this is my diary screaming out loud --

[pasogal2]

<center>


Head under water,
And they tell me to breathe easy for a while.
The breathing gets harder, even I know that.
You made room for me but it's too soon to see
If I'm happy in your hands.

I'm unusually hard to hold on to; blank stares at blank pages.
No easy way to say this,
But you make this hard on me.
I'm not gonna write you a love song
Because you asked for it,
Because you need one.
I'm not gonna write you a love song
Because you tell me it's
Make or breaking this.
If you're on your way
I'm not gonna write you to stay.
All you have is leaving,
I'm going to need a better reason
To write you a love song today.

</center>

<font color="#a62a2a"><font size="1">[ March 01, 2008 06:31 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font></font>

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ April 11, 2008 08:13 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

August 15, 2004

Inside the walls of Saint Vincent's hospital on the corner of 82nd and Madison a virtual cinema of life was shown daily, with more times than the average round of matinees and early evening glimpses, and there still remained a special rate for children and the elderly. Trapped behind the sterile walls, a morality play was winding its way towards the inevitable conclusion within the confines of the ER as a preacher's heart succumbed to the strain of attempting to herd a flock of gutterborn saints and sloe-eyed madonnas towards the crystallized view of salvation, while a streetwise businessman was returned to his corner a mere hours after being wounded while continuing his sentence as a slave to the grind. A common belief that infection and despair were bred right along with the medications and whispers of false hope that all of the doctors murmured into the ears of their patients could be witnessed lurking in the corners of the eyes of various patients scattered throughout the ICU and their wide-eyed supporters, crowding into the cramped quarters of the waiting rooms that were peppered throughout the hospital while their minds tripped along the path of their own vain thoughts and self-obsessions.

The silver lining, if such a thing could exist in a building where many checked out in ways other than walking out the glass doors situated at the front of the hospital, was the maternity ward on the fifth floor. Swathed in pastel colors and signs of faux affection, it was a haven in this realm of shadows and false promises. Bundles of joys were wrapped in matching blankets of pink and blue, safely tucked away from the population at large by planes of clear glass and the confines of their small beds. Though they would all choose different roles to play in the mosaic that made up the population of this urban jungle, for now they were the same. Each had ten fingers and ten toes, sleepy eyes and healthy screaming voices. Perfection at its core.

In the fourth room on the left resided a creature more comfortable in the realm of paint-smeared ambition and socialite ways than a sterile room lacking in color or any other distinguishing feature. Free of paint and all her other tools of distraction, she was nothing more than a delicate woman who was creeping steadily closer to the age where childish dreams and pursuits would forever be abandoned and the sentence of 'mature adult' would forever be linked with her name. In the growing months, she would begin to study herself a little more intently in the mirror in the mornings, searching for any hints of her age, any tiny wrinkles that might have appeared overnight. But for now, her focus was on plotting her escape from this place and returning to her life outside these walls, though it would be forever altered.

"How are you feeling, my dear?"

Leaning against the doorway was Virginia Maguire, perfectly composed, wrapped in a tasteful display of conservative apparel with coordinating accessories and a designer handbag. The dream of every soccer mom approaching the age when retirement was a real possibility and not some landmark far off in the distance, she was the ruler of her small town's society and quite content to continue her reign for quite a few more years.

"Good morning." Roused from her contemplation, Shannon glanced away from the window in order to regard the woman who was an older version of herself, though with glittering eyes of sunsoaked hazel and not her own water-drenched gaze. "I'm a little tired," she confessed with a flicker of a half smile.

"Mm, well since this hospital has no idea what a decent blend of coffee is, I stopped by Starbucks on my way here." One should always come bearing gifts, after all. Drifting closer to the bed, she handed over the warm container while glancing down at the paper that was settled on the small tray nearby. "And what's this?"

"Thank you." Shannon settled the cup down on the tray, in no real mood for whatever caffeinated concoction her mother had decided to order on a whim, and glanced down at the document in question. "Oh, it's the birth certificate."

"Oh? You've decided on a name then? That's wonderful, darling." The words were laced with her mother's own drawl, a mixture of soft syllables and perfectly planned airy tones that was slower than Shannon's but equally as pronounced. Inviting herself into the matter, she picked up the document to better inspect it, having left her reading glasses at her hotel. "Jacob William -- we'll isn't that sweet of you. And how did you decide on Jacob?"

Shannon eyed her mother intently, watching for any signs of a reaction that might appear on the canvas of her face. "I just .. liked the sound of it, I guess."

"Although.." The pause was drawn out for dramatic effect and Virginia glanced at Shannon over the rim of the document. "I thought it was customary to use the mother's last name when the father was ... elsewhere." Gesturing pointedly with her left hand, she flared her fingers in the direction of the window.

"I didn't think it would be fair to exclude him from this." The lines of her mouth tightened in a show of displeasure for the way the conversation was (d)evolving.

"Exclude him? Darling, he would have to be present for that to happen." Virginia clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in a show of sympathy for her belle's plight.

"He is present -- or well, he will be." Her defense was arranged as securely as a house of cards, while her mother was in possession of a blow torch and a hammer.

"Why you insist on defending him, I'll never know."

"He will be involved." Firmly.

"And how exactly do you know this? Has he written this week? Or this month? Or how about in the last six? Hm?" A sharply penciled brow arched higher while she gestured about the room. "Your brother isn't here because he is fighting a war -- but what is his excuse, exactly? I don't believe you've ever told me."

"He has his reasons." The cards on the upper level were beginning to waver.

"We'll see." Wisely recognizing the signs of the belle's stubborn streak rearing its head (one that surely came from her father -- no one on her side would dare to be so disagreeable), she returned her attention to the certificate.


"Well, you'll certainly have your hands full. Leo's are always unpredictable."




<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ March 04, 2008 11:04 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

<center>She only drinks coffee at midnight
When the moment is not right
Her timing is quite, unusual
You see her confidence is tragic, but her
Intuition magic. And the shape of her body?
Unusual...

Spun from sugar-coated visions of porch swing lounging and humble country values,
she spread her wings in a frenetic world of looking-glass skyscrapers and urban jungles
of concrete and steel. An oracle in a new-age Delphi, she weaved stories as intricate
as Homer's from the corners of her imagination, sharing them with the world through hasty
brushstrokes on an aged canvas. Sunstruck, she burned with an effortless energy that would enthrall
any foolish traveler in a siren's call of mysticism and mirth. The patchworks of a beauty queen - she rose from
the ashes of mismatched choices in all her paint-smeared glory, viewing the world through cracks in
smoky lashes, hinting at the unwavering optimism that lurked beneath in a sea of Mediterranean blue.

