The story of an addict

Her hands are an oasis. They warm the blood even as they beat it down.

Even as they crack the skulls on my rimshots, I am losing the memory of this moment. I am too cracked in this skull to keep this rhythm alive. I am too dead in the brain to remember how to stay sane.

The story is of an addict is an evil one. A story where men will shoot other men to obtain the special hit of the sweet stuff.

The story of an addict is one where the shakes are common, where the fuck you becomes as easy to spark as the kiss good night. The story of an addict is where everything you do falls into that moment, into that sweet escaping moment.

This time, you think. This time I can get back what I had the first time I tried it.

Every moment becomes playing catchup, trying to reach farther and farther for the first kiss of booze, for the first drag of the joint. The joint becomes your favorite friend, and the only bliss you will ever experience will ride, cherished, on that first kiss. Say hello to daddy. The first hit is the best. Though everyone says you have to hold it in, I almost prefer the cough, the dry racking gasp as the smoke leaves your lungs too quickly. The smooth curl of your tongue around that first, bitter shot of Canadian whiskey. The satisfying realization that yes, it is exactly like the stories. It really does taste like fire.

The satisfying skk, click sound as you successfully open your first bottle of Dos Equis. The tingle in your fingertips as you squeeze the lime into the bottle. The first sip of the crisp, cold liquid, falling directly into your belly. It’s better than sex. That is, better than what I imagine sex to be.

This is not the story of an addict.

This is the story of an almost.

Reaching for something

Since I’m supposed to be at work 5 and a half hours and can’t sleep, I figured I might as well blog. Hopefully, the two shots of vodka I’ve had will do their job, and this will be a short post.

Today, I had lunch with my friend Brittany, who I hadn’t seen in a few months. It was so great to see her again. We had lunch at Baby Acapulco’s (extremely unremarkable food, btw), and I got to try the famed Purple Margarita. I guess I’m spoiled rotten by 100% Agave Tequila, but I found this margarita to be nothing to write home about. Since it was so early in the day,  1 pm, I tried to only drink a little of it. But then my usual “must eat everything on my plate” instinct kicked in, and I finished the blasted thing off. By that point, it had melted into grape soda-like liquid. Well, at least I had the experience.

Afterwards, we went to see Tropic Thunder, and let me tell you, that shit is hysterical. I haven’t laughed so hard at a movie since I can’t remember when. Robert Downey Jr., in particular, steals the freaking movie.

I think what I loved so much about my lunch with Brittany is that we now both are college graduates, so I got to plum her brain on what exactly I should do now, ie, how the fuck do I find  fulltime job? She didn’t have any tips for me in that area, because she found all her jobs through friends, or friends of friends. Actually, come to think of it, that’s how I’ve found all of my jobs. Shit, I guess I’m screwed.

I’m content right now, and deliriously happy to be out of school, but still feeling unsettled. I’ve been talking to a few friends, and most of them have plans to go to grad school in a semester or a year or so. One of them is taking her GREs now even though she won’t do grad for at least a year. I don’t have those plans, because, shit, I was raised to think that school matters, and it goes everything in my body to go to school for something frivolous like MFA in Creative Writing, for example. I mean, I don’t even have the disclipline to do exercises in a fiction writing book, what makes me think I could hang with a creative writing program focusing on fiction?

Unfortunately, I am one of those people who, when it comes to certain skills, I have to have a teacher to faciliate the creative work. That’s how it’s worked with guitar, and fiction. I didn’t produce my first recent piece of fiction until I took a creative writing class freshman year and had to write weekly. By the end of the term, the fiction came easily. But now, since I no longer do creative writing on a weekly basis, the fiction is locked away again. It’s extremely frustrating. Poetry comes as easily as breathing, but fiction has always been hard for me. I think it’s because I am such a perfectionist, I can’t turn off my critic and just write what I feel.

Se la vie.

Well, the liqour might be kicking in, and even if it hasn’t, I should still be trying to sleep. Gotta get up in about 4 hours.

I did it!

I did it. I am the proud owner of a Bachelor’s in Arts from St. Edward’s University. Now undergrad is over forever. No more papers, no more presentations, no more nothing unless I choose to go back. What’s next? I’m going to work at Best Buy for a little bit longer, while I keep my eyes peeled for the full time opportunity. I’m gonna to read some books in my week long vacation from work, and remember what leisure reading is. I’m gonna take in this moment, and just relax for awhile.

I am a BIRACIAL lesbian!

Oy! Well, I’m about to graduate from college, St. Edward’s University to be exact. And I am halfheartedly looking for fulltime employment. Not too hard, because I already have a part time job which supplies my play money, and I still live with my folks. Yeah, yeah.

Anyways, tonight I was perusing possible gay and lesbian organizations to work for, because well, I’m a Communication major, and it’s hard to figure out how to find a job in the vast mass of EVERYTHING that the major applies to.

But what do I find? I find “L Style G Style,” a local Austin gay and lesbian magazine. As soon as I saw the headline, I was all excited……… until I got to the website, and actuallly looked at the magazine.

What the frak? They forgot to mention that the damned magazine might as well be called the WHITE Austin gay and lesbian magazine, because that’s all I saw in the online version. White people. Rich white queer people.

