like battery acid for an open wound : burke gosford.

[sunday jolt]

<center>

I'm a color reporter (rose city on the 409)
But the city's been bled white (white city on the yellow line)
And the doctor orders (drinking till he's trashed is just a waste of time)
He drinks all night to take away this curse
But it makes me feel much worse

Bled white

So I wait for the f-train (white city on the yellow line)
And connect through a friend of mine (white city to a friend of mine)
To a yesterdaydream (yesterday a dream was just a waste of time)
'Cause I'll have to be high to track the sunset down
And paint this paling town

Bled white

So here he comes with a blank expression
Especially for me 'cause he knows
I feel the same
'Cause happy and sad come in quick succession
I'm never going to become
What you became

Don't you dare disturb me (don't complicate my piece of mind)
While I'm balancing my past (don't complicate my piece of mind)
'Cause you can't help or hurt me (the anger, being mean was just a waste of time)
Like it already has, it may not seem quite right
But I'm not fucked, not quite

Bled white
Bled white</center>


( Elliott Smith. )

<font color="#ffffff"><font size="1">[ December 27, 2005 02:22 AM: Message edited by: sunday jolt ]</font></font>

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ January 12, 2006 12:30 AM: Message edited by: sunday jolt ]</font>

[sunday jolt]

seven-zero-two.

Awakening. Frost hung thick in the window panes, melting icicles hanging from the gutter with a steady drip, drip, drip ringing through the cracked glass. Paper thin walls were full of mildew, every appliance held a hint of rust. Yellowing walls straggled up towards a water-stained ceiling, that bowed like it'd cave in at any moment. Bruised eyelids slung back heavy in his head; wide, cocaine-induced pupils moved to stare at the ceiling, drawing pictures in the inky stains that crept over plaster like humus smothered over bread. Stale. Obscure. Disgusting. Drip, drip, drip. The only constant, more constant than the very rhythm of his beating heart that thrashed about maniacally in his hollow chest. Driven pupils would recoil once light hit them, then burst outward again as the next rush came. The dripping. Make it stop. Drip, drip, drip. Fingers wiped heavy over thick lines in his forehead, wrinkles made by the constant psychotic attitude plastered over thin, melting skin wet with perspiration, dripping with fear. The shaking wouldn't start until the screams subsided. The coughing wouldn't start until the shaking ceased. The gasping wouldn't stop until the coughs slept. It was a cyclic process that would last mere minutes. A cyclic process that would feel like a lifetime.


seven-thirty.

Freezing. Water dripping from tubes that hadn't held hot water for the majority of winter. Sharp knives piercing his skin, tiny little fuckers that would open wounds to be licked and coddled until he was fully dressed. The constant feeling of falling, as the meat of his palms pressed firmly to the germ-infected tile, head swung low like an ass who couldn't carry his master's load. Finally, a break -- luke warm water that he could barely feel, as it thawed the frozen sheen of water dripping down his spine. A laughing spell -- crazed. Lasted for several minutes, dopesick grin splashed over his face like some sick child who'd found pixie sticks. Soap that was dropped repeatedly, but he didn't want to bed down because that fear still stayed with him from six months ago. Drip, drip, drip. The frost, plinking against a gutters. He could hear it. It pounded through his veins, the dripping, until his shaking hands moved to clap over his head. He whimpered. He coddled the salty wounds.

eight-ten.

Defeated. The toaster blew a fuse and the lights glimmered and blinked for several seconds, sparks popping sporadically from the outlet before the entire apartment's lifeline shut down. Feet slapped against the floor as he walked (stumbled) his way across the kitchen into the bedroom for a lighter, matches, anything. A banged knee and a crushed toe later, match was sparked to life. It burned until he felt the heat hit the flesh of his thumb, until the heat made him shake, until the heat threatened to do permanent damage. Distracted, he sat on the edge of his bed, and lit another match. The sun poked through thick clouds to remind him it was daytime, though he couldn't see it. Thick curtains obliterated his view from any life whatsoever. Thick enough that the apartment was black. Thick enough that he needed the heat of the match, the light of the match. Thick enough that he could hide away for as long as possible, until he starved. Until he ran out of junk. Until he croaked.

eight-thirty-five.

Heavenly. Her scent on his clothes, in his nostrils, his fingers in her hair. Her hands pushing him back so he fell onto the mattress, her smile slapped across her face like a whore who'd hit jackpot. Her legs around his waist as she straddled, grinning down at him, whispering things he'd never thought she'd ever say to him again. The pulp of her breast eye-candy for a man who hadn't been laid in months. The etching of her jaw sweet enough for him to sink his teeth into, hands gripping her thighs as she pressed down over him. Grappling. Sick, dark grappling for sheets and pillows as he felt smothered. Choked. Repeatedly. She was gone. Her scent, her eyes, her attitude, her hair, her lips -- they were all gone. Drip, drip, drip.

seven-zero-two.

