dahlia

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<center></center>

"Do you ever wonder what the world looks like?" She felt her jaw slacken slightly with his question, a single brow arching upward and creasing her forehead.

"You know," she began while shifting uncomfortably in her seat, "I wasn't always blind." She found her fingers digging into the flesh along her thigh, burying into the hard curve of muscle beneath bronzed flesh.

"Oh?" The bug-eyed reporter stared at her from behind the thick lenses of oval brimmed glasses. They had been sitting in the tea house downtown for two hours and hadn't gotten far in the interview at all. "I thought you were born blind..."

"You've gotta be kidding me..." Her words were barely audible over the heavy groan that was laced within them. "Don't you people do your research anymore?" She huffed her frustrations into her palm, rubbing her face incessantly to try and wake her body up. "When I was seven I was in a car accident, comatose for two months. The swelling in my brain somehow caused my occipital lobe to stop functioning."

"Oh...I....I just assumed."

He seemed nervous, she could practically feel it radiating off of him. Her lips twitched upward in the corners, midway between a smile and sneer.

"You assumed wrong," Dahlia said, cooly.

She shifted, harshly in her seat. Sitting for so long in an uncomfortable chair made a sharp pain climb the length of her spine and radiate through her neck.

"Do you want to stand up, or something?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Next time we will meet somewher with more comfortable chairs," he assured her. "Well, um. I just read your collections of poems, Give Up the Things You Love."

"And what did you think, honestly?" To this, her brows raised curiously. She leaned forward slightly, her elbow connecting with the table and her chin placed carefully into the craddle of her palm.

"They were beautiful. Marcus Hook in May, was...amazing." He stared at her with the adoration of a lover, wanting so badly to reach out and touch the fragile woman across from him.

"And here I thought it was awfully pretentious," it was a barely audible remark as she climbed to her feet, taking hold of her cane. "Have a good day Mr. Matthews."

She didn't need to say anything more or less, because the taps of her cane said it all and more. She wanted nothing to do with the media, nor did she care about what they thought of her. He watched her walk away, the taps of her cane slowly growing faint, until they disappeared completely.

"Wow..." Nothing else could describe how he felt about the woman. Marcus Matthews would later write: "...she was charismatic, and her manner of drawing you in reminded me of Hitler, but I fell for it hook line and sinker. The only thing that matches her talent is her wit, and you will either love her or hate her for it." And Dahlia would slap him for comparing her to Hitler the next time they met, then promptly buy him a drink for growing balls.

<font color="#6633FF " size="1">[ August 18, 2006 05:48 PM: Message edited by: vodka slurs ]</font>

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August 19, 2006


I have been sitting in my bedroom now for twenty-seven minutes and fourteen seconds. I would know this because I have been counting the ticks of the clock. Each and everyone one. I have nothing better to do, aside from replay my publisher's voicemail over and over again. My life is changing so rapidly, I don't really know what to think of it. I spent the past four years of my life a recluse, hidden away from the rest of the world in my brick walled sanctuary. I suppose I should start from the first day of my...re-emering into the world of the living. It was quite eventful.

I had heard about this tavern, I heard it was a popular hang out, so I thought "Dahlia, why not go there?" So I did. Stumbled right up the steps. Everyone was very nice and didn't patronize me as most people insist on doing. I met a man named Vince. He asked me questions and even let me map out his face with my hands. I hugged him. Ha! Imagine that. He was sweet and I gave him my number. The next morning, after a night of wandering the streets I was coming back to the tavern and tried to cross the street. I was nearly hit by a car! And who else, but Vince, came to my rescue, stopping traffic and letting me cross. But that would not be our only meeting! We met again, and he took me to the gardens and described them to me. It was very sweet of him. Apparently he talked to his friend Mesteno about me. It made me smile. I went to his house the other night, I like that he lets me touch his face. So I can feel him smile. He has a weird problem and doesn't think he'll live for much longer. I was really, really upset by this and I wasn't sure why at first. I don't know him very well. But then I knew. Everything about him is beautiful, and I haven't met a person like that in so long. It is amazing really. I fear that I may be infatuated with him. But it isn't lust, I don't want to have sex with him. Well, I do, but it isn't the only thing on my mind. Woe is me for falling so fast for someone!

I also met a lovely girl named Natalie. She has a personal vendetta against the male population and doesn't care much for Vince. It's unfortunate since she is now going to be my guide. I offered her the job and a place to live. She happily accepted. I'm happy to have her, I hate being in the house alone. I get lonely. Hah. Well, speaking of Natalie, the movers are here to unload her stuff. So I think this will be all for now.