Escaping the tunnel of a quarter-life crisis she was a little wiser, a little more foolish. The
matchbook love affair with a town of gutterborn saints and black magic sinners had her
following age old bread crumbs to return to the place where black turns to white and time follows
its own rhythm. It was the tale of Humpty Dumpty all over again, though when she fell off the wall she did not
use the wiles of a modern day feminist to charm the King's knights into putting her back together
again.

She used her own special brand of magic and intuition instead.</center>

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ March 02, 2008 12:46 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

June 20, 2005

Dear Bjorn,

I discovered a new outdoor market on the outskirts of town during one of my rambling sessions, it's located near your first flat here. Do you remember it? I find myself wandering back to those times now and then. It amuses me that everyone considers memories to be of "simple" times -- but when have any of us ever experienced something simple? Perhaps you can remember a time, you've always had a better memory than mine.

I wish that you could have been there. There were vendors stretched out along both sides of the streets, and some creeping every steadily closer to the actual street, much to the dismay of the locals. There were brightly painted booths and the usual brand of pushy salesmen and I couldn't help but wonder if you have such a thing where you are. Where ever it is that you are. It must be someplace exotic and completely off the map, given that I have a stack full of letters that were recently returned to me by the post office.

Along the way I found a vendor for one of the local bookstores in town - one of those tiny little gems that haven't been forced to merge with a chain store, you know? But anyways, I found this journal there. I've never been very good at keeping a journal. I bought my last one when I was sixteen and merely doodled a few notes about my newest crush before eventually losing it somewhere. So, I make no promises. But perhaps this will be the best way to include you in Jacob's life since you are unable to be here to see it.

If you do return, that is. I've known you too long not to be aware of the fact that you may simply never come back. You have always been built of wanderlust and there are far too many exotics places in this world (and any of the others that extend beyond our realms) to keep you from finding a new place to discover throughout your life. I hope that you are not being reckless, however. Please don't come back missing a limb.

Summer has finally arrived and I cannot contain my excitement. The humidity is steadily creeping back into the air and I am finding more and more reasons to slip outside to frolic in the sun. This is Jacob's first summer, though the temperatures are rising too high for him to stay out for very long, he seems to enjoy our adventures outside. I cannot believe that he will be one soon! This past year is a blur of sleepless nights and an endless routine of misadventures -- though Lola assures me that I'm doing fine, I can't help feeling like a fool sometimes. I'm sure if you were here you'd merely laugh at me and then do with ease. You always make everything effortless.

Jacob has started shuffling about and it won't be long until he's walking easily. He's constantly exploring his newfound freedom by running around the house and getting a few bumps and bruises along the way, but he seems to be happy.

I miss you, lion.

[pasogal2]

August 13, 2005

Dear Bjorn,

Your son's birthday was today. A year has flown by so fast! Lola and the twins dropped by to help Jacob celebrate this afternoon and my brother was able to visit as well. He's on leave from the Army, but he'll have to return to his base in Germany in a few days. I'll miss him desperately while he's gone, but I console myself that Germany is far safer than Iraq. Caleb claims that his post in Europe while not be changed due to the war, but there seems to be no end in sight and I worry that he will be sent there eventually. Lola looks as radiant as ever and she misses you, lion. I wish that you would write her -- and, well, selfishly I wish that you would write me as well. But I try to understand your reasons for not doing so. Late at night, I think about our last few conversations and try to search for the trigger that sent you rushing away from this place. From me. Perhaps if I had been able to know of Jacob's existence sooner, or if I said the right things .. I fear I will drive myself crazy with this questions.

Jacob seemed to enjoy his party, though he was more interested in the texture of his cake than actually eating it. His laugh can light up the room and he seemed to be utterly fascinated by the twns, and they with him. Hopefully, Lola and I will be able to find time to take them all to the park later this week, depending on the weather. Roman's children weren't able to attend, but hopefully he will be able to see them soon. He is always such a comfort to me, it breaks my heart that he does not have custody of them more often. Did you ever meet Lola's brother? I can't recall. I think that you two would become fast friends if you had. He reminds me of you -- though he is far less impulsive. He doesn't burn quitely as brightly as you do, more of a quiet soul. But a good friend, nonetheless.

Jacob is far from being able to talk, but he and I have our ways of communicating with each other, so I'm not complaining. I wonder if I will miss his soft sounds when he finally does change from grunting to forming words and sentences. I tell him stories of you sometimes before tucking him into bed. I hope you do not mind me speaking on your behalf when I tell him that you would have loved him had he been able to meet you.

Take care, lion.

[pasogal2]

A week later, Bjorn found himself pacing the perimeter of his rented room at the local tavern -- stopping to tug the bedcovers tight and straight, fixing the angle of a picture nailed to the wall, even rearranging the furniture in miniscule one-at-a-time steps -- because he no longer owned local real estate, as he always preferred to acquire new property when he wandered through; these were not his true roots, after all. It was six o'clock but already the sun was collapsing behind the mountains that bordered the metropolis on one side and he'd lit all the antiquated oil lamps to illuminate the simple, impersonal surroundings (he hadn't planned on being there longer than a month or two at best, that time around). The room contained nothing more than a wide queen-sized bed, a round wood table for two, a 'couch' that would've sat two easier than three, an armchair, coffee table, the standard dresser plus mirror -- one door to the closet, the second to the narrow but private bathroom. By the time a knock was issued to the door, he had arranged two empty tumblers and a faceted bottle of whiskey on the coffee table with an ashtray playing witness. Other than his goatee (which he seemed likely to keep for it'd been several years since he'd gone without any facial hair), he was clean-shaven and casually but well-dressed in a pair of tailored trousers, a colorless buttondown with long sleeves rolled back to three-quarters, thick suspenders keeping it all neatly together, polished boots. "Good evening," he started, widening the door for her so that she could slip through. If she wore a coat, he would naturally help her in the discarding of it once he'd bolted the door shut. "Can I offer you a seat and drink?" He hadn't met her eyes yet but the anger had faded from his countenance, releasing its vicious grip, and he was nothing but gentlemanly. Now, at least.

