Darth Traya and some fags

(cigarettes! I don't smoke, but just thinking of the literary possibilities of cigarettes in itself is cool!!)

So I burned some cookies and some bridges.

With too much oil! (butter.)

No actually I don't even know anyone. I just say stuff to say stuff.

Have some of my crap writing. BY THIS TIME NEXT YEAR I WILL HAVE AN AGENT, FOOLS. THAT'S A PROMISE I JUST WANNA WRITE UNTIL I DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Chapter 1

They told me everything would be okay.

This was after they tied me to the bed, had a nurse lay across my legs so I couldn’t kick, and gagged me with a surgery cap. This was after the drugging and after my screams.

If it was all a tape played backwards, they would take the cap out of my mouth, the nurse would get off my legs, and they would undo the leather straps tying me down. I would stand from the bed, the tears on my face slithering back into my eyes. Two men in white would grasp me by the arms and lead me up the hallway with a dozen cells, into an elevator, and to the wintery parking lot. The drugs in my system would knock me out again, and the men would put me into the bright red van.

All cars in the world would drive backwards, the red van with them, until it parked in the lot of my school. A burly man would get out, wrestle me from the backseat, unclasp his hand from my mouth and let me free. I would stand for a few seconds, watching him, and we’d exchange words.

I would walk away, back to science class. Back through lunch, recess, study hall – walking and eating and talking to no one, as usual. English is the last (first) period. Was Macbeth crazy? Sister Holly asks backwards. Is the ghost real?

The cross at the front of the school looms.

The all-female class will back out when the first bell rings, chattering eagerly about their weekends. I watch them hug each other, touch each other’s hair and straighten their uniforms. I sit alone on a bench, reading a book. Mom reverses into the lot, I duck wordlessly into the car. Her auburn curls fall softly over her shoulders as she asks if I’ll come to the company party that night. We pile out of the car and walk into our fancy top-floor apartment, our breakfast falls out of our mouths and back onto the plates (there’s one extra plate, because Josephine is convinced dad will come back) and I walk upstairs, unbrush my teeth, change from my stiff school uniform into pajamas, and crawl into bed.

I have a dream about flying.

#

 If we were to go back even further, you wouldn’t find much of interest. There’d be birthday parties and a girl going to school and excelling at all subjects, really. You’d see a girl with white-blonde hair, her face round and blue eyes perpetually frozen in boredom. Nothing particularly mattered to this girl except getting up and doing what was expected of her so people wouldn’t get mad.

She liked her pet snake, her manicure sets, and cupcakes.

Going back further, you would see a girl shrinking, her flat chest getting flatter and her fashion the same plaid uniform or conservative blouses even as a child. You’d pass by the moment when her dog died, when she was beat up in middle school for being too weird, when her mother was promoted to CEO and stopped coming home except to pick up new suits. You’d reach a point and start to realize that she didn’t like to talk much. You could blame it on her home life or her parents or her genes, but the fact of the matter was that talking too much gave her a headache.

At birth she tried to come out the wrong way, and she thought that if she had the future inclination to blame any one thing for the way she turned out, it would be that.

Fast forward and you’ll see that her junior year of high school at St. Mary’s was treating her fine. She had little interest in boys. She kissed a few and held hands with a few and met their parents (all their faces blurred), but in the end it wouldn’t work out, because while she was pretty (apparently people thought it very important to tell her she was pretty), she just didn’t care enough.

If they’d stuck around a little longer, they’d see she cared a lot, especially about her life, and especially in the way she thrashed on the table and screamed at the nurses, because danger did that to even the most jaded individual. No one was immune to fear.  

Not even good daughter, spoiled rich girl, model student Bianca Weatherford.

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What the fuck am I writing.
Some of you might remember this as the WORLD story I wrote a ong time ago, about that chinatown kid and Bianca and Genbu the giant black man and comas.

So it's coming back.

so yeah it's shit.