6:46 AM - questionable fiction.

**Funny, I found this in a file of old writings. I do not believe it is very good, but I somehow think it is pertinent to perhaps a very lonely girl, that is now a stranger too me. I have come to embrace being alone, and seek not the company of any of such that require chasing. This story is not a true story, but like all of my stories it depicts moments of truth. These moments I can understand, and part me of me always will, but I know I have outgrown the story, the circumstances, and perhaps fictitious lovers (that of course is untrue my stories will always have them, sigh). Peculiar, how much we change in a year or so.

Yearning for comfort. (Breanna Kiggins- 2006)

"I could die happy after that experience." She told him, as she took a heavy drag off of her cigarette.
He kissed her cheek. "Was I that amazing love?" he asked, with not a trace of modesty. She nodded, and kissed his forehead. He rolled on his side towards the nightstand, and took use of the razor blade lying on the tiny mirror. With no exertion he lifted the ashen substance off the mirror through an over used straw, and into his nasal passage. She threw the blanket on the floor, "You fancy going again? You know you will be up all night with that lot." He rolled his eyes, and flicked her nose. She smiled with her eyes, and looked down at her naked breast. They both laughed momentarily. "Truth is, I have to get going." He said. She sighed, "It is already three." He hushed her with his finger, as she closed her eyes. "Darling, I prefer you stay." She whispered through nearly closed lips. He clasped her hand tenderly, "indubitably, I suppose you would." She reached over him, and grabbed the mirror. "I think I'll join you." After they both engulfed the powder, minutes stretched into hours and at ten am he was finally asleep on her chest.
At noon he crept underneath her arm, and situated a pillow in his spot. She slurred something in her slumber, and he petted her head succinctly, as she breathed heavily. When he saw she was sound asleep, he went through the door, pulling it tightly behind him.
She woke up a few hours later naked and deserted. She had no recollection of him leaving, but was not surprised. She wrapped her kimono around her, and stumbled to the kitchen where she made a cup of coffee. She sat at her table, dazed, smoking a cigarette, with a look of perplexity on her face. The phone rang. After the fourth ring she realized it was ringing and made her way to the receiver. She no longer had a cellular phone, she had found it irritating, and subsequently her social life had taken an archaic turn. "Hello?" she garbled. The voice on the other end was one she initially found recognizable. It was he. "I don't know what happened this morning… I just couldn't handle where this was going, I mean I couldn't handle any level of attachment." He said this quickly, and with hesitation. She sighed, this had been the conversation she had anticipated, but gave her extreme apprehension. "It was that terrible?" she asked. "No. Not terrible. Just, too convoluted… I mean you, you are a grand lass, not to sound cliché, it is just me, though. Not the person you want, not even part of me is capable." She sat silently, and bit her nails. He was the person she wanted, despite his shortcomings, and habitual neurosis. "Alright, I understand…" she didn't, "but what now?" she waited.
He didn't want to respond to this, because the selfish part of him wanted to continue seeing her, on his terms though. Although unfair to her, at least that was how he viewed it; perhaps it would be better to have something than nothing after all. "I am not saying we can't see each other anymore, just I won't be there in a way you may expect." She had already known he wasn't the pledging type. "It does not matter, you are being too analytical dear." He knew he was. "I know, I know. I'll call you in a couple of days?" "Uh huh. Goodbye." She put down the telephone, and stared at it fleetingly, and smiled sadly.
She drew a scalding bath, and soaked in the tub for a while. She fell asleep, until she heard the phone in the other room. Finally she made her way to the unremitting noise, "What were you doing?" she heard the chipper voice on the other end. It sounded like a damn canary to her. "I was uh... bathing…" she muttered. She stood austere, shivering, with goose bumps all over her body. (The water had long since turned cold, and she had not turned on the heater that day) Her friend did not notice the fractious tone in her voice, and continued: "I wanted to have a drink this evening, I could bring over a bottle of merlot?" the girl presumed. She really felt like resting, but knew she would never hear the end of it, so she relented.
An hour later, it must have been near nine already, the downstairs buzzer went off. She had gotten dressed in blasé attire, consisting of a satin sleeveless dress, and bare feet. She had not even bothered to comb her hair, or bother with make-up. Before her friend had even approached the door, she pulled it open, and walked into the bathroom to in any case brush her teeth. When she came out, she recoiled in disbelief. There he stood with a grin on his face. She stood gauche at her appearance. "I wasn't expecting you…" that was all she could get out. She looked down awkwardly. He didn't give her a chance to say anything else; he had her within seconds pinned tightly against the wall, locked in a kiss. He had no need to say anything, she understood. They embraced avidly, not conscious that the door was still open, unreservedly unaware of anything else.
This time she awoke first. The first time in the course of their liaison that he had been palpably comfortable, before she woke. Usually she awoke to find him en route, or at least roused, and occupied. This gave her a sense of glee, and she tiptoed out of the room, terrified of wrecking the validity of the situation. He was a light sleeper, so when she returned from brushing her teeth, he woke up, but to her relief he smiled sleepily, extended his arm, and tucked her beneath him as she scuttled into the covers. They both fell into a heavy slumber, and if asked at a later time she would not be able to answer which one of them awoke first.

