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mood |
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headache-y |
] |
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music |
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Yeah Yeah Yeahs |
] |
Selection from Writing final. Totally fictional. Choice details left out for random reasons.
It was blacker than a sackcloth shrouding ****** *** ***** at three a.m., a time that usually found my head cutting the blood off to the extremities of my right arm. I woke up with a jerk, feeling fuzzy, the way you wake up totally unaware of anything for a moment. The tips of my body either prickled when they moved or had no feeling at all, which was a typical stasis for ******** in November.
The window above my bedside rattled with some kind of personified anxiety, and for a few heartbeats I was certain that it was going to burst and give way to some bandit in typical black guise. He would have been disappointed: the only thing worth shit in my room was a book of Jan Saudek photos, which would retail for practically zero at a pawn shop, but it had astronomical sentimental value because ******* had gotten it for me. It wasn't until I heard someone on the other side of the glass whisper that I even cared about what was going on around me.
I fumbled my arms as if I had no hands, the way I shut off my alarm on mornings when my arms, from elbows to my fingertips, were asleep, and managed to split open the crack in the drapes to reveal *******, in all of her unconventional beauty, staring at me from the outside world of my house. She had to be on her tip-toes: the decaying grass was almost six feet below the window. The dim ***** of the moon lit up her eyes, and I could see the way her irises looked like the sky on those sunny afternoons when clouds scraped thin streaks far above the horizon. The rest of her eyes, though, looked horrendously bloodshot.
With the motor skills of a drunkard, I yanked open the window panel and ******* climbed in effortlessly. With all of the fence-hopping we did in ********, getting over an obstacle was a piece of fucking **********.
The air was freezing outside, and the dew shot needles into my skin. I shut out the cold as soon as ******* plopped onto my bed and I turned to look at her. She was the most beautiful person I'd ever know. She was shaking, as she often did, and she took right to sitting at the edge of my bed.
"I had a bad dream," she muttered through the oscillating pair of lips on her delicate face. I noticed that her voice was cracking again, but that was hardly anything new.
She knew damn well that I wouldn't refuse her at any hour for any reason: she'd once come by in the middle of the night because she was out of syrup for making chocolate milk and she was desperate for a glass. And, of course, I was more than happy to oblige her.
I sat next to her and **** ** **** ****** *** *********. "What was the dream about?"
She told me the whole thing, which went something like this:
She was older, maybe by two years, somewhere in late teens and she had been swept off of her feet by a set of emerald eyes that convinced her she was a beautiful person. His charms worked about as hard as his muscles did when he kept her chilled bones from escaping the cab of his bulky V6 Ram.
"His eyes . . ." when her voice cracked that time, my own eyes shifted to the corners of her eyelash fields, where rain began to fall. She was frightened, sitting there on the edge of my bed, staring at the ground but seeing an adolescent's nightmare.
The rest pretty much went as expected. The sexy boy that made her feel special made her flowers bleed like a period from hell. He'd rammed his blades through her petals and left his seed in her wounds by the time it was over.
"He almost looked like *** *** ****. . ." Her voice trailed off as if she was being choked, but I knew what would have come next.
*******, though, had never been and never would be swept off her feet by any abusive boy in a truck. Her dreams frequently illustrated her fear of sex.
"Well, that's not going to happen. We're not going to let that happen," I told her, extending my support and sympathies, fingertips first, into her hands.
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