed along. Sometimes he wrote his own stories, though he never told anyone about them, and he drew pictures from his favorite scenes in books. He kept these in a private journal and sketchbook. He was a sensitive boy.

They were a family of many talents. They were a family of love. He wouldn't have it any other way. He would not.

He carried Rose, who was feeling too tired to walk. Her three year-old legs were starting to hurt her. She tended to whine, but He often indulged her although his wife thought He spoiled her. "You have two capable legs, dear." she said to Rose. No one else seemed to care enough to try to convince him to put her down, though. So they marched on.

They stopped in a clearing to drink some water and rest. He needed to rest most as He'd carried Rose for most the hike. He laid on his back and looked up at the clouds. "They're like cotton balls glued with Elmer's onto a blue paper." said Patrick. He had laid down next to his father and snuggled up to his side. He ruffled Patrick's hair and said, "Just like that, buddy."

Molly was teaching Rose some schoolyard, hand-jive chant a little ways off, and his wife was... where has she gone to? This would be the second time this had happened. And leaving the car running? What's that? He listened to Patrick a little while longer while he described, in finite detail, his new favorite scene in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. (It changed weekly.) Then He put Molly to the task of entertaining the other two with *The Line Game, and left to find his wife.

And find her He did. She was a little ways off from the clearing, sitting on a stump. Her eyes were closed, but her body shook with the tears she did not shed. He did not run to her, but instead walked slowly, but deliberately so that she would hear his footsteps. He knelt beside her and pulled her head onto his chest. With his touch, she began to cry. Unsure of what to do, He said nothing, but supported her shaking frame.

"I was afraid this would happen," she cried. Her sobs broke His heart. She had not cried this way since Patrick had choked on a piece of fish bone two years ago.
"What, Sarah, what's happening?" He was desperate to make it stop. It was hurting him too. He loved her. But when she sensed that pain in someone else's voice, she held his face in a way her best friend often did to her growing up.
"I used to come here to cry, and when I'd start I couldn't stop. It seems not much has changed. I was just hoping it had." Her voice broke a little. He sat on the dirt and pulled her into his lap.
"It's so beautiful here, isn't it? But it's okay if we don't come back. I promise. I care more about you than this park. I just wish I knew what I could do to help." And with his words, she knew He was fishing. He wanted to know what was wrong, and she honestly believed it was with concerned, rather than curious, heart.
"Someday, someday I'll tell you everything. But for now I just want to get home. Will you drive?"
"Of course, darling." And they held hands and called their kids onward.

In the car, both she and the children fell asleep, and He was left driving alone. He played NPR for background noise, but He didn't really hear anything. His stomach was churning. He was a little scared that He wouldn't be able to handle whatever she wanted to tell him, and He would fail her somehow.

But He had built his family, with the help of his wife, on Love. And they both believed in Love. Really believed.

Love comes when you're ready

love comes when you're afraid.

It will be the greatest teacher,

the best friend you have made.

*Brain teaser that pissed me off for half a summer.

Give Yourself to Love--Part 1

He was going on a trip with his wife and children. In the car, the two oldest children--six and seven--were trying to hit one another over and around the car seat between them containing a three-year old child, whose laugh rang with maverick and the sound of bells. That little girl's voice always meant something to her father. He loved every time she spoke, even if the words were oppositional or rude, because her voice was perfection. And the two fighting siblings, a boy and girl, were beginning to banter above an interview their mother had found particularly interesting on NPR.

His wife, who was driving, pulled the car to the side of the road and turned off the radio. She was silent, but looked at her husband and smiled. She squeezed his hand. He loved her so, so much. She often did this when the children fought in the car. The silence would make them uncomfortable. They realized how childish their arguments were when they sensed they were silently being judged. They would quiet themselves and say, "sorry" with embarrassed and reluctant heart. He would look back at them and smile. "Thank you both," He would say. "I'm proud of you. What would you like to sing?"

This family always sang after an argument. In the time it took to sing a song or two, the pettiness was far behind them. If the fight was over serious matters, they would discuss it. But more often than not, the argument was over the color of Spongebob's house or who had said, "MY COOL CAR!" first. On this day, the older boy spoke first. "Can we sing What Wondrous Love Is This?" The six year-old girl nodded vigorously. Then all eyes moved to the baby of the family. "Whatever. I don't care," she said. Her mother rolled her eyes at her, and began to sing. The mother never did complain that she didn't hear the end of that interview. Later her husband remembered that she'd missed the interview she had been so enjoying, and He asked her about it. "What is the value of the words of an intelligent stranger beside the value of harmony in my VW?" And He couldn't answer the rhetorical question, so He smiled at her and kissed her forehead. "You're a good mama," He said.

He was a decent singer. He was not the singer his wife was. She sang in college and competed as a soloist all over the state. He could carry a tune, which was more than some men could say, really. He sang the melody, and the kids followed him, and when the mother felt they were secure, she would sing a soaring harmony above and below them, weaving in and out of the melody effortlessly. The youngest, that little girl, was already beginning to pick up on these harmonies, which her mother kept consistent for this purpose. The other two were content to join their father; but that little girl had a voice that, accompanied by her soon-to-be-discovered perfect pitch, would eventually surpass her mother's skill. And her mother could not be prouder of her--she had given her daughter every opportunity her parents had not. And the result was phenomenal.

He thought that was probably why He loved his little girl so much. It was like falling in love with his wife's voice all over again. It was magic.

The mother put the car back in drive and got back on the highway. What wondrous love is this? Oh, my soul. Oh, my soul. The six year-old girl picked the next song, and then the mother, and then the youngest, and finally He got his chance. "Give Yourself to Love." He said almost apologetically. He was a predictable man. It was the first song He'd ever heard his wife sing. She was at a coffee house with her guitar and her floral dress. Her hair was braided by her roommate at the time, and He was struck by her face. It was so intelligent-looking. She cared about the words she sang, and she meant every sound of every syllable of every word of every line. And the first time He heard her He cried. It would not be the first time his wife's voice made him cry.