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4:23 PM - Emotional Aftermath.
Category: Writing and Poetry

The bathtub water was near scalding, but she needed it that way. Her pale naked skin had begun to turn pink, and she with her eyes closed allowed the hot water to immerse her. The telephone could be heard down the hall, ringing incessantly, but she had long since tuned it out. She reached for the bar of soap, and massaged it deeply into her skin; she was pushing it into her body so vigorously that her fingers had made indents within the soap bar. Over, and over she massaged the emerald bar over her entire body, into her protruding ribs, over her breast, between her thighs, the knobs in her spine, around her neck, and beneath her feet. Her body now contained a slippery jade film of the lathered substance. With a sponge she assiduously removed the soap-filled areas, by dispensing the hot water contained soaked in the sponge. She continued this process three or four times, until her fingers had turned into solid prunes, and the bath water was a mucky, opaque green. When she finally climbed out of the tub, the water had turned tepid, and she reached for her towel quickly, since she was now shivering. She draped a towel around her fanatically clean self as if it were a blanket, and collapsed onto the hard bathroom floor. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she rolled herself into foetal position. Falling asleep on the bathroom floor, she thought of how she had been wronged earlier that day, and how she had just destroyed any evidence, except for her haunting memory, that it had ever taken place.

The next morning she awoke, and decided to start her day, as if nothing had happened. She climbed up from the floor, hung the towel on the rack, walked soberly to the bedroom, and chose a modest dress to wear from her closet. As she began to dress, she pressed the play button on her answering machine, and forced herself to enter reality. She insisted that she was not weak, and that emotional turmoil only took place with those who could not handle their problems. She had taken one night to feel sorry for herself, and that was all of the time she would allow.
With this conclusion, she went to pick up the clothes she had taken off in such a hurry the evening before. The clothes that were blood stained, the clothes that were torn, and the clothes that she would now throw away.
Afterwards, she looked at her reflection in the mirror, and for a brief second she saw a helpless girl looking back at her. A girl with vacant eyes, searching for a reason that she could not emerge, and admit she was hurt; but once again those emotions were asphyxiated. Asphyxiated, and put to rest, until the day they would come up like emotional vomit; because wherever they lie suppressed, it was just a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode.

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10:41 AM - The Delicate Creature.
Category: Writing and Poetry

She was a delicate creature, but one of substance, and one I greatly admired. I always thought her eyes could haunt even disparagers; such large, round, pale eyes, freckled with life, but tragic because of what they had seen. I remember thinking of them as identical mirrors into her soul, because as reticent as she was, the acumen could discern her existence through them. She was conscious of this, so she often gazed towards the ground, and rarely made direct eye contact.
I have analyzed her quintessence so many times, but I realize there are elements of her that would always be ambiguous. Perhaps that is what made her an enigma; the parts people could not characterize. So many things were speculated, and she would neither decline nor confirm them. People could not access her, and for some that was igniting.
I lived across the hall from her, but knew very little about her personal life, only what everybody knew from magazines, and interviews. Each time she left the building she wore dark glasses covering those divulging eyes. I was not the sort of person who was intrigued by illustriousness, but I found her work to be particularly brilliant and inimitable. She seemed to fall into a role, and truly transpire as that person.
One day just as the elevator was about to close, I (always habitually anxious) quickly moved towards it, and she pressed the elevator button so I could get in. Mumbling, I thanked her, and looked towards the ground myself. We rode in complete silence the fourteen floors to our floor, (skipping the thirteenth as most buildings do). My mind began postulating the way it often does about superstition, and how much it actually effected society, I got so lost in thought I did not realize when we had stopped. In the voice that seemed so familiar but only from pictures of course, she asked "Don't you live on this floor?" Startled I looked up, and saw her smiling through those dark glasses. "Yes, thank you I do." Realizing that she had noticed me before. Although it was the first time we had spoke, there was no real magnitude. She was simply my neighbour, and I hers.
It was several months between the time we had spoke so briefly in the elevator, and when we exchanged a few words again. The next time was in the lobby of our building. I was turning the key of my mailbox, and two boxes down she was opening hers. She said, "Hello" and then hesitated. Strangely enough she then asked me to do a favour for her. Quickly she explained that she would be filming out of town for two weeks, and how she needed somebody to care for her cat, water her plants, and collect her mail. If it was any inconvenience she certainly understood, but if I could help her she would certainly pay me. In reality, I loathe cats. However, she was so kind about it, and I felt I could not demur her request, though compensation was certainly not necessary. "That's so kind of you, I really hate to leave him, but it would be difficult to bring my Siamese to Kenya." I nodded my head in agreement. She arranged to give me all of the necessary details the next morning.
Later the following evening, I went across the hall to tend to things. I opened the door to apartment uniform to mine in structure, but certainly not in content. Exquisite tapestries hung from all the windows, the common room was dazzling with sumptuous furniture, and on the wall hung one of the most beautiful paintings I had ever seen. I was in awe of this painting for several moments, until I felt an unreceptive paw scratching at my leg. I observed her Siamese; he was completely white, with a supercilious disposition. I laughed out loud at this ridiculous animal, and went to the kitchen to feed him, after I took care of the other things she had instructed, I bent down to pet the cat before leaving, he was not completely hostile. To my surprise, after a short time he became amenable to my presence, and dealing with him was no trouble at all. Those two weeks flew by, for I was busy with work, and had began to date somebody recently as well.
At the end of the two weeks, I woke up one morning, put on my kimono, and walked to the door to get the newspaper, and noticed an envelope under the door. Inside was a hand written letter, thanking me for my kindness in tending to the cat, and apartment. She had enclosed two tickets to her new film premier. I was delighted by her thoughtfulness, and wrote her a thank you in return. A few weeks later I attended the opening night to her new film. I had come with my new interest, and he seemed to be quite impressed by the whole atmosphere. We watched as a Rolls-Royce pulled up to the carpet, a man opened the back door, and out she stepped. She wore a striking gold backless dress, with her hair piled neatly on the top of her head. Although evening, she still wore her dark glasses, and for some reason they never seemed to be pretentious the way some may perceive. Totally by herself she walked down the carpet of reporters, I doubt it would have suited her to have an escort. As she came closer to where I stood, she saw me and smiled. I smiled back, and mouthed "Thank you." She nodded her head, and waved to me as she went inside. Her film was another masterpiece, and I knew it would be a great success.
Over the next two years I would run into her frequently, and exchange conversation with her from time to time. There were three or four more times I helped her care for her cat, I had actually grown fond of the animal. At Christmas she even left a package at my door from Tiffany's, it contained an elegant letter opener. Sometimes we would talk about art, literature, and even cooking (which she did not do much of). I noticed she never had a man, or a woman around for that matter. I wondered how she managed to live without the company of someone, and knew that was one of the things to remain classified about her.
Astonishingly, after the two years had passed a very handsome man had started to escort her home, and on some occasions, would remain there himself, sneaking out early in the morning (I imagine so the neighbours who did not use discretion could not leak this to the tabloids). I began to notice her emerging less and less. I rarely conversed with her anymore, and I had heard somewhere she had taken a leave of absence from the studio. I wondered whether or not she had taken ill, and had started to grow concerned. I saw the man in the hallway one afternoon, and I decided to ask about her. Impervious, and concise, he declared it was not my affair, and he would see to her, not anyone else. After that I ascertained that he was not my favourite person by any means. I had always thought of her as such a lovely entity, one that was too clever to be involved with an unfavourable man. Vulnerability can hit anyone I presume. I knew then that she was fragile, and grew more concerned.
A few weeks later I was lying in bed reading a novel, I heard loud voices coming from her apartment, and had thought to check on her. Albeit, I remembered she preferred to remain incredibly reserved. I heard the door slam, and footsteps running down the hall towards the elevator. At this point I was out of bed getting a glass of water, out of curiosity I opened the door to see who had left. I saw the side profile of the man she was involved with briefly as he entered the elevator. "Good Riddance." I thought.
Early the next morning I woke up to sirens. I climbed out of bed to see what the trouble was, and within several moments I heard footsteps in the hallway. I stepped outside of my apartment, and saw a team of paramedics, and police officers storming into her apartment. My heart stood still, as I waited to see what the outcome of their attendance would be. I watched them wheel out a stretcher with a sheet covering what could only be a body. Tears rolled down my face, as I thought to myself, "He killed her…" Apropos, I heard that familiar voice right then, chills went down my spine, as if it were an apparition. My eyes turned, and there she was, still beautiful; a large bruise on the right side of her face, she was clad in a pale yellow negligee, and barefooted. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, and an officer gently led her towards the elevator. I had heard her say, "It was her turn to make a mistake."