<font color="#6633FF " size="1">[ August 19, 2006 03:50 PM: Message edited by: vodka slurs ]</font>

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Circa May 1999


<center>
"And there isn't a pension for second best or for hardly moving...
Crashing through the parlor doors, what was your first reaction?
Screaming, drunk, disorderly...I'll tell you mine.
You were the one but i can't spit it out when the date's been set.
The white routine to be ingested inaccurately."

Death Cab for Cutie</center>


She stood in silence, just outside the doors of St. Michael's Catholic church, listening to children tie cans onto the back of Ashton's car. Her heart was heavy thrumming to the bass of the wedding march. He was really marrying her. Her, being Abigail, the tall, leggy blonde who her best friend was soon to be married to. Her hand rubbed down her face, trying hard to bring her body back to life, wake herself up for what she was about to do. "You going inside?" The voice sounded distant, despite the older man standing only two feet from her. Her head tilted and turned toward the sound. When the man saw the cane, he knew who she was. "Dahlia? Do you need help going inside?"

"Who are you?" The voice wasn't familiar to her, which made her uneasy when he knew her name.

"It's Uncle Joe. Ashton's uncle."

"Oh, I'm sorry! You sounded a bit different."

She recognized who it was almost immediately after he told her his name. Uncle Joe was infamous amongst the Brody clan. Old and extremely eccentric, he had always been a fan of Dahlia and seemed just as disappointed as she, that Ashton was marrying Abigail (he thought she was a twit). Even in old age, he was a bear of a man at nearly six and a half feet. All muscle and meat, he was surprisingly gentle when resting his hand on her shoulder. "I know it's not how you wanted things to turn out, dear, but he is your best friend. I'm sure he would want you to be there." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before moving inside. She was quick to follow, rolling her cane over the ground in front of her, feet following its tail closely. However, unlike Uncle Joe, Dahlia would not take a seat toward the back. Rather, she would stand in the aisle, drawing the attention away from the blushing (buxom) bride and toward her.

"Ashton?"

"Dahlia...are you all right? Please sit down," Ashton pleaded, as if he could feel what was coming next.

"Yes, sit down," Abigail was not pleading, nor did she seem at all sympathetic.

She felt her heart begin to sink deep into her stomach and her vocal chords tangle. What words could she possibly say that were beautiful enough to draw him away from the altar and into her arms? She cleared her throat with a cough, that caused her body to hunch forward slightly. "Please don't marry her Ash, I love you. Please!" She pleaded with him through tears that spilled from bright, sightless eyes. She heard the crowd gasp and whisper their sympathy for the blind girl in love.

"Dahlia," he groaned, "please just sit down."

"No! Ashton, don't brush me aside. Not this time! I love you so much. I loved you when you were an awkward teenager and a struggling musician. I loved you before Abigail ever thought about you as something more than publicity," she cried out, sucking in a heavy breath after her spill of words.

"Shut up and get out!" Abigail snapped angrily, pointing an accusing finger. "He could never love you. He told me that he could never love someone who couldn't even see him."

"You--" the rest of her words were stillborn, and while she couldn't see with her eyes, the pain was still evident in her eyes. It was at that point that she truely felt her heart break and feared that it would stop working all together. Her knuckles burned white against the cane, both hands holding it to keep from wanting to punch the bride. "That isn't true!"

"Dahlia, I-I just could never love someone like you."

She was sure she had never moved so fast in her life, and it was in that moment, that she really wished she was dead. If only Ashton knew that he had inspired her set of poems "Give Up the Things You Love". If only he knew that Marcus Hook in May was about him, but he would never know and they would never speak again, except for a voicemail that she left on his cellphone from a payphone in Rhydin. "If you decide to go back to my apartment, to try and redeem yourself for what you did to me, I'm not there. I left. I just wanted to leave you this voicemail to tell you that after I hang up this phone, I will forget about you. But for the rest of your life, you will remember me. You will look back after it all falls through and wish you would have walked out the doors of the church with me. Because no one will ever love you the way I would have. Goodbye Ashton." With that, she hung up the phone.

Two years later, Ashton and Abigail divorced. One month after that, Abigail started dating the drummer of some 80's rock band. One year later, Ashton wrote a letter to Dahlia's publisher asking for her forgiveness. He never got a reply.

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August 20, 2006

And they will all sing murder...

