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Thread: in love with a (strict machine)

  1. #21
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    Dear Lucille,

    Your father told me everything, so before you go accusing me of snooping around in your private (or not so private) affairs, I'd suggest reading the whole of this letter. I wrote this because calling you on the telephone is much too difficult. I think hearing your voice would set me off, and we all know that hearing mine might send you into fucking convulsions. But he did tell me everything. He always tells me everything, even when I'm obviously listening. That was one thing about your father I could never stand. He just kept talking, even when I told him to stop.

    I heard about rehab, and how you've been battling heroin, and even though we've barely spoken since you left, I know all about it, because it seems you can't keep your mouth shut when it comes to your father's questions. Telling him all your problems always got you everything you wanted with him, and maybe that was the problem. You think you can just get away with everything as long as you have your precious daddy to dig you out of the holes you get lost in. In high school, it was your friends, the time you and that girl stole her father's car, and you were the one in the driver's seat, coked up and barely coherent when it crashed. Who got you off scot free? Your fucking doormat of a father did. And ever since then, you knew that you could do anything you wanted, whatever the consequences, and you'd have a safety net to catch you.

    He told me about your tryst with that boy, the one with the rich lawyer father, and at first I thought you were going to worm your way into his trust fund like any sensible girl your age would, but no. I've heard now that you've married him, and I was still hopeful for a moment. But now you're moving? What on earth possessed you to ever allow him to joint own something with you.. you have no idea what complications you're creating for yourself, Lucille, you don't seem to understand that if you do what I did, you're going to end up where I am. Miserable. In a life I was not supposed to live. Some women are not meant to be wives. Some are not meant to be mothers. You and I were meant for neither, and thinking you can adjust yourself to grow into this lifestyle where marriages are happy, and you can handle a mortgage, and bills, and jobs, and children.. that's just stupid.

    Time will pass, and you'll realize the man you married did not keep the promises he made you. Life didn't get easier. He didn't provide you with everything you ever wanted. He didn't love you through the harder times. For better or worse meant nothing to you both. He stood idly by while you scrounged for his attention, for a reaction from him. You could do anything, and he'd just smile and hold your hand. Destroy yourself, your house, your children. Let other men into your body, your bed, just so he'd see, just so he'd say or do something. Men turn to stone when love doesn't work the way they promised it would, and no house, no wedding ring, no child can make you the way you were. Because even the way you were was not good enough, and I think you know that. Because nothing ever made you happy, Lucille, not when you were a baby, not when you were a child, or a teenager. We tried, and failed, and if your own family can't make you happy, then I don't see how some boy will. You used boys like napkins when you lived here. How am I to think that things will change? Time changes nothing, and marriage is nothing more than time you promised to someone else.

    I hope you have found a tolerable way to pass the time.

    -Lauren


    <font color="#7F8190" size="1">[ April 12, 2004 01:04 AM: Message edited by: shipwrecked ]</font>

  2. #22
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    Her t-shirt hanging loose, shorts allowing her to wander with ease, she spent from the moment he left, until this very moment bustling around the bedroom, attempting to put everything into some sort of delightful disorder. New white sheets were stretched on the bed, pillows fluffed and wrapped in white cases. The comforter was covered, all white, a down hand me down from some abstract family member that she had stocked away somewhere. Their things were unpacked into dressers and closets, things set up on bedside tables. The smaller things were exciting, the fact that there were doors and lamps and bedside tables, a closet, a hallway. This was not an apartment with one room that closed. This was a home. With stairs. With a kitchen and a bedroom.

    The sheer drapery had been laid across four posts, creating something dream-like but hardly frilly, the white of her carpet digging into toes as she wriggled them along soft fibers. The day before had been spent shopping, and today, things were being put into their places, a bedroom and a bathroom furnished on a discount bargain.

    Standing back, palms smoothed over her pulled back hair, and she seemed pleased with the appearance of the place. It was not miraculous. It was not beautiful and wonderful. But it was theirs. A long moment passed, and when she remembered exactly what she needed to do, she was reaching in her bag to pull out the gift she had discovered for him, stuck in a tiny box and placed on his bedside table, along with a folded piece of paper that read 'Charlie' scrawled in her careless handwriting.

