Monthly Archives: December 2012

Fall of the Mighty

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*Work In Progress: Rough Draft*

I see you looking out at the crowd, a faceless sea of darken blobs. Gods among humans. Eyes tired, but alive. We drain you, but we are your drive. On a whole other platform of existence where we can only dream and never touch and I feel sorry for you, but I admire the strength of your character. This is what you love, but we humans are so demanding, so needy, so greedy. Want, want, want; more, more, more; always asking and not taking into consideration that even gods can exhaust their worth. They too are alive, breathing as we, and so we must not worship but honor. Because all gods fall one day, even the mightiest have a breaking point, so it’s only a matter of time. Even the sky brought Atlas to his knees.

And our proclamations are just empty words. Love. We don’t know you. We know of you and about the image because in order to know, we must have an understanding. It’s the idea and concept of you that have captured and catapulted you above us. I am thankful for what you offer.

I refuse to bow, though. Not out of dislike but out of respect. I will not grovel and put you on the pedal-stool. I will not weigh your shoulders down with the infatuation of yourselves. To demand from you without giving is wrong. I acknowledge the sacrifices made for us humans and know that you deserve so much more in return from all the taking we have done. Stars burnout and the earth crumbles under harsh conditions. To watch you cave under the pressure is to watch you die. I refuse to witness this. I will not be a human as they are.

Giants can fall down to David and humans can bring down gods. You can cease to exist if the fate befalls you, but alive I will keep you. Idolize I will not, because you were once a mere mortal. With that thought, I will treat you.

Raw

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Screaming on the Inside

I tune out the world because sometimes it’s better to be left alone, but then I see how happy everyone is and how much they enjoy life. I begin to hate myself a little bit . . . a lot a bit. I don’t understand why I can’t be like that. This self-hate, the downgrading, is just exhausting.

NO,
what’s exhausting is keeping up a facade. It takes so much not to just break down and cry, not to just cut, not to just release, to just be happy or pretend to be happy because I don’t want anyone to worry. I hate when people worry, but I hate pity even more. That’s why no one knows, cause no one can understand my torment. I keep going though, because I think it’ll get better, and for her. I have to keep strong for her, make things better for her. I can’t let her down.

And life sucks.
Nothing goes right, does it? And I wonder if I’ll ever meet someone who will help me get through this, who will help me see that I have so much to live for and that it’s not a chore. Someone I can let in. Because my “friends” don’t know. I never tell them everything. Some don’t even listen.
No, because that’s my job. I’m the listener. There is no reciprocation for me. There never is and I wonder why I even bother, but I know why.

Cause I hate being alone.
I can’t stand the loneliness, even though I push everyone away for that purpose. I don’t like knowing that there is no one that truly stays for me. I’m just a replacement for others. When they need someone, I’m the one they use.
Where is the justice in that? How come I can’t get anything real? So I’m giving you up, because you are a disappointment. Hearing others enjoy themselves when I’m close-by, without being acknowledged, makes me want to scream, but I don’t.

I’m reserved.
I’m nice.
I have to be.

Because what if they all just disappear because I said something wrong or did something because I couldn’t control myself. Like you did? What if everyone left me like you? Writing doesn’t soothe me anymore and I blame myself. It’s not me anymore. I’m not me anymore. I don’t even know who I am. Why do I refuse to cry?

I hate me, every day. Because I keep thinking,

‘I’m alright. I’m just fine. It’ll all get better. Just be patient. Don’t scare her. She depends on you. And we promised we’d make her future better.’

I’m not alright, am I?
No, I know I’m not.

I wonder how I became like this. Surely, I wasn’t ever like this. Because if I was, wouldn’t someone have noticed and helped me before it escalated to this? Surely someone would’ve. I’m scared to get help. Because that shows that I’m not alright. And if everyone found out, who would want to be with me? I don’t want to be with me. I’m just waiting, praying, no maybe hoping a little, that something in the universe will end this. I don’t want to die, because I know that would be a waste and I can’t do that to her, but I want something that will erase all the hardships from my memory.

I want to start over.

Life doesn’t have a redo, though. So I’m stuck, I’m screwed for life. I can’t take anything of what I did back. It kills me. Can I just forget?

Please.

