(Hi guys! Just letting you all know that I'm still here. November is just a very, very busy month for me and I haven't really had time to do much of anything aside from check email and write an occasional Vox post. If you have any questions or ideas concerning SLs, though, please feel free to email me! Until then, bare with me, please? Thank you for your patience!)
In the presence of another world,
you guessed the things unguessed.
In the fullness of another world,
there is no emptiness.
In the promise of another world,
a dreadful knowledge comes;
how even space can modulate,
and earthly things be done.
Your master, he's a monster.
He will come on a bridge of paper
inscribed with a hundred names of God.
But he can count one more:
the curse of life eternal written on the door.
Your master, he's a monster.
(Your master, he's a monster.)
Your master, he walks the world; entrail diviner.
and when the stars are right
he locks the door behind the door behind the door.
The milky way abyss inclines
the seven years of labor for the instruments of time.
The seven years of labor for the instruments of time.
Your master is a monster
and gentlemanly, too.
He'll make for us some new germ
with pieces of the perfect black,
the alpha and omega,
the double peaks of Mars,
the maze of his infinity,
the buried city in the stars.
(in the presence of another world- blue oyster cult.)
David Audley had been staring at Charlotte's picture for a little over an hour now. It'd been six months and he still couldn't believe she was gone. At the same time, though, he was somewhat relieved that he didn't have to deal with Charlotte and her madness anymore. Her and 'her voice' took its toll on him, too, and sometimes, sometimes, when he was all alone with no one else to answer to, he was glad she --
"Daddy, look it!" The sweet voice of his daughter interrupted his terrible train of thought
and he cast a pink-eyed stare in her direction. She was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, hand curled around the door handle. Immediately, his stomach
knotted up and he felt ill. "Don't I look just like mommy? Don't I look
beautiful?"
With that, she began twirling around and around in one of Charlotte's white summer dresses,
and every time the hemline fluttered, David caught a whiff of Charlotte's
perfume. Milla must have gotten into one of her mother's boxes. The dress hung
indecently off her little fourteen year old frame, and she was tripping all over
herself -- she couldn't quite fit into her mother's shoes just yet.
"Huh, Daddy?" She urged. She paused, then, tilting the soft crown of her
head to the side. Now that she was being still, David could see that she'd also
attempted to put on makeup. Red lipstick stained her delicate baby-mouth and her
eyelids were smudged, clumsily, with shimmery charcoal. God, she looked
so much like her mother that he couldn't even stand to look at her for long.
Anger throbbed through his veins, his eyes burned, and he found himself
moving toward Milla.
"Take it off." It was said much too harshly, and it was evident by the look
on Milla's face that she didn't understand what she did wrong.
"What?" She gasped, forced to take a step back in the face of her father's
rage. Her eyes were wide, mascara-clumped lashes splaying open-open. "But
I--"
"I said fucking take it off."
In a moment of childish rebellion, Milla lifted her chin defiantly. "No!"
Voice cracking. "I won't. She was my mother and I can do whatever I
want--" High-pitched, and David could tell she was about to cry.
"You'll do whatever the hell I say, Milla, do you hear me?" His fingers
gripped her chin and without any warning at all, he began using his sleeve to
wipe off the makeup. It wasn't gentle; the fabric of his dress shirt was stiff,
dry, and scratchy. Underneath his hand, Milla was struggling. By accident, she pulled off her mother's pearl necklace, leaving the little orbs to scatter noisily against the hardwood floor.
"Ow! Ow. Daddy, stop. You are hurting me!"
Letting a cracked sob escape, she fought against him, small fists pushing at his
chest. But David didn't stop. He wanted it all off her face, every single trace
of it.
By the time he was finished, Milla's pretty little face was scrubbed red.
The lipstick was now smeared all over her mouth in this faded, messy sort of
fashion.
The way she was looking at him, though, was with complete disbelief. That's
what stung the most, that look. Her lower lip trembled as her eyes quickly swelled up with tears, and she was wringing the collar of
Charlotte's dress between her little hands. David, upon realizing what he'd just done, what he'd allowed his emotions
to make him do, simply hung his head low. There were no apologies. "Go to your
room, Milla. And please, for the love of God, get out of that dress."
She stood there for a moment, silent and staring, with her face scrunched
up as she fought back her tears. "I hate you." And at first, it was so quiet
that David had to strain to hear it. But the second time was much, much louder.
