This is not Badassery.

Before I start this post, I in no way intend this to be a "bragging of my badassery" post. More a "cry with me as I consider two equally terrible options" post.
So, a couple of nights ago, I was extremely bored and I texted a friend to ask if she wanted to hang out and she suggested that we go get some dinner and I accepted. This was around midnight and my parents really don't mind me going out that late as long as I tell them. They had just gone to bed and I didn't want to disturb them so I just decided to go. Plus, what they didn't know wouldn't kill them.
So I went to the basement and told my brother not to lock the door behind me and he said "Whatever, sure, I won't." With that, I departed.
I only meant to go out for a snack but ended up at her house playing the Sims until six thirty (Oh, I know, I am a total badass).
When she dropped me off, the door was locked because my brother is the biggest douche bag in the history of douche bag brothers.
I ended up having to call my mom to have her let me in and later that day, I was informed of my two options for punishments: Either I was grounded for two weeks or I couldn't have my laptop in my room for two weeks. As an admitted agoraphobic and because my parents still let friends come over to my house during a grounding, the answer seemed obvious.
Until my mother kindly reminded me of my friend's New Year's party, one of the few social events I look forward to.
I really hope that I'm invited because otherwise, I just made the stupidest decision I've made in a long time. Please, wallow in self-pity with me for a moment as I cling to my laptop in the god damn basement, the cause of this punishment sitting no more than a foot away from me.

Inventions of Greatness.

AN: This post is going to be really short. But anyway, here's a little crumb of my next NaNoWriMo story. Just the opening paragraphs because I am one lazy bastard. Also, I'm going to wait for NaNo to actually write it, obviously. Plus, this opening has been stuck in my head for weeks and I just want to get it out already.

If you were to ask me what the greatest invention to ever grace humankind is, I would tell you the spoon.
I'll be damned if you can find me one food that cannot be eaten with a spoon. Hell, it's had foods built around it. Take forks and chop sticks, for example; their one hamartia is they fail miserably at soup, which may be the second greatest invention to ever grace humankind.
The second on my list may have led to a bias in my first one.
You can call me a biased son of a bitch but not without admitting that at least I'm consistent.

Just.

I'm really sad right now and I just need to blog a little and cry a lot so disregard this post entirely if you want to. I will take no offense to it.
Alright, here we go.
So it's the holiday season and I should be all happy and cuddled with my family next to the fireplace and singing and dancing but all I've been doing for the past two days is laying in bed watching Netflix on my laptop with the lights off. I get up to go to the bathroom and to get something to drink.
My parents, instead of being concerned, got pissed off and forced me to leave the house and take me to the mall. I begged them not to make me because I just can't handle crowds right now for some reason but the told me to stop whining and made me go.
Thirty minutes into the trip, I just locked myself in a bathroom stall and cried.
We got home and my dad yelled at me and I once again returned to my bedroom and now neither of them is speaking to me and they just left a tray of food outside of my room and whacked on my door and it was my mom and I asked her why she was mad at me and she didn't even answer me and then I cried again and I just don't know.
It just makes me so upset that my parents won't help me.
Especially when there is something so clearly wrong and I'm just so tired of being sad all the time and I honestly just want something to change so I can just enjoy life.
And I know this whole post has made me sound like a whiny bitch but whatever.
I'm sorry.

A Junkie, A Rebel, and A Jock

Like I said in my last post, I've been really working hard on nursing this new idea I have for a novel and I decided to share with you guys the spotlights of the main three characters (in bold) and three of the main supporting characters.
Remember to keep in mind that all of this can still change whenever I want.

Esther Ellis – the rebel. Esther is in a middle class family, living with her mother, father, and grandmother. She is able to attend the Academy because of her uncle’s monetary funding. He runs an oil distillation plant. She is able to project her internal problems into the living figure—called a Nuisance—of Raphael. She was raised by her parents to take on a boyish role in the family, as their only child and being a girl, but as soon as she got to Academy, she took back to her feminine roots.

Raphael – Esther’s personified internal struggles. Raphael is invisible to everyone except those who have the ability to see other’s Nuisances. He is always voices thoughts that Esther tries to push to the back of her mind, as he is supposed to do. Raphael is the most brutal and critical person that Esther knows.

Jules Starbuck – the junkie. Son of the rich CEO of a massive banking company “The Bank of National Trade and Savings” aka TBNTS, the largest banking company in the country that deals with big business savings and trade. Jules attends Academy as an upper class citizen. He has a bad drug habit that only the very rich can afford. Jules is the younger twin brother of Francis. Both twins can make Nuisances.

Francis Starbuck – Jules’s older twin brother. He is the calmer twin and, while he drinks with his brother, he isn’t as involved in drugs as Jules is. Despite his best efforts to persuade his brother to drop the habit, it seems near impossible to, as Jules is too strong-willed, just like their father. Francis and Jules are both very closed off to the rest of the world.

