#punch something shed miss pathetically and fall over and break all of her bones

[arolesbianism]

You see Jackie is great because she has a similar appeal to me as Maxwell but she's a lesbian and also not british so she's automatically a billion times better and more interesting

[halloweenvalentine1997]

it's early November. city's dead. I haven't slept in a couple of weeks. the sky sheds its clouds, rainwater sluices down my face. it falls in subtle droplets, into my eyes, hollow sockets in my upturned face. my mouth craves hydration, it's dry. ghosts of unrequited love cry on the street corners, skin cut from paper flowers, petals sharp as lust. I am a haunt in a haunted city. the concrete serves as an ashtray, a wastebasket. I bite my lips. my high-heeled boots sound like explosives as I traipse the sidewalks, finding messages in the signs, finding a silhouette of a girl screaming in a reflective window. I am her shadow, aimless and clawing at a cage. leaves crunch beneath my boots. I pass the hamburger joint on Third avenue. a homeless woman with grey hair and stoned eyes glimpses at my boots, fails at a disapproving scowl. around here, wearing high heels with nylons means you're a tramp, even if your slut-shamer doesn't know your name. I cross the highway overpass. cars dash west and east on the edges of my blurred vision. something's off. everything is deserted and misanthropes are fighting yet another futile war. some dare to call themselves nihilists, the belief that life is pointless. I see a point in existing as time ensues. there's more to life than ashes and purgatories. I will live and strive for goals, even if the clocks shatter and the church bells clang loud and clear to a faint and distant tinkle to a hushed silence. the altar will bleed. cities will perish. my name is Vivica Salem. I am eighteen. I am gasping for air up the stairs to room 213, a dreadfully drab room in a subsidized housing complex. once inside, I choke on the stale smoke, swimming, floating in a suffocating sea of potential cancer and voices I can't understand. I am drowning, head held and forced to inhale carbon monoxide. skulls are whispering, they're attached to skeletons with some skin still left, covertly plotting my journey across the border. I slide the window open. poison drifts out and fades in the dim moon. I try to see something pretty, like a rainbow or a sunset, behind my closed eyelids. the dark behind my eyelids. a quilt gently covering me, excluding the following: sadism. malice. hate. I have no energy for it. just want to collapse in the remains of bluebells scattered along the horizons of hillsides. a moor aglitter with snowflakes as shimmery as diamonds, crystallized frost. the panic attack starts in the pit of my stomach, a tide of discomfort approaching my brain. volts of sickness, of sleep-deprived psychosis, wash over me to bleach out the endorphines. bangs ricochet off the corners of the ceiling. sonatas blend with choruses from an angry female vocalist. songs fill my head. the dark omits the light. I am just a shadow of someone deceased. diseased. my parents want nothing to do with me, but they're the only people I can turn to when the witching hour occurs at night. I can't spend another minute in this room, choking, smoking, being alone. I shove a pile of books as well as a composition journal into a messenger bag, the one I lugged around in 9th grade. my shoulder pained from the weight of textbooks. history drags me down. I slide the key ring onto my wrist, step into the hall, practically slamming the door behind me. the stairs lead down to the first floor. a TV blares from a wall in the sitting room. a group of men stare at bad media. some stare into space, too numb to change their lives. the phone rests on a side table next to the couch attached to a cord. it slides out of my trembling hand and clatters to the floor. but it doesn't break. the dial tone hums monotonously. I punch in the number to the house I failed to grow up in. it doesn't ring, just cuts to a recording telling me I am calling long-distance and that charges apply. It must be a total bullshit hallucination, but it's been doing that for awhile. perhaps it's a sign that they want to completely disown me. so I wouldn't be known as their daughter. I am, in their eyes, an unstable mess, the nightmare they conceived. mom told me she wished I'd never been born. I am ten minutes away from them via car. the security guard who sits by the door reading crime novels all day allows me to use her cell phone to reach my mom. mom agrees to pick me up. I go outside to wait. I sit on the bench overlooking the parking lot, the cheap cars, the destitute night. I expel smoke through my nostrils. my fingers turn yellow. grit gathers under my nails. mom arrives. I can't articulate my feelings to her; she doesn't accept my answers, or lack thereof. the car ambles up the hill, turns the corner on 25th and Post and down another busy main street before it slides to an abrupt stop in the driveway. there is a stark and hushed eerieness to the neighborhood. it reminds me of the silence, the grief flowing from the eyes of mourners during a funeral service. black veils fluttering in the wind, birds twittering in the trees. we ascend the steps to the front door of the house. I enter the living room. during my excruciating, vague existence in this house, it had much more of a life, an implication that it is inhabited by people who care. now, I sense a callous cold just by observing the interior. there is no carpet. hardwood creaks under my feet. just like it always did when I paced the rooms in the dark, an insomniac, tongue doused in caffeinated coffee. the dining room feels empty. the wooden chest that contained antique dishes and a portrait of a stern great-grandmother as a young girl, is against another wall. I peer through the glass and into the contemptuous, dour, truly Victorian gaze of Grandma Mildred. she looks to be about nine years old in the portrait. she bears a slight resemblance to my younger sister, Christine. Christine is sixteen and a spoiled, self-indulgent nightmare. luckily, she is hiding with the Twitt family, possibly watching the ABC Family network on their fancy TV. and she's possibly enjoying the luxury of having friends. the Twitts have three daughters. friends. truthfully, I never craved such a presence. people lie through their teeth. lips part to spew filth and sabotage me in a disagreement. I used to cry about it but now I don't care. before my thoughts can run riot and make me lose myself any further, mom calls me into the kitchen. I need to eat. I'm too thin