"Do you hear me? I hate you, daddy!" She screamed at him, turning on her bare
heels to flee the room.
Each door slam was like a slap in the face, and soon, very soon, David was
all alone with Charlotte's photograph and the precious faux-pearl necklace Milla had shattered in her wake.
Until she herself
Until she herself
became the deadliest poison
as she grew older.
Ooh, until she herself
became just as fatal
as was her garden.
Never did I mean to imprison you
here in my garden,
like I am imprisoned.
Until she herself
understood her garden,
leaving her broken hearted.
No future at all
until she herself
became the toxic garden.
Always frightened,
no future at all.
Running through the garden,
I'm running in brilliant colors.
I'm running straight toward,
straight toward
what you know is really wrong.
Too many flowers here to cut down
for the love I have for your life.
(running through the garden- fleetwood mac.)
(running through the garden- fleetwood mac.)
And is it over now,
do you know how to pick up
the pieces and go home?
I’m finally home and I don’t know how I feel about it. And yesterday, yesterday, feels like an absolute blur, a dream, some unreal thing lingering on the edges of my subconscious. I recall the endless stretch of road, the white flowers, the tombstones -- but it all feels so far away now. Most likely, it’s because I started taking my pills again last night (just so I could sleep, that’s all) and taking them always makes me somewhat forgetful. Numb, a little.
I suppose it’s also appropriate to say that coming home feels an awful lot like waking up. Being here is almost painful because really I feel like I’ve been dreaming for months. Months. It’s ridiculously easy to believe I’d never left -- especially when I look at my scar-free arm, the space of my room (and how everything is just how I left it, completely undisturbed.)
And while I haven’t heard ’the voice’ just yet, I can tell it’s coming. It‘s on its way. There’s always this peculiar hum that lingers at the back of my skull and right behind my eyes, like some strange current I’m picking up on subconsciously. I feel that now. I want to read through some more of my mother’s things, dig deep in that golden chest, but God, I’m so afraid to do it now that I’m back here. It was always difficult for me to read anything concerning her while at home.
And the mirrors -- are those coming home, too? I need them, I need them, I think.
It’s just three days. It won’t be so bad.
I can handle three days, especially if I spend the majority of my time sleeping. Besides, I was able to handle everything quite well before, so it’s probably all just in my head. Most likely, I don’t need anything or anyone at all and I’m just accustomed to that clutch. Now that I'm here entirely by myself (no one is in the other room, upstairs, outside), I realize that this is the first time in a while I've written in here with any kind of clarity. Strange. Maybe I'll reread my previous entries before I go to sleep tonight.
I feel rather silly, but I’m praying to-- to someone (do I believe in God?) to please just let me be at peace, too. Just long enough until I'm ready, until I can handle it again. I don't dare take my talisman off. I refuse.
We're coming home. I'm finally getting away from this place, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't happy about it. But at the same time, I feel somewhat.. lost, I guess that's the word. Nothing terrible happened like I thought it would (and if it did, it certainly didn't have to do with me), and despite the fact that I want to get out of here as soon as possible, I have the strangest feeling that I'll miss it. That strange guestroom, the view of the glittering lake from the balcony. So many things are running through my head right now: what was the point, truly, in me going there anyway? I didn't do much but stay locked up in that room and take my pills. The most important questions, though, are things like: where do I go from here? How different will things be once I get back? What about the mirrors? What about David? Will he be angry with me? Will the voice return? Several things have happened that I need to write about, too, but I don't have time now. I need to pack all my stuff, and I lost one of the charm necklaces. I hope I find it before I leave. I worked so hard on them.
I...
Did I really do tha
It wasn't even
Okay.
Is it lonely where you are?
Does the darkness know your name?
What's it like? Can you feel?
Burning eyes can't forgive
you,
howling moon drives on.
And deep in me, your illusion.
What you
see in me is--
Did you have that dream
again?
Release.
Breathe.
"You're receiving what you said,"
said
she.
Maybe there on the edge is your hope
but you don't look
down.
Why?
There you go saying nothing.
Here, my mind's unclear.
Or
could it be?
Maybe something has a hold of me.
Oh, yes, I've been here before.
I can see it with eyes closed;
shadows
that look like blood,
dead as far as the mind goes.
