How does a few days' extra hospital stay become a week? Why, I'm so glad you asked.
Firstly, it was all started when fucking Zeke brought in that criminal, that ass, to "help" us. Admittedly, my reaction got...rather out of hand, but at the time, I only thought that Zeke had called Wren in -- not that he had already gotten there, and all behind my back.
Zeke has been stepping lightly around me lately. I never thought I'd say this, but I think he's a little scared. I don't usually scream when I'm angry, ever, but he just really surprised me at that moment.
Wren, on the other hand, is grating on my last nerve and it's only been a week. I suppose it's just how I react to being around people who are just like me, but I cannot stand that man. He and I are mirror images of each other -- red hair, porcelain complexion, bright eyes. He's thinner than I am, and obviously older. He could be Desmond, if Des was a redhead.
From the minute he got here, he just started and wouldn't stop. He's always making these snide remarks and calling me odd, offhand nicknames. Never just one, either; each time he has a different one. It's maddening. Fortunately, besides being exceedingly annoying, he hasn't done anything sneaky. The minute he does, I won't need to yell for Zeke. I'll shoot him myself.
Where was I? Oh, yes. How a few days becomes a week.
My archetypal Wicked Stepmother, feigning to care ever so deeply, kept the doctors from releasing me on the grounds that she was afraid my stitches would break again -- what with me being such a rambunctious young thing and all. I'm pretty sure even the fucking doctors saw through her ruse. Milo and Nikki straight-up told me that she was calling up some sketchy lawyer friends of hers to see if there was any way she could legally seize control of the inheritance of a legally adult stepchild still living in her husband's house. Judging by the fact that I have been served with exactly no papers saying so, I'm guessing that she hasn't had much result.
I left the hospital Tuesday morning, and I've been staying mostly to my room since getting home. I've been having Vi help me with packing -- because of my arm and my stitches, I can't lift very much, so I've been kind of directing her with packing.
This area is too small to have any hotels, so Zeke and Wren are staying in the closest thing -- a bed and breakfast just on the other side of Rocks. I certainly don't mind the idea of Wren staying far the hell away from me, although I would have liked Zeke to be closer. At least I know that he's not far away if I need him.
Yesterday, we drove the three hours down to Ocean City with Mr. Monaghan and looked at what he and my aunt had once called The Gray Haven. The name wasn't just appropriate because it was near the water -- the apartment building, like most of the big buildings and hotels close to the beach or inlet, was ten stories of dark gray stone. We went inside and rode what looked like a very old, frail elevator up seven stories until it stopped with a jolt and we stepped out. Mr. Monaghan showed me the odds and ends of the building; the building is shaped in a U, and a lot of the hallways to the apartments were actually sort of balconies.
Finally, we came to number 713, the true Gray Haven. And the place...it's beautiful. All whites and blues and granite countertops and a gorgeous view outward at the ocean. It's not empty, but the furniture is sparse, minimalist, leaving plenty of room for customization if I should want to bring my own stuff down (whether that was intentional or not, who knows). It's a bit small, but it feels open. Scenery-pornographic.
Mr. Monaghan showed us the panic room, too. All I can say is, it certainly looks secure. It's a tiny space, but it's well-stocked. And the surveillance isn't even noticeable, but it comes through very clear through the monitors on one wall of the square room.
There are three bedrooms. The master bedroom (what will be my bedroom, I suppose) is a beautiful space with a huge bed and big windows, and its own door to the balcony off of the living room. The other two are both in the hallway; the one on the left holds a double bed, the other, bunk beds.
But I really fell in love with the kitchen and bathroom. Well -- not so much the bathroom as the bathtub. My god, that bathtub. It's big and all soaky and has jets. Yeah, it's one of those. And the kitchen is all black granite and silver fixtures, contrasting the white and blue gorgeously.
If this apartment is anything to go by, then Aunt Michelle and Mr. Monaghan really were the best at what they did.
On the drive back, Violet and I talked while Zeke and Wren (I couldn't convince Zeke to make him stay behind) sat mostly silent. We discussed the logistics of moving, the plan once we were there, and how long it would be until we could get it set up for Ava, and eventually, more Runners, to come.
"I'm not babysitting," Zeke said.
"Nobody said you'd be babysitting, Zeke," I said, only half jokingly; he still really wasn't in a position to be snarking at me.
"I know that, I'm just saying that I'm not dealing with any punkasses trying to start any--"
"You know, those are the people you're fighting for --"
"Both of you!" Violet snapped. "The kids don't like it when Mommy and Daddy fight. Now shut the hell up."
We didn't have anything to say to that.
For now, I'm still here. Angel, the few times I've seen her when I've left my room, has been icy and aloof. I'm leaving and she's staying; I suppose she's convincing herself that this is a victory for her. I don't care. The only thing I regret is that Milo is still in school so I can't take him with me. And as far as my father...well, he married the bitch. I guess that means the joke's on him.
I suppose this is momentous -- my last night in my father's house. We'll be moving the vast majority of stuff and ourselves down to the Haven tomorrow morning.
I'm flooded with memories. I've lived in this house since we moved here seven years ago. I went through middle and high school here. When my "friends" decided I was the weak one out and turned on me, turned me into the kind of pariah that only preteens can make each other, I came here for refuge, hidden in the woods and fields of rural Harford County. My dad saw me crying once and sat with me for a long while and told me that it would all eventually pass. I didn't believe him then, but I guess he was right. It all passes.
I remember Thanksgiving 2009, the year before Dad married Angel. We had our big family pile into this house and have a big dinner together. Everyone had a job; mine was bartender. I made sure everyone's glasses were filled, whether it be with wine or juice for the kids. After everything was done, Desmond, Melanie, Nikki, Milo and I went Black Friday shopping with my mom and eventually had another Thanksgiving with her, at her house.
I remember how every dent and whole in our walls was made, most of it from the last year. I remember the screaming. She never hit us, but I remember that she-wolf abusing my father and my siblings. I remember watching as this house sunk into hell.
Now it's high time I find my way back to the light.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Hospital Stay (Repost)
[EDIT 5/14/11: I'm reposting this since Blogger appears to have somehow gotten its shit even more wrecked than mine. The original post was made this past Wednesday; since then, not much has changed, although I'm set to leave the hospital on Monday or Tuesday, and have been doing a certain bit of reading at Violet's request. I'll have a full update for you guys soon.]