Give yourself to love,
if love is what you're after.
Open your heart to the
tears and laughter and
Give yourself to love.
Give yourself to love.

His family laughed, but they obliged. It was a family favorite, after all. They sang all the way to the park in the mother's hometown. It was a woodsy park with trails, and gravel crunched under their wheels as they pulled in. They'd never come here before. Their usual family, nature trips were taken to a park nearly an hour and a half away, while all along this one was a half-hour drive (even with His wife's very, very slow driving). He was a little chagrined the He had not been informed of the existence of this quaint, beautiful park so nearby. And now that He saw it, He was particularly bitter. It was beautiful. But He watched his wife step outside the car, cross her arms and close her eyes. He wanted to go to her and touch her. But someone had to get the kids out of the car and the water bottles out of the back... and the keys out of the ignition.

But once He'd done those things, He sat the kids at a picnic table and took Mommy away for a "super-secret, completely boring grown-up conversation."

"Honey, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"I don't believe you." He looked her right in the eye. But then her countenance turned from one of solemn remembrance to one of relief. What did I say that was so great? He thought. She kissed him on the cheek. "We can talk about it later, Love. But for now, I want to go on a walk with our precious babies."

And so they did.

*The picture is a woman holding a flower behind her back with a tattoo of an hourglass on her wrist. This is the mother.

Part 2 of Gutes Tun

It was the Sunday after The Friday Night. Sarah went to church with her parents like she always did. But Millie wasn't there. She had texted her the night before, but she hadn't answered her yet. Sarah didn't sleep Saturday night. She felt so lonely, and couldn't submit to her loneliness by committing what she thought to be the ultimate act of solidarity: falling asleep alone. She wanted to tell someone about what had happened. She struggled with the word r--...ape. Not even in her head did she form the sounds of that dirty word.

In church the pastor said something about the "report." And she felt nauseous. Any word with both an "r" and a "p," would make her sick to her stomach for the next few years. After that word, formed of unfortunate consonants, had been spoken so innocently, she ran to the bathroom. Her parents looked at her meanly as she rushed out of the chapel into the parish hall. They were embarrassed.

In the bathroom she dry-heaved, over and over. She dry-heaved for the breakfast, lunch, dinner, and breakfast again, that she had skipped. But she did not cry. Tears welled in her eyes, but she squeezed them shut and waited for the droplets to absorb back into her aching eyes. And when the cold sweat all over her body had dried, and she felt secure enough to stand, she walked to the sink. She looked at herself, and her immediate thought was aw, before her fuzzy reality cleared up. Then she became very still. She walked to her reflection slowly with no swing in her arms or hips. She looked at the foreign face before her. This was not the face that had entered the party Friday Night. This was a very hard face.

Sarah had a round, round face. She was a chubby girl growing up, and had eventually developed a womanly figure from that baby fat. She had a body Millie would forever envy, and a body she would forever be at war with. That moment she hated her fat face and her double chin and her bingo arms and her thick legs and her cankles love handles ghetto booty belly pooch double Ds ALL OF IT. She hated her body, and she just wanted to start over with a new one. She wanted OUT.

This was a body that made her sexy enough to fuck, but not pretty enough to love. This was a body that oozed sex appeal in sweatpants and a Tshirt. This was a body that had no face--there was no face worth looking at on top of a perfect hourglass. Men just watched the sand pour from the top curve to the bottom. But she was smart, and she was a little awkward. She didn't party. She didn't even cuss. She was a church-girl. So men stopped looking at all--at least she thought they did.

Chris had to be so drunk he knew he'd forget it to even consider me. And I initiated it. He probably didn't want me at all. 

In a terrifying and private rage she tore off her cardigan and threw it to the floor with more force than required, which hurt her shoulder. She grabbed the fat on her upper arm and squeezed, stomping her foot to keep from screaming. She stopped only when the squeezing hand cramped suddenly. She leaned on the stall and slid until she was sitting again. She knew she needed to calm down before she saw her parents again, but she wasn't done yet. She punched the floor with her left hand, and immediately knew it was too hard. She had broken her hand. She'd gone too far, and now she was panicked. But even alone she would not allow her face to reflect this. She needed to practice. She walked over to the sink and splashed her face with water, maintaining a fixed countenance. She cleaned the blood from her knuckles, only wincing when the soap burned her.

With her cardigan back on and her arms firmly crossed to privately cradle her throbbing hand. The service was almost over. So she waited in the lobby for her parents to exit.

"You're okay?" Her mother always asked questions as challenges. The contracted "are" was placed strategically after the "you," as opposed to before. With this Sarah had two possible responses. Yes. or No. She went with yes. At home her dad sat in his recliner with a beer in his hand and the rest of the six pack on the ground beside him. He watched Spike TV and didn't mutter a comprehensible word until he said goodbye as Sarah left the house to go to the park. With her new-found release, she wanted privacy to perform. She pinched fat, elbowed trees, kicked huge, moss-covered rocks... and she was in so much pain, but she had screamed! She had yelped with that pain. She had for a small while been out of her body, or perhaps she had just opened it up enough, both physically and metaphorically to let goodness back inside of her. It was nearly five o'clock before she ceased her endless cycle of self-abuse and moments of rest... and it was only because her phone was ringing.

It wasn't a call.

Hey girl. I'm sorry I missed your text this morning. I was still asleep. Is everything okay? Are you okay?

And Sarah didn't respond. She wasn't happy. She wasn't making a difference in someone's life. She wasn't as smart as Millie. She wasn't as brave as Millie. And she wasn't falling for someone. She was just falling.