Charlie Baxter – the jock. Charlie is living with his boyfriend, an emancipated teen, and is attending the Academy on a sports scholarship. Dixon, his boyfriend, dropped out of high school to focus on his full time job at a sandwich shop, so he can pay for the apartment that he and Charlie live in. Charlie is on a double scholarship for soccer and men’s volleyball. Along with a supreme athletic talent, he manages to hold a part time job and fairly average to decent grades in school.

Dixon Walker – Charlie’s boyfriend and the only reason that Charlie has a home. He sacrificed his public education when Charlie received his scholarship to Academy so he could support the two of them. Dixon is the quieter of the two but is generally in control of whatever situation they find themselves in.

Writing is Hard.

I did NaNoWriMo last month, unsurprisingly, and this year's wasn't anything important to me. See, I had tons and tons of loose ends and random ideas shoved up inside of my brain and it was really impeding my thought process so I just needed a 50,000 word barf fest to just clear everything out so I could focus on a new story.
And, oh my god, was I a genius for doing this.
With all of the random snippets cleared from my mind's stomach I was able to open myself up to new plots and inspiration struck me only days after NaNo ended.
And I am so madly in love with this story that I want to write it right away. But I know that, as with most loves, you must take your time to know and appreciate your lover before you take the next big step. So even though Camp NaNoWriMo is something like six and a half months away, I will take my time to work out everything that I want to put in it. I hate when a new inspiration hits me halfway through NaNo that changes everything and I feel like taking my time and working out all of the quirks during this huge break will really benefit this novel in the end.
I've loved all my novels, in all different ways. Not to use an over-abused simile but they're all like my children. I love them overall equally and while some may be more rebellious than others, it doesn't change the fact that they all came from the pink blob of brain matter squished in between my ears.
But, even as I love them all, some have definitely been illegitimate love children, with me imitating authors I loved rather than allowing myself to come up with something new. It's nice to have them, just as nice as the passionate love affair with whatever book I got them from was, but sometimes, you want to have your own children and that's okay.
I am so excited about this story.
(Also, I realize that I just referred to my stories as both my children and my lovers. I apologize if you find that disturbing.)

The OTP Mistake.

It is no surprise if you visit my Tumblr that I "ship" certain gay couples on TV shows. If you don't know what shipping is, I highly recommend that either get off the Internet or do some research into the weird subcultures we have here.
Anyways, many of my ships are not canon and some people in fandoms have problems with this, for some reason. This is my response to all of the people who don't understand how people can romantically ship two people who are portrayed as being interested in the sex that the other is not.
Let's take my OTP: Dean and Castiel from Supernatural.
It is pointed out many times throughout the show, mainly by Dean's many sexual romps with women, that he is straight and the only person we ever see Cas romantically interact with is Meg. So, how can so many people believe that they are attracted to each other?
The way that I see it, and remember that I'm not speaking for everyone, just myself, is that if the characters would have gotten together had their sexes corresponded with their previously stated preferences, then they are canon.
Using my above example, Cas takes a human vessel, as he is an angel. He could have picked anyone, but he chose a man. Angels, at least I think, don't have a sex. Had Cas taken a female vessel, I firmly believe that Dean would have already expressed his attraction to Cas. And that's what makes it canon in my eyes, the fact that, had one of them been in another body, they would already be canon.
However, as Dean believes himself to be straight and Cas is well--he's Cas, they haven't broached that yet.
That's why I feel perfectly comfortable shipping gay couples between characters who are not directly stated as being gay.

A Little Bit More on Pansexuality.

Okay, so, pansexuality. I've talked about it before, that I identify as pansexual and it confuses lots of people, like a few friends at school. So I decided to try and explain it in a way that might be more accessible to those who see only three categories: hetero, bi, or homosexual.
I'll start with a little metaphor.
Let's think of drinks. Every drink contains water but you can have thousands of different kinds of drinks. You can have regular water, sodas, tea, coffee, beer, wine. Now, the "straight" person in our metaphor may only like alcoholic beverages. So, they would vary a little bit among the alcohols, but always stay within that category (the differences between beer and wine and such signifying skin color, hair color, preferences like that). The homosexual might like caffinated beverages only. Again, the same applies. They may deviate a little but they always drink caffinated beverages. Then the bisexuals like to sip from both categories, but only those, ignoring things like juices or waters or smoothies or milk. That's where pansexuals come in.
They recognize that every drink tastes different and they appreciate that and recognize that, no matter how different a drink may be, there is still that life confirming water within it.
And while some pansexuals have preferences, just like any other sexuality, they don't limit themselves because of trivial things like the appearance of the bottle.
I revel in the fact that I have the ability to fall in love with whomever I want, regardless of how they identify in their minds or what's in between their legs.
Granted, as my motto is to love is to destroy and to be loved is to be the one destroyed, I don't see myself falling in love anytime soon.

Reclaiming The English Language.

So, my friend (you can check out her blog... here) and I are fans of words. We both write a lot, we both read a lot, it comes with the territory. Because we love words, we occasionally like to talk about words. The most recent of which is: Harlot.
Thanks to dictionary.com:

har·lot

   /ˈhɑrlət/ Show Spelled[hahr-luht] Show IPA

noun

a prostitute; whore.

