The Left Foot

She could only see his left foot poking out from behind the desk. The acrid scent of blood hung in the air. She inched around to the other side of the room, where she couldn’t see the foot; it made her heart pound and her stomach lurch, being unable to look away from it in her line of sight. 

Inspecting the room more closely this time, she wished she had just left. Sheaves of paper had been thrown across the room, all of the drawers hung open from a frenzied search of the desk and cabinets. The door to his wardrobe was ripped completely off, laying on the floor and splintered on the sides as if someone had trampled it in a rage.

What had not been searched had been destroyed. All of his precious souvenirs from a lifetime of travel sat broken into thousands of pieces on the floor. His degrees, hanging so meticulously straight on the walls just the day before, curled or had fallen out of their smashed frames. Wherever she turned, there was no room to step for some broken trinket.

Her eyes narrowed, caught by the tiny glass fragment that glinted in a bare section of floor. She took a large step to the clear area and knelt to examine it.

Her breath caught in her throat. It was the trunk of a tiny elephant she had given to him when he had taken her to India with him on a business trip. She looked around, a tight sorrow swelling under her heart. The rest of the elephant was lost in the wreck. Her head spun; it was suddenly harder to breathe. She got up, feeling as though she moved through honey rather than air.

Very slowly, she made her way to the back of the room, towards the left foot. She halted at the edge of the desk, she could hear her heart hammering vaguely somewhere in the distance. She took first one step sideways, then another, moving to the side of the desk as slowly as she could, knowing what she would find, but oddly needing to see it. The tightness in her chest grew more painful.

One more step.

She halted. Her breathing stopped.

Then she screamed.

A Terrible Idea

“I figured out what I want to do with my life. I want to work and write and make babies eventually. He seems pretty on board, so in lieu of figuring out the specifics, I’m pretty sure I’ve found as close to a soul mate as I believe in. I’m genuinely happy for the first time. Like, ever.”

“I’m glad to hear.”

“But, knowing you, you’re rolling your eyes at my use of the term soul mate and taking bets with yourself on how long this one will last.”

“You don’t know me that well anymore.”

“I doubt you’ve changed that much.”

“He’s definitely the kind of person you’ve always seemed to be drawn to. And considering how kind and good he is to you, why wouldn’t you feel that way?”

“We’ve fought twice in the six months we’ve been together, both of which were over stupid little things and were resolved in like, three seconds. And for once I know for sure that I can trust who I’m with completely, and I’ve never lied to him, not even by omission. He really loves me.”

“I’m not arguing with you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah I know.”

“Okay, just making sure.”

“No, I need a certain degree of ‘nanny-nanny-poo-poo’. You understand. I’m human.”

“Well soon enough you’ll be able to throw salt in the wound out your car window as you drive by every day, reminding me of your solidarity and happiness.”

“Oh, don’t get bitter. I think I deserve a little. I won’t rub it in too much.”

“I didn’t mean to sound bitter.”

“Really? Wow.”

“If you kept up with that whole ‘your side of the street’ attitude I’d have been pretty bitter, but I think we can maybe give a head nod as we pass by at this stage, the occasional ‘good day sir’ or ‘ma’am’… What do you really want to say?”

“He and I didn’t start out easily, considering you did quite the number in emotionally stunting me. I mean, really, I had no idea until I had to deal with someone that wanted to be sweet to me. I had no fucking clue how to act.”

“I’m sorry. I’m also sorry, but I’d like if we could try and steer the conversation away from this.”

“We could.”

“Because besides apologizing further there isn’t much more I can do.”

“You can sit while I rub your nose in what you did. Because apparently I still have a lot of anger.”

“Yeah.”
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

“It will pass.”

“I’m not sure it will.”

“How could it not? You’re happy, you have your soul mate, a life plan and a future. I’m of the past and am no longer holding you back.”

“Because I’m still wading through a lot of the crap you left. I don’t like it and it wasn’t for the better but you did.”

“I have no influence over you now. I wish I could offer up something to make you feel better. I’ll even lay there while you beat or berate me if it makes you happier, but I don’t think it will. The only thing that will help is time, and the happiness you have now.”

“You’re telling me what will help. You. Are telling me. Okay this was a bad idea.”

“I mean it as my own opinion.”

“You’re like a disease, and I’m just getting past the last bits of being sick. Why would I expose myself to this bacteria, this virus again, even a little bit? We can’t be friends. Why would we talk if we aren’t friends? This was definitely a terrible idea.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

“No. I will.”

