Posted in Personal Blogging

A Shorter Note

I cut/trimmed my nails because I broke two the other day and writing with short nails on a phone keyboard when you’re used to long nails is the fucking worst ever. I keep tapping the wrong button every time I type. I’m used to writing with the side of my finger because my nails stopped the rest of my finger from touching anything… And now when I type like that my entire finger just jams whatever the fuck it wants and sometimes not even autocorrect can figure out what the hell I just attempted to write.

That is to say, I just typed that last post on my phone while in my bed, crying like the pathetic excuse of a human being I am. So if I missed any typos, sorry but my eyes and hands are not being very cooperative.

-L.

Oh, ps: if anyone I know in real life is reading this, “hi! Don’t ever mention any of this to me or I’ll probably die of shame.”

Advertisements
Posted in Personal Blogging

Brief Update on the Jenna Situation

Hiya!

So it’s been a while (update wise) and I wanted to drop by and just… Vomit words in here.

Some of you might have read one of my posts about fighting with one of my dearest of friends, Jenna. So I already explained all of this and how it was my fault and I totally accepted that she needed time to heal. You also probably read my super long and super whiny post about what friendship means to me.

So this is me being whiny again because I’m kind of collapsing in on myself and there’s not really someone I’d feel comfortable sharing this with. Also let’s be Honest, chances are no one is actually reading this right now. So this is just for me to look back on, and possibly delete.

So Jenna is still mad at me. She has been mad for over a month. Which again, it was my fault and all that, but still. More than a month. Holy shit, right?

Whatever, I still talk yo her from once in a while in the hopes that she will, you know, forgive me. Well, that’s not worked out too well for me. First time I did after our fight she ignored me until the next day. I talked to her at like 2 PM, she read the message and then replied to me the following day at like twelve. I thought she was busy and didn’t pay much attention to it. Then I kept talking to her through WhatsApp and she always replied a while after, very short answers and didn’t like carry the conversation on any further. Nothing like our past conversations.

She had not once talked to me.

Then I asked her if she could meet with me (I live super far away and have to travel 3 hours to meet with my friends so I always have to plan who/when/where I meet in advance) and she said no (she had prior engagements) and I said ‘oh, it’s okay. Let me know when we can meet.’ She said sure and then didn’t talk to me.

Now whenever I talk to her she answers with one word and then stops talking. I commented this with someone and they said it could be because we both feel like we are a nuisance to other people and me not telling her that thing before made her feel more like that. And I thought, yes! That could be it! I will keep talking to get to show her I love her and I love talking to her, and I miss her.

By this point I was still hopeful and honestly? I was still the dog I mentioned in an earlier post. If she replied I’d be over the fucking moon because I really do love her and I really do miss her like hell. I didn’t want to think that she would honestly throw me away so easily because of one mistake. I thought I was somehow worth more to her? She said I didn’t know her, and I think I don’t. But maybe she doesn’t know me either if she can think that I’d do something like that maliciously.

I didn’t want to be mad at her. Fuck knows I’ve spent too long mad at people. And I didn’t want to be mad at her because I knew I was in the wrong, that I hurt her. And it would be unfair to get mad at her for something I deserved. If I got mad at her, then I’d be playing the victim, I’d be downplaying what I did to her and making it about me, like she was the bad one. But she wasn’t! It was me!

Then I read something about the tragedy of relationships in modern society, how you could see them being played out in social media. And I thought ‘wait, Jenna and I haven’t interacted in Twitter for a while’ (February 12th, I checked). And it turns out that at some point, she unfollowed me. I thought well, it’s not a big deal. Twitter has been unfollowing people for me in a while. So I replied to something she had said, and she favorited it but didn’t follow me again…

Yeah I know how I sound. Insane and stupid. And yes, I do feel that way. But… I don’t know. I can’t help but being hurt by it. And with the not talking and the unfollowing (she recently unfollowed me in Instagram as well, which is whatever since I don’t really use it that much) I guess this goes beyond her thinking that she’s a bother and more like she is being spiteful. And I don’t know how I feel about that?

To be honest I did cry myself to sleep a couple of times in the last month because of all of this. And I just don’t want this to get to a point where I get mad at her for being mad at me. I would honestly prefer if she just came forth and told me she’s still mad. Or that she will always be mad and she doesn’t want to be friends anymore. I would 100% take that heartbreak over this stupid festering wound that attacks me at the worst of times. I’m back at being volatile and a mess. Sometimes I get super angry at her. Sometimes she makes me so sad I can’t breathe. Because she is one of the people that, without even knowing it, brought me afloat in a moment when I really, really needed it. She helped me believe in friendship and I don’t want to lose her.