Fear that comes from
my head
lives in the mirror(s).
Why won't you let me out?
Does the evil
excite you?
Does the feeling control
you?
Just when I think I'm okay,
shadows surround me.
All of the
monster you are
I can feel in my head.
(silent hill origins lyrics.)
(silent hill origins lyrics.)
There's a delicate wisp of chilled air that underlies the thick summer
heat, making evident the fact that autumn is on its way. A girl
(woman, now, isn't it?) is sitting on the floor of the lovely
guestroom, pale legs -- tinged pink, due to all the sun she's been getting --
tangled together in an Indian style fashion. She's been leaving her hair in its
natural state as of late, silk-soft wavelets of rich brown that frizzes lightly
in response to the insufferable heat, tiny beads of moisture gathering at all
the hairlines.
"I didn't realize it meant so much to you," she answers dully, fingertip
tracing idle nothings along the tender flesh of her upper thigh. Oh.
She's on the phone.
It's easy to believe, here and now, that it's just another day. That things are actually rather normal and not at all how it feels come nightfall. Rituals. Voices. Dreams. With the endless space of very cloudless, very blue sky and the rejuvenating scent of fresh, fresh air (she left the balcony doors open this morning, the sheet-thin drapes fluttering with the soft breeze) -- it's easy to brush these things off as the temporary madness of a girl with schizophrenia. Perhaps it's possible she's making these things up after all.
It's easy to believe, here and now, that it's just another day. That things are actually rather normal and not at all how it feels come nightfall. Rituals. Voices. Dreams. With the endless space of very cloudless, very blue sky and the rejuvenating scent of fresh, fresh air (she left the balcony doors open this morning, the sheet-thin drapes fluttering with the soft breeze) -- it's easy to brush these things off as the temporary madness of a girl with schizophrenia. Perhaps it's possible she's making these things up after all.
Her father, David, is on the other line and he's none too pleased with her
disappearance. He's demanding to know where she's at, who her 'doctor' is, and
when she's coming home. He also wants to know why she 'broke into his
house and stole a piece of his property.' "That's breaking and entering, Milla.
Do you realize I could charge you for that?" He sounds incredibly
agitated, but Milla is presenting him with the same emotionless answers as
always. Some things never change.
"That's silly," she tells him, pressing her nail against her skin and
dragging it down to her bare knee, observing with mild fascination the soft
indentation, the moon-white line, that follows in its wake. "I used a key." The
way she says it suggests he should just know this, that it's simply
ridiculous to believe otherwise.
"And how did you get this key, huh? Because I damn sure did not
give one to you."
Milla is tired. She's been taking too many pills, numbing herself,
that truly, anything David has to say just feels unimportant. A waste of time.
"The chest belonged to my mother. I believe I have a right to it."
"That's not the point, Milla. All you had to do was ask --"
"I did." Simple. Stiff. "You lied to me about it." It may have been a hint
accusatory had she been feeling anything.
On the other line, it's silent, heavily so, and Milla finds herself fussing with
the soft fabric of her white summer dress, sleeveless and thin enough to keep
her cool. No doubt she's imagining David leaning against his desk, pinching the
bridge of his nose like he so loves to do when angered.
"So you break into my house, steal something that belongs to me, and then
flee town? Infantile behavior, Milla. Not to mention a serious offense." How dramatic. It's also clear he has no other defense than
this.
And his daughter is amused. She doesn't understand why this is even an issue and finds herself laughing softly
(madly?), chin tucking down toward the soft protrusion of her collarbone as if
she's being mischievous or something like it. It's hard to think of this
girl as such, however. So quiet is she that, had it not been for her frequent trips into
the hallway and/or lake, perhaps none of the others taking residence in this
house would even notice she's here. "I needed it," she says vaguely, staring at
the space on the floor where she'd held her ritual not too many days prior. It
feels like such a long time ago, but then again, this room always has the eerie ability to make her feel like time itself isn't allowed to pass through it. As if time might disturb the strange air somehow.
"...What's wrong with you? You sound out of it." One can imagine that David is pressing the phone painfully against his ear, as if this will make it easier
to hear Milla, to determine just what she's on. "How many pills did you
take? This doctor of yours gives you medicine? Does he realize that the
medicine does nothing for you? For Christ's sake, where the hell are
you?" The disapproval is so apparent that she nearly winces from it.
