Below are the 11 most recent journal entries recorded in Claudia Kessa's LiveJournal:

Sunday, September 7th, 2003
2:20 pm	Kryptonite [History repeats itself] continued from I didn't have a date for Lisa's wedding. Not that it usually mattered, but this time-- he would be there. Not that that mattered, except I had stopped speaking to him. He tried to contact me after 9/11 to "make sure I was okay," and that my sister was still alive and I still did not respond. I saw it as an attempt to rekindle the addictive dynamic between us. I had to go to her wedding. His wife would be there. That could be interesting to say the least. I was curious about wht she was really like and not what he had said, which was mostly only good things-- but he was the bad one of the pair, so of course they would be good. He had to go, Lisa was his secretary. Once, when I still worked there, she cornered me and asked if there was anything going on between us. She had seen us leaving together that first night. She worked late too. She saw us getting back at the parking garage-- how much had she seen? I said "well, we went out to drinks once, and I discovered he was a creative writing major at Princeton, Undergrad, and I thought he could help me" and she said "Is that all?" "I said, ewe, yeah that's all." Of course it wasn't, and I hated lying to her, I hated lying to my therapist, but at this point I was guarding this with my desire for self preservation. I needed this. It was like using mercury to treat syphalus when antibiotics had been invented for some time-- but I was an addict then. When I got to the wedding, they were already there. I knew he was nervous. Things ended so badly. He never had a chance to even gage if I would mention anything or not. Of course I didn't. I didn't hate him and it wasn't her fault-- whether or not I thought she should know I didn't think it was my place to tell her. We were placed at the same table. Fortunatly, he was not the only person I knew at that table. His wife and I talked about all kinds of things. We talked about our individual travels to Europe, how long she's been taking dance, whether or not she liked kickboxing, why she decided to go to law school, what my future school plans were, what the future travel plans were. She really liked me, and I liked her too, though I still could not figure out why they had been married. Though I knew a side of him she would never know, and she knew a side of him I would never know-- we can't know everything about everyone. I really liked her. She seemed to really like me. But it's because she didn't know. Or, maybe she suspected-- he later e-mailed me to tell me he was grateful that I was so cool, and that she really liked me. They've since moved out of their condo, into a house and are looking forward to having their first child. He no longer works where we worked and will likely cheat again. (Comment on this)
Monday, September 1st, 2003
2:21 am	Dreams- explorations of a waking life I dreamt I met her last night. Jared's former girlfriend. She was with her current boyfriend at a non-descript cafe. They invited me to join them. I did. She and I really weren't so different. We fit the same "type" categories in many ways. Similar coloring, same age, similar place in life, same state, similar interests, similar make-up and a similar person in common. I liked her. I wasn't surprised by that so much as she seemed to like me too. In my dream, she didn't know who I was and I didn't let on, I was afraid she wouldn't like me if she knew. I thought it might seem-- awkward that I knew-- and that I was with someone that she'd been avoiding, or so I had been told. Later in the day, I took a nap. I dreamt that I told him that I had met her. He looked distressed. Like things weren't supposed to happen that way. Like he wasn't really over her. He asked me what I told her, and I said-- Nothing. I told her nothing. I haven't communicated with him for several days-- perhaps the source of the dream, but what an odd manifestation. But then I remember-- it will not work out anyway, so why worry about it? and so I continue . . . (Comment on this)
Saturday, August 30th, 2003
12:01 am	Thoughts on polyamory polyamory I'm not for or against it yet for my personal choice. That's not entirely true. There is a part of me that still dreams of the happily ever after two person only (until children) union. The reasons it seems to make sense to me are as follows- 1) people are living longer, when people died 20 years after they got married for life, for life didn't seem like such a big deal 2) the world is becoming more mobile and there are times when two people who love each other have dreams or jobs that take them to distant parts of the world away from each other. Should those people not enjoy others simply because someone else they enjoy is not in proximity? 3) it seems that in a multi-poly relationship pooled resources would aide in raising a family 4) it may be more genetically advantagous to have multiple long term co-existing partners 5) my longest long term relationship was an open (sexually, not emotionally) relationship My reasons against it for me: 1) it has the potential to create more problems if one partner becomes a sounding board against another etc . . . 