Yeah. I'm fine. I'll ttyl, love.

She knew Millie would find it suspicious. There was no face. All her texts were littered with :) and :/ and :( and :'( and :*) and ;) and :D and... and she was always afraid her texts would be misinterpreted without them. But her texts had taken on a certain personality with those faces... her face.  And without those faces, it was just a body of text. And Millie saw Sarah's face. She saw Sarah's face when others watched the sand. But Sarah was hiding her face. She was about to accept what she believed to be fact: her face was unimportant. Her sand... that mattered. She kind of hoped Millie would tell her she was crazy, and that her face mattered to plenty of people--to the people that mattered. She knew the faceless body would catch her attention and then she could save her. She was waiting for Millie to force the truth from her...

And then Millie made a horrible mistake.

Okay best friend. See you tomorrow.

All for a few more minutes to fall.

Rachel. Gutes Tun. 
Sarah. Nicht Tun.
Kylie. Gutes Tun.
Millie...
But who shall do
or fail to do
for you
? 

Part 1 of Gutes Tun

When Millie opened her eyes, she found Rachel's fingers had tightened around her arm--a death grip. Her body was twisted in a disturbingly uncomfortable-looking Q as she tried to accommodate for both her lock on Millie's arm and her fierce thumb-sucking. Millie tried to twist out, and Rachel's sleeping form tightened around Millie's arm. Although she mumbled nearly incomprehensibly, Millie could make out the words, "What will you do when you run out of room?" Millie, with curious heart, tried very carefully not to wake the sleeping girl as she loosened Rachel's fingers from her arm, so that she could listen for insight into Rachel's unconscious *logue. As she peeled off each finger, she felt like she was committing a sin. If someone lost their mother, they should hold a person for as long as they desire. She needed to be held, and so she held Millie instead, afraid the realization of her child-like needs would be left behind with the bravery it had taken to sneak into bed with Millie. Now she had her in, and her subconscious mind would not let her waste the opportunity.

Each pried finger was a sin, and Millie felt uneasy when Rachel kind of shriveled without that arm to hold. But she wiggled into some skinnys and put on an over-sized tank top and one of her dad's old cardigans. He had wanted to throw it away, and she couldn't let it happen. He dressed like such a professor. He was a tweed suit kind of man, and she loved that about him. She let her hair fall down her back. She was not in the mind for makeup or a straightener.

She opened her door quietly and walked softly down the hall, leaving a little part of her behind and carrying guilt away with her. She knocked softly on her parents' door. She knew they'd be getting ready for Church. Tracy putting on her favorite lipstick and putting on her panty hose--her father tying his tie. She appreciated their predictability.
"Come in!" Tracy's pretty voice called out. Millie slipped in and smiled at her parents. They were the kind of people you could smile at comfortably, because you knew they would smile back. "Good morning you two. Did you sleep well?"
Her father smiled a new smile; one which revealed his exhaustion--but he would not miss church. "We slept as well as we needed. How about you, lovely lady?"

"I was okay. Rachel came in and slept with me. I just let her. Is that okay with you guys?"
Her parents looked at one another and shrugged. It seemed okay by them. Tracy sat down on the bed and placed a hand on her back and a hand on her forehead. Millie recognized this posture, and she worried for her mother. She sat next to her mom, facing her, and placed the whole palm of her right hand on her mother's left cheek. Tracy looked at her darling daughter. She'd done well. She raised a good girl. And suddenly she was so overwhelmed with pride that her chest swelled and tears welled up in her eyes. Millie would misinterpret these as the stress of their newest responsibility, and Tracy, fully aware of this, just let her daughter believe it. She wanted to witness her daughter's next act of kindness.

"I'm going to stay here with Rachel while you guys go to church. Is that okay with you? Next week we'll bring her, but she needs her rest. Yesterday was too big, I think, even for church. It may take her a while to find peace with God again. I'll give her a week to be mad. But then she'll need to look at the whole situation with more depth. She's capable of it, but not yet. And I don't want her here alone."

She'd done well.

Her father pulled her into a goofy hug with a four second tickle fest. "We trust you, Millie. You do what you think best." And Millie hugged them both and pushed them out the door. They  had shed their worried, tired faces and were laughing when they pulled out of the driveway. She'd done well.

She looked at her phone. She had three missed calls and five texts. She made her way through the texts from Facebook. These people were not as funny now as Millie had thought when she first subscribed to them, she deleted them each in turn, and made a mental note for the millionth time to unsubscribe. Then she had a call from a bro at work who, made lazy by his habitual pot-smoking, had been, nearly weekly, handing Millie his shifts. She was glad she'd slept through that call. She had more important things to attend to.

Then there was a text from Sarah. It only said hi, which was rather unlike her. She was big on emoticons. But there was nothing else. It was sent at 3:00am.

But before she called Sarah, she looked at a text from an unknown number. Hey pretty. Your name is Millie. I looked you up in our freshman yearbook because that was the only one I could find. You still had braces, but it's definitely you. Millie's heart beat faster, he palms were sweaty before she knew why her phone slid between fingers so lightly, and blood--blood was pounding in her ears. She was so scared, but felt compelled to act immediately. She didn't even know if Kylie had remembered their kiss. She added the contact to her phone, and then texted back as quickly as she could, making mistakes, "shoot, dang it!" Good to see you know my name now. You busy today? Her parents wouldn't be home for hours. Choir practice, church, bible study, and then they'd probably eat at the Family Restaurant with their church friends. Sunday was a big day for them. And she loved her parents, even if she didn't agree with them on everything. So she didn't feel bad protecting her parents from this.

I have to drop off my little brother at his football game, but that isn't until this evening.

You wanna come hang out with me? Movie and waffles in like 10 minutes here.