Realization. Bruised lids awaken to a morning filled with disgusting sunlight so bright it made Heaven look stale. Arm peeling over his eyes as they blinked open, bruised from lack of sleep, pupils in their natural state. A ceiling -- perfect, clean, new. Floorboards perfectly furnished. A chipper voice on the radio alarm, reminding him to use Colgate, because nine of out ten dentists approve. A gaping jaw heavily slung as bare breast shuttered for a yawn. A split-moment of memory of a dream. A glance at the freshly pressed oxford shirt hanging on the front of the closet door. Reaching for the radio alarm, fingers blinded by memories groping for the snooze button. A swallow, saliva ripping down a throat hazy with sleep, dry from artificial heat made by perfectly working radiators. The sudden pang of emotion that engulfed him like a dead body thrashing at sea. Guilt. Her eyes. Her hair. The choking. The shower. Cocaine. Drip. Drip. Drip.

[sunday jolt]

<center>Fred Jones was worn out,
From caring for his often
Screaming and crying wife,
During the day, but...

He couldn't sleep at night for fear that she,
In a stupor from the drugs that didn't ease the pain,
Would set the house ablaze... with a cigarette.
---</center>






"You look like shit."

"Fuck you, so do you."

"What's your problem, man?"

"You, apparently. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"That's what I said."

"You should call that girl."

"What girl?"

"The girl with the wires. You know. From the bar."

"The junkie?"

"She gave you her number, didn't she?"

"I'm not going to fucking call some junked up girl; I don't need an easy lay." Cigarette was pulled from his mouth and he eyed Holland, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes lazily, shifting on the couch. It was a little past one in the morning, and neither of the two had anything better to do -- even if they both needed to be up for work.

"So call her for the junk, man."

"I have work in the morning."

"You're a pussy. I'm going home."

No more and no less than five minutes later, her voice was cracking over the line. Fifteen minutes later, she'd find herself catching a taxi to Boulevard, while Burke sat on the couch and watched the clock, spinning around in a cyclic circle that ticked much too slowly in his opinion. The tick, tick, tick was too close to the drip, drip, drip of his dream. The way she stood there on his doorstep with the moon washing through her dark hair was too much like the way Angela used to stand there, dripping from rain, dripping from coke that was still stuck to the spout of her nose. He pulled the girl in and took a long look at her, thumb skating over the edge of his bottom lip before he turned his back to her, walking into the heart of the living room.

"I told you never mind, I only have two dollars." Pulling them from his wallet, he fanned them out to prove his point -- he wasn't trying to pull some little magic trick on her. "And if I'm supposed to get that whore you mentioned on the phone, I don't think I'll have enough for your junk, too." He couldn't hide the smile that fell over the edge of his mouth haphazardly, dangerous as it was.

"Just take the bag, would you?" This spoken from a mouth laden with chocolate -- she sucked on the piece of candy until it melted against the heat of her tongue, saliva thick with sugar oozing down her throat. "I don't like to see people suffer. You'll pay me back someday; I'm not worried," she lied easily. "Besides. You can blame the whole thing on karma."

"What the fuck does that mean?" He took the bag from her and moved into the kitchen, resting it on the countertop. Never mind the moonlight still stuck in her hair, or the way he wanted to taste the chocolate from her mouth. He was too preoccupied to try anything; he was too interested in sleep, and getting the other one out of the back of his brain. He was too intent on getting doped up, and knocked down. Knocked out.

"It means just what I said. We'll run into each other again sometime soon, yeah?" A coquettish little grin slid over her mouth; he hated it. He hated girls who smiled incessantly and wore the moonlight in their hair. He hated girls who were smooth and fit perfectly into the molding of his frame. He hated freebies. He hated that night.

When he looked up, she was gone. The door was clicking closed, but he didn't move to run after her. He just stood by the counter, glancing down at the Ziploc bag full of dreams. He knew he was now indebted to her by a healthy chunk of change, be it figuratively or literally speaking. Ten minutes later, he was rubbing fingers over a blotchy phone number stuck to a small piece of paper on a small nightstand. He was stacking his spine against a hard mattress that suddenly felt soft, breath caught in his lungs as his loins shook and plastered themselves to the bed.

Like clockwork, he fell into the most beautiful sleep of his life. It was beautiful because none of their sickening faces smiled at him, none of their disgusting fragrances crept through his bones. It was beautiful, because it was empty.