I'd like to start off this post by saying just one thing:
Admittedly, that was a bad idea.
Now, I'll have to move on, because a lot has happened in the last week and Violet only just let me have my computer back.
The physical therapists have been in every couple of hours to re-teach me how to walk and move without jarring myself or making my wounds any worse.
Zeke arrived here last week, when I was just sort of waking up. He and Violet have been with me nearly round the clock when my dad and stepmother aren't here. My mom also comes in often, and she doesn't react to the two of them with suspicion. I think I might be starting to understand why.
As strange as it sounds, I think I recognized him before he started to speak. When I saw him come in with Violet, my half-awake brain almost thought it was Riley with her -- but that was ridiculous. Riley has hair down to his shoulders, and it's brown. Zeke's is black, and slicked back. He has a round face and he'd shaved to come in. He's actually shorter than I thought he'd be.
He had them leave and sat in the chair next to me. Vi stood at the foot of the bed. Zeke looked at me for a long moment before he said, "What did I tell you monkeys about jumping on the bed?"
So I said, "Go to hell, Zeke."
He smiled. It was a really pleasant moment, and like most pleasant moments lately, it faded into silence.
He took a deep breath.
"Let me see."
I wasn't awake enough to put together words at such a statement. But I felt my eyes burn as I shook my head, as much as I could without the pain.
"Celeste. Let me see."
I bit my lip. "No."
"I brought this," Vi said, loudly, to change the subject. She came to the other side of me and placed the metal and wooden beads in my hand. "You left your rosary when you left. Your jacket and stuff is in my car, too, for when they let you out of this place."
I looked down; Jesus and Saint Jude looked back up at me from the Crucifix and medal. I got the feeling that they didn't approve of what I'd done, either. Then again, I'm a Catholic, so it could just be natural.
"Celeste."
I turned back to Zeke. He was still looking right through me. I knew he wouldn't let up.
"Zeke, don't make me."
"I'm sorry," he said.
I knew I'd already lost this argument. I knew the routine from the nurses coming in to change the bandages; I gathered the hospital gown around me and slowly, tenderly, maneuvered myself onto my stomach. My hair was down and covering it, so I moved it out of the way as I put my face into the pillow, unable to turn it very far. The sheets covered me up to the start of my hips, but my entire back was visible.
Despite not being able to see, I could tell that it was Violet's tiny, delicate hands that gently worked at the tape and pulled up the bandages. From the few times I've glimpsed it with mirrors, I know that the stitches are the exact opposite of attractive. The pillow hid the tears; this wasn't the first thing I'd want anyone to see of me, let alone Zeke.
"Jesus Christ, Celeste..." he hissed through his teeth. Slowly, gently, his fingertip touched the very center of the symbol.
I flinched so hard that I screamed into the pillow. I hadn't been expecting his touch, and couldn't see him reach for me. I started really crying -- more from embarrassment than any pain. He put a comforting hand onto my bare back. He felt cool and reassuring against my warm skin. Eventually, I calmed down, and he put the bandage back over it and let me turn back around.
Then he asked me questions. He asked more or less normal cop things; where I was when the encounter happened, and what Practical Cat looked like. He didn't ask me to go into detail. I think he didn't want to push too far again.
After two days of full consciousness, I finally convinced Violet to give me my phone to make a call. I waited until everyone was either out or asleep. I didn't go into my contacts; I'd promised that no one else would have access to the number that I now dialed from memory. A European number. After three rings, there was a click.
"Mm?" came the voice from the other line.
"Ava? It's me," I said.
"Celie? Wh --" Avalesca Conquest cut off for a moment, and when she spoke again, I could hear her narrowed eyes in her voice. "Are you even well enough to be using the phone?"
I shifted in my hospital bed. "Probably not. But you said when I was awake. I'm awake now."
"Fair point," she said. "How are you feeling?"
"Like hell," I said. "But the physical therapist says that nothing vital was damaged. I should be able to function almost normally within a couple of weeks, except for wearing this stupid sling. And the sooner I can get out of here and get to work, the better." I hesitated. "How are...how are you faring?"
Ava paused on the other end of the line. I could hear her false start a few times.
"I--it's hard and...odd. It's like after Ray's...d-death, I'm being reset. Emotionally."
"I think I understand what you mean, almost," I said. "My brother, when he was a Marine, used to call it a 'soldier mentality.' It's what helped them cope with seeing so much death. Who knows? Maybe we're becoming soldiers ourselves in a way."
She barked a laugh before sighing.
"What are your plans for Pussybrained Cunt?" she said. I laughed.
"Now, is that the Cat, or my stepmother? Because those words could refer to both."
She snickered. "Cat. But...tell me about your stepbitch after."
"Fair enough," I said. "Well, the Cat is, naturally, nowhere to be found again. The sheriff's department is hot on his trail for now, but that won't last. It's weird...after what happened...I'm not sure if I want them to get him. I don't want them to have to fight him. And...and I never want to see him ever again...even though I know I will."
She sighed again. "Oh, god, honey. I really -- I'm so sorry. If I could hug you and not break you, I would."
I smiled. "I know. If anybody understands, it's you."
Ava made a noise somewhere halfway between a "hrgh" and a "mm."
There was a bit of a pause. Then I said, "Zeke is here."
"Mmmm."
"I guess he's everything I imagined him to be. He got my dad and Angel to leave us and Vi alone within the first five minutes he got here."
She didn't sound amused. "Well. Good for him. He try anything?"
"What...what do you mean, try anything?"
She "hnrgh'd" again.
"Have you forgotten the rant before you went gallivanting off to kill yourself?" she asked. "And don't tell me you weren't. That was a bloody suicide mission, Celie."
I couldn't argue with that. "What's your point?"
"You're going to tell me that part of your decision to run off wasn't based on the fact that you were pissed at Zeke?"
"It was...it was based on a lot of things, I guess. But if I wasn't angry at Zeke at the beginning, I certainly was by the time I left the house."
"Mmm," she said. "How're you doing mentally?"
"I'm...better, I guess," I said. "Like you said, I guess I'm resetting, too. And that's good. I know what I have to do now, where I have to be."
I took a deep breath.
"Ava, I have something I need to tell you. Something I need to ask you, too."