2) I have insecurities that I would need a lot of work on to get past and I don't know that a) I'm willing to work on them or b) that my partner(s) would be willing to stay with me through my "tough" times. 3) It seems like it then becomes a much easier opportunity for fair weatheredness. Which although it is not my idea of a good paradigm for any kind of relationship, it seems like there is a greater possibility 4) I understand that even death can break up a paired union and nothing lasts forever, but I think my culture has so ingrained in me the "Dream" that I don't know if I can reason my way out of it. My Middle ground: 1) I feel I could compromise at the begining stages of relationships when I and and any other partner(s) is(are) still trying to determine if any given person is the best fit for him/her and if s/he is the best fit for X partner. It makes more sense to use the multi pronged approach to finding "the one" rather than the linear approach. The flaw with the linear approach simplistically explained is you meet two or more people that may be a good match, you only become involved with one. That ends up not working out. The other person(s) you may have gotten to know are otherwise involved, leaving you at square one. Any thoughts and/or feedback would be much appreciated. (11 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, August 23rd, 2003
1:20 am	daydreams part ii . . . it's not that I stopped daydreaming. It's that I thought they were so stupid and unambitious and unfeminist for today's modern world that I stopped acknowledging them as daydreams and d/re-valued them as stupid and a waste. I don't know how to express them positively as most things that I can think of that are close are viewed negatively. Why is it wrong to want to be identified through a man? Why can't that be an identity in an off itself? This may be how I feel only for a moment. Why does a woman have to have the same goals as men? What's wrong with being a mother and a partner? I don't know if I want to be that, but I feel like there is something inherently wrong with that being the end goal. I think it is society says that is wrong. I still don't have many-- when you constantly tell yourself something is stupid or impossible I suppose you stop thinking of it or if it is a piece of how you think that is deemed useless or whatnot it atrophies. It didn't occur to me until I stopped doing it that it was important. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Current Mood: sad Current Music: Cypress Hill - Jump Around (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, August 11th, 2003
5:00 pm	Moving Paranoid continued She woke up in a shit hole. Shirt torn. Head splitting. Literally. A gash on her right side of her forhead was still bleeding. Vision blurry. She pushed herself off the floor. She tried to anyway. Pain shot up her wrist radiating up her arm. She relaxed back into the floor. Taking stock. Knowing where she was couldn't be a priority right now. How was she? She closed her eyes, returned to darkness. Slowly she started scanning. She could feel her toes-- That was a good sign. That she could feel them on a cold slick surface might not be so good, but that would wait. She tensed her calves and thighs- response. Maybe she'd be able to run. Her left arm responded with pin pricks and sharp pain in the wrist. The pulsating throb in her forhead drew her attention from everything else. She touched the gash with her working hand. It was damp and slick to the touch, except what felt like metal shrapnel. It was hard to tell how much of her headache was from her wound and how much was from the serial upper hangover. Focus. The more conscious she became the more she longed to return to the nothing. It's not like when you wake up and you think you have to be somewhere-- and it turns out it's the wrong day. It's like you wake up, only you're surprised you are awake. You didn't expect to make it this far. She didn't expect to make it this far. Not really. There was nothing left to lose. Except . . . well it was lost anyhow. Too late. She couldn't even remember what it was, just that it was gone. Her vision skipped. She touched her forhead. Something was there, something important. She stopped struggling and the pain washed over her like the most exquisite orgasm she'd ever had. The intensity rushing out to the extremities, into her core--- there was no escape. Any thoughts were flushed just trying to hold on to the now. Frozen in pain she didn't hear the voices. She only knew the exquisite. (Comment on this)
Sunday, August 3rd, 2003