( Ben Folds - Cigarette. )

[sunday jolt]

I will never fully understand why I can't get you out of my head. You're like a venom, you suck my pulp until it's dry and I'm left with practically nothing -- just enough for me to continue a mundane routine of a nine-to-five, with the hopes that something out of the ordinary will pop up when I least expect it. It's like I drive to get hit, I walk to fall down, I breathe to choke. Maybe it was that dress, the white one that made you look like a siren. Maybe it was the way you started for the street and I reached after you; that isn't me, that isn't what I do. I don't go reaching for people anymore, it's not that I don't want to, it's that I can't. It's that I've been broken because of this brand of t-shirt, the kind with my heart worn on my sleeve because I'm too stupid to figure out that chicks don't dig this uniform. I've suffocated myself until I couldn't breathe, I've resorted to knocking myself out only so I won't feel anything. I like being numb. I like not knowing you.

There's nothing that will ever compare to the first time I saw you on my doorstep. There's nothing that will compare to the way your eyes slowly chipped away at whatever wall I built for myself. Nothing will compare because you are the complete opposite of me, and for that, I am thankful. I couldn't be with someone like me for the simple fact that I know what kind of person I am, and hell, I wouldn't be with me. I wouldn't be with a guy who had his life handed to him on a platter and somehow got sucked into a career (not a job, that would be too simple) that's basically planned out for the rest of his life. I wouldn't want to be with a guy who has to mess with dust and snuff just so he can feel his throbbing heart once in a while, because when he's sober he can't feel a thing. Don't be with that guy. Don't resort to someone who won't treat you like what you are, you deserve someone who will give you face-value. That guy won't. He'll sugar-coat things and he'll make you think your life is a bowl full of goddamn cherries, when you know it's nothing but sour grapes. Don't let that guy tell you he'll save you from the ends of the earth, or that he'll do anything to protect you and what little part of you is whole intact, because he won't. He'll fail. He always has, always will. He wasn't built to be a fighter, or a lover, or a dreamer, or anything so magical. He's just a guy. Not even a man. Barely a man.

I know more than I probably should, I know that you will never see these words and probably will never hear them, either. I know that your past as got you torn into something you're really not, it has you running to places you don't belong, dealing with shit you shouldn't be associated with. I know you try to seal up your past and heal yourself on your own, because you doubt anyone else could ever understand where you're coming from. No one else knows pain the way you know pain, right? You kill me with that, you kill me with letting me know I will never know you. But if finding out more about you and learning you means killing myself piece by piece, inch by inch, breath by breath, I'm ready for death. Bring it on, because I'll be there waiting in the wings for the second you're ready to fall apart into something real. What you are, right now? That isn't real. It isn't you. The girl who handed Grace a clip was real. The girl who stood on my doorstep in her white dress with the moonlight in her hair, she was real.

You're a breath of fresh air, a breath away from stagnant air that has become nothing but full of disease for me. You break up the day, even when you aren't with me face-to-face. I know your secrets, I know the things you've said. We run in small circles, but you've got my mind running in even smaller circles.

You will never see this, but you will feel it. I'll show you in whatever way I can, without really showing you. I'll open up as much as I can, without tearing into pieces. I might be stupid enough to let myself learn you, but I'm smart enough to try.

[sunday jolt]

"Hello?"

"Annette."

"Jesus Christ, what time is it?"

"I dunno. Late. Listen, I need yo--"

"Burke, you son-of-a-bitch, it's five thirty in the morning."

"I told you it was late."

"It's early. Are you still up?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, I just needed some sisterly advice."

"Well, what?"

"I saw the girl again today."

"What girl?"

"The one from the coffee place, who spilt her tea. Remember? I told you about h--"

"Oh no you don't, Burke Gosford."

"What?"

"Don't you fucking do this again."

"What?"

"Mada is good for you!"

He smeared his palm over his mouth and moved to light a cigarette, dragging his eyes up towards the sky. "Yes, she probably is."

"So there's no question, then."

The smoke melted from his mouth into lazy gray pools. "Yeah, there is."

"What?"

"Annie, I can't be with either of them."

"Why the fuck not?"

"You know why."

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Lonia?"

"Lonia." Her name dripped off his lips like a wheeze; already, his heart felt numb.

"It's been a long time, Burke."

"I know."

"Too long."

"I know."

"If you know everything, then why are you calling me, smart ass?"

"Because I don't know."

"Exactly." He paused on his end of the line, she paused on her end of the line, and he blew smoke until it crawled through the air so far he couldn't see it anymore. She listened to him breathe, canting her head to the side. "You want to come over?"

"Mada's there."

"They're sleeping, and you should be, too."

"You wanna come here?"

"If you want me to."

"This is bullshit, I shouldn't need my baby sist--"

"HEY. I resent that, just because I'm younger doesn't mean you shouldn't need me."