Count me in! Waffles are delicious... ;) Where you live?

505 Kentucky St.

Not far at all. I can be there in five. B-)

Good :)

=D

Millie tacked a note on the door in her room directing Rachel to head downstairs when she woke up. Millie would make her breakfast. Then she started on her's and Kylie's. When she heard a knock on the door, her throat muffled a squeal and she smiled in-deliberately. She ran to the front room then walked as calmly as her nerves would allow, to the door. She took a deep breath and opened it.

They watched Little Miss Sunshine and ate their waffles. The end of the movie received little attention, as will happen on most dates. Millie found Kylie on her lap and they were kissing again. And that kiss held within it all the same wrongness and excitement and genuineness that it had Friday night; only two nights before. And just as Millie's shirt was coming off, Kylie gave a little yelp and jumped to the opposite side of the couch. Panicked, Millie looked behind her. Rachel had woken up at a reasonable time, but for Millie the time had faded before her. She was content to live in the moment because the moment was precious. Linear time had disappeared from her short-lived reality.

"Rachel. I'm so sorry." She had so much more to say, but she wanted to gauge her reaction first. But Rachel just shrugged. "I don't care who you make out with. We all have secrets. I'm good with secrets. Just tell me next time she's over. You don't need to sneak around me. It'll make it easier on everyone involved. It wouldn't be the first time I saw someone having sex." Both of them were stunned into silence. But (God bless her), Kylie stood up. She walked right up to Rachel and stuck out her hand. "I'm Kylie. I only know what I heard about you from my mom because her best friend's husband is a cop. But my mom is kind of a bitch. She's also a drama queen. I think it's time you told us who you are. I hate when people tell my story for me."

Now it was Rachel's turn to be shocked. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but this was not it. She had a chance to tell everything. And she'd have insurance. They were falling for each other. Falling brings along with it vulnerability. She could tell their parents if they told on her. It was a safe place, and these were good girls, she could tell. She sat down in the recliner across from them on the couch. She took a deep breath and looked the two of them in their eyes.
"I always kind of thought Mother would kill herself. She was depressed a lot..."

*The blue word is not a neglected positive, but perhaps a neglected, unspecified kind of statement. I took it from both dialogue and  monologue. It could have gone either way, really. Millie doesn't know if Rachel's dreaming words are to a character of her dream or if they're words to herself.

*The colors are important. I'm using those because the fonts here are pretty limited. Otherwise I'd be using fonts that I felt matched the personalities of these girls, because each has their own language in text messaging. And (hint, hint) these colors may come up later anonymously, and if you remember these or look them up, a character may be revealed to you in turn... for the one regular of you :P As for the once-a-months, they'll be left out of this little secret.

How to see nothing in thousands of pictures.

With shaking hands, she placed the gun in Mother's hand. She sat back in the chair and started to cry. She cried very real tears, but she cried them for the show she was about to put on. She was so overwhelmed, and she didn't know if she was sad, angry, or just plain broken. She pulled her Pay-as-You-Go phone out of her pocket and called 911.

"Nine-one-one operator. What is your emergency?"

"My my mo-om... she. A gun and she's..." her breath was so tight that only breathing out felt right, and only with force. Breathing in came in shudders, and trying to talk made her choke and snort and slobber and hurt.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at home. It's uh," and she yelped pathetically again, "150 N. Carnation Avenue." She said this part really fast so she wouldn't have to stop again.

"What is your name?"

"Rachel. I'm Rachel Glover." Everything sounded a mess. It was a miracle the operator could make out her words--but they're trained for that, one would think.

"Don't hang up, help is on the way."

"Okay."

"Are you okay? Were you hurt?"

"I. I think I'm fine. I'm not hurt."

"How old are you?"

"I'm 13."

"Is the person still around?"

"Huh?"

"With the gun?"

"It was her. She had the gun." And then she hung up on the operator. She heard the door open and the voices of Belmont men--it was a distinct kind of mid-western drawl. She started to cry harder. And again. She was only dealing with the consequences of letting that girl out of the box inside her. As for the other box--she had no regrets. She was not just crying for the policemen. She would have cried alone in that wretched, imposing room. It was simply convenient they witnessed her heartbreak, because they would of course misinterpret it.

She was in the chair, holding her scrawny knees to her chest and scratching what bit of leg she could reach. Mother's blood and brain was on her too--it was pretty close range. The police entered the room. "What da hell?" one said "Whoa," said another, and "Oh my God," said the third. They were more concerned with the pictures than the dead woman. The first used the radio to call off the firetruck that hadn't made it, and to inform the ambulance they would be picking up a cold one.

The third walked over to a sobbing, shaking Rachel. "Come 'ere Missy. Less get you outta here." He reached toward her to pick her up. But she stood up suddenly. She couldn't control herself now. She didn't want to anymore. She wanted to fuck shit up. She didn't want the order. She wanted to go to her room and throw her clothes all over the room, letting them fall where she had never let them before. She wanted to smear toothpaste all over her mirror, and unmake her perfect bed, and throw her school books down the stairs, and punch the walls again. Over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over over over over over again. Until she felt nothing.
Nothingness is only for the dead.

But she couldn't do it all at once. So she started with the pictures. She tore them off the walls, ripping as many as she could to the ground in long, forceful sweeps. She ran her hands across the walls taking off rows at a time. The third officer tried to grab her, but she smacked him away and continued to rip the pictures off the wall. She was screaming, screaming. But the men couldn't understand her words or comprehend the pain behind them. It was the gibberish of a crazy girl--a crazy girl they could not blame. This room was fucked up.

Finally she tripped over her own shoe, which she'd run out of a short while before, and fell to the ground. Her sobs sounded like song. A beautiful, heartbreaking song. She picked up one picture. September 20, 2008. That was Mother's birthday. Rachel was nine, then. He mother turned 33. Rachel's face in the picture was dark. She could tell that below her breast bone, she was pulling on her long, blonde hair. She would keep this picture for a long, long time.