4:41 pm	not really a story . . . With friends like this . . . I'm in much more of a sour mood than I expected to be. I knew her track record. I knew she lied for fun. I knew for a fact that she's lied to me. But I wanted to believe. I wanted her to be what she isn't. Honest. A friend. I'm not angry with her though. I half expected this would happen. Again. I made a plan B. Every possibility had an alternative solution. Except how I would feel about more lies and excuses. My best friend is a pathological liar. Of course she knows exactly what she's doing. No one knew me better. An answer to every heartache, an ear for every story, a lie for every season. Can you still be friends with someone you know that lies to you? I thought I could. I wonder how I could have been a better friend to her. She said I was a woman who understood her life-- and that too must have been a lie. I feel like I have been a plaything for all these years, all the times I knowingly ignored the lies. All the times I believed her when she told me she loved me. All the times I believed her when she said I had more worth than I could know. All the times I helped her, must have seemed approving. That I am just one of those people she lied to for fun. What a waste of a beautiful and intelligent life. I have been a fool and I will not suffer lightly. Current Mood: blah (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, August 1st, 2003
6:21 am	The Greatest Man in the World- The end start here It had been a particularly difficult execution the day she next saw her Prisoner. She never spoke about it. He never asked. There was no diner. There was no cigarette waiting for him on the table in the visitor’s chambers. She was standing, gazing at the cemetery, sun setting over the hill. Red and orange light flooded the room. “I would like the key.” His demanding tone was insolent given he knew it was something she could not provide. “It is not mine to give.” She turned and faced him. “Have you not asked?” He inquired further. “No, I have not. I can only offer you more opportunity within the prison at this time. Perhaps later, it is something that is possible.” She handed him a cigarette that he took his time accepting. She did not offer to light it, and he played with it in his mouth, almost as if it satisfied him as much were he to take a deep drag. “Ask for the key.” “Let us see how time plays things out. It may be possible in time to get your freedom. For now I can ease the mundanity of your time at this prison.” “Go ask for my freedom.” He said without regard for his circumstances or her position, only taking into consideration what he wanted at that time. There was no willingness to consider her self-extension, no gratitude for her efforts; he would not make the effort to better his life as it was now. Somehow he expected things would be as they were before without effort on his part, without concession. She left the room and did not return. He was escorted to his cell. The deliberation on his life would soon be completed. He would see her again. A storm thundered in the distance; it would not affect her concentration when she drew her prisoner toward his death. She prepared for the next sentence. To her the guilt of the prisoner was irrelevant, her task at hand allowed her to survive in society albeit on the edge. Her ability to survive was paramount to everything. The steel platform on which the prisoner was to stand glinted in the light of the overhead florescent lamps. Two steel poles rose 2½ feet from center directly across from one another. Adjustable leather wrist and ankle straps padded with soft wool attached to the poles. A mirror thoughtfully positioned so the prisoner could watch himself hung on the wall the prisoner would face. From the ceiling hung a device, a crown, designed to hold open the eyes of the prisoner and at certain intervals drop saline into his eyes. A rubber matt was between the two poles with a hole for the drain that served to mark the center of the platform. A tray on wheels to the right of the platform held her tools, and empty tray occupied the space to the left. A guard brought her Prisoner today. She registered no sign of recognition. The guard delivered last rights. Her prisoner gazed dispassionately at her while the guard droned on. Stripped bare, his wrists and ankles were strapped firmly and he stood in his full glory on the platform. The guard left. There were few who could stomach the sentences given to prisoners. She placed the crown on his head, brushed hair out of his eyes and adjusted the crown so it would fit, and when the time began—saline would drop in his eyes. Blood flowed from her heart into her hands; she took care to prepare her Prisoner in the most tender and compassionate way she knew how. Her hand caressed his jaw as a mother would her only sleeping child and fell to her side. “Have you the key?” Without malice or sarcasm she spoke. “I will deliver you to freedom.” He could not look away, or he would have. She began her work. The large syringe on her table was filled with a solution that would force him to remain conscious. She placed a felt gag snugly in his mouth, over his tongue. Were he to seize, she did not want him to swallow it. She injected the syringe into his thigh. She knew the serum burned, but he did not wince. She picked up a box of thin needles. Quickly and accurately she placed them in his skin, this part was relatively