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8:44 PM - Broken fingers. Broken Hearts. Broken Spirits.

I lay on the floor naked, the music coming from the stereo is not music I could ever write, but it music that depicts my emotions perfectly. I am freshly bathed, but I feel dirty for reasons I cannot wash away. I betrayed my conscience, I acted impulsively, and I allowed it to eat away at me. As I fill smoke into my lungs, I wonder about my fascination with asphyxiation, is it because I know what its like to suffocate from nearly drowning as a child, and it left me wanting to play with the dark side, or is it the fact that it leaves you only thinking of survival and not all of the silly things that are drowning your thoughts on a normal basis? The things that make you cry for reasons unknown, the individual occurrences that take away your appetite, and the nightmares that cause you to fear sleep. Why is it that ominous thoughts take away the necessities for survival: sleep and eating?
I will not credit one particular situation to my current disposition; I will say it was many concerns that caused me to suffer; perhaps I was overdue. My phone rings in a room that seems miles away, and I have no need to answer. Tonight, I am going to be alone, that is the way I intend to be, at least for a while. For nobody else is going to mend my broken finger, my broken heart, and my broken spirit, except for myself, and time.

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3:55 PM - Another Tale of Debauchery.

So dear chums, as I write I go back to a time of simplicity. A time where sex was of little consequence, and drugs were something you did to pass the time. Oh, the lazy days of youth, where everything seemed to be arbitrary. Everybody had a personality disorder, as if psychological issues were trendy. Suicide scars were hot, and so was bulimia. Wherever we got such warped ideas I have yet to figure out. However, take into consideration it was when "heroin chic" was IT. Games like button, button who has the button; and very adult truth or dare were frequently played. Dare I admit that I had participated in such scandalous behaviour, perhaps, but not all of it of course, for I am not ancient now. It takes some grave honesty to admit this depraved lifestyle. I do confess I was far from chaste. Were there some worse than I, doubtless, but then again I was worse than others.
I started driving down the freeway. I did not know where I was going, or for what purpose. I had this crazy habit of driving with no objective. I wound around the 101 freeway. I was out of Hollywood, and headed towards Downtown. I saw the Flower St. exit and swerved my car to the right. As I drove through downtown, I paid little attention to the dissoluteness I passed. The longer you were exposed to such vice, the less it seemed to register. You became almost robotic at times. I drove to San Pedro St. How many times I had found myself on this street lately, I could not say. On every occasion I went on those senseless drives it always had the same result. I pulled the car over to the sidewalk, and rolled down my window. Back then my actions were never thought out, I never really pondered the validity of my sedition. It was after that my motive was clear; To get out of downtown as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. Back on the 101 I would go, Exit Hollywood Blvd., and go into my apartment, once again without a purpose.

