Summer, and all the glory that it is not.

I wasn’t happy living in my own house for a long time before college started. I don’t know why I’m so rebellious, because it only leads to heartbreak and sadness and anger and nobody to turn to. I really really hate myself sometimes.

I’m dramatic. I get crap from everybody, even those who are younger than me. I can’t get along with my own family, and I’m pretty sure the entire world dislikes me very much. Or atleast, those who know me probably do, secretly or something. I bet I’d be the first nonimportant persona ssassinated just because I suck. Oh and obviously, I exaggerate too much. Everything I do, whether it’s good or bad, done as a joke or in seriousness, is never received well. I can’t even say good job without people thinking I’m being sarcastic. And then, whenever I find within me a quality that I think is good, people will use it against me as if it were a bad thing. You’re too nice. You’re too innocent. You don’t see your own potential. You’re not vain enough.

Like seriously, what do you want from me? If I’m not nice, then I turn into a selfish arrogant stuck-up dramatic bitch. But if I go out of my way to try to dispell that image, then I’m too nice. And that, too, is a bad thing. Being polite and courteous and helping other people and tolerating their own malfunctioning personalities is also a bad thing. But doing the opposite is, of course, also held against me.

I thought I knew my friends. I was pretty sure I did. Doesn’t stop them from, after having been my best friends and sisters for over 7 years, from turning on me in the blink of an eye.

Ditched by one. No longer in the confidences of another.

She’s my BEST friend. I’m always there for her, and she’s always been there for me. Except for when she had something majorly drastic happen in her life and conveniently didn’t mention it to me until almost a month past. The same girl who went against her mother’s wishes and told me all the things that were happening in her life all throughout high school. The same girl who comforted me and believed in me with nobody else did back when we were in 8th grade and drama consisted of a maliciously anonymous xanga account.

We got through all the stupid crappy unimportant crap.  I thought we were close, we’d defy the notion that one loses his or her high school friends after starting college.

Yeah no, she was just another stereotypical nowyouseeme, nowyoudon’t friend in the end.

The other best friend, yeah that one’s not so much a loss, because it was expectedvery early on. She never did understand the concept of communication and what it means to stay in touch with friends. Even your best friends. Even your sisters.

So now that I am pretty much sisterless and friendless and wallowing in misery in the prison of a dysfunctional home I have, I can safely conclude that I absolutely hate my lfie right now. Is education so important that I can solely "focus on my studies," as my parents hammer into my brain ceaselessly day after day after relentless day, and just survive the rest of..my life…with no close friends?

It doesn’t even matter if people post on this with a "no you’re my friend, don’t say that!" because it doesn’t change how lonely I feel right now. I’m trapped in this hell, and I want out.  

And it hasn’t even been three weeks since I got home yet. If they’re any indication of the torture that’s yet to come though, I don’t know how I’m going to survive. The Pryanka that goes to college as a sophomore is very much going to be a shell of herself.

I can feel my energy to fight back fading away already. I’ve resigned myself to my laptop and my room, and whenever I leave it, all I face is more arguments, accusations, and drama. 

"You’re not a good daughter."

"You’ll never be successful"

"I wish I had a brother instead of..you"

"You’re stupid" "You’re worthless" "You’ll never go anywhere in life"

Over and over and over. There’s only so many times I’m going to resist believing in those words. Only so many times that I’ll ignore them, put on a haughty expression, and pretend they don’t stab me to death a little bit more every single time.

Disparity – Theme Response

Life never goes as planned. That was the first thing she learned, and she learned it quickly enough. Just seconds after giving birth, her mother had died. Her father, of course, had witnessed the death of his beloved wife and promptly fell to the floor in a crumpled heap of forever limp skin and bones. 

She hadn’t even cried. The doctors were concerned until they discovered that she was mute. Several hours later, the nurses heard her make attempts at crying. The shrieking sound, ending in a half smothered sob that sounded as though it had erupted from a dying, strangled creature….the sound was enough to unnerve the entirety of the hospital staff on shift. They were afraid of her, the mute girl with the demon cries.

The orphanage she was put into at first did a decent job of feeding and clothing its inhabitants, but she grew up with no affection, love, consideration, or fun. She lived a dry life, and had been employed by the orphanage headmistress as her own personal worker. 

Worker, of course, was but the formal name for slave.

