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Bye
Sep. 18th, 2008 | 08:31 pm
She never looks at me, she only looks down or on the
road but never on me. I feel a deep seperation
between us, a river streaming through the side console
in the car. She's thinking about something,
something that's distracking her and as usual
I'm dying to know what is so much more interesting
then my presence. Suddenly, I feel the car slamming forward
although I don't have enough time to see what's
in front of us or even enough time to react properly;
instead I see her eyes scream at me as we crush
ourselves into the car in front of us.
I see her eyes, her blue brown green
shimmering eyes and then i pass out.
I wake and I'm in the car but there's blood in front
of my eyes and I'm scrambling because my glasses have
gotten lost and everything is blurry. I can't see her
but I see the shards of glass just about everywhere.
I feel nausious, my brain flickers with the thought
that I may have lost a limb or could be seriously
injured but it only lasts for a moment. I search with my
eyes for those eyes but the blur is too strong
I reach out in all directions. I feel her fingers,
her fucking cold fingers. i try to reach forward more
so i can grab onto her, try to pull myself closer so I can
see her face, check her breathing. I'm trapped in my
seatbelt, crushed under my seat. My eyes roll back,
I hear myself heavily breathing, only my breathing.
It's dark inside my head and I can only see her eyes watching
the road again, picture her looking at me while the sunlight
streams in the car. I grab her hand across the console
and I stop breathing.
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Wednesday
Sep. 18th, 2008 | 08:31 pm
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Roads Full Of Lillies
Sep. 18th, 2008 | 08:28 pm
Chapter One: In the beginning Casey Lehman's face is planted directly into the shag carpet. The odor is horrific and for a moment her mind wanders to what horrible contents the carpet might hold. She only thinks on it for a second before her face is kicked sharply from the left side for the third time and she covers her head with her arms to protect herself from the blow. It's quiet for a moment and then she feels the slime of spit on her back. Her boyfriend comments that she is a bitch and then leaves slamming the door behind him. Her ears are ringing from the beating she just endured and it reminds her of the song she was listening to on the radio on the way home from work, "Your boyfriend cheats and he blames it on you, Where are you to go and what are you to do. The cold winds a blowin' Down the mountain side I wish someone was beside me I wish I felt alive." Casey gets up slowly and makes her way through the tiny apartment to the bathroom. The light and the fan turn on at the same time and the fluorescent glow is too much for her eyes. The damage isn't too bad, just a bit of blood dripping down her forehead from a large cut received from the front of his boot and a black eye that will presumably get worse as time goes by. She quickly locks the door and is reminded of the many times she was lodged against the door quiet as a mouse holding her fingers to the door where the light came in, hiding and waiting for his anger to go down. She feels so much calmer today then she usually does. If this had been a usual day she would be crying and trying to think of ways she could improve and be better for him, not make him so mad, not irritate him so much. This day, though, was different. She had a secret. She splashed her face with water from the faucet, the cold-water felt nice and she cleaned her bloodied, bruised face so that only the bruises and cut was visible. She wiped off with a grungy blue towel that was rough on her face and glanced down at her watch. The time read 4:48 pm, which meant he would be leaving for work shortly so that he could work the late shift at the Bellridge factory in town. She sat down on the ground and waited. His boots could be heard all around the apartment. She could tell he was still angry by his slamming of the kitchen cabinets and the way he slammed his feet around but she was calm, steadying her breath to a song. "One, two, I’ll take care of you. Three four, you deserve more. Five six, your heart needs a fix." The front door slammed and she counted to ten slowly so that she was sure he was gone and wouldn't be back until 11:00 when his shift ended. She peaked out the door. Silence. She made her way slowly to her bed, her leg still dragging her a bit from the fight they were in two weeks ago. She grabbed her suitcase from under the bed and grabbed the few things she imagined she would need for the long trip ahead of her along with the $500 she had saved up tediously for the past month sense she had known she needed to leave, slammed the suitcase and went back into the bathroom. She opened the cabinet beneath the sink counter and pulled out her secret. It was concealed in her tampon case in a plastic bag. She looked at it and smiled at the pink lines crossing both ways and imagined her baby girl's smile looking back at her. She put her suitcase over her shoulder and grabbed a blanket and pillow on her way out. She piled her stuff into her beat down light blue Toyota with too many scratches and turned the key in the ignition. She didn't know what it was playing on the radio because all she heard on her way down the driveway was her song and she sang it loud and clear. "Me and my baby we're out of this joint. Goin' to California where we got some hope. Me and my baby we ain't got much. But we got each other and that's more than enough." Casey put her hand on her belly, sighed, and drove into the night. |
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090208429
Sep. 18th, 2008 | 04:46 pm
I need to get out."