Is this magazine aware that queers come in all shapes and sizes? Is this magazine aware that Austin is more diverse than white, rich queers?

Take me for example. i am a biracial dyke, and proud of that fact. Thanks to their complete lack of diversity, “L Style G Style” has completely lost my dazzling, just about to graduate enthusiasm and ambition.

Thanks for representing the white portion of the queer Austin community, L Style G Style. Thanks for continuing to perpetuate the idea that white people are the only people who matter, even in the glbt community.

Are We Just Weary Wanderers?

we shake it up and stir it
send it out into the parsimonious ether
we are creative toys
we are not our mothers
we are not our fathers
we are made of simple joys
culminating in a journeyed mass
protons electrons
a nucleus off-kilter
we cling to each other
we bounce off one another
and yet love lingers limply
in the recesses of our memory
we create each other
we hate each other
we love each other
through it all we are bound and bloodied
we are tethered to the human lifestream
we could die alone forever
instead i’d like to think
we will join together
living loudly
proudly aware
of the human endeavor
to speak out freely
indeedly i’m left wondering why it is we live
to speak to shout
to let it all fall
water dripping from the fountain
connected through a pipe of excess
whimpering
losing focus as it passes
through the inexplicable direction
push and pull
fighting for fevered dreams
for voices to be heard
and to me it seems
that negotiating a nuclear arms treaty
is not half as hard
as reaching out to another human being
seeing eye to eye
or letting a glimmer of a connection pass them by
another chance gone
to slip anonymously past someone
holding yourself carefully apart
the worst sin is to accidentally brush fingertips
in a crowded sidewalk
and are we just weary wanderers?
drifting in separate orbits
no
instead it is a genetic impulse
to seek human contact
to ensure that loving longer means living longer
and that no one will ever die without
sharing a piece of themselves
in speech or song
in letter or poem
it’s the saddest moment i can imagine
to see six billion souls trying their hardest to avoid each other
amongst crowded sidestreets
yet something always draws them back
to lay themselves on the line
to share that rarest of gifts
the power of communication

Tomb Raider Underworld trailer is up!

Bestill my heart.

I just got finished watching the AMAZING Tomb Raider Underworld trailer.

Run, don’t walk to this link.

If your computer can handle it, be patient, and watch it in HD. Trust me.

I Did Not Die

The pecan trees blazed brilliantly against a stark blue sky. Vermillion moss grew on each limb of a certain behemoth creature, perfectly complemented by the curved leaves. In the distance, a far-away thunderstorm rumbled, threatening the deceptive tranquility of the remote location.

Established in 1995, Friendly People Sanitarium was modeled after a decrepit and moldering institution in the state capitol. Austin State Hospital, lingering on in the outreaches of Northern Austin for decades, had finally descended to dust after years of cut state funding had resulted in the worst possible care for its residents. Though many of them were unaware of the passage of time and slumbered the days in a drug-induced haze masquerading as mental health care, the loss of this hospitial, the only state-funded mental hospital, dealt a devastating blow to the mental health community and to the hundreds of thousands of people suffering from debilitating mental illnesses. Without proper care, those diseased would haunt the city streets and be arrested repeatedly for disturbing the peace. Through no fault of their own, their lack of adequate medication resulted in a vicious cycle of mentally incapiciated people leaving their homes to cause unrest in the streets.

A solution had to be found. One came in an anoynmous donor selling twenty-four acres of private property to aid in the creation of the largest mental health facility in the country. Nestled in the spectactular hill country near Ennis, the newly created Friendly People Sanitarium began as a beacon of support to the formerly cast-off mental health community.

But, as with all things funded by the state government, years went by and state money went to so-called better uses, notably supporting the diminished public school system. The physicians of the sanitarium bodly attempted to carry out the donor’s desire for a safe and well-supported mental health facility, but their lessened staff resulted in an almost more dire situation than that of Austin State Hospital.

Good intentions aside, soon Friendly People Sanitarium became a neglected facility desperate for rich clients who would eagerly foist upon the facility their mentally disturbed teenagers. These perfectly sane children would rot in the sanitarium, unable to have the mental capacity to talk themselves of out a false committment. And how would they be able to? For of course, everyone in the sanitarium told the doctors they were perfectly mentally healthy.

And those who fought the hardest to convince of their sanity were seen as the most deranged.

Jan. 12, 1998

Dear Sir,

I am sick. The doctors won’t tell me what I have, but only because they’re self-righteous bastards who can’t pull the stick out of their asses. Apparently they think I’m “mentally unstable”. So they told me to send you letters, because they think it helps me focus.