(hope to hear your thoughts)

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11:22 PM - Sensual Beginnings.
Current mood: nostalgic
Category: Romance and Relationships

It was five years ago that I last knew you. We were lovers then, long before enmity, odium, and eventual indifference. That passion that we triggered into futile loathing; was once bittersweet ardor and incandescent pleasure. We embodied the quintessence of embryonic lust, and we acted upon those irrepressible urges. If not to ascertain monumental elation, it was to recognize what was so pristine to us both.
An age of discovery, not realizing our emotions that caused us to ascend, would also instigate our putrefaction. With that attachment my need for intimacy grew, as did your fancy to sequester me. If it hadn't become a means to end our arguments, to elude apprehension, to possess the other, and worst of all a way to absolve anger, we might have survived to be friends. As it was we grew too intense. Our emotions amplified precariously, a presage that we were doomed. Perhaps worse, was the total lack of fervor that was to come, when we deemed each other inconsequential, followed by utter apathy. Albeit, had we not experienced this colossal period of erudition would we still be impetuous? I owe you the end of my naïveté, the enlightenment of my sexual competence, and the resilience of my centre, and at the risk of sounding vainglorious, I presented those things to you as well. Now five years later, I look back with a sense of nostalgia, and I think about the next chapter of my life, as I fondly close your memory.

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4:38 PM - Overcoming an Extreme Obstacle.
Current mood: hopeful

"It can't be, it just can't be!" she cried painfully. Tears filled her eyes, her breathing grew heavy, and she felt she was going to be violently ill.
The doctor looked at her sympathetically. Although she viewed it as one of those patronizing expressions only doctors could give, after becoming jaded to the effects of tragedy.
"Do something, anything! Please just fix it!" The words came out of her mouth, but she knew they were hopeless. Her whole world came crashing down. All of her ambition, dedication, and passion over the years had been invested in one thing, and one thing only: to be a classical pianist. Nothing else had ever mattered, she never thought of herself becoming anything but a pianist. This doctor stood there and told her "it was impossible" in the same context he may tell somebody they needed glasses. She wanted to murder him for giving her such an ill-fated prognosis.
With a look of sheer anguish she stared at the hand that was now ruined. At this point losing the hand all together would hold the same weight. She felt inadequate, and disfigured. Although in all practical ways she would not be handicapped within a few months, it was emotional suicide having your life's dreams snatched away.
All of the detrimental and acerbic thoughts flowing through her mind began to make her anxious. Her head began to pound, and she felt her heart jumping out of her chest; she began to hyperventilate. The doctor realized this was not just a broken hand in which alleviation could come from pain pills, this broken hand was causing severe emotional damage, and a practical mental breakdown. With haste he called the nurse in, and ordered a dose of Valium urgently.
She awoke nearly forgetting the circumstances. Her head was in a daze, and she could vaguely remember something tragic and horrendous happening prior to falling asleep. It didn't take long before she saw the pasty cast on her right arm, a physical reminder of her overwhelming circumstances.
It had been a week since she had dressed herself. Obviously a broken hand did not actually leave her incapacitated, but the chronic depression she felt consumed her. She walked around the house like a zombie; in the past three days she had lost seven pounds. The telephone rang; she allowed the answering machine to get it. The voice on the other end was imperturbable, and professional. What was said sent her into hysterics.
"Congratulations. We are calling to inform you, that you placed quite highly on your performance last month. We would love to have you compete in the Italian Competition, as a United States representative of the Classical Pianist Performance Association. We commend your ability, and talent, and are proud to have you as a contender."

The message could not have come at a more inopportune moment. Suddenly she became eager, and capable. She stared at her perfect piano fingers on the left hand, at one point her weaker hand, but now her only prospect. With apprehension she walked towards the piano bench, a place she had not dare look at since the accident. With unknown strength she sat down, and with her left hand she began sliding her fingers across the keys.
For weeks on end she played solely with her left had, increasing the strength within each finger. Something remarkable began to take place; the hand she had not focused on entirely began to accumulate a musical potency. Once skilled, and now adroit; she felt resilient. In another month her right hand would be cast-free, and somehow she would find a way to utilize it!
Although the doctor insisted that she would be unable to perform, that it was a physical impracticality, she paid little notice. As soon as she came home, she sat down at her piano bench. With one very strong left hand, and a quite frail right she pressed her hands down on the keys. At first her right hand felt as if it would fissure in half, but despite the palpable discomfort, she was driven by exigency. Miraculously, although remedial at first, she began to make progress. The slightest progress lifted her spirits high. It was an arduous task, but she was up to the challenge. Gradually she was able to play for longer durations. The more her capacity increased towards practice length, the more flexible her fingers became. Soon everything seemed to be slipping back into place. Somehow it was not the same as before though. Her struggles had created an obstinacy she did not know she had. The left hand had never been stronger, and the right although still fragile, was worked to full capacity. Her performing excelled. It was not all phenomenal of course. There were certain pieces her hand would never be able to reach again. However the pieces she was able to play were now a work of perfection. Instead of performing any piece on a mediocre level, the ones she could implement were fastidious.
Perhaps the most difficult encounter of her life became a testament of her adoration for music. Proven to herself, and anyone who knew her, she was an artist through any possible tribulation.