    The room was theirs. But the small silver cross in the box belonged to him, discovered among miscellaneous things to be unpacked.

    I thought the tale of the good Catholic boy marrying the half-Jewish princess was a rather romantic one. You should wear this more often. It's half of me, after all.

    --Lucia


    <font color="#7F8190" size="1">[ April 26, 2004 04:33 AM: Message edited by: shipwrecked ]</font>

  3. #23
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    She had come to envision their bedroom as a carefully laid out chessboard. There were white squares and black, and each player had to stay on his or her respective color. Whenever there were sideways glances exchanged, crooked stares and halfway mischevious grins, to her, it always felt like fraternizing with the enemy. He was not a lover, he was not a bedfellow, he was an obstacle to be avoided at all costs. She did not think of him in those typical newlywed ways, as an object, a body to be used. But there were moments and pangs where hair fell the right way, or blue eyes were exceptionally blue, and in those moments she remembered herself as a wife. As a lover. As a young woman, most importantly.

    Her body had always been her weapon, a bargaining chip that she could use as a lever, a balancing point of influence. She offered it in exchange for what it was that she needed and wanted, and there was nobility in the strength that it took to be able to separate body and heart. What she had not thought of, however, was that it would be nearly impossible to combine the two once more.

    It was not temptation. It was not duty. It was not bribery. It was power. It was a delicate twitching balance between the two, a cleverly constructed scene with two trying to win at their conflicting objectives. She had come to learn that she felt weakest with her spine pressed to something. The wall. The doorframe, the bedpost, the mattress. She had come to learn that she felt best when he was hurting. Whether it be from nearly digging ditches in his skin with blunted nails, tearing out a blasphemous tongue with vicious teeth, or hissing the most demeaning things through a tension clenched jaw.

    There were times where she surrendered herself to him, and even in those moments, she felt like they were victories. She would let limbs latch him in a trap, and her movements mimicked his, simply because she had no other choice but for once, to let him lead. Leading was not something she gave up easily.. whether it be here or driving in the car. Leadership was something she owned and could lay claim to. The power of getting her way first. And even when she gave him that, his ginger trepidation made her wary. He was nervous to touch skin, to encourage and insist, and that made her want to use fists rather than lips to express what it was she wanted him to do.

    There were reasons why she closed her eyes, or stared at cracks in the ceiling rather than the slope of his shoulder, or the way her knee crooked skyward. She preferred mouths locked together because it stunted words. She hated words. Words meant feeling, and this.. this was something she had not yet learned to place feeling with completely yet. He had a penchant for her name, and she had rarely let his leak, because that was weakness. And weakness would push her further from power, and power was what this was about.

    Power died quickly, or so she had come to learn. There were few ways to prolong it, but her most effective method was to draw away the moment that the denoument had hit the lowest point. Whether it be a simple twist of her spine to define a clear schism between them that he was not permitted to fill for a designated amount of time, or withdrawing completely from him. Sheet wrapped and shuffled into the bathroom, but those were only at her weakest points, where feeling hit, and her throat swelled and she was forced to drown it out with running water behind closed doors.

    On the chessboard of her bedroom, she had yet to discern what piece it was she represented. The aggressive, headstrong pawn, the wary, tricky bishop, the flaunting knight, the omnipotent queen.. there were plenty of options to clarify why it was that they held each other in constant suspended check. Why nights were ominious and mornings were nonchalant. Why body and .. everything else that was contained, never seemed to fuse until it was far too late.

