this is my diary screaming out loud --

[pasogal2]

<center>It started out as a feeling,
Which then grew into hope.
Which then turned into a quiet thought,
Which then turned into a quiet word,
And then that word grew louder and louder
Till it was a battle cry.
I'll come back when you call me,
No need to say goodbye.

Just because everything's changing,
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before.
All you can do is try to know who your friends are.
As you head off to war,
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light.
You'll come back when it's over,
No need to say goodbye.
You'll come back when it's over,
No need to say goodbye.

Now we're back to the beginning:
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet.
But just because they can't feel it too,
Doesn't means that you have to forget.
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger,
Till they're before your eyes.
You'll come back when they call you,
No need to say goodbye.
You'll come back when they call you,
No need to say goodbye.
</center>


(lyrics are regina spektor.)

[pasogal2]

Perhaps it was the frighteningly dull combination white and steel without any hint of vibrant color that caused Shannon to dislike hospitals so intently, or perhaps it was the distinct sensation of death that haunted the faces of the employees as thoroughly as acne haunted the skin of the average teenager. As jittery as the junkies who were being forced to cleanse their bodies of their current dose of toxins on a floor above her, she slipped out of the exam room with quiet footsteps. Having excused herself in order to get the car ready and see about the necessary paperwork that needed to be completed before the left, she found herself quite unsure of where to go once she had escaped that tiny room with the doctors, the machines that beeped so loudly it sounded like sirens were blaring in her ears.

Once she had escaped the sight of her lover with his broken heart.

"Mrs. Cole?" A pause. "Excuse me, Mrs. Cole?" The voice tried again.

It dawned on Shannon that she was the only person in the hallway -- and that Cole was her last name now. A weight had suddenly settled on her left hand and she glanced down, taking in the sight of that glittering diamond, and the simple golden band that was wound about her ring finger.

"Mrs. Cole," the doctor said once he was sure that he had her attention, his wrinkled face peering at her from over the rim of dark spectacles with the air of professional concern that was a graduation requirement, given how it hovered on the faces of any number of the doctors they had spoken to over the past few months. "I was wondering if I could ask you a question about your husband?"

She allowed him to steer her further down the hallway with a light touch to her hand, though she craned her head in order to glance back towards the door that led to Sutton's room. "Yes, of course."

"Mrs. Cole, I'm afraid the medication we prescribed doesn't seem to be working as well as it should be," the doctor told her, pausing briefly to gauge her reaction before continuing. "I have to ask, given your husband's history.. Is he using drugs again by chance, Mrs. Cole?"

Shannon could not help the images that washed through her mind like the montage during the climax of a silent film: Sutton's fingers twitching faintly as he reached for his silverware, the distant glaze that coated his dark stare when he came home sometimes, the anxious tapping of his toe, the determined set of his shoulders when he had left to handle some important business a few weeks prior. Doubt sliced through the tender underbelly of her stomach, mixing cruelly with a few other emotions she dared not give a name.

"N--no, doctor. I -- He promised that he would stop before we got married," she finished, almost lamely.

The doctor eyed her for a moment, mouth pursing with a faint frown. "Well, I hope you're right. Narcotic use has already caused his condition to deteriorate and they do not mix well with the medications I am going to start him on," he warned, gently.

Condition. Deteriorate. Deteriorate. Deteriorate. The doctor's expectant expression caused her to snap out of her momentary daze and she offered a faint smile that was in no way reassuring. "Of course, doctor. And thank you -- for everything. Sutton and I, we -- thank you."

"Of course," he murmured, offering her arm a comforting touch. "You're husband is free to go. I'll leave his medications with the nurse at the desk -- and be sure to remind him to get plenty of sleep, hm?" His mouth hinted at a private joke, surely a veiled reference to their status as newlyweds.

Shannon could only summon a faint smile in response before stepping away in order to return to Sutton's room. Settled on the bed in the plain gown that seemed to make everyone seem far more fragile than they really are, his skin had taken on a sallow cast and his shaggy hair was clinging to his forehead subtly. But his eyes were the most terrifying sight of all; they glowed intensely from the force of his relief and adoration at the sight of her.