and my bones feel brittle. I put a mac and cheese dinner in the microwave. I am starving unintentionally. I just can't feel hunger right now... and then I take in the sight of mom. she looks tired and thin herself, but far from sickly. her eyes are suddenly vivid and blue, but vacancy prevails. her hair, a dark red, is styled in a trim similar to mine. my hair is mistaken for "ginger" by colorblind acquaintances and by colorblind strangers. it is a strawberry blonde, and it's hanging in my eyes. I cannot stop screaming at mom who is pathetic and playing the victim. just like I was and used to do. my voice raises, I'm incoherent and can't tell her that I don't want to be alone in that morbid $250 room with dreams littering the dirty carpet. I am stalked by men, leered at, and I have scared off potential sex offenders. but something could go wrong. my heart could always stop and I can't see her grieving for me. not that I expect her to... my eyes widen when I notice all pictures of me are missing. my infancy, my school pictures, my forced smiles for one of my dad's cameras. they have stored them somewhere, left them to collect lint, dust and decay. the professionally photographed portrait of my sister with her ballet class is displayed on the CD shelf, next to the TV that's always on. I turn it off, mumbling "shut up" at the dumb show on the screen as my thumb presses the POWER button. another picture of Christine is on a side table by the window. she's laying on her stomach in the grass, wearing her drill team outfit , and smiling innocently, but only I see beyond that. even while frozen in a frame, she seems to be mocking me from inside it. my dad always wanted to shelter her and shut me out in the mist. sometimes, he would even lock me out of the house, regardless of the weather. when dad emerges from the computer room, he says he has called the mental health professionals. they are coming to the house to send me away, to call me "gravely disabled&" and incompetent. I lose all rationality. my composure crumbles, resilient stone reduced to useless dust. next thing I know, we're all in the living room. I am posturing at my father. I push him, not wanting to inflict any true damage, really. he doesn't fall. he has no right to call the system on me! I'M AN ADULT! but maybe I do need a place to go to regain my well-being. the mental health professionals enter the house to tell me I'm to get in the ambulance parked across the street. I punch the screen door on my way out, shout a string of obscenities, and allow them to strap me down on the wheeled bed in the rear of the ambulance. I bellow horrible things, unheard. this behavior isn't rational. I'm imagining a lot of things. this isn't right but I haven't slept for nearly three weeks. I am whisked away to the hospital where I was born, only to be detained in the emergency room. I am lying on my back, a padded mattress beneath me. they cover me with warm blankets. my right wrist is bound in a restraint I can't undo. several hospital staff come and go, asking me questions I can't answer to their satisfaction; all I want to do is sleep and not think or say another word. I've been asked all these questions so many times that I'm too exhausted to keep my eyes open. a tall, awkward man with black hair, who looks to be in his late thirties, probably an on-call nurse, with black-framed coke-bottle glasses enters the room, draws my blood and demands a urine sample. my wrist is still bound in the stupid restraint, and I haven't even resisted any of the staff. I'm too tired to raise my head, but I know I have to now. the creep's fingers brush against my toes briefly, and it looks purposeful. I snap at him not to touch my feet. "If you are uncooperative and won't give us a urine sample, we'll have to use the catheter on you." he seems a little too delighted at the idea. it shows in his creepy syrupy voice. idiot. "I can't give you a urine sample if you don't loosen the restraint on my wrist," I respond coldly. he does. I go to the bathroom to piss in a cup, knowing they'll detect marijuana. I've smoked it almost ceaselessly throughout the month. after I'm done in the bathroom, they bind my wrist yet again. I think I hear the ER staff discussing my case and giggling. but I am also sleep-deprived and a lot of things that seem real aren't happening. the atmosphere of the hospital is different than I remember it to be, and I can't really explain why. the same fluorescence streams from the ceiling, waterfalls of stinging, penetrating illumination. I stare at the patterns of the light until it no longer hurts. objects tilt and distort before my dried, dulled eyes that have not had the pleasure of a good night's sleep in so long, so long... a heart monitor beeps, lines go up and down, never straight. unless I stop breathing, but I know I'm far from death. My whole world feels like a desensitizing purgatory. I see this all as a punishment for wrong-doing, but maybe I'm the only one punishing me. the activity and machines and voices are no longer heard as I surrender to a dark thicket of heavy sleep. nothing can alter me any longer. I've secured my fortress. no one but I is in possession of the key. * I awaken to find  myself being transferred by another ambulance to The Institution a third time in one year. it's a mass structure of bricks and chain link towering over a murky lake. I know the wards all too well and distaste fills me. I am too exhausted to object to the court's decision. maybe I can learn instead of running, the tail of a kite evading the grasp of a hand. I would rather be the kite. I would rather be a balloon instead of the string that prevents it from rising when it's wound around someone's fingers. I want to cure myself, but with guidance to find out why I'm such a seething, wrathful girl. why I'm lovesick when I shouldn't be. doors open. elevator swallows me and the EMTs, ascends and spits us out onto ward 1 North 1. the EMTs wheel me through a door. my eyelids fall from the exaggerated brightness. I cannot speak, but I know that things need to be done differently. my goal is not for people to understand what I went through. my goal is to express myself however I please, freely, without guilt and without fear. everyone has to the right to put down whatever they please on paper. risk censorship, for fuck's sake! like permanent ink on a wall or under a bridge, my awakening from a lifeless nothing to a wide-eyed, perceptive person will not collapse and crumble under the strain of adversity. I will feel pain, but not only pain. I've seen enough to know that surrendering to pain is not worth it.

