in love with a (strict machine)

[star studded]

<center>

fourteenth street and the garbage swirls like a cyclone
three o'clock in the afternoon
and I am going home
f-train is full of high school students
so much shouting, so much laughter
last night's underwear
in my back pocket
sure sign of the morning after

take me home
take me home and leave me there
think I'm going to cry, I don't know why
think I'm going to sing myself a lullaby
feel free to listen
feel free to stare

maybe I'll live my whole life
just getting by
maybe I'll be discovered
maybe I'll be colonized
you could try to train me like a pet
you could try to teach me to behave
but i'll tell you, if I haven't learned it yet
I ain't gonna sit
I ain't gonna stay


</center>

<font color="#000000"><font size="1">[ August 14, 2005 04:59 PM: Message edited by: midnight radio ]</font></font>

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ September 20, 2006 11:26 PM: Message edited by: midnight radio ]</font>

[star studded]

-roadmap cracks.

i pretend to be sleeping
when you come in in the morning
to whisper goodbye
go to work in the rain
i don't know why
i don't know why

i wish i could have stood
where you would have been proud


There were no streamers and balloons to welcome her home. Just their deafening silence and their refusal to explain. She had heard about River. About Charlie. And she had finally allowed herself to swallow down stupidity and come back to him.

Albeit silently.

This was the first night that they slept with barriers. An imaginary line drawn in tussled sheets, right down the middle. You stay on your side, and I'll stay on mine. Lucy was flat on her back, staring straight up at the highways of cracks in the ceiling. She imagined them, for a brief and dreamlike moment only, to be real highways, and she was in a car on every one. With her hands on the wheel. The weather around her was split in two. She chased the brighter sunlight that streamed down through the clouds, and ran from the brewing storm behind her. Eyes closed tight, and that image went away. When she opened them she was greeted with that image of reality. Their barren walls, pallid skin, Charlie's fading bruises, new scars, and closed eyes. Whether or not he was asleep was something she could never usually discern--he faked it well. So much so, that sometimes, when she whispered, he made her jump when he whispered back.

All she did this time was stare, really, at the way he was stretched out, an arm crooked underneath the pillow behind his head, a rhythm to his breath.. maybe this was a moment where his brain wasn't plagued with thoughts and doubts, and the broken remnants of her mistakes from the months before. Strike up another line on the chalkboard of continuing regret.

So why wasn't she sleeping? Why didn't she just yank the blankets up and sleep it all back into a state of normalcy? She had warmth, a mattress, a roof over her head. By all accounts, she should be asleep.

Twisting onto her side, she was peering up at Charlie almost like she was waiting for him to move. To shake off the air of feigned sleep and act like nothing had happened. Why was the fact that he looked so fucking peaceful actually annoying her? A deep, weary inhale, and she broke the rules. She moved first. She countered the imaginary line, strung herself across it and smoothed a palm across him, her forehead pressing into the crook of his shoulder and neck, legs knotting up with his. Whether or not he was awake didn't seem to matter much now, because she had wedged herself into being the center of his attention. She wanted it even in his fucking sleep, so badly that it kept her eyes pried open. When she closed them, she was greeted with that image again, the feeling of open road. But this time she knew exactly where it led her. Straight from peril and right to here. This.

[star studded]

-you took the word and made it hurt.

"Are you lonely, princessa?"

The voice rang through her, jarring like a drawer of silverware opened too abrubtly, in a clang of silver laughter. Lucy stood silently, with the door behind her closed. She hadn't expected him. The woman had said a man was here to see her, and by that, she had expected to see the disinterested face of her father, ensuring that she was indeed still alive. But that was not who was here, much to her disgust. An inhale of breath and she stared him down, refusing to sit.

"Go away."

"You lost weight. I thought you were getting a little wide in the hips.."

"Fuck off, Marco."

"Sientese, por favor, mi bonita."

"Here in America, we speak English, you fucking Diego."

"Sit."

Something in the tone of his voice made her comply, and she folded up in one of the chairs, reaching in her pocket to withdraw a cigarette. A staunch hand reached out and snatched it from between her lips, and she watched in horror as Marco snapped it in half.

