mourning rituals : valentine pierce

[cajun_songbird]

<center>

valentine marie pierce

She never mentions the word addiction in certain company.
Yeah, she'll tell you she's an orphan after you meet her family.
She paints her eyes as black as night now.
Pulls those shades down tight.
Yeah, she gives a smile when the pain comes.
The pain gonna make everything alright.

Said she talks to angels.
They call her out by her name.
Oh yeah, she talks to angels.
Says they call her out by her name.

She keeps a lock of hair in her pocket.
She wears a cross around her neck.
Yeah, the hair is for the little boy.
And the cross is someone she has not met-- not yet.

Said she talks to angels.
They call her out by her name.
Oh yeah, she talks to angels.
Says they call her out by her name.

She don't know no lover.
None that I've ever seen.
And to her that ain't nothing.
But to me -- yeah, me -- it means everything.

She paints her eyes as black as night now.
Pulls those shades down tight.
There's a smile when the pain comes.
The pain's gonna make everything alright.

( she talks to angels ; the black crowes )

----</center>


In the beginning, it's always dark. You're swimming around in a mixture of viscous fluids and life giving blood; attached to this person that is to take care of you until you're deemed old enough to do it yourself. Irony at it's best. The person I was stuck with couldn't even take care of herself, much less a precocious baby that voiced it's displeasure with clarity.

"Shut up!"

The only reply was a lusty wail.

"Stop it! I can't stand it."

And answers came there none.

One might pause and wonder where is the patriarch of this lovely family. The matriarch would be beside herself with happiness if you could reply. One look at the wide eyed, dark haired bundle, and his hands had been washed of the whole affair.

"She has black hair."

"So do you!"

"She has blue eyes."

".... it's a genetic flaw..."

Yes, but who's genetics? A product of a torrid liaison between a penniless waif from the streets, decked in trash can finery and an aimless wanderer who had been blinded by gutter induced sparkle, the morning she was born was called the end of the world. Valentine's Day. A day of love, laughter, and togetherness. For the waif, it had been the end of her world, as she watched her knight in tarnished armor walk away without a backwards glance. Looking down the screaming bundle in her arms, fate stepped in and developed the most ironic blow of the child's life.

"Valentine..."

There had been no cupids shooting, nor had their been any flowers delivered to welcome her arrival. The only thing that welcomed her into the world that morning were the desolate tears of the woman holding her, and the sounds of horns blowing in the distance spawned from a world gone mad.

----

"Come on, you know I need it.."

"No, I don't think you do."

"What the hell do you know? You don't know anything, now give it to m--no, please, don't walk away. Please, I'll do anything.."

Junkies were a dime a dozen around this place. Instead of streets paved with gold, and rivers of milk and honey, you were more than likely to step on a discarded needle lying forlornly like flotsam in a sea of filth. The arms of the kids wandering around had more tracks than the train station. The sight of one of their own, face down in a gutter did little more than make them glance over their shoulder to see if anyone else saw them near the body. It wouldn't do for the cops to burst in, and break up the party.

This was the area that the artists lived in. That's what they liked to call themselves. Pick pocket Picassos. They'd rob you "Thoreau"ly and wander away before the victim had a chance to realize they'd been bamboozled. We called ourselves the Wonder Orphans. A private joke among the select few of us that were allowed within the circle. It's quite funny how the name came about.

"It's a wonder they don't stick us orphans into the shelter."

"Yeah, we're like the Wonder Orphans."

.. and it stuck. It's amazing the things that sound good to you when you're so high, the sky seems to be at ground level. Dirty needles, burnt down cigarettes, and misbegotten spoons, and everything in between littered the area where we were sitting. Each of us had our own vices. Speed. Cocaine. Marijuana. X. Heroin. To be as poor as we all were, there was always a way to find the money we needed. Always. Stealing. Odd jobs that no one else wanted to do. A couple of the girls had found out that they could get paid for doing something that usually was taken by force anyway. If it was to be done, at least there should be an award at the end, right?

----

I hated my name. Who in their right minds named a kid Valentine, anyway? I suppose my question was answered right there. Ma had never been in her right mind. Have you ever walked past a person on the street, and wondered why they were just.. staring into space? Their lips were moving -- as if they were talking -- but there weren't any words. There were never any words. Just what seemed to be hours upon hours of idle staring and empty silence. That was her. She turned tricks down the road from where we lived. Made me call the Johns she brought home Uncle. It was a kink of theirs I think. I never asked.

When I was old enough to go to the high school, the hate of my name grew .. "Hey, you gonna be my Valentine?" That was a favorite line of theirs. "Lemme touch your heart, Valen-tiiiiiine." I yearn for the days when I didn't know what that meant. On the actual holiday of St. Valentine, instead of receiving construction paper hearts decorated with glitter, they always thought it was funny to stick red condoms into my locker, with 'love notes' attached. I think that's when my rather extensive vocabulary of curse words began taking form. Who'd have known there that many words for a single female body part?