painless. Next, she inserted large needles with wires attached to them, at his biceps, his wrists, his calves, his chest, and his thighs. The saline, streaming down his face dripped onto his chest. He knew he would be free. She walked behind him where the wires attached to a box that generated a current. Over the course of three hours a mild current would be delivered to the large needles increasing in intensity, the small needles would concentrate the energy in those areas. Eventually the body would become a blister, separating two layers of skin. She lit cigarettes while she waited. He could not bear to watch her smoke. Eventually the machine shut off, he was swollen, and she removed the needles. She picked up her scalpel and flayed off the outer layer of skin. The liquid between draining out, making it easy to peel. His body was pink and raw. She left the skin on his face. She began to peel off his muscles, cauterizing capillaries and smaller veins as she went. She was careful not to destroy the arteries or veins—it would be tragic for him to bleed to death and end it so soon. She worked from the bottom up, removing the fine muscles in his feet, and then his calves. Constantly working her way up with a precision that could not be matched, she finely detached muscle from ligament, from bone. Working with lines that nature gave man—she drew out his pain. She placed the muscle tissue on the tray to the left. With every muscle she removed, she took care to be accurate, nurturing her talent. When again she faced him, he was an anatomy experiment gone awry. He was still conscious and staring at the horror that was now his body. She began to remove the organs, and the blood began to flow, he was barely holding on. She removed the felt gag from his mouth, saline streamed from his eyes onto the mess that is now his body. With her ungloved hand, she plucked from beneath his ribs his heart. From her table to the right, she retrieved a jar, and placed his heart in it, it was as close as she would ever be. Thunder rolled. Her task complete, she left him there, image burned in her mind. She went to the balcony overlooking the prison yard. She had trouble liting her cigarette in the heavy rain. He was free. Current Music: Tori Amos Cover of HURT (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, July 31st, 2003
4:24 pm	The Greatest Man in the World: part II “Are they treating you well?” She asked flatly. “It is as expected.” His measured answer implied indifference to the treatment and her question. She lit his cigarette. They watched each other like caged animals. He was supremely confident in his superiority despite his inferior position. She was acutely aware that she could leave this cage at will, but chose to stay the moment. Both of them lived on the fringe of humanity, only she chose to compromise her vicious will with the passivity that was bred into most of humanity. He would not or could not compromise his will, not even to have partial freedom. It would be total freedom or nothing at all. And so it was nothing at all, in her eyes. Curiously enough, he seemed to think he was as free here as he may have been before. She did not meet with him immediately upon her return. Executions had not been scheduled in her absence. For five men, fates decided, Harrow would draw their death. She relished her work. It allowed her to live in society with the protection of the law given to all citizens, and to exercise and perfect her savage impulses, almost at will. She discovered her passion at an early age for bringing death. She knew well enough to hide her actions. She made a plan, and it had come to fruition. When she was done, she called him to her again. Her position in Caida de Gracia gave her power to demand. When he came to the room this time, he was aware of the lack of dust, more light—the windows overlooking the cemetery cleaned, and she was already smoking. A cigarette waited for him, unlit on the table. He put it in his mouth, and she did not procure her lighter. He patiently waited, sucking on the end of his unlit cigarette as if is satisfied him. “Do you enjoy what you do, murdering?” Evenly and measured, he removed the cigarette from his mouth to speak, looked not at her, but at what he had done to the end of the cigarette, shrugged and replaced it in his mouth. “Of course. What is the point in doing something if there is not some pleasure, immediate or delayed to be derived.” She smiled, ignored his comment and lit his cigarette. He only called a spade a spade. “Does it not interfere with your mind to talk with the prisoners, the ones whose lives you take?” He spoke as if he were annoyed. “Perhaps. You are the only prisoner I have spoken to.” “I see.” Silence passed between them for some time, and she handed him another cigarette and lit it immediately. “Why me?” He asked as if this were not a unique situation. It was the question that was usually at the tip of his brain. As if everything that happened to him were beyond his control, his actions had no outcome on the current state of his life. “A sense, call it intuition