"Dirty fucking habit. You were always so ugly when you smoked." He huffed a sigh and leaned back into the couch, staring at her and shaking his head in disappointment. "The great Lucille.. finally fallen from her ivory fucking tower."

"How did you find me."

"A little Charlie-bird told me."

"Liar. If you came within two feet of Charlie, he'd snap your ugly fucking spic head off of your shoulders."

Marco moved forward and wrapped a palm around her chin, holding her jaw in place, just to line eyes with her and make sure she saw his words as well as heard them.

"You speak so big for such a tiny thing. You must be tired, too.. sick, yes? Not so hard to crack a rib, or an arm, si, princessa?"

She snarled, silent and reserved for another moment. His hand removed itself, leaving her to rub the side of her face in half-shock.

"I heard you begged him to take you home."

She stiffened. "I didn't do anything like that."

"Now who is the liar, Lucia?"

The way he chimed that nickname made her already weak stomach churn in revolt. How did he know. How the fuck did he find out all of these things?

"Charlie isn't going to take you home. In fact, you'll be lucky if he waits that long for you. Or lives that long at the rate he's going. Your little boy-toy just doesn't know when to stop, does he? Taking and taking what belongs to someone else until he's sucked everyone dry. Such a selfish boy."

"Stop."

"Killing River. That poor, poor boy, strung up in a hospital bed because Charlie wouldn't let him stay. Charlie had your company to replace him with, and you were just a load of fucking trouble, weren't you.."

"You leave River the fuck alone. Charlie will kill you, if you even.. even .. come near him, he'll fucking.."

"He'll what? Kill me? That seems to be Charlie's fucking forte, don't you think? Killing people. Ruben. River. You."

A lump rose in her throat and she swallowed it back down as Marco continued.

"River.. River-River. Yes, I can't go near the poor boy, but you? I have all the permission in the world to waltz in here whenever I please. Charlie seems to value the boy a little more than he values his whore."

"I'm not his whore."

"Then just what are you, Lucy? River Holiday is his holy redemption, and you are his fucking whore. And I happen to believe I am entitled to take back both."

"If you go near him.."

"Relax. You didn't know River. You won't miss him all that much if anything were to happen to him, now would you? It's not you I'm out to destroy, princessa. Don't think so highly of yourself. You just happened to get in the fucking way. You're a casualty. You were never important enough to be a main player in all of this. This is between your boy and I. Don't you know that? You're a trophy for him. You're just one more thing of mine that he's taken from me. Why do you think he won't take you home? So you'll get better?" A dry, sarcastic laugh from a devil's throat. "If you got better, love.. what would he need you for?"

"You have no .. you don't know..."

"Charlie won't take you home because he doesn't love you, Lucy. But me? I'll take you home. You were always my princessa."

A palm coasted over her face again, gently this time, and Lucy stared at him with wide, paranoid eyes. "My little messenger bird, si? My little tigressa.."

Her head lolled into his touch, and her eyes fluttered closed. "...Marco.."

"That's my girl. I'll take you home, princessa.." His thumb skidded along her bottom lip and she parted her mouth for him, letting him press the flat of his thumb forward.

"Marco.." Mumbled around his thumb, her tongue darting in dramatic patterns, drawing in flimsy breaths and leaning closer to him.

"Yes, mi amor?"

Before he got the last word completely out, her jaw was tensing, crushing molars down on his thumb, hard enough to feel herself puncture the skin, a dirty taste of crimson left on her tongue. He cried out and jerked his hand out of her mouth, backpedaling, holding his hand and staring at the bleeding thumb.

"You fucking.. you savage fucking cunt!"

Lucy was standing, striding past him, towards the door.

"If you come here again, So help me God, I will take the honor away from Charlie and I will kill you myself." Saliva spat at his feet, and she disappeared as quickly as she came.

[star studded]

wasted youth and a fistful of ideals
i had a young and optimistic point of view

"I need a favor."

Lucille had never really uttered those words to the man on the other end of the phone, but at a time like this, it seemed apt and semi-necessary. Twining the phone cord (over and over and over) around twig-thin fingers was just a way to choreograph the motions, that way the lines felt like they were memorized rather than from anywhere important.