The three men just looked at each other for a while, unsure of what to do. No one had trained them for this. There are no rules for madness. There would never be an investigation.

Finally. The third officer made his way carefully, slowly, over to the pathetic creature. He scooped her up, and this time there was no argument. She wanted to be carried away. She sobbed into his shoulder. "I hate it here. I want to leave. I want to go anywhere but here. I just want out." And she kissed his cheek. It was an impulsive kind of action. She wanted to kiss his mouth, but managed to control herself enough to veer from his mouth. "You don' look too happy in dat dare pitcher." he said. She looked him very squarely in the eye in a way she would have never looked at Mother. "I've never been happy on a day that I've woken up." She said it very seriously and with no trace of coyness or sarcasm. He thought about that for years to come. He would soon work out the logic in the words, but the truth behind them would forever lie beyond his comprehension.

She was soon placed with her nearest relative, Aunt Tracy. She was her mother's cousin. They hadn't spoken since they were in preschool, and she hadn't been fond of her then. She thought she was weird. But when Tracy heard the story (namely that her cousin had killed herself in front of her daughter) she was quick to volunteer. She was a Christian woman. She was sure God had called her to this girl. It wasn't until she was ready to pick Rachel up that she heard about the pictures. Those pictures of every morning she woke up unhappy. Every day she looked tortured, broken. That's the way Mother liked it. Tracy was overwhelmed. Maybe I've taken on too much, she thought. But she lifted her chest a little. God wanted her to do this.

Tracy brought Rachel home. Rachel hadn't spoken since the word out. They had dinner as a family. Since Rachel was silent, so was everyone else. No one wanted to say a word just in case they missed something, anything Rachel might say. She slumped in her chair, looking tired and weak. Uncle David smiled at her every now and then, but she didn't raise her eyes enough to notice. Millie touched her leg under the table. She squeezed, then patted her knee. When Aunt Tracy and Uncle David started to move around to clean up, Millie held Rachel's face in her hand. "I know you're smart. You'll talk when you're ready and you'll have plenty to say. Until then, my room is right next door. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, I'll be in there, okay? I'll put my number in your phone. When you go back to school, if you need me, just text me. I'll take care of you." Rachel put her elbows on the table and grabbed her hair by the roots and just held on tight. But still she felt nothing.

That night Millie fell asleep early. It was a big day for everyone. Rachel was quick to sleep, too. All the energy she'd had the day before had been exhausted by the day's events. She felt complete numbness; even when she pulled her hair there was no physical recognition of pain, just a kind of phantom knowledge that she should feel pain. She woke up, though, in a panicked gasp, and it took her nearly a full minute to realize she where she was and why she'd gotten there. Still breathing heavily, she crept into Millie's room.

She stood there a minute, unsure what was appropriate to do next. She wasn't sure if it was okay for her to be in there, but she knew she didn't want to sleep alone. She considered going back to her bed, but she couldn't do that to herself; not right now. She looked around a little bit and noticed that Millie, in her sports bra and underwear had tattoos! Surely Aunt Tracy didn't know about them. She liked them. Somehow this emboldened Rachel to approach her. She was still scared, but she willed herself to crawl into bed with Millie. She didn't think Millie would be mad, but she didn't want to do something wrong. Finally, she made herself count to ten, then nearly leaped into the bed.

Millie was a little startled, but recovered remarkably well. She let one arm cradle Rachel's head and the other brush her hair from her face, then finally settle on her shoulder. She sang to her, because that was what her mother had done for her. Millie had a good mother. She knew that. No one had ever sung to Rachel before. She never wanted it to stop. She took the hand resting on her shoulder, and held it like a doll to her flat chest.

Du bist wie eine Blume
so hold und schoen und rein...

And then Rachel reluctantly fell asleep again. It was perhaps her best sleep ever. And she dreamed of owls swooping to collect pure, white carnations, whisking them away to their nests to take care of them. She would never dream of killing Mother. She would never quite recall that day, and would later be unsure of whether she'd done it at all. You can convince yourself of anything, really, if you keep saying it to everyone else. When she looked back on the morning she killed Mother, she would struggle to remember the events perfectly. Because that day...

She saw nothing behind her. Past. Nothing around her. Present. And nothing before her. Future.

Part 2 of Party

Inspiration for my Party Clothes

She and Matt sat on the porch waiting for Lena. She could tell Matt was drunker than she. Even sitting down he was leaning side to side to side to side... and like a pendulum he put her in a bit of a trance. She watched him and she almost couldn't hear the country music blaring (who blares country music?) or the shrieks of laughter from girls pretending to be drunk. All she saw was his body moving, moving... it didn't stop, and she noticed things she hadn't seen since they had been in a relationship. He had a funny freckle right on his left earlobe. She put her arm around his shoulders, trying to stop the swaying; it was making her a little sick. She placed her hot head on his sweaty shoulder. He smelled like hairspray, whiskey, and cheap perfume. Ashley.
She thought about that party. She didn't think she'd ever party there again. She was wrong. It was bad music, girls wore cowboy boots to look hot (they don't actually do labor in those boots; they're for the show), the boys were all over her just because she didn't look like those girls and because she was a mystery (they all wanted the bragging rights for her), and she didn't like that she'd have to see those kids Monday. Mostly she thought about how the night was a lot colder than the day. Her shorts weren't doing much to keep her warm, and neither was her sheer, polka-dotted shirt. She pulled her black hair out of her ponytail to give her a little warmth. It didn't do a lot. While they waited, she sang Matt a song to drown out the twang behind them.
Well my mama look down
and spit on the ground
every time the name gets mentioned,
My papa said "Oh if I get that boy--"

"I'm gonna stick him in the house of detention."