if you will, that something was different about you. I wanted to satiate my curiosity.” “Is that your habit?” “It is my will.” “And? Am I?” “Perhaps. Yes.” She extinguished her cigarette on the table and left. Her curiosity had not been roused regarding his sentence. He was the first person in years whose presence she felt at ease in. Whether or not the feeling was mutual was irrelevant to her. She was satisfied. Did it matter that she may be the bearer of his death? When he was gone, would that be all? The next time they met in the visitor’s chambers, she had a place set for him, as would be set for a noble or a member of the government, and on his plate were 12 ounces of steak, cooked to perfection, steamed asparagus, and creamed spinach. Instead of wine, water was in his glass, and a box of cigarettes was to the left of the steak knife. It broke protocol to allow him a knife, but she was the executioner, and did as she pleased. It was her judgment that he would remain civilized throughout the exercise of dinner. She had a glass of red wine and cigarettes. He ate slowly, as if he were accustomed to eating this amount and quality of food every day. They did not speak while he ate. When he was done, careful to not eat everything—an impudent demonstration that her kindness was not necessary—he placed his silverware neatly on his plate, withdrew a cigarette and lit it. “I can negotiate on your behalf for more freedom within the prison, access to the yard, extended hours in the library, privacy in the gym, an extension to your sentence . . ..” Harrow trailed off as she felt an unexpected desire to please this man. “I see.” They finished their cigarettes. “I would like my freedom.” “In time, that may be possible, but it is not possible now.” “I see.” His tone was measured as it had always been. “Would you like what I can offer you?” She asked in a detached voice. “I don’t know. Let me think about it for a while.” She removed his plate, and herself from the room. He may or may not have thought about her offer. She continued living out her compromise with an orderly passive society and her vicious will. Executing her exquisite skill of drawing out pain and bearing the prisoners to their death. Skillfully precise, exacting the sentence as her superiors saw fit. Nurturing the pain of her prisoners, delivering them lovingly and tenderly to their death. (Comment on this)
7:39 am	The Greatest Man in the World: part 1 Time ran out. The executioner, Harrow—as she came to be known by the prisoners, had taken a feeling on one particular man relegated to this prison until death or forgiveness passed over him. Perhaps it was because he was handsome, because he seemed noble—during his days there, he behaved as if it were a temporary setback, keeping mostly to himself—that she liked him. Perhaps it was because his spirit had not yet been broken, there was an emptiness in him that matched her own. Whatever the reason, she had taken a liking to him and to the extent that she could, wished to help him regain his freedom. It had been four or five months since she had been transferred to the prison Caida de Gracia. Her skill at delivering exquisitely painful deaths gave her a reputation as someone to be desired and feared. The most reputable prison for extreme and brutal punishment, had specifically requested her transfer. The previous executioner ended his stay. It was an interesting position to be in—as a woman, her designated role in society was mother, nurturer, care taker, lover—and as executioner, she was cold, calculating, carrying out her duties with a mechanical grace that superseded all emotion. She never knew the crimes for which she drew death into their bodies. Slowly and delicately, she practiced her art. Like a surgeon she cut with precision, like a machine she continued for hours without fail until it was complete. She seldom spoke to the prisoners. It was on a rare day that she had occasion to come in contact with this Prisoner. It was raining. She stepped outside her balcony, with a view of the exercise yard to have a smoke. Only one prisoner stood in the yard. Dressed in the black uniform, dark hair in his dark eyes, he too was smoking. He looked at her, held her gaze and took a long deep drag off his cigarette, and dropped it to the ground. He stepped on it, turned his heel and returned to the guard who promptly took him back to his cell. She watched him disappear behind the wall. She did not wonder if she would be the bearer of his death, and nurture his pain into its fullest bloom, she knew she would be, she was Harrow, the one who would greet him, all of them, at the end of their journey—their fall from grace. She returned to the protective walls of the prison, and asked the guard on duty to bring the smoking prisoner to a visitor’s chamber. The only furniture, chairs and a table, had been unused and dusty. People did not visit, for fear of contaminating their reputations. She sat down, and he was brought to her. For an hour, they looked at each other, at the wall, the dirt covered window and at the floor. She took out a cigarette and silently handed it to him. Just as silently he put it in his mouth, and she put one in hers. She lit both. At the end of her cigarette, she got up and left. The guard escorted him back to his cell. It was a month before she saw him again. It was time for a vacation. Before she left, she requested his presence in the visitor’s chamber. She offered him a cigarette, and he silently accepted. (Comment on this)