 

For the sake of context, I will give you the first occurrence of the word "harlot" in our text messaging. I have to first give you a forewarning. These messages are not exactly appropriate for young eyes. If you will:

Avery: Dicks are vital. You must protect them from harlots. They could suck your life out through your dick. Literally.

Emily: What the fuck. I found my true identity. I am a harlot.

A: You suck the vitality of men out through their dicks? And dude, I would be a harlot in a second. You don't even know.

E: Being a harlot would be a good life.

A: Dude, I know. Quick money and I don't have any self respect so sex for a living.

 

First, I know I say "dude" a lot over text. I apologize; it's just a word that I am quite fond of, no matter how much of an eighteen year old surfer boy it makes me sound like.

Now, onto a little explanation. Emily and I are both very sex positive people, who view sex as a positive and vital part of living, regardless of if you're sixteen or sixty. I can't speak for her on this topic, but I am very much pro-prostitution. I believe that with the legalization of it comes regulation and taxing. The women in the sex industry would have access to STD testing and help if a customer ever got out of hand.

So, when I say that I would be a harlot in a second, I am not saying that I want to become a sexually, physically, and emotionally abused drug addict with a pimp. I am saying that I want to be a healthy and sex positive individual who respects everyone's need for it and someone who may or may not monetarily benefit from the desire of sex that we all naturally have. That's what being a harlot means to me.

I want to take back the English language.

Harlot, I think, is an absolutely gorgeous word as apposed to its synonyms. Prostitute and whore both have these terrible connotations and every social change starts with small steps. And so, we take the easiest and arguably most beautiful word and start with that.

This blog is now being run by one half of the HHIC: Head Harlots in Charge.

Are you there God? It's me, Avery Gault.

Okay, so touchy subject today that I would like to breach and not talk about so touchily.
The church/synagogue/temple.
Now, I'm just going to refer to them as "the church," for brevities' sake but I mean all of the above as a social institution.
It's no secret that I'm an atheist. I, as a general rule, do not hate religious people individually but more hate the institution of organized religion. I don't care what your personal beliefs are. I hate the church, what it stands for, how it acts, the way it handles serious legal and moral decisions.
But while I believe the church is God-awful--no pun, of course, intended--I recognize it's not the only catalyst to global problems. Sure, the church has been a driving agent in many wars and terrorist activity but I have to say, when people fully blame it, they are wrong.
Sure, Hitler was a Christian and felt he was doing God's work but he was abused as a child in the Austrian camp he lived in. He was constantly told that he wasn't good enough. He wanted to be an artist but the--I believe--Vienna Academy of Fine Arts rejected him. Why does no one blame that institution? Do you really think that Hitler would have followed the path he did if he had instead become a painter? I highly doubt it. Obviously, religion is not the only thing that drove him to be a psychotic lunatic who murdered people simply because of their religion.
So, basically, what I'm trying to say is that, as much as I despise the institution of organized religion, to push blame for every godforsaken thing that has happened or still happens today on it is ridiculous. You just look like a generalizing asshole when you say that.

The Curious Case of My Mother.

My mother is by far my favorite person in my immediate family. While my dad and I are much more similar in personality and appearance, my mom and I relate much more in our interests and humor. So, tonight my mom and I were talking about teenagers getting tattoos and what the tattoo laws are in Minnesota (where we live). I told my mom that I had looked it up before and that, even with parental consent, minors cannot get a tattoo legally.
So my mom asked about Arkansas (which I also know off the top of my head--don't judge me! I love tattoos) and I told her that with written consent and presence of a parent/legal guardian, minors can definitely get a tattoo.
My mom then proceeded to talk about the tattoo that she has been wanting upwards of fifteen years, a black widow spider. Now, you have to know that my mother and I have shared a loved and respect for spiders since I was a little kid. We hate killing them because they serve a fundamental purpose in our house: Killing those damned flies.
Next, she asked if I would be up for getting matching black widow tattoos on our ankles the next time we go to Arkansas.
I knew my mom was super badass.
But this surprised even me.
I obviously agreed because, well, that sounds frigging ideal. I love tattoos, spiders, and my mom is pretty cool so a matching tattoo with her would be totally cool with me.
So, guess who has just signed up to get a tattoo with my mother.
And to think some kids have to do this crap behind their parents' backs.

When the Levee Breaks.

Okay, I would like to talk about a topic near and dear to my heart, though what don't I talk about on my blog that isn't near and dear to my heart?
Anyways, onto the topic of today: Faking depression.
I had to see the school counselor somewhere around once every one or two weeks in freshman year because she firmly believed that a recent house move I had had would lead to some self-destructive tendencies and she was right. But I refused to admit I had a problem, even though I fell before my carnal and violent desires.
And to this day, even though I've stopped seeing her, I still struggle with waking up and getting out of bed. I hate going out and seeing people. I just want to spend all day at home in bed with the lights off and my laptop playing endless movies on Netflix, until they all blur into a haze of color lights.
That is why I hate people who claim to have depression. I wish I didn't. I really, really wish I didn't have it and it makes me really angry that people want it. There is nothing glorious in suffering, there is no honor in hurting yourself. There is no spark in a life with no passion.
And seeing people being like "LoL I cutzz meself so hard and mii deprezzion is so bad it herts me!!" just makes me so indescribably angry.
Especially when you quite obviously have no idea what depression is.
Depression isn't feeling down on yourself for a couple of days because you got a shitty test score or it's getting colder outside.
Depression, for me at least, is about living knowing that it would be better if you never left the house or even if you never even existed. It's about knowing that I'm nothing more than an annoyance to everyone around me. It's about hating people and envying them. It's about endless sleepless nights and cutting and migraines and lying and starving and crying and hating everything and anything, just because it hurts less to hate than to love.
I suggest you think long and hard before claiming to have any kind of mental disorder.