Though there was a flair of something in the pit of her stomach, she pushed forward in order to brush a kiss to his cheek before nudging the neck of his gown lower so that she could brush her mouth over her name, tattooed in permanent ink on the skin covering his heart. The rest of his skin was coated with the names of his past paramours, but hers was the largest and held a place of honor.

"Let's get you home, baby. This place is making me twitchy," she murmured while stealing another kiss before drifting away to find his things and help him get dressed.


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


A half-full bottle of whiskey was settled on the floor next to her folded position on the sparkling linoleum of the kitchen floor. Leaning her head back against the wooden face of a cabinet, she turned the Colt about in her hands with a peculiar expression, studying the way the metal flashed in the dim light. Reckless in her drunken state, she lifted it to peer at the barrel, memories dancing in her mind.

Her kitchen was replaced with one in a building much further downtown, the pristine white linoleum was exchanged for yellow tile, smears of blood and other substances staining the surface. Her own bare feet were exchanged for a pair of white sneakers with faint scuff marks on the toe, laces untied and dragging on the ground. Off to the left, where her stove was nestled now, her mind's eye saw an empty archway and a Australian Shepherd mix of speckled grey and white lying on the floor with his chin resting lightly on his paws. His mismatched eyes of blue and brown were watching the slumped form of his master intently, whining softly when he didn't move, tail wagging lightly in an anxious motion.

"Loki," she crooned to the dog, softly. "It's okay, Loki -- he's okay now. He's at peace now. He--" She paused, pressing lips together while peering down at the gun in her/Sutton's hand. "He's probably with you right now, huh? Playing ball like you loved to do. Tell him -- tell him I'm sorry, hm? I tried to be perfect. Tried to save him. I really did try."

Closing her eyes, she forced the memories of her old house (it was never really a home) to recede from her conscious mind, return to their cubicle in the office that housed her long term memory. Setting the gun aside, she raised the bottle towards her lips before recoiling as her memories of Sutton were replaced by another set: a chalk circle, blood smears, growing tree, the scent of ammonia. She'd had enough for tonight, she decided abruptly, returning the bottle to the floor.

"I won't fail again," she promised the silent kitchen. "No matter what it takes."

[pasogal2]

"You aren't drinking your tea."

"Hm?"

"Is there something wrong, dear?" Serena inspected her curiously while lowering her delicately painted tea cup to rest on its matching saucer. She reminded Shannon vaguely of her mother; elegant in ways that could not be taught. "You seem .. distracted." Stretching forward, she returned the saucer to the freshly polished wood of the coffee table, mouth twitching ever so subtly at the corner. In a secret corner of her mind, amusement was warring with impatience; this game has gone on long enough.

In the midst of a breakdown behind the scenes, Shannon was the spitting image of someone who was trying too hard. The neckline of her sweater was perfectly conservative and her hair had been severely drawn back from her face, coiled neatly at the base of her neck. She wanted to rip out all the pins. Chewing on the tip of a nail, she glanced away from the window to take in Serena's seeming concern, cheeks flooding with color as shame raked through her.

"I'm just -- It's nothing to w--" Sluggish tongue made it impossible to tell the lies that were usually so easy to say. You lie until you can't see the truth anymore. That's the key to a healthy relationship, her mother would say from time to time. "He's going to leave me," she confessed with a weak furrow of her brow.

Serena drew very still. Carefully, my love. We must tread carefully. "Oh? Why do you say that?"

Her shoulders rolled in a helpless shrug. "I can tell. I've seen that look-- I know him well enough to know. I think he's starting to believe." Her lips pressed together to ward off any other emotional time bombs to drip from her tongue.

"Believe?"

"That I really am b-b-bar--" She winced sharply, glancing down towards the arm of the sofa. "Barren."

"Oh, my dear," she murmured, the very image of sympathy.