"Shoot," she said.
I took a long pause, organizing what I'd been planning to say for the last two days in my head.
"I'm not sure if you remember me mentioning Scott Monaghan," I said. "He was Aunt Michelle's good friend and her partner. He came in the other night to show me details about the Ocean City place. He said that Michelle named the houses they'd kept according to a Lord of the Rings motif, since she was a lit major and he was her favorite author. Since it's a pretty place by the ocean, they used to call this place the Gray Haven. It's...it's an appropriate name to say the least, Ava. The place has three bedrooms, sleeps a total of eight at a time. It's on the seventh floor of its building, with no way up except the stairs or elevator unless you count the balcony. And...and here's where it gets a little odd.
"It has a panic room. It's a tiny place to use in case of emergencies, undetectable at first, stocked with medical supplies and stuff. And monitors. There's surveillance hidden around the place. I have no idea why they would feel like the need a panic room in the place -- it seems like it would be wasted space. But that's not the point.
"The point is that it would make the perfect safehouse.
"And...well...Ava, you're still reeling from everything that's happened. You can't stay where you are; it'll destroy you. I'll be leaving to live at the Gray Haven as soon as I get out of the hospital, because I can't stay here, either. Zeke and Violet and I are going to get the place set up, but then you could come here. You could stay with me. We could look after each other."
Ava stammered. "...It...I-- ..."
"It's okay if you need some time to think," I said. "But I just...I feel like this is the way I could finally help the fight. I could give them some semblance of safety, even if it's just for a night or two while they're passing through. The Gray Haven is the perfect place for us to start to build a real resistance.
"It's time to try defying gravity, Ava. Nobody can hold us down except ourselves. Together we'll be the greatest team there's ever been."
I stayed quiet as I could practically hear her thinking.
"I--" she began. "I can't just leave Egypt, Celie...I mean, there's so much that I could --" She cut off suddenly. "Actually, that's a lie. I've done all I can in the Magna. I'm running out of money and patience. I'm scared for my child's life.
"Give me a day or two, I'll get back to you. I have something I need to get before I decide."
"I understand," I said. "We still need to get down there and get the place ready, so take all the time you need."
We both paused and took a breath as the tension started to ease a little. I'd made my offer; there wasn't much left to say.
I heard the smirk as she said, "...Did you quote Wicked at me?"
I blinked.
"Maybe a little. Did it work."
"Not really," she snickered. "Are you sure the concussion's worn off?"
We laughed, but a noise outside drew my attention. "I have to go. Don't panic, it's just my mom coming to visit. Take your time and think about everything. Let me know your decision. I'll talk to you soon."
"Love you, hun," she said. "Be safe. I will get back to you."
"Love you too," I said. "Keep alert, watch your back. Bye, Ava."
"Bye, Celie. Don't take any shit from Strahm."
"Oh, I won't," I laughed, and hesitantly hung up the phone.
For the last day or two, I've been making plans. Scheming is probably the better word. Violet has agreed to begin some of my packing for me until I get out of here. I've made the announcement that I'm leaving to everyone, while they were all here. Angel looked like she was going to explode, but she didn't dare say anything in front of my mother, Violet, and "Detective Eric Riley."
Of course...leaving them also means I'm leaving the friends I've made. Detective Goldman, and Father Kelly. But it's the Twenty-First Century; I'll be able to still keep in touch with them.
Now there will be even more friends to make. I have Zeke and Vi already.
And according to a comment left on Zeke's last post, I'll have Ava too.
And if everything goes to plan, there'll be many more after that.
I'd like to start off this post by saying just one thing:
Admittedly, that was a bad idea.
Now, I'll have to move on, because a lot has happened in the last week and Violet only just let me have my computer back.
The physical therapists have been in every couple of hours to re-teach me how to walk and move without jarring myself or making my wounds any worse.
Zeke arrived here last week, when I was just sort of waking up. He and Violet have been with me nearly round the clock when my dad and stepmother aren't here. My mom also comes in often, and she doesn't react to the two of them with suspicion. I think I might be starting to understand why.
As strange as it sounds, I think I recognized him before he started to speak. When I saw him come in with Violet, my half-awake brain almost thought it was Riley with her -- but that was ridiculous. Riley has hair down to his shoulders, and it's brown. Zeke's is black, and slicked back. He has a round face and he'd shaved to come in. He's actually shorter than I thought he'd be.
He had them leave and sat in the chair next to me. Vi stood at the foot of the bed. Zeke looked at me for a long moment before he said, "What did I tell you monkeys about jumping on the bed?"
So I said, "Go to hell, Zeke."
He smiled. It was a really pleasant moment, and like most pleasant moments lately, it faded into silence.
He took a deep breath.
"Let me see."
I wasn't awake enough to put together words at such a statement. But I felt my eyes burn as I shook my head, as much as I could without the pain.
"Celeste. Let me see."
I bit my lip. "No."
"I brought this," Vi said, loudly, to change the subject. She came to the other side of me and placed the metal and wooden beads in my hand. "You left your rosary when you left. Your jacket and stuff is in my car, too, for when they let you out of this place."
I looked down; Jesus and Saint Jude looked back up at me from the Crucifix and medal. I got the feeling that they didn't approve of what I'd done, either. Then again, I'm a Catholic, so it could just be natural.
"Celeste."
I turned back to Zeke. He was still looking right through me. I knew he wouldn't let up.
"Zeke, don't make me."
"I'm sorry," he said.
I knew I'd already lost this argument. I knew the routine from the nurses coming in to change the bandages; I gathered the hospital gown around me and slowly, tenderly, maneuvered myself onto my stomach. My hair was down and covering it, so I moved it out of the way as I put my face into the pillow, unable to turn it very far. The sheets covered me up to the start of my hips, but my entire back was visible.
Despite not being able to see, I could tell that it was Violet's tiny, delicate hands that gently worked at the tape and pulled up the bandages. From the few times I've glimpsed it with mirrors, I know that the stitches are the exact opposite of attractive. The pillow hid the tears; this wasn't the first thing I'd want anyone to see of me, let alone Zeke.
"Jesus Christ, Celeste..." he hissed through his teeth. Slowly, gently, his fingertip touched the very center of the symbol.