I fucking love her and I hate myself for writing that first Secondary Sunday where I said I would forever lover her and my other friends, even if they stopped talking to me, because it’s true! And I can’t make it untrue! I want to go back to being who I was, jaded and broken and always in pain. I’d take that cynic version of myself back in a heartbeat if it meant I’d never have to feel like this again. Because I hate it.

And every second of it reminds me of what happened in the past. Of being used and manipulated and I hate it! I hate emotional manipulation more than anything in the world and when she shuts me out but still replies from time to time, when she ignores me and I still hope she will forgive me, i feel like the dog again. Like I never stopped being the dog. Like it’s all I will ever be, and I hate that version of myself. I hate her.

But then remember my other friends and how much I love them and how much they love me, and I don’t want to change back. Even if I’m tearing myself apart with guilt, self-hatred and hope, I still think it’s worth it. Even if everyone stops talking to me. Even if all my friends turn their back on me, I will carry on loving them, with parts and pieces of my body that don’t know how to do anything else but that. And Maybe, sometime in the future it will stop hurting and I will not get mad anymore. Someday those parts will smooth over and I will be able to breathe without crying again.

Maybe Jenna will forgive me. Maybe she won’t. I just wish she’d tell me, so I can stop wondering about it

To be fair I am being incredibly petty and whiny about all this (mostly in my head, cause I’m stupid and can’t control myself). I have liked every single one of her tweets (not like I didn’t do that before, but now I get a sense of sick satisfaction. Like if you really, really want me out of your life you will either have to block me or tell me to get out of it. Either way I’ll know) and talking to her, but… Well, things have yet to change.

Expect a new petty and whiny post in the future.

-L.

Posted in Secondary Sundays

SS: Screws Pt. I

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The following story contains descriptions of torture, vomiting, panic attacks And violence. Reader discretion is advised.

I don’t have enough time so I’m just gonna jump right into it, okay?

Oh, yeah. Hi.

So it’s me and you again. I’m sorry if I scared you or made you feel uncomfortable with what I said the last time I talked to you. Funny thing, I am guilty of talking about guilt.

It’s been a long couple of weeks and… well, you probably saw that someone messed with this place for a while. Not to worry, Duke (The idiot from before) and I managed to get everything back on track. You will be able to find everything where it was supposed to be. I would have written sooner, you would have needed for me to write to you sooner, but I only just was able to escape their custody again.

There are places where people like me can go to. But I don’t want to go there.

I don’t expect you to understand that.

I’m not sure understand that all that much, but I just know that I can’t leave, yet. This kind of life is dangerous, and no life at all, to be honest. But it is the one thing I have left.

You have seen us all talk about each other, talk about people in your life (Daisy is okay, in case you want to know. After you packed up and left, a team of people came to pick her up an relocate her. I’m sure wherever she is now, she is helping someone else like she helped you).

I won’t talk about other people today, much as I want to. No. Today I will talk about myself, and the things that led me to this point. I think you have earned that much.

I was born Carmen Delgado about 27 years ago. I had three brothers and one smaller sister. I lived in Palmstrick Hull, far away from the montains and woods, somewhere you’d never expect to exist. In the winter time, the snow would pile as high as your knees, and if you dug deep enough, below the crips whiteness you’d find an almost golden orange seeping in from the ground.

I loved it there. I know that most people, when the talk about their pasts, they don’t sound too fond of them. But I was. I didn’t have identity crisis, or lived in a poor area. My family was never attacked by illness or misfortune. I led, by all accounts, a good life.

But, just like anyone who’s ever been in my past position, there was something wrong with it all– no. There was something wrong with me.

I know others have talked about this before, but— I think it’s best to hear it from the source, you know?

So, I’ll tell you about my experience with reconditioning.

We all first go through the Recondition process at age six. Or well, that’s what everyone says, but in truth, it’s different for everyone. It’s not about brain maturity, it’s about the signs. I would know, I actually worked on this for a while. So, you just keep an eye on the brats, and when they stop being, you know, all kiddy and happy, and start to question things, that’s when you act.

I did actually go through the Recondition process at six, most of my class did. As I mentioned, most of us had good lives and didn’t have much reason to question things. A group of us (five to ten children) were asked to go to the main office. We thought it was strange since there were no meetings planned for that day.

Oh, right. I was in one of those experimental schools that had children go to different offices to test their cognitive development. I don’t think I’ve seen many of them still functioning, just one or two here and there.