"He doesn't come into the nursery anymore. I've painted it three different colors and he hasn't said anything. I'm sleeping all the time. We talk but I can see it -- he's beginning to doubt everything." She stared at nothing for a time before glancing up towards Serena. "We -- we were together the other night. Maybe .. Maybe you could check?"

Her expression was so beautifully hopeful; Serena wanted to vomit. Clearing her throat, she took a moment to compose herself before nodding. "Of course, my dear."

Shannon pushed to her feet, breezing around the coffee table in a graceful stride of a natural dancer. A fluid motion that was even more pronounced now that it was fueled by desperation. Serena shook out her hand lightly before moving to place it the artist's stomach, eyes falling shut.

And it was there. A subtle spark of life -- the very worst thing there could be. Impossible! Her mind screamed in outrage. But as quick to change direction as a sidewinder, she formed a plan.

"I'm sorry, my dear, I don't feel anything," she murmured, withdrawing her hand in order to drift away from the chair. She gave the artist a moment to digest that information, to crumple, before continuing. "There might be something we can try -- No, it's much too dangerous." Shaking her head, she seemed to change her mind abruptly, and yet that subtle twitch remained.

Swiping at eyes that had suddenly grown moist, Shannon's head snapped up quickly. "What? What is it?"

"It's .. Well, I wouldn't want to get your hopes up, dear, but there is something else we could try. It .. would require a great deal of sacrifice on your part, however."

"Sacrifice?"

"Oh yes," Serena whispered, triumph drifting through her stomach like the sinuous glide of the serpent. "Life is a very, very precious gift, Shannon. You have to be sure that you would be willing to give up everything to have it. Be willing to do anything to keep it safe."

"I -- Oh, I would do anything, Serena. Anything!"

"Very well." Turning towards the tiny cabinet at the north end of the room, she removed a decanter with a thick, dark liquid sloshing against the glass. Nothing more sinister than a foreign liqueur, it nonetheless looked strange and exotic. "You will have to give something up for the length of the pregnancy -- and the first year afterwards, to prove that you are worthy of this gift," she explained while pouring the thick liquid into a glass. It was a pity it wasn't raining outside, she did love the drama of a good thunderstorm. "Your art, I think. Yes ... that would be sufficient."

"My painting?" She wavered briefly, but the sight of that glass and the promise it contained was enough to wash away all of her fears. "Yes, I'll do it."

"That's not all, my dear. There will come a time when you will have to complete a task for me. To maintain the balance, you see."

"Yes, yes. Of course, Serena." Her hand extended as if she might rip it away from the woman's grasp.

"Very well." Serena offered it over, unable to keep from smiling subtly when the power of persuasion made the liquor difficult for Shannon to choke down.


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

"He's early -- He's too early!" She gasped in between sharp cries of pain. Sweat stained the slope of her brow and she eyed the anxious faces of the doctor and nurses intently. "Don't you se---" And from there it was nothing more than screaming and the movements of her body as it tried to push the tiny being out.

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


"Is he -- is he okay?" She gasped in between cracked lips, voice raw from screaming. She was only able to watch the nurse bustling around the room from out of the corner of her eye; she was too tired to even try moving her head.

"Hm? Oh sure, honey. He's just fine!" The nurse assured her, her wide face glowing with natural warmth and amusement at the fears that were echoed by every new mother that crossed her path.

"Really?" Relief washed over her. "But -- but he was so early. He -- He's really okay?" She tried to sit up but found she did not even have the energy to move her hands.

"What? Early? I don't think so, honey. He's just the right size and everything..." The nurse eyed her curiously before shaking the odd feeling away with a laugh. "We'll bring him in to see you soon. You try to rest now, you here?"

She watched the nurse bustle out of the room. "It's a miracle," she murmured, subtly awed.


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


Pressed against the steel wall of the bathroom, she no longer needed the Raven's hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. The poison he was dripping into her ears recalled a string of memories, now turned about from the source of his revelation.

"You lie," she whispered fiercely when he drew back to seek out her eyes once more.