I'm amazed I've lasted this long.
I have a gash in my side that's got to be puncturing my spleen or liver or some shit by now.
I stumble out of the car poorly and hand the driver a $100 dollar bill.
He speeds off and my eyes adjust to the lack of light he left.
I look around for an awning and pick the black garbage bag i'd been carrying up from the damp ground.
It feels heavier then before but I pull it along side me to the back side of a bar.
I throw it down on the ground and am fortunate I found an awning because it begins to rain again.
The rain splashes against my arm and I see the scratch marks she has left.
The rain washes away the blood as I look.
I look at the garbage bag again and start to choke up.
The tears burn my cheek and begin to irritate my eyes.
I have nothing left in me so I pull the top of the bag back and look at her eyes.
The skin around them is turning blue probably from the blood that's been seeping from the bag for the last two hours.
I cry pathetically as I stare at her.
Sobbing like a baby without a bottle.
I lay down next to her, it, and shoot my spleen or liver or whatever out the right side of me.
And that's it.
I'm out.
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Oh, What's the World Coming To?
Sep. 18th, 2008 | 04:45 pm
palms up.
God, the huge black man that he was, leaned down to Candide, his throne shaking the heavens.
Candide spoke softly as to not upset the almighty powerful God,
"God," he said,
"I have lived my life to the best of my ability. I have hurt no one and keep a faithful and honest mind, may I enter the heavens?"
God, having heard Candide's words appeared very angry and threw his large black fist against Candide's head.
His strength was so that it plummeted Candide past purgatory and into hell where the Devil had been anticipating his arrival.
Satan, the small white man that he was, walked over to Candide laying on the ground, hurt and bleeding from his fall and said,
"Welcome home."
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The Trip to Lyon
Sep. 18th, 2008 | 04:44 pm
 | Jane Monroe ran her hand over Jon's elegant yet masculine cheekbones. They reminded her of her father's; strong, bold yet with a hint of kindness. The last night when she came on his dick she remembers thinking the same thing. Jane's long brown hair looked like it was glistening through the windowpane. It was clipped back in two small sections so that it stayed out of her face, which she despised. Her makeup looked perfectly placed as well, the mascara brushing out her long lashes to extenuate her dark blue eyes and the light pink blush she wore made her cheeks glisten perfectly to match her hair. They were on the train on the way to Lyon to visit Jon’s great uncle who had recently been diagnosed with liver cancer and his mother had persuaded him to go visit in his last days. Jane had tagged along as an excuse to get off work and, of course, to visit Europe. The weather outside was shabby. It was the type of weather one would expect in France she believed, windy, slight rainfall and cloudy. The greenery slashed against the windowpane and she jumped towards Jon so that her right side was thrown against his left. He was reading Proust, "In Search of Lost Time" and when he read he didn't like to be disturbed. "Babe, when will we get there?" Jane asked. "Ten minutes or so.... hang on..." he replied as he attempted to find his line in the book. "You said that thirty minutes ago," she said in a whiney child’s voice and then held his hand to her lips and kissed it. "Ah! You're too impatient baby!" he said but he glanced at her and smiled while he said it, so she would know he was only teasing. They returned to their previous activities until the train cart came by and ran into Jon’s knee. He jumped up in irritation. “10 minutes ‘til Lyon…” the cart attendant exclaimed loudly. “10 minutes ‘til the next station.” Jane quickly pulled down their caps from the shelf above and grabbed at their jackets. Hers was new and when she bought it she had been impressed with the soft bright red fabric and the yellow buttons that went down it. When in the dressing room she had thought she looked cute, as she often thought. She put her jacket on. Under the jacket she was wearing a low cut, open back summer dress, not the type of dress one would wear in the fall, it was yellow to match the buttons on her jacket and was covered with white dots. It showed off her body well though, and she knew that and so had proceeded to wear it regardless of the weather. Her flat stomach and small breasts were pressed gently against the thin fabric. Jon reached down to grab their bag that was