He's a Mountain of a Man

He's a mountain of a man. It makes you wonder what would happen if he got angry, but he never seems to. The rhythmic tempo of his careful speech is marked, as though he examines each word inside and out with a flashlight and a long stick before using it. It comes at your ears the same way the echoing sound from a conch shell does, and puts you to sleep just as easily. That isn't to say that it's dull. Only that your first reaction when you hear it is to listen very intently, because every word makes itself the most important one, and with all of these important words being transferred into your ears, what else can you do but just listen? He has huge rocks of hands, just as threatening as his height, and just as slow and calming. He moves as though he has a century to do so, and sips his drinks as if they are the most exquisite drinks the world has to offer, and are in short supply from now on. His granite-and-blue colored eyes are even steadier, traveling long distances, and blinking only when they tire, as a hiker rests when he's walked many miles uphill. When he decides it's time to let them break from their constant roving, they settle deeply, and whatever he looks at must remain still, because when he looks at you, what can you do but let him?

I could absolutely strangle her. I look up from the desk. Another over-polished forty year old woman has walked into the store smacking her gum so loudly, I swear you could hear it from Jupiter. The sound is only dampened by her child, walking alongside her and smacking his gum even louder. The noise is burrowing in my head, drowning all thought, except for the blind rage that seems to come with it.
I shake my head to clear it and put on my best empty smile, the one that never reaches my eyes. "Hi! Can I help you guys find anything today?"
"No." *Smack* She smiles even wider than I did, her eyes emptier. *Smack* "We're just-" *Smack* "-browsing."
I pull another grin over my face, only this time it slips into a sort of half-grimace. "Okay just let me know-" *Shudder* "-if you need anything!"
*SMACK* She smiles again and turns back around, browsing the shelves.
Would it drive away business if I slam my head into the desk until I become deaf?

excellent facebook fail :) I love people

 

We'll figure it out.

I've been thinking a lot about passions lately. Not to be confused with the soap opera, passion is defined (on dictionary.com, at least) as "1. Any powerful or compelling feeling or emotion, as love or hate." Well, if that's really the definition, I have passions for so many things I can't even begin to think which ones I'd have time to pursue. So I'm pretty sure that definition is wrong. (Sorry, dictionary.com, I still love you.) I think a passion is a powerful or compelling feeling or emotion that takes precedent over all other feelings or emotions that may exist at the time. And if you asked me what my passion is, I'm not sure I would have the answer. Oh sure, I'd spit out some garbage like "definitely writing!" or "making babies one day!" immediately, but I'm not sure if that's really true.
Maybe I don't really have a passion, which scares me. I feel like if that's the case, I'm going to end up like my mother; middle aged and basically a gypsy, running around with no goals because she never found something she really loved doing. Of course she loved my brother and me, but you can only be a full time mom until your kids grow up, and then it's kind of like ...now what? She doesn't have anything else to do. People are like swings in my opinion; they need something pushing them, or they'll just kind of wind down and stop, and if you're stopped long enough, you rust and break.
I'm not sure I know what I'm talking about, I just know that for the first time in my life I've picked the hard way; not doing what someone else wants me to- no compromises, just what I want for me, and I'm nervous. I'm so nervous. I'm betting my whole life on this being what I want, and I'm not sure it is, but I guess that's what this is- a gamble. I'm out of time, and it's either gamble for what could be amazing or complete shit, or what I know will be stable and mediocre. I've never taken a chance like this.
I don't know when I turned into an adult, but I know that I did, because I've found myself saying "We'll figure it out." a lot lately

Riley’s eyes closed. His heart slowed, and he knew he was making the right decision. Concentrating once again on the road, he understood what he had to do. He had to kill himself. That was the only way to make this right.
There was no particular reason for his death, only that he had never really been alive, and this being so, was indifferent to his continued existence.
Riley had grown up as the oldest of four brothers, never really wanting for anything his parents couldn’t supply. His home was a good, supportive environment. He had never been abused or molested in any way. He had also never felt a single emotion more strongly than to register that he should feel it. His mother and father had long since given up worrying about their son, and had accepted that he just didn’t mind the world the way most people did.
He had never lacked for friends, either. This unsought popularity was owed mostly to his good looks, which made him a shoe-in for the best crowds. His straight nose and strong cheekbones highlighted his otherwise dark face; the sunken eyes that always looked over tired were a deep shade of brown that looked almost black. His short black hair was usually a mess, but a mess more casually attained than the guys’ hair at school, which needed all kinds of products to create the desired disorder.
So Riley, with his good looks and absent heart, unbuckled his seatbelt, and let go of the wheel.
His mother’s van, carrying him home from his last day of high school, didn’t waver or drift to one side, even at the astonishing speeds created by the little downhill straightaway.
Riley sighed. That meant he would have to help it, then. He grasped the wheel again, and turned it sharply right, the tires screeching in protest to the sudden change. The van tilted to one side, but rather than rolling down the road, it regained balance, and flew forward into the guardrail at the side of the highway. The front bumper stuttered over the rail, and the van flipped down onto its top and continued to slide, occasionally flipping again, down the rocky drop-off.
There was pain, and Riley screamed in response, but the lack of fear wasn’t unexpected. He had planned this, and, he supposed, even if he had not, it wouldn’t have frightened him anyway. Total and complete apathy.
Of course, he had had to fake it sometimes, to keep him out of real trouble. He preferred to be overlooked, and to continue being so, he had to go out with friends, laugh at things that were meant to be funny, and be disappointed at the things that would disappoint people. Once he had passed the age of four, it hadn’t become difficult at all to copy others’ responses to emotional stimuli.
The van had rolled most of the way down the cliffside by the time Riley had realized that he was, in fact, seeing his life flash before his eyes.
How cliché. He thought in mild surprise, before his neck snapped against the stick shift.