"What's that? Money? You behind on bills, rent--"

"No. You know the old Honda in the garage? The one you never sold? Does it still run?" A leg was drawn underneath her, peering out onto the sidewalk to see if she spotted a familiar flash of a red jacket (with the sleeve torn open.) Coast was clear.

"Runs fine. Needs a tune up and a new paintjob, but that's about it. You in the market? You can't drive a manual.. remember? We tried that and.."

Lucy cut off the voice with her own, he always asked too many goddamned questions.

"It's not for me. It's for the boy. But yeah, I wanna buy it off of you."

"I don't want your money, Lucy, just come visit and we'll call it even." It was almost a heartbroken sort of tone, twisted through phone wires and setting her blue eyes to rolling.

"I said I want to buy it off of you. How much do you want for it?"

"Ah.. eight hundred tops. It's old."

"You're full of shit. I'll give you ten fifty for it."

"That's insane, there's no way I'm going to charge you over a thousand for that thing. Nine hundred, or you don't get it at all, I'll sell it to Frankie Teller's kid down the street, you remember him? Sammy? He's in the market too.."

"Alright, alright. Nine hundred. I got next weekend off, I'll come down there on the train, and drive it back."

"You're gonna be okay drivin' all the way back there in this thing?"

"Girl's gotta learn somehow." The sound of smoke being inhaled echoed in the telephone wires.

"Knock the price down t'eight fifty and I'll give you a free lesson cause I'm such a nice guy."

"No way, I don't need.."

"C'mooooooooon.."

Silence.

".. finefinefine, whatever."

"I won. It took twenty two years but I finally won something with you, Lucy-girl."

"I'll see you next weekend, dad."

[star studded]

until the world explodes.
i will never change the world until i do.

Robe-wrapped in a bathroom that was not her own, Lucille stared at a harrowed, but healthy appearance in the fogged over mirror. The only things that made her look even slightly ill were the waves in mirror condensation, the heated steam waves that her fingers smeared through in swirling lines. A spiral. A smiley face. The swooping script of her full first name all tattooed on the plane of the reflective mirror. Lucille. All loops and curves, dips on every downstroke, and a firm, angry punctuation press over the 'i'.

How was she going to tell this story? It had no classic opening. She couldn't replicate the tales she had heard. From the minute I first met you, I could barely catch my breath. That would be a lie. That would be a story she couldn't write. There were no passionate moments, no nights where fate intervened and smashed them into one. There were no candlelit sheet-wrapped sessions. No romantic and funny chapters.

There was cracked tile and a broken mirror. A smashed phone. Bruises and lack of laughter. There were times that she had to force herself to smile to remind her that she was happy. See? We're laughing. I think we're gonna be okay. There was plenty of that. We'll just keep rollin' along. There were moments like that too, where the punches kept coming and they endured them in slow upheavals and blood-draining apologies. They could own when they were wrong, they could hang onto the past with the best of them. She still debated whether or not that made them twice as strong or twice as stupid. There were tears and hospital beds, a sick, ambitious boy-child with the candy apple eyes and a girl in tulle and a tiara. There was jealousy and a woman who would live in an image of lungs filling with water. Dirty photographs and the smell of burning glossy paper, and now this. Now this. Sleeping on a mattress that was too high off of the ground to be the one she was used to, on sheets that weren't the right color. The only thing that was remotely familiar was the body that wound up on the left side of her, every time her head hit the pillow. The same arms she could force herself into, the same torso she strung her own arms around when feeling overly in need.

Cocaine-colored fingers gripped the basin of the sink in an interesting clash of color and light, and out of the corner of her eye, something on her hand glinted. A catch of light that hit her eye at the right angle and drew her attention to it without even having to look.

The salt water that followed was at least a week overdue. Normally, she would have claimed that the tears were because she was realizing that yes, this.. this was how she'd spend the rest of her life, trapped in a world she didn't like, in a city she hated, in a place that made her crazy. But right now, she felt it was for a different reason. In the compression of her chest and the shameless heavings of breath that echoed against wet tile. She wouldn't want this any other way and there was nothing she'd go back and change. Every element was a page, and the story needed every page to reach its coherent, desired ending. Bruises, fear, panic and all.

Yes. Yes, this is what she wanted.