Vivica Salem

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Benched||Mace||

There was always a certain thing Grace enjoyed about the rink. Maybe it was the cheap rubber smell that filled her lungs every time she walked through the door. It was distinct and made her throat burn with familiarity.

That scent mixed so evenly with the warm hot chocolate that she knew was store bought, but that didn't seem to matter when she was a kid. Everything about it was cheap. The white Styrofoam cup had the same consistency as the tiny marshmallow's that floated to the back of the frothy drink every time she went to take a long gulp.

When she was little her father would take her to see the hockey games. She never really paid much attention to it at first. It was just a bunch of teenagers on skates who seemed to grunt and growl every chance they got. Their blue jerseys would stand out against the white starch of the ice as their skates made an odd noise against the floor.

They would fight over a small puck. Trying to get it into the other team's goal. Grace didn't see much of point in it at the time. She had only ever been exposed to soccer and a few games of basketball. All recreational. Why would someone expose themselves to heavy gear and cold wipeouts if they could stay outside in the warm sun doing essentially the same thing?

Everything seemed to shift for Grace once her mother came home with a flyer that someone posted at the local grocery store. She worked as a cashier there- the paper folded and wrinkled from being kept in her pocket during the rest of her long hours.

"Hockey?" the blonde asked, staring at the large black letters and cheesy fonts. The paper was a deep yellow- a bit of an overkill. "Mom, I don't even know how to skate."

