So, I’m going to New Orleans soon, probably this summer, when I come out of rehab. Well, I’m getting my dad to take me, I don’t know if he’s paying or not. I don’t know who all will go with us either. I’ve never met my relatives there, though they’re the only ones that have any real connection to where the free portion of my blood came from, the Haitian blood. It should be interesting. If I like it, maybe I won’t come back.

There are things that have become prominent enough problems that I have managed to forfeit my job in light of them. Alcohol and ecstasy, I’ve let myself go to them. This last month I’ve been broke, I gave too much money to my mother, more than I could actually spare. Unable to kick the candy and the drinks didn’t help my wallet much either. I can’t make my rent this month. I put in my thirty days notice. Helping my mother out so often made it impossible to save anything for myself, therefore I figure I’ve forfeited school as well. I am not going to work my ass off. I am not going to waste my life that way, years and years of doing things that I don’t want to do. It’s stupid. Go to school and work your ass off, just to get out of school and keep working your ass off. The idea is to make good money. The money, the money does not appeal to me. I only need enough to get by. I don’t need to be rich, I’m quite comfortable being poor. It doesn’t particularly bother me, not even when I’m so hungry I feel sick. So why finish school?

I can see how many people that I’d be pissing off, giving up on school. But that’s because those people don’t have minds as open as they think. That irks me. Enough of the people I know are artists, or people who consider themselves open minded and it irks me that people who have their own eccentricities, who make their own choices their own ways, can look at others and be incapable of letting them be different. They can do things unorthodox, but others cannot. They’d probably argue that point, but that’s the way it looks to me. The very same people who hate it when people try to force them into a box, try to force other people into that very same box that they were trying to escape.

Blah.

His face is brilliant from six rounds of drink, his eyes half open, his lips numb, his mind working in a roundabout way. We are walking, hand in hand down Sixth Avenue. We pass the bookstore, and the movie theatre, we run out of interesting things to look at, and cross the street, going back the way we came. Even now, at one o’clock in the morning, there are many people on the street. I keep my dreary drunken eyes open for a particular bum I like to talk to, a pale, bluesy, musical, country man who talks with a mixed drawl, something southern, something New England, but I do not find him. The lights blur my vision, the voices make my head ache and I lean into him for balance, and he leans into me. My hot breath is on his neck, and he stops walking to kiss my neck. His warm, wet lips, and then he bites down, gently, yet trying to drain the life from me.

Suddenly I don’t want to walk anymore.

He hurts me and I inhale sharply, stepping back to stare at him, eyes half open, barely registering my actions. He whispers something. Her arms are around his neck, she kisses him passionately on the mouth, pulling herself tightly to him. Her small breasts crushed against his bony chest. Their tongues thrash about, teeth clashing, hands groping. They are not on this downtown sidewalk, they are not in this dead beat city, there is no biting wind. They are only them, in the middle of the night, in the middle of space.

…In the middle anger.

In comes a wave of tension, swirls of darkness, grays and navy blues. A hurricane of blood reds and pale skin tones comes down on this space. Time stops. A rush of energy, a force unidentified, a vigor in flight, and everything explodes. A tsunami on Sixth Avenue in the middle of the country, and nobody sees it coming.

She bites his neck and draws blood, savoring the rusty flavor on her lips. She bites again, harder, ripping the flesh from bone. She pushes him, his head hits the pavement hard. A crack, like lightning, detonates against his ears, pain screwing itself tightly and deeply into his skull. He touches his head, he touches his neck, he cries out for his god. She kneels down, straddles his waist, kisses him hard on the mouth. She sees the confusion, the pain, the rage all swimming and churning in his eyes and delights in the moment. There it is, finally, a mirror that shows it all, true and plain.