Let’s start with the basic facts. My name is Abigail Sheever, but friends (like I have any) call me Abbi. My name, Abigail, began as a joke. When I was four, bullies at my pre-school taunted me with the name Abigail. They called me Abigrail, Abipale, Abimale. Oh, they had a million of them. They laughed at me, tore my clothes, threw dirt in my hair. I would close my eyes, hug myself tightly, and mumble softly to myself, hoping they’d go away. “Little Abbi, she will fly far away,” I’d whisper. “Little Abbi, she will never stay,”. It always worked, my chanting. Willing them away, like evil spirits back into my past. I emerged from those confrontations secure in the knowledge that it had been Abbi who saved me, not Abigail. It was only when I grew older that I realized that I must have chanted to myself for hours, that the boys hadn’t been spirited away by my enchanting voice, but had instead simply left out of sheer boredom. Despite that later realization, at the time I thought Abbi was my true name, the only name that ever fit me. The next year I started kindergarten and began going by Abbi. I think it helped me to hold on to some piece of myself, the strong piece that vanished as I progressed through school. If I was Abbi on the outside, the stupid girl who couldn’t stand up to bullies could disappear forever. Abigail could vanish, and I could hold my head up high as Abbi. Abbi Sheever. Yeah. It had a nice ring to it.

I wish they’d tell me your name, but they refuse to. They tell me to address you with respect and authority, because that will give me a guiding masculine influence in my life. They tell me I have obsessive-compulsive disorder, and manic depression. Some days, when they realize I don’t believe any of their diagnoses, they tell me I’m psychotic. I am quite familiar with those mental disorders, Sir. I paid close attention in my high school psych class. OCD involves obsessive counting, obsessive organizing, obsessive behavior. Being compelled to do something like wash your hands, fold clothes or play guitar without any notion of time passing at all. I am very aware of time passing. I am very sane. But they don’t believe me. They never have. The medication they prescribed me, I long ago learned to throw away. That’s the shit that makes me crazy. You know it, don’t you? You know me. Well, if you know me so god-damned well, how about telling me your name? Your real name, not the shadow they gave you, the shadow of some calming, soothing presence, to guide my delusions into sanity? So, will you tell me?

Ah, fuck it. I don’t even know why I bother. I’m sure you’re wondering what my digs look like. I live in white. White walls, white floor, white sheets, white ceiling. My hair is light blonde – I usually tie it back into a casual ponytail. Not many people to dress up for here, I’m afraid. I’m paper-thin, and the doctors try in vain to make me eat. I can’t though. I can’t fucking concentrate on eating their godawful cafeteria food when I spend every day trying to figure out I’m fucking getting out of this place, this nuthouse. I should eat though. I need my strength. Can’t plot escape if you can’t even stay awake for longer than fifteen minutes. But I have no appetite – would you if you were institutionalized when you are perfectly sure you are sane? - and even if I did, I don’t trust them.

I don’t trust myself. I lie awake at nights and try to remember my life before, my life with her. I lie awake at nights and ponder the moon, the little man who always smiles at me. Even when I’m at my depressed, the full moon is my friend. At least I have one ally in this fucking place. In this place of the damned, where residents haunt the hallways with slack-jawed smiles, so doped up on meds they can barely look me in the eyes, I wonder sometimes if I’m not the only one in here who knows the ending to this story. I wonder if I’m the only one who remembers what came before.

They’ve forgotten us, we wily ones who have lucid eyes and only feign blank stares to try and dodge the system. The blank stares backfire often, but would you rather I scream myself hoarse, then whisper … plead, beg like the self-professed intellectual I used to call myself? It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference, and even perfectly rational conversation only becomes a facade to them. I am, of course, only acting out my lunacy. Especially since it comes in such brief spurts, surely I am the great pretender.

I think the longest span of time I was only myself and not the strange OCD unfamiliar they believe me to be, I think I lasted three months. Three months of complete sanity from one Abbi Sheever. And near the end of the third month, when they had finally begun to believe me, and were going to put me into my own mildly supervised apartment, they suddenly threw me back into high security isolation. Palms sweaty – my only the padded cell, I huddled in darkness for days, trying to figure out what had stopped their belief. Finally I arrived at the solution. My mother. My damned mother. She keeps a hawk’s eye on my progress – with one phone call she had ended everything.

Enough of that depressing picture. Let’s talk eyes. My eyes are grey, like stone, like endings. I wonder what my ending will be. Will it be a grey wall, as I slam into it, full throttle madness? Brains splattered on the asphalt, forgetting my own name, forgetting everything except the sensation of her lips on mine. Yeah, that would be a blessing. I think true bliss at this point would be the big finale. The big kahuna, the giant leap into an abyss. Abyss, yeah. I loved that fucking movie. Cheesy as it was, the revival of that chick kills me every time. It’s so fucking sappy, but I love that shit. It’s so romantic.

So, I’m bonkers, right? Absolutely fucking batshit mad. I don’t think you would you give me a hug if you saw me. I think you’d back away slowly, screaming in your head. You might whistle tunelessly, maintaining eye contact with The Crazy. “Oh fuck,” you’d think. “I’d better get away from this one. She looks a little unsteady. Her eyes are all wild and she looks totally sedated. Fuck, man. Fuck.”

Eh, maybe not. Maybe you’d just look up and down at me calmly, and continue with your busy day. Yeah, you’d do that if you were from a city. Fucking cityfolk, they don’t give a shit about anybody.

I don’t get many hugs here. They’re lonely. I keep to myself, mostly. No, let’s correct that one. They keep me to myself, another order from my beatific mother, I’m sure.