“Hey. Hey you. Stop sleeping.”
“I’m not sleeping, I’m just closing my eyes.”
“Liar, you snore.” She laughs, her head thrown back, nerves still fizzing from her earlier coffee venture.
“No, no I was just… was just… breathing…” His eyes close slowly, fighting the pull of sleep once before shutting completely.
“Breathing my ass. Wake up!”
“Okay! Okay okay okay.” He sits up and shakes his head like a dog flinging off water. “I’m up.”
“Good.” She smiles at him, satisfaction written on every inch of her face.
He extends an arm and pulls gently on her, bringing her down to settle in next to him.
“Not fair.” She pouts.
“Totally fair” He flashes that ridiculously corny smile and kisses her on the forehead. Why does he have to use that trick? There’s no coming back from that one.
“I love you.” She says softly, “Even if you can’t stay awake… Ever.”
He chuckles, looking down into her brown eyes with his bright blue-grey ones. “You stay up enough for both of us, and I did pretty well last week, I’m just tired. I can’t just stay up until 6am with some girl.”
She elbows him with a sleepy half-smile, “I know for a fact you can.”
“Oh, really?” He curls more tightly around her. “And how do you know that?”
“Not telling.” She yawns.
“Jerk.” He lays his head down and puts his arm over her side, feeling his arm rise and fall more slowly with her breathing.
“You’re the… the jerk…” She tries once to keep her head up before letting it fall, asleep before she settles the pillow. Her last conscious thought is, I could do this every night.

First off...

Alright, so. I just sort of thought that my blog's first words should be "alright, so". It's so traditional, you know? Anyhoodles, I guess this is going to be my attempt to write stuff down. I'm not sure what stuff yet, exactly, so I'm just going to post one of my old thingies and hope it's acceptable for starters.

Leon smiled at the earwig scuttling across the floor away from him. He swung himself around to face it and held a cracked hand out in front of the bug, another hand placed behind to usher it forward.
Once he held the crawler in his hand he brought it to his eyes, barely inches away from it. He watched the tiny pincers on the front of the earwig open and contract furiously, as if the bug was trying to show his indignation at being picked up.
“Pinchey.” Leon said and laughed, delighted at his naming prowess. His voice was harsh, and the one word sent him into a coughing fit. When it subsided he drew a deep and ragged breath, taking in all the air his tiny lungs could hold.
“I- LOOOOOVE you Pinchey!”
The bug, whether at its wit’s end, or just lacking any wit in the first place, leapt from Leon’s palm. It landed next to the boy’s knee and immediately tried to flee, but the fall had damaged two of its legs past the point of usability. It scuttled slowly away, dragging its mangled legs beneath it, until it reached the shelter of a crack in the floorboard, at which point it disappeared.
Leon’s eyes opened wide with shock. A tiny giggle at the earwig’s strange movements and awkward shuffling burst from his lips. He remained perfectly still after that for six seconds exactly, and then began to wail.
The sound was heartbreaking, mournful, and real. But most of all, it was ear splittingly loud. Leon would never be able to remember how long he had cried for; not ten years later when he stared at the third set of new and unfamiliar walls he had been placed in; not eighteen years later when he awoke to an IV in his arm and the worst headache he had ever caused himself; and not twenty-six years later, when he made his first genuine attempt to recall his life, because he knew he was at the end of it.
When Leon realized that his greatest regret was not knowing what had happened to his tiny friend that he had loved and stung, he laughed until it hurt to breathe, and then began to wail.


Alright, so. There it is again, you see?! Well, that's all I've got for now...