Snapping out of whatever daze she'd been in, her pretty features harden
instantly. "That is none of your business anymore, David. You aren't
even paying for this. You have no more obligations toward me."
"Yeah, that's another fucking thing I wanted to talk to you about. Where
did you get all that money from?"
At the mention of money, she's flicking a pale green gaze at her right hand, eyes taking on a distant look as she looks at something ghosting around her middle finger.
"It doesn't matter," she says absently, so far away.
"Let this be a little warning to you, Milla. Something isn't right about
your little story, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it whether you tell me
shit or not. I will find out. Have you forgotten who I am?" Milla is
hardly listening anymore. Threats are not something she takes lightly, after
all. "And when I do, there will be hell to--"
"Goodbye, David," she says simply, anger causing her cheeks to flush and her nose to flare. Snapping the cell phone shut before
promptly dropping it into a nearby glass of water, she watches with a tense jaw and
gritted teeth as it sinks to the bottom, front-screen light flickering with the promise of death.
Let David come.
Milla highly doubts he could find the place anyway.
Daddy's flown across the ocean,
leaving just a memory.
A snapshot in the family album --
Daddy, what else did ya leave me for?
Daddy, what'd ya leave behind for me?
All in all it was just a brick in the wall.
All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.
(another brick in the wall part1- pink floyd.)
Daddy's flown across the ocean,
leaving just a memory.
A snapshot in the family album --
Daddy, what else did ya leave me for?
Daddy, what'd ya leave behind for me?
All in all it was just a brick in the wall.
All in all it was all just bricks in the wall.
(another brick in the wall part1- pink floyd.)
I have so many things to write but I don't feel safe writing them here, in
this journal, anymore. Not because I think someone will come across it (I hide
my diary well), but because I almost feel unreal right now and I think
I would like to continue feeling this way, if only for a little while.
You know, I don't feel any different after last night, but everything (about me, between us, these strange circumstances) has changed. It's such a peculiar feeling and I can't place it. The best way I can describe it is by saying I feel like I'm staring into a mirror. Everything is the same -- only subtly off, somehow, like everything is on the opposite side, now. It doesn't make much sense, I'm sure, but that's how I feel. Also, I can't quite figure out if my talisman is working. My head has been
silent, so silent, these past few days, but I have reasons to believe
it's because of something other than my little ritual. I suppose time will tell,
won't it? I just need a little patience..
But, God, it's so hard to be patient when I have so many questions. Just
when I think I'm about to understand something, it slips right back through my
fingertips. I don't think people realize just how important knowing
something is to me. It's silly, it's simple, and maybe it's just a little
ridiculous, but I have to put my hands on everything I'm interested in.
And if I can't do that, then I have to be able to wrap my head around it
frontward and backwards, side to side, and sometimes I just can't
--
I get so frustrated when --
Patience. I need patience. Have I always been so impatient? I wonder.
I went swimming earlier this morning and I felt free for the first
time in almost a decade. Sometimes, sometimes during times like that, I feel
like my old self. When it's silent like that and -- what's the word? --
weightless, as Aden called it, I can almost feel normal again.
And sometimes late at night I wander through the hallways of this place. The air
here is swollen with.. something. I feel as
if I'm holding my breath while waiting for some tragic event to spring up on me. I can feel it.
Something is going to happen and I don't know if I want to be here when
it does.
But I no longer have the choice, do I?
It's much too late for me.
I sit here clutching useless lists
and keys for doors that don't exist.
I tear into the history,
show me what it means to be
in this world (yeah, in this world).
'Cause I am due for a miracle.
I'm waiting for a sign.
And I'll stare straight into the sun
and I won't close my eyes.
I see the parts, but not the whole.
I study saints and scholars both.
No perfect plan unfurls.
I know that there's a point I've missed.
A shrine or stone I haven't kissed.
A scar that never graced my wrist --
a mirror that hasn't met my fist.
But I can't help feeling like I'm..
Feeling like I'm due for a miracle.
I'm waiting for a sign.
And I'll stare straight into the sun
and I won't close my eyes
till I understand or go blind.
(stare at the sun-
thrice.)
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Recent Comments
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Emotionally Detached said:
I am new to the blogging thing, but wanted to say nice post. read more
on Well, I got down on my knees -- -
on Journal entry 17.