I’ve sunk too deep to help myself and I know that no one will help me. Why? I won’t let them. There’s no way. So I am a masochist. I dwell in this pain. It’s become my life. Maybe this is who I am. I just want to hide, but I know that I can’t. That would bring questions and I don’t do questions. I hate questions. I hate people worrying, sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong. They don’t deserve to know what wrong. None of them do.

I’m drowning here.
There’s no one to save me and I can’t even save myself. I can literally feel a pain in my chest. It hurts so much to be like this.  I can’t force myself to fix this. Even though I desperately want to.

My head starts to hurt.
The pain in my chest hasn’t gone away yet. I don’t expect it to until I do something.

Like run.

That helped last time, but even my body won’t move. All I have to do is change and go. Run for a bit, but I can’t. I’d rather wallow here. And then this rage consumes me. And it’s directed at those who are happy. Those that laughing and enjoying themselves. I hate them. I hate how happy they are. It’s not fair. I just want to hurt them. But I can’t. I have to restrain myself. I don’t know how much longer I can last. It’s too late to do anything tonight.

I just want to curl up and cry.

Thoughtless Wanders

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“Thoughtless Wanders”

Ergh! It was frustrating!

There had been a TV special on famous—or was it infamous?—serial killers, her brain helpfully supplied. Right!

Ew. He was disgusting! How was it possible for anything to have beady eyes if it wasn’t a bug? And apparently his mother never taught him good hygiene. Unless . . . oh, right! Dead ladies. The mom was probably the first. Poor thing. May her soul rest in peace and her body in . . . pieces? Uh, nevermind. Still, the greasy hair—not even pulled off well, like those greasers in that one book turned movie—and ugh cakey skin, needed to be washed. Multiple times. And thoroughly.

Aw man! She was supposed to be getting ready for tonight’s fundraiser gala. She was gonna be so pretty, too! Her mom was even nice enough to pay for—

Okay, just because he was some twisted sicko didn’t mean he had to neglect his mouth, either. Rotting teeth and sewer breath: turn off! But he probably wasn’t trying to impress or he wouldn’t have to kidnap at the dead of night and drug his victims. If he was better looking.

Jack! Not Titanic Jack, but mmm! Leo was a delicious man. Why did he have to fall for Rose though? Stupid girl was too fat and killed him. There was enough room on that plank for the both of them!

Right. Jack. Like the fairytale Jacks. The beanstalk boy and the candle jumper. Along with the kid who went tumbling down.

No! Wrong Jacks. All of them.

Think! Think! Think!

TV special, serial killer, Jack, victims were all ladies . . .

Well crap! That meant she was gonna die! There was still so much she wanted to do and she hadn’t even written her will! Granted, she had nothing to her name, but it was the principle of the thing.

Holy cow! That was a knife. A very sharp and big and—A butcher knife. Huh. Wasn’t that a tad cliché? Kind of like that parody movie filled to the brim of old clichés. Man was she thirsty. A nice cold glass of milk filled to the brim would be nice. And can’t forget about milk’s favorite cookie: OREO!!!

“Prepare to join your sisters in hell.”

Sisters? She was an only child, thank you very much. Having siblings wouldn’t be too awful, though, would it? They’d all have red hair like her as well, right? Even though her parents were both of the black haired gene. It seemed as if the carrot tops were becoming extinct. What a tragedy. The world didn’t even know. It didn’t help that this beast killed four of her fellow reds.

Oh. Oh! OH! Five, well four—she wasn’t dead . . . yet—murders. Brutal murders. Mary, Kate, Elizabeth, Liza, and her, Emma.

She couldn’t see a connection, though. Other than the red hair, but that couldn’t be— Aw crap. Was it because she was a ginger?

“You are no gift from God.”

Ah, a religious killer. Right! Gingers. No soul. Blasphemy. Not cool, man. Not cool. She really liked her freckles too. The fact that she couldn’t get a tan and got burnt like a lobster was the only downside. Food would really be good right now. A last meal. Oh! And another thing was that so many colors washed her out, so her wardrobe was limited. Luckily, her dress for the Gala was just so perfect. Too bad she’d never get to wear it out.