Um, I like to scratch myself. Featherlight traces against my skin, down and up, vertical directions. I’d like to make a pattern out of my scars. Then I could wear a permanent skin-shirt. On second thought, that’d be a little gross. Ah, that’s only a faint fantasy of mine. For now I just have randomly drawn bruises and cuts all over my body; I don’t know how long they’ve been there. Some of them have faded, some are fresh. I can’t even remember which ones are which. I used to have a mental encylopedia of liars – I mean, scars in my head. I could have told you, “Yeah, got this one when I was 12. Baseball bat took a wrong turn at my stomach. Oh, this one? Dog bit me, tore my face up good. No, the scar faded. The wonders of modern medicine. That one? Deadend with an abusive brother’s face.”

I believe I turned 24 last August, but I’m not 100% positive. Time moves so strangely here. But times moves, slowly but steadily. Time moves forward. Times moves back. Like waves of an ocean, splashing against the shore, then moving back to caress the ocean’s curves.

Yeah, yeah, you know what I’m thinking about. I’m not really sure I even know where I am. It’s still Texas, though. I’d recognize those trees anywhere. The heat, too. Gives it away every freaking time. Ha.Texas, lone star state and all that rot. Just think, I’m in the same state as my girl and can’t even fucking contact her.

I am confined to my white windowless, loveless room for most of the day. From 9PM - 12AM they let me go outside in the gardens, feel the cold air on my face. I think they’re trying to kill me; it must be twenty-two degrees out there. But then again, they keep the fucking rooms at body temperature, for all of the old folk who get chilled so easily. I go outside to feel some fucking relief from the constant heat. Of course, that cold is only temporary. Three more months, like clockwork, and we’re back to a muggy, rain-soaked spring. You’d never know it’d been fifty the season before.

Oh, shut the fuck up. Fifty, twenty-two. It’s the same damn thing.

They poke me with needles sometimes and ask if I’m improving. Improving what? Mental state, ability to lie my way out of any psychiatric exam? It’s not like the results will change from the first time they administed it. I swear those things are fixed. Sir, how the hell should I know if I’m improving? Sir, what a fucking twisted commando title. Jesus Christ. They’re the doctors.

Oh well. Such is life here at this place which I can no longer remember the name of.

I wish, I wish, I wish.

I wanna go home. You know the place where your mommy fixes you warm chocolate chip cookies and sets them on the counter, saying, “Only eat two, Abbi.” and as soon as she leaves the room, I eat six? Where the sun splashes me in the face and makes my skin pink, where my sheets are beautifully decorated and spank me with nice smells. To spank me, to sting my butt red and throbbing. Where she soothes away my tears and hands me that crumbling cookie. To control that anger, she gave it to me. Shaved away that anger, to just fall into her eyes and die, be reborn, to just laugh it all away, like she never said it. Like she never even hated me.

I want to go there. Back into the before-time, when I was still inside, squirming warm cushy life around her belly. To be pre-me, to be like a butterfly landing on an Indian paintbrush, skies stained blue, surrounded by forest green grass.

I want to go there.

Yours,

Abbi

Jan. 15, 1998

Dear Sir,

Watch me as I ache for your desire, as I brush my hair away from my eyes. As sweat beads on my forehead, I listen to my heartbeat pulse and shiver.

You don’t know me. You don’t know my name or my address or even if I’m really in this mental hospital, with some deadly disease. No one will tell me anything, nobody. I’ve said that before, but I only say it again because it frustrates me endlessly. They stare at me like I’m an insect under a microscope, as they copiously take notes. I wonder why they don’t just slash out my file with a big X and just release me. They’d never do that in a million years. They’re too concerned about the poor, friendless girl with the terminal mental illness. Terminal, yeah. They actually think I’m terminal.

Maybe I should take that damn psychiactric exam. Maybe I’d actually pass their fucking test, be graded sane. Maybe they’d let me go.

Whatever. Maybe they’d just flunk me and keep me here for another three years, seven months, six days, and thirty-four minutes. And after seven years has passed, I could crumble into ash and finally be free. I could just fall out of a window one day, accidentally. I could be sane in death. Yeah, that’s cheery.

Sometimes I wonder what I’m waiting for. No one’s coming for me. No one who loves me even knows I’m here.

Maybe she does. Maybe she hears me. Maybe she’s listening. Sometimes, when I’m at my most hopeful, I think she’s always been listening to me. Come on, my woman warrior, isn’t it about time you saved me again?

She never answers. She doesn’t hear me at all.

After my little walk, I come back to my cell and stare up into the blankness of my life. My arms quiver and goose bumps stand out on my flesh. But I am not cold. I am warm, oh so warm. I burn up inside, Sir. I have no friends here, none, nobody. The darkness cloaks and suckles me, expecting me to yield to its apathy. I only hurt myself to feel, Sir. Isn’t that right? Reply, please. I haven’t received a response from you. Are you even there? Are you even listening? I hope at least one person in this fucked up world is actually listening to me.