I flinched so hard that I screamed into the pillow. I hadn't been expecting his touch, and couldn't see him reach for me. I started really crying -- more from embarrassment than any pain. He put a comforting hand onto my bare back. He felt cool and reassuring against my warm skin. Eventually, I calmed down, and he put the bandage back over it and let me turn back around.
Then he asked me questions. He asked more or less normal cop things; where I was when the encounter happened, and what Practical Cat looked like. He didn't ask me to go into detail. I think he didn't want to push too far again.
After two days of full consciousness, I finally convinced Violet to give me my phone to make a call. I waited until everyone was either out or asleep. I didn't go into my contacts; I'd promised that no one else would have access to the number that I now dialed from memory. A European number. After three rings, there was a click.
"Mm?" came the voice from the other line.
"Ava? It's me," I said.
"Celie? Wh --" Avalesca Conquest cut off for a moment, and when she spoke again, I could hear her narrowed eyes in her voice. "Are you even well enough to be using the phone?"
I shifted in my hospital bed. "Probably not. But you said when I was awake. I'm awake now."
"Fair point," she said. "How are you feeling?"
"Like hell," I said. "But the physical therapist says that nothing vital was damaged. I should be able to function almost normally within a couple of weeks, except for wearing this stupid sling. And the sooner I can get out of here and get to work, the better." I hesitated. "How are...how are you faring?"
Ava paused on the other end of the line. I could hear her false start a few times.
"I--it's hard and...odd. It's like after Ray's...d-death, I'm being reset. Emotionally."
"I think I understand what you mean, almost," I said. "My brother, when he was a Marine, used to call it a 'soldier mentality.' It's what helped them cope with seeing so much death. Who knows? Maybe we're becoming soldiers ourselves in a way."
She barked a laugh before sighing.
"What are your plans for Pussybrained Cunt?" she said. I laughed.
"Now, is that the Cat, or my stepmother? Because those words could refer to both."
She snickered. "Cat. But...tell me about your stepbitch after."
"Fair enough," I said. "Well, the Cat is, naturally, nowhere to be found again. The sheriff's department is hot on his trail for now, but that won't last. It's weird...after what happened...I'm not sure if I want them to get him. I don't want them to have to fight him. And...and I never want to see him ever again...even though I know I will."
She sighed again. "Oh, god, honey. I really -- I'm so sorry. If I could hug you and not break you, I would."
I smiled. "I know. If anybody understands, it's you."
Ava made a noise somewhere halfway between a "hrgh" and a "mm."
There was a bit of a pause. Then I said, "Zeke is here."
"Mmmm."
"I guess he's everything I imagined him to be. He got my dad and Angel to leave us and Vi alone within the first five minutes he got here."
She didn't sound amused. "Well. Good for him. He try anything?"
"What...what do you mean, try anything?"
She "hnrgh'd" again.
"Have you forgotten the rant before you went gallivanting off to kill yourself?" she asked. "And don't tell me you weren't. That was a bloody suicide mission, Celie."
I couldn't argue with that. "What's your point?"
"You're going to tell me that part of your decision to run off wasn't based on the fact that you were pissed at Zeke?"
"It was...it was based on a lot of things, I guess. But if I wasn't angry at Zeke at the beginning, I certainly was by the time I left the house."
"Mmm," she said. "How're you doing mentally?"
"I'm...better, I guess," I said. "Like you said, I guess I'm resetting, too. And that's good. I know what I have to do now, where I have to be."
I took a deep breath.
"Ava, I have something I need to tell you. Something I need to ask you, too."
"Shoot," she said.
I took a long pause, organizing what I'd been planning to say for the last two days in my head.
"I'm not sure if you remember me mentioning Scott Monaghan," I said. "He was Aunt Michelle's good friend and her partner. He came in the other night to show me details about the Ocean City place. He said that Michelle named the houses they'd kept according to a Lord of the Rings motif, since she was a lit major and he was her favorite author. Since it's a pretty place by the ocean, they used to call this place the Gray Haven. It's...it's an appropriate name to say the least, Ava. The place has three bedrooms, sleeps a total of eight at a time. It's on the seventh floor of its building, with no way up except the stairs or elevator unless you count the balcony. And...and here's where it gets a little odd.
"It has a panic room. It's a tiny place to use in case of emergencies, undetectable at first, stocked with medical supplies and stuff. And monitors. There's surveillance hidden around the place. I have no idea why they would feel like the need a panic room in the place -- it seems like it would be wasted space. But that's not the point.
"The point is that it would make the perfect safehouse.
"And...well...Ava, you're still reeling from everything that's happened. You can't stay where you are; it'll destroy you. I'll be leaving to live at the Gray Haven as soon as I get out of the hospital, because I can't stay here, either. Zeke and Violet and I are going to get the place set up, but then you could come here. You could stay with me. We could look after each other."
Ava stammered. "...It...I-- ..."
"It's okay if you need some time to think," I said. "But I just...I feel like this is the way I could finally help the fight. I could give them some semblance of safety, even if it's just for a night or two while they're passing through. The Gray Haven is the perfect place for us to start to build a real resistance.
"It's time to try defying gravity, Ava. Nobody can hold us down except ourselves. Together we'll be the greatest team there's ever been."
I stayed quiet as I could practically hear her thinking.
"I--" she began. "I can't just leave Egypt, Celie...I mean, there's so much that I could --" She cut off suddenly. "Actually, that's a lie. I've done all I can in the Magna. I'm running out of money and patience. I'm scared for my child's life.
"Give me a day or two, I'll get back to you. I have something I need to get before I decide."
"I understand," I said. "We still need to get down there and get the place ready, so take all the time you need."
We both paused and took a breath as the tension started to ease a little. I'd made my offer; there wasn't much left to say.
I heard the smirk as she said, "...Did you quote Wicked at me?"
I blinked.
"Maybe a little. Did it work."
"Not really," she snickered. "Are you sure the concussion's worn off?"
We laughed, but a noise outside drew my attention. "I have to go. Don't panic, it's just my mom coming to visit. Take your time and think about everything. Let me know your decision. I'll talk to you soon."
"Love you, hun," she said. "Be safe. I will get back to you."
"Love you too," I said. "Keep alert, watch your back. Bye, Ava."
"Bye, Celie. Don't take any shit from Strahm."
"Oh, I won't," I laughed, and hesitantly hung up the phone.