"I think it's about time you learned."

Her father was sitting at the end of the table. His eyes lifting from the paper that lay next to him. He didn't ever get time to read it in the morning. He worked all day, barely getting enough time to do anything. Someone the trio found a way to share a dinner together every night. That had never changed.

"I think it's a great idea." He said, his voice gravely as he gave an encouraging smile to his daughter.

Grace continued to stare at the paper, tracing the small hole where a thumb tack once sat with her the pads of her fingers. The papers said something about scholarships and new opportunities. She played lacrosse during the spring, but the season was well over at this point. Her parents must have noticed how fidgety she would get during the off months.

"I'll give it a shot." She finally relented, much to the relieved looks of her parents, even though her nerves kept through to the back of her neck.

The thick metallic taste of blood was quick to dance across her tongue. It pressed against the roof of her mouth. The red color stood out against the ice- matching a few of the lines that were faded to a dark pink. They were painted to show bounds. Bounds that most of them crossed.

It was times like these when Grace questioned her decision to join the league at the start of high school. Four years and a variety of bruises had led her to be a threat on the ice. One that could kick ass if it really came down to it.

In this exact moment, it really came down to it. The other girl was pressed up against her roughly, the first to throw a punch. It was hard enough to break skin, to crack bone. Grace didn't feel the sharp pain of a shattered nose in that moment- her main focus on the deep rage that filled her.

She could hear the whistle from the referee, it's high pitch filling her ears as she grasped the girls collar and shoved her against the wall behind her. The glass made an odd noise as her whole body weight moved against it. Grace wanted to throw a punch herself- her eyes filled with anger as dark crimson continued to drip down her collarbone at this point.

"Grace!" she heard her coach scream from the sidelines. Something about letting it go. It was almost inaudible against the rest of the stadium. They shouted at her. A few people wanted to see a fight- wanted to see her fight. She had a tendency to hit back but once she felt Hannah's touch on her shoulder she released her grip on the girl.

She just shook her head, staring at her team mate before threatening to back away. She heard a soft mumble. "I knew you were a little bitch."

The blonde could swear she saw a bit of annoyance on Hannah's face before she turned back around she slammed her gloved hand right into the girls cheek. Pain quickly spread through her tendons as the one who possibly broke her Grace's nose rushed to stop her own flow of blood.

"Oh, for fucks sake." Hannah grasped Grace roughly by the shoulder as some of the crowd cheered. Others gasped, like it was the worst thing they had seen all night. Either way, blood was shed- it spilled across the ice and turned the referee's face red with anger.

"Helbig!" the coach shouted "Get your pathetic ass over here!"

Grace tore her grasp away from Hannah, a slight glare on her features as she skated over to the other end of the ice. Her knees aching as she used them to stop against the edge of the wall. "You're benched."

"What?" she asked, a bit of disbelief in her voice "Coach, she broke my nose!"

"And you broke my patience." She snarled back "Sit down. Get some ice on that."

Grace knew there was no point in arguing. There was no point in crying either. A broken bone was nothing now. She had broken a lot of things in hockey. It wasn't a soft sport. The pain went along with the game and she knew that.

She let out a small sigh as she gave the coach a slight look. The woman stepped to the side and lifted her chin towards the bench. "Mind if I leave instead?"

"Grace-"

"I know, I know." She clenched her jaw "I'd rather get this looked at now, if you don't mind."

The coach was quick to relent. A broken wrist was one thing. A nose something that could land her in real trouble if it was quick to set wrong. She nodded, Grace giving her a grateful look as she made her way back to the locker room.

Grace got a few odd looks as she ignored the cold floor under her feet, her skates in hand. She couldn't wait to get into her own clothes. The jersey hot and sweaty despite the nature of the rink. The locker room was heated and mostly empty. She could hear the sound of a shower, steam moving through the space.

The blonde started to strip her clothes from her body, pulling a plain black t-shirt over her torso as the dark jeans she wore hugged her waist. All the while she kept any type of fabric away from her nose.

She was lacing up her boots when the slight squeak of the shower shutting off caught her attention. This was a public center, a few games remained after this one- competitions occurring before her own.