Still, only she can see it. Only she recognizes how deep the connection between them is at this very moment, deeper than it ever has been, deeper than it ever will be. The latter she knows as she pulls a dagger from her left boot. It glints in the light from the streetlamp, the blood puddled on the pavement a reflecting halo about his head. He does not have it in him to scream when she pushes the blade into his stomach, but the reaction is there. A squealing whimper, a squirming so intense, and best of all, tears, so many tears. As he squirms she takes in his image. The bloody matted state of his hair, the blood soaked gray t-shirt, the gaping red hole in his neck, the way his eyes are tightly shut, and his jaw is clenched. She takes it all in like a photographer, shooting that one perfect picture, the picture that marks his career.

She gets up, and stalks off. The blood does not show against her black attire. Black boots, Black t-shirt, black jeans, and black long coat. She wipes her face with the back of her sleeve. She keeps the dagger in her hand, in her pocket. But as she walks the anger subsides, the whirlwinds cease, the rains stop. Suddenly her soaking clothes are cold and stiff, her hands sticky, her thoughts on fire. The only comfort comes from the feel of the blade in her between her fingers, she rubs it gently in her pocket. She again comes upon the book store, and sits down in the shadows against its dark walls.

She pulls out the dagger and closes her eyes, tracing the scars on her arms, mentally tracing the new ones she’s about to make. The ones that’ll do it, the ones that’ll kill the pain inside. She remembers it coming over her, she remembers what it did. What she does not remember is why it chose to go so far. She has never understood why it goes so far. And this time, this time it went too far. It’s over, she tells herself, never again.

The blade is warm against her wrist. She drags it lightly over her soft skin, tracing the paths the blood will flow. She takes a deep breath, grits her teeth, and suddenly there is a hole in her flesh. The blood that flows down her arm now is his and hers. Cut too deep, cut the tendons, she cannot grip the knife in her hand to make the second one. She gets up, dagger in right hand, left hand covered in blood. She feels the blood rushing to the opening, all the cells trampling each other to get out. There’s no pulse in her heart, only in her wrist.

There’s a payphone on the corner, she dials 9-1-1 and leaves the receiver off the hook. Light headed, she sits back down, wondering how on earth it is no one sees them. Here on the corner is a girl, bleeding to death, and there, on the other corner, is a man who’s been seduced and murdered. How is it that all of these people are blind?

She hears the sirens coming, coming, coming. Behind closed eyelids she feels a person step into the light, pick her up, lay her down. And then she’s gone.

I wake up to white walls, white ceilings, white sheets, and a white hospital gown, my arm wrapped in white gauze and propped up. Last night floods my mind as I lay staring at nothing. A nurse walks in and says something about food, but I’m not paying attention. That is, until she says my name.

“Dolores Hinojosa…”

The sound of my name disturbs me from my thoughts. I open my eyes and turn my head to look at the nurse, “How long have I been here?”

I watch the blue eyes scan down the clipboard, “Not even twenty four hours.”

“When do I get to leave?”

“Apparently, you leave later on today, but you know you’re not going home right?” the nurse lifted the first page on the clipboard, again scanning the page. “Looks like you’ve got a court date coming up and due to the whole suicide attempt thing, you’ll be put in psychiatric care until then.”

“Not the first time,” I mumble.

“Well, did you want a little something to eat?” she offers again.

“No, thank you.”

When the nurse finally leaves I start to thinking again. This time it’s not just me I tried to kill, I succeeded in killing someone else. I should be thinking of ways to get out of it. Ways to get a lawyer or something. Instead, I’m considering my hospital record, my mental health record and the absolute certainty that I’m getting off on insanity. I’ll be committed for a very long time, probably for life.

By the end of the day, I’m starving but I don’t want to eat. I lay in the same position I woke up in, ignoring nurses as they come in, feeling the light in the room slowly dim as the sun sets, and anticipating the ambulance ride to whatever facility they’re stuffing me in. I know the first thing I’ll do when I get there is take a shower, or probably they’ll make me take a bath. Supervision or no supervision, bath or shower, I will get clean as soon as they let me.