For the last day or two, I've been making plans. Scheming is probably the better word. Violet has agreed to begin some of my packing for me until I get out of here. I've made the announcement that I'm leaving to everyone, while they were all here. Angel looked like she was going to explode, but she didn't dare say anything in front of my mother, Violet, and "Detective Eric Riley."
Of course...leaving them also means I'm leaving the friends I've made. Detective Goldman, and Father Kelly. But it's the Twenty-First Century; I'll be able to still keep in touch with them.
Now there will be even more friends to make. I have Zeke and Vi already.
And according to a comment left on Zeke's last post, I'll have Ava too.
And if everything goes to plan, there'll be many more after that.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
A Message from Violet
It is a ten-hour drive from Kansas to Maryland. I made it in eight to get to Upper Chesapeake Medical Center to see my best friend.
You know. The one I left in your care.
Let me explain.
Around 11:00 last night, Celie's father saw her storm out of the house -- all attempts to stop her failed, and she ran.
From what I've been able to gather from (the still only semi-conscious) Celie, she ran from the house and made her way through Rocks, alone, until she came to a local playground and fishing hole called Friends Park. She then called out Practical Cat, who, after some time, revealed himself to her.
The two had some kind of verbal exchange, but she wouldn't say very much about it other than what is stated below.
Celie pulled her gun and fired off three shots before the Cat was able to disarm her. The defensive wounds on her wrists and one broken toe suggest that she put up a hell of a fight, but in the end, she was defeated.
Okay, that's an understatement.
And you all deserve to know the truth, because it's partially your fucking fault.
He beat the ever-loving hell out of her.
I don't think there's a single part of her body that isn't cut or bruised. Her shoulder was dislocated. The nurse here said that when they brought her in, she was covered head to toe in blood, most of it her own.
Would you like to know the best part?
Zeke, you especially listen up.
He marked her.
At some point, he got her onto her stomach, straddled her back, and carved that fucking symbol into the back of her neck. That little spot right where her two shoulders meet. The doctors say if he'd cut an eighth of an inch deeper, he could have hit her spine and killed her.
In fact, it was her screams at he cut her that alerted the people living nearby -- because they thought a fucking animal was being slaughtered.
And do you know what he said while he was doing it? I'll tell you, because she's been fucking repeating it in her sleep:
"You're mine. Why can't you understand? You don't belong to anybody but me. You're mine."
And now, dear readers, I want a fucking explanation.
I told you to look after her. I told you to keep your eye on her because she would try to convince you everything was okay.
Her brother tells me she's been chain smoking like a fiend. She's been drinking herself silly. She's been snapping at people out of turn and not leaving her room for days at a time except to go to work.
How did somebody not fucking notice this girl going in a downward spiral?!
Maybe I should've made it clearer to you: Celie will not seek help on her own. It's practically the fucking first rule of Celie.
And now none of it matters, because she's in the hospital, beaten and marked.
And yes, I do blame you. No, I do not give a shit if you disagree. Celie loves you guys more than anything. I do not share that affection.
And as for you, Ezekiel Fucking Strahm. What the hell was that last night? "Herp derp, I promised to do everything I could to protect this girl, lemme go right ahead and insult the fuck out of her, THAT'LL CALM HER DOWN!"
If you feel like you're to blame for this, Zeke, it's because you are.
I'll keep you guys updated on her condition. Just know that she's stable for now.
And know that they say the scar on her neck will never go away.
You know. The one I left in your care.
Let me explain.
Around 11:00 last night, Celie's father saw her storm out of the house -- all attempts to stop her failed, and she ran.
From what I've been able to gather from (the still only semi-conscious) Celie, she ran from the house and made her way through Rocks, alone, until she came to a local playground and fishing hole called Friends Park. She then called out Practical Cat, who, after some time, revealed himself to her.
The two had some kind of verbal exchange, but she wouldn't say very much about it other than what is stated below.
Celie pulled her gun and fired off three shots before the Cat was able to disarm her. The defensive wounds on her wrists and one broken toe suggest that she put up a hell of a fight, but in the end, she was defeated.
Okay, that's an understatement.
And you all deserve to know the truth, because it's partially your fucking fault.
He beat the ever-loving hell out of her.
I don't think there's a single part of her body that isn't cut or bruised. Her shoulder was dislocated. The nurse here said that when they brought her in, she was covered head to toe in blood, most of it her own.
Would you like to know the best part?
Zeke, you especially listen up.
He marked her.
At some point, he got her onto her stomach, straddled her back, and carved that fucking symbol into the back of her neck. That little spot right where her two shoulders meet. The doctors say if he'd cut an eighth of an inch deeper, he could have hit her spine and killed her.
In fact, it was her screams at he cut her that alerted the people living nearby -- because they thought a fucking animal was being slaughtered.
And do you know what he said while he was doing it? I'll tell you, because she's been fucking repeating it in her sleep:
"You're mine. Why can't you understand? You don't belong to anybody but me. You're mine."
And now, dear readers, I want a fucking explanation.
I told you to look after her. I told you to keep your eye on her because she would try to convince you everything was okay.
Her brother tells me she's been chain smoking like a fiend. She's been drinking herself silly. She's been snapping at people out of turn and not leaving her room for days at a time except to go to work.
How did somebody not fucking notice this girl going in a downward spiral?!
Maybe I should've made it clearer to you: Celie will not seek help on her own. It's practically the fucking first rule of Celie.
And now none of it matters, because she's in the hospital, beaten and marked.
And yes, I do blame you. No, I do not give a shit if you disagree. Celie loves you guys more than anything. I do not share that affection.
And as for you, Ezekiel Fucking Strahm. What the hell was that last night? "Herp derp, I promised to do everything I could to protect this girl, lemme go right ahead and insult the fuck out of her, THAT'LL CALM HER DOWN!"
If you feel like you're to blame for this, Zeke, it's because you are.
I'll keep you guys updated on her condition. Just know that she's stable for now.
And know that they say the scar on her neck will never go away.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Fuck Everything
Do you know what I was doing a year ago?
I was ready to graduate high school. They told us our lives would begin and we would take the world by storm. We'd be successful and talented and brilliant. Angel was still sweet and not fucking insane. I was ready to take on the world with Rose right there at my side, and Violet on the other.
