BHCS

My feet sink through the crust of the snow and I can feel the ice through the hole in the bottom of my shoe.  Slowly, my jeans absorb the winter as I take deliberate steps towards the swing.  Around me, classmates are applying lipgloss and playing foursquare and talking about kissing in the woods beyond the playground.  I'm thinking about my step, and not falling over, and if I'm going to eat tonight.  I threw my sandwich away in the lunchroom again, I can't remember the last time I ate during the day.  The bread was a week old and hard as a rock, even if I had wanted to eat it to begin with.  I had gazed longingly at the bright pre-packaged food around me at the table, and without thinking had crumpled the whole brown bag up and stuffed it into the can. 

Tonight, maybe, I will eat the green spinach goo that always seemed to be appearing in the toaster oven.  I will make jokes with my little brother about alien food, and maybe he would eat some of his reheated pizza with the fake cheese on top.  If my mother doesn't have another concert.  Or another boyfriend.  Or both.  Last night she didn't come home until two am.  When she did she yelled at me and called me a selfish bitch.  I could smell the wine on her breath, and after she went to bed I had snuck back into brothers room and we had held each other and told stories. 

Today I'm dressed in a over-sized purple sweatshirt.  I'm not allowed to shop for myself, and I am painfully aweare that I am the only one on this playground over the age of ten still wearing clothing from a kids store. I look like an oompa-loompa, I know, but the first day I wore my winter jacket to class they all started calling me marshmallow, and asking me where I parked my spaceship.  So now I brave the snow in my sweatshirt and jeans.

I don't know what they thought, on that first day of school.  They expected someone rich, that I know.  They told me all the NEH kids were rich, and when I didn't have the clothes or the makeup they decided I shouldn't fit in at all.  It took them a day to dislike me, and a week for them to come up with my first nickname.

I remember my old school sometimes.  I remember my best friend Sarah and I lying in a field and picking wild strawberries and telling each other that everything was going to be ok.  Sometimes, I remember- but mostly it's easier to block it out.  That's not me now.  I am quiet.  They said I wanted to have sex with my teacher, but I've never even kissed a boy.  I try to do well in school, but the teachers here only want to talk to the girls with the makeup and the clothes.  They wrote me off the first time they saw my overly long skirts and bushy brown hair. 

Today, I am walking one step at a time.  I make it to the swing and feel the numb as I wrap my hands around the cold metal links.  Pushing off, I close my eyes and begin to dream.  If I close my ears too I can be anyone in the whole world.  Sometimes I am a princess, others I am fighting in the revolution.  Most of the time I am safe and sound on my island, with my little brother.  We eat delicious fattening Italian food and we watch PG13 movies that played in actual theaters.  I am allowed to listen to dance music, and my dad teaches me about blues and rock and roll. 

By the time the bell rings, I almost have a smile on my face. 

Grass

Out in the hot summer sun I can still taste his lips.  They are sour with early morning sleep and perfectly pressed into mine; with my eyes closed I brush my fingers across my mouth begging it to remember the sweet sensation.  Sighing, I roll my body and stretch luxuriously.  Even here in the Summer Gardens where the world should be perfect I ache for the gentle brush of a kiss.

It's been two weeks since he left me; two weeks and as many nights of lonely aching on my pillow.  I vowed I would not forget any part of him, so when sleep eludes me I whisper his features to the night.
Brown eyes, with gold flecks.
Untameable hair that spikes up in the back.
Freckles across his cheeks in the shape of a long forgotten constellation.
He was the first to tell me about the stars.  He began in the way of the old story tellers, which made me giggle.
 "Once upon a time," he said.  "Once upon a time, long ago the land was still covered with green grass like the summer gardens."  I laughed at the absurdity of the statement, but at his stern look I held my tongue. 
"There were stars, then.  Stars beyond belief.  Not the kinds that they put up in the dome to signify night, but great huge balls of fire, a million miles away.  All you had to do to see them was to walk outside.  There were stars that were named, ones that made pretty pictures in the sky- constellations."
He hugged me then, and I pressed my face into his chest, trying to imagine a world without the dome, a world with grass and stars and people that told stories that started "Once upon a time." 