Catscratch fever and wildberry fantasies and white-picket fence destinies had been altered sharply, cut and chiseled by a utensil harder than diamonds. Fate had always been known to deal residents of this concrete jungle a heavy hand, whether it was due to the intricacies of their DNA or the choices they made upon reaching a fork in the road. Shannon had certainly strayed from the perfectly framed structure of a suburban life that was the ideal of any true southern belle, a fact that had been driven home by the arrival of her son. He was blessed with the sign of Leo, and perhaps predestined to inherit all of his father's gifts, but for now he was merely an amber-eyed wildcat with more energy than the Energizer bunny and a charm that would certainly come to good use when he reached the age where the opposite sex no longer seemed to be infected with the oh-so-dreadful cooties. It was difficult to tell where the belle's mood lingered on the scale of emotions, the ease of her stride and unconflicted expression lingering as she navigated the maze of city streets before spilling into the tavern with a flicker of a grateful smile for an exiting patron who had been kind enough to hold the door for her. Inwardly, her mind was in a tailspin, over-analyzing and pre-packaging phrases as all women were wont to do. Fingerswept curls were given a last minute grooming before knuckles graced the wood of the door in a gentle rap. Subtly conservative in a simple pencil skirt and knit sweater of black and white, she was far from the paint-smeared madonna that made up her usual persona. "Good evening," she returned smoothly while drifting inside, glancing about the interior briefly while allowing him to take her coat. "That would be lovely, thank you." Once she had found a spot for herself on the couch, she'd level the weight of that too blue stare on him. "And how have you been?"

"How do you think I've been?" Bjorn countered, though there was nothing (especially not accusing) in his attitude; all in all, it was a fair enough answer. Her coat was draped carefully over the bed as the closet space had been overcrowded with the belongings he'd brought with him before he dropped into the armchair directly across the coffee table from her. Uncrowning the bottle, he poured her glass to the halfway point and his full before recapping it -- and it was there, as his blunt fingertips moved hers closer to her side of the table, that he made eye contact. Gold glimmered, diamond-like in all their varied facets, and the usual lazy tilt of his eyelids was solemnly absent. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior, and for how long it took me to meet with you. I didn't know how to wrap my mind around it all at first, I suppose. I wasn't displeased that I had a son; I was displeased that I'd missed this much of his life. I'm so sorry, Shannon-- I would never have left if I'd known, I would have been here for both After the initial shock wore off after several days, I realized how hard this must've been for you... all these years," so quietly. "Please forgive me. I'm here now, and for good, so long as you are. No more journeys, no more adventures, no more traveling. So if you could... find it in your heart to forgive me, I would like very much to make up for the time I've been away. I want to be a real father to my son."

"I really have no idea, Bjorn." Which would explain why she had asked. It had been a week since she had last heard anything from him and while the time had seemed to creep by at a snail's pace for her, anything could have happened in his neck of the woods. Secretly, she has hoping that something overly dramatic or unexpected had occurred and would allow her to dismiss the prickling sense of irritation that was traveling down the ladder of her spine. She bite back any further retort, flicking a glance downwards to watch the trickle of liquid fill her glass, the corners of her mouth twitching ever-so-slightly in response to differences in amount between their two glasses. She would make no complaint, however -- it had been awhile since she had indulged in a glass of straight whiskey. The glass was left to wait on the table for the time being, the tale he was weaving with his words was far more interesting to her at the moment. Intent and silently assessing, she listened with keen ears for any hint of insincerity (not that she expected to find any) or an outlet for some of the misplaced anger that had been simmering in the pit of her stomach over the course of the past few years during his absence. It was unfair, to be sure, but that was life. "I suppose that it would be quite a shock," she allowed after a moment, swallowing softly before forcing herself to continue. "And I did try to tell you. I did not realize until after you had left..." It was a bitter pill to swallow now that hindsight allowed her to see the selfish way that she had hoarded the secret during the first few weeks after his departure, partly out of a belief that he would stray back into town with the same devil-may-care attitude as always well before the baby's arrival. "To be honest, I didn't think you were coming back," she admitted softly, before moving to take a healthy sip of her drink and stop herself from exposing anymore vulnerability. After a moment, she would let the weight of her gaze travel the length of his form until it met his own fiery gaze, her own softening as it accepted the warmth of the nearby light and drawing the comparison of a tranquil sea at sunset. "Forgive you? It is not as if you walked out on Jacob by choice, Bjorn. I have no doubt that you never would have left had you known. But don't make promises that you can't keep. It isn't fair to either of you. Your .. role in life will always require some traveling, some form of adventure." Focusing primarily on his impact in Jacob's life and leaving herself out of the equation completely. It was about Jacob now -- wasn't it? "I have no desire to keep him from you."

So far, his own whiskey had not been touched; it shone a soft tawny on the wood surface, its surface too still, but his long fingers worked the svelte leather cigarette case instead -- the matchbook held to the top by the clip was removed as well as one of the smoothly hand-rolled fags, but only long enough for him to tear a match out and set it away. The underside of his thumbnail scratched it to life and it flickered, forcing out the narrow shadows that'd lurked below his strong, angular cheekbones -- the terrain of his face had further developed over the years he'd been absent, and though he'd lost the completely wholesome carefree demeanor that he'd initially prowled through the city with, he was a more complicated man now: and seductively more handsome with that thick lion's mane that swung fairly tousled around his shoulders even after a recent brush-through. His skin still inhaled the sun, exhaled its heat. His eyelashes had swept downward until that first hit off the strange, exotic tobacco but as they edged up, the sheen of withheld tears lit the amber lines though it was almost imperceptible; strong men rarely cried, but that didn't mean they never wanted to. "I didn't know I would be unreachable that long, or gone that long for that matter. There's things about me that even you don't know, Shannon, but I swear to you that I didn't know them either." Intensely sincere, his other hand extended to try and find hers across the table while his pretty mouth smoked out its secrets. "I didn't grow up like this, you know that. I grew up the same way you did," in the USA and all the wonders of the modern world, he meant. "A long time ago, my grandfather came here, to this very town, from a distant land -- and from there, to the vortex so that he could start a new life with his wife. He was a bloody coward.A king that had abandoned his people in a time of war, and I never thought..." He drifted off, his throat closing as the sheen started to fade away from his tawny eyes, and he shook his head. "I didn't know, I never would've thought that I didn't belong to the world I was born into, but I don't. I found some relics before I left town last time... and when I left, things started happening. I found a continent called Vhamere far from here in the course of things, and.." God, it was such a long story, how could he fucking explain it to her? "Before I knew it, I was involved in a war that I didn't even know for sure that I'd live through. There's no phones there, no modern technologies, it's... a very old place. I wrote you up until I left, but the only means I had was messengers by ship and it's a long journey." He swallowed thickly, sure that everything was coming out in a jumbled mess, and clasped her hand tighter if she'd allowed him its comfort. "I'm here for good. I'm not going anywhere. This is my home now. Do you understand?"