Of Mice and Men. (Spoiler Alert)

So, Of Mice and Men was on TV the other day and, along with being one of my favorite books, it's also one of my favorite movies. We read it in freshman year at my school and watching it again made me remember a discussion we had in class.
At the end of reading books in class, we would have "fishbowl discussions," wherein we sit in a circle and then have a smaller circle on the inside and only the small circle can talk. If you have something to add, you walk up to someone in the inside circle and tap them out, so to speak.
So I was in the outside circle when an interesting question came up. "Does George deserve to be punished by the law for murdering Lenny." I knew my answer in my head right away. The inner circle began to debate.
Although, they weren't debating.
They were all agreeing that the emotional pain of George having to kill his best friend was punishment enough. I was floored, completely appalled.
So I got up and tapped a girl out.
I sat down and gave this speech, obviously not word for word.
"I get it. Killing your best friend is not how most people imagine spending an ideal Friday night out. George is probably tormenting himself inside for what he felt like he had to do. He's probably in an insane amount of emotional pain.
But unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, the law doesn't consider your emotions when considering your punishment. Murder is wrong, no matter the reason it happens, especially when not done in self defense. George killed a man. He deserves to and will be punished firmly by the law. The law is harsh and the law is firm, but it is the law."
With that, and without being tapped out, I left the circle.
Of course, my teacher didn't dig the dramatic exit and asked me to come back in for debate. And even with my awesome speech, kids still refused the idea that George would be punished. And don't get me wrong; I loved George! I empathized with him! But he broke the law. If my brother broke the law, I would understand people wanting him punished. The law doesn't care about you, it cares about being just.

The Messed Up Tangle of Worry, Interrupted.

People sometimes ask me why I'm so okay with being blatantly inappropriate or offensive and my answer has always been the same. "Oh, I just voice my opinion." "What people think of me doesn't matter."
The latter is true, it doesn't matter what people think of me. What matters, at least in my brain, is that people think of me at all. As afraid as I am that people will get mad at me and say awful things about me when I'm not around, as afraid as I am that people will begin to hate me for the things I say, I'm terrified of being so unimportant that people don't bother to talk about me at all.
That I'm just the forgettable girl in that one class in sophomore year, the smart one who was kind of gross looking. I would much rather be that "fucking bitch who was hating on Christianity" at lunch. That gets you remembered.
Every kind of publicity is good publicity.
Not mattering is scarier than being hated, to me.

Fuck.

You know what's insane?
I need to spit you a conversation that I had with the girl I babysit today.
Me: /staring blankly off into space/
Her: Laugh.
Me: Hm?
Her: Is it hard to make you laugh?
Me: Generally. Well, actually, it depends on the humor.
Her: Would you say you're a happy person or a sad person?
Me: ...
Her: Avery?
Me: I guess a sad person?
Her: Well, you need to be a happy person. So, laugh!
Me: It's not that easy to fix...
Her: Why can't it be?
Me: Because sometimes life won't let you be happy.
Her: Who cares about that? If you're sad, just let go. It's Halloween! You're not allowed to be sad! What can I do to make you not be sad?
Me: Just eat.
Her: Nope. I'm going on a hunger strike until you're happy again.
Me: Then you might as well starve.
I think it is fucking insane that the first person to actually and seemingly genuinely care about my happiness is a 3rd grader I babysit three times a week. Everyone else I know will just accept "I'm fine," or "It's whatever," as an acceptable answer. And it's true that I don't want to talk about it with my friends but, Jesus, get me a fucking therapist before I actually end up killing someone.

People to People.

At the very beginning of the school year, I got a letter from a program called People to People.
For those of you who don't know, a little bit of background for you.
People to People is a program created by Dwight D. Eisenhower in 1956, after World War II. He set up the program to promote understanding and peace and relationships between cultures and countries around the world. Students in the US are selected to travel to a country foreign to them.
So I recieve this letter and I attend the meeting, figuring that I had nothing to lose. To get into the program, you have to get three recomendation letters and attend an interview so they can get to know you.
I knew that I wouldn't be able to get in. I'm not interesting enough and my grades aren't very good and I have a very harsh and demanding personality.
Wouldn't you know it, I got a call last Monday saying that I made it into their Celtic Cultures program for next summer.
I am literally so excited at the opportunity to be able to go back to Europe. I loved it once and I know that I'll love it again.

Spoken Word Poetry.