"Okay, fine."

"Say it."

"No."

"Saaay it."

"Fine. I need you. Throw some shit together and co--"

"On my way!"

[sunday jolt]

Spring, five years prior.

I don't believe I've ever seen something so beautiful in my life. The water was clear -- so clear, I couldn't tell where Heaven stopped and Earth began; much as I could not tell which was the sky, and which was the water. It was a perfect mirror for whatever lay above it -- a rising sun splashed with the brilliant colors of a desert rose, or a milky twilight that crept over earth and terrain, speckled with stars that glinted as if each and every star and planet promised to lead me to something new and prosperous. I remember the blades of grass that jutted out from the earth like newborn fireflies dispersing from their blossoming larvae. I remember the milky spill of the flashlight of the moon as he let his light pour over the shell of earth, casting a radiance that acted as a nightlight that lit every path imaginable, each one bringing me closer to home. I remember these things, because it was as though I was seeing the moon for the first time -- the water, the grass, the stars -- and in that moment, I felt new.

Her hair feathered over the frame of her face so perfectly, it seemed almost unnatural. It was fitting for her, dark hair that framed her wide oval eyes, so dark I could see myself reflected in them as a silhouette, the light emitted from behind me prominent against her chocolate brown irises. She never wore makeup; her face was naturally full of vibrant pinks and creams that kissed her cheeks softly, like a flower child had dusted rose petals over her porcelain skin. Her lips, two pale pilgrims that held enough moisture that it was not necessarily for her pink tongue to glide over them to keep them warm and pliable. When she smiled, the light in her eyes was so vibrant that even in a pitch dark room, I could always find them.

When we first met, we danced around each other because we both knew we weren't supposed to be together. It didn't matter that we had classes together and would pass each other on campus; we always gave each other silent glances, and even in my immature state, I knew she was thinking the same things I was. Our language we shared started long before we ever opened our mouths to speak. I'd find myself glancing at her from across the room during Introduction to Literature and Society. I took it because I had to; she took it as an elective. She was always trying to learn as much as possible, she was never full up on knowledge. We were reading from <u>The Penguin Book of Twentieth-Century Speeches</u>; specifically, we were studying Proclamation of the Irish Republic: The Provisional Government of the Irish Republic to the People of Ireland. I never cared much for the topic, for the simple fact that I had no desire to go to Ireland, or Europe, or anywhere, really -- but not her. She wanted to go everywhere, there was not a place on Earth you could've asked her to go to that she would deny. You could tell, just by the way her spine curved when she leaned over her text, pulling supplemental materials out of her leather shoulder bag, as if she was some sort of lawyer researching a case. Sometimes, I thought she chose battles to fight that didn't even exist until she made them, just so she was given a reason to have to stand up for herself and prove to someone she could beat them. She was strong-willed, but beneath her thick edges lay a soft, gentle spirit that knew only good, and only kindness. If I couldn't see that in the curve of her spine, I could see it in the way she tilted her head and the light of her eyes.

I remember there was one night, when we saw each other at a party. We had mutual friends and everybody would always try to push us into talking to each other. She was holding a martini, and it was hardly fitting for her. She wasn't like Annette; she didn't care about her clothes or her hair, or the way the ribbon in her hair was always tied in a perfect bow. She never had to worry about these things, because they simply came naturally -- she could put on any dress, and turn heads. She could go for days without brushing her hair, and it still fell in silken tresses over her back. She was a magnet, oil to a fire. When she came to me with her superfluous martini, she tilted her head at me and grinned, flashing just a hint of teeth. "You're Burke Gosford," she said, "I know you from Lit class." I will never forget the way her words dripped from her mouth like music, lyrics being strung from her tongue like the music being sung from a violin. She was the overture to the opus of my life, and I had only heard three measures of her intoxicating melody.

The first time we kissed, I thought I was going to faint. I felt the blood rush from my face and my fingers tremble, my arms moving to find stability as they draped around her slender waist. She was a siren; I was a fisherman -- we were no match for each other, but stormy seas somehow thrashed and swayed us into finding each other. We swam inside of each other; there was not a single moment that I was not bettering myself because of her. There was not a single moment where her essence was in everything I did. I stopped drinking; I stopped smoking. I laid off the smack and I remember laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what her spine must have felt like when it was pressed against a mattress -- so soft, a trail of bones that stacked themselves perfectly each and every time. I would think about the way her hair must have fallen across her face when she'd turn onto her side, her supine spine curving as she found comfort in the support of a mattress that conformed to her body. That's how it always was -- she laid atop the world, and the world conformed to her -- she never conformed to the world.