Yours,

Abbi

Jan. 22, 1998

Dear Sir,

I must apologize for my last letter. On a weekly cyle, I start to believe all the shit being fed to me. You know, the crazy shit. So I take the drugs and then they fuck me up so bad, that I can’t even think straight. The drugs, they warp my mind and twist my words. They also have the unfortunate side effect of making me . . . wet. And when I’m both delusional and aroused I -

i can’t tell you, i can’t fucking tell, not one word, not one whisper of my little agitations. they spy on me they monitor my dreams. they watch me FUCK myself in the early morning. they don’t let me TALK to anyone; they’re just always

WATCHING

WATCHING

WATCHING!

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s - they - I lose control sometimes, Sir. I slip into these periods of time where I can’t control what I say or do. I always find my way back, once the medication wears off. I’m sorry, they’re so scary, the images in my head. I believed once when I was flying so high, above the sky, like a little bird that never died, sometimes I believe I see her. Then I come back and remember that I don’t see anybody. I can’t even see them; won’t you help me?

I cried all over this page; I’ll have to get another. I have to go now; I’m too tired to continue.

Feb. 14, 1998

Dear Sir,

Heh. Here I am again, writing you another letter, even after all my embarrassing breakdowns. I don’t believe it matters anyway. I don’t imagine I can shock you any worse than I already have.

I don’t even think you read my letters.

So here’s what I’ve decided. Since you have never replied to me, when I have been, quite frankly, emotionally and mentally in need of some kind of help, I think I can tell you anything and you won’t reply. Ever.

So maybe this letter will be my absolution, my reprieve from these endless silences. Maybe I can find the strength to reach inside myself and pull out something beautiful. Maybe I can find the courage to tell you why I have been in a sanitarium for almost three years, why my letters are always either erratic ravings or restrained bullshit.

When I was 17, I met a woman. Her name was Clare. She . . . loved me. Yes, I can actually say it. Clare loved me, and my mother didn’t like the fact that her little girl, her straight-A student, was having what she deemed “immoral” relations with a woman. My mother wasn’t terribly liberal, you see. She was more of the religious fanatic variety. She used to drag me out of bed at an insane hour and make me pray outside in the darkness (in nothing but my flimsy little nightgown which had a rip down one side) for hours. “You must repent.” she would say. “You have to burn away the sin. Burn it clean and you can live a normal life.”

She used the candles when she was feeling cheerful.

You mustn’t think my mother was completely Carried away. She had her moments. Sometimes she would lead my sweating, convulsing self back inside the house and bathe me, so tenderly! I took those moments and kept them in the surface of my mind when my mother decided to punish me.

No, that’s a lie. I kept Claire on my mind during those times.

How do I describe Claire to you? I don’t think I could ever adequately describe the “love of my life”, forgive the cliché.

I won’t try to. Simply this: light chocolate skin, dark chocolate eyes, and the most beautiful curly hair. I’d sneak away from the house when my mother went to sleep, and meet Claire in an abandoned cemetery a few miles away.

We’d take off our clothes and she’d spread out a blanket and we’d lay down, and contemplate infinity. She would kiss my scars, and then we would . . . would - I can’t say it; even after all these years away from her, I still can’t fucking say it. Thank you, Mother.

Oh, I hate this! hate this bane you have placed on me; I hate that you make my love, the greatest thing in my life, feel evil! I hate you!

We made love, Sir. All night long until the sun came up, blistering our backs and burning our feet.

We lived in a paradise for almost three years before she found out. Then she beat me and moved us to another town, on the other side of the country.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye to Claire.

One night, a few years ago, I got brave, just for a few hours. I packed up all my clothes and ran away from my mother. For good.

I tried to get back to Claire, God how I tried! But it was so hard! I didn’t have much money, and I couldn’t hold any job for long; I was that consumed by my desire to find her. I hitch-hiked and walked all the back to that small Texas town whose name I can no longer remember. Yes, of course I remember it. Austin, Texas. Let me tell you, hitch-hiking from Florida to Texas with deceptively gentle strangers was no fucking picnic. I had to ward more than one of their advances, male and female. I guess back then I was still beautiful. I’m certainly not now.

But somehow my mother’s influence still affected me. She cursed me, I’m sure of it. I caught a fever and collapsed, twenty miles from my destination. Haha, nope, can’t really blame that one on mommy dearest. It was my own fault – I hadn’t slept enough, wasn’t eating well. Give me a fucking break – I was twenty one and in my first relationship. I was so in love with that girl, so in love. Oh, fuck. Guess we’re both women now. Didn’t feel like it back then.

I remember our first meeting during an English class. I was an outstanding English student, but that day, a girl totally distracted me. After class, she walked up to me and introduced herself. We skipped the next period to go hide behind vending machines and talk.

“I’m Clare,” she said. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

I was taken aback by her nerve. She was so sure of herself, so secure in the truth of herself. Back then I was still wearing T-shirts, and baggy pants – comfort over shoving myself into a socialized perception of beauty, you know? But she saw me. She didn’t care about my inert fashion sense, or my, at the time, crippling shyness. She walked boldly into my heart from the first day we met.

We were friends for six months before I kissed her. She was walking me to my bus stop as we chatted pleasantries. She tilted her head and squinted at me in that adorable way.

“My dad’s waiting, I guess,” she murmured. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Okay,” I replied. “I’ll see ya.”