It's a breeze born lullaby that I hear. It's what brings me to my feet, but it's the greed pregnant city that brings me to my knees. "Oh God, my God! Have you forgotten thee?" They were once blind, but now they just look away. They pray to the Gods in their steel skyline heaven, while us wrenches squirm in our asphalt purgatory. "Oh God, my God! Give hope to me!" But our prayers are unheard by the billion dollar saviors, gravid with a need that they try to fill with countless gallons of alcohol and nights spent between the thighs of anyone other than their wife. It isn't a lie if they can hide it beneath paperthin skin. "Oh God, my God! There is blood in the gutter and sin in the street of your beautiful, beautiful city." We slur our speech, drunk off a love so strong that it hides the fact that we don't love at all. Did we ever love? I bear the burden of your cross on my back, walking down the street with this crown of barbed wire. They are your modern day, twenty-first century messiahs. They are here to bring you to the promiseland. They'll part this asphalt sea, just follow please. Like lambs to the slaughterer. You. Are. All. Lambs. Welcome to the slaughterhouse.

I do not care for this stupor that I am in with my writing. I have included in my memoirs an excerpt from my rough draft of Heaven and Hell, Lost in Between. It's depressing me, I think. I hate this angst, because I don't really feel it. It just comes out in my writing somehow. I'll get out of this rut. Hopefully.

<font color="#6633FF " size="1">[ August 20, 2006 01:37 AM: Message edited by: vodka slurs ]</font>

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<center>
I am blind.
I am lost.
I am hopeful.
I am kind.
I am loving.
I am forgiving.
I am young.
I am beautiful.
I am powerful.
I am a daughter.
I am a lover.
I am a friend.
I am Dahlia McDermont.</center>

Apparently that is supposed to make me feel good about myself. It's twenty until seven in the morning and I haven't slept. I've sat out in my garden all night, after seeing Vince and talking with Natalie. It's the twenty-first of August and I want to go to the beach.

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She sat in the silence of a dark living room, with a tape player situated in her lap. It had been eleven hours and twelve minutes since she had recieved the FedEx package in the mail from Ashton O'Hara, and had done her best to keep from opening it. She kept the letter that accompanied it folded into a crumpled mess in a clenched fist; waiting for that perfect moment to push play. As the old grandfather clock's chimes filled the house with a chilling etude, she knew; once the clock's symphony was over she pressed play. His voice was gruff from crying and too many cigarettes (and possibly some alcohol), along with the fumbling with the microphone; he was always so clumsy.

Hey Dahlia. I didn't know how to start that off other than that, after all you were the one that always spoke the pretty words.

A small chuckle interrupted the speaking before he silenced the fit and continued on.

I, uh, I want to start off with saying that I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry that I couldn't look passed the fact that you could never see me. I wish I hadn't been such an idiot. Abigail wasn't the woman for me. You were, you always had been; I just never saw it. If you must know, you were right when you said I'd never be able to forget you, because you're all I think about every single day of my life. I wish I would have realized before how much I was in love with you. You're so perfect. You're a saint and I fucked up bad Dahlia. I'm sorry. I'm just so fucking sorry.

His words broke into incoherent sobs that he tried to muffle with his hands, his apologies and regrets being formed in sighs and gasps that got caught in the back of his throat despite his efforts to expel them. Ten minutes of crying made her feel like she would surely die, her breaths coming in short gasps through her own tears. Did he think this was what she wanted? Did he think this is what she needed? When the crying subsided, it took nearly ten more minutes for him to manage to get back on track with his apology.

I know this is pathetic, I know this isn't fair to you. I know I'm an asshole, but Dahlia if you give me another chance I swear to God I'll love you more than any man has ever loved a woman. I'll give you the world if you let me, I'm nothing without you. Please, Dahlia I need you like oxygen in my lungs. Come back to me, please. Dahlia, please. I knew you would never let me come to see you, but I want to let you know that if you come back I have an engagement ring for you. I want you to be my wife, Dahl. I want to spend the rest of my life with you and no one else. Please, will you--"

She cut the tape of there by throwing the player into a wall where it shattered into hundreds of pieces. And she sat in silence and cried; cried and cried and cried. She cried for what had been, what was, and what could have neen if she hadn't been so proud. If she could have forgiven him, she would have walked out the door and gotten a plane ticket back to Los Angeles. But she couldn't. The ache in her heart was a bitter reminder of what he had done to her. So instead she settled down at her kitchen table with a bottle of cheap Merlot and every intention of losing herself in the bottom of the bottle until talking was a slur of words and walking was too complex. "Rely to heavily on alcohol and irony, get clobbered on by courtesy; in love with love and lousy poetry," she recited for her drinking chant in a songbird sweet soprano.