tucked under the front of his chair and felt something hard press against the front pocket of the bag. He remembered that in the hotel that morning they have savored a perfect bowl sized amount of marijuana in case the visit to his great uncle was too much to handle. With it, he also packed a small white pipe they had purchased in Amsterdam three days previously. He had completely forgotten, as had she by her look of surprise when he tapped her outer thigh and opened the pocket so that she could see, his brown eyes glowing with excitement as he showed her. She was excited too, to his surprise, the long train ride had been quite boring, and this bowl at least would liven things. “Let’s go to the bathroom with it,” Jon suggested. She was hesitant, but thinking this might make a good story to tell her friends back home, she agreed. “Alright, but we have to do it quickly, we only have 10 minutes.” “Plenty of time…” he responded. They grabbed the rest of their belongings, his book, and her purse and made their way to the last trolley on the train where there was a handicapped bathroom and not any passengers nearby. The bathroom was white, as a bathroom should be she thought, but it was very messy. There was toilet paper on the ground, the sink was dripping slowly, and the paper towels had run out long ago. Jon placed the pipe on the sink and placed the small bowl inside the bowl piece. He grabbed a lighter and with a flick, lit the marijuana into flames. He puffed at it and then passed it to her while he blew the smoke into the air. Jane had not done this quite as much as Jon had and so held the pipe too close to her face when she lit it. Afraid the lighter would light her gorgeous hair on fire as she lit it she jumped away causing herself to choke and begin coughing. “Babe!” Jon exclaimed, “You okay?” She stammered back coughing but shook her hand as if to say, “Yes, fine… fine.” They continued passing the pipe back and forth and to Jane’s surprise she began to get extremely stoned, more so then she usually did. She almost dropped the pipe at one point and they both began howling, although nothing was necessarily funny, it was merely an effect of all the smoke that was encompassing the small bathroom. He grabbed her suddenly and she remembered that another side effect was that Jon always got very physical when he smoked. He pressed his lips against hers and started moving his tongue around in her mouth, biting her bottom lip and licking her tongue. She wasn’t sure if it was the marijuana or the way he bit her bottom lip but she was enjoying it immensely. She forgot where she was, that this was an extremely unsanitary bathroom and allowed him to bring up the back of her dress and place her onto the sink. Without parting lips he drew his hand across the front of her and pulled down her black, and now extremely wet, panties. She was grabbing at his hair while his tongue continued in her mouth and then let her hands make their way to the zipper of his pants so that his manhood could make its way out and pounding and grinding it did. She felt him inside her and everything evaporated. She felt him rub in and out of her and she threw her head back and moaned while he fucked her and then grabbed her back and drew her upward as he came inside her. Slowly, things came back into view, although the room was still slightly blurred by the smoke. She heard voices in the distance and jumped down quickly after removing him from inside her and drew her dress back down. Her jacket lay in a puddle of water near the sink and she grabbed it although it smelled quite atrocious. He heard the voices now too, much louder, and also scrambled to regain his composure. “That was amazing baby. Shit, I can’t believe we just did it in here,” he said quietly. “Ha, nasty huh?” she commented back with a smile. They laughed again and opened the door to the bathroom and glanced out. “No one, let’s go,” she exclaimed. They walked through the sliding door that separated the carts and now they heard clearly, “20 minutes to St. Etienne… 20 minutes ‘til the next stop.” They had missed their stop and although it would take them 40 minutes out of their way, they thought simultaneously that it was worth it. They regained their seat, which was still unoccupied and he brought out his Proust and she glanced out the window, which had accumulated raindrops. They held hands and they waited. |
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Shall We Begin?
Sep. 3rd, 2008 | 10:41 pm
“Yes.”
The tape recorder lay in between them. He pushed the red button and the tape recorder began to spin.
“State your name.”
“Jamie Masters.”
“Your age?”