He would always be an impossible puzzle to Shannon -- one part wild-eyed heathen with a laugh she could feel in her bones and a touch that was unexpectedly tender, another that of a firmly grounded businessman whose every move was perfectly calculated and planned to the slightest detail. To be truthful, he had ruined her for anyone else -- but that was a windswept fairytale better left for other times. It was not fair, the glint of unshed emotion caught the light and caused a mirror effect in her own. However, her own self control was not as strong as his own iron-clad will and a drop of moisture betrayed her by leaking out of the corner of an eye before she brushed it away. "You've always been a man of many secrets. I've always wished you would've trusted me more." There were so many things left unspoken between them, so many things left to the silence of the night. His hand would find hers and instinctively she would let the soft pad of her thumb travel along the side of his palm, and, aside from a few soft sounds of sympathy or understanding as she listened, she remained silent. "I hope that you mean it." I want so desperately to believe you. Releasing his hand, she did not move to pull her own away from the table's surface. "I have no desire to see his heart broken... or have him harmed in any way." There was a directness to her gaze that had never existed before, a firmness that haunted the edges of that softly-lined drawl composed out of porch-swing lounging and freshly squeezed lemonade. Swallowing, it was with some difficulty that she continued (for this was the most frightening part of this whole mess). "I .. am not naive enough to have not considered the fact that your... new life may have brought some changes to your situation. I understand if you have began to lay the foundations for a new family and do not wish to involve Jacob in that part of your life." Or me. While she had already discreetly studied his left hand in search of any new golden bands, there was the distinct possibility that his new culture had other means of signalling one's status as a married man.


Here from the king's mountain view, here from the wild dream come true: Vhamere had utterly decimated all the remnants of boyhood that might've lingered and hardened his signature masculinity into something unspeakably indomitable that one could only perceive when he was unguarded (though the beloved dimples in his grins would mislead to tempt the opinion otherwise). His thighs, his arms, his scars -- all were thicker due to the war to the point where even buttondowns couldn't conceal the sunbathed muscles lurking sinuous (and one hundred percent deadly) below. If asked, he couldn't recall the number of faceless supple and warm bodies he'd shared hot nights with, but that wasn't appropriate conversation -- as neither a man nor warrior, he couldn't expect her to understand what compelled a man in a time where life's extent was no longer certain; it was composed of wild hours where collectives of thousands were allowed to think of nothing but the struggle of battle, death trembling just behind every corner, and so great men tore the clothes from willing delilahs in order to clasp some kind of sanity in a universe that'd suddenly turned red (from the blood of your enemies and your comrades) -- he remembered none of their tongue-twisting names now. "If you think the two of you are not going to be a huge part of my life, you are completely mistaken," he told her, his jaw setting as the sheen was swept away from the curves of his eyes and smoke rolled forth over his tongue. "Things've changed, that couldn't be more true, but Jacob is my son -- and I apologize for the changes it is going to cause in your own life, but I will be here for you. I imagine now that I'm staying, it won't be long before the news it out that your son is mine; and that's going to cause problems, Shannon, I won't lie to you. I know that she comes across very dominantly, but Ciramina is wise, and powerful. I completely agree with her that the two of you need to share a roof with her, and besides, now that I'm here, you don't have to support yourself, or Jacob, alone anymore. I forbid it. It's far too dangerous. For you as well as him," because every bad guy loved a pawn so pretty.

He was changed -- she could not trace the exact reasoning behind her decision on this matter, but it was there. Perhaps it was in the movement of his face as he spoke, or the edge of wildness that clung to the finger-tousled mane and whiskey-gold stare that was leveled on her. She was certainly not one to assume that he had spent the countless nights (perhaps far more than three years worth, given the potential time differences between their two worlds) celibate and dreaming of her. She had seen enough war dramas on Cinemax to know that bloodshed and loneliness required some heated embraces if only to celebrate the fact that they were not being sentenced to the same mass grave of their comrades. It was a fact of life -- though, selfishly she would have relished some false confidences had they dripped from his tongue in an attempt to soothe her. But he had changed, and there were no false promises of romance and true love. To be fair, she was not such a pristine image of faithfulness, given the few short interludes of other men that had paraded through her life, though they checked out as soon as Jacob's presence was whispered in the quiet of the night, or during a candle light dinner at some upscale restaurant. She had become a statistic -- a fate that caused her much irritation, especially given how strongly she fought to keep from being trapped into a single category or stereotype. "Out of respect for Jacob, I haven't broadcasted his existence to the gossips in this world, but I can see that he cannot stay hidden forever." Quietly, and now she would withdraw her hand from the table, raking fingers through loosely tousled curls while her sea-swept gaze narrowed subtly. "Dominantly? It is interesting that you would let your grandmother do your dirty work, Bjorn." Surely the fact that her life was going to change and the dangers in store for her son should have come from him and not some other relative that had shaken herself loose from the family tree in order to settle in this town. "I am glad that you agree with her, but I think you two are forgetting my say in all of this." Carefully choosing her words, as if she were picking a path through a mine field. "She already has a stranger living in my house, I do not see why I should have to force Jacob to learn combat or move into an unfamiliar house." Stubbornly, she was clinging to her peaceful ways. "If he ... does develop your gifts then we will deal with them, not now. Not while he is too young to understand the implications." She sidestepped all mentions of any possible threats to her, choosing to believe that she meant far too little to him to matter in the grand scheme of things. "Don't you think you should at least meet him first?"

"Ciramina is older than Christ, Shannon -- she's not my grandmother, but thousands of years ago, I suppose she probably was the grandmother of one of my forefathers." Glancing into an unseen distance when she withdrew her hand, he exchanged the comfort of it for whiskey, silent for the moments it took to swallow half of the glass. "You could not imagine how powerful she is. I do not pretend to have the ability to control her actions, woman, she does as she pleases." Glass set aside, he pushed up to his feet and part paced the surrounding area, pointing at her with his ash-tongued cigarette. "Do you think I've just been sitting around this room with my head up my ass? I've been working nonstop with only a few hours of sleep in order to prepare to provide for the both of you! Do not be so stubborn, you're being completely ridiculous. I respect you, woman, but if you think you can have your way in this just because you flash your pretty blue eyes at me, you can think twice. I know that you're used to being in charge, but that's over now. He's as much mine as yours, and you will share that responsibility with me in the future. I will not be held responsible for my son's death because his mother does not want to be reasonable about the situation!"