I remember the walk there, the sound of my shoes on the linoleum floor, and the way Penelope Abilene’s plaited pony tail swung from side to side as we walked, like the tail of a curious cat. We were all holding hands, something encouraged on children but discouraged in adults. I guess it’s because we needed more tangible things to hold onto in our infancy but we need to be distant as grownups.

When we got to the office, the head mistress was not there waitig for us. Instead, there was a tall woman with a pinched expression. I remember her the most. I remember I used to think she looked exactly like a stern scientist should look in horror stories for children. I also remember feeling… excited. If this was an adventure book, then me and my peers would be able to defeat this great and stern evil… sadly, this was not a children’s adveture book, and my peers and I… well, we had no chance against a group of adults.

But we didn’t know that yet.

Some of them would never know.

We just stood there. I remember that. My shoulders felt so weak and small. I don’t remember how that thought even entered my head, but I do remember rolling my shoulders, as if to take care of a great weight. I guess, we all knew, we could feel it in the air, that that day was different from all others.

“Delgado,” The stern lady called my name with a surprisingly soft voice. I raised my head to look at her and stopped fidgeting. There was something like approval in her face. “You are on group B8.”

Group B8, I would come to realise, meant my process would be more… thorough, than the other groups.

Camila Salsedo, Eric Soza and I were the only ones in group B8. We had to watch as the other kids were led away into other rooms while nurses and short men with lavender lab coats took samples and asked them questions.

It wasn’t at all like other monitoring sessions or screenings. There were no upperclassmen, or fellow students warning you before hand of the questions, or even scaring you about the procedure. No one knew which ones were the right answers and which ones were the wrong ones. We were all flying blind. And for a group of six-year-old children, that was terrifying.

It’s funny how you never learn to fear adults until they are showing you all the reasons why you have to.

After what felt like hours, another short man came for us in group B8, and led us to another room, further away from everyone else. Looking back on it, it was obvious that the guy was new to what he was doing. He kept smiling at us and trying to start small talk.

“Those are very lovely shoes,” I remember he said to me. “I had ones just like those growing up.”

I shrugged.

“Now I know you’re scared,” He carried on. “But there is nothing to be afraid of. They just need to ask you some questions, do a medical check up and then you are free to go!”

He didn’t tell us that “medical check up” meant that we were going to be taken somewhere else. He didn’t mention anything about the machines, and the scalpels, the many people in lab coats and the overflowing questions. He definitely didn’t say anything about electricity.

I will not bore you with the details of my interview… It’s so boring, looking back, that even I have managed to forget most of it.

I will give you the questions, though. I happened to stumble upon one of the questionnaires a while ago, and I kept it.

So here it is:

  1. Please state your name, age and address.
  2. How many people live in your house? Are they all relatives of yours?
  3. Describe your room in as much detail as possible.
  4. Describe each member of your household in detail.
  5. Describe yourself physically.
  6. What do you wish to do when you are older?
  7. What is your favourite colour?
  8. Name all of your classmates.
  9. How many windows are in this room?
  10. Describe the route you took to get here?
  11. Name all your teachers.
  12. How do you like living in (Insert name of place)?
  13. Describe yourself emotionally.
  14. Do you have any friends? If so, name them.
  15. What is your latest memory?
  16. What is your earliest memory?
  17. What is your favourite song?
  18. What is your least favourite thing about living in (Insert name of place)?
  19. Who is (Insert name of person no relevant to the subject’s life)?
  20. Describe this picture. (Picture provided by the Institute of Developmental Sciences and Psychology, formerly known as INTS.)

Don’t worry if you tried to answer the questions and you couldn’t. The point of Reconditioning is that you can’t answer any of that.

After the interview, we were asked to perform the same tasks of any evaluation (physical tasks).

After that, there is a whole bunch of things I either repressed (yay for trauma!) or The Machine did its job right and I actually don’t have those memories anymore.

Next thing I remember is getting out of a white van and walking into the INTS building. Unlike the tales and pictures I’ve seen from other people’s experiences, INTS was not located in an old creepy house on the outskirts of town. It was actually a big white building with windows covering over 60% of the walls. It had the name written outside in bold silver letters and anyone knew that if you wanted to get better, you didn’t go to the hospital, or many small clinics in town, you went to the Institute of New Technologies and Sciences.

I had never actually been sick in my life, and no one in my family had ever needed to go into INTS, so everything was new, scary and exciting for me. Eric had had a very serious illness just a couple of months before this all happened, and he was greeted by all the pastel and monochromatic personnel we encountered. Of course that that made him practically a celebrity in our eyes.