A different voice finished her line for her. The Girl had come out of the house and sat next to her. She figured The Girl was probably DD. The Girl pulled out a water bottle and took a sip. A red ring was left by her lipstick. The Girl raised her eyebrows and offered it to her. She took it graciously. "Who're you?" she asked The Girl.
"Haha, I'm in your German class. There are 9 of us in there."
"Shit. I'm sorry."
"No prob, gr." The Girl was dressed better for the weather. She didn't come for the party. She was probably dragged away from conjugating verbs or something. "Why did you come here?" The Girl asked. It wasn't an accusing question; there was no hostility, just genuine interest.
She was still feeling warm from her drink, but she was shivering in the cold anyway. "I uh. Um this is Matt--" she gestured, but he was passed out. "The parties I usually go to aren't happening right now, and my mom pissed me off, so I left. And we uh. We just came here. Only place I could think of." The Girl nodded and said, "Do you have a ride?"
"Yeah. It's coming. Can I have your number? I mean. You're cool."
"Sure. If you answer one question for me."
"Shoot." And then The Girl kissed her on the neck. She wasn't sure how she was supposed to react, so she put her hands in The Girl's hair and brought her face to her own. The warmth her body had craved seeped into her skin when The Girl touched her. And she's not drunk? she thought.
They pulled apart suddenly when they heard tires coming down the gravel road a-ways off. The Girl's red lipstick was on both of their lips now... it was a pretty kind of mess. The Girl pulled out a pen, took her hand and wrote her number there just as she said she would. "Thanks for answering my question."

Headlights pulled up. The Girl pushed a very confused girl's hair away from her ear and kissed her neck again and whispered, "Me too, gr. You're not the only one that hates this fucking town, Kylie." As The Girl walked away she held onto a strand of her hair as if she was afraid letting it go would mean forever, then let go as she reentered the madness. No goodbyes were said. Kylie and Lena weren't together anymore after that. And school on Monday didn't seem so bad anymore.

The Present

*Just a note before you read. When you see the red words, do not emphasize them like a word in italics. They are only there for you to help you notice something.

She wakes up slowly. It's raining outside, just a grim sprinkle, and it's still kind of bright. Mornings are not her favorite. They make her nervous. Lots of things make her nervous. She lays in bed on her side with her eyes still closed, willing the night to wrap her up again in its blanket of darkness--for the twinkling stars to reappear; her nightlights. But instead she puts her socked feet on the ground and takes a deep, deep breath. She stands, takes her clothes off and throws them in the hamper. One sock is hanging off the the side of the basket. She tries to ignore it. She puts on her underwear (her young, middle school body doesn't really need a bra, but she puts one on anyway). She stares in her bra and underwear and mussed up hair at the hamper. She starts to walk toward the hamper, then stops herself. It doesn't matter, she tells herself.
She walks to her closet, which is organized by color alphabetically. Sweaters, shirts, jeans, shorts, dresses, skirts. The shoes on little shelves below, directly under those clothes that she wore them with. She picks her tighter jeans. Not that it makes a difference. I still look like child, she thinks. She finds a white t-shirt and a grey cardigan. The rain might make it chilly. She has a pair of grey flats that match the cardigan perfectly, with white bows on them. She puts them on now. She walks into her bathroom. Her friends are jealous that she has her own bathroom in her bedroom. She hasn't thought much about it, though. It's always been there. This has always been her room, the first one after the hospital upon birth.
She puts on make up. The only kind her mother lets her wear is from a little girl store. It's a white eyeshadow, clear lip gloss, and brown mascara. Her friends all wear thick, black eyeliner, and she thinks they look like sluts. But she is kind of jealous. She wants to look like a slut too. She brushes her hair--exactly 50 long strokes, root to tip. She brushes her teeth for exactly two minutes. Then she grabs her Clorox wipes and cleans off her counter and any toothpaste stains from her sink. Gross. She looks in the mirror, turning from side to side to get a better view. In a drawer are all her headbands, color coordinated to hair bands and barrettes, the same order of her closet. She finds a grey headband.
She has never had to straighten her hair. It's straight already, and too thin. Sometimes it falls out. She cries when handfuls come out in the shower. But it's her own fault, she knows. She pulls on it when she gets too nervous. Sometimes she doesn't even know she's doing it until some breaks off... then she stops and places her long, thin fingers on whatever flat surface she can find, her desk, a counter, a shelf... and presses down hard. Then she lifts her palms and presses forward until it hurts and her fingers change color. Then she holds it there a while, and she waits ten seconds (she watches her watch to make sure). Then she does not remove the pressure until someone speaks a word with the letter 'y'. She watches the second hand carefully to calculate the time. When she is alone, she waits until she hears a noise--sometimes it's her cat knocking something over, or a loud radio from a passing car. She comes out of it, she pulls out her pocket notebook and writes the date then, for instance, "90 seconds past 10 seconds which began at 10:43 am."
But she doesn't pull on her hair in the bathroom, she just looks at herself in the mirror, wishing was more womanly. She imagines what she might look like if her breasts and hips extended outward from her bone-like torso. She chokes a little on a sob, but swallows it down. Nothing comes of it. She leaves her bathroom and the first thing she sees is that damned sock. She punches her wall as hard as she can, with all the energy that compelled her to do so, and she shoves the sock into the hamper. She jumps around a little trying to let the ringing in her ears, the the buzzing in her limbs, the pressure in her throat, all of it, all of it, all of it...

OUT!