  4. #24
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    <center>
    w9 340x295

    i'd love to sit and watch you drink
    with the reins to the world, gripping a smoke
    vaguely missing link
    don't ever change you hungry little bashful hound
    ...i'll learn how to save, not just borrow

    -rufus wainwright</center>

    <font color="#7F8190" size="1">[ May 01, 2004 12:31 AM: Message edited by: shipwrecked ]</font>

  5. #25
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    She was long past the age of sticky fingers and gap toothed smiles. She was seventeen with a cocaine battered nose and red wine tainted lipstick, creeping out of the passenger seat of Jake Goldman's car. Her wrist was grabbed, lured back for one more lascivious kiss-and-touch goodbye. Heels hit the pavement, and despite the early hour that she was creaking in at (two hours to sunrise), she knew she had nothing to worry about, considering the Dodge was not in the driveway. Her father was on some overnight somewhere west of suburban New York. Work rarely dragged him away, but when it did, Lucille used his absence and her mother's alcoholic apathy to her advantage.

    She didn't creep into the house. There was no need to avoid the third stair on her porch in hopes that the loud creak of wood wouldn't alert someone, or to close the screen door by hand. She let it creak. She let the lock crack. She let the door close with a crash.

    The downstairs of the small two story home was dark and quiet. Nothing moved but her feet across the well furnished living room as she shrugged off her jacket and started to scale the stairs two at a time. Her evening had been productive, and she wanted some deserved rest. The carpeted hallway muted the clicks of her heels, but the slightly ajar door did little to mute the linen shuffling that came from the master bedroom.

    Peeking eyes through the slit of door and jamb, she watched as the nameless figure inside pried a jacket off of her mother to reveal a white shirt, his mouth locked to hers in a moment of unobserved passion. She could only stare at the Oxford shirt that covered his back, noting that he was light haired. She shifted when they shifted, and when she recognized his face, she could barely believe herself.

    It was her uncle. Her mother's husband's brother. And when her rage had consumed her deeply enough, she cracked the door wide. Two heads snapped her way, and the teen was reaching for her mother's dresser, snagging things off of it and lobbing it at the man with a strangely violent speed behind them.

    "You bastard! You son of a bitch!"

    Her mother simply stared with a heaving sigh, and her uncle (William), was dodging her projectiles with an unamused shout here and there. His fatal mistake was coming forth and snatching up his niece's arms, driving her spine into the wall. She winced until he was finished with garbled and underwater sounding threats. He backed away, and turned to find his shoes.

    Lucy reached over, snagging a sharp letter opener from her mother's desk, and without hesitation, she was leaping onto her uncle, pinning him to the ground with a hysterical scream, her knees digging into his chest. His hand snagged her wrist, and she was attempting to jab the instrument into his neck. Her voice choked with the struggle. Knees shifted and he gasped for breath as her forearm crushed across his neck.

    "Lucy!"

    It was not her mother's voice calling her, but she ignored it nevertheless, another strong press of her arm gaining her an inch closer to that bastard's throat.

    ".. Lucy."

    Snapping her head over her shoulder, there stood her father, beckoning her up with a lift of his hand. "Lucille. Let's go."

    With heaving breaths and an ice frozen glare, she was standing and throwing the letter opener down beside him, turning to shove past them all and lock herself in the sanctity of her bedroom. She would forget all about this with a few white lines.

  6. #26
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    <center>kate602

    heaven help me for the way i am
    save me from these evil deeds before i get them done
    i know tomorrow brings the consequence at hand
    but i keep living this day like the next will never come</center>

  7. #27
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    random ranting journal entry #345

    If you asked me what the hell happened last night, I don't think I could properly tell you. If you asked me how life was, I'd tell you that it was slowly but surely coming apart at the seams. And I'm going to stop it, it's all a matter of mustering up the courage to do so. These are times that can't be weathered alone.

    Charlie looks tired. He slept through the night, as far as I know, so I can't imagine why. I hope he isn't getting sick. If he gets sick, I'll get sick. I don't want to be sick.

    River is still in the hospital. I haven't been in there to see him as much as I should. I had a cold the first week or two that he was in there, and that was my excuse to not have to go stand over his bed and watch him wheeze and try to crack jokes. I hate that place. And when River gets out, I don't ever want to have to set foot in it again unless I am dying, or having something removed.