“Twenty three. Well, twenty three and two quarters.”
“Please state what happened on the night of January 17, 2004.”
“From the beginning?”
“Yes. From the beginning.”
He began.
“It was 2:30 in the afternoon and I sat at my house watching football. I was watching a particularly good throw between Myers and Emerson when I glanced at the clock and realized I had only two hours left before it was time to leave. I got up after taking a sip of my Becks and turned on the shower. I turned it on hot. Well, somewhat. Closer to hot than warm anyway. I proceeded to clean myself and did so extraordinarly well. As I got out of the shower I went to the closet and picked out a nice outfit. I wore a pink undershirt, a black jacket, and black slacks. I combed my hair and glanced at the clock again. I had thirty minutes. As I walked out of the house I grabbed a piece of paper with the address on it and gave a wink at the picture of us from prom. I closed the door and glanced at the many newspaper clippings inside my house. I decided to get a coffee and went to the corner Starbucks to indulge myself. I purchased a steamed latte. It cost me $3.15. I sat in my car for a while listening to Beethoven. I played the Moonlight Sonata twice because it’s my favorite. I glanced at the clock and realized it was time to go. I drove cautiously on the freeway and turned the news on the radio while I drove. I listened to FOX News Radio on the way. I arrived at her apartment at 4:30 exactly. As I pulled up I saw Richard leaving the apartment on his way to work. I slowly got out of the car and felt the sun warm my hands as I walked towards the front door. Knowing that this apartment was a hideaway house I saw no bodyguard’s around and opened the front door. As I entered the apartment I heard music. It sounded like a pop boy band . I looked around her apartment. I noticed two of her music awards in a glass case in the corner of the room. I light shown down on them making them sparkle. In the other corner of the room was a lamp with photographs attached. She had placed photographs of herself with her many famous friends. I walked towards the bedroom and saw her standing in front of the mirror with her back to me. She wore a black bra and tight blue jeans. I looked over her body. Her long brown hair was shaping her back and her beige skin went down it until it reached her ass which was tucked tightly in her jeans. I came up behind her. I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out a white towel. I placed it around her mouth and applied pressure as I injected the needle into her arm. She became weak and fell to the floor. Her blue eyes glistened at me. I winked back.
“Hey baby,” I said.
“Jamie! What the?! What did you just do?” she stared up at me with pleading eyes.
“You look so pretty today babe! Did you dye your hair? I love the color. I know it was a darker brown the last time I saw you”
“What? Jamie. No. What did you just inject in me?” she pleaded again.
“Oh that. Um, a sedative. Yah, that’s what it was.”
“What?! Why would you? Help! Help!” she became frantic.
“No baby it’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you. Jamie will take care of his baby.”
I saw her eyes start to flicker back in her head and realized I was running out of time. I quickly took my pants off. I was wearing new boxers. Black silk. I wanted to show them off. I walked around the room lighting the few candles she had lying around. I put down a picture of her and Richard lying on a beach together.
“I’m setting the mood,” I said to her.
I picked her up and placed her head against my chest. I heard her heart beat slowly. I placed her on the bed and pulled off her pants. She was wearing a black thong. We almost matched! I ran my hands down her body and pressed my mouth against her tits. Her eyes flipped into the back of her head and I reached down to close her eyelids. I quickly put myself inside her. There was tightness I wasn’t accustomed to and although she was dry I pretended she was wet. As I made love to her I heard her scream my name inside my head. Pretended her cold body was coming with mine. Saw her pushing up and down on me while I throbbed inside her. As I finished I pulled myself out and lay down on her stomach as I watched the sun go down through the window shades. I stayed there for awhile, I thought about how much I loved her and all the good times we had spent together. I remembered that night so many years ago when she had danced with me under the lights of the gym. I remembered the pictures we took while standing on her parent’s staircase and how perfect she looked in that pink gown as she cascaded the stairs into my arms. As I remembered where I was I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out my knife. I ran the sharp edge against her skin, allowing it to follow her mouth, her eyes, her nose, and her ears. Every part of her that I touched turned red. I slid the blade against her wrists and saw the dark red shade cover her arms. I leaned down and pressed my ear against her again. She was out. Not dead, just sleeping.
