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Feb. 26th, 2006
Write about a time you mocked somebody.
Feb. 26th, 2006 11:08 pm"Stupid girl," she throws the words out mercilessly, rock to rock as she plays the difference of one surface against the other, something close to words and symbols left behind. She looks at what she just wrote, only half understanding it, and that just angers her all the more. "Can't keep the math, or the words, or the dreams. It's all there and you can't keep it." More words begin appearing, writing without thinking, and thinking when there's too much to write. Only none of it actually goes anywhere.
"You're trying?" She shakes her head, and pressed harder into the rock. "Well that's nice and all, but nice isn't here." Her voice hiccups between here and gone, and there's a lack of pressure and breath. Like she'd forgotten how that works too. How to run, she remembers. What's safe to eat, and how much sleep is ok, which noises to listen for -- those are what she remembers, what she needs to know. Sometimes the just in the living can take up a whole day. "Nice isn't any of those things," she lectures.
"Stupid girl." She seems to remember her voice though, because that time it's louder. Her shoulders immediately jerk, as she listens for the noises that aren't hers. She doesn't want to have to the gully again, but she will. She will. If you roll them enough times over their faces get lost behind the mud and the dirt, and if it's dark, then you don't really have to look at all.
Only she keeps looking. She looks at their faces, falling away. She looks at her face too, in the water and reflecting back, falling away just as fast. And she knows. It isn't the running that she's starting to hate herself for. Sometimes the just, and the living means running, and she knows that. It's the hiding she can't stand. It's the hiding that's making to hard to not only know the girl looking back at her, but to not see her at all.
She's been writing to hard again, and the wall actually cuts into her hand. She stares at the smear of red, and for a moment it startles her into stillness. There's so little color in the cave. Just brown walls and brown dirt and brown her. The red is pretty, in its own way.
"Stupid bitch." The color makes her bold somehow, but only so far. The words aren't even hers. Not really.
She's sitting in the front seat of the bus, in the morning. The bus is yellow, more color, and mama's smile seems especially bright. The doors swing open, and she can see the way dust can spin in air, caught in beams of the morning sun. She's so caught up in watching it spin she almost doesn't hear what is happening outside.
Rachel is there. She likes Rachel, they sometimes play together. Books or toys, or stories, it really doesn't matter.
"You stupid little bitch." A man's voice. Something hard that almost takes Fred from the moment because it's this one too. "I don't care of you forgot your homework. I'm sure as hell not going to get it for you. I'll be late for work, not that you care." He shoves Rachel on the bus and she's aware of being asked to move. Rachel's in her seat now, both book bags at her feet and she watches while the woman with the bright smile eases and soothes.
She borrows the words, twisting them and turning them on herself, starting to write again. "Stupid girl. Stupid bitch."
From the dream, last night, she writes. Then crosses the words out over and over.
"I don't care if you forgot. No one else is going to get this for you, don't you get that. Quit being late. Quit missing it." She mocks herself, repeating the words a dozen different ways, over and over.
She writes over the blood now. The red's just going to fade to brown anyway, like everything else. She knows how these things work. Knowing enough to get by is sometimes all you need to know. And sometimes it isn't anything at all.
"Stupid girl..."
"You're trying?" She shakes her head, and pressed harder into the rock. "Well that's nice and all, but nice isn't here." Her voice hiccups between here and gone, and there's a lack of pressure and breath. Like she'd forgotten how that works too. How to run, she remembers. What's safe to eat, and how much sleep is ok, which noises to listen for -- those are what she remembers, what she needs to know. Sometimes the just in the living can take up a whole day. "Nice isn't any of those things," she lectures.
"Stupid girl." She seems to remember her voice though, because that time it's louder. Her shoulders immediately jerk, as she listens for the noises that aren't hers. She doesn't want to have to the gully again, but she will. She will. If you roll them enough times over their faces get lost behind the mud and the dirt, and if it's dark, then you don't really have to look at all.
Only she keeps looking. She looks at their faces, falling away. She looks at her face too, in the water and reflecting back, falling away just as fast. And she knows. It isn't the running that she's starting to hate herself for. Sometimes the just, and the living means running, and she knows that. It's the hiding she can't stand. It's the hiding that's making to hard to not only know the girl looking back at her, but to not see her at all.
She's been writing to hard again, and the wall actually cuts into her hand. She stares at the smear of red, and for a moment it startles her into stillness. There's so little color in the cave. Just brown walls and brown dirt and brown her. The red is pretty, in its own way.
"Stupid bitch." The color makes her bold somehow, but only so far. The words aren't even hers. Not really.
She's sitting in the front seat of the bus, in the morning. The bus is yellow, more color, and mama's smile seems especially bright. The doors swing open, and she can see the way dust can spin in air, caught in beams of the morning sun. She's so caught up in watching it spin she almost doesn't hear what is happening outside.
Rachel is there. She likes Rachel, they sometimes play together. Books or toys, or stories, it really doesn't matter.
"You stupid little bitch." A man's voice. Something hard that almost takes Fred from the moment because it's this one too. "I don't care of you forgot your homework. I'm sure as hell not going to get it for you. I'll be late for work, not that you care." He shoves Rachel on the bus and she's aware of being asked to move. Rachel's in her seat now, both book bags at her feet and she watches while the woman with the bright smile eases and soothes.
She borrows the words, twisting them and turning them on herself, starting to write again. "Stupid girl. Stupid bitch."
From the dream, last night, she writes. Then crosses the words out over and over.
"I don't care if you forgot. No one else is going to get this for you, don't you get that. Quit being late. Quit missing it." She mocks herself, repeating the words a dozen different ways, over and over.
She writes over the blood now. The red's just going to fade to brown anyway, like everything else. She knows how these things work. Knowing enough to get by is sometimes all you need to know. And sometimes it isn't anything at all.
"Stupid girl..."