    I'm tired. And not in that whole sleep way. In the way that I am ready to make a change. A significant one. I want an earth-shattering, world-rocking change. I want to become someone new, and at the same time, I don't want to change myself at all. I want this display in Judas' friend's store. I haven't told anyone about the store, because I don't want to get psyched up and then not get it. I don't want to start getting excited and fashion forward and then nothing. And I don't want Charlie worrying about it.

    I haven't seen Lani and Asher in awhile. I wonder what they're up to. Maybe I'll call them at some point. They're probably packing their shit for the move.

    I'm going to go venture back down into the kitchen, where he probably still isn't eating any of the breakfast he made me.

    I want to write him another letter, but I think I need to learn to talk.

    <font color="#7F8190" size="1">[ May 12, 2004 03:22 AM: Message edited by: shipwrecked ]</font>

  8. #28
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    and everytime you throw him to the wall
    why are you surprised to see
    he's breakable


    The bath did not help. It made pale skin pink, and fingers pruny and unattractive. It made blonde hair a sopping dark mess. It made her overheated and stifled. So that was the last time she was trying that. Shorts and a tank top were her new pajamas, and she was pacing the bedroom, toes digging into the carpet as River and Charlie attended to something or other downstairs.

    So who was it? That was what she was mulling over in her brain. Who did he know? It couldn't be Lani.. Asher would know, and he wouldn't keep it a secret. Where was Isabella these days? She and Charlie had had something whirlwind once.. or Julia, the thin girl that Lucy wrinkled her nose at. Surely all of that poetry couldn't be for her. Surely he had used his sweet lines on other women before. She just had to face it. She was not the first, and apparently she was not going to be the last.

    But she had never suspected.. he had never seemed..

    Skidding on heel, she backed up with taut fists clenched at her sides. Fuck him, then. She didn't need him.

    No. She couldn't even convince herself of that. God damn it.

    Standing at the side of an unmade bed, she caught a glimpse of black on the white carpeted floor, dipping to pick it up. It was his t-shirt, discarded at some point and forgotten about. Instead of instinctively lobbing it towards the laundry, she found herself burying her face in it, this deep, shaking inhale taken. Knees creaked and she lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bed, just soaking in the feel of it, the familiar smell, the texture she associated with him so easily...

    God. This was the closest to him she had been in days.

  9. #29
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    What I wish most of all is to know what I want.
    When you can't have what you want, what's the profit in wishing?
    Are people born wicked? Or do they have wickedness thrust upon them?


    A door downstairs clicked closed.

    Broken glass. A counter swept off, bills and dishes cracked and left limp on the kitchen floor. A table turned over. Jack Daniels half-drained. Chairs on their sides.

    A notebook destroyed. Pages obliterated save for the few kept folded and stuck in the wooden box of earrings and thin silver chains. Books flung from a shelf and tossed haphazardly where they opted to fall. Pictures flattened to their faces.

    Sheets torn off of an unmade bed. Clothing of his launched at the closet door, shoes, belts, things from the top of her dresser. Things from his dresser flung like missles upon an opposing force.

    There was something pulling her under, and when it tugged hard enough, she complied, an emergency scatter stash with a white top popped open, a calm contentment swallowed. Something to numb the hours of the evening into a foggy, groggy blur of sounds and events until she snapped out of it the following morning.

    She'd spend her day off muted and cleaning up the messes she had made, inside and out, while waiting for the phone to ring.

    Goodness knows the wicked die alone.

  10. #30
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    <center>Katemoss15 sm</center>

    you think I wouldn't have him
    unless I could have him by the balls
    you think I just dish it out
    you don't think I take it at all
    you think I am stronger
    you think I walk taller than the rest
    you think I'm usually wearing the pants
    just 'cause I rarely wear a dress

    when you look at me
    you see my purpose
    see my pride
    you think I just saddle up my anger
    and ride and ride and ride
    you think I stand so firm
    you think I sit so high on my trusty steed
    let me tell you
    I'm usually face down on the ground
    when there's a stampede

    I'm no heroine
    at least, not last time I checked
    I'm too easy to roll over
    I'm too easy to wreck

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