So, I finally joined my school's creative writing club, which I have been avoiding doing because I was afraid of being judged by my peers.
With that self-conscious bullshit aside, I will move on with the story.
I am not a poet; many of you who follow my blog may have assumed that because I never post poetry. I have never been good at writing poetry, however much I love to read it, and because of that, I had given up all hope of being able to be a poet on the side.
But, back to creative writing club. We have a "theme," if you will, every week and last week's was spoken word poetry. I had never heard of spoken word before, except from my friend Maggie. To say that I was dreading writing spoken word would be an understatement.
But I wrote something that resembled poetry and I spoke it in front of the group and I fell in freaking love.
I have been watching videos of spoken word and writing it and thinking about it every day since.
If you're looking for a new art form, you should definitely check out spoken word. It's indescribable.

Care Given to the Uncared For.

So, today I agreed to begin babysitting my mother's friend's grandson (TOO MANY POSSESSIVE PRONOUNS!). His eighteen month old brother has recently fallen ill and they're worried that this three year old boy is going to start feeling like his mom and dad don't pay as much attention to him as they should.
This is unsettling to me for many reasons.
When I was younger, I had something extremely similar happen to me. I had an infection settle in my knee for about three weeks, leaving it immobile.  This baby, instead of having his infection settle in his knee, has had it settle in his brain. Because of this, he's at the doctor's twenty four seven and this little kid is being left in the waiting room all alone.
I think this is insanely interesting, that we seem to forget that while, yes this kid may not die from being alone, he still feels like his little brother is more important to his parents than he is.
I have a feeling that Will and I will become great friends and I cannot wait to start babysitting him.

What to know something?

Something that I find legitimately sad?
I want none of my family to attend my wedding. I don't want my father to "give me away" or whatever that bullshit is called. I'm not his property. He's not giving me as a gift to some random dude for land and/or monetary gain. What has my dad ever done that gives him any right to attend what's supposed to be the most important day of your life (which I'm sure it's not; it's just advertised that way)?
And I doubt my brother would show up even if I did invite him. He promised to disown me as his sister as soon as he legally could, which is always super pleasant.
Also, my family is from the south and I don't suspect that my vows--if I even have any--will have any religious content at all and let's just say that's not how I want to come out as an atheist to my family. I'm sure as soon as they find out, I'll be written out of their wills too.
What I guess I'm trying to say is that my family won't even want to come and I won't want them either so what's the point in inviting them?

Confession Time.

I'm one of those teenage girls that becomes way too emotionally invested in fictional things. I think in many ways this is a defensive mechanism to project emotions that I don't want to focus on in real life and blame a fictional situation for feeling them.
But I have two problems.
I hate sharing books and TV shows because, no matter how large or small the following, I feel like they're mine and the way that I see them is also purely mine and I don't want to share my experience with anyone else.
But then those times that I do share things and my friends say that they're stupid or show literally no interest in them--not even fake interest--really breaks my heart. Many times, these characters are, as cheesy as it sounds, my heroes and I look to them for strength and they help me and inspire me and then people just say that they're not important because they're not real or whatever. And what's super annoying is I always show interest in friend's media of choice, whether or not I watch it.
Is it so much to ask for those things to be reciprocated?

Word of the Week.

So, I have this thing where I'll randomly hear a word, a word I've heard a million and a half times before, but for some reason this one time is different. It's like I really hear it, like I was incapable of doing so before because I had wool in my ears.
So I hear this word and I fall madly, voraciously in love with it and I can't stop thinking of it or saying it just so I can feel its delicious sound across my tongue like that first time, the first time I fell in love with it, so I can fall in love again.
I roll it around in my brain with different intonations and accents and don't stop until it stops sounding like a word and lose all meaning but then I still hear the echo of it in the deepest corners of my brain.
It's like what normal people do with other humans of their affection.
This week or month or year or however long it'll be, that word is "perdition."
According to dictionary.com:
per-di-tion
[per-dish-uhn]
-noun
1. a state of final spiritual ruin; loss of the soul; damnation
2. the future state of the wicked
3. hell
4. utter destruction or ruin

I don't know what it is about this word that has my stomach up in knots, but, whatever it is, I love it.

Unidentified snipet. (For my upcoming NaNoWriMo)

"We, as a whole, are attracted to fractured things. We have this insatiable desire to fix everything that is shattered. We equate broken with beautiful.
"But you know what? Broken sucks. Broken people can't be 'fixed' and everyone needs to stop trying, you included. He will always be the mutilated mess that he's become and there is literally nothing you can do about it. So stop trying and stop raising him up because you think he's lovely only because he's fragile. Put him on a pedestal because he's still fighting, not because he's failed every other time."