Sunday, July 27th, 2003
3:13 am	Mercury "I just can't do this any more." curmudgeon Saturday, July 26th, 2003 8:13 pm He could not look at me. I felt cold-- I knew he felt guilty. He could bare the fact that he was in love with me. I could not. I couldn't stand it when he told me that I was "such a good person". That is what really made me end it. The gross immorality didn't bother me. It was his delusion that was the problem. He kept telling me I was a good person. I would always laugh at him when he said that. If I were a good person, I would not be fucking a married man in a hotel down the street from our office. He told me that he had a "loving and trusting relationship" with his wife. What a fucking joke. Loving maybe. Trusting? Well -- at least he didn't think he was lying to me, even if I knew he was. Maybe that's why he thought it was trusting-- couldn't recognize the fact that every time he came home and slipped his cock to the wife after a fuck in the stairwell or a blow job in the car--he was lying by omission. She was the religious type. From what he told me-- a good person, if not a little sexually inhibited. But then, he said -I- was a good person. She lost her virginity to him when she was 25. She came from a born again christian household. She was a republican. Why on earth did they ever get married? I wasn't the first one he'd cheated on her with-- but I was the first since they had been married. The comfort was that he would not leave her for me. He kept getting closer. Backoff. The first day I saw him, I knew he would cheat on his wife. We did not even speak. It wasn't until a year later that I discovered I was right. We had both worked late-- got into the elevator at the same time-- he was going to the local watering hole to kill some time before picking up his wife at the airport. He asked me to join him. Apple martinis. I had such beautiful hair-- he started touching it. He kept touching it. It was almost vicious the way things crackled across the line of taboo. It was such a delicious distraction-- his hands in my hair. Risk. That night ended without a kiss. We avoided each other for a week. Then an e-mail from a pseudonym. Then another. The game was on. He wanted to meet for coffee. I was game. I needed the game. I was more cautious than he was, although he had more to lose. I suggested he leave first and I meet him a few minutes later. We never walked back together. He was amazing. Quick of wit, charming and a writer when he had the spare time. That was the point of connection. What I was before, without him was meaningless. He knew my soul. He could ease my inner torment. He inspired me like no other muse. All curves and angles carved for perfect sin-- in him I breathed meticulously-- escaping the unbearable lightness. We didn't "work late" often. We did take a lot of long lunches. Business was slow. It was hard to bill seven hours. It was hard to not talk with him. It was hard to not stop and talk to his secretary knowing he'd be staring at my ass the entire time. It was hard to not tell everyone it was him who sent me the most goergeous flowers I'd received in my life. It was signed - secret admirer. Only it was our secret. We almost got caught. We always parked on the 8th floor. It made it easy to claim one or the other was going to get something from the car-- the door to the stairwell was always unlocked and never used. Almost never used anyway, because we used it all the time. The first time I gave him head was in that stair well. I loved that cock. The first time we had sex he pinned my arms behind my back and pinned me to the door. He slide his free hand under my dress, up my thigh and around my waist as he fucked me from behind. The rush was more sensational than the orgasm. I couldn't believe how alive I felt. Just before one of our stairwell trysts he was waiting near his car and as I was walking towards him I saw a security guard walk over to the stairwell and check the door. I kept walking to my car and didn't even look at him, nor at the security guard again. I grabbed anything from my car, turned around and walked back to the elevator. That was close. He told me I was a good person. Things started to deteriorate. I laughed at him. He said he was serious and I said he had problems. I told him he couldn't really believe he had a loving and trusting relationship with his wife. I told him he was a sex addict. Like me. I told him he needed therapy. I told him I just couldn't do this anymore. Things were falling apart. He had me assigned to his project. I did as much work as I could while he wasn't there. But occasionally I had to dig up some old piece of the project from the