He—he drugged . . . her! So fuzzy. Is this what . . . what cotton head . . . no, a head . . . full of cotton . . . feels like . . . ? Muffled sounds. Knife . . . right. Throat . . . two cuts . . . dead . . . then . . . mutilation. Not like . . . kids, no . . . wanted, didn’t. Silence.

It was warm, but so cold. Her head pounded. Did she have a migraine? Did she forget to turn the air off last night? Or was the window open? Right. Neither. So was this heaven? If so, then it sucked. It should not feel like getting hit by a car after a soccer ball hits the head while hungover. Not pleasant. She’d have to talk to the people in charge.

“Some modern-day wannabe killer trying to make a name for himself, but he followed the work to a ‘T’ and left evidence a mile high. Only thing was, these girls weren’t prostitutes. You ain’t in Britain anymore, brother.”

England? Prostitutes? Jack the Ripper! Was it too late to go to the Gala? Gosh that policeman sounded nice.

Becoming a Good Woman

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Becoming a Good Woman

When Martin Connors had first encountered the door, she told herself that attempting to open it would not be worth her time. She was not Alice and that door would not lead her to Wonderland or Narnia because she most certainly was not a Pevensie child; so then why couldn’t she explain what she was doing with the door wide open as a last resort?

The first rule when arriving to Bilstraud’s Academy of Fine Women was to never open the double oak doors on the fifth floor. Why? Well that answer they supplied stated that it let to the school’s abandoned shelter two cities away, but was now riddled with rather poisonous plants and other dangerous things, or something like that.

Bilstraud’s had been around for the last fifty or so years. It was founded by James Bilstraud, who is rumored to have executed promiscuous women in his hometown before fleeing. Of course, those were just rumors, but at Bilstraud’s, rumors are as close to the truth as anyone will ever get.

Martin was accepted at the ripe age of thirteen. Like her older sister before her, she was to attend and expected to graduate with outstanding achievement. Lucy never talked about her years at Bilstraud’s and came out the picture perfect at-home wife. Martin didn’t know what to expect and that should have been her first clue that something was amiss. Lucy never denied anyone the chance of gossip. The overlooking of this fine detail would later come back to haunt Martin.

Even thought the Academy was founded by a man, women have always headed the school. It is the belief of Bilstraud’s that only find young ladies will come out as competent women, ready to be what every man needs. There is no tolerance for any kind of risqué behavior or misdemeanor. The consequences are said to be severe, though no one actually knows what happens to those caught acting so wildly and no one ever speaks aloud at Bilstraud’s.

It started when Martin noticed Abby missing. It wasn’t the first time a girl just left, but Martin knew Abby and one is said to ever graduate within the first five years; only the most prestigious have ever completed quickly and those cases were rare. Abby continued to be gone for five more days when Cameron went missing as well.

“Stephanie,” Martin whispered as the two were setting up their room for sleep, “have you heard anything about Abigail or Cameron?” If there was anyone that would know, it would be Stephanie.

It was a risk the two girls were taking, talking this late at night when they should be sound asleep, and speaking about something that was clearly not their business. It did not involve them and at Bilstraud’s, if you are not included, do not include yourself. The distress clearly showed on Stephanie’s face. It didn’t matter how carefully they conversed, the walls had ears.

Stephanie shook her head. She may have heard something, but she wasn’t stupid enough to talk about it, even in the littlest of a whisper. There was something about the school that didn’t sit right. It was an ominous feeling that clung to every hallway and crept into every dream.

The next morning, Stephanie was gone. Whispers followed Martin around along with the sensation of being studied. Whatever happened to the other girls could very well get her next. It was only a matter of time. Martin had to watch every little action, but she wasn’t going to abandon her friends. Whatever got them, also struck two more girls a year ahead of her.

It was another day of attending classes and learning how to be a proper woman, but what made it different was that those analyzing eyes that Martin usually felt were gone.  Martin wasn’t sure how she accomplished this feat, but during rest time, she managed to sneak away. At first her search proved fruitless until she stumbled upon a button off of Abby’s favorite night gown. She found it on the fifth floor. The girls had to be somewhere nearby then. No one who went into Bilstraud’s came out without graduation. It is said that they had to restart and repeat all over again until they passed, no matter how old they got. So somewhere within the building had to be Abby, Cameron, Stephanie, and the two others.