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2:20 AM - Unfaithful.
Current mood: lethargic

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. The girl was passed out next to him, and he had no recollection of whom she was. Her pink lipstick stained the filters in the ashtray; he rummaged through them for a clean butt, disgusted by the tainted remnants of the night before. His head was spinning, and he felt nauseous. He sat up, cold, and shirtless. She stirred, and sleepily opened her eyes, "hey there." She said, closed her eyes, and drifted back to sleep. He said nothing, sighed, and shook his head, "I don't even like blondes." He thought. He picked his pants off the floor, and reached in his pocket for his cell phone.
There were a few missed calls from the night before, and several unanswered text messages. A twinge of culpability beleaguered him, but he pushed it aside. He began to respond with another deception to the girl he was so frequently dishonest with.
He typed these words: "Left cell on vibrate-sorry. Will call soon. Love you." It was nearly seven thirty her time. He knew she would be awake, and there would be a phone call following his message shortly.
Upon standing up, he realized he was completely nude, and searched around the room for his underwear. They were lying on the edge of the girl's bed. Somehow he managed to dress himself completely, find an untainted cigarette, and sneak out the door, without her wakening.
For the nameless blonde he felt no sympathy; vanishing fragments of his conscience only caused him mild concern for the wide-eyed brunette whom he knew loved him exceedingly. Each time this happened, it grew effortless to quickly discount this remorse. Although he knew the unselfish thing would be to let her go, to allow her to find somebody that was capable of fidelity, he knew he could not part with the affection she gave him. For having this stability with his faithful lover, was necessary in a world of inconsistencies.
He walked with haste to the hotel where the van was parked. They were not scheduled to leave until noon, and he knew the others would be fast asleep. However, it gave him less apprehension of being caught, to be in the surroundings he was professing to be in. As if on cue, the phone rang, and he answered with ease, for how would she ever know?
"Hello there! I was just about to call you," the words came out fluently. Followed by an apology, and some placid words about missing her. Once again, she took the bait, although she had spent the night distraught, and concerned for his wellbeing.
Before hanging up, he remembered to say, "I love you, and be good," knowing she would, and he of course would not.

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5:48 PM - It won't last long enough.

(short story of an addicts failure)
"Your life is contaminated. You wear a metaphorical scarlet letter that brands you for what you are… and the mistakes you have made, my darling, are inconceivable. Why on earth would you presume that you deserve to be happy? Why do you think you deserve this bliss reserved for the pure of heart?"

Tears flooded her eyes. She had told herself this very thing for such a long time, and now when she was finally able to get past her self-loathing, it was told to her once again she was worthless. This endless battle of emotional torment would prove detrimental, and he knew precisely what effect this conversation would have on her. However, he chose to continue.

"I don't know why you have made it this far. Repeatedly you have hurt those who care about you, and you have hurt yourself. People of your kind have no entitlement to love, and you should drown in anguish. I am not saying this to be untenably cruel, you know as well as I, that you are bound to self-destruct any true delight you may ever obtain."

Dazed, and expressionless she stared at him intently. Her hopes of him seeing a new person, the product of reformation were shattered. At this point, months of progress were fading with haste. She opened her mouth to speak, but her feelings were ineffable. Life had finally found new meaning; she had felt lucid, and empathetic. It was too late for her, perhaps, too late for this rebirth into happiness. Justice would be suffering for her contraventions.

"I am sorry, I have hurt you so terribly. I truly am."

She stood and headed towards the door. His conscious pressed on him to stop her, he knew she was precarious, and this may throw her over the edge. However he had grown tired of not speaking his mind, of walking on eggshells where she was concerned. What was said was necessary he felt, otherwise he would never feel contentment himself. The selfish nature of his actions escaped him, and he considered himself not culpable.

The door was locked, she sat on the bathroom counter, needle in hand, a surreal expression consumed her face, and her heart pumped with anticipation. She pumped her hand a few times tightly, and with the tourniquet bound tightly around her arm the veins came up adequately. With her index finger she flicked the point of entrance, followed by an adept prick of the syringe. Moments later, her eyes rolled back in her head. It had been so long since she had felt this relief. The relief one receives only from acute, transient, and artificial ecstasy. The emptiness was consumed with an overwhelming sense of apathy. The only thoughts that flowed through her brain as she began to nod out were,
"It won't last long enough… It simply won't last long enough."

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1:52 AM - Hospitals, Somnolence, and Lucidity.
Current mood: drained
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

Wearing only a thin cotton gown made the room unpleasantly cold. I couldn't help but contemplate a million other places I would rather be, than lying in a hospital bed. I had a small needle taped to my hand, and I watched the clear liquid draining into my vein. The walls were opaque, and insalubrious. Not much for a person in my situation to be stimulated by. I could feel a heaviness coming over me; this I imagined was from one of the many things within that IV. I wondered whether I would be coming out of this oblivion, or if this would remain my purgatory?
Before being wheeled into another room, I remember smiling about a message I had received, at least giving me an unperturbed disposition momentarily. Before me stood a doctor wearing thick glasses, and a protective mask, accompanied by a team of nurses. I saw a dark haired woman with a placid smile looking into my eyes requesting me to count backwards. This illusory scenario faded, on the number twelve, although I cannot remember whether it was the first, or second time I uttered that number.