Now they're both gone. Aunt Michelle is dead and Rose is worse than dead and Vi is miles and miles away. She's moved on from Chicago and is somewhere around Kentucky. I can't even know exactly where.
The reading of the will was this morning, and I was outed as receiving even more inheritance than Aunt Michelle told me. The place in Ocean City, the fund for its upkeep and the taxes on it. But also a sizable trust fund that looks like it was started just before I was born. It doesn't have any legal stipulations -- I can use it for whatever I wish, according to the law -- but one note in her will said: "To assist in furthering her education and enlightenment."
I was right. Angel did exactly what I knew she would. They called me down not long ago and said they needed to have a serious talk with me about something. I've been sipping at my little hip flask of whiskey since noon; I didn't have the will to refuse.
Sure enough, thhey tried to get me to give it up. Not just part of it, either. They wanted me to give up everything. Well, I say they -- really, it was that near-eldritch cunt using my father as a mouthpiece. I won't bother writing down the exact conversation. They pretended it was for my own good. I'm too young, they said, to be ready for this responsibility.
I was fully ready to sit it out the exact way I have for my entire life: Keep my mouth shut, don't make any sudden movements. Pretend I'm a little porcelain doll. I was ready to let it slide off. But then, she spoke up, and she said:
"Quite frankly, it was a less-than-intelligent move on Michelle's part to leave it to you --"
The little porcelain doll in me shattered.
"Why is that, Angel?" I said. I looked up from my hands on my lap at them. "Is it because I'm so stupid and naive, or she was plotting something and using me? Because obviously, when a woman does something, it's usually specifically to make things more difficult for you, isn't it?"
"Excuse me--"
"I've been excusing you for way too goddamn long."
I lost my cool, and I don't give a shit. Eventually, the argument rose from the table and we stood, and I said things I've been wanting to say for a long, long time. I'm sure she did as well -- no one has ever spoken to me the way she did, so blatantly belligerent and hurtful. Right in front of my father, she called me every name under the sun, from a lazy and ungrateful daughter to a criminal slut.
She's certainly one to talk.
After the argument, I stormed up the stairs and found something that was, naturally, exactly what I needed in this shit.
A note. Sitting prettily on my pillow and addressed to Little fucking Mouse.
It was simple enough to not even warrant a picture:
"i'm ever so sorry about Michelle's tragic demise. i hope that you find solace in her gifts.
Love,
Practical Cat"
You know what? No
He doesn't fucking get to say her name. He doesn't even get to know she exists. Ever.
I'm fucking tired of this. I'm tired of feeling like I need to watch my back. I'm tired of not even feeling safe at home. I'm tired of hearing the house make noises at night and wondering if maybe, just maybe, it's Angel, finally gone crazy and killing the whole family. I'm tired of those sorts of things that keep me up at night. I'm tired of my room being messy because I don't ever want to leave it if I don't have to. I'm tired of fucking Zeke and how he's so fucking stupid and won't listen to me. I'm tired of not being able to tell anyone about what's happening to me. I'm tired of drinking until I can't feel because I don't dream when I pass out and the hangover is better than those goddamn nightmares and that goddamn feeling. I'm tired of my voice getting scratchy because I'm smoking too much.
I'm tired of feeling helpless.
So I'm fucking done. I know he's got his eye on me. He's probably watching right now. I haven't seen his boss in a while, but damned if I don't know he's still tailing me. I can turn this. I can use it. I have a gun, and I have pepper spray, and if he gets past those I can kick the fucker in the head.
This can't wait. I'm getting my jacket now.
I'm going to find Practical Cat. I'm going to call him out.
And I'm gonna kill the bastard.
I was ready to graduate high school. They told us our lives would begin and we would take the world by storm. We'd be successful and talented and brilliant. Angel was still sweet and not fucking insane. I was ready to take on the world with Rose right there at my side, and Violet on the other.
Now they're both gone. Aunt Michelle is dead and Rose is worse than dead and Vi is miles and miles away. She's moved on from Chicago and is somewhere around Kentucky. I can't even know exactly where.
The reading of the will was this morning, and I was outed as receiving even more inheritance than Aunt Michelle told me. The place in Ocean City, the fund for its upkeep and the taxes on it. But also a sizable trust fund that looks like it was started just before I was born. It doesn't have any legal stipulations -- I can use it for whatever I wish, according to the law -- but one note in her will said: "To assist in furthering her education and enlightenment."
I was right. Angel did exactly what I knew she would. They called me down not long ago and said they needed to have a serious talk with me about something. I've been sipping at my little hip flask of whiskey since noon; I didn't have the will to refuse.
Sure enough, thhey tried to get me to give it up. Not just part of it, either. They wanted me to give up everything. Well, I say they -- really, it was that near-eldritch cunt using my father as a mouthpiece. I won't bother writing down the exact conversation. They pretended it was for my own good. I'm too young, they said, to be ready for this responsibility.
I was fully ready to sit it out the exact way I have for my entire life: Keep my mouth shut, don't make any sudden movements. Pretend I'm a little porcelain doll. I was ready to let it slide off. But then, she spoke up, and she said:
"Quite frankly, it was a less-than-intelligent move on Michelle's part to leave it to you --"
The little porcelain doll in me shattered.
"Why is that, Angel?" I said. I looked up from my hands on my lap at them. "Is it because I'm so stupid and naive, or she was plotting something and using me? Because obviously, when a woman does something, it's usually specifically to make things more difficult for you, isn't it?"
"Excuse me--"
"I've been excusing you for way too goddamn long."
I lost my cool, and I don't give a shit. Eventually, the argument rose from the table and we stood, and I said things I've been wanting to say for a long, long time. I'm sure she did as well -- no one has ever spoken to me the way she did, so blatantly belligerent and hurtful. Right in front of my father, she called me every name under the sun, from a lazy and ungrateful daughter to a criminal slut.
She's certainly one to talk.
After the argument, I stormed up the stairs and found something that was, naturally, exactly what I needed in this shit.
A note. Sitting prettily on my pillow and addressed to Little fucking Mouse.
It was simple enough to not even warrant a picture:
"i'm ever so sorry about Michelle's tragic demise. i hope that you find solace in her gifts.
Love,
Practical Cat"
You know what? No
He doesn't fucking get to say her name. He doesn't even get to know she exists. Ever.