She turned away, and was mere inches away before I grabbed her hand and pulled her towards me.

I smiled, shaking slightly from nerves.

“Don’t I get a hug first?”

She gave me a small smile then pulled me close for a tight hug.

I sighed softly as her hands stroked my shoulders.

It was the closest we’d ever been.

“Guess I should go now,” she whispered, her breath tickling my ear. “I have to get home.”

“Yeah,” I replied, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. “You should go. I need to catch my bus.”

We seperated and she was again outside of my space.

Beside myself, I grabbed her hand and kissed her quickly. I tried to taste her mouth, but I was so nervous that I got her cheek instead.

Breathing softly against her cheek, I moved slowly towards her mouth.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” she sighed.

That first kiss was magical, a culmination of all the sexual energy we’d weaved over the last half-year.

I’d do anything for her. Including walk thousand of miles and collapse from exhaustion.

When I awoke, I was here. Friendly People Sanitarium. I have to wonder what kind of drugs the owners were on when they named this place; could it be anymore hokey and misleading? I tried to leave as soon my fever broke, but they told me my mother had given directions to have me committed as soon as I was found. I tried to argue that, as a 21-year-old woman, I was an adult and had legal rights. They had none of it. They told me that my mother said I was “borderline schizophrenic” and couldn’t be trusted to say anything coherent.

So, just like that, I was stuck. I’ve been here ever since. I lied about being sick; I’m as healthy as a horse. I’ve lied to you about many things. They let me walk on the grounds at normal hours, but the time is so deceiving in this place. It rains often, and when I’m outside, I honestly don’t know what time it is because of the cloud cover.

As far as I know, I don’t have any mental illnesses. Unless you count being a lesbian, of course. Hahaha, I couldn’t resist. I didn’t mean it; I’m very proud of who I am.

I wrote letters to Clare, at first. but she must have moved, because she never replied.

Kind of like you.

You know what a crazy person in this joint once told me? Stop saying you’re sorry.” He was right, for once. I won’t apologize to you anymore. You or anyone. I haven’t seen Claire in seven years, my mother’s had me committed; why the fuck should I apologize for that? I’ll just explain things to you. I bet you’re wondering what else I’ve lied about. I never scratch myself. With my scars, scratching would be agony.

You probably think I’m crazy, despite what I’ve said. Well, maybe I am; I have the right to be, after what I’ve been through. Try living my life, and tell me if I’m crazy.

This letter will be one of my only truths.

They keep me sedated most of the day, and under restraints. Double security! Thanks guys! I’ve figured out how to break the locks though. I’ve hidden a steak-knife under my pillow. I sharpen it everyday with this great stone I found on the road.

I wonder what it would feel like on my wrists.

Claire, I love you. I hope I find you where I’m going.

Abbi Sheever

remember when we danced on Valentine’s Day?

Feb. 15, 1998

Medical Examiner’s Log

We found Abigail’s Sheever’s body this morning. She slit her wrists with a steak-knife, made razor sharp by something we haven’t been able to identify.

The patient was in a state of extreme agitation, demanding that she be allowed to see some Claire person. We did find the name “Claire Reeves” on many of the patient’s papers. We called the operator and fortunately Claire lives only 20 miles away. She has been informed of the patient’s death, and should be here within the hour. I do hope those damned clerks broke it to her gently.

A search revealed several letters addressed simply to “Sir”. One of the patient’s doctors suggested she write in a diary, to keep herself amused and busy. It seems she took the idea a step further and wrote to a specific person, though I can’t imagine who it could be. This may need investigation.

It’s my medical opinion that the patient simply snapped from isolation. She’d been allowed no contact with the outside world in her entire time here, an order from her absentee mother, which I have never agreed with.

M.E.’s personal note:

Abbi, I hope you’re at peace wherever you are. You deserve to rest.

Feb. 16, 1998

Dear Abbi,

How? How could I have not known? You’ve been so close to me, 20 miles away for 3 damned years, and I didn’t know? Is this a trick? Will I wake up tomorrow with you in my arms? Will I wake up? Help me, baby. I need to wake up.

I can make it real, you know. I can turn back time and make your blood leave these sheets. I can MAKE you come back.

Can’t I?

Please tell me I can. Please walk me back to that graveyard, that graveyard made beautiful by your touch, your eyes.

They let me have your letters. Your mother hasn’t shown up yet.

I’ve read them all. Why was I so blind? I knew your mother abused you, but I never knew it was that bad. Why didn’t I help? Why didn’t I see it? Your scars were always so fresh; why didn’t I do more than kiss them?

I loved you, I LOVED YOU!

How could you give up? You shoulda waited for me; I was coming.

At first I thought you’d abandoned me. You just left without saying a word, not ONE word! How much was it? How much did you pay for our relationship? What did she do to you?

Someone make this be a dream. Make my lover’s blood fade from these sheets. Make the body in the morgue be my Abbi again.

Make this not REAL!

Claire Reeves

Feb. 3, 2002

Epilogue - Present Day

MID-AFTERNOON. A GRAVEYARD LONG ABANDONED. STONES ARE CRUMBLING.