Too bad we wouldn’t remember this later, this was Eric’s only moment of popularity and fame.

Upon entering the building, the three of us were immediately separated. Again, this was done accordingly with our test results which dictated who needed a longer procedure and who was beyond salvation.

I never saw Camila or Penelope ever again.

I was the last to go in, and now, I want you to stop reading. This is not for you.

I know I am supposed to write this for you, that you need it, wherever it is that you are. I know we all promised them that we would help sort you through this. I know we said we’d get you to Cromly Park even if meant losing them, but— I need to say this, okay? And me saying this will not help you in any way. I know because I was not you but I had someone like you.

Screws, we… we’re not meant to own things, to want to own things. We’re not supposed to have feelings, or wants, or needs, or people that we need to love and protect above it all.But fuck sakes, we do. We are people, okay? Despite everything and whatever they do to us, they can’t change that fact. The can’t change me or you, and God knows they won’t be able to change them. You can break people, tear them apart and then try to piece them together in a different order, but the pieces are still the same. They still come from the same place as before. They are still someone. They are still us. And there is nothing the machine, or the lab coats, or the Institute can do to change that.

We are all dying in this God forsaken island. We are an experiment and we don’t even know it until we cease being useful. And nobody fucking cares, okay?

Out of every single person inside and outside the borders, us, the most broken individuals, we are the only ones who care. And caring is killing us. Literally. We care and we are being hunted, extinguished like the spare parts that we are.

You can tell people that caring is wrong, that they are part of a well-oiled machine, but you can’t make them stop being who they already were.

So I know, okay? I fucking know that I shouldn’t be telling you this, that I should sugar coat it because the truth can only hurt you but I feel like if I don’t say this here I will die and nothing will have changed. I will still be a Screw that got loose.

And I am tired of being that.

Read if you want or need to, but if you know that it can only hurt you… then please don’t read what comes next… not until I tell you to.

*** I was the last one to go in. By this point in the afternoon, school had already let out for the day. I had heard the bell and the sound of children moving all over town, while I was locked up in a small white office on the third floor of INTS.

When the ladies came for me, I didn’t fight it. I didn’t know it was an option, for me this place was a sanctuary for healing, somewhere people went to get better. I foolishly believed I was there to get better.

I was not.

The three ladies in matching seafoam green robes took me to the elevator and then down, down, down, down, to a place where there were no numbers to express the level.

The longer we stayed there the more I panicked and fidgeted. The woman standing right behind me pinched me on the arm and told me to be still.

That’s when I started crying.

Once the doors opened, I didn’t want to leave. I couldn’t even raise my head to look out. It felt colder than it should have been, and it smelled metallic and moist, and decaying. The woman behind me grabbed me by the arm. I tried pulling away, but she was stronger, so much stronger than me. I grappled with her, I tried scratching and punching, but I was small and I couldn’t.

When one of the other women came closer I hit her with my recoiling arm. That’s when the woman holding onto me slapped me. Hard.

I peed myself. I had never been hit before, my only punishments were time outs and quiet introspection sessions.

To this day if I focus enough, I can feel the imprint of her large hand against my face.

The other women made a disgusted noise, and the one holding onto me squeezed my arm so tight I felt my hand go numb from lack of circulation. She then pushed me off the elevator. I slipped on my urine, and she only laughed. One of the other women slapped me on the back of the head and called me a nuisance.

I was crying so hard I could barely see a thing as they dragged me deeper into the room. I could hear things, though, screaming and pleading, and people reciting words too fast for me to hear. On top of the medical and surgical smells, I could taste the smell of my urine with every gasping breath I took. I blubbered, and snot ran down my nose and neck, even going into my mouth in between inhales. My throat started aching, parched from my gasping breaths. I got dizzy and not long after I started dry heaving as they dragged me through the corridors. The smell, the blurred out walls and tiles made me even more nauseous and I would have thrown up on the floor had it no been for the dirty look one of the women threw me. The sour puke got stuck in y throat and I had to force myself to swallow it back. I didn’t want to incite the women’s anger.

My shoulder, which felt so small and weak through the thin cotton of my shirt earlier that day, burnt under the woman’s ministrations.

They dragged me through long white corridors, through screaming and whirrings and beepings of machines, until we got somewhere with an open door.

I was still crying and gagging intermittently, and the woman holding onto me had to shake me a couple of times to get me to stand on my own.