I'm fucking tired of this. I'm tired of feeling like I need to watch my back. I'm tired of not even feeling safe at home. I'm tired of hearing the house make noises at night and wondering if maybe, just maybe, it's Angel, finally gone crazy and killing the whole family. I'm tired of those sorts of things that keep me up at night. I'm tired of my room being messy because I don't ever want to leave it if I don't have to. I'm tired of fucking Zeke and how he's so fucking stupid and won't listen to me. I'm tired of not being able to tell anyone about what's happening to me. I'm tired of drinking until I can't feel because I don't dream when I pass out and the hangover is better than those goddamn nightmares and that goddamn feeling. I'm tired of my voice getting scratchy because I'm smoking too much.
I'm tired of feeling helpless.
So I'm fucking done. I know he's got his eye on me. He's probably watching right now. I haven't seen his boss in a while, but damned if I don't know he's still tailing me. I can turn this. I can use it. I have a gun, and I have pepper spray, and if he gets past those I can kick the fucker in the head.
This can't wait. I'm getting my jacket now.
I'm going to find Practical Cat. I'm going to call him out.
And I'm gonna kill the bastard.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Memoriam
Firstly, thank you all for your thoughts. It means a lot.
Last Thursday when I saw her, she gave me her hat, the same one I'd given to her years ago. I protested, saying it was a gift, but she just rolled her eyes and said, "Yeah, and it took me losing my hair to finally wear the stupid thing. After all, why do you wear that jacket?"
I shifted slightly in the jacket that once belonged to my best friend. "I don't know."
"It makes you feel safe, doesn't it?" she said. "It makes you feel like she's with you even if she's not. Now you can wear this, and I'll be with you too. I'll always be with you, Celie."
I blinked back tears and said, "I know."
The services for Aunt Michelle were held in the last two days. Her viewing was yesterday, and the funeral and wake were today. For the last week, most of my mom's family and some of my dad's have been pouring into the city, along with a lot of people I've never met before; people she'd met through work, I guess.
I feel...heavy. Every part of me feels like it takes conscious effort to move. For the last week or so I've been accepting condolences, greeting family and friends as they come into town for the services.
The funeral today was...especially jarring. We held it up in the country rather than in the city, at Saint Ignatius. There has been a tornado warning all day, so every now and again, a siren would blast out, interrupting the service. About a year ago, the county decided to switch the siren from its former setting, Vaguely Creepy, over to its current one, Gut-Fuckingly Horrifying, so every now and again Father Kelly would stop and we'd all have to listen to the siren start low, go up, and stay up for a good minute or two before going back down again.
It sounded again as we went up to pay our respects at the end. Nikki was right beside me and it went off just as I came up to the casket. For a moment, I was almost lost in that horrid sound, dazed, until she nudged me and I walked back down on legs that didn't feel like my own.
Spring is lovely here; for a month or so, the entire area seems covered in bright green and colorful flowers. The wind was wicked strong and the clouds were the kind of gray that makes everything somehow seem brighter rather than darker, washing out a lot of the color of the grass and flowers. Loose pink and white petals whipped through the place from a large cherry blossom tree in the corner of the cemetery, and every now and again a few drops of rain would fall.
As people were heading out for the wake at my Aunt Karen's house, I couldn't move. Soon enough, it was just me standing there as it started raining harder. The wind picked up and the siren blared out again, but I couldn't move. For what seemed like hours, I listened to that siren. It sounded like a live thing, screaming. If the Slender Man could speak, his voice would sound like that. Hell is that noise. It shouldn't have anything to do with Aunt Michelle -- not one thing, not even playing at the same time as her funeral.
"Celie." Nikki materialized beside me and touched my arm. I noticed that the rain had picked up even more. "Come on. You'll catch your death."
Nikki has really never thought too much about her phrasing.
The wake was pleasant enough, although exhausting. An entire house full of people who thought they knew the whole story, but didn't. About halfway through, I realized I was one of them. I'm realizing more and more than when I think I know the whole story, I don't.
The reading of her last will and testament will be held tomorrow morning, because everyone who attended the funeral and is mentioned in it will still be in town. I met her attorney -- and, it turns out, her business partner and longtime friend -- at her viewing, where he introduced himself as Scott Monaghan. He looked about as old as Aunt Michelle, late forties or early fifties. Gray speckled his black hair and goatee, and he was large in a jolly sort of manner, which was only reinforced by his deep, booming voice.
Mr. Monaghan told me that he was well aware of how fond Aunt Michelle was of me, and that he would do anything in his power to make sure that her wishes were filled out.
"I assume you know what I'm talking about?" he said. I nodded, almost sure that he meant the promises she'd had me make.
At the wake tonight, we drank dessert sherry -- customary for a mournful event -- and he told me about some of their adventures.
"Well, I met Michelle while we were still in college," he said. "At a lacrosse match, of all things. I hear that your brother is into lacrosse, isn't he?"
"He really is," I said. "He wants to go to Syracuse to play, but he would have to get his grades up."
"Well, with a school like that, of course," he said. "Anyway. Michelle and I became thick as thieves pretty quickly. I went off to law school as she started traveling, and eventually we entered into real estate and investing together. Did she ever tell you about the first time she saw Paris?"
I shook my head.
"Well, we took the plane from BWI with a stopover in Heathrow, and by the time we reached France, the sun had set. It was a beautiful clear spring night -- you could see all the stars above, and all the lights in the city below. And then we saw the Eiffel Tower, over a miniature ocean of light that was Paris. Michelle started crying and I asked her, 'What's wrong, what's wrong?' Do you know what she said?
"She said, 'I will never love a man as much as I love Paris right now, at first sight.'"
I was enthralled. Mr. Monaghan is a fantastic storyteller, and kept my mind off of the gloominess of the event with tales that sounded as wondrous as they did far-fetched (one involving a doctor, a soccer match inside a pub, and a screwdriver). Maybe he was even where Aunt Michelle got her own gift of gab -- and, indirectly, where I got mine.
When I asked him why we'd never met before, he got a sort of faraway look and said, "Well, we have met before, but you were just a tiny thing. At some point, Michelle and I decided that it would be better if we distanced ourselves personally speaking. The business can be a bit of a rumor mill sometimes."
"I see," I said, even though I had the feeling that I really didn't.