ZOOM IN ON:

Two graves side by side, fairly recent. A woman kneels in front of them, weeping softly. The camera briefly focuses on two photographs, young women staring blankly at a hostile photographer. The dates of death read Feb. 14, 1998 and Feb 14, 1999.

The woman stirs from her grief and stares at the first stone, her daughter’s.

WOMAN

(softly, completely drained of energy)

Abbi . . .

Her eyes are red and bloodshot, her skin pale and wrinkled. She looks like someone who has made many terrible mistakes without realizing, then had them all hit her on the head, one after the other. She has paid dearly, with the death of her daughter.

WOMAN

You were always

a good girl. Always.

Slowly she stands and kisses the first stone, then the second. After staring at them for several minutes, she walks away.

CLOSE ON:

The two photographs, the girls’ faces emotionless. Hold on their mouths.

They smile.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain;

I am the gentle Autumn’s rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush.

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft star that shines at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there;

I did not die.

- Anonymous

Broke and homeless

This dream, unrealized, glimmering out of reach. My MFA shocking in its simplicity. No, instead a B.A. in Communication, a degree for dreamers, for those unwilling to plant their feet in a solid occupation.

I was raised to be a warrior, to spit out truth at every turn with brutal, unflinching candor. Instead, a flower, a reserved little girl who only bursts out screaming in the poetry slam, of which you are quite familiar.

The slam, the only way to scream and scream and scream.

Too self-centered to stay at each event, but still, suddenly Shannon has worked her way into me.

Too much collision in course on the eve of graduation.

What bullet pierced my skull yesterday

Went straight to the forebrain

A bullet, pulpy and strange

What a disgusting waste of time

To toil forever in dead-end jobs

Instead of realizing my full potential

To toil

Share a bunk bed with my sister

To be nothing

To lose something

To let it go

To leave them behind

To find myself

And truly be myself

Free of dead end occupation

Expression is the key

To unrealized creativity.

Unrequited

The smell of her pinched my nostrils as I slipped out of the bed to shower. Her hand trailed along my thigh as I eased away from her embrace. Hardly conscious of it, I brushed my hand against the warm spot where her hand had been only moments before, to keep her warmth in me.

I didn’t know what to do.

A warm shower, I thought. That’ll calm me down.

The water landed on my skin in a soothing flurry, but I found myself leaning against the wall instead of scrubbing soap on my body. My hands were spread against the wall in a parody of crucifixion.

Shit. She’s really leaving.

I closed my eyes and let the water wash away the present and shutter in my past.

Her lips were laced with my lipstick. She stared at me, smiling slightly, and said,

“Amy, my friend has gone to the bathroom, and I’m sitting on this couch, waiting for you to kiss me.”

I giggled, and looked down at my sparkly purple top. The bravery of the night had vanished, and in its place was the old shyness, the old girl trembling in the shadows.

“I feel like I should take off my glasses,” I said, smiling.

She smiled, and I saw the laughter in her eyes reflected off her own glasses.

Her lips seemed huge, the soft purple providing a beautiful contrast to my own loud wild orchid.

I searched her eyes for reassurance. She gave it to me easily.

“Amy, I really like you.” she said. “And I really want to make out with you right now.”

I took my glasses off and scooted closer on the soft, black couch.

I didn’t say anything, just kept focusing on her eyes. The shyness threatened to claim me.

With a deep internal breath, I learned forward and kissed her.

It began as a closed mouth endeavor, exactly like our earlier one. She opened her mouth, and teased her tongue into mine, showing me the way to fuller moments. I opened her mouth, but now my mouth was clumsy – this was wrong. I turned my head sideways, thinking that would make it easier to know what to do. I was right. The sideways position freed me from clumsy fumblings. Our lips mingled in a tug of war that seemed endless. I thought it was going on too long for her, and moved to pull away. She pulled me back into the kiss gently, but with confidence. Finally we broke apart, and I stared at her lips.

Her lipstick was bold and in my mouth – I felt it in every corner of me.

“Was that good?” I asked. “Was it okay?”

“You were awesome.” and smiled at me again.

“Yay!” I squealed. “I’m gay after all!”

The memory of our kiss burned straight to down my groin. It was nothing like the romance novels. It was not fire – liquid flame, or any of that. It was not magic. It was not beautiful. It was heavy – a snake coiling into my gut, a visceral reminder of everything I was meant to do, the dance I had been waiting for. I had finally found my partner. I wanted to kiss her forever, to reignite the not flame. How to describe it? A shock, a coil, an electric beam? Not hot, not cold, but warm. Warm and serpentine piercing my inner pieces.

Her friend came back from the bathroom, and she got up to dance. I danced with her, but felt all my old clumsiness return immediately. In her lips, I was an experienced tango maven. In her hips, I was nothing more than two lead feet.

I took my purse off and went to the bathroom downstairs.

The not heat enflamed me.

After fumbling with a stall which seemed to have no lock, I went to the larger stall next to it, and firmly locked the door.

I unbuckled my belt, unzipped my jeans, and found my clit with one hand.

I leaned against the stall, and grasped at my clit, trying to relieve some of the pressure still raging through me.