Ode to Messing Up Your Children

It is a strange thing, not feeling an emotional connection to anything in your life.
Now that the dramatic first line hook is out of the way, let me offer you some friendly advice. When you grow up, whether or not you get married, but if you happen to have and keep children, don't move. Now, when I say don't move, I mean don't get up and move your family to a completely new set of surroundings--whether they be cities, states, countries. Maybe doing it once or twice is okay, but any more than that, and you'll end up with a seriously messed up kid.
Prime example of one of these messed up kids would be myself. I have moved a total of seven (eight? six? I have a tendency to forget) times in my life. The majority of them was when I was very young. My parents figured that that would be okay because, well I was a child and new and different things is what being a child is all about.
Let me tell you, oh how wrong they were. Every time that we moved, we would throw away probably seventy percent of our things and then just buy new ones when we got all settled in. I'm talking, furniture, clothes, books, toys.
I never, ever developed emotion attachments to anything I owned because of this. What I mean by owned is any of the things listed above and, more importantly, people.
This next part may make me sound like a completely and horrible person but it takes a hell of a lot to get me to actually care about you. I'm talking about years upon years of hard work of chipping away at me to finally get me to crack.
And even when you do, and let me tell you, that is rare, it's as easy for me as discarding a used tissue to be over you. See, I get bored with people. I get bored with people because I've seen and met so many that if you're not constantly offering up new and interesting things about yourself, that you can quickly become bland to me.
I had to learn to do this. There was literally no other option in my life than to have such a complete emotional shut down. I couldn't afford the energy it takes to say goodbye to people I love and to stay in contact with them.
Which is one reason the majority of my friends from my old hometown have been dropped. I wish I could have invested my heart into them, I really do, but I knew what would happen and I knew I would end up having to leave and so I didn't.
I just can't let myself get hurt and this was the easiest way out.
Oh, how fucked up  I am.

Pet Peeve.

So, my father and brother went out of town for the rest of the week with a family friend and his son. While my father, brother, and said family friend's son loaded the car up with their luggage, my dad's friend sat down across the table from me and started to talk to me.
Now, you have to know, I love this man more than I love my father. He is nice and funny and I've known him since I was a really small child. He treats me like an adult and seems genuinely interested in myself and my life.
But, as we sat there and chatted, my mom happened to mention that I was doing Camp NaNoWriMo--which I am. My father's friend jumped on this and literally started interrogating me about my novel. I made it very clear that I was and always am super uncomfortable talking about my novels before they're finished because I'm very self-conscious of how poorly written they are until editing. But he persisted.
I hate when people ask about my novels before they're done. I am always extremely vague because everything in my novel is still subject to change. I seriously am done talking about my novel but people keep bugging me about it.
When it's done, you can read it. No, you can't edit it. Yes, one of my friends has already accepted the job of editing it and I trust her with my life. Yes, she is very capable. No, just because you're an adult does not mean you are a better writer than myself or her. No, I will not include you in my novel. Yes, I am a good and capable writer. No, you cannot offer me themes or scenes or character ideas. Yes, I know my novel better than you do.

Avery Reviews A Thing: The Bourne Legacy

The last time I reviewed something, I'm pretty sure it was still springtime (if May is still spring). So, I went to the movies yesterday and saw the number one box office seller of the weekend, The Bourne Legacy (from now on, it shall be dubbed TBL). I was really excited about this movie because I am a huge Jeremy Renner fan.
Things I liked:
I felt like this movie was extremely intimate without being obvious. Aaron and Marta never kiss or fuck or even hug but their relationship--which is initially just for the mutual benefit of not dying--is adorable. Gave me those damn butterflies.
Jeremy Renner and Rachel Weisz are both great actors, with both being vulnerable without being weak.
The writing was good if not a little drawn out at some points but I mean Tony Gilroy is a great writer, so that's to be expected.
Things I didn't quite enjoy:
THE CAMERAWORK. I mentioned this is my last "Avery Reviews A Thing." Chernobyl Diaries and TBL both suffer from chronic Bourne filming. The camera work is shaky, which is fine in the high-intensity scenes, but just distracts from the quiet scenes.
The motorcycle chase at the end had me white-fisted for the first half but as it continued, I grew bored of it. It felt like the chase was being drawn out much to far and I was really tired of watching it.
So, I give it three and a half blue pills out of five.

The Olympics.

So, for the first time in my entire life, I sat down and watched the Olympics every day they were on. My reason for this was that my best friend was in Europe and I had literally nothing better to do.
Let me tell you, I have gotten so emotionally invested in these games.
Just the fact that we can watch the expression of some of these people's deepest hopes and dreams and watch as they accomplish them is literally amazing to me. To see people who have refused to let circumstances ruin their dreams--whether it be amputations, injuries, homelessness--is so inspiring to me. And I don't care how bubble gum lollipop this sounds.
I really and truly care about all of these Olympians and when they lose, I empathize, and when they win, I celebrate. I can't even believe I have to wait another four years until I'll be able to watch these people and events again.
I'll be twenty. I'll be at college. I'll be voting and be legally allowed to get tattooed. I won't be watching them with my family.
I am actually saddened by that. It's so ridiculous but I feel like I'm going to miss these Olympics. I already miss them!
That feels extremely amazing to me.
I hope I'll still be as excited about them as I was this year.

Tongues in Trees.

A/N: Hi guys. So, I feel bad because I never post my writing anymore--not that anyone reads it--but I decided to started posting my Camp NaNoWriMo. Also, I know someone from my Tumblr is going to ask. Hunter being a diver was a decision I made a long time ago, while fleshing it out in early June. Any resemblance to real people, dead or alive, is coincidental.