[star studded]

color by number
i will not be the girl who gets asked how it feels
to be trodding along at the genius' heels

Mirrors had always perplexed her.

Lucy Hart had decided from a young age that she would not be typical. She would not cook, she would not clean, she would not wear sensible shoes. She would not tend a garden, or bear beautiful children. She would not be demure, she would not be mild. She would not marry the man in a three piece suit with a trust fund and a PhD tagged onto the end of his name. She would not require anything but her brain and own two feet to get her by, and she would never lean on a crutch to carry her weight.

In the years that followed, these statements had each been crossed out or checked off according to whether she stayed true or refuted each. So far, her list was remarkably impressive. She cooked little more than toast and eggs, and refused to do so much as lift a finger when it came to dust or stains. Her shoes were far from sensible. They were strapped heels, extravagant in design. Sneakers in ridiculous colors, open toed-sandals. Inexpensive things that she could lie and attach brand names to at the drop of a hat. She had no garden. She had no desire for any extension of herself, for the body of what a real woman was, according to most. She possessed the loudest scream in the city, and she was far from whatever 'sweetness' was. She was not marrying a man with letters proceeding his name. She wore the ring of a man who tried so hard to throw off the connotation of his Irish-soaked surname that his fingers strained and his muscles ached. A man who convinced everyone that there was so very little of worth in him. His name was merely the hollowed out container in which so many things echoed due to feigned emptiness.

However, the last item on her list required some immediate attention.

Fixating eyes on herself in the bathroom mirror (not her own, but belonging to another woman, dipped in pixie dust and 'I do believe in fairies, I do, I do's') she took a long hard look at what reflected. Fair, limp hair that hung past tiny, barely-sloping shoulders, to the middle of stick-thin arms. If she inhaled deep enough, she imagined that she could count her ribs one by one. Her eyes were a hazy hue, gray and blue, lips protruding in a shade of sick-carnation. Her eyes set too far apart (her sister called her Hammerhead, and she replied with her own version of insults), her nose barely noticeable, her cheekbones high and her smile only slightly crooked. Legs were long (too tall, too tall, but a head shorter than him) and her fingers stretched far (piano playin' fingers, Lucy-girl, you oughta take up the piano.) She was a maypole, lacking decorative ribbons. Wrapped up in a gray t-shirt and drawstring pants she had stolen from someone else ages ago.

This was the wrong body. No, maybe not the wrong body. The body was right. It was the face. The face looked far too hard. She had said she needed her own two feet and her brain to keep herself, but that. Now that was far from true, and if she could not adjust the list, she would adjust the face.

Not the face. Makeup was far too fleeting. Surgery far too permanent. The hair. That she could change. Easily. With a complex configurations of mirrors and a pair of scissors. With an empty house, she took to it, littering the bathroom floor with long chunks of dirty blonde, expressionless as each fell hacked to the floor. No rage, no disappointment, no shock, no shame. Simple concentration, a struggle to keep the right side of her head in balance with her left, and both ears in tact at the same time. Short. Below the ears, tucked behind.

This was better, but it would not do. The color. So sickly, so transparent. Like a dirty puddle, dank water, powder littered. An unfamiliar, subconscious reminder of barely forgotten days. A store trip was in need, and when she returned to the empty apartment, she stunk the bathroom to high heaven with color cream and mixer, and flowered it back up with the fruity-frilly complimentary conditioner. Her hair reminded her of cherry and oak mixed together, dark browns with a slight, barely visible hint of a strange shade of red. An unfamiliar blowdryer used, and the results. Well. The results were breathtaking. Not in beauty. Just in difference.

She was no longer skinny and too tall with lanky arms and clumsy legs. She was barely herself, even though she still possessed no garden, no tennis shoes, no desire for family and no lover by the name of Dr. She felt, for an unfamiliar and electric moment, like she may, just perhaps, be herself. In the correct body, with the correct movements, and with the ability to breathe in time with the needs of her lungs.

Lucille Hart, in a thousand, mirrored, abstract ways, was perfecting the art of growing. Which, she had discovered, was so much harder than growing up ever had been.