That's probably the sole reason I ditched more than I attended. I preferred the company of my "friends" down underneath the old bridge. It was just a bit of empty space with a half burned trash can and some old mattresses for seats, but to us .. it was our retreat. Where we could go to get away from everyone, and do whatever we wanted. As the years passed, the number of people that met there diminished. It seemed there was at least one O.D. a year. Larry. Andy. Bones. Trish. Lena.

Five little indians, sittin' on a bed.. five O.D.'ed and left here dead...


----

It was the dark the day I died. The stars hung overhead like crystalline candles, sturdy and steadfast in their mission to help the moon illuminate the world. I can remember staring up at those stars, and thinking.. I'll never see them again. A needle hung limply from the skin of my forearm, empty now except for the bit of blood that seemed to be pushing upwards through the needle. A thin trail of vitae trickled down my arm to splatter on to the ground below. I can also remember thinking... How did it come to this?


----

Nineteen years of age, and I already had lived two life times. Home had been left behind as soon as it was legal. Don't know whatever happened to Ma; I guess I really don't care. The drugs had an ever firmer grip on her than they did me, and she didn't care how she got them or what they did to her. She was only 39 when I left, but the weariness in her eyes -- the lines on her face -- made her seem ancient. I guess I can admire the fact that she went through Hell a few times and came back to show the track marks to prove it.

The people I hung with, they had it in their minds that I didn't belong there, when I was wallowing in the filth just as much -- if not more -- than they were. Yes, I was a gutter angel; eyes rimmed with runny black and scattered flakes of glitter. Torn black skirts around too thin legs, and a shirt that had fit me appropriately three years ago. Clunky heels made a steady staccato rhythm when I walked; inky strands of hair pinned atop my head messily with whatever I could find, to use.

That was the lovely thing about "us". We weren't choosy. If something came our way, we didn't question the hows or whys. We just accepted it gratefully and moved along in our semi-charmed kind of lives. You're probably wondering what does any of this have to do with anything. I was thinking that maybe if you had a bit of insight, you wouldn't judge as harshly. Back to the day I died ...

----

"He left me.. that son of a bitch left me..That mother fuckin' no good rotten piece of shit . I'll fuckin' kill him..."

The words were incredulous. The other chicks there -- around the fire that night -- nodded their heads in understanding of the anger. The men just chuckled to themselves behind their lukewarm beer, and tried to stay out of the conversation. I was in a rage. My love, my heart, my soul, my dealer.. had abandoned me. Now, when I needed him most of all. The crave for a fix was stronger than the urge to breathe, but now I had no way to give in to it. He gave me something none of the rest had been able to. The guarantee that he'd make my life better.

At times I thought it was true. He'd bring flowers. Alcohol. Heroin. The needle was offered as if it was some great gift of the gods, and for the brief time after the stuff hit my veins, it was of the gods. It made me feel ten feet tall and invincible. He'd just smile as he moved over and began pulling off my skirt; hands trailing ther way up milky thighs even as he nudged his way between my legs. It was if we were floating over the world. No one could touch us. Except for each other.

Johnny moved over and touched my shoulder briefly, asking me quietly to calm down and come with him. He had something show me. He was a new kid; had only been with the group for a few weeks now, but mostly everyone trusted him. Mack didn't trust any one, so we paid little heed to his grumblings. Anger still glinting in my eyes, all I did was offer a short nod before trailing along after him. I know what he had to show me, and I wanted it. Wanted it enough to do what he wanted.

I just never thought he'd leave me for dead; sprawled there like some drain pipe Ophelia.

----

There isn't a white light at the end of the tunnel. I wonder where people get that. I can remember closing my eyes -- with one final look to the stars -- and falling into an endless black. The whole life flashing before your eyes, though, that holds a bit of truth. It's the most odd sensation. As my breathing began slowing down to the point of stopping, memories of my childhood and teenage years came flooding back. The good times, the bad times... they all entwined to form a monstrous picture that I didn't want to see. The last thing I remember before the nothingness settled in ... my mother's face.

----

"Somebody call an ambulance!"

Who was screaming? The slack jawed faces of the other kids around her body were outlined with fear; shadowed by knowing. This would be them one day. Each of them knew it, but none of them would stop what they were doing. Irony at it's best.

"She's not breathing...."

"Should we move her?"

Sirens.. Looking at each other in panic, the heavy thud of footsteps could be heard racing away. They didn't want to be here when the authority figures arrived. It wouldn't do.. wouldn't do at all to be caught...

"I need some adrenaline... 10 ccs NOW."

The way they were moving around me, you'd think I was someone important. Someone with substance, instead of a junkie with a substance dependency. I guess it was a good thing I was out. The feel of those heavy gauge needles going up through my ribs surely wasn't something I wanted to feel. A kickstart for your heart. A jolt for your system.