The car chugged loudly, crawling desperately towards the gas station not far ahead. The dial was as close to the “E” as it could get and I was seriously amazed it had made it this far. Hunter, on the other hand, seemed less amazed and more determined to get it ten more feet to a pump.

“Just a little bit farther. C’mon, baby,” he whispered under his breath. “C’mon.” And as that word passed his lips the car sputtered and fell silent. We started to roll back down the hill we had just come up. Hunter slammed his foot on the break. “Well, shit,” he said, looking over to me.

“Looks like we are going to have to get out and push, huh?” I asked, withholding the grin that was dying to curve my lips.

As we both stepped out of our respective doors, I felt the car begin to shift, back down the hill.

“Oh no you don’t,” Hunter growled, bracing himself against the frame. The car stopped. When he noticed that I, unlike him, was not helping, he jerked his head towards my side and I let out a small sigh. I placed my hands on the doorframe and began to push.

Hunter didn’t need me really. His muscles weren’t huge or bulky or anything like that but they were diver’s muscles, lean and strong. Though, maybe best not suited for pushing a car.

We finally made it to the pump and as Hunter reached into the car to pull the parking brake, I clambered up onto the hood. As I felt the sun begin to heat up my skin, I crawled up towards the windshield and reached inside on my side. I pulled a parasol out and opened it, shading my body from the hot, June sun.

I was extremely susceptible to sun burns and I did not particularly like them so I kept a parasol with me at all times.

The pump that Hunter was now struggling with was one of those Ye Olde pumps that are covered in rust and don’t have a credit card slot. I watched him bang around with the hose, trying to get it passed the open fuel cap.

There were a total of two pumps at this gas station, with a ramshackle building that I assumed you paid within. There were neon signs in the window of the station but they had burned out. From outside, all I could see was a single bulb hanging from a string attached to the ceiling.

“Hunter,” I said in a sing song voice.

“What?” he snapped.

“I believe that you own me ten bucks. Who was it who said that we would run out of gas?” I paused. “Oh right, that’d be me.”

“Alison,” he replied, exasperated. “Can this wait until we’re back on the road?”

“Back on the road after you pay me my money.” But it wasn’t me who had spoken. We both turned to find an old man standing halfway between the car and the building. He was round, like a ball, with thin limbs sticking out. He wore a stained wife beater that in no way covered his expansive stomach, which was covered in black hair. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. The state of his nails was visible from here, ragged and of varying lengths of nail-bitten distress.

“Um,” I finally said. “Yeah, we were just about to do that. How much?”

“Seventy four, ninety eight. Exact change only.”

I glanced in distress to Hunter as I pull my purse in front of me and began to dig through it. Seventy four dollars and eighty three cents later I looked up. “I’m missing fifteen cents.”

“Well, that fifteen cents will keep you from whenever you were going. I want my money.” The man had stamped out his old cigarette just to light up a new one. He hacked loudly and spit a loogie out onto the ground.

Hunter was rummaging around the car, looking for change. I screwed my mouth up and slid my coins back in my purse. Instead, I pulled out another whole dollar. “Keep the seven cents.” I handed the bills to the man and hurried into the car. Hunter gunned the car and sped out of the lot and back onto the road and back towards our ultimate goal.

Hunter and I were on our way to my family’s cabin in the middle of rural Minnesota. Not my ideal way to spend summer vacation, but my family had asked me to join them, insisted upon it. I told them that I would come, under one condition: Hunter was invited too.

They didn’t have a huge problem with this; Hunter grew up as part of my family. There wasn’t much of his left.

Plus, his dad was absolute best friends forever with my Aunt Anne. She and Hunter’s dad, had grown up together in Missoula, Montana, back when Pong was the only video game and there was a total of one curly-wired phone in every house. Granted, considering it was Montana, they probably didn’t have any phones at all. They probably used smoke signals.

Now, Anne was the only one who lived in Missoula anymore. Hunter and his dad had moved to a western suburb of Chicago, just a couple of towns over from where I lived with my mother and father.

Hunter jerked the car. In his attempt to find a ten wedged in a pocket of his jeans, he had allowed the car a little off-road rampage. He slid the bill in my hand. “I would appreciate it, Ali, if you would stop betting in any unfavorable manner you are capable of.”

“You lie. Betting is fun. You would actually appreciate if I would stop betting on the obvious, albeit, maybe not to you, option.” I waved my ten triumphantly.

Despite of himself, he cracked a tiny grin. “Fuck you.”

“Hey, watch the language. Where we’re going, there will be children. And adults who probably don’t appreciate f-bombs.”

“And twenty somethings, who probably use the word more than I do.”

“True. Doesn’t change the fact that we will both be censoring ourselves this summer.” We drove along in silence for a bit. We were six hours into our eight hours drive, closer to the seven mark. Hunter was kind of in a bit of a mood and I wasn’t really having it. Hunter hated driving but seeing as all I had was my learner’s permit, he had to drive the entirety of the way.