Perhaps the moon spilled over the earth the way it did, because of the way her hair feathered over her slender shoulders. Perhaps I felt the blades of grass and saw the way they glowed like fireflies because of the soft pink touch of her lips. Perhaps I could not distinct Heaven from Earth, because I could no longer distinguish her heart from mine. Without her, there was no key to the minuet of my days, much less a melody in my heart strings. She was the composer, and every instrument that played. She is my Lonia.

[sunday jolt]

Four years prior.

"Burke, sweetheart-- wake up."

It was June when we were to be married. I was only twenty-four, and she was twenty-three; I'd received a degree in Business with a minor in Finance, and Lonia had received two degrees, one in Art History and one in English. The school told Lonia that it wasn't necessary to have a double-major, given she wanted to pursue a career in law, but that didn't stop her. She doubled in both subjects that she was fond of, and finished in nine semesters flat. She never took a semester with less than twenty hours, and the most she took was twenty-three. No one could understand how she did it, but she did -- when she wasn't taking classes pertinent to her major(s), she was taking electives like scuba diving and Intro to Communicative Writing. She was a whirlwind of knowledge, but more than that, she was the breeze that flitted around campus to peck at the arms of men who constantly asked for her hand. Perhaps the reason why it was my hand that she finally took was because it wasn't her hand that I was interested in at all -- simply her heart.

I remember my head turning slowly at first, as if I couldn't distinguish her voice from the songbirds (pigeons, really) that cooed the neighborhood to wake. We weren't technically living together, but it rarely failed that I'd roll onto my side and visit an empty bed; if she wasn't filling her half of my bed, I was filling my half of hers. It wasn't that we were inseparable; we led our lives as best as we could during the days with only the memories of each other by night; I'd think of the way her lips rested when she slept, parting just enough to offer a glint of white that sparked off her teeth. When she roused, she generally always moved to touch me, her voice soft as she tried to lure me awake.

One particular morning, she woke me just as any other morning. It was early; the fog was lifting from the street like thin clouds of dreams, whisking back to Heaven as they were no longer needed as the neighborhood moved to rise from its rest. I turned onto my back and she propped on her elbow, hovering over me a tad. The pale blanket of the sun sprinkled in from the window behind her, and in that moment, she looked like the silhouette of a goddess, the sheets draped over her charming, pure frame.

"It's Saturday."

"Ghnn," I replied, trying to lick sleep from my throat. "Go back to sleep, would'ja?" I pulled her down to me and she scooted, tangling her limbs with mine, curving her spine so she could rest her head on my chest. I'll never forget the way her hair smelled just then; she smelled like honeysuckle. She always did.

"Baby," she crooned a little and let her fingertips march over my chest, until I felt like I couldn't breathe. I sputtered a sigh and let my eyes close, mumbling a grunt in return. It made her giggle a little, and I felt her twist her head up for her chin to prop on my chest, while her fingers kept smoothing over my skin. "I love you."

Before I even opened my eyes, I could see her chocolate irises blinking up at me. When my eyelids finally peeled back, I lifted my head a touch and stared down at her, moving to smooth the side of my hand over her delicate face. "I love you. And, I have something for you." I gently scooped her with my arms and rolled her onto her back, then smoothed my palm lightly over her eyes. "Don't move, and don't peek, understand?" She grinned and giggled a little, and my heart died when she did. She sounded like a choir of tiny children, singing out their praises to the most awesome God man could ever think up. She killed me with her laughter, she really did.

Rolling away from her, I watched to see if she'd peek, but she didn't. Her fingers moved to blindly search for the blankets, pulling up the milk-colored sheet to rest over her naked frame. When I was satisfied that she wouldn't move another muscle, I pulled open the end table drawer beside my side of the bed, then shut it. I moved to mimic her, leaning on my elbow now, my fingertips slowly moving to trace over the curves of her jaw.

"I'm going to speak to you, but--" She turned to look at me, but I quickly caught her, and covered her eyes with my hand. "--Don't look at me. Keep your eyes closed." She grinned broadly and nodded silently, moving her head to rest on the pillow. I rattled out a little sigh, and smoothed the backs of my fingers along her face, pausing to try to figure out what I wanted to say. "When I was a kid -- which I still am, I guess, but I mean a little kid, I had a dream one night about a princess." I paused and let my fingers smooth over her cheek, grazing softly enough that her mouth would twitch as her cheek attempted to meet me half way.

"I knew this wasn't just any princess, because she had the eyes the color of a darkened sky; powerful eyes that could tear a man's heart to pieces if he wasn't careful." She moved in such a way that I knew she wanted to look at me, but I quickly pulled a kiss from her mouth, reminding her to stay still. Slowly, my fingers started down over the side of her neck, and she craned her neck a bit, letting out a soft sigh.