There was someone inside the room, a tall and stern looking man. He looked nothing like the woman from earlier. He looked everything like the woman from earlier.

He didn’t talk to me. From this moment on, no one talked to me again. It was like I wasn’t there. No. It was like I was a broken utility that was there to be repaired.

The women left me there, and someone everyone referred to as the Wrench -Yeah, you can see that for a shady evil organisation, these people aren’t that creative- grabbed me and pulled me further into the room.

I don’t know much about the Recondition process, other than my memory of it. The whole thing is need to know basis, and only the five people who work on it are allowed to know. And even the identities and tasks of those people are mostly unknown by the rest of the Machine.

The only ones I remember from back then are the Wrench and the head doctor. Everyone else has remained nameless and faceless in my head. But I do know there were five of them, two men, three women.

The Wrench was tall and willowy. He had dirty blond hair… not dirty blond as in the shade of colour, but dirty as in untended. Like he didn’t have enough time or care about personal hygiene. His eyes had deep circles under there and they were sunk so deep into his skull it looked like he had no eyeballs at all. He wasn’t wearing a lab coat like the others, just sweatpants and a loose, shirt. He had a recorder in his hand and he was constantly writing things down on a notepad that seemed to always move without me noticing. At one point I spat blood on him and he didn’t even grimace. It was as if nothing would ever bother him again.

The head doctor had a stern… well… everything, but a surprisingly pleasant smile, which… I don’t know if it was for better or worse. He looked older but not wise beyond his years. His face had more wrinkles than features, but he had steady hands and a grim determination. His hair was dark, and well taken care of. He was wearing a sort of plastic, lime green scrubs that one of the women (the youngest one) teased him about. He only smiled once at me, when his hand was pushing the first needle through the corner of my left eye.

The head nurse was also the youngest of the bunch. She was ruthless, her hands didn’t shake once, and her lips were permanently pursed into a frown. I don’t remember much about her except that she seemed… tired, and her pink scrubs had strangely scattered splatters of blood in them. The head doctor asked her, at one point, why she didn’t change and she said, “there’s no point. This is one of the busiest days. After this one I have three other scheduled and it would be a hassle to be changing in my ten minute break.”

She was the one that scared me the most.

The other two women, the assitants whose names and designations I don’t remember wore clear scrubs and plastic gloves that got stuck to every bit of skin they touched. One of them made a gagging motion and pointed to my soiled legs. She asked if they could do something about it. The head doctor, head nurse and the other assitant (from now on Ass1 and Ass2) considered the option for a moment before the Wrench shook his head and told them, “it will get messier. It’s best if you change its clothes after we’re done here.”

It. I was “it”. If I didn’t know any better I’d say that depersonalising us made their job easier… but it’s not that. They honestly don’t think of anyone who walks into their facilities as human, not before and not after reconditioning.

The assistants led me to a chair-like contraption. It was way more uncomfortable than hospital beds have ever been allowed to be and it bent in sharp angles an turn to allow easy access to… Everything, I guess. They sat me down first, while the Wrench went through some papers and notes and the head doctor and head nurse talked about what needed to be done.

don’t remember the exact words, so I will not bother transcribing any of the butchered recollection I have. They used long words and overly complicated jargon. The cost if it was that I was complicated, and they needed to do things to me that would be easier if they just split my head open. But I was too young and “it’s her first infraction. Let’s wait until its second before we ruin its soft little head.”

I choked on all the things I wanted to say, things like “please” or “help” or maybe even “why?”. My throat ached and I could feel the beginning of hysteria bubbling in my chest, ready to burst out of me in peals of laughter.

One of the asses (not sure which one) gave me a dirty look, slapped me (albeit a lot lighter than the woman from before) and gave my hand a sharp tug. My vision swam and I could see black spots of varying colour dancing behind my eyelids, and before I realised, the asses had strapped me to the bed-chair. There were thick leather straps separating my legs and securing them to the legs of the cushioned chair, they did the same to my arms, waist, and neck.

They were all tight enough to almost cut off circulation to my limbs, but it was the neck one that still gives me nightmares. Being strapped down while a group of people with bloodied clothes and cold eyes ready to hurt you, is one thing. But being there while someone is restricting your breathing, when your chest is ready to cave in and your eyes don’t even know if they can ever be eyes again, after what they’ve seen, and your lips are dry, and taste like, vomit, tears and snot, while the world flickers in and out of existence and the air is thick and not enough, never enough, never again, and your hands and feet are no longer yours, they never were, that is when you know true terror. That’s when you realize you have a body, and that body needs and want things that you thought it would always have, but nothing is ever assured. So your body that was supposed to be always yours, isn’t. Cannot be. Who are you if you don’t have a body? What can you own, is you don’t own yourself?

opened my mouth again, to ask, beg, cry, anything, but the asses were faster than me, and in seconds a new item had joined the other restrictions: a thick cloth covering my mouth, or no… Shover inside my mouth. It tasted like humidity and it made me gag again. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak or move. I had turned into a thing, that could be experimented on.