I looked up at her. The red was covering her face.
“Baby, now you’ve gotten yourself all dirty. Do you want to take a shower? How about a nice warm shower together? How does that sound?”
I picked her up and carried her towards the bathroom. She was getting my jacket dirty so I took it off. I placed her inside the bathtub as I removed my boxers and turned the water on hot. Well somewhat hot. As I got in the tub I saw her body lying in the tub, the red covering her skin was swirling down the drain. She looked gorgeous there. The water was pouring down the crevices of her body. I picked her up and placed her against the wall as I put myself inside her again. I felt her limp body inside my hands as I held her up. I came quickly, the water pouring down on our heads. As I came I released her body and she started to fall. I quickly grabbed her.
“Baby, be careful. You don’t want to hurt yourself,” I said sweetly.
I grabbed a towel off the towel rack as I turned the water off. I placed it around her and gently set her against the wall. I pressed my ear against her for the last time. I heard nothing.
“Oh baby. Now you’ve gone and died on me.”
I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out two items. I opened my cell phone and called 911.
“We’ve had an accident. My girlfriend has no heartbeat. 9372 Grenard Lane. Yes. Okay.”
I leaned down to her.
“Don’t worry babe. They’re coming now. It’ll be okay.” I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
I took her hand and held it. I gently pulled Richard’s ring off her finger. With my other hand I held out the ring I was holding. The light bounced off its many diamonds.
I turned to her with a smile.
“So….babe…”
Suddenly Police and EMT entered the house. They picked her up and placed her on a stretcher. The cops stared at me, blood dripping from my hands, as I watched her being carried off. I was handcuffed and shoved against the wall. I felt the handcuffs on my wrists. They hurt. They were much too tight.”
He stopped talking and turned.
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” he responded.
“Kill Rachael.”
“She loved me, she just forgot. I needed to be close to her so I could remind her. She wasn’t meant to go away,” he said with sadness.
“Is that everything that happened?”
“Yes. That’s about it.”
“Well thank you Mr. Masters, for your time. We’ll send you a copy of the book as soon as it’s published.”
“No problem. No problem at all,” he said grinning.
The guard picked him up and followed him back to his cell.
Death row awaited him.
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Section 70A of the Calidornia Penal Code
Sep. 2nd, 2008 | 09:07 pm
I’m going to be honest. I gave head to one of my professors.
I know I shouldn’t have, but I hate going to school, was completely failing and he gave me the option.
I’m horrible, disgusting, blah, blah, blah. Whatever, I got the A.
Alright, okay. I gave head to two of my professors, but you have to understand.
I never wanted to go to college. I hate waking up in the morning, driving to school, parking. I hate walking up stairs and walking up hills, just so some guy can tell me things I already know or don’t want to know.
My parents made me a deal: go to college, pass, get a degree and they’ll pay for everything. I took the deal. Who wouldn’t have?
So I get by.
I mean I do pass.
So I give oral sex for grades. God, this is ridiculous I’m a fucking lesbian for Christ’s sake. Whatever. Apparently I give good head. Who would have thought?
So you want to hear about it? How it happened. When? Alright, I’ll indulge your sick fantasies…
Sophomore year: 8:00 AM class.
As if there was any likelihood I would wake up at 7:00 in the morning. I’m doing coke ‘til three in the morning.
I did make an effort to go, but studying Chaucer got a bit tedious so I missed the midterm. Shit, I was sleeping. I had to. I couldn’t go to class with huge pupils and flickering eyelashes. I also missed two assignments. Describe the Wife of Bath and some group project shit.
On one of the days that I had made it to class the professor asked me to come to his office hours so we could discuss whether I should continue attending. I went to his office. Fourth floor. No one around. As I went into his office he locked the door behind me.
Professor 50 year old white guy with a scruffy beard. He has a half balding gray head.
“ You’ve missed half the classes, missed two assignments and the midterm. Do you care about this class?”
“I know, I know. My grandmother passed away and I had to help out with the funeral. I flew to Seattle. I know I should have emailed you but I’ve just been having so many family problems lately.”
Lies, lies, lies. I’m a coke addict and I spend too much time fucking my girlfriend.