The day he got the message I cried.  We had walked to the borough center, with everyone else for the conscription notices.  Names flashed up on the screen, five out of the twenty thousand of us, being called to serve the "higher purpose."  Most picked for their skills; electricians and butchers- some though were chosen as a form of punishment.  A year without your family and friends, a year of hard labor to remind you not to steal or cheat your neighbors.  Sometimes the Republic sends for someone who is a known deviant.  The rare murderer, traitors to the state- any for whom there is no hope of rehabilitation.  They get sent up to the dome, to make repairs or replace the Watchers who's lifework it is to guard our protection.  Few return, non have within my lifetime. 

When they called his name I stood in shocked silence.  It was unexpected; true he is good at the tannery where he works, but there are many older and more qualified men who should have been called in his place.  He was given a week to say his goodbye's and pack up his small life here.
"It's only a year, I'll be back before you even have a chance to miss me."  I smiled up at him, but we both knew the words we weren't saying.  The ones who returned from their year in Service to The Republic were changed.  The spring was gone from their step; there were sworn to secrecy about their Service, but they exchanged sad glances with others who had been taken from the borough square.

"I do love you."  That was all I could manage, the last day.  My affirmation, my prayer. 
"And I love you too."  He was matter of fact, it was an unchanging truth in his life.  It wasn't until he was about to walk across the threshold that I lost myself.  Tears falling down my face faster than I could wipe them away, I wrapped my arms around his neck and breathed in his wonderful smell.

"Why wasn't it me?  Why can't I go instead?  I don't want you to go without me.  Please."  He held me in long silance, before pulling me away and looking deep into my eyes.
"We both know why they won't take you, why you're always safe here."  I nodded, though the prospect of my own safety brings me little joy.
"Blue eyes, Ana.  You have blue eyes.  One in a million.  One of five in the world.  They never take blue eyes. You're worth holding on to."
"So are you."  In that moment, I held him as my own for the last time. 

The city car that drove him away looked like something out of one of his fairy tales.  Once it was sleek and shiny, but now the paint had turned the same grey-brown as the rest of the world.  I stood, blinking away my tears, trying to remember all of the songs and stories he had ever told me about the Republic Center.  That's when I made my vow not to forget, never to forget.

In the Summer Gardens there is a patch of green to one side.  "Agrostis stolonifera" it reads.  "Creeping Bentgrass." Each day I visit the gardens, and every day before I leave I bend to stroke the long green stems.  Bringing my fingers to my lips, I kiss them.  "Bring him home safe and unchanged.  Bring him home, please."  I'm not sure if I pray to the grass or the summer or the God of old.  Perhaps I pray to the stars themselves, somewhere out beyond the dome.  Stopping, I heave on the door and wait for the familiar pop as the suction breaks free.  Outside is grey and brown, but in my hand today I have a small piece of green.  Hiding it deep within my pocket, I walk towards home.

Thurston Classic

I am so happy, I can't even express it in words. 
Yes, at night it starts to hurt and I roll over and tuck a stuffed blue dog closer under my chin.  But right now I'm sore exhausted and happy. 
Some part of me has re-awakened, I want to giggle and dance in the rain and write sappy wonderful love stories. 
Today I'm not going to think or worry about tomorrow, today I am happy and still in love and remembering my once forgotten passion for life. 
As one of my favorite literary characters once said, "Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it-yet."

Mid-day Catharsis

Now, I run.
Each step I take retches from somewhere deep in my breast, and I try to remember. 
One, two, three- in.  One, two, three- out. 
As I run I peel back layers of myself.  I remember the desperate middle school days, all those years ago.  The bullies, making names for me and telling me that I am clumsy and slow and undesirable.  I remember crumpling the brown bag still containing my lunch and throwing it away, day after day after day.  I remember flying high into the air on the swing, closing my eyes at the top of each arc.  I remember my mantra: Ignore them and they will go away, ignore them and you will fly away.  I run and I pace my breathing and I let it go, let it all fly away into the distance.  I am swift and graceful and desired.
Half a mile. 
In my mind, I am twelve and it's past midnight.  My mother, due home at nine, is not answering her cell.  She's on a date, somewhere- or maybe at a musician.  She hasn't been home for a weekend yet this month.  I am scared but so is my little brother, and now I realize that I am his rock and he is mine and for the rest of forever we will be each other's family.  We clutch each other and cry, desperate for someone to come and parent us.  And now, I have a family that loves me, believes in me, lets me cry if i need to.  And I breath.
One mile.
My heart break, as boy after boy falls into traps set by my oh so clever friends.  The feeling of despair when I learn that I am being replaced, I am not going to be my papa's only (and favorite) daughter after fifteen years enjoying that title.  The years in the chorus, fighting tooth and nail for single lines and momentary solos.  And now, I don't need it anymore.  I am beloved, and I am strong, and I am worth waiting for.  I am living in my own spotlight.
Two miles
I am here, and now, and present.  I keep going when my body begs me to stop, and I will beat it- all of it.  I am everything in the past and everything that is the future.  And I run,
I run.