"I thought about her all the time, and I read every book I could lay my hands on to find this princess, because I knew she had to exist somewhere; she was much too beautiful to just be a fabrication of my imagination." Her lips stayed in a high-wattage grin, and my fingers trailed across her collar bone until they skidded over her left shoulder. "Well, one day, I decided I was going to give up, because I had read every book there was ever written to read, and the princess was absolutely no where." I pulled my hands away from her, but she was so caught up in the story, she didn't know it. Silently, I fumbled with the trinket, and picked up my fingers where they left off, smoothing them down her left arm.

"I felt like I was at a loss, because if I couldn't find her, I just knew at some point I would lose her. Her image was starting to fade from my memories, and it frightened me." She grinned even more broadly when my fingers smoothed over the crook of her elbow and continued downward, and she paused for a playful pout, given I was sad in my story. I paused, and took her hand, slowly siding the ring onto her finger.

"But then, one day, I found her." She blinked and turned to look at me with wide eyes, the smile fading from her mouth as her jaw went slack. I grinned at her, chuckled even, and sputtered -- "No, no! I really did! I found her in a ridiculously boring book about Ireland, and--" She pulled her hand from mine and wiggled her fingers, staring at the diamond ring. Silently, she looked back to me.

"Burke, I--"

I paused, and pressed my index finger to her lips, moving to smooth the backs of my fingers over her cheek again, just as I had when I began my story. "Lonia?"

"Yes, Burke?" The way her chest rose and fell, I knew her heart was thrashing about the same way mine was. They wanted to explode and crash into each other mid-air.

"Marry me."

Her lips made the crackling sound lips often do when they move to smile in silence, and she took my face in her hands, pulling for me to lay over her. I hovered over her, my palms at either of her sides, my face held in her soft, small hands. "I want nothing more in the world," she started, her lips trembling to ooze out soft, delicate speech, "than to be your wife."

Every morning after that, I would never wake up quite the same as I did the morning the pigeons cooed the neighborhood from sleep.

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ January 09, 2006 04:14 AM: Message edited by: sunday jolt ]</font>

[sunday jolt]

November, three years prior.

It wheezed in such a way it think it breathed for me, because I certainly could not sputter to find any breath. My veins had turned to ice and my beating heart was nothing but pulp; my throat closed up and I just remember pressing my hand to Holland's shoulder, leaning forward as another hand gripped over my chest. I sputtered to move for breath, and he just stood there with a gaping jaw. That's all anyone could do.

"Jesus Christ."

The smell of burnt rubber and antifreeze perfumed over the street, puddles of gasoline and water spilling beneath the wreckage of the car. I was dizzy on my own; the flood of spinning blues and reds didn't do much good for my vertigo, and I simply stood, gripping Holland, grappling for sanity. He threw out an arm around my shoulders to prop me up -- he must've heard my silent screaming, because I knew then and there if he hadn't caught me, I would've broken every bone in my body trying to get to her. I would've run into the heart of an explosion just to see her face one, more, time.

If only I hadn't.

The paramedics and police tried to pull me away, but I thrashed and threw my fist into someone's nose (who, I don't know, and I don't care) -- and after that, they let me go. I distinctly remember my fingers peeling over the lip of the door, where the window should have been, had it not been shattered. I remember leaning to peer inside, her body leaned over the steering wheel of a car whose airbag didn't deploy properly -- her hair wore shattered glass like crystals, her skin wore cuts like veins. I could see the notches of the top of her spine, her hair falling away from the back of her neck to expose pale flesh that, in my shocked state, I swore was still breathing. The paramedics stood behind me, less than a foot away, though I couldn't hear anything that tumbled out of their mouths. They could've been speaking Vietnamese for all I could care -- but when I reached in to touch her, they quickly grabbed my arms.

"Let me the fuck go!"

"Burke!" Holland bolted to where we were, his hands pushing gently against the chests of the paramedics. "Let him go, guys, I've got him."

"You do not have me, let me see her!"

"Burke, we gotta go, man."

"Are you who brought him here?" One of the policemen walked over to where we were, his hand hovering over his handcuffs incase he needed to keep me away from her. It was to his benefit that he never actually used them; I would've found a way to kill him. If not that night, one after.

"Yeah, I did." Holland had grabbed me by the arms, and I thrashed for only a moment before he let me go, blocking my path to the car. He was the only one who could've stood in my way; and even then, I had to walk away from him to not hit him.

"That was stupid; how did you know where she was?"

Holland aimed an index finger at an apartment half a block down the road, just in time to see Annette coming back towards the vehicle for a second time.

"You know her?"

"She's Burke's sister."

"She's who called us." One of the paramedics interjected.

"HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW SHE IS DEAD?" I had a second wind, and I went barreling towards one of the paramedics, throwing my fist hard across his left cheek.

"Burke!" Annette and Holland yelled after me, and Holland and an officer moved to pull me off of the paramedic, yanking me yards away from the car.

"You've got to get him somewhere, kid, or I have to take him in."

"No, don't do that -- Burke, come on man, let's get you to Annette's."

"I don't want to fucking go to Annette's." He had me by the shoulders, and I shoved him hard in the torso, but only to drag the back of my hand over my mouth. I stared at the car, and where several guys moved to run towards me, Holland threw up a hand. He watched, but he didn't move. Neither did anyone else.

I don't know when the last time I'd cried before that was, but it couldn't have been anytime close given I cried for days. When I couldn't cry, I sputtered and mimicked a cry that was tearless, because I was dried up. I don't remember the funeral, simply because I wasn't sober for it. Where naive family members found my glazed state for nothing but shock, my close friends knew I had spiraled into something far more dangerous than a haggard daydream. I couldn't tell you what was said through the eulogy, and I couldn't tell you what song Lonia's younger sister sang. What I can tell you, is the way the birds sounded that day. Because of the wreckage the accident had caused her body, her parents had chosen to have her cremated. Her ashes were spread in the rose garden behind the church, and while I can't remember how the flowers looked or how the sun dipped down over the horizon, I distinctly remember turning my head upwards in time to see a flock of geese cross over into the southern sky. The overture might have ended, but its melody lived on through the metronome of my heart. It always will.

[sunday jolt]

<center>My city's still breathing (but barely it's true)
through buildings gone missing like teeth.
The sidewalks are watching me think about you,
sparkled with broken glass.
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know
Will never take me anywhere but here.
The stain in the carpet, this drink in my hand,
the strangers whose faces I know.
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say " I wanted it this way"
Wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward, fall back down.
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.
All this time lingers, undefined.
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving.
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely, duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires,
and every birthday card I threw away.
I wait in 4/4 time.
Count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home.
***</center>


"Th' fu-- Burkehay?"

"Well? You said not to use the shiny ones." He smoldered a grin and plinked another pebble at her window, even if she was leaning out like Juliet -- only, not so daintily. Or politely. And she wasn't draped in flowing fabric, either. Still, he beamed up at her and kept chucking tiny rocks, as if he couldn't even see her.

"I didn't expect you to actually remem--"

"What, where you lived? Why not?" He scoffed a little and chucked another rock up to her, but she caught it. His eyes widened, and he threw his arms in front of his defensively, expecting her to pelt him with it.

"Because." And pelt it, she did. Square into the abdomen.

"Hey! That's not very nice!" He scolded her playfully and blinked up at her, before throwing his hands back into his pockets. "Come down here, would'ja?"

"Why should I?" Her eyes narrowed and she peered down at him, like some sort of princess caught up in her tower. However, anyone who knew Killian knew she couldn't be locked up anywhere -- which was a good thing for Burke, considering he wasn't exactly keen to slaying dragons or... really big men, for that matter.

"Uh, because I'm running out of rocks?" He rolled on the balls of his feet a little, and rattled out a sigh. "Just come down already."

"Fine, fine-- but I need to clean up. Wait a second."

He'd grown well-acquainted to the sidewalk by the time she jogged down the stairs to meet him. Having hunkered down on her stairs, he stumbled a little when she threw the door open, half expecting to wind up face-first on the cement. She grinned at him (or was it a smirk?), and canted her head.

"What's that?" She pointed at the dandelion in his hand.

"I picked you another weed." Shoving it out towards her, he laid on the boyish charm. Thick.

"What did I tell you about that? It's not a weed, it's--"

"I know, I know. Medicinal purposes, some place like Africa, blah blah-- hungry?"

She could have glared, but she grinned at him instead, masking her delighted facial expression with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "No, it's like, fucking ele--"

"Such language!" Jutting out an arm to her, he waited for her to take it. She quirked a brow and watched him, rolling the dandelion between her fingers. Only after a dramatic sigh (because taking the poor man's arm was so much work), she draped her arm through the hook of his elbow. "Good, then. Off to get drinks."

"I'm not dressed for dr--"

"Since when do you care so much about how your dressed?"

"Um, I don't know."

"How about this. Let me take you somewhere else -- sort of a surprise. Buuuut it has to be a secret."

"I don't like secrets. I'm bad at them." She lied easily.

"Too bad, you have to keep this one."

"Wait a second -- you asked me to go for a drink. You mean to tell me you planned something an--"

"Sh. We're going now." Yanking her off of her stoop, he led her down the sidewalk. She tried to hammer into him to get out information, but he just smiled lazily and continued walking. The path was familiar; she'd walked it numerous times before. Still, she was too caught up in where the actual destination was to pay attention to where she was going. Her eyes somehow missed the swing set, but they saw the blanket. "Well?"