I smile for the first time in a while when I see the EMT. I’ve met this one before, the last time it was forty-six-minus-one pills I swallowed. No stomach pump that time, just this crazy chalk that they make you drink. Forty five anti-depressives make you real high, and I enjoyed myself that time. Black mouth and teeth and lips and all. I must’ve talked a mile a minute the whole ride to the hospital. Mostly embarrassing, actually.

He rolls his eyes when he sees me, but you can tell he’s kind of disturbed. He ties me down and helps lift the stretcher into the ambulance, smiling at me but not talking. I have the same impact on nearly everyone. I’m okay at first, but then they realize what I am, that I am clinically insane, and then I am no longer okay, I am just that, clinically insane. And who knows what to do around a person like that?

Currently Listening Songs from a Secret Garden By Secret Garden Hymn to Hope see related

I bet Troy’s as much as a whore as I am. Ha! I win. My predictions have been proved, or at least by his words they have been. Now I just wish I’d have thought about Chris and taken the thought seriously. That is, instead of having dismissed it.

Though I’ve it all planned out perfectly, I’m not sure I’ll do it anymore. Gibbs replied with a half ass answer. He, being the philosopher person that he is, told me he wouldn’t recommend it and that life is about living. He didn’t say whether or not it would work though. I want a yes or a no. He did answer promptly this morning though, which is comforting. I still want a yes or no. If it will work, then I can die whenever I want to. And that is much more comforting than anything else I can think of. It’s even more comforting than falling asleep in Troy’s (why did I almost type Chris’?) arms.

Heh, I know why I almost typed Chris’ name. Blah. I feel like shit for what I done. I mean I got what I wanted from Troy, but I’m thinking it wasn’t worth the price, and now there’s nothing I can do, there’s no customer service counter for exchanges on this one.

I keep trying to think of reasons why I ought not do it, and coming up with nothing worthy of living. So maybe I’ll die on Sunday, maybe I won’t, but I sure hope I’ve got the courage to do it.

<I removed the first part (there's top secret info in there).> 

What’s sick is that I’m scaring myself. That’s what’s sick, what’s fucked up.

What’s sick too, is that someone asks me something and I tell them to leave me alone. They think I’m playing, and what I really want to say is seriously, leave me alone, I don’t feel good right now, in my head I don’t feel so good. I don’t say it though, for fear that someone’ll hear it and actually give a fuck. People giving a fuck brings no good. I’d just like everyone to straight up not care, and let me end my life. No one wants to do it though. Everyone half ass cares, every one cares just enough to keep me alive, but not enough to make me happy. It’s fucked up, ‘cause all their caring does is keep me suffering. And of course, all my suffering is my fault, because they care for me, which gives me no reason to be miserable right? Right. Bullshit. Everything’s fucking bullshit.

I'm going to end it, and I'll do it right this time. If I fail this time it's jumping off a fucking building and getting it over with.

Haha, the question now, is just how serious is she? I've heard this all before, so just how serious is she this time? That's the question isn't it? As always. For the handful of people that read this shit. Same question, everytime.

(I'm only posting because you remembered my page. Comments are like fucking vodka to me, fucking precious. Of course, I'll stop if you don't read it, because what's the purpose of posting at all if I know you're not reading?)

It’s interesting to have someone to come home to. It’s the same road but you drive a little faster. It’s the same traffic light impatience, but it’s a little more bearable. It’s all okay, because when it’s over there’s someone there to make it all mean nothing. All that matters is this moment, cradled in this person’s arms, safe and warm. And usually safe and warm seems overrated, like sex. But nothing’s overrated if it’s something you’ve been deprived. Nothing is overrated when you enjoy it, but it hasn’t been around. Having a father is overrated until you lose one. Having a bed to sleep in is overrated until you sleep on the streets. Having a job is overrated until the lights and heat get cut off. A clean house is overrated until you get rats or cockroaches. Safe and warm is overrated until you’re alone. It is then, when you experience going without something, that you learn to value it.

Me values being safe and warm.