My eyelids felt like they were cemented shut. I could hear enigmatical voices coming from afar. I remembered the circumstances to some extent, although I would not be able to determine the time, the day, or even the year. Although the disorientation was no comparison to the discomfort I was beginning to feel. When my eyes begin to process my surroundings I tried to sit up. This was not feasible. I was in far too much pain.
A young man with trustworthy eyes came over to my bedside. He smiled kindly at me, and asked how I felt. I tried to speak but the words would not come. Instead a low moan escaped my throat, and what I imagined to be a look of distress. I did not have to speak, he understood, and quickly brought in the man with the thick glasses who administered something else into that translucent bag connected to me intravenously. Once again I felt like I was drifting, and everything seemed tranquil.
When the medications had worn off substantially, I began to put things into perspective. Not the validity of this current situation, just the insignificance of many others. Events I had felt to be catastrophic probably were not. Circumstances that hurt my feelings really did not matter, and so many other problems I had allowed to cause such deep anxiety were really small in the grand scheme of things. I began to contemplate whether everything else was obsolete, that survival was what really mattered. Even my own situation was not detrimental compared to that of others.
However, I knew that this clarity would fade directly. Soon enough, I would be in tears over a so-called broken dream. Grief would strike me, upon feeling betrayed. Heartbreak would find me over the injury caused by a lover. Failure on any form would create feelings of inadequacy. Nevertheless, at that very second I was able to enjoy my sense of unambiguousness.

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3:01 PM - A Friend, but not a Lover.
Current mood: sympathetic
Category: Life

"I do not want to be your friend, can you not understand that I love you dearly, and seeing you, but not being with you, would inevitably break my heart? I have no desire to be around you anymore, if I cannot touch you in the way I desire. Why agonize if I don't have too, why I ask you?"

She looked at her shoes, mutely. She knew exactly what he meant, but feigned not too. She bit her bottom lip acutely, the way she always did when she felt overwhelmed. He had been around her long enough to know this habit was one performed out of provocation. She reached for his hand, but he rebuffed. She knew above all else she had to remain unyielding, she could not allow him to convince her once more to stay in this hackneyed situation.

"I am sorry, I don't know what else to say. It is most distressing that you will not be a part of my life if the physical intimacy you desire is not present, however if that is the way that it must be, then so be it."

The words had no sooner left her lips before she felt them to be austere. Her intention was not to be grim, but merely obdurate. She had been in this precise predicament before, except her role was inverted. It was not foreign for her to know longing for a person on every level; who seeks out only your inconsequential friendship. She knew the physical pain of yearning for a person you can tangibly see, however cannot possess. Albeit, she had never envisioned herself creating this reaction in someone else.

He would not look at her. He was unable to look up, and she felt tears of empathy clouding her vision. It was not out of regret, it was the knowledge of what he was going through, and not being able to change her own need to accommodate him. It was a difficult spot to be in, but the sense of clarity that overcame her was reassuring. She now knew that the ones who had no longer wanted her were not in fact terrible, and she realized that although true, this would not dissolve the acrimony he felt.

When he finally did look up, he did not have the discontent appearance of anger, rather one of blatant lament. Her presence did not seem to comfort him, and she again felt a twinge of insight into his emotions. She stood, unsteadily, and with the heavy feeling one has after committing an act of dishonour.

"I know what you are feeling. You may not believe that, but I do. I do not want to hurt you, but I know I have, and for that I am sorry. I do not think it best that I stay here any longer, because it will only make it more painful, and there is no sense losing ones dignity with pleading and bartering. I would rather remember you just how you are, and look back on this with some fond memories… again, I am so sorry."
She stretched her thin arms out in front of her, with a half-hearted smile across her lips. With hesitancy he stood, and brought her close to him. She hugged him tightly, and laid her head on his shoulder. He fought back emotion as the scent of her hair permeated through his nose, the scent he would forever associate with this girl. She wondered as one always does when something is about to end, whether there would be regrets, whether or not this was a wise decision, and she knew that it had to be done, no matter what cynicism she may be experiencing.

With slight force she broke away from the embrace, on tiptoe, kissed his forehead, smiled lightly again with tenderness. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ring me," the type of comment one mutters to fill the silence. He was an intelligent person, and knew she had made this nonsensical remark out of benevolence, and he appreciated the consideration. She turned away from him, and approached the door, he watched her as she left, and as she crossed the floor she held tight to her need to leave, without looking back.

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9:51 PM - the deflowering of a young woman.
Category: Life