Success was fleeting, as I tried to reimagine the kisses. It was her lipstick that did it at last, and finally I was able to relieve the not heat lancing through me.

Not heat.
Not fire.

Not cold.

What is the word for desire?

The water ran cold against my skin, and I shut off the faucet with robotic hands.

Amber skin merging with snow white color. A larger than life woman putting her stamp on my senses.

What a way to begin this journey, on the roof of the Speakeasy on Halloween night.

Our parting was platonic, a hug then she walked with her friend back to the bus.

It was strange, to have this evening end in such an anticlimax, but it seemed perfectly fitting.

I said goodbye and walked to my bus stop, in a fury of confused thoughts.

As I leaned against a metal machine downtown, I watched the people walk past me. Remembering my old logic, I zipped up my jacket to ward off unwanted whistles at my top’s ample display of my breasts. My caramel skin suddenly felt heavy.

I pressed against the metal. Its coldness was reassuring.

The bus arrived at last, and I got on it. At first I sat in the front facing the window, but once the driver got to a light, I got up on claimed my own pair of seats to myself.

Even though it was night, the bus’s lights were still on inside. I found the light harsh, and wished for the darkness so I could be alone in my thoughts.

I reached my stop and got off, wishing a good night and thank you to the driver.

The walk home seemed interminable. Fatigue pierced me, and I felt a stillness inside where not fire had raged earlier in the evening.

I reached my house, and opened the unlocked door. My parents always kept the door unlocked when I went out at night, an infrequent happening.

I said a raspy hi to my uncle and grabbed the tray from the drawer next to the computer.

I unlatched the garage door and sat in my dad’s chair with the tray of marijuana. I opened it, and crumbled the pot in my fingers. I filled the bowl and got a well deserved hit.

I exhaled and the not fire finally diminished. A calmness began to claim me, as I stared at the wall full of posters. David Bowie, Marilyn Monroe.

I filled my lungs with smoke once more, and let the marijuana soothe my frazzled nerves.

I felt like I was flying.

I felt free.

At that moment, I wanted my old singing voice back more than anything in the world. I had an irresistible urge to sing Sinead O’Connor’s “We People Who Are Darker Than Blue” at the top of the longs while cradling my guitar in my hands, the instrument I loathed. The instrument I craved.

Instead, I sat in the magenta leaning to purple chair and slowly regained my composure.

I wanted to sleep.

I put the tray back in the drawer and logged on to check my usual media sites.

At last, something to cap the evening. Eliza Dushku was doing a new series with my nerd god, the inimitable Joss Whedon. A well deserved Christmas present to cap the evening.

Now I could sleep. It was creeping on 1 AM. The night wasn’t going to get any better.

I lay in bed and fell into a dreamless sleep. I never remembered my dreams, but tonight I wanted to dream and remember more than anything.

I could still taste her lipstick, heavy and pervasive, a comforting reminder.

I did not dream, but she was with me anyway. I felt her presence sitting in my body, a welcome visitor. Her ghost lingered on my lips.

The not flame of desire died to coals, and sleep was a welcome reprieve.

Fear Nothing

It was a moment of despair sure to breed chaos in its wake.

The news hit us each differently, skating from person to person like a mystical tornado. It was too much for me to take. I stood numb at her casket, trying to piece together the vibrant poet I once knew.

She was a fiery woman, someone who leaped up on the stage, and kept us all captive. Her words, a trance. My brain, lame on the ground. In the smallest part, a growing envy. A growing despair.

And now. Nothing but silence, the death we can never escape.

Each of us, screaming.  Each of us, grieving. Each of us, breathing in a world without her. In a world sadder for the loss of a woman. Small and unassuming in photograph, in life she created demons and then gleefully kept them at bay.

It’s only fitting, then, that she would die in a cave. Something went horribly wrong. No one knows what really happened. Certainly not me.

What do I know? I didn’t know her in life, only in song. Only in a few poems, scattered briefly through five years of indifferent attachment to the slam.

And why did I hate it so much? Why did I leap carefully from the three hour excursions and go home drained, numbed, and ultimately not keen to return?

Is it because I was jealous? It is because I never won?

We don’t know how long we have. We don’t know if we’re gonna die tomorrow. And instead of getting to know the warrior beyond her song, instead of dreaming her into reality, instead of attending the slams, I did nothing.

And now I have to live with that for the rest of my life. That in her absence I realize how truly precious life is. I could die tomorrow.

But now, with this document, at least I won’t die without someone hearing my words. Without someone knowing my truth.

We’ll start again, then. We’ll start again. And maybe someday I’ll sit down at this desk and write without fear, as she did. I’ll sit down and scream in prose as well as song. I’ll live each day like it was my last, as she did.
And maybe I’ll never match the love she held throughout our devastated community. Maybe none of that matters anymore.

But if her death means anything, if it gives me back that childlike sense of wonder which allowed me to create prose without worry, without doubt, without the nagging critic keeping every word in check. If she can give me that.

If she can give me that, maybe I can learn to think of her without guilt. Without regret. Without shock.

With nothing but love.

A fictionalized reaction to the loss of Shannon Leigh.