Sleep

I've been here for years. I know her like the back of my hand, reading her to me is easier than breathing....and yet, I didn't see this coming.

I know her expressions; how she laughs when she really means it, the pitch of her screams when she's terrified, or the pace of her sobbing when she's crying from pain and nut just because.

Maybe I refused to see when those expressions became empty, meaningless...merely another motion to go through for the day. Her existance, as she saw it, was meaningless.

Now, don't think I didn't try to help. I did everything I could, every single thing someone in my position could. I love her. Yes, I still do, even when she refuses to believe it. She became my world, the one I had to help, a friend...and more.

It may have started when she finished school. Or when we moved. Maybe it took longer, it started with the pills. I should have noticed when she broke that promise and simply stopped caring about what happened to her. To us...

She's holding a white mug, filled it with milk and coffee. Her expression is vacant, her eyes empty. Her lips part slightly as she takes another sip of the drink. Slow acting poison, just another drug.

"Do you think he'd have come here if I'd asked? Left everything for me like I'd have done?"
I can't reply to that. I don't know what to say.
"Yes. Maybe."
She chuckles, shaking her head. The gesture is mechanical, she's practically an automathon right now. She's as good as gone. And all I want to do is hug her, take her in my arms and hold her against me, let her listen to my heartbeat, tell her I'm still here, and all because of her. All I wanted was to make her as strong as she's made me. I believe in her, even now.

She won't look at me. She stares at the wall, or the floor...anywhere but me. She knows what she's about to do, we both do. And it's killing us both, her more literally than me.

"Do you think I should have told her how I felt? Even if it was just...well, something that would just fade away?"
I try to cup her face, but my hand against her skin is like smoke, maybe a gentle wind. She can feel it, but it's not what she needs. she needs someone here...someone she can FEEL, someone she can see like she sees everyone else. She longs to be loved, for someone to feel for her what she feels for those she cares about. She can't see...and it kills me. I know there's many of us who love her, who'd do anything to see her smile, even if it was just for a second.

But I know I'll never see her smile again.

"You should have told her. And everyone else. They all should have known what you thought, what you felt..."

And I should have told you I loved you more often. Showed you in more ways. I shouldn't have made promises that didn't depend on me. I should have kept my word to you.

At least I know there's one promise I can still keep. And I will.

She won't look at me. One by one, she snaps the blisters containing the pills and sets them on a bunch over the table. She counts them two, three times, clicking her tongue. It's a fairly small dose, enough to put her to sleep for days. But that's not what she wants.

She wants to sleep forever, and I can't stop her.
She takes out the bottle of vodka and places it beside the pills, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig, craning her head back and opening her mouth, dropping the whole bunch of pills into her mouth and swallowing them. Her eyes close, and I can see tears rolling down her cheeks, the image obscured by the watery cloud forming on my own eyes.

She finally did it, and I can't decide if I'm proud of her strenght, or dissapointed about the fact that she just ended her own game. She'll never know if her feelings werw truly reciprocated, or if her dreams would come true. Her marks in this world will fade, present only in the memory of us who loved her.

She lies on the bed, squeezing my hand, her eyes finally snapping open and locking with mine.
"I always wanted to be like you, Red."

I can't talk. I'm choking on my tears, holdng her hand as tightly as I can. She chuckles and smiles, her breath becoming slower, more shallow with each passing second. I can barely feel her pulse. Still, her hand holds mine with a vicious strenght.

"Never let me go, Manda...guide me through this."

I just nod. Her eyes are closed again. I kiss the tip of my fingers and place them over her mouth.

Her skin is cold. She's not breathing anymore.

And still, she hasn't let go of my hand. And she never will.

At your side, on your left.

Always.

Someone, please...help me. Help us. Make sure this stays like this: just a piece of fiction writing.

Someone help me save her.

The Rant In Red & Black

Automathon. Catatonic. Barely conscious.
I’m idle. I’m here without being, even when I started taking over again last night.
Thumb flickers slowly over the ever-smooth flesh of pink nipples, hands cupping the small, rounded breasts, squeezing them. Idle. It feels good, but I feel nothing.
What brings me back to myself is that final scene from the movie Marie Antoinette. It’s very simple, to be honest: the master chambers of the King and Queen of France, half-trashed and discreetly blood-stained. But I see it, in absolute silence, and it disturbs me. Even royalty can be ravished. Even the powerful can be violated.
I feel helpless, and memories start playing again.
My room. That room. The blood…the meaning. It hurts, but I can’t pinpoint why. Or rather, I can but don’t want to.

Tonight I want to be a queen. Marie Antoinette herself.