She glanced up as the glimpse of long red hair caught her attention. It looked almost black with the water that decided to saturate it. The girl was tall, her skin pale against the white towel that was wrapped around her. The rough green of her eyes made a chill move through Grace. Her head cocking to the side as she lifted her chin slightly at the girl.

She recognized her. The two of them would always run into each other in here on while sitting in the stands. She was a skater, Grace could tell she wasn't much into the sport of hockey, the bulk of it not for everyone.

A bit of concern passed her face as she stopped at the locker at the very end of Grace's row. "Who fucked you up, blondie?" She asked with a scoff.

"Riverview." Grace responded, a bit of sadness in her voice. "Some bitch with an agenda I assume."

"Did you fight back?"

"Tried not to, Red."

Mamrie scoffed at this, her hair falling into her face as she dug through her locker- changing into something comfier herself. Grace kept her focus on her boots for a few seconds, lacing them up as her whole entire nose seemed to throb, a bit of blood still falling as she used the edge of her sleeve to keep it from spreading.

"Something tells me that's not true."

"Something tells me you're right."

"I hope it was worth it."

Grace glanced up at this, Mamrie was running a hand though her wet hair. She was dressed in a long sweater, her hand letting the rest of her hair fall around her shoulders as she stared right back at Grace.

"It probably wasn't." the blonde looked down at her hand. Her knuckles were cracked and caked with a bit of blood. She was sure it wasn't the other girls- the gloves made sure of that. The gloves made everything sting a little bit more, though. "I don't even like hockey."

This caught Mamrie off guard, her eyebrows raising as she lowered herself onto the bench next to Grace, shifting her focus to her own shoes "Then why do you play?"

She shrugged "I'm good at it."

"and not modest at all."

Grace let out a small laugh "That's not what I meant... I don't know. I always used to come here with my dad. Hockey was something to distract me from everything. For a while I loved it."

Mamrie nodded, she smelled like lavender. The whole area did. It was the type of shampoo she used. It was light and airy. It was nice. "What changed that?... Loving it, I mean."

"When I first got on the ice it almost felt like I was floating. Like I was stronger just because I was able to skate a few feet before busting my ass." She smiled "I don't know. Something about that feeling made me want to get up and keep trying. So I did."

"The feeling of a challenge then?" Mamrie lifted her chin "That's what you miss?"

"I suppose."

The silence enveloped them again, each listening to the loud buzzer and sound of a crowd cheering on a team. It was muffled of course, the whole room making it feel like they were underwater.

"What about you? Do you still like figure skating?"

"That's a trick question, Blondie." Mamrie scoffed "How can I still like it if I never did in the first place?"

"Really?" Grace raised a brow, staring into the dark green eyes of the girl to her side. There was no sense of humor in the way she stared back. Her features were creased and serious.

"Really." She let out a long sigh, her breath hot against Grace's shoulder "My mom has a bit of an overkill when it comes to following in her footsteps. Figure Skating happened to be the one thing she never got to do because she got knocked up."

Grace just shook her head, she knew about the pressure of parents- even if hers didn't' intend to show they had it. She knew they couldn't pay for college without scholarships, and the rink was giving away plenty of them.

She stood, Mamrie furrowing her brow in confusion as Grace reached her hand down to pull Mamrie to her feet. "Let's quit then. Walk out of here and never look back."

"Right," Mamrie laughed, shaking her head as she placed her warm palm in Grace's, the two of them staying there for a second as Mamrie stood. She didn't draw her touch back right away. "I think we both have a lot to lose if we walk out."

Grace pouted a bit, even though she knew the offer was just for the imagination. "Fine, then walk out with me for the night. We can get some coffee or something."

"Mm," Mamrie, lifted her chin "Hospital coffee sounds interesting."

"Hospital?"

"You're pathetic," Mamrie giggled, pressing the tip of her finger to her nose. Grace shook her head, a smile taking up most of her face. "But adorably so. I'll take you up on that coffee offer."

This time Mamrie held her hand out to Grace, the girl taking it quickly as she breathed in the familiar scent of the rink. The scent that was filled with cheap hot chocolate and used skates. The scent that was now skillfully infused with lavender.