She endured agonizing hours of careful bookkeeping, handed out food to all the other girls and boys before she could eat for herself, and cleaned after them when they were gone. it was solitary, but she almost preferred it to the mindless prattle of the other crowds her age. Atleast when she was busy cleaning or bookkeeping, she could work in silence. Having nobody to speak to just meant that she would perfume the air around her with her thoughts. She built herself a bubble of calmness, an air of haughty aloof disdain for the immature children she was forced to associate herself with.

 But of course, as all bad luck works, her misfortunes were not over. She was finally adopted, but into a house as cold and unseemly as her first. This was a rich couple who needed a new plaything, somebody to fuss over and play dress-up with. They brought her all manners of playthings and fancy baubles. But never spoke to her a loving word. They would dress her up, take pictures, fuss and fret over their reels, and leave her alone, all by herself, while they planned out their next set of photography. She was their silent beauty queen. And their ticket to vast wealth, of course, because by channeling her grief into their art, they made, for themselves, a very much monopolized niche in the photography business. If anybody had a misfortune to be recorded o n camera, they were the couple to seek. And at the end of every night, she would silently cry, rivulets of sorrow and depression welling up within her very core and spilling forth in a desperate attempt at finding inner solace.

Interaction with the world was forbidden – If she disobeyed, she would ruin the perfect taint of an eternally bitter and unfulfilled life. They needed her – she was their model. Why, in the photographer’s world, she was the very definition of "sad.

One day, as she sat in her windowless room, she realized that if such a life was to be hers for as long as she was alive, there really was nouse to it.

She walked slowly out of her room, down the stairs, and out of the house. She stood there by the side of the road in front of the house, waiting for a car to drive by. As her fortune, or lack thereof, would have it, one came careening by, taking such a nasty turn around the bend before her street that it had barely regained its balance and kept from toppling over. It went speeding through the usually empty quiet neighborhood, and as it approached the girl, she did what she should have done long ago.

One brave – or foolish – leap later, it was all done. But not before she had locked eyes with the young boy across the street from her, his mouth frozen into a horrified "no." Her own face had contorted into one of astonished regret, but there was no going back.

She died on the spot. The young boy silently mourned her demise.

Poem

I breathe books and dream a false reality.
I shudder as its silver shadows splay
Out obscene desires, forbidden
Fantasies, and untrue visions of happiness.

Tempted, but I resist just enough;
Romance is veiled thinly in distrust,
In unease, in sadness,
In distance and in time.

Threads of longing shift their course,
Altering their path to appease me, their queen.

Master of pretend,
But with a torrential rain within,
I brave through indecision
And stick close to inevitabilities.

Self reflection, a myriad of possibilities,
Of silver strings, woven in and out
Of transient starlit cloth.
The possibilities of not knowing are vast, yes.

So, too, are the dangers. In the stillest
of emotion, there lies a resounding Chaos.
And through that chaos is
Endless possibility of creation.

A fervor for feeling, there is.
There is a wistful glance at love.
A taste for the untouchable, there is.
There is within me a soul spark.

Theme Two – A Disparaged Dialogue

Theme Two (PRYANKA):

Utter and complete agony. Desparity – a miniscule hope of salvation when, in reality, salvation is impossible to attain. Desperation. Fear like nothing you can ever imagine. Fear that is a million times worse than what you have imagined. Your theme this week is to relay the words of the condemned. If you’ve ever dreamt a dark story, here is your chance to write it.

Page Limit: Maximum of 5 pages on Microsoft Word. (Doublespaced, 1 inch margins, times new roman, etc etc)
Deadline: Thursday May 27, 2010 11:59 pm
Penalty: (For breaking rules, missing the deadline, etc) Your next livejournal entry must be a highly detailed and intelligently written narrative in which your main characters are a rainbow and a pile of poop.

Seriously..

Project Theme
Every week, Nabila or myself will post a theme upon which both of us must write an entry. Theme creation will be alternated between the both of us, and both are required to respond to the theme in a timely manner. The deadline will always be exactly seven (7) days after the theme is posted, but the restrictions and penalties are to be created at our discretion. "

Regret – Theme Response

I sat down in my chair, clutching its armwrests as though they were my only life support. This entire time, of course, my eyes were shut tight. I did not want to face my visions, but they were getting stronger. In the backs of my eyelids, I saw swirls of color, lazily blending and separating into a dark rainbow.