“I understand. These things happen, but we need to work this issue out.”
I felt him glaring at my tits. They’re too big. Huge, full, god damned breasts. He also looked at my legs. My skirt was pulled up high because of the way I was sitting. I got it then. I understood. He laid his hand on his thigh and I placed mine in between my thighs as though I was just placing it there, but in that way. He started to press against his pants.
“So we should work this issue out,” he said again.
“I know.”
I got on my knees. Unzipped him and sucked. God I hate cock, nasty taste, awkward bouncing on it. Bounce, bounce, bounce. He came, on my tits. He made some remark about “secrecy” and I left. I never went to class again. I slept in every morning. The grades came and I got an A-. Minus my fucking ass!
Junior year: 9:00 AM class.
I only had two classes. My parents had said I needed to graduate but they didn’t say how fast. By this time, I had a new girlfriend. I was still fucking too much and had quit the coke and picked up weed. Now I really didn’t want to go to school. I was in a poetry class. The syllabus stated that, “Being in the workshop everyday is necessary!” I was convinced I could get by merely turning in the homework. This time I went to the office hours. Two people were also waiting to talk to him. I went in first.
“I’ve missed a lot of classes this semester. Do you think I can still pass?”
He, unlike Mr. 50 year old, was actually alright looking. He was maybe 27 and this was one of the first classes he had ever taught.
Professor blue eyes, tight jeans, and dark rimmed began,
“I grade on a curve so your absences will probably get you a C- or D+,” he said while flipping through his class roster.
Fucking crap, attendance is way too important.
“I need to get at least a C. Maybe we could work this issue out,” I said smiling.
He got it. On my knees, unzipped, and in my mouth. He was bigger than the other professor but still tasted badly. I liked the taste of power though. Bounce, bounce, bounce. He took too long and there were people waiting outside. I worked harder and he came in my mouth. Absolutely disgusting. I gagged, I almost puked.
I walked out and there was no secrecy talk. It was implicit. As I left the building I stared at those people waiting in the hallway and felt bad for them. They have to write poems, go to class, do “well”. I felt good. I felt superior. I would never have to those things. I walked with my head held high.
At lunch I told my roommate, between spoonfuls of minestrone soup, that the soup was swimming with the cum in my stomach. We laughed. I got my grades that summer. I had a C+. C+! I wrote him an email.
Professor okay looking for a man,
You gave me a C+. That must be a mistake. I did ALL the work.
Thanks,
Unnamed student.
He wrote back and apologized for the mistake and changed it to an A. He told me he was done teaching and wants to devote the rest of his life to writing poetry. He also said that he got married to his girlfriend finally and that we should hang out some time, grab some coffee or something. Blah, blah, blah. I never responded.
I haven’t given head to any teachers since then. Not because I haven’t wanted to, but because I haven’t had the opportunity.
Now I’m a senior, and engaged to another girlfriend, soon to be my wife. Once we get to Canada anyway. I’m not exactly proud of what I did. Well, I am a little. Not only was it amusing and makes for good stories, but I got those well deserved grades. I earned them.
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Daddy
Sep. 2nd, 2008 | 09:02 pm
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If you die. I die. That’s just the way it is.
Sep. 1st, 2008 | 10:20 pm
Me being ripped out of my mother,
being pulled quickly away,
seeing the streaks of the white walls against my eyes.
Watching my mother hold out her arms,
with a sad yearning look in her eyes as she watches me being pulled out of the room,
my tiny hands being curled into fists, and punching the blurred face of the man tearing
me away from her.
I feel my heart pounding in my chest,
And then seeing nothing but black.
18 months later,
she was really gone.
My mother died on September 17, 1985.
Her death was caused by melanoma, a form of skin cancer,
but how she got it and how she came to die from it
was something I wasn’t told about until I was 19 years old.
Along with the cancer my mother also suffered from clinical depression.
So did my dad. When they met at the age of 17 one of the things
that bonded them was their need to die,
and they were married at 21.
It has been said that my mom tried to kill herself on more than
one occasion and had a gun in the house for the precise moment
she would actually go through with it.
While trying to deal with her
depression she turned to pills, drugs,
doctors, and therapists but nothing worked and she lacked any hope.