We only just arrived home from the wake not long ago, and already I'm nervous about tomorrow. I know, more or less, what Aunt Michelle left me -- she told me so herself -- and I have an idea of what to do with it, how to use it to help the fight. But that's for another time. Right now it's only an idea.
What will people say, when they hear that I've been given an inheritance? I tense up just thinking about how Angel may react. Aunt Michelle told me not to give up what's mine...but is it really mine in the first place?
I know it's early, but I need to get some sleep. I feel so heavy that it hurts to even type.
I don't know if I've told you lately, but I love you guys. Stay safe. I don't want to lose you, too.
After all, lately, I seem to be losing everyone.
Last Thursday when I saw her, she gave me her hat, the same one I'd given to her years ago. I protested, saying it was a gift, but she just rolled her eyes and said, "Yeah, and it took me losing my hair to finally wear the stupid thing. After all, why do you wear that jacket?"
I shifted slightly in the jacket that once belonged to my best friend. "I don't know."
"It makes you feel safe, doesn't it?" she said. "It makes you feel like she's with you even if she's not. Now you can wear this, and I'll be with you too. I'll always be with you, Celie."
I blinked back tears and said, "I know."
The services for Aunt Michelle were held in the last two days. Her viewing was yesterday, and the funeral and wake were today. For the last week, most of my mom's family and some of my dad's have been pouring into the city, along with a lot of people I've never met before; people she'd met through work, I guess.
I feel...heavy. Every part of me feels like it takes conscious effort to move. For the last week or so I've been accepting condolences, greeting family and friends as they come into town for the services.
The funeral today was...especially jarring. We held it up in the country rather than in the city, at Saint Ignatius. There has been a tornado warning all day, so every now and again, a siren would blast out, interrupting the service. About a year ago, the county decided to switch the siren from its former setting, Vaguely Creepy, over to its current one, Gut-Fuckingly Horrifying, so every now and again Father Kelly would stop and we'd all have to listen to the siren start low, go up, and stay up for a good minute or two before going back down again.
It sounded again as we went up to pay our respects at the end. Nikki was right beside me and it went off just as I came up to the casket. For a moment, I was almost lost in that horrid sound, dazed, until she nudged me and I walked back down on legs that didn't feel like my own.
Spring is lovely here; for a month or so, the entire area seems covered in bright green and colorful flowers. The wind was wicked strong and the clouds were the kind of gray that makes everything somehow seem brighter rather than darker, washing out a lot of the color of the grass and flowers. Loose pink and white petals whipped through the place from a large cherry blossom tree in the corner of the cemetery, and every now and again a few drops of rain would fall.
As people were heading out for the wake at my Aunt Karen's house, I couldn't move. Soon enough, it was just me standing there as it started raining harder. The wind picked up and the siren blared out again, but I couldn't move. For what seemed like hours, I listened to that siren. It sounded like a live thing, screaming. If the Slender Man could speak, his voice would sound like that. Hell is that noise. It shouldn't have anything to do with Aunt Michelle -- not one thing, not even playing at the same time as her funeral.
"Celie." Nikki materialized beside me and touched my arm. I noticed that the rain had picked up even more. "Come on. You'll catch your death."
Nikki has really never thought too much about her phrasing.
The wake was pleasant enough, although exhausting. An entire house full of people who thought they knew the whole story, but didn't. About halfway through, I realized I was one of them. I'm realizing more and more than when I think I know the whole story, I don't.
The reading of her last will and testament will be held tomorrow morning, because everyone who attended the funeral and is mentioned in it will still be in town. I met her attorney -- and, it turns out, her business partner and longtime friend -- at her viewing, where he introduced himself as Scott Monaghan. He looked about as old as Aunt Michelle, late forties or early fifties. Gray speckled his black hair and goatee, and he was large in a jolly sort of manner, which was only reinforced by his deep, booming voice.
Mr. Monaghan told me that he was well aware of how fond Aunt Michelle was of me, and that he would do anything in his power to make sure that her wishes were filled out.
"I assume you know what I'm talking about?" he said. I nodded, almost sure that he meant the promises she'd had me make.
At the wake tonight, we drank dessert sherry -- customary for a mournful event -- and he told me about some of their adventures.
"Well, I met Michelle while we were still in college," he said. "At a lacrosse match, of all things. I hear that your brother is into lacrosse, isn't he?"
"He really is," I said. "He wants to go to Syracuse to play, but he would have to get his grades up."
"Well, with a school like that, of course," he said. "Anyway. Michelle and I became thick as thieves pretty quickly. I went off to law school as she started traveling, and eventually we entered into real estate and investing together. Did she ever tell you about the first time she saw Paris?"
I shook my head.
"Well, we took the plane from BWI with a stopover in Heathrow, and by the time we reached France, the sun had set. It was a beautiful clear spring night -- you could see all the stars above, and all the lights in the city below. And then we saw the Eiffel Tower, over a miniature ocean of light that was Paris. Michelle started crying and I asked her, 'What's wrong, what's wrong?' Do you know what she said?
"She said, 'I will never love a man as much as I love Paris right now, at first sight.'"
I was enthralled. Mr. Monaghan is a fantastic storyteller, and kept my mind off of the gloominess of the event with tales that sounded as wondrous as they did far-fetched (one involving a doctor, a soccer match inside a pub, and a screwdriver). Maybe he was even where Aunt Michelle got her own gift of gab -- and, indirectly, where I got mine.
When I asked him why we'd never met before, he got a sort of faraway look and said, "Well, we have met before, but you were just a tiny thing. At some point, Michelle and I decided that it would be better if we distanced ourselves personally speaking. The business can be a bit of a rumor mill sometimes."
"I see," I said, even though I had the feeling that I really didn't.
We only just arrived home from the wake not long ago, and already I'm nervous about tomorrow. I know, more or less, what Aunt Michelle left me -- she told me so herself -- and I have an idea of what to do with it, how to use it to help the fight. But that's for another time. Right now it's only an idea.
What will people say, when they hear that I've been given an inheritance? I tense up just thinking about how Angel may react. Aunt Michelle told me not to give up what's mine...but is it really mine in the first place?
I know it's early, but I need to get some sleep. I feel so heavy that it hurts to even type.
I don't know if I've told you lately, but I love you guys. Stay safe. I don't want to lose you, too.
After all, lately, I seem to be losing everyone.
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