Her eyes flared at the sharpness of his reponse and her mouth set in a firm line; stubborn as a mule. Not to be outdone, she moved to finish her own glass before returning it to the tabletop with an audible thud. "Either way -- you sent her instead." It simmered still, the unreasonable anger that stemmed from how long it had taken for him to contact her, how long it had taken for him to traverse the endless terrain between their two worlds and seek her out again. Leaning back, she watched him rise to his feet and pace the small expanse of the room. "I have no idea, Bjorn." She ground out, her brows furrowing slightly as she listened to him. "Do not call me woman. I have a name, you jack ass." The profanity dripped from her tongue with all the grace of a foreigner attempting to speak a new language for the first time, though the anger behind it was very real and natural. And now it was her turn to rise, pointing a freshly-painted nail at him while she carved a path around the table in order to stalk closer to him. "Used to being in charge? Do you think I chose this? Do I think I chose to be a single mother?! Do you think I chose to deal with every fever, every cough, every bruise on my own. For christ's sake, Bjorn, don't be ridiculous. I had to make that choice because you ran away." Her eyes were wild and flashing, like the sea during a hurricane and her cheeks were burning bright red with the infusion of warm irritationthat was flooding her veins. "Oh, I will be more than happily to share that responsibility -- as soon as you stop trying to shut me out!" And then he pulled out his trump card and she barely restrained the urge to slap him. Barely. "Don't ever say that again. Ever." Jacob's death was not something to be thrown about as a possible option. It was not possible.

"Jack-ass? Jack-ass?" Bjorn's expression under any other normal circumstances might've been laughable and he gaped at her minutely before his mouth pinched shut around another draw off his cigarette. Oh, hell no. Within seconds he was in her face, intense and hard-jawed, taking her arm up in the coil of strong, long fingers firm enough to contain her without hurting her -- nonetheless, he was establishing his dominance subconsciously, as if they were animals in the wild vying for the upper hand. "If I didn't respect you as much as I do, woman, I would have you bent over my knee right now so that I could spank the nonsense right out of you like some of the knights are forced to do with their wives back home. I did not send Ciramina to talk to you, I did not agree with that, and I did not run away! Do you understand me?" Gold eyes flashed terrifyingly bright. "I didn't know you were pregnant and I was having these dreams of someone calling me for help. I had to go, Shannon. If I hadn't, thousands more people might've died. I didn't ask to be the rightful living heir to a kingdom that knows more about long-forgotten magic than what a telephone fucking is, but I had a duty -- and I still do. I can't make my life more important than millions. It's not right, and you should know that. You have one of the most beautiful hearts I've witnessed in my life, and if there was any woman in the world I'd want to bear my son, it would be you. So stop throwing a tantrum. So stop holding it against me. Stop being angry. Calm the fuck down and listen to what I've been saying to you. Cry if you have to, but let me be there for you. Now that I'm finally here, don't try to push me away."

"Yes! JACK ASS." She drew out every syllable of the insult as if he was incapable of understanding English. He grabbed at her arm and she gasped in audible dismay and outrage -- Scarlet O'Hara eat your heart out -- and tugged at her arm in order to free it from his dominant embrace. He was used to being the dominant male, a role she had happily allowed him to maintain during the long history of their relationship, but now she was a raging mother bear and no longer willing to simply roll over and say, 'Yes, dear.' "I told you to stop ca---" Oh, that was it. "Don't you dare. If you dare to spank me I will make sure that Jacob is the only son you will ever be able to father!" Her other hand was still loose and she used it to poke the strong wall of his chest to further emphasize her point. However, the steaming engine that was her anger was not thundering so loudly in her ears that she was unable to hear the very .. rational things that were coming out of his mouth; tiny breadcrumbs that were laid out to lead her back to sanity. However, it was not so immediate as a pin popping a balloon, but more like a subtle unwinding, a car that slowly ran out of gas until it finally came to a sputtering halt. The fact that his choices caused a greater good, saved so many lives was not a fact to be taken lightly. Slumping forward as if that burning rage had been the only thing holding her upright, she buried her face against the cusp of his collar, free hand splaying outwards to curl fingertips into the fabric of his shirt. And she would do something that she would later regret: she cried. It started as a quiet gasp for air, but soon enough he would undoubtedly be able to feel the droplets of emotional raindrops as they left the confines of her eyes and trailed down her cheeks before dripping onto his shirt. "I hate you," muffled mumble that was no more true than any child's taunt after a parent enforces their will. It was a lame taunt that was thrown out as a last ditch effort to salvage some of her pride, given that he had effectively won this round. "I hate that you make me feel like this." So achingly vulnerable and lost. If he allowed her other hand to tug itself free, she would wind it about his neck, allowing her the anchor to curl herself further into the warmth of his own sun-scorched frame.

I don't mind if you don't mind, 'cause I don't shine if you don't shine -- immediately Bjorn Andrews found himself wishing that life had been somehow different; that their once-normal paths hadn't overlapped at such a volatile nexus, that they could've met on the cobblestone-floored caf? patios of Boston at some art show where he could've married her, had a litter of precocious children, and never worried about anything worse than how to meet all the bills between hard work, his art, and the time he spent with his family. Bjorn still remembered a time when that's all he wanted (and that's all he expected to find); he might've still wanted that life, but it wasn't so easy a choice anymore. His cigarette went out on the dresser he'd cornered her with before he swept his arms around her securely, jaw tilted so that he could bury half of his mouth in her soft, fragrant hair. "Shhh, beauty. I know, but it's all going to be okay, I promise you that. I know it's not how either of us expected things to turn out, but life happens the way it does for reason. I believe that, y'know? I'm not trying to come in here and sweep you off your feet after years of absence, but you are the mother of my son, the best friend I've ever had, and I'll never love another woman th'way I love you. What I can promise you is that I'm here to stay this time around, and you'll never have to cry alone if you don't want to -- 'cause we should always be there for each other from now on, right? We're family now."