Suddenly, there was a white flash, and I cried out in agony 0 it was too late. I was face to face with his eyes again 0 his ghastly and haunted eyes.

My eyes were still closed.

I panicked, afraid of the strength of my own visions. Whose eyes were they? Why were they stalking me? I felt them upon me at all times now – clear, shocking blue eyes that insisted on holding my attention. What were they trying to tell me? 

I swear, sometimes, they looked upon me with pity. That was when I would rage back, yelling my insecurities out for all the world to see. They were staring me into insanity, those eyes.

Those cold hated blue eyes. 

"GO AWAY. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you want. WHY DO YOU INSIST ON TAKING AWAY MY PEACE? Leave me alone…leave – me – alone."

And always, though I started out strong and proud, at the end, I was reduced to tears, my threats and questions coming out in gasping sobs. I’m sure the people around me thought I was a deranged lunatic. And nobody believed me when I told them about the eyes. I didn’t know who they belonged to, but they seemed to be trying to trigger a memory. Who was he?

"WHO ARE YOU GODDAMNIT."

The woman behind me in the supermarket had cringed when I screamed that out loud earlier today, and then she had turned her cart around, walking nervously as fast as she could in the other direction. Ha, if only she knew that it wasn’t me she should be scared of. 

It was those icy heartbreakingly sad eyes. 

—————————————————————————————————–

I used to be normal. At this point, I couldn’t help but give a bitter, sarcastic laugh. I’d started to classify myself as abnormal now too – it was only a matter of time before I succumbed to the world’s perspective of crazy me. 

I mean really, when I told people I wasn’t crazy, I was just being haunted by a pair of blue eyes, they gave me funny looks. Or ignored me. Or walked away, as that lady had. 

I don’t know why I’m recording this narrative. I know I don’t have the stamina left in me to write it in story form. That would require objectifying my pain, giving my protagonist a voice I don’t think I knew how to formulate anymore. How could I distance myself from her agony? It was searing into my own flesh, my own bones, my own heart, at all times. The eyes were becoming more and more anguished too, as if they knew I didn’t have much longer to live.

What was I supposed to do before I died? 

I ask the eyes for clues now. I whisper to myself as I walk down the sidewalks, counting and recounting the names of all the people I have encountered in my life this far. Or the names that I remember, at least. And each time, I ask: "Is this you, Carol? You, Michael? DO YOU EVEN HAVE A GENDER?"

One time, when I questioned them, they blinked serenely before resuming their eternal stare. I had shouted in triumph, but I guess it came out more as a strangled cry of momentary relief.

I found out later that I had passed out while walking.

They blamed it on dehydration. I was ecstatic – eternal sleep is how I would rid myself of their stare.

One of my psychiatrists had told me that they were the eyes of my victim. The small innocent boy I had killed ten years ago. I brushed it off, blaming her sudden psychotic rage on her frustration to understand me. How the hell am I a murderer now?

I WAS JUST A NORMAL HUMAN BEING. How dare she accuse me? HOW DARE SHE?

———————————————————————————–

You know, I’m talking right now. Talking out loud in front of a mirror, pretending that there exists another soul who understands me. Talkng out loud like the crazy person that I am. But what can I do? It takes my mind off of the eyes. 

Sometimes, I suspect that they are capable of hearing me. Because just now, as I said that out loud, they seared into the back of my skull. OUCH. I’m almost afraid of putting my hand to the back of my head – I fear that there may be blood. This has never happened before – usually, they just watch. Why are they trying to hurt me?

Am I really a murderer? If I am, my brain’s done an excellent job in making me forget the whole thing. I’m testing my memory, probing deeper and deeper, farther and farther into my childhood, hoping to come across some badly patched segment so I can atleast know what my crime is. So I can atleast know for what I am being punished.

But these EYES, they don’t let me. They tire my brain, and I often sink into a lethargic sleep filled with scary nightmares. All the persons in my dreams have had those e yes for a few years now.

How have I even survived? I feel the eyes slash another cut into me, this time by the nape of my neck. I shut my eyes, not willing to look into the mirror. I am afraid I will see those eyes glaring daggers into me. I am afraid I will see those daggers suddenly materialize as they pound repeatedly into my skill, dashing my body little by little into pieces.