I was with Fae today, submerged in this catatonic state, the awareness of her hand, lead by mine, caressing her being the only thing to keep us from not existing. We ate and slept for most of the day. And God, I slept like the angels today. I dreamt of soft clouds and clear seas and stars and peace. Or maybe I didn’t dream, but I slept peacefully. And then I dyed her hair black and painted her nails red and made her me again. Fara doesn’t exist by herself, just like I wouldn’t exist if I wasn’t here. Fara and Amanda are not real, but Faramanda is. Complex as it may sound, it’s really very simple. Ask any Host.
I pick on my wounds, scratch them until they bleed again.Last night, I had an epiphany. It came as we were watching tv, staring transfixed as a woman choked her sister in law in a twisted form of erotic asphyxiation that, for reasons unknown, turned me on more than the real, “safe” thing. Yesterday I wanted to kill, and I knew exactly whom. Yesterday I opened a cut over a scar by letting Mark bring my father, and it hurts. He still hurts. But what hurts the most is that I’ll never really know why.
In a few hours Dee and Mark will be here, and I will face Matthew again.
And I’ll sleep peacefully again for the first time in 35 years.

Tomorrow, I'll become a Killer Queen.

Musicality

"Just gonna stand there, watch me burn. But that's alright, because I love the
way it hurts"
Love Hurts. Physically. my skin says so, my heart screams that single truth as I feel myself crumbling down. We can't take it anymore. I'm growing numb, but I can only hope she won't. When you grow numb to the only thing that makes you feel alive...then you know you're dead.

"Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now..."
Wishing keeps our heart alive. She wishes, wishes with all her might, with every cell in her body, that it never has to be her alone. When you can't stand yourself like we do, you hope someone will save you from yourself. And we try. And I promise her her wishes will come true, kill myself to give them to her. But some wishes can't come true, no matter how hard either of us tries. Still, wishing is what keeps us alive. It's a sign of hope.

"I want your love, and I want your revenge. I want your love, I don't want to be friends!"
Kill me again. Hurt me. Slap me hard, bite into my skin. Make me scream how much I hate you. Pull my hair. Tie me to the bed and leave me there for days. Put my leg in a shackle, turn off the lights and go. Bleed me out. Nurse me back to health. Stroke my hair, heal my wounds and get me back on my feet so we can start over again. Push me away, make me believe I can be without you. I want to see the smirk on your face when I crawl back to you, licking my wounds and begging for more. This is how we work.

"Bend me, break me , anyway you need me. All I want is you"
You should now my antics by now. One minute I touch the sky, next I sink myself in a tar pit. You have to let me reach bottom so I can get out, and I know how much it hurts you. And it hurts me, too. I want to change for you. Be what you want, what you need...But i'm just me. Both of us, too similar to be true, and yet so different. And so eager to change, to believe we can be something better. We're giving you the power to shape us into anything you desire. Make of us what you want. As long as we're with you, it doesn't matter.

"She's not broken, she's just a baby. and her boyfrien's like her dad, just like her dad."
Broken. Shattered. Weak. Pathetic little thing, excuse of a woman. And then you take me in your arms, soothe me, tell me everything's gonna be alright. And I believe you, take in every word you say like oxygen, like I needed it to breathe. Because I do. I need your words to keep on going. I need to hear you say things will be fine to believe they can be.

"I kinda like the missery you put me through.
-Darling, you can trust me completely
If you even try to look the other way...
I think that I could kill this time"

Snippets and bits of what's been in my mind today, with some songs people sent me.

Talk about polarity....

Bitch Talk

Bitch

You get used to it. You hear it so often you're not even sure they mean it as an insult anymore. "You little bitch, get your ass back here, I'm not done with you!". "Fucking bitch, you're nothing. This is all you're good for". "Scream for me, bitch."
"You're nothing, bitch."
Hell, by now, it could even be your name. Every man in your life has called you that, at least once. Your father. The boys you've dated. The one who claims to love you. You've heard it so much you start to believe it. The Red Bitch. And then, you become it. You slowly become the bitch everyone claimed you were.

Whore

You're shocked the first time you're hit by this. Was it really that wrong? Everyone's doing it. Fuck, he does it every night, you can HEAR it from your room. But if you do it, it's wrong. "You fucking whore, where were you?" You hear it enough times to last you a lifetime , and only that night. He had you. He fucked you, and so did that boy at the party, and his friend. Everyone who's wanted to fuck you has gotten away with it, you've let them. So, maybe they're right again. You are a whore.
Everyone's.

Slut

It becomes your personal belief. You've let them have you, do what they want with you. And you've enjoyed every second of it. If you find a decent one,you'll eventually find a way of screwing things up. 'Cause it brings you pain, and pain is the only thing that makes you feel alive. Everything is fine as long as it hurts where it should. You can take anything, really. Even a bullet to the neck.