After I was properly secured the doctor, nurse and Wrench approached us. The Wrench analysed my bindings with cool detachment. He even pointed to my left foot where I had managed to -somehow- loosen one of the straps, so they could tighten it again.

In that moment I loathed them so much. I though, if I lived, I would never be able to feel anything other than hate and fear for the people in the room.

The doctor and the nurse seemed to have come to an agreement and… That’s when the true fun began.

I know I said to stop reading this, but let’s be honest, apart from that one time that you did what Duke told you to do and checked your cat’s name tag, you don’t have a very good track record of doing as asked or expected from you. So I would not be wrong to assume you’re still here. In case that you still are, which let’s be real, you totally are, this is where shit gets ugly and vague… So either skip it or… Well, try not to think too hard about this.

My reconditioning had four stages:

  1. Priming.
  2. Setting.
  3. Condition.
  4. Recondition.

Some people have more and some people have left. And not all stages are the same.

For me, Priming came after everyone had made sure I was not going to be able to hurt anyone in my desperation (actual words uttered by someone while I tried not to choke on my tongue and one of my nails sunk into my palm).

The asses grabbed a small tray with what looked like knitting needles, but thinner. They were connected to a small machine that whirred and beeped in an uneven rhythm. I didn’t figure out what they were for until I the doctor started to steadily push the longest and thickest one into the meat of my thigh. It’s crazy how I don’t remember it hurting, and how it just went in and in and in like I was made of bread dough. There were eight in total, and they were all pushed into place in the same fashion. There was one in each thigh, one in the arch of my feet, the back of my hands, one in my right forearm arm and one in the exposed section of my neck.

I whimpered a bit, I think, but one seemed to listen.

Then came lightning. Or it felt like it. Uneven intervals of a sharp pain that seemed to slice all the way to the bone. My eyes teared up and I screamed and and screamed, not even pausing to breath, until the work was nothing but pain and crying and screaming, and vile rising up and then being pushed back in my throat. My feet shook, my hands squeezed shut, my eyes unseeing towards the unkind faces of asses 1 and 2. In that moment I thought I would never be able to feel or see or be anything other than what I was in that table. I was six, and the only pain I’d ever felt was that one time I fell off a tree trying to rescue a ball.

I don’t know how long the Priming process was. I only bow that when my ears stopped buzzing, I was still screaming, and the head nurse was removing the needles from my body. Some seemed to have gotten stuck to something, but she didn’t care, she tugged and pulled until it left my body with a trickle of blood. The air smelled like sweat and urine, and feces (mine of course) and for a moment I relished in that. I might be strapped here being tortured but you guys have to put up with my smell. I willed my body to smell worse, to rebel and rot and die in their hands. I wasn’t relieved for the reprieve because I knew that whatever came next, could only be worse.

I wasn’t wrong.

After the Priming came the setting. If you think having electricity shot through your body was bad, that’s because you don’t know its third uglier cousin that catcalls you from a car as you walk by: electricity through your brain. Now, this didn’t hurt. At all. It was mostly strange and made your mouth taste all weird and your nose and eyeballs buzz but in comparison to what came before it wasn’t as bad.

The only terrible part about it was how the electricity came to be there. Well, its preferred method of travel apparently was needles through uncomfortable places.

Did you know you can’t put things in your eyes? I mean, you get used to it, yes it’s easy. But your eye at first will rebel against the idea of having anything against its gelatinous surface.

The solution? To ply your eyes open with something. Maybe your fingers or maybe another machine created for this very nefarious purpose.

Guess which one I got?

Yeah.

Don’t worry, though. The needle didn’t really go through my eye, just next to it, through the corner of it. Where eye and nose meet.

This, I don’t remember.

After the setting comes the Condition.

They unstrapped my neck and made the chair lean into a gentler angle.

This was the point where the Wrench came to me and I spit pieces of lips, tongue and vomit to his already disgusting attire. He looked at me, pulled a sheet of paper out of his clipboard and asked me the same questions as before.