Their life had all the foundations of a 'normal' love affair that would have ended with a house in the suburbs and the average brood of priviledged children that made up the landscape of the usual American family. But along the way, patchworks of other lives and rules had blended themselves into the tapestry and there could no longer be a 'normal' future in store for them. Later, she would broach the discussion about his smoking habit and how Jacob's esxistence might have to force an eventual removal of that habit. But for now, she relished the way the hand-rolled cigarette coated his skin with the scent of the Orient and all of its exotic temptations. Breathing him in, she allowed herself a few moments to privately grieve for the loss of the white picket fence dreams that had haunted her every day since he had left. Slowly but surely, her tears stopped flowing and she was able to feel the flood of soothing calm as it swept from him into her, drawn into life by the lullaby of comfort he was whispering into the shell of her ear. Beauty was a better nickname than 'woman' and so she did not remind him of her earlier displeasure at being called anything other than her name. Releasing his shirt from her stranglehold, she wiped at her cheeks with a few hasty strokes of her palm and silently prayed that she didn't look blotchy and red. "Are you sure? You have a chance to make a new life now, Bjorn. You could .. go back to Vhamere and find some woman who would fit into your new role as King. Someone ..better than me." And now, she was confessing the true reason behind all of her fears -- not that the potential threats to Jacob weren't enough, but the thought of being replaced was utterly terrifying. "Because if you really want this .. if you really want us to be a family than you have to make me a promise, Bjorn." Drawing back so that she meet his gaze, her fingers would idly comb through his golden strands, brushing them back from his face. "You have to promise that if you have to go back .. if you have to disappear again, that we go too. I'm not going to wait years for you again." Where you go, I go. Don't make me ache again.

"A man of my responsibility, by law, can only marry another of noble blood," he admitted quietly, gently dwarfing her hands with his so that he could lower them. "But I don't plan on fulfilling that role, ever. It's not a requirement as I already have an heir." It, also, didn't mean that he could never experience love or carry on some form of relationship outside the bonds of marriage; it would never be formally recognized, but he cared little about what other people thought. Ciramina had remarked that she'd experienced multiple great loves in her lifetime, and while she'd never been able to officially claim a marriage to any, they'd lived as lovers happily until the mortal's dying breath. Bjorn didn't know what to think, personally. "It's been years since we've been together, and I don't expect to come in here where we left off as if that's possible. I don't want to confuse Jacob, either. What I vow to make sure that you have is first my unfaltering friendship, and I don't think we should rush into anything as quick as we have before. We need to... be around each other, and be around each other with Jacob, so that we can raise our son together, but life is about to get a lot more complicated, Shannon. There's so much heartache in our past that I think we should work on repairing that, and strengthening our friendship, for our son." If they were ever to be together, it would also be necessary -- but he couldn't press that until they both adjusted to their new lives, or roles, and they both knew where the other finally stood.

It would be a lie to say that didn't sting, and she closed her eyes briefly, as if that would block out the pain from realizing that some portion of her dream would never come to pass. When she opened her eyes again, she'd lower them to focus on their clasped hands, studying the differences in size between. It was, of course, not a complete denial of a life together -- but Shannon could not help but feel as if a door had been slammed shut, He was being completely rational and she could find no fault in the logic so she merely nodded before stepping back, releasing his hands in order to rake fingers through her hair once more. To be truthful, she was in complete agreement though it was still a hard pill to swallow -- and perhaps would be for some time to come. Coughing softly, she covered her mouth with the slender line of her wrist before easing around him in order to cross the room in the direction of the bed. "Of course." Finally murmured once the silence between them had stretched too long and a response was unavoidable. It would not be long before she had gathered her coat, bid her goodbyes and left the confines of his rented lodgings.


<center> ----------------------------- </center>

A few hours later, the last hint of the sun had disappeared behind the horizon line and the moon had firmly settled onto its throne as the new lord of the sky. A half empty glass of wine lingered on the coffee table near her loose-limbed perch on the carpet of the living room, lidded gaze watching the flickering motions of the fire burning in the nearby fireplace. Eventually, she turned her gaze away in order to push to her feet, drifting across the room in order to locate her coat on the coat rack, searching the large pockets for a moment. Withdrawing the packet of ribbon-bound letters that she had been too cowardly, or perhaps too selfish, to hand over to their intended recipient that evening -- the haze of aggression and unreciprocated affections had made it impossible for her to hand them over during that fateful meeting -- she ran her fingers over the front of the first one, tracing the postage stamp idly with one fingernail.

Retracing her steps back to her perch near the fire place, she loosened the ribbon's knot, discarding it carelessly before ripping open the first letter. There was a mixture of nostalgia and sadness in the serpentine stretch of her smile as she scanned the letter's contents before moving on to the next one, and the next one after that. When the inspection was finished, ten envelopes lay scattered on the floor about her (each bearing a postage mark from a different country and 'Return to Sender' marked in their respective languages) and countless pages of hand-scrawled sentiments. A random page was selected and crumpled into a ball before being tossed into the belly of the fire, her sea-swept gaze watching it crackle and burn intently before sentencing another to the same fate.

"What are you doin', mommy?" asked Jacob as he glanced up from his game of dinosaurs and cowboys that he was playing on the couch nearby, assorted action figures sprawled out on the cushions in various poses that aided to the story he was telling in his mind.

"Hm? Oh, just stoking the fire, dahlin'." She slanted a glance over the sharp line of one shoulder to focus on him, smiling softly in order to reassure him that all was well.

"Can I do it?" Excited about the prospect of playing assistant, he hopped down from the couch and crawled closer quickly.

"Oh, well I ... " She slanted a wary glance at the fireplace before nodding her assent. "As long as you stay back here by me. Just throw the paper in like this," ordered while she demonstrated with her next victim.

"What is this?" He inspected one of the pieces of stationary with a frown, though he was far from being able to read at his tender age of three. Crumpling the paper up excitedly, he tossed it at the fireplace in an overly-exaggerated motion, golden eyes widening in fascination as he watched it burn.

"Just some junk mail, dahlin'."


(Portions from live play, posted with permission.)

[pasogal2]

She was far from the catcalling sin machine that walked the streets during the twilight hours and had no desire to be compared to the sloe-eyed madonnas that haunted the doorways of various late-night establishments, their eyes reflecting the artificial glow of the neon lights. Shannon had always been a softly coated creature with her feet firmly glued to the straight-and-narrow and her sea-swept gaze firmly trained on the white picket fence life that lingered up ahead, tempting her to continue onwards in the daily grind of the so-called rat race. The pieces of her life had been put together into a puzzle that made sense, that fit.

But now it was starting to unravel.