"W-- Burke, a blanket?"

"Look." He let go of her and jutted a thumb towards the swing set, while a lopsided grin planted itself over his mouth.

"The swing set."

"Yep. So I mean, if you don't want to use the blanket, you could always swi--"

"Hey, do me a favor?"

"What?"

"...Sh." Her lips twisted into a lopsided grin that matched his and she flopped down on the blanket, patting the space beside her for him to join.

Settling down on the blanket beside her, he leaned back on his elbows and canted his head to glance at her, then up towards the sky, shutting up. He could do at least that much.




( The Weakerthans - Left And Leaving )

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ January 12, 2006 12:25 AM: Message edited by: sunday jolt ]</font>

[sunday jolt]

"You look like you saw a ghost or something."

"Huh?" Burke blinked up at him, shaking himself out of his daze.

"Are you high, man?" Holland sprawled out on the couch and pasted the back of his arm over his forehead, stretching long for a yawn.

"No, why?" He hadn't been high in days. Not since see saw her.

"Well, uh, I've been trying to have a goddamn conversation with you for about half an hour, and you just sit there staring off."

"What's a better flower than a dandelion?"

Holland peeled himself up from the couch, blinking at his friend. The grin was slow to spread over his face, and when it did, it was lopsided and boyish. "You met someone."

"What? ...No."

"Liar!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up."

"Why else would you be asking about a dandelion, huh?"

"Fine."

"Who's she?"

"Just someone."

"She hot?"

"Obviously."

"Did you fuck her?"

Burke stared over at Holland with a threatening look, and Holland grinned, flopping back to stretch over the length of the couch again. "You son of a bitch, why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't fuck her, man."

"Why not?"

"It's not like that."

"What the hell, you haven't gotten laid in like--"

"We don't need to seriously go there, do we?"

"I do. It's funny."

"You're an asshole."

"Sometimes. Your sister, on the other hand--"

"Stop fucking my sister, Holland."

"Hey, she might be your sister, but her ass is--"

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

"Fine. So dandelions? What the fuck, man? Are you that cheap?"

"It was sort of a joke."

"It's sort of lame. What's she like?"

"I have no idea."

"Well what does she do?"

"I don't really know that either."

Holland snorted a little, then grabbed a small, soft ball Grace had left behind, scooping it off of the coffee table. Laying on his back, he tossed it up towards the ceiling and caught it. "Roses are good."

"Roses are obvious."

"Sunflowers?"

"Where the fuck am I gonna find a sunflower? Too cheesy. Next."

"Uhh... tulips."

"Tulips. Can I even find tulips now?"

"Fuck if I know, but I got them for Emily once. She liked them."

"Tulips." Burke smirked a little and held a hand out, and Holland chucked him the ball. "I'm taking her out tonight."

"What's her name?"

"Killian."

"Like the beer?"

"Sorta. No S."

"That's pretty hot." Holland hummed a few measures, then sang, "Kiiiiilliaaaaaan, mm, you taste like beeeer--"

"--I hate you." Burke snickered and chucked the ball back over to Holland, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"Does she have beer flavored nipples?"

"You kiss my sister with that mouth?"

"Only when I'm not licking h--"

"I'm sorry I asked, you shut up."

"Hey, I aim to please."

"Keep your day job."

"I don't have a day job."

"Get one, you pansy ass motherf--"

"Hey, hey, hey. I am trying to get some shit recorded."

"You're trying to stay in my house for free."

"Well, that too."

"And eat all my fucking food."

"Okay, so maybe that too."

"Tears me up inside, man."

"What?"

"The fact that I'm gonna throw your ass out if you don't start chipping in."

"Hey! I'm legit!"

"Your about as legit as the hooker you fucked last night."

"Your sister's a hooker?"

Burke glared at him, then held his hand out for the ball. Holland gave him the cheesiest grin possible, then sat up on the couch, tossing the ball at him. "Let's do something."

"Like?"

"Find some tulips."

"I wouldn't say that too loud if I were you. Your neighbors might find you out."

"What?"

"Oh, that Burke, he's the gayest one of all of them." Holland rasped out with a tired lisp, using rather flamboyant hand gestures.

"I'm not the pansy with a guitar."

"Hey, it's my guitar that gets my dick in your sist--"

"Right. You're shutting up, and we're leaving."

Holland snickered a little, and pulled up from the couch, waving a hand towards the door.

"After you, tulip-boy."

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ January 14, 2006 12:41 PM: Message edited by: sunday jolt ]</font>