I would like to say that I spat at him again. That I was defiant in my youth and aggressively demanded answers and explanations. But I didn’t. Instead, I cried. I cried and I couldn’t stop once I started. I tried to beg then to stop, to set me free or kill me, but I was crying to hard to breath and form coherent words. They just stood there, unmoved, looking at me, waiting for me to answer the fucking questions. There were no false platitudes. They didn’t tell me they stopped if only I answered. They just stayed there, looking.

Once I had no more tears and my body was ready to give up, as I sagged against the chair, the Wrench asked me again. And this time, I answered.

I was honest I said I knew or didn’t know and every time I got something wrong, I’d feel it again, the sharp buzzing behind my nose. Only it seemed to reverberate through my entire body, reminding my hands and legs that they could feel pain again, that hey had felt it before. It was a promise of what would happen if I got it wrong.

I answered everything. Again and again and again. Until I stopped feeling the promise.

Then they brought another needle… A thicker one. And the told me to calm down and be still. And I obeyed. They told me to keep my eye open and I did, they told me to count to ten and I did. The meddle pushed something into my head, something other than electricity and fear. I would understand until later that it was a small apparatus that allowed them to keep tabs on me.

The nurse told me to sleep and I did.

Shit! Fuck!

They’re here. I don’t know how or why but they’re here. Shit. I’ll talk to you later. Finish my tale and shit but now I just got to

Posted in Secondary Sundays, Writer's Block

About This Week’s Secondary Sunday

Hello!

This is not an excuse! yay me!

We will have a new Secondary Sunday this week and I’m actually excited about this one (not that I wasn’t for the other ones). As I mentioned at one point (eons ago) we are reaching the end of Secondary Sundays! Wow.

After this week’s SS, we have two or three parts left and the story is done. I might come back to it later on, but yeah, this is it.

I’m not excited because this is the end. I’m excited because the new SS sheds some light on things. It will not be as vague as the old ones, and because of that it might be a bit difficult to read. It is not my idea to trigger, squick, or bother anyone with this. And I know that I’ve been sort of building up to this point in the narrative so it won’t be as surprising. But still, if it triggers or squick you, then you need to be warned.

** Warnings are: Detailed descriptions of torture, medical procedures, and panic attacks, mentions of vomiting, and trauma.

I will add the warnings at the beginning of the SS as a reminder, but I still wanted to write it here. Writing this part was very… interesting. I didn’t hate it, but I didn’t love it either, so I’m really looking forward to see what you guys think about it 🙂

-L.

Posted in Poetry

Above it All

Above it all,

I am a coward.

And I don’t mean it because the dark makes me breathless

Or because my brain conjures up

A thousand and one ways I could die.

 

I’m a coward because I cannot face my flaws.

I’m terrified of losing people

And because of that I keep them at arms-length.

 

I don’t like being reminded of my flaws,

I don’t like having flaws.

I don’t like second and triple and octuplet guessing my every move,

And hurting people because of that.

 

I’m a coward because I hurt you

Because even now I can’t explain why

Can’t talk about how tight my chest gets

How stupid I am for forgetting it all.

 

And I can’t even say I’m sorry.

-L.

 

 

Posted in Secondary Sundays

SS: Time Could Be Enough

Hello,

I was told to write a letter for someone. Day didn’t tell me to whom it would be addressed. She doesn’t really give me details about things, but she does tell me when things need to be done.

I was supposed to talk to you sooner, I think. She mentioned something about this a while ago, perhaps a week or two. But I was occupied with a new show. Oh, she said you might find my job interesting.

I never really thought of myself as an artist. My thing was never art, I was more about numbers and the rational thought behind irrational decisions. But I guess people change in time -I changed in time- and we become irrational beings ourselves.

I happen to enjoy art now. I’m not good with drawings and, quite honestly I am horrid with colors. Day says that my color combinations come closer to a headache than anything I’ve ever tried to express.

But well, art is subjective and everyone has their own version of what is lovely, and painful.

But “the color of vomit” is apparently quite universal. Or so I’ve been told.

So paintings are not my thing. Well, they are my things in the way art is now mine, whether I want it or not. But art and commercial are not always holding hands. And if I want to survive, to make something out of my art, then my thing has to be photography.

It’s not easy. There are a million things that must be taken into consideration before you are able to take a picture. Of course that you must think of the message. What is it that you’re trying to capture? But there are also more technical things: lights, angles, lenses, and bits and pieces of edition that make your image speak for itself.

As someone who is not very good with words (I should be talking to you about something inspiring or nice, but instead I’m trying to explain art to you… who does that?) I very much prefer to allow my photographs to talk for me.