Martin returned the next day to the fifth floor, being very careful in her approach. This was how she found herself on the fifth level with the double oak doors just down the hallway. It still didn’t explain how she ended up with that door wide open, hoping for something fairytale-like on the other side, but the hurried footsteps of many heading her way, clearly indicated her predicament.  There was no time for Martin to think over her actions as she stepped through the forbidden oak doors.

Deprivation. A long winding staircase greeted her in the total blackness of the passage way. No plants or poison or death touched her exposed ankles. The voices on the other side grew in volume, so Martin cautiously trekked down the stairs, keeping her right hand on the wall as support. It was just like the books, where the mysterious passage led out to a light, expect this one wasn’t a blinding white nor did a glorious adventure present itself when she made it to the end. However far in deep into the school she was, she didn’t know, but looking at the poorly lit almost dungeon like surroundings, she figured that it was somewhere near the faculty housing since the build looked so old.

A muffled scream of panic reached her ears and caused her pulse to cease for a second. When Martin followed the sound, she wished she had drowned five years ago.

“Martin!” The voices wailed. Bloody arms reached through the cell bars for her.

Martin stumbled back, a strangled and alarmed sound escaping through her throat as bile rose and choked her. She recognized those startling grey eyes. Cameron. She dared not let her eyes travel around the chambers.

“Martin, help me, please!” It was Abby. She looked petrified. Naked, bloody, and shivering. Her normally lustrous blond hair was matted brown.  If Abby was in this condition, then . . .

“They’re going to kills us, Martin!”

Choruses of her name echoed in the dungeon-made-examination lab. The smell of feces, urine, and blood mixed with the sterilizing chemicals made her sway; nauseated, Martin collapsed back against a wall. It was too much. She couldn’t look away. Is this what happened to the others that had gone missing as well? Caught up by the whole situation, she almost missed the tall-tale signs of someone approaching.

“Darlings, what in the world has gotten you all so worked up?” The voice sent ice through Martin’s veins. “Are you going to beg for forgiveness, again? Begging is beneath women.”

Headmistress Rhonda was behind this? But why? Martin felt lightheaded and squeamish. The barrel next to her rattled at her sudden movement.

“I see we have a mouse. Is that what you were trying to tell me, lovelies?” Rhonda crooned.

Martin’s heart caught in her throat. NO, this couldn’t be happening. She covered her mouth to muffle her increasing gasps for breath. If she was found . . . the sight of Jamie strapped down on the slab and peeled like a potato burned into her mind. Those vacant white sheen layered eyes borrowing into her soul with her mouth opened in a silent, eternal scream . . .

A shriek caused her to jump. She had to find her way back to the stairs and get out. She had to escape Bilstraud’s.

“Martin, please,” Abby sobbed. There was a faint sound of a scuffle. Oh god, Rhonda was going to get another one. It wasn’t doing Abby any good by fighting back, she would be dead; she couldn’t be a woman with her floozy attitude and that’s what it all came down to.

“You have a friend down here?” Rhonda sounded positively delighted. A dull snap silenced Abby quickly. Martin felt the air rush out of her lungs and her legs jelly.

“Oh Martin dearie,” Rhonda called sweetly, almost singing, “I didn’t know you joined our party.”

No! No, she couldn’t get caught. That would be it. Martin pinched her forearm hard. She needed to get a reaction out of her body. She needed to run!

“Don’t be shy. We’ll have lots of fun. We’ll make a woman out of you yet.”

The second Martin moved, everything fell silent and caused her to freeze. One by one, the lights dimmed before blinking out. She pressed herself against the wet brick wall behind her and did her best to hold her breath.

“You don’t have to hide,” Rhonda whispered.

Martin screamed and bolted. Her body ice cold but pounding internally with the heat of fear. Rhonda was far quicker though, and snatched Martin’s rich auburn locks.

“Now, now love. If you run away we’ll have to do more than make you a woman.”

“No!” Martin shrieked in terror, clawing and scraping at the walls that let slip away. “NO!!”

A dull crack and Martin’s cries fell silent immediately. Rhonda caressed the sixteen year old’s cheek. “Welcome to Bilstraud‘s, Martin Connors.”