(De)evolving, it had begun with a persistent itch along the nape of her neck, a prickling sensation that always tempted her to scrape nails along the soft skin. There were old wives tales for the itch of an ear or nose, but Shannon could not recall any story involving the nape of her neck -- not from her southern-bred history that is. There were other tales, seeped in mysticism and stained with the sharp edges of shame, but she had removed them from her memory banks as easily as the tattoo that had once haunted that stretch of skin had been burned away.

And then a few nights later, a restless edge invaded the hollow lines of her veins, warming her blood and making it impossible for her to stand still. She took to wandering at all hours of the day, expanding her boundaries further and creeping steadily closer towards neighborhoods which she never would have dared visit during her more sheltered years. At the end of the evening, she would always slip back into her role of gracious belle, trading in her wandering shoes for those of the sturdy sneakers of a society soccer mom. She may have been drowning in playdates and macaroni, but she never breathed a word of it. Everyone lived a life of quiet desperation as the saying went, and Shannon had more than one reason to keep her ducks in a row, keep them protected from the hawkish stares of the outside world.

But the true impact of all these strange events did not align into a single message until one winter-frenzied night when the recent blast of weather had finally moved on, leaving the concrete jungle coated with a fresh layer of pristine whiteness -- as it were some angelic haven, and not the primitive jungle of sin that it was. Sweat-soaked and reeling, her sea-blue eyes snapped open to stare at the shadows covering her ceiling while her mouth slid open with the remaining gasp of a scream that died out quickly once enough of the dream-haze had left the realm of her mind. Her breathing took on a ragged tone as she brushed a hand along her brow, removing beads of the cold sweat she had broken out into, head turning to the side in order to try and make out the glowing numbers on the digital clock resting on her night stand. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she was able to make sense of the display after a moment and sighed with disgust for the hour. It was too early to be awake -- and yet her mind was still reeling and there would be no hope of returning to sleep anytime soon.

Rubbing at her brow, she eased out of the bed and padded barefoot across the soft carpet in the direction of her bathroom. Hand fumbling along the wall in search of a light switch, she stubbed her toe on the door frame and bit back a curse (another one of her favorite vices that she had given up in favor of being a responsible parent). Hopping slightly, she settled her hands on the marble counter while waiting for the sharp edge of the initial pain to pass, head bowed and teeth sinking into the plushness of her lower lip. Finally, it passed and she slanted a glance up at her reflection in the mirror, frowning sharply for the hints of lines that were starting to appear at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Stepping back from the counter her eyes lowered -- and stayed. Nestled near her toothbrush and all of her other assorted items, was a simple white lilly. Classic and delicate, the flower matched the color of the counter top perfectly and, once all of the blood had drained from Shannon's face, it matched her too.


It was only then that Alice realized she was tumbling down the rabbit hole.

[pasogal2]

The cab idled at the curb for an extended period of time, so extensive that the cab driver slanted a glance at the woman in the back seat via the rear view mirror.

"This is it, no?"

"What?" Roused from her thoughts, she removed her thumb from the curve of her mouth (she had recently developed a habit of biting her nails when she was upset) and tilted her head in his direction. Rumpled, in more ways than one, there was a hollow tilt to her sea-spun gaze as she met his own dark one in the mirror. "Oh .. yes, of course. Would you mind waiting? I shouldn't be long."

The man hesitated for a long moment, watching the belle gather her things: a small handbag, an umbrella, and a white lilly. But the meter was running, and a lengthy wait would always ensure that he would receive a higher payment.

"Of course, miss."

Her mouth twitch with the impulse to smile, but it never fully stretched onto the curve of her lips before she angled out of the cab. The house they had parked in front of was a typical suburban dwelling, a cookie cutter match of the other houses on the street, hinting at the eventual death of creative architecture in favor of rampant commercialism and mass production. The rumble of thunder in the distance made her grip on her umbrella tighten and she allowed herself a few quiet grumbling about the relation between the weather and fate.

The twitch of the curtain in the front room had her attention drawing back to the house, the gentle flutter signaling that her arrival would no longer be a surprise (if it ever was). Shannon was hardly a religious creature (her upbringing had educated her on the fact that religious excursions were merely thinly veiled excuses for social gatherings and fashion shows instead of a pursuit of spiritual awakening), but she found herself sending a silent prayer upwards towards the powers that be before making her way to the door.

It opened before she could touch the bronze knocker, an ornate display of a dragon with the slender circle clenched between rows of sharp teeth. The effects of time were beginning to catch up with Shannon, but Serena seemed to have been spared from such cruelties of fate. The dark-haired woman was the picture of health and composure, just as she had been five years earlier.

"Good morning, Shannon. Please, come in," she invited, stepping away from the door. She would close it behind the belle once she slipped inside and after making the expected offer to take her coat, Serena would move to lead the way into the carefully coordinated display of Americana splendor that made up her living room. "Won't you have a seat?"

"Thank you." Shannon murmured, picking her way across the living room in order to sink down onto the sofa. She noted the tea seat that had been laid out already on the coffee table, as if Serena had been expecting company. "Is this a bad time? I could come back later.."

"Oh, don't be silly, Shannon. You know how I like to have tea ready, just in case." Smoothly, Serena settled down into one the arm chairs across from her. "I was wondering when you could come to see me. You've been in town for what -- four months now?" Dark eyes intent, she slanted a glance up towards Shannon's face while pouring the tea with a graceful ease to her movements. "I did not think I would have to resort to such measures to reach someone I count as an old friend, Shannon." A pointed glance was directed towards the lilly, resting innocently on the table.

Shannon swallowed lightly, swiping palms along her thighs while flicking her glance away briefly. "Yes, I've been meaning to come by ... I just got .. you know, busy."

"And how is our dear Jacob?" Perfectly manicured nails pushed one cup and saucer towards Shannon before Serena took up her own seat, stirring the dark liquid idly while she watched the belle's movements.

Shannon started at the use of the possessive term, but she tried to brush it away. "He's doing well. He loves his new preschool."

"And his father? Any word?" It was difficult to tell what Serena knew, but the twitch of her mouth hinted that she knew far more than she had let on.

"Bjorn has returned, yes. He and Jacob are attempting to bond -- they seem to be doing well." Uncomfortable with the current subject matter, Shannon fidgeted with her spoon, looking anywhere but at that too-dark stare.

"And how are you two doing?"

"We're attempting to raise Jacob together and maintain an amicable relationship." Which was harder than it seemed. She took a testing sip of her tea, and was unsurprised to find that Serena had remembered the ratio of sugar to cream that she favored.