"Do I?" He asked with a pointed arch of a brow before releasing her in order to quit the bathroom, adjusting the fit of his trilby while he walked.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 18, 2008 10:55 AM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

Coventry Hills was a quaint neighborhood of middle class morality and urban addictions. The tiny townhouses were crowded in together with nothing but the delicate fabric of curtains and wooden fences circling the small backyards to define personal boundaries. Good fences make good neighbors. Families of all shapes and sizes were concerned with nothing more than how to pay the bills and how to keep the neighbors from noticing their lives of quiet desperation. It was with some surprise that a few recognized the all-too familiar form of the lead singer of Traffic (made even more familiar by the racy column in the Post) settled on the doorstep of the genteel -- and positively eccentric -- artist that lived in number 408. They watched the careful treaty negotiations with low murmurs, eyeing the way neither woman seemed particularly pleased to be in each other's company. Noticed the way Shannon avoided any hint of contact, as if she were afraid that the singer's scandalous nature was an infectious disease; they always liked the sweet-faced artist, even if she did entertain an odd assortment of friends at her residence.

But even as remarkable as that encounter seemed to be (and they had watched it all; the slumped form of the artist as she dragged herself into her house as if in pain, while the proud singer sauntered back to the safety of her Aston Martin), what was even more remarkable was the sound that echoed off the quiet buildings in the early morning hours and split the street in two, like the early rumblings of a earthquake.

The residents of Coventry Hills had never heard an actual gunshot before.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 19, 2008 11:08 AM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

I feel like the fucking alien from "Little Shop of Horrors." Though my glasses (a gift from Dillon, much like the red tie that's wrapped around my throat) are much better looking than Rick Moranis' -- and the beast is inside of me, not some plant for me to tend to. I can't stop shaking. My spine is coated in sweat and my eyes are so dark that I don't even recognize myself when I look in the mirror. I'm so close. So close to giving in. I don't think I'm strong enough. Inspiration, she promised. You'll never be sad again, she said. God, I'm such an idiot.

I shot a man last night. I don't remember why.

I remember screaming so loudly I thought the sound would break the walls of my house, tear my throat until there was nothing left but a ragged collection of vocal chords and muscle. The sound of shattered glass. The relief that I was inside when it all went black -- not outside with her. I'm glad she's so self-absorbed. I don't like being weak.

Then I was in my room and he was standing at the front of my bed --

So I lied I do remember. I remember all of it.

I'm a fucking murderer.

He lunged and I fired. I don't think either of us thought I had it in me. All I could see was that vial in his hand, hear the rush of hunger that crawled through my veins in anticipation.

Have I really come to this? In the beginning it was so innocent. It was like I was in that Japanese animated film I saw once in college, where the man placed himself in the village paintings by Van Gogh. I was <u>in</u> a painting. Everything I saw was painted in the hazy brushstrokes of my genius. And I could paint <u>them</u>. Dillon's beast roared in approval when I painted with the red of bloodshed and discord. Dylan was coated in the earthen tones of a lovely Spring. Bjorn was coated in the golden hues of a hero. And Aden --

I called Christian this morning. I wonder what time it was in Ireland. I was half-drunk on tequila -- which reminds me, I am out of alcohol now. Not that I had much to begin with. No, no. Couldn't let the fancy lawyers think I'm a bad mother.

What was I saying?

Oh, yes. Christian. I don't even know what I said when I left that message. Probably some slurred request for him to come home as soon as possible. I think better around him. I can be rational. I am controlled. I'm a just a pretty painter who knows how to play the game and there is nothing but the careful motions of my thoughts to hold my attention. No madness. I'm don't have to bend over backwards to try and understand concepts that are far too complex for a dumb farm girl like me to ever understand. I'm not drowning like when I with

I am not even going to finish that sentence.

Today is Thursday and so I had to visit Syemon's grave. It's pathetic that my calender is filled up by weekly visits to the resting places of my old loves. I found myself clawing at the dirt as if I was going to carve a hole for myself. I wish he had given me that disease. Would I still be coughing up blood? Or would I be on the ground next to him? Finally at peace.