Such a gruesome thought. But I cannot help it. I envision another dagger hitting my collarbone, and scream in horror as I feel a responding pain. It’s just my brain. I swear, this is all just in my head. 

THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE. YOU CANNOT KILL ME.

The daggers pick up tempo, and I know that I am losing blood fast. Still, I do not want to open up my eyes. My body is starting to go rigid with shock. 

Maybe I am numb to the pain now? More likely, I have lost so much blood that my nerves are losing sensation. Is that even possible? I knew I should have paid better attention in biology.

Now, even thinking that I am in pain is taking too much effort. I am floating away from my own body.

My eyes open with a jolt. I am ready to scream and close them again, as if in silent apology that my steady eyes-closed vigil has broken. But I have nothing to fear. The open-eyed me is staring down into a grotesque figure.

I recognize that the grotesque figure is a bloody me. 

And then I faint.

They say they found me, two days later, when a neighbor reported the odor of my rotting flesh. They say I had died peacefully of a brain aneurysm. 

How wrong they are.

Theme One – Regret

Theme Request #1 (NABILA):
Post a response to the theme "Regret"
I had another theme ready but I think I’ll save that for week after next, because now I have just two minutes and it took a really long time to explain ahhaha
Restrictions: Nothing about friendship unless entwined with love (as in, you had a friend and let him/her go and realized later that you were in love), no politics
Deadline: Thursday May 20, 2010 11:59 pm
Penalty for passing deadline: You have to submit something longer than a page next week.
Good luck! 😀 Next time I’ll make the theme request more eloquent but as for now, I need to get to the bathroom ahahaha


Project Theme
Every week, Nabila or myself will post a theme upon which both of us must write an entry. Theme creation will be alternated between the both of us, and both are required to respond to the theme in a timely manner. The deadline will always be exactly seven (7) days after the theme is posted, but the restrictions and penalties are to be created at our discretion. "

Scraps – Glimmer

I’m posting a bunch of story scraps over here, although I might move them over to a private journal later. These are just bits of writing – essentially scraps – that I may or may not use later on. Some might even be complete short shorts, but just not stories I know enough about to stand by. Characters that just don’t quite feel right or complete yet. Things like that. So enjoy for now? Until I find a better journaling method without having to create my own separate blog entirely.

There was a glimmer in the air – it shined and glittered and bounced off of reflective surfaces so fast you couldn’t quite catch it. That was, of course, my job today. I had to catch the glimmer.

But glimmers were devious creatures of light, and hated the tame creatures around them. They were themselves fvery elusive, and looked disgustedly upon the lower species who had not their astounding capabilities. A glimmer was loyal. I wanted one. I even had the perfect name for it. I wasn’t going to be cliché and name it "Hope," that’s for sure. There were too many of them, I didn’t want mine to get lost. Love, Prosperity, Fame, Wealth – they were all too common. No, I wanted a glimmer named Effervescence. I had to catch one first though, and the tiny glimmers, the unnamed ones, they were very very hard to catch. And then there was the training and taming process, of course. But before I did all that, I had to just catch myself a baby glimmer.

The fields – Sparkle Fields, in fact (the colonists were not the most imaginative) – were glowing, and I knew there were plenty of glimmers to choose from here, at any given point. Not too many were given the chance to even be in these fields. But that’s a story for later, right now, i just wanted that glimmer.

I tried every trick in the book. I tried peanut butter, I tried mousetraps, I tried sticky tape, I tried double-sided sticky tape, I tried transparent post-its, and I even tried the "dim ray" – guaranteed to confuse glimmers for just long enough for them to be captured. But nothing was working, and my time was almost up. I saw the glimmers dancing around me, just out of reach. They sure knew how to tease. I jumped up, tried to catch one. Failed. I swung my arms about, cupping them together very quickly, hoping to feel the beat of a mini-me inside. You see, once one of them was captured in my presence, it became mine. I just had to make it obey.

I never actually told you why I wanted to name my glimmer effervescence, did I? I’m sorry, I promise I’ll get back to that. I’ll even make a checklist for myself so I don’t lose track.

1. Why I want a glimmer named effervescence
2. Why I was in Sparkle Fields
3. Why Sparkle Fields was called Sparkle Fields
4. Who were the colonists.
5. Why this all sounds so strange and unnatural.

Okay then, I’ll cover those things – I promise.