<font color="#DFECCA" size="1">[ March 24, 2005 11:31 PM: Message edited by: entropic notes ]</font>

[cajun_songbird]

<center>Looking back at me I see that I never really got it right.
I never stopped to think of you.
I'm always wrapped up in things I cannot win.
You are the antidote that gets me by.
Something strong like a <u>drug that gets me high</u>.

What I really meant to say is I'm sorry for the way I am.
I never meant to be so cold.
Never meant to be so cold.
What I really meant to say is I'm sorry for the way I am.
I never meant to be so cold.
Never meant to be so..

Cold, to you, I'm sorry about all the lies.
Maybe in a different light.
You can see me stand on my own again.
'Cause now I can see.
You were the antidote that got me by.
Something strong like a <u>drug that gets me high</u>.

What I really meant to say is I'm sorry for the way I am.
I never meant to be so cold.
Never meant to be so cold.

I never really wanted you to see..
..the screwed up side of me that I keep..
.. locked inside of me so deep.
It always seems to get to me.
I never really wanted you to go.
So many things you should have known.
I guess for me there's no hope.
I never meant to be so cold.

( cold ; crossfade )

----</center>


"You're scared."

Standing outside of the tattoo parlor, the group of teenagers huddled together all turned their eyes to one particular girl in the group. Valentine had only been 'allowed' within their folds a couple of weeks ago, and now came the final test. The rest of them already had their 'brands'. Bones had gotten a skull and cross bones because of his nickname. Trish had gotten a daisy because it was her favorite flower. Larry had a fist because he fought a lot. Andy had a four leaf clover because he was Irish and Lena had a moon because she preferred the night.

"Ya know, if ya don't do this, then yer out. That's the way it works. We all sucked it up and got ours. S'yer turn now, Val." Bones, the leader of the 'group', stepped out from the others and stood in front of the fifteen year old who was trying to act like she wasn't scared. Grabbing her forearm, the bell over the door gave a quiet chime to announce their arrival. The burly man behind the counter knew Bones on sight, and grinned when he saw Val being pulled along. "Got another one, eh? Bring her on back." He gesture to an open doorway that led into the 'art' room.

"I'm not scared, I'm just tryin' to comprehend why the hell brandin' myself is gonna make me all special." Jerking her arm away from him with a scowl, an absent rub was given to her shoulder as she glowered after the tattoo artist, who had already disappeared through the doorway. "Cause it's just the way it works. You want in or not? I ain't got time to waste on some kid." Scowling again, Val flipped him off before heading after the owner of the place. "Fuck you, Bones," was her only reply before the sound of leather creaking in protest as she sat down was heard.

An hour later, she emerged from the back, her eyes and nose red and a little puffy from trying not to cry as the small needle worked over her skin. Shooting up was one thing. Having a small needle jab into your arm a hundred times a second was a whole different thing. But, she had a small heart on her forearm. She was now 'initiated'. Walking back outside to where the crew was still lollygagging about, the sleeve of her shirt was pushed up and the small bandaged peeled out of the way to proudly show off her mark. A couple of the guys whistled, and the girls grinned at her, all the while saying that they knew she could do it.

It's amazing how a simple thing like a picture on your body could help unify a motley group of miscreants the way those tattoos did. What one had, all had. Little by little though, six soon faded to five as Bones was found face down in a gutter with a knife sticking out of his throat. Trish was next, found in a dark alley; a cord tightly drawn around her neck. Lena had decided to leave behind her life in New York and moved to California to live with her dad. Between Val, Andy, and Larry the Wonder Orphans had dwindled down to the Three Musketeers.

They all had their meetings with people they'd rather not associate themselves with. The police, for one. Valentine had seen the inside of a jail more than once, but they never could get the charges to stick. Larry had been put away for killing someone. The cops didn't want to hear the real story between what had happened that night. He'd been walking home from the legitimate job he'd acquired and someone had jumped him, brandishing a knife. Flashbacks to how Bones had died led the boy to fight for his life and in the end, it had been the attacker who had been the victim. Of course, the way the law saw it, Larry was just another drug head off the streets.

How many times had they looked Death in the face? Laughed at it, and turned their backs on it to go back to their addictions? A deal gone bad. A jealous ex-girlfriend. Death came in many forms, but yet the two that remained seemed perfectly oblivious to it. The only thing that changed Andy and Val's outlook on life.. was the day she almost died. Andy had been the one to find her convulsing on the sidewalk outside of her house, eyes rolled back in her head as a needle bobbed up and down in the flesh of her left arm where it had gotten stuck. Blood flowed thickly from the small wound, backing up into the syringe and with panic in his steps, he finally called an ambulance.

They never saw each other again, as he quit everything cold turkey and decided to make a life for himself. The streets were traded for a school room, and the last Val heard about him, he was getting a degree to become a teacher. The day she left New York, she had penned him a brief note and left it at his mom's house. The city she had been born and raised in was given little more than a backwards glance as she headed forward towards what she hoped was her destiny.

<font color="#DFECCA" size="1">[ March 27, 2005 05:19 PM: Message edited by: entropic notes ]</font>