It could have been a hundred years ago, maybe more, but she could remember it vividly, it was on the eve of her sixteenth birthday.  Unknown to her, the wicked ways men looked at her pubescent body, she was ever so trusting. Her excitement grew, as she prepared for her date.  Long before days of Brazilian waxes, and push-up bras, she simply combed her hair, and gently applied the minimal make-up she wore back then.  She had fastidiously selected a pale sundress with yellow flowers.  She had felt it accentuated her eyes, and was blind to verity the emphasis would be entirely on something far more sinuous.  She wasn't naïve, in fact compared to some girls of her age, she was rather erudite.  Even the most adroit teenage girls, are still girls though, whether they are slight nymphettes or not.  She had been aware of her sex appeal before she would have been considered to have any at all, by most people's standards.  Just how much a man thought about unbuttoning her clothes, and making love to her young body was overlooked.  
    Her hair fell in long dark tresses around her pale face. Her lips were stained with red gloss, and her eyes were not tainted by make-up, but possessed the glow of formative years, and ingenuousness that only a virgin has.  She glanced at herself in the mirror, and smiled brightly at her reflection.  She felt pretty, and with the cruel nature other girls possess, their insecure methods of taunting, and chastising, it was difficult to feel good about oneself during adolescence. Albeit, the rare moments of sensed beauty that escape, despite extreme self-doubt radiated limpidness, attractive to all perceptive enough to discern it.  
    She went through the doors of the building they were set to meet.  It was an upscale restaurant, and she had felt her excitement grow, knowing she would be dinning at a place where thriving women dinned, women she so admired.  She was ushered into the parlour of the establishment, where the bar was near by.  Her date was a boy a few years her senior, and she fancied him for years. Only recently he had taken notice to her.  In fact many boys around that time had shown her attention she had never received in the past.  She was beginning to doubt that he would ever come, and her nerves were already derelict, due to the stares of men twice, even three times her age as they went past her, and she felt the eyes of women their same age despising her for reasons she had yet to understand.
    Her heart skipped a beat, as she saw him come through the door with an air of assurance, and slight superciliousness.  An apology was never murmured for being near thirty minutes late, and she was to perplexed by inexperience to demand one.  The dinner was like heaven to her, she felt like a blossoming woman, with the days of homework, exasperating parents, and invidious friends a million miles away.  The young man could have been any young man in that scenario.  He possessed a contrived sense of security, and endowment, although chances were his experience was only a fabrication of dreams he envisioned himself partaking in.  He knew the correct things to say to this glowing girl, from listening to a much older brother, he was adept with the artistry of flattery.  The young girl blushed with anticipation, and when he ran his fingers across her hand she felt a quiver in places she had only recently began to experiment with.
    After leaving the restaurant, she walked apprehensively with him to his vehicle.  Her mother had reminded her to remain virtuous, and she had rolled her eyes, the way all young girls do at a mother's mention of "virtue."  They drove in silence to a place isolated from congestion, and she began to feel an urgency to leave, to evacuate from this development of expectancy, and from the ravenous eyes of the wolf behind the steering wheel. Something left her paralyzed in the seat, and she could not muster the courage to protest.  Somehow she relented to the kisses of this young man.  Her eyes were closed and her mind wandered to another place, another time, anything but this situation.  While he was unzipping the back of her dress, she thought of swimming in the ocean.  When he reached for her developing breasts, she thought of holding her breath under water, and when he made his way down to her most clandestine areas, she thought of drowning all together. Guilt caused her to perspire, and he took it for fervour.  She came out of her trance as she felt something go inside her.  She let out a small cry, and bit into her lip so vigorously that blood began to flow.  With the blood, came tears, and the boy was either oblivious to this fact, or chose to ignore it, because he pushed into her deeper and deeper. The most humiliation she felt, was when saw him jerk, as if having an epileptic episode, followed by sounds of contentment. A sense of relief filled her that at last this encounter was over.  The boy rolled off of her, and back into his own seat.  He made some acerbic remark about the blood on her seat, and that it was his parent's car after all.  She was appalled at his cynical jab towards the crimson evidence of innocence having been shed.  If he had been arrogant before, it was no match for the condescension he displayed while driving her home.  He pulled in the driveway, and mentioned something about "having a good time."  She had wanted to say she was glad one of them did, but smiled faintly instead.  He did not walk her to the door, she didn't notice whether he had waited to see if she made it to the door or not, but assumed that he had not.  She ran through the door, and into her bedroom.
    She could not face her parents, and her delicate dress was depraved with verification of her transgression.  She tore off the dress in shame, and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror.  Eyes filled with tears, she walked closer to the mirror, and stared at her reflection.  Somehow she did not feel shame anymore, she felt a sense of growth, the same way she felt after realizing things like fairies, and Santa Clause did not exist.  Although she grieved for the loss of her innocence, once again life had been revealed for what it truly was. Although it did not live up to expectation, it was real, it was candid, and it was something she would have to admit was not lovely after all, and perhaps it would get better, the girls who had done it before had said it would.  She wondered whether or not everything in life was just like this, full of high expectations that never really came through.

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4:28 PM - A Boy's Crush
Category: Life