[star studded]

She had stopped by the bar for a drink, on schedule. They seemed to do that often, like they were normal and functioning people with constants and security. It was a Tuesday night, he'd be working later, so they'd be able to meet up at the same time, at the same old bar, and maybe Lani would be there to disperse some of her glitter-fairy knowledge.

The bar seemed foreign. No him. No her. No anybody. She waited like a good lover and friend would, musing on ideas like bleaching her hair back to a dirty-water blonde, or how long it would take her to make Lani's dress if she decided to add some hand-detailing just for kicks. But when an hour passed, she realized she had gone a whole hour without having anything to drink, biting down her nails. Fleet-footed, she sprang home and wished that just for a moment, she could sprout wings and fly there. It would be faster.

Pushing the door open, she was greeted by a wall of new wave and a colorful boy spinning in the center of it all.

"Where's Charlie?"

"What!? I can't hear you! The mu--"

Lucy walked to the stereo and unplugged it. Noise pollution problem solved.

"Charlie. Where is he?"

"I dunno, haven't seen'im since he left for work. Why d'ya look like you're gonna beat me up?"

"Nothing. I need to use the phone."

River was useless when it came to matters like these, but she couldn't blame him. He was a helpless innocent, which was a blessing to have most times. Grabbing the new phone, because he had broken the last one--

Don't walk away from me! A crash of plastic and exposed wires.

-- she dialed a familiar number.

No answer. Hanging up, she dialed a less familiar one.

"Hullo?"

"Asher?"

"Lucy?"

The two were astounded to hear the other's voice on the other end. A happening like this had never occurred before.

"Yeah. You know where Lani is? No answer at her apartment."

"Oh! Yeh, she went back to work on Monday. She works kinda late, I guess, so I don't really know wot time she'll be back. Yew sound like yew just ran a marathon, is everything alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. You haven't seen Charlie around, have you?"

"Nope. I just got back from the library, and he didn't stop in there.. why, is he MIA?"

"Yeah. He was supposed to meet me somewhere and he didn't."

"I'm sure he just got held up or something. Do yew want Lani's mobile number? Maybe she heard from him."

"Yeah, give it to me.." Turning to snag a sharpie and a piece of paper (an envelope), she caught a candied apple stare. Part curiosity, part worry, from the boy who had stopped dancing, and slumped onto the couch, staring and listening. And the last thing she wanted was for River to panic.

Slowly, and with very little confidence, Lucy smiled in an effort to tell them both that it would all be alright. Even if she didn't quite believe it.

[star studded]

they say that these are not the best of times
but they’re the only times I’ve ever known
And I believe there is a time for meditation
in cathedrals of our own
now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover’s eyes
and I can only stand apart and sympathize
for we are always what our situations hand us
it’s either sadness or euphoria

The last time she sat in one of these places, her station in life was completely backwards and inside out in consideration of where she was today. She used to sit crushed between her father and her sister, staring blankly at the elaborate oak carvings, and wondering why a place that preached such worldly values didn't look at all like the world around them.

Not to mention the fact that she, herself, looked completely different. Her hair color came from bleach paste and her frame was weathered from self-inflicted abuse. Skinny, brittle bones kept her on her feet, and a year of cocaine abuse had made her motions erratic and spastic. There were no silver scars on the insides of battered arms, there was no panic in her body when she walked places alone. And now her hair was slowly growing, being kept up by dye and Lani's trimming expertise. She looked healthier. She was a slave to nothing, save time, cigarettes, and the occasional drink.

And still, things felt the same. She was bored. Her attention wandered, her hands remained folded and white-knuckled. All the speaking was just one underwater-blur of sound and fury, and it was only when the boy next to her stood that she took the cue as well. There was a rumble of rustling papers and creaking wood, and she heard the Brit's voice start to chime words that were unfamiliar on the tip of her tongue. She remained mute.

When the gates flooded open, she was immediately drawing out cigarettes that weren't her brand. Too strong for weathered lungs, but still, they held their purpose. Skirt and heels, a sweater for the slow-turning spring weather, and someone at her side that she couldn't ever remember being with alone before.

"I hope you don't think I found God in there."

Asher Stanton shot her an amused grin. "I hope yew don't think I brought yew for any reason other than the fact that I wanted company. And a ride." He nodded to where they had side-street parked the tiny car, Lucy's heels clipping towards it.