I have a favorite one. I didn’t actually take it. It arrived on the mail for me.

It seems like it was taken quickly, before the artist could decide what they wanted it to mean. It is a lovely image. In it, two people are standing in what looks like the edge of a platform. They’re not touching, it doesn’t look like they need to. The picture is so shaky and obscure (taken from the inside of a train. The couple is framed by the closing doors) that you can’t make out the features of the people in it. In the background, a couple of passersbys walk briskly from somewhere to somewhere, adding even more motion to the shaky capture.   Everything is in motion. Everything but the couple.

It looks like they might reach out for each other, in another life, in another frame. But the artist didn’t know that they wanted them to touch, that they wanted the picture to have another meaning.

All things considered, the picture shouldn’t have a meaning. It should have never told a story. But by chance it does.

It is telling you that it needs and wants and regrets. The picture tells you that something happened before it was taken, and something happened after. It tells you that the people in the picture were probably loved at one point, that they were still loved in the picture, but were never loved afterward.

Whoever took the picture probably didn’t know that. How could they?

The couple were the only people that could’ve really known, but they are less than a memory now.

I was supposed to talk to you about healing and changing. Day said I was a good example. That maybe you’d want to hear from me to know that things are not as finite as we might believe they are.

But I guess that is a bit obvious by now. We all heal and change. Not too long ago I led an unhappy life. I was a caged bird that was never allowed outside. I wasn’t even a song bird. No one came for me for songs or entertainment, the less people saw the better.

Then I got sick. I don’t quite remember how it happened or why or when or what. But I know I was gone for a while. They took me to some medical facility. It wasn’t a hospital, or at least not a common one. My father, he said a friend of his took me there. They kept me inside for ages. Can barely remember a minute of it.

All I remember of it is a name. Four months, all that treatment, my brain going through a blender, and all I remember is a name.

Shaun.

For hours upon hours all I remember is screaming a name. And then something else.

Cromly Park.

It doesn’t make any sense. I know it doesn’t, but I still know it happened.

I remember it happening so clearly it doesn’t feel like a memory. Day says I probably made it up. That my mind simply tried to make sense of all that happened during that time.

I was so sick, and heavily medicated. I couldn’t possibly remember a thing about it all.

But I do.

Day knows that I do but she gets nervous and jittery whenever I mention it so I try not to. I don’t think saying it here counts, since she asked me to relate and be nice.

And if I was asked to talked to you is because you probably understand. Maybe you have memories that don’t belong, or know names you shouldn’t. Maybe you had to visit strange medical facilities once when you were sick. Or you weren’t allowed to leave your home until you were.

Perhaps you understand that that was the price you had to pay to be free.

Free of your cage, or wherever it was that you were being kept. Maybe freedom from yourself or your thoughts.

The point being that after all the uglyness we still manage to be free.

Because you are free. Even if you cannot see it.

You are free in a way that caged birds are not.

We are free in a way we were not. And that is absolutely okay.

You just need to find a way to express that freedom. If you’re like me and you were sick, and then were not, you will need something that speaks for you, and about you.

Maybe it won’t be art, but something will come up.

Eventually, you’ll have your own voice.

You just need to give it time.

 

Emi.

 

 

Posted in Poetry

Fragments

I know that life and circumstances

Have made you into who you are,

Pushing pieces and shrapnel until they fused into a weapon.

 

I understand that you are a part

That you’re not whole

And what it costs for you to exist fractured as you are.

But it’s hard to love like you do.

 

Pulling and pushing and tearing

You turn everything into shrapnel

Mincing and grinding the world into something you can understand.

 

Because possession and desperation are not love,

Cannot be.

Should not be.

But that is how you hold onto things.

 

You sink claws and teeth

Until there’s nothing left

Until there’s just you and your poison

Coursing through a tired system of lies

Whose only crime was to try to love like you.

 

Buy who could love like you?

Who could love you when you think love equals pain?

 

And I understand that circumstances shaped you

In part

Into who you are.

 

But I also know that the ocean can soothe marks on the sand.

It can erode the sharpness out of rock and shattered glass.

 

You never had someone teach you how to not be glass,

But you held an ocean in the palm of your hand.

 

It didn’t drown you,

You wouldn’t let it.

But you consumed it.

 

You made it impossible to love you

By poisoning the waters that were made for healing and soothing.

You drowned in bitterness the one thing that could hold your fragments together.

 

It is hard to love like you.

It is impossible to love you.

-L.