And she still feels it. But it's controllable. It's in a box inside of her. It's kicking and screaming to get out. I'm part of you too! the broken girl screams, tears running down her face; all within a girl's consciousness. But that little devilish part of her just doesn't understand that it is not to be seen. It is not to be seen. She's talking to her, but she ignores her, even though she feels uncomfortable shoving such a sad girl into a box. It's necessary, and she does it with an angry and unkind force to cover her mixed feelings on the matter. But she feels different today. Even her perfect image, her sanity, is starting to boil. She looks down at her hand. It's throbbing, but it doesn't hurt yet. But it's bleeding, just a little. Little burns are on each knuckle, and tiny little pieces of skin had peeled up, and although the under-layer is white, it's beginning to pop with tiny red dots that will soon fill the little wounds.
She doesn't want to be here anymore. Not in her house, not in Belmont, not in the United-Fucking-States-of-Fucking America. She wants out. She pushes her bed just a bit away from the wall. She picks up the box that's there, and leaves her room. Downstairs Mother is waiting on her. She points to a room. The door is already open. She knew where to go, though. She doesn't know why Mother always points. It's silly. Inside the room are pictures, pictures, pictures. Pictures and pictures, as well as pictures & pictures. Every inch of wall is covered with little Polaroid pictures with their date written on the white. There is still room, though. A tiny bit of wall on the end.
She sits down on a large wooden chair. Mother shuts the door and readies her camera. She smiles in preparation for the picture. Mother is upset. "This is not the way we take pictures, _____." She continues to smile. "Explain yourself, child." She looks her mother in the eye. She hasn't done that for years. Then she stands up, walks around, a near-permanent smile on her face. She looks at the pictures, remembering each day. From the day she turned five to the present, Mother has taken pictures of her. She was never allowed to smile. Every single day of her life before her, on these small walls, she feels comforted. She had grown. She was not always this way. But she will grow more now. And she'll be the woman she wants to be. But then she looks at the empty space on the wall. She knows that Mother will be done with her when there is no more room. She is dead when the pictures end. But she doesn't know what Mother would do then. Surely she won't kill me. She's not that crazy. But I am.
Mother screams. "SIT DOWN!" She sits back down and fixes that smile back on her face. She forgot about the box! It's sitting on her lap. "Stop this. Stop it." She continues to smile and says: "Mother. I just can't stop smiling because I have a present for you. I'm just too excited to see your face when I show you what it is." Mother is confused. They do not speak to one another this way. "Well, that's nice. What is it, may I ask?" She slowly opens her box and pulls out a gun. She cocks it and points it at Mother.
"What will you do when you run out of room?"
Silence
"Answer me!"
SilenceThe brokenness within her came out when the gun came out of the box. She starts to sob and tries to repeat her last line, but her voice keeps breaking. Mother finds a small, scared voice; enough to speak to her daughter.
"I-I don't know."
"You're a liar." She gets stronger. She yells through the pulsing pressure in her tiny chest.
"I know, I know..."
"I'm going to give you ten seconds to explain my fate in two words."
ten..........nine..........eight..........seven..........six....."Kill you."
"Good. Then this is self-defense."

Part 1 of Party, an extension of Starbucks, part of the Anonymous Collection

She was wearing a floral dress and smoking a cigarette, waiting to cross the street of her small, mid-western town. The bright, September sun caught the stud in her nose, and sparkled. No one wanted to stand next to her at the street corner, and they stood either a few feet behind or to the side. She had an imaginary circle drawn around her... three feet on all sides. Their nervous glances didn't faze her. She crossed the street, stomped out her cigarette about 30 feet (as was stated in the handbook) from the front door. She walked into Belmont High, leaving her hesitant classmates behind. She put her hands on her hips. Because of the imaginary circle, she never had to worry about someone bumping into her. It was how she liked to walk--like a model.

She was so beautiful, and her tattoos and scars let everyone know she was accustomed to pain. She had a near-perfect body, pale skin that didn't look pasty, and clothes that certainly didn't come from Wal Mart (except for her shorts, a fact she would have told anyone who cared to ask). Sarah thought she was too beautiful; too exotic. That kind of beauty just didn't belong there. No one could compete with it, and in a community of girls who mimicked each other to get at the top. But instead of moving upward, they all just ran around in circles, endlessly trying to be just like the next girl, never moving anywhere. But she. She was from a whole different world. She was untouchable, nearly literally, and her image was both admired and feared, and it could not be replicated due to their parental restraints and lack of resources. But she. She worked for what she had.

Sarah had History, English IV, and Computers with her, and had had the same PE class since they were freshmen. They'd never spoken, but Sarah had always watched her. Sarah was a secret people watcher--a creeper, yeah? She knew so much about the kids she walked the halls with because she listened. Secrets spoken in confidence were overheard. No one sees a wallflower. She and Millie gossiped about her, swapping stories they'd picked up from classmates. Sarah always had more because Millie was more of a talker. It's possible some of their stories were products of Millie's imagination.

Everyone seemed to think she was so secluded that she was unaware of the ludicrous stories, and if she was unaware, she couldn't defend herself. But she knew about them and she could defend herself. She could break down their self worth. She was quick-witted. But she let them circle to keep her peers just scared enough to leave her alone, and to have something to laugh about with her friends--all of whom had already left for college, she had met at coffee shops in the semi-near college town, or through friends of friends of poets. She didn't like the kids at her high school. She felt even a little superior to them. But no person lives without insecurity. She envied their ability to make nice--to feign professionalism and friendliness when necessary.