"Why not your girlfriend?"

"Shut up. She's at work."

"Why not River?"

"I don't think he could sit still long enough. And he'd want to wear the Flash helmet."

The lock was invaded by the press of the key, and she slid inside, reaching over to unlock the door beside her, Asher skidding into the passenger seat.

"You know, everytime River wears that damn thing, I want to break into song."

"Really? Wot song?"

"Science Fiction Double Feature. You know.." Lucy started to half-heartedly sing the line that the helmet inspired in her head. "..and Flash Gordon was there, in silver underwear.."

"That's not the Flash!"

"Still!"

Silence for a moment, pulling back into the city-flow of traffic. "So." Asher turned to her with folded hands, tugging at his denim jacket. "How much longer?"

Even without words, Lucy knew what he was talking about.. Asher had a way of doing that. He could imply anything without so much as saying a word in regard.

"About a month. Month and a half maybe." She clearly didn't want to dwell on it, so a finger punched the radio on. A strange rendition of 'If I Can't Have You' came on, and Lucy was satisfied, letting it serve as background music.

"We should throw a party."

"A paaaaaaaahty.." The girl enjoyed mocking him. His voice sounded different, therefore he was a target. "I don't know if Charlie's one for homecomings."

"We could make him one for homecomings. River can make the cake, yew and Lani can decorate.. I'll supply the entertainment."

"Entertainment?"

"I've got this dodgy little karaoke machine."

The car was filled with disco and laughter, Lucy gripping the wheel. "You honestly think that all of us are gonna spend.. a night, singing hits like 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' and 'Born Free'?"

"Only if there's mass amounts of alcohol involved, I assume."

"You know us too well."

[star studded]

concertina, concertina
chill that bends
i swear you're the fiercest
calm i've been in

The steering wheel of the Honda, if it needed to breathe, wouldn't be able to. Lucy's hands, as frail as they were, could choke anything to death if they were determined to do it. She had been gripping the clammy plastic-rubber for what felt like forever, and if she moved them, she was sure that the universe around her would invert, implode, and cease to exist. Maybe she was used to it. The concept of hanging on to something so tight that it could never get away was now embedded in the fissures of her brain. Things slipped away too easily, so the solution to that problem was to tighten. To choke. To grip.

She wouldn't let him go places alone anymore. There was no reason for him to be running to the store without her, there were no errands she made him run that they couldn't run together. There was no reason for him to have to walk home alone from work, she could meet him on the corner of 5th and 47th, and if the weather was nice they could walk, and if not, there was a subway terminal right beneath them. She'd start to pull her weight, she wouldn't demand meals from him anymore.. she'd pitch in. Laundry. Cooking. Shopping. Bills. She'd clean up after herself instead of letting him wait wordlessly hand and foot on her. It seemed odd to her at times. She could toss dirty clothes on the couch and when she went looking in the closet for them to wear again, there they'd be, pressed and ready, at her disposal.

River, the candy apple eyed college student/best friend/confidant/cancer patient had refused to come with her, a fact that made her both happy and sad. This way she could just let him in the car, say nothing and drive home. Silently. There didn't have to be words, hellos, reunions, tears, loud voices. They could act like this was nothing. Like eight months had never happened, never mind having been wasted on loneliness. Solitude. Talking through glass, on phones, watching the slow deterioration of self and the sturdy determination of heart plus heart minus body.

With attentions drawn back to the car, she couldn't help but notice that the grass surrounding this place was dead or dying. Much like everything inside. Would things be different? Would there be new words to say, new ways of approaching things? Would he have cuts and bruises to attend to, or just the ones inflicted inside? Was separation going to prove to be the one thing that could topple them and send two marble fixtures crumbling like Rome? The handle of the door was pulled and bare legs hit mild air. Heels stabbed the dead ground around her and she startled herself with the slam of the door behind her. There was a gate. A door. And plenty of barbed wire to keep what was inside in, and what was outside out. The gate. The door. The two things that were any sort of comfort to her right now looked like monsterous, steel, ugly contraptions. It was funny how ugly things seemed beautiful. How cold air felt warm. How innocent men were thought to be guilty.