    "So she was totally begging for it, so you know I went for it."  He divulged this information with superciliousness, and not a trace of decorum.  The other guys in the group nodded their heads, as if to show they could relate.  Jack was in earshot, and with intense curiosity he listened to his peers go into detail about their alleged sexual encounters.  A knot formed in his stomach, and he began to feel nauseous.  That is what always happened when he got stressed.  He tried to shake off the anxiety he felt.  It was two weeks before his eighteenth birthday, and he had yet to kiss a girl.  It wasn't that he was abhorrent or unsolicited.  There were girls at school with a capacious appetite, particularly for the guys who were untainted.  However those girls were not the least bit alluring to him.  
    It was not just the physical frustration he had begun to feel, that bothered him. Rumours had begun to circulate.  Even his parents had started speculating about his sexuality.  Funny how a boy maintained his virginity, and people consequentially assumed he was gay.  He wasn't about disproving that rumour; in fact it amused him to some degree.  His attraction to females was certainly evident to him, but he was of a rare breed that wasn't attracted to the provocative types that seemed to be so beguiling to other young men.
One girl in particular, he considered extraordinary.  He had never spoken to her.  In fact very few people had.  She was slightly blasé, and introverted. Her eyes possessed a quality of despondency, as if her past life had been filled with depravity. His intrigue began upon transferring to the school a year prior. He had walked down the school steps, and saw her alone, reading.  She seemed totally unaware of anything else around her.  From that point on he had dreams about making love to her.  Oblivious to all of her surroundings, the girl had no clue she had bewitched Jack.  His apprehension was intense, and he doubted he would ever have the valour to come near her.  
    He went home from school that day, and tried to write his psychology essay.  His thoughts wandered off to the mysterious girl, and he began to have illicit ideas.  One thing he was privy to was self-gratification.  Many evenings had been spent satisfying that need, with no other stimulation but the vision of his infatuation.  Later that night he decided he would approach her the next day, his patience had tired, and he knew he could not torture himself any longer.
    Her name was Elizabeth.  Her classic name went with her classic beauty.  She had high cheekbones, large eyes, and full lips.  She was not striking at first glance, but became more beautiful after gazing at her.  He watched her from several feet away, every morning she sat on those steps reading until the bell rang, and every morning he observed her until the bell rang.  He took a deep breath, and with unidentified courage he headed towards her.  Clumsily, he sat down next to her.  Her scent was intoxicating to him, although it was simply soap and shampoo.  She turned towards him, and focused those sad eyes on him.  "Yes?" she said softly.  He inhaled deeply, and forced the words out of his mouth, "I'm Jack. This may sound crazy, but I think I am in love with you.  I have been for sometime now, and it's driving me crazy.  Do you think we could spend sometime together?" He could not believe he had exposed this clandestine information.  Every second felt like an eternity, as she taken back pondered momentarily in silence.  A smile began to form, and she reached for his trembling hand.  "I think that would be nice." He could not fathom what had just transpired.  He gaped in scepticism. It was true though, and she was staring intently at him, a little stunned as well.  
    The bell rang.  Somehow he made himself stand up.  He reached down for her hand; she clutched it, and pulled herself up.  As they walked up the stairs, mutely, the knot that had been ever present seemed to disperse.

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12:14 AM - A King of Clubs, for the Queen of Hearts.
Current mood: quixotic
Category: Life

A King of Clubs, for the Queen of Hearts.

    My mother once told me to never wear my heart on my sleeve.  What did I do? I tattooed one on my forearm.  Am I essentially kind? Doubtful, but I give it a valiant effort. I have always cared sumptuously, and more than likely always will. I consistently prove that I am incapable of absolute detachment from intimate encounters.

    I stared at the clock. Five Fifteen.  The sun had not yet come up, but I was vigilant.  I slipped on my robe and went outside for a cigarette. I had been trying to quit, but it seemed to require more tenacity than I possessed. I searched my brain for a recollection of last night's happenings.
    It had been one of the rare occasions I had decided to go out. I had it coming, because it had been three days since I had left the house at all.  I had agreed to meet a friend of mine for a drink, and expected nothing else.  After three drinks, maybe four, my friend had to leave.  I was not incredibly eager to go back to my reticence. I sat there alone with a martini.  I could feel eyes on me, and I was too nervous to locate their possessor.  I twirled the straw in my glass, and bit my bottom lip.  The person slid into the stool next too mine.  I finally made eye contact.  
    The person was close to me in age, appealing in an obvious way, and contained a certain air of mystery.  Without asking he pointed to my glass, and ordered two of the same.  I smiled, without speaking. In fact neither one of us spoke.  I downed the drink, and set it on the counter. I pulled a pen out of my purse and scratched something down on his napkin.
        3434 Maine Apt.4
        1 hour
    I grabbed my purse and walked out. I had never done anything so brazen.  I half expected to never see this person again. If a man had been so forward with me I would have been insulted. I couldn't help but feel slightly fervent though.  There was something invigorating about aberrant ventures.  
    When I got to the house I shaved my legs, and brushed my teeth.  A provision every girl should make sure of.  I was falling asleep on the couch when the buzzer went off.  It had been two hours; luckily I retained a considerable amount of resilience.  I opened the door, mutely.  He came in, and walked around apprehensively.  I invited him to sit down, and he obliged.  I explained how I had never done this before, despite my feigned confidence in the matter.  He admitted he had not either, and it was obvious this was not routine behaviour on my end.  I smiled, and somehow we began a lengthy conversation.  He admitted that he frequented nightclubs quite regularly.  I admitted that I was a loner.  It had been ages since he had carried on a momentous exchange with any person, and he had grown tired of the ennui.  It was getting rather late. I invited him to stay.  He took no insinuation in my words, and agreed that he was too tired to walk home.  We conversed a little longer before falling asleep in my bed.  
    I put out my cigarette, and came back inside. I snuck back into my bed, and looked over at my new friend. I realized I was not the kind of girl who could indulge in one-night stands, and I was the kind of girl who was entirely emotive.  I could not fool myself, or anyone else for that matter, to believe I could be objective.  I would always feel, I would always care, I would always be a queen of hearts.

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5:35 PM - Pleasure.
Current mood: drained
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

    She was positioned limply on her stomach. Her breathing was shallow, and fleeting. The naked body only trembled as the fingers slowly moved down her spine. With succinctness his fingernails dug into her, breaking the skin. Her heart contracted, and she stepped outside herself.  She watched from the ceiling, and directly below she witnessed what could only be regarded as fluency.  He knew precisely what he was doing.  Every gesture was meant to make her ascend.  She was vanquished, broken, and no more would she fight. With grace she lifted her spirit into a point of ecstasy, in a way she had not felt since her past life.  He quickly took the place of victim, and fell prey to her intended demise.  While looking into his eyes, she grew delirious, and in flashed the moments of irregular content. What one may call a yield that neither would have found explicable, a divine intervention succumbing two into a higher organism. Then, with the pithiness that all splendour survives, it was mere vestige that confirmed the bliss.

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