I'm haunted by him and Sutton when I dream. On the rare occasions that I do sleep. Last night I slept in Jacob's room because my room smelled of fire and there are invisible stains on the carpet. I need a new carpet, new bed -- fuck it, I'll buy a whole new house. Not that it matters. I'll be damned where ever I go. Not such a beautiful sunshine anymore, am I?

It'll be better in the morning. I'll take a shower, go to the grocery store to buy some seafood for tonight. Put on some gentle music, light the candles. Play the game. I'll be fine. I'll be normal.

I just wish my hands would stop shaking.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 20, 2008 04:33 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

Harper: I'm undecided. I feel ... that something's going to give. ... Maybe seeds will be planted, maybe there'll be harvests then, maybe early figs to eat, maybe new life, maybe fresh blood, maybe companionship and love and protection, safety from what's outside, maybe the door will hold, or maybe ... maybe the troubles will come, and the sky will collapse and there will be terrible rains and showers of poison light, or maybe my life is really fine, maybe Joe loves me and I'm only crazy thinking otherwise, or maybe not, maybe it's even worse than I know, maybe I want to know, maybe I don't. The suspense, Mr. Lies, it's killing me.


-- from Angels in America; Part One: Millenium Approaches, Act One, Bad News, Scene Three.

[pasogal2]

Flicking a glance up towards the mirror, she wrinkled her nose and let her jaw grow slack, stretching out fragile skin while contorting her expression in order to better inspect the shadows that had set up shop in the hollows beneath her eyes.

"Naomi," she murmured, thoughtful now. Letting the focus of her eyes zoom outwards to inspect the entire canvas of her face. "Naomi," she said again, tasting the name against the roof of her mouth, the way her tongue rolled the vowels along its length.

"That's not me." Firmly.


Narrowing her eyes speculatively, she let her gaze wander over the collection of tools once more while her mind tripped along memory lane, searching for the order in which the make-up needed to be applied in order to create the best facades. A hand extended to curl about the thin cream of pale white and she began dabbing it along the skin beneath her eyes while her mother's voice drifted through her mind.

"You're looking rather tired this morning, Shannon."

"I'm fine, Momma. Just had a little trouble sleepin' last night is all."

"Well, I certainly hope you don't plan on letting that boy see you like this. You're a mess."

"I seriously doubt Jer's gonna care if I look a little sleepy, Momma."

"I don't know, Shannon. Trudy Sanders was telling me just the other day that Jer's been comin' by to see Alison. Now that girl knows how to put herself together, which is more than I can say for you. I'd be careful if I were you."


"We can't all be like you, Momma," she murmured wryly to her reflection while setting aside the cream in order to reach for the setting powder -- and promptly dropped it, scattering powder all over the sink. "Shit," she groaned in response to the mess, but her hand froze in the act of reaching to collect the tiny container as another memory blasted through her mind.

"Come on, Jer, we're gonna be late."

"What's the rush? Damn, woman."

"C'mon now, you know Cooper's expectin' us..."

"Oh, so that's it."

"What?"

"And here I thought you got all dolled up for me."

"--Well, baby, it is his birthday and his parents are throwin' a real nice party... So, I just assumed--"

"Do you think I'm that fucking stupid?"

"--Jer!"

"I see the way you look at him. Don't even try to deny it."

"At who? Cooper? Jer, baby, I think maybe you've had too much to drink."

"Don't play games with me, woman. I ain't dumb! You been makin' eyes at him. And I see the way he stares at you -- it's enough to make me sick!"

"He's .. he's just a friend. He's your best friend! Ain't I supposed to be nice to your friends?"

"You're tellin' me I'm supposed to let you act like a whore because you're tryin' to be nice? Well, I'll show --"

"--OW! Jer stop it! I'm sor---"


"That's enough," she scolded herself, forcing her hand away from the tender line of her jaw, purposefully forgetting the memories of bruise-blackened skin and painful insecurities. She returned to the task at hand with an air of purpose, straightening her appearance before drifting out of the room in order to grab the Colt off of the top of the dresser. The bullets were left behind. She was gambling everything on her ability to lie, to bluff.