Top of the world

There is something I would very much like to post here, but-
I do believe it's not for the public's eyes. 
Maybe, someday, if you're lucky you'll get to read it.
It's 50 Shades hotter than any top NYT bestseller (and well written, too.)
Good writing is like good sex-after you're exhausted but in the most delicious way in the world. 
Goodnight.

Carrion birds

It's amazing how fast they swoop in.  Five minutes and it's "So does this mean you're single now? ;)"  Want to scream
"God damn it, did you hear none of the words I just said?  I'm broken right now, broken and I don't want you or him or anyone else!"
But, that would be emotion-and if I am to understand correctly emotion is exactly what I should be fighting right now.  I was fine while I was the shell of myself, it's me that is the problem.
So instead I throw the phone across the room, only to recover it five minutes later and type a double meaninged response.
I try to giggle.  Push everything away.  I try to be lighthearted and confident, all the things I never was but somehow he believed me to be.  
It's so easy to play this game, so easy to make others believe that I am everything I'm not.  They don't want me, no one does.  They want the girl that isn't dark and twisty inside. 
That's just not me.
I want to be happy.
And passionate.
And full of life.

I am none of those things without my dark and twisty.  Somewhere there is someone out there who will love all of me, not just the bright parts.  That someone is not hiding behind an emoticon. 

Hard love

Tonight, the man with blond hair and blue eyes is unhappy.  He is staring at my folder instead of looking at me, and this is normal.  He doesn't like to look at me, not for any length of time.  Instead he finds constant reasons to shift around the contents of my file, glance at the guard behind the double pane of glass, or clean his glasses.  Surly, this can't be normal shrink behavior.  I've never been to a therapist before, though in the back of my mind something long ago learned reminds me that this is a psychiatrist, not a therapist.  Or maybe he's both?  Surely the county women's penitentiary doesn't have the budget for both.  They don't even have the budget for proper shoes. 

He clears his throat, I wonder what he is getting out of these sessions-my sparse answers.  Is he learning to read my unstated thoughts?  He must be analyzing something, because he keeps coming back for more. 
"Anna.  Your friend, Megan, spoke to me yesterday."  Megan?  My friend?  I suppose. 
"Yes?"  He clears his throat again, there must not be any phlegm left at the end of his sessions with me. 
"She said that about two weeks ago, she heard a fight.  You called her after, didn't you Anna?  Your neighbors heard a lot of shouting and banging.  They heard something hit the wall.  Do you want to talk about that Anna?"
For the first time, he has managed to surprise me.  I dig the bitten shards of my nails into my palms.  Emotion is pointless, life is now simply one breath to the next.  Breath.  In.  Out.  Reply.
"No.  No, I don't want to talk about it."  This was the wrong answer.  He seems at last to have struck on something that forces his eyes to my direct gaze.  I stare back, stubbornly denying emotion.
"Anna.  This is going to help you.  I want to help you.  Did you and John argue often?"  If I didn't know better, I would think he is genuinely concerned.  Damn shirk school must have taught him how to lie with his face. 
"No.  We didn't.  He was mad because I forgot to put dinner on.  He likes it ready when he gets home.  I was tired and I forgot and we fought." 
"Did John hit you, Anna?"  This seems to be the point he has been dancing around today, maybe even for the last two weeks.  He is staring into my eyes and seemingly without realizing it resting his body against the table. 
"No.  John would never hit me.  He loved me.  The neighbors must have heard when I threw the pasta pot at the wall.  John was a lot of things, but he was never abusive."  The shrink, what was his actual name?- deflates and leans back, eyes dancing back onto the file. 
"All right, I think that's enough for today.  We can talk about it more next week, if you're ready." 

After the guard takes me from the room, I run the inside of my right thumb along the faint scar on my left wrist.  A grease burn, has left the echo of my other life in a small depressed circle.