"Hm, so not everything is going as you had originally hoped is it?" A sympathetic cluck of her tongue and she tipped her head to a delicate angle while watching the seemingly high-strung belle flit and flutter in her seat.

"I ... No, I suppose nothing has turned out the way I thought it would," she admitted, softly.

"A pity, that," Serena agreed, setting her cup and saucer down on the counter before rising to her feet. She wandered over to the nearby bay window and peeked out onto her perfectly manicured lawn as it absorbed the bands of morning light. "I did warn you, Shannon, that men can never be counted on -- did I not?"

"Yes, you did." Shannon's shoulders curved inwards subtly, as if preparing herself for a potential blow. "But it's not like it's his fault -- Bjorn had his reasons." Even in such times of strife and heartache, she would defend the lion until she died.

"Men always have reasons, darling -- but no matter what the reason is, the fact remains that you were not important enough for him to stay. After everything you sacrificed, he still left without a word." The poison was dripped into her ear with all the tenderness of a mother attempting to comfort a child. "It pains me to have to point it out, Shannon, but I do not want to see you hurt again."

"I .. I know, Serena."

"I hope that you will bring Jacob by soon? I cannot wait to see how he's grown." Smoothly changing the subject, Serena turned away from the window in order to focus on Shannon once more.

"Oh -- I don't know, Serena. Bjorn and his family are keeping a close watch on Jacob at the moment and I know how you adore your privacy.." Vainly searching for an excuse to keep her golden son away from her. When one danced with the devil, it was always a game of delicate balances and half-truths.

"Mm, I see." Her mouth tightened into a thin line. "Well it can wait, I suppose. We have another matter to discuss, as you well know." Though she had made no move to cage her, Shannon had the distinct feeling that a trap was slamming shut.

"I don't know what you mean, Serena?"

"Don't play coy with me, Shannon. I'm not some cotton-headed man that you can outwit with a flash of your eyes and that pretty little drawl of yours. We had a deal. You know that as well as I do."

"That debt was paid," firmly, there was an icy tone to her usual warm drawl.

"I don't think so, my dear."

"Good day, Serena."

"It's already begun, Shannon. You know it as well as I do."

Palming the nape of her neck, Shannon made short work of the distance between the sofa and the front door, spilling out into the sunshine with no small amount of haste. Perhaps it was merely due to the fact that a subtle chill still lingered in the air, but Shannon was not able to absorb any heat from the sun as she crossed the short distance to the waiting cab.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ April 17, 2008 10:28 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

<center>Two AM and she calls me because I'm still awake,
"Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?,
I don't love him. Winter just wasn't my season."
Yeah we walk through the doors, so accusing their eyes,
Like they have any right at all to criticize.
Hypocrites. You're all here for the very same reason.

Beause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable.
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table.
No one can find the rewind button, girl.
So cradle your head in your hands,
And breathe... just breathe.
Oh breathe, just breathe.


</center>

(Lyrics by Anna Nalick.)

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ March 17, 2008 10:29 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

Shannon had always had a caustic relationship with Time: she was never one to follow the rules set forth by any of the number of clocks that existed in her household, choosing instead to judge the passage of minutes and hours by the movement of the sun, or her own exhaustion levels. She was not one for routines and regulations, having deliberately chosen a profession that applauded such deviations from the status quo, and even encourage their employees to push ever-closer to the edge of pure madness. For years she had existed in this way: eating when she remembered that food was a necessity, sleeping when she could no longer hold her eyes open, and working whenever the mood struck her. There was no eight-to-five daily grind, no difference between day and night, no set days off.

But it had all changed when Jacob appeared. At first, it was merely adjusting her schedule to fulfill his needs: halting her day?s work when he needed to be fed, waiting until he was asleep to catch a few hours of rest herself, etc. But as he grew and required more attention and education, Shannon found herself becoming roped into the carefully monitored confines of a permanent schedule (with only a bit of deviation allowed on the weekends). There were early mornings and breakfast (a meal Shannon had always heard of, but never encountered before now) before shuffling Jacob off to preschool and herself off to the gallery where she?d slave away for a few hours before picking up Jacob and return home for dinner, after which there was playtime and stories of ancient fables before sleep was required. Rinse, repeat ? day in and day out.

However, their routine was becoming so distorted that Shannon could not find traces of it anywhere. There were days when Jacob did not even make it inside the hallowed halls of early childhood education before he was whisked away by his father for a day of manly pursuits (whatever those were), lessons with the ancient Ciramina, and Shannon found herself with far more free time than she had ever encountered in the past three years.

Which would have been delightful, if the well of inspiration that resided in the pit of her stomach hadn?t dried up as easily as a river during a drought. Flashes of inspiration tickled at her mind during her usual rambles about the city, but by the time she had rushed back to her private sanctuary the image vanished from her mind, drifting away as if held together by nothing more than smoke and mirrors. She would find herself pacing a circuit about her easel, fingers shaking like a junkie?s in the height of withdrawal, until she could no longer bear to clutch at a brush and would send it crashing towards an adjacent wall. It did not matter where it landed, all that mattered as that the commotion was loud enough to quiet the terrified screaming in the deep recesses of her mind.

One day, she was driven to counting everything in her small studio, if only to give her mind a simple task to wrap itself around and keep the doubting demons at bay. She had thirty different brushes of various sizes, twelve blank canvases, five pieces that were unfinished (and she would not dare to attempt another brushstroke in her current state), over sixty different colors of oil paints, two easels, three storage racks, seven windows, three hundred and seventy-two paint splatters on the floor, etc.

She never felt more like the ?crazy artist? stereotype than she did in the moment where she caught herself counting the raised dimples on the popcorn-finished ceiling. The ladder of her spine settled against the wall, with her knees drawn upwards towards her chest, she distracted herself before she could go blind by removing the slender vial from her pocket. Twirling it about between slender fingers, she studied the dark liquid as it reflected the light from the afternoon sun as it bled through the nearby window, pooling onto the hardwood floor around her.

?I won?t,? she promised the vial sharply, jaw tightening to an almost painful degree. ?It won?t happen.? Ground out between the rows of clenched teeth.

The vial remained silent, seeing no need for a response.

?God damnit,? snarled violently, she lifted one hand as if to throw the vial across the room, but checked herself at the last possible moment. Burying her face against her knees, her shoulders shook with the weight of her emotions.

Hours later, her assistant could not help but notice that one benefit of insanity was obviously cleanliness; she had never seen the studio look so well-organized and tidy.