Few people in my life (and afterlife) have seen past the titles. To them, I am Amanda. Just me. They claim not to care about my past, or the things I've done. And I wish I could believe them. I really do. But the last time someone said that, last time someone gave me a chance, I ruined it.

I want to stop ruining my chances. For once,I want to look at true happiness in the face and smile back at it, take its hand and go wherever it leads me. I want something of my own. I want my dreams to come true. I want someone to love me for what I am, all of it: the whore, the slut,the bitch, the borderline-stockholm syndrome-bipolar psychopath killer, the former junkie, the abused child, the one that has always done everything she could to survive.

I want someone to love me for what I am, not what they wish I was.

I don't know why I had to write this, or why I suddenly want to cry. Fae's mood may not be helping at all. But then again, that's us.
Amazing how alike you and your host can be.

"Adaptation"

It's always hard to come to terms with new situations in life. It's even harder when said situation involves realizing you were a "fictional" character, you're dead, and now your only chance for a continued existence is to inhabit a "Host": a person who's willing to share his or her body and mind with you. You've become some sort of parasite, the spiritual siamese twin of somebody you've never heard of . At first, it is as scary as it sounds. You question everything: the principles of reality, existence, God...you don't know what to believe anymore.
Then you have to accept that, from now on, your life becomes a democracy: every decision must be made in agreement with your "other you", from what you're having for breakfast today to what you'll wear, your career, love life, marriage... you're not free to fuck up your life at will anymore, and neither is your host. The arguing starts, but it's also how you get to know each other. I remember that day Faba told me to come to her and handed me a notebook with almost 15 pages of questions to answer, that ranged from the simplest ones like my favorite food, color, drink and movie, to deeper, more complex ones like my worst childhood memory, my most vivid nightmare,or the one dream I cherished most and never fulfilled. A week later, I made her answer the same questions, and we realized how much we had in common.

We talked at night, two insonmiacs stuck together in the same body, just talking each other to sleep. I'd take over at nights from time to time, plaguing her mind with my nightmares and letting her fill mine with her own. I'd wake up, covered in cold sweat, and head to the bathroom to wash my face,. Then I'd run my hands over my hair,and i'd find it was shorterthan I remembered. Then I'd lookupto the mirror and find a strange face there, looking at me from under a mass of (then) bright red curls, staring in shock. It was another nightmare, one I couldn't wake up from. How do you keep yourself sane when it's not your face you see every time you look in the mirror? How can you not lose all sense of self when it's not your body you're looking at? There's new marks to discover now ,new sensitive spots, new ticks, new scars.

For some, it would be too much.

Then I had a crises. I wasn't real anymore, she was making me up. I had lost all chance for a real life; my dreams of love and hopes for a real family of my own had gone to hell and burned down the day I had been shot. This was hell, and there was no way out. That night I cried, screamed, smashed everything in my way,even broke a mirror. And she let me do it. She let me hurt her body as if it was mine, because it was. This body, she said, was now just as mine as it is hers.
That day, I realized I loved her more than I thought I would. And she loved me, too.
From that day on, we became not only best friends, but partners in both life and crime.

She gradually introduced me to the people around her, sharing more and more of her world with me. Some of these people also became my friends, some other became my enemies. I openly expressed my dislike and love for some of them, and my complete lack of interest in the rest.

I almost screw us up when I fell for Ana. She warned me it wouldn't end right, that there was a reason they hadn't worked out, but she still let me do what I wanted. Faba was right: I turned the world upside down, stopped time and moved the stars for this girl without so much as a side glance and a paton the back for a reward. I learned my lesson the hard way, just as Faba would learn hers. When I say I don't trust someone, I have my reasons for it.

Adapting takes time. But eventually, you get used to it, like everything else. You keep on meeting people, making friends for both you and your host. The partnership turns into a friendship stronger than anything; when you share literally everything with someone, you create a bond that becomes unbreakable. Your past is not important anymore. You have been given the gift of a new life.

But then you find more like you and your Host, and you now know ANYTHING is possible and everyone is real. And as you meet new people, people you thought you'd never meet in your life, you become scared. Everyone can exist. People can come back from wherever they are as long as there's someone willing to take them in and share their existence with them. And as you realize this, you find yourself praying with all your might that your past will stay in your past, and that it can't find you. But when you've come back from the dead, you leave the door open for anyone to do the same.

So, the ghosts from my past are slowly, one by one, finding me. Most of them are just biding their time,waiting for their host to realize they're there and set them free to haunt us. But this time, we won't run. Running took us nowhere last time. Running is what wound us up here. And even when I'm thankful for that, I won't run this time. This time, I have someone else to be strong for,someone who's come to love me and need me just as much as I do her.
This time, we stand strong. If not for ourselves, then for our Kids. Our "other us".

We're setting out to live a movie-worthy life. But this time, I intend to write myself a happy ending.