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<center>

Samuel 1:13 - 1:18

Now Hannah, she spake in her heart; only her lips moved, but her voice was not heard: therefore Eli thought she had been drunken. And Eli said unto her, "How long wilt thou be drunken? Put away thy wine from thee." And Hannah answered and said, "No, my lord, I am a woman of sorrowful spirit: I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but have poured out my soul before the Lord. Count nor thine handmaid for a daughter Belial: for out of the abundance of my complaint and grief have I spoken hitherto." Then, Eli answered and said, "Go in peace and the God of Israel grant thy petition that thou hast asked of him."

______________________________________</center>

The majority of her day had been spent absently plucking flowers from her garden and arranging them in a vase to sit on her desk. However, the lullaby ring of her telephone drew her attention away from her task. Seated at her desk, she balanced the phone between her shoulder and cheek.

"Hello?"

"Dah-Dahlia, sweetie?" Her mother's voice was instantly recognized, though her broken words and interruptions of sobs distorted the usual singsong tone.

"Ma? What's wrong? Why are you crying?!"

"Rome is dead."

Dahlia sat in silence, her older brother (her senior by three years); the artist and her favorite of her two siblings. He had always been the one to listen to Dahlia, to give her a shoulder to cry on. However, a needle-driven addiction had slowly deteriorated his health; she could already guess how her dearest brother's life ended.

"He...he's dead?"

Her mother broke into incoherent sentences and hysterical sobs about how her son would burn in Hell. How he wouldn't join them in heaven.
Suicide, she said. Catholicism didn't forgive those that took their own lives, nor did they look fondly upon men who laid with other men. Her brother, in her family's eyes, was the king of sin.

"Ma..MA. Calm down. When is the funeral? S'it at St. Anne's? Where--"

"No. It isn't at St. Anne's. They won't let us have it there. Nor do we want to. His funeral will be at Mason View."

"What?! WHAT. MA, are you out of your mind? He has to be buried at All Saints with Grandma and Grandpa!"

"No--He killed himself, and his boyfriend found him."

"So you're not going to bury Rome with the rest of our family because he was gay? Because he killed himself?"

"Ye--"

"Are you fucking insane?"

"The Funeral is Sunday, two p.m."

"I hate you," Dahlia murmured, hanging up the phone.

She didn't cry, surprisingly. The poet cried about everything, but not this, not yet. She dropped the phone onto her desk and shuffled to kneel beside the edge of her bed. Head bowed against its edge, her hands clasped together she prayed. She prayed and prayed, but didn't cry. For once, Dahlia did not cry.

<font color="#6633FF " size="1">[ September 03, 2006 02:23 PM: Message edited by: vodka slurs ]</font>

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She stood precariously close to the edge of sanity, while launched into the spotlight. She had spent the entire funeral beside her later brother's boyfriend, kneeling between the rough, wooden pews of Mason View Methodist Church; hands clasped together, rosary dangling. She had been careful to dress in all black; from her pencil skirt and blouse to her shoes and gloves. It was only once the pastor summoned her forward did the poet climb to her feet and retrieve her cane. Up the aisle, an altar boy aided her in climbing the steps and adjusting the microphone. Her thanks was whispered to the boy who stayed with her. A silent understanding that her legs would not last through her speech. Clearing her throat she stepped forward, leaning the cane against the podium, her hands were pressed on either side to keep her standing.

"As I am sure you all know, I'm Dahlia, Rome's sister," her voice quaked. She hadn't cried through the entire funeral, but now she could feel the swell of tears in her eyes. "I want to start off with a passage; John 1:8-9, 'If we say we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and refusing to accept the truth. But if we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us and to cleanse us from every wrong'. Most of you here, I imagine, are under the impression that my brother was a sinner, that he had no right to be buried in a Catholic cemetary. I also imagine that most of you see him as a bad person who got what he deserved. In fact, I believe you only came to show your support for my family. Thank you. Now please leave." She listened to the crowd's silent uproar, murmuring their disgust with her crusade. "Now that all that is out of the way, I want to tell you about my brother and my friend, Rome McDermont. Ever since I was young, I've always favored Rome. He was always so sweet, so caring. More so than most people, I've met. He never felt the need to judge, never patronized people because they were different. I wish more people would learn from him. A brilliant artist, I wish I had half the creativity he did. A true lover, I wish I had have the heart he did." Pausing her head finally tilting up from her paper. "I met my brother's boyfriend for the first time, today. He picked me up from the airport. We spoke and I found out why my brother loved him so much. He's wonderful." She heard Alexei, her brother's boyfriend, choke back a sob and winced. "I...I can't imagine a more undeserving person of death, than Rome. He...He was such an amazing person. He had his problems, but we all--we all do--"