Her parents possessed this talent. She didn't really envy them. Her parents valued wealth so much that they were willing to pretend they had money. Their big house was a lie, their nice clothes were a lie, even their calm, friendly demeanor was a lie. They were not so kind at home. They possessed this talent and they wanted to instill it in their children. She and her two little brothers were forced into charms school, but you cannot teach perfection to someone smart enough to know it didn't exist. She was pressed into a box of their expectations, and she just didn't fit, although she had tried for much of her young life. She hid darker secrets than her parents ever had known or would know, because she wasn't allow to feel in public. She allowed herself to feel in the secret of her spacious bedroom or immaculate bathroom. Doors with locks were doors with secrets. Some dedicated friends--secret friends--brought her out and showed her a different way; a passionate and emotional way of life. And when she finally broke free, she ran as far from that fucking box as she could. Without her parents' padlock on the box, she may have been content to open the lid, sit inside comfortably, and look up at the sky--but she wouldn't be nearly as interesting if it had been that easy, would she?

On a Friday night she had planned on meeting her girlfriend at a coffee shop near her dorm. She loved coffee shops. But when she called Lena's apologetic voice informed her irritated girlfriend that she had forgotten a paper for History. Lena was so unorganized despite her girlfriend's best efforts to help her with this. Sitting at home, she was starting to feel sorry for herself, and when her mom started to read her an article about how unhealthy vegetarianism is, she just left with no response. Her mother's passive aggressive attempts to change her pissed her off. She drove to her friend Matt's apartment. They'd dated before they both recognized and accepted that she was a lesbian. This was information only her friends possessed; no family member, classmate, or citizen of Belmont would ever know as long as she had any power over the situation. Matt wasn't all that offended. He'd kind of questioned her sexuality since they'd met. So mutually they decided to be friends. She was okay with that. She'd liked him once for a reason.

She walked in without knocking. "Wanna get drunk tonight?" He looked at her. "Hi to you too." She plopped down next to him on his couch. "Hi. You didn't answer my question." He rolled his eyes."I'm writing a paper." She refused to waste the gas she'd spent to get there. "When's it due." It wasn't a question, really, although she expected an answer. "Tuesday." She gaped at him. "Are you freaking serious? You're an English major. You can pull masterpieces out of your ass and you're finishing the paper four days ahead of time? Shut up." He took a deep breath. "When you are writing for an English professor, they won't think what you pulled out of your ass is a masterpiece. Nothing comes from your ass but shit."

She looked at him with puppy-dog eyes. "I'm just going to steal your Vodka and drink right here on the couch next to you. I plan on being really distracting. You know how I get. You might as well procrastinate some more, yeah?" He looked at her with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "Where do you want to go?" he asked. "I don't know. You're the one in college. Take me somewhere." He shook his head. "No parties before Greek Week. They have competitions starting at 8 am tomorrow. And the last time I sneaked you into a bar you got yourself kicked out. They're not going to forget your pretty face." She crossed her arms and sighed her way into the couch again. She peeked at him trying to be sneaky, keeping her head forward, but he was already looking at her, so it didn't work. She laughed. This was a game they used to play. She'd try to scare him, but he was always already looking at her. She was so beautiful. She never thought of the game in that context, though. And to him she wasn't a beautiful he wanted to have. She was beautiful like a work of art to be admired.
"I think I may know a place," she said mischievously. "But we have to be willing to go to a high school party. With high school kids. From Belmont." He shrugged. "Up to you, lady. This was your grand idea. I was going to write a paper tonight." She laughed and pulled him up into a hug. "I've already texted Lena and she agrees that a fair punishment for finking out on our plans is a ride home. Home being here, because I'm not ready to see my mother again." He broke off the hug. "I appreciate that you've made the appropriate arrangements, and yes, you may stay at my apartment."

She was careful to have her phone charged so she could call Lena to pick up Matt and herself. Not many people seemed to notice she was there. It was dark, the music (terrible music) was loud... There were a lot of people, including college kids who'd graduated from Belmont, which she thought was kind of lame of them. But maybe they were just looking for a party like she was. She walked straight to the bar. She grabbed a beer for Matt and pulled out her own cold water bottle. They danced some, but when they got tired of the show--bad dancers, bad music--they sat on the couch in the parlor and talked and laughed. They talked about people that these kids hadn't met and probably never would. They talked about good music, about poetry, about the way the world should work... if only they had the power...

and after a while, Matt left to get another beer. He was gone for a long time. She thought maybe he'd gone to the bathroom, or maybe he found someone to make-out with a little. That was their rule. Nothing more than kisses. Drunken decisions are bad ones. So she didn't worry for him. She'd never had to before. But when he was gone long enough, guys started to sit around her. Drunk, they had the balls to say what they'd wanted to since she'd broken out of her box in junior high.
"Did you really have sex with the principal to get into National Honor Society?"
"Actually I got in because I get good grades."
"oh."
"Were you really the one who stole everyone's cell phones from their lockers?"
"Falsely accused."
"oh."
"Would you ever fuck me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"You're too drunk to even remember if I told you."
"oh."
"Want this drink?"
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"Sure."

She took it and walked away. She was smarter than to take a drink from someone else. He followed her, waiting on her to drink... just a sip, then he'd know he had fooled her. She found Matt on some table, a girl straddled around him. Is that Courtney? Good God. I would have never expected it, miss first chair flute. She started to drag him away from the girl on him. "I'm gonna text Lena now. She'll come get us, kay?" Courtney turned around, looking pissed, then saw who was talking and stopped. Courtney stared at her, mouth opened a little. Finally Matt made eye contact with her and nodded. "Where do we go now?" He asked. "We can wait on the porch. I could use some air anyway." They started to leave but Courtney grabbed her arm. "I-I'm sorry," Courtney said when she gave her a disgusted look. "Can I have that drink?" The bar must have stopped giving any. The house was drunk enough. She'd actually forgotten she was holding the drink. "No, it's for a friend," she said kindly.
She handed it to Chris, a football player she knew vaguely from a group project, on her way out the door. He hadn't had a drink all night, and she thought he looked a little tense. She chuckled and said quietly to herself, "No one's going to rape him."

Part 2 to come...
art by Jeff Ramirez... that's a painting, ya'll.