basement. Occasionally he would meet me there-- try to rekindle something. I remember when he claimed he was trying to be just friends by showing me pictures from his vacation with his wife-- it was a beautiful place and made me wish I had a husband like him-- thoughtful, romantic, generous-- only not like him. Then he tried to kiss me and I knew it wasn't over for him. I began to cut off all contact. I am not a good person. There was no behavior that I changed in the office. There never was any behavior that I changed. I was so aware of my habits that nothing changed to anyone's eye on the surface-- a good lie isn't just with words-- it's with your entire being. He kept persuing so finally I quit. On my exit interview the human resources woman and I were chatting and she asked me if I had heard rumours about her secretary and a possible affair. I laughed. I hadn't heard anything. (9 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, July 25th, 2003
6:11 pm	Paranoid I know I’m paranoid. It’s an important trait in my line of work. Or at least the type of work I used to do. I'm dead anyway, so if they kill me because of what I tell you, they are only speeding up the inevitable. I know, you think it’s just my paranoia. No one will kill me. Is it paranoid to think they are going to kill me, even if they are going to? Circular logic is still logic sometimes. You’re quite sure that I'm crazy. I am; but not for the reasons you believe. It doesn’t matter if you think I can trust you, I can’t. I know that at some point in the future something or someone will cause you to choose. Choose between us and you. Even if you love me, you won’t choose us, you will choose you. Not because you are evil -- I know this — but just because that is the way it is. She spoke these words almost without breathing. When she did finally take a deep breath it was only to take a lung shattering drag off her coke-laced cigarette. Sleep was the enemy, but she didn’t want to be so strung out that she wasn't alert, so she kept switching stimulants. The slightly different buzz from each new concoction kept sleep at bay. Her hands trembled with synthetic energy. She continued. This is bullshit. I’m not really paranoid. No one is going to kill me. Not today, not ever. No one has any reason to kill me. I never had a job in which paranoia was a necessity. I just wanted to get your attention. It’s not really a question of trust. Can you trust me? That's a question you will have to answer yourself. For reasons I cannot explain now -- and you have no reason to believe me about this, but you should -- you can trust me. More than you think. It’s not that I'm a saint, but the things I have seen. You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you, but I have to choose something before it's too late. She stared at the white lines on the hand mirror. Long thin snow-capped mountain ranges waiting for their god to make them disappear. She blinked and her vision froze up like an overwatched DVD – squares of color stuck in stuttering images of motion. How many days had she been awake now? Seven? Eight? It was hard to tell. It could be fourteen days, or maybe only one. She kept confusing the past with the present, memories with fantasy, dreams with reality. "We go with what we know. Most of us are afraid to try anything new. We fear change and would rather suffer in familiarity than risk the unknown terror of change, would rather be beaten by someone we know than risk being alone. "Why bother trying at all? You want to be close to another, to feel them with you, but fears of failure, betrayal, exposure are so great that you sabotage every effort. You purposely choose partners who can’t get too close, then blame the failures on the partner while ignoring your own complicity. "Make better choices. Blaming failed relationships on your partner is like buying a pair of high heels and then blaming them when you find it difficult to golf in them. Make better choices. When you make a good choice and you cross through the eye of the storm of change, it’s so much better on the other side. You can be happy. You only have to want to be happy." The god reached down with a sudden vortex and erased the tiny mountain range. The coke was laced with PCP-- twisting the knife a bit. The lack of sleep and the headrush caused her to stumble backwards, falling briefly to one knee like some dizzied supplicant. She felt her face was wet before she realized she was crying. She got back on both feet, swaying, held the table with one hand and wiped away tears with the other. She began to sob—what the hell was wrong with her. A shot of clarity flashed through her mind. What is going on? She tried to get a grip, figure out where she was. She could only hear blurred rock music, couldn’t focus her eyes on anything but a haze of drab . . . where was she? She felt a sudden amount of pressure on her skull, her shoulders, pain radiated throughout her body almost bringing her senses to the surface—can’t breath so much trouble. She didn’t even know if she was alone. Gasping. (2 Comments |Comment on this)