Her words were cut off by a string of sobs, that had her collapsing against the podium. The mourner's sat in silence, watching the poet breakdown before their eyes. The altar boy was unable to do anything to help the small woman, so he stood back to give her space. Alexei moved from his seat near the back, to stand beside the only family member to accept him with open arms. His arm snaked behind her and held her up. She looped her arms around him and held him close; sobbing into his chest. Desperation seeped through her touch. Barely able to right herself, she finally managed to pry herself away from her brother's lover to resume her place at the podium.

"I've been spending a lot of my time asking God, why. Why did he have to take Rome, why so soon, why such a beautiful person?" Her eyes were grey skies, gravid with raindrops. "I was afraid, I was lost." Sobs broke up her words, mangling them into grim prose poetry, a lost lullaby of sorrow and heartache. "I asked him why my family had forsaken my brother for who he was, for who God made him. I sat with the Bible in my lap, and my fingers brought me to a particular passage. Isaiah 44:22, 'I have swept away your sins like the morning mists. I have scattered your offenses like the clouds. Oh, return to me, for I have paid the price to set you free'. And then I kn--and then I knew. My brother was no more of a sinner than anyone else. Despite what you may think, despite the Hell you think my brother is banished to for loving a man, for overdosing," she didn't believe Rome killed himself, "God has forgiven him--God has opened his arms and brought--brought his..." Her voice cracked and she couldn't imagine finishing. But she swallowed her sobs and spit out the rest. "He's brought his child home. Rome is finally home."

She broke into hysterics, collapsing against the casket, where she clung, (as if that could bring back her brother) sobbing. Everyone watched, brought to tears by such a display of emotion. Dahlia cried and cried and everyone sat in silence, watching on without saying a word, or trying to stop her. In all her sorrow, she was beautiful. This time, it was all right for Dahlia to cry.

<font color="#6633FF " size="1">[ September 03, 2006 10:01 PM: Message edited by: vodka slurs ]</font>

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the tapping of her cane preceeded the angelic aesthetic of the petite poet as she rounded the corner. beneath the thunder and lightning of crowded streets and neon signs of the city, dahlia stalked the shadows and played hopscotch with the cement panels until the pavement crumbled into something far more decrepit. she was a blur of color against the darkness of the city's skyline; a ghost in a red sundress and mismatched hightops. dahlia still dressed like a child in some respects, with her mess of colors and constant state of dishevelment. she could see the sky and the stars; like black fabric with diamonds woven into it. she could see the vibrant flowers in their myraid of colors. but the beauty of the night was swallowed whole by the darkness of reality when she opened her eyes and saw nothing but black. she was blind again and the visions of stars and flowers were lost with the blare of her alarm clock.

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<center>It was in the march of the winter I turned 17
that I bought those pills
I thought I would need
and I wrote a letter to my family
said it's not your fault
and you've been good to me
just lately I've been feeling
like I don't belong
like the ground is not mine to walk upon
and I've heard that music
echo through the house
where my grandmother drank
by herself
and I sat watching a flower
as it was withering
I was embarrased by it's honesty
so I'd prefer to be remembered as a smiling face
not this fucking wreck
that's taken it's place

so please forgive what I have done
no you can't stay mad at the setting sun
cause we all get tired I mean eventually
and there's nothing left to do but sleep

but spring came bearing sunlight
those persuasive rays
so I gave myself a few more days
my salvation it came, quite suddenly
when Justin spoke very plainly
he said "Of course it's your decision,
but just so you know,
if you decide to leave,
soon I will follow"

I wrote this for a baby
who has yet to be born
my brother's first child
I hope that womb's not too warm
cause it's cold out here
and it'll be quite a shock
to breathe this air
to discover loss
so I'd like to make some changes
before you arrive
so when your new eyes meet mine
they won't see no lies
just love.
just love.

I will be pure,
No, no, I know I will be pure.
Like snow- like gold-
like snow- like gold--


bright eyes</center>