The ticking of her watch rang in her ears, the air around her circled and swept. She wanted to plot out her movements. See him. Nod. Open car door. Sit. Insert key. Drive. It felt like it should be that simple but she knew better. Nothing between she and Charlie had ever been simple. It had been the slowest and most excruciating progression from bar room arguments to a pleading phonecall for help, to fourteen blocks on foot, to a forced living situation, to notes in the morning, to dancing, to the top of the Empire State Building, broken glass and glossy photograps, through hidden kisses and sharing a bed, River's bone marrow transplant, throwing phones and harsh words, to her own bout in rehab, to rooftop proposals, to a false conviction and straight on through forever. This should not be this hard. No, it should not be this hard to love someone for the rest of your life.

But it was.

Standing there among dead grass and a car she finally owned, Lucy Hart waited for the one thing in this world that mattered to walk through the ugliest door and gate she had ever seen in her life, back towards her and into the comfort of arms that she planned on wrapping around him until he couldn't breathe. So far, that was the only thing in their future that was ultimately planned.

[star studded]

stuck in his shoe, so he'd find it, read it, and she wouldn't have to listen to him afterwards.


Charlie,

I don't blame you if you're wondering why the fuck I can't just say things. Why I have to like.. write them down and stick them in your shoe so you find them when I'm not around. I don't really know either. Maybe it's because I don't have to look at your expression when I say them, and I can silently pray that you just don't bring it up when you do wind up seeing me again.

Maybe I'm nervous that things are going to be weird and different once you're home again. Maybe I'm afraid that you've changed, or I've changed, or everything's just changed and there's nothing we can really do. Because two thirds of a year is a long fucking time, and I just don't know what the fuck people are supposed to do when they go through that kind of separation. I talked to you through fucking glass for eight months. I don't know your voice except for the tinny telephone sound. I've forgotten. I don't remember what your face feels like, or your hand, or anything. Your spot in bed isn't an empty dent anymore, it's molded itself out.

But I'll be damned if I didn't go into your closet almost every day and put something of yours on just to smell it like some obsessed stalker. I slept with your pillow until it stopped feeling like you. I can't count how many times I just freaked out on River, and yelled at him for no apparent reason, because I was just so entirely sick of being alone. It's been an entirely unfair eight months, and it makes me mad that it was wasted without you. No, it makes me fucking furious. Because I am sick and tired of shit getting in our way. Maybe one day I want to be normal. Not entirely normal, but just halfway normal. I just want to be able to get through a month with you without having anything fuck up.

And that's another thing. I'm really sick and tired of pretending that I don't care about you, because that's just a flat out lie. I mean, I know you know, and I know that I know, and I know that things between us remain for the most part unsaid, and I think they're best left that way sometimes. But I'm entirely sick of being petrified of the concept of spending the rest of my life with you, together, in that shitty apartment, taking care of River like he's our goddamn adopted son. Because it does scare me, and I'm sure that's the last thing that you want to read right now. Maybe I'm just pouring all of my emotions onto paper, maybe I'll just burn this later.

But, even as shit like that scares me, I can't even think about what I would do if something forced us apart. I survived these months because I knew you were coming home. Whether it be in one year or seven, I knew that I just had to wait, and you'd be back. But even then, every day sucked not waking up to you. And the entire time, I just had to convince myself that things were fine, and I'd see you soon. And when you got out? I had no fucking idea what I was supposed to do when you got out. So I wrote this instead. And I still have no idea what it's trying to say. That I love you? No, that's not what I want to say. It's true, but that's not really it. I think I need you. Maybe. And I'm not sure what part is stronger, the love part, or the need part, but I like to think I keep them in a healthy balance. So why does it make me so fucking nervous to think about being yours? Like, completely and offically? Maybe it's the kid in me. I don't think I should have to grow up.

But. I want to? Does that make any sort of sense? I don't want a big frilly fucking wedding, I just want it on paper. I just want it noted down somewhere that we've been through a bunch of shit, and we're sick of it, so now there's nothing that anyone can do to rip us apart, because it's like... legal. We won't ever have to be separated, because if you go down, I'll go with you.

This letter made no sense. I missed you. Don't ever leave me again.


--Lucia