Fortunately, there was
one thing that she had convinced herself would keep her alive and make her have a will to live,
living for another;
so in early November I was conceived.
Although her pregnancy was painful she endured it
and up until her 4 month check up she was happy with the thought of having something to complete her.
At 4 months the doctors informed her of a discovery.
They had found cancer in her right shoulder.
Although the cancer wasn’t very large she couldn’t have surgery with me inside her.
Not only that but if she kept me the cancer would travel through her blood stream twice as fast,
and there would be little chance they could save her after I was born.
I needed to be aborted.
After hearing the words her doctor had thrown at her, she didn’t cry.
She didn’t think.
She stated in a very cool, calm demeanor, “If I have to abort her,
I’ll have no reason to live. So I’ll take the chance.”
The doctors pleaded and begged telling her this was wrong.
It would not only hurt and possibly kill her but me as well.
It wasn’t safe.
She couldn’t keep me.
She didn’t care.
She only knew me for 18 months after I was born.
I was bombarded with attention.
There are flashes of care bear pools,
thousands of presents,
sleeping with my mom at night,
thousands of photo shoots,
songs being sang to me,
hugs, kisses, I love you’s.
She didn’t work.
She didn’t even really leave the house.
It was just my mother and my father living in the basement of my grandparents’ house
and everything felt right.
Then she was gone.
She asked my father not to bring me into the hospital room during any of the time she was dying.
She said it would be too hard for her. That she couldn’t bear to see me knowing she never would again.
I was put on an airplane to California and sent to live with my grandmother until after my mother had passed away.
I cried the whole way there.
For the next nine years she didn’t exist.
Although there are some tiny bits of memories that made me ask why I didn’t have a mother or where she had gone.
The fact that she was gone didn’t affect me much.
I called my grandmother ‘mom’ and grew up not realizing what I was missing.
Had it stayed this way things could have possibly been okay.
If I had stayed with my dad and my grandmother and grandfather there could have been a chance I wouldn’t have needed her so much, but on September 17, 1994, the same day my mother died 9 years earlier, my father remarried.
Her name was Linda and she ruined everything.
My father and I left my grandparent’s house.
We moved into a boring suburban neighborhood in Kentucky.
We bought two cats and they pretended we were a family.
I couldn’t stand her. She was nothing like the family I had come from. All she did was scream and throw glass bowls. Curse and slam doors. Drive off mad and make me do a ridiculous number of chores.
She hated me and she hated, no absolutely despised, my mother.
She would tell me how ugly she was, how selfish, how stupid, how something or something or something. “You’re lucky you look better than her,” was one of her favorite lines.
I dealt with her though.
There was nothing else I could do, I was too young.
I would just sit in my doorway when they fought and say over and over in my head, “Get a divorce. Please, please, get a divorce,” but they never did.
It went on like this for years, and then at the age of 15, once we were back in California, I came down with serious depression.
I stopped being able to function well.
I stopped going to school, I threw up every morning because of my anxiety, and I cut up my arms, legs, thighs, and chest every day.
No one knew what to do with me.
My father, who also had depression, was no help.
He was so far gone he couldn’t have a decent conversation
and he didn’t leave his bed for two years.
My step mom just got annoyed.
This began the mentality I still have that if my mother had been there my life would have been better,
that she would have been there for me,
and she would have held me,
and loved me, and understood, but she wasn’t, and I had no one.
The cutting didn’t stop until I moved out at 17.
After my parents had produced more children and I was their primary care giver,
I finally gave up on giving in.
I moved in with my grandmother and then shipped myself straight off to college where I could finally breathe.
It was at this point when I finally had time to myself that my mother and I built our relationship.
I think it all started with a photo album.
During the summers when I was out of school I would go stay with my other grandmother,
my mother’s mom.
She had thousands upon thousands of pictures of her daughter
and late at night I would scramble through them.
One photo album in particular took my interest because there were tags after the pictures describing them and I loved to read her writing.
This album ended with a solid white page with one picture in the middle of it.
It was a picture of me on my first birthday surrounded my huge colorful dinosaurs that my mother had sewn herself.
Under it someone had injected there own tag which read, “The last picture she took of her daughter before she died.”