He waits until five, I told him I’d be off at five, to send me a picture of himself half naked. I told him before he sent it that I didn’t want it, four hours later he’s sending it to me anyways. I ask him why he’s even still awake, says he’s waiting for me, then eh says he’s joking, but in the back of my head I know he’s serious. I know I’m going to get home to him right there, wide awake, waiting. Maybe he went to sleep and set an alarm. Maybe he just stayed awake. Either way, he must want me real bad, or maybe he just wants what I got between my legs, maybe that’s all that matters. He sends another message, wants me to come warm him up and when I refuse for fear of getting caught, he tells me to meet him downstairs.

I get there first and sit down on the couch, freezing in my jersey and underwear, my version of pajamas. He gets up and walks to the bathroom, standing at the door, staring at me in my jersey, trying to get under the couch blanket. “I’m cold,” I tell him. “I don’t’ want to get up.” I don’t particularly care for the way he’s looking at me. It’s a silent sort of “get over here bitch.” But he waits patiently, sitting on the toilet, for me to slowly make my way over to him, shivering as I go.

I’m not a dumb ass, I knew he’d want to finish what we started last night. And again, I’m not a dumb ass, I know he wants me on top, he wants me to do the work for the thing he wants. He takes so long to come his fetch. I’m tired from work, if it weren’t for the loneliness I’d have refused him all together./ I try to work it out, pumping my body up and down, using my toes for leverage. I’m so tired though, I convince him, takes three tries, to get on top and get it over with. And he says why, and I say it’s too much work, and you’re the one that wants it. You do too, he says. And I tell him he wants it way more than I do, that I could put my clothes on in the middle of this and go to sleep and be fine. He’ll be the one trying to sleep in a borrowed bed, masturbating to images in his head. 

I lie down on the floor, and he gets on top. He’s got this down better than the other guys I know, who just pump in and out furiously until they come, and then they’re exhausted, can’t breathe, and collapse on top of me. This one has different patterns than just straight in and out. And he can multi-task well enough to continue to kiss my lips, my neck, and say things.

He asks me if I’ve come yet and I tell him not to worry about me. “Don’t worry about me, just worry about you,” I tell him. He asks me why and I tell him, “Because I don’t.” “You don’t what?” he asks. “I don’t come.”

He tells me if I gave him the chance he’d make me come. I believe he’d try his best, but every guy who knows this about me says the same thing. “I’ll make you come, you just watch,” or something to that effect.

And then suddenly he’s shushing me. He thinks he hears something, though I’m sure it was nothing. I hope it was nothing. He stops after though, because the second time around I think I’ve heard it too. While I get dressed he buttons his pants and goes to the kitchen to get water. And while he’s gulping it down I get dressed and slip back upstairs. Gone, disappeared, as silent as a ghost. I wonder idly if he went to see if I was still waiting for him to come back. When he comes upstairs I’m guzzling down the vodka I’d started when I first got home from work. He whispers again that he’ll make me come if I give him the chance, if I want to bet. I tell him I bet he can’t. And like kids we go back and forth until I finish the bottle and whisper to him, “I love vodka.” He wags his finger at me and disappears down the hall.

In a minute or two he sends me another message, “what you gonna do if I get you pregnant?” “Be pregnant,” I tell him. He’s surprised to find that I don’t particularly care, that in my mind it’s everyone else that cares. Me? I don’t mind much at all, except as far as work goes. I’d hate to have to take off from work, though I imagine such a thing would be ineluctable. But the only thing I’ve ever regarded with disdain as far as pregnancy goes is the idea of that last day, those last hours spent pushing and pushing and stretching out to make way for the big old thing coming out of where only bodily fluids are supposed to be. Yes, I have a fear of busting my ass, quite literally. There’s drugs though, my mom used it one time out of the four, she said it was good. If I ever have to go through childbirth, I’m sure I’ll demand it with all the ferocity of a pregnant woman.

If I were every to give birth, it’d be interesting, for then I’d finally have someone of my own to keep safe and warm.