"It's over," she said, defiantly, while staring at the empty space near the foot of her bed before charging out of the room.

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 23, 2008 11:37 AM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>

[pasogal2]

Patient ID: 65309
Admitted: 6/22/08 20:28
Admitted by: RN Sheila Weber

Patient originally admitted as Jane Doe, due to unconsciousness. Later identified as Shannon Maguire of 408 Highland Row, Rhydin, Rhy'Din 80345. Collapsed in ER waiting room from minor head trauma and smoke inhalation. Contusions on face and laceration four inches above left ear are indicators of potential abuse. Suspected sprain of right wrist was negated by X-ray. Cleared of concussion or other serious injury by CT scan. Scheduled for social services visit after patient refused to disclose the reason behind injuries, would not list next of kin or other emergency contact on forms. Treated for severe smoke inhalation and was given two sutures by Dr. Alexander Madison, attending on call. Signed AMA forms and was released at 02:40 on 6/23/08.

[pasogal2]

I am overfilled. I am in a coma. I am drowning. Why, why, why must it always be in threes? Why must I always be surrounded by triangles. I am tired. I am sick. I cannot be torn in five million directions anymore. I want to be selfish. I want to be good. I want to stop staring at my face in the mirror in search of a stranger's face. I find myself pondering my departure for New York in a new light -- but it would be wrong. I have to stay away. I will not search for a glimpse of a ghost who does not belong to me.

Why, Trent, do you have to come back now? Why do you have to push me? Why do you let me push you? She is already stretched so far from me. I stretch out my hand in my sleep, begging for the shadows to come back. I cannot be so disconnected to my sister -- there is no sun without my moon. I remember her words that were breathed against the shell of my ear, the hollow cage her body made around my soul. I drift through the forest to the place where we would lounge in the grass, watching the stars and confessing all of our secrets. I walk there and I cannot find the way.

Lola, Lola. Please don't fade away. We are creatures of the seasons, you and I; it is not time to hibernate. Soon, perhaps. I know how tired you are -- but we have to try. And he loves you. You know he loves you. It is not our fault that the we have chained our hopes and dreams to falling stars -- they fly away so far sometimes. But they come back. <u>He</u> came back.

Christian is back. The prodigal sons of this town are all returning now. Please don't ask something of me that I cannot give. I can feel the warmth in your voice and it makes me wary. What can you want with me? I should save you from this. I have failed everyone who has ever deigned to care for me. I don't want to fail you too.

I have been sitting in my closet for over an hour now. I was going to start packing for New York (can I really be leaving tomorrow?) but all of my clothes seem to be relics from an ancient past. Like the mummies and other artifacts that clutter the shelves at the museum downtown. Was it only a week ago that I wore this to that silly dinner with Aden? Was this the dress that Jacob liked because it was so sparkly? It is too much. I am too much. It's time for something new.

I think I am going to clean out my closet now. Perhaps Persephone would like some of my things.

[pasogal2]

<center>How I wish you could see the potential,
the potential of you and me.
It's like a book elegantly bound but,
in a language that you can't read.
Not yet.

You gotta spend some time, love.
You gotta spend some time with me.
And I know that you'll find love,
I will possess your heart.
You gotta spend some time, love.
You gotta spend some time with me.
And I know that you'll find love,
I will possess your heart.

There are days when outside your window
I see my reflection as I slowly pass,
and I long for this mirrored perspective
when we'll be lovers, lovers at last.

You gotta spend some time, love.
You gotta spend some time with me.
And I know that you'll find, love
I will possess your heart.

You reject my advances and desperately,
I won't let you let me down so easily.
So easily.

You gotta spend some time, love.
You gotta spend some time with me.
And I know that you'll find love
I will possess your heart.

I will possess your heart.


</center>

(lyrics are death cab for cutie.)

<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ June 26, 2008 07:08 PM: Message edited by: urban addictions ]</font>