The picture itself wasn’t that great but what stood out to me and caused me to constantly come back to this picture time and time again was my face.
When looking closely my eyes look as if they’re tearing up. I know it sounds ridiculous but the way my face is positioned up looking at her you can almost hear my eyes scream,
“Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.”
It was then that my obsession with her began and I wanted to know everything about her.
My family indulged my curiosity.
At some family party that my parents had thrown, some guy, whom I only knew slightly,
handed me a camera and a large black box.
He said that he knew my mother very well and he and my father and mother used to hang out frequently.
She had made him promise that he would hold onto these things until I was old enough and at 18 he thought I was.
I didn’t open the box until I went home. Inside was her black and white photography.
They were amazing images.
Ballerinas in motion,
a poor child next to a trash can,
a barber with a sign that said haircuts $1.50,
race cars zooming by,
my father surfing,
me frowning,
me smiling,
me walking,
and at the end of all the photos.
Right at the bottom is a self- portrait she took.
She is staring straight at the camera.
Her eyes staring it down to the point I can feel them staring right at me.
Since that moment it has never left my wall.
Sporadically in my deepest moments of depression the picture gets torn down.
I hold it against me so tightly it seems like I’m trying to strangle myself with it while I’m screaming at it,
letting the tears devour my face,
“Why did you leave me? Look at me! I could have been something. Why did you do this to me? I need you!”
I always end up tearing at her eyes wanting so desperately for them to see me.
Our relationship only grew stronger over the next two years.
The day before my 20th birthday I was cleaning out my stuff from my grandmother’s garage
while in the process of moving into my first apartment.
As I’m moving out boxes a dark gray portfolio falls down fro the rafters.
I turn to my grandma.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Oh, she responds. “They’re some paintings your mother did when she was a teenager.”
I was shocked.
This had existed and I never knew.
I ripped it open.
Flew threw the paintings of beaches, tiny cities, portraits of nude women, until I stopped.
Right in between the professional paintings was a watercolor of a baked potato.
My mouth dropped.
In high school I had had such an obsession with potatoes
I had even written a song about them
and in a moment of boredom I had drawn an almost replica of the painting I was looking at.
I almost cried I felt so complete for a moment.
When I was twenty one I had another similar moment.
My uncle for my 21st birthday had sent me a tape in the mail with a note that said,
“Happy Birthday. I don’t know if you’ve heard this already but it’s a tape of your mother and father on new years. It’s also nice because you can hear yourself as a baby in the background and they keep talking to you. Hope you enjoy.”
I didn’t listen to the tape for months.
I was petrified that her voice wouldn’t sound how it had in my head or that she would say
“I love you” to me in the tape and I would explode with tears.
Then on a night when I was extremely depressed and I couldn’t stop crying I saw the tape next to my bed.
I grabbed it and realized it might be the only thing that would stop me from crying.
I played it.
Although her voice didn’t sound as I had expected it to it was the most comforting thing I had ever heard.
In the midst of my crying I just stopped.
I listened to her singing me to sleep.
Listened to her saying I was a “cutie butt” and I was the “cutest thing in the world”.
I listened to it until I fell asleep and for the first and only time in my life I felt like I really had a mother.
It’s been 4 years sense my obsession had begun.
It subdued for a while as my depression started to go away and I started to move on with my life.
I got married and although I still had her picture in my closet,
visited her grave on mother’s day,
and wrote about her a lot I had come to some sort of resolution with her death,
until last week.
On June 4th at 1:39 pm I went in to my five month appointment to find out if my child was a girl or boy. I was hoping it was a girl and my excitement that day was excruciating. While doing the ultrasound they had a discovery. I had a hemorrhage in one of my blood vessels and the baby was obstructing their ability to fix the problem. She had to be aborted. SHE.
This is how I see my daughter’s birth.
Her being ripped out of me,
being pulled quickly away for me,
seeing the streaks of the white walls against my eyes.
I hold out my arms,
with a sad yearning look in my eyes as I watched her being pulled out of the room,
her tiny hands being curled into fists, and punching the blurred face of the man tearing
her away from me.
I feel my heart pounding in my chest,
And then seeing nothing but black.