I swallowed a mouthful of water from my bottle, placed in the cup holder. “Who are you most excited to see?” I asked.

“No one in particular. I’m kind of excited to see Aunt Anne.”There you go. Hunter’s dad and Anne were so close that Hunter called her his aunt too. I’m honestly surprised he doesn’t call her mom. Although, he still sees his mom so I guess that complicates things.

“Not even Nikki and Zooey? Aren’t they ‘hot bitches?’” I threw up quotes where they belonged.

Hunter shook head but laughed quietly. “They are not my type, at all.”

“Oh I see,” I replied. “Maybe Jack is more your style.” Jack was my gay cousin.

At that, Hunter swatted at me and I giggled. “Hell no. I am as straight as a pool cue.”

“Maybe a bent pool cue.”

I of course knew that Hunter was romantically and sexually interested in women. But, he was almost never with a girl long enough to get to the sexual part.

Hunter and my relationship was complicated and it complicated our other relationships. When we were younger, like elementary school kids, it was easy. Our sex meant nothing in our interests and all was good until the fourth or fifth grade.

That’s when boys became icky. I continued to play with Hunter outside of school, but I felt pressured to scorn him in public, as he did with me.

When we entered middle school, things went back to the way they had been in early elementary. Girls and boys could be friends again. The thing was, lots of girls and boys were becoming more than just friends.

Hunter got his first girlfriend in late sixth grade and I got my first boyfriend in seventh grade. While I am aware now that we were merely playing boyfriend-girlfriend like we used to play house, at the time it felt extremely serious and like nothing should come between us and our significant others. At least, that’s how they viewed it.

When Hunter and I began skipping “dates” to hang out with each other, Margret Waters and Jeffrey Smiths grew very middle school jealous. Rumors spread that Hunter and I were cheating on Margret and Jeffrey with each other and when we entered eighth grade, I even heard rumors that I had lost my virginity to Hunter.

I had not and though Margret and Jeffrey broke it off with us—before getting together—we seemed unaffected by the gossip.

But all of our later relationships suffered from the same chronic suspicion and envy. It got so bad that one of Hunter’s ex-girlfriends, in a desperate attempt to save their relationship, got him drunk on their two month anniversary and that night, Hunter lost his virginity. That was ninth grade. I still remember his call the next morning.

And while we never admitted the gossip was true, to say that our relationship has always been platonic would be a lie. But those are stories for another time.

Hunter stared at me.

“What?” I inquired, escaping daydreams.

“I asked you a question.”

“Well, I did not hear this question.” I rolled my window down a crack and the smell of coming rain seeped in.

“Close that, it’s going to rain.” He jabbed a finger towards the darkening and thickening clouds high above us.

“That, dearest Hunter, is not a question.” He rolled his eyes and fiddled with the controls on his door. My window closed.

“I asked if anyone birthed anyone who I should know about.”

I mentally ran through everyone in my family while slowly shaking my head. “Nope. Same people. But, you have to keep in mind that I have Nikki and Zooey in my family.”

“Very true, Ali. Those two are very unpredictable in their states of pregnancy or non-pregnancy.” I could feel the falling temperature as the sun disappeared behind the rain clouds. A light drizzle began to fall.

I pulled my cell phone out and pressed the power button, goofing around on a few of the apps for a bit.

“You know,” Hunter said, breaking the silence, “I honestly think that you could drive for a bit. There are no cops out here and you’re a damn good driver so he wouldn’t even be suspicious. Please,” he whined.

I tugged a sweatshirt on and curled up in my seat, rested my head on the window and closing my eyes. “I’m taking a nap now. Please do try to not get us in a wreck.”

As Hunter swore profusely beside me, I smirked into the zipper of my jacket.

Pansexuality.

So, I hate labels and I have always hated labels. I hate labelling myself. But, I like having something to describe myself with.
I always hated labelling myself as heterosexual because I feel that it is extremely confining and growing up in a town that sort of frowned upon homosexuals, anytime I thought a girl was pretty, I would have this super worrying thought: Am I a lesbian?
The fact is that, no, I am not a lesbian but I am not heterosexual.
I choose to label myself as pansexual, which leaves me with more freedom than either heterosexual or homosexual.
For those who don't know, pansexuality is the attraction to people regardless of gender identity, sex, or the state of their genitals. It's also known as gender blind.
That begs the question, Avery, does that mean you're attracted to everyone?
No. Just like everyone else, I have a type. I like smart, funny, nice people. What their genitals look like has no significance to me. I mostly am attracted to men but I refuse to use constraining labels. Plus, using pansexuality, I can always just narrow it down if I change.
I hope this doesn't make my friends see me differently.
In fact, I don't really want to post this because I'm sure they will think I'm this big, fat lesbian now--which I'm not, or haven't you been paying attention?

Argh. Rant.

All of my Christian friends might not want to read this. You might hate me.
(Ha, "All" my friends.)
I just recieved some anonymous bullshit on Tumblr that really just made me want to vent.
Some Catholic or Christian found my page and saw some kind of atheist stuff I had posted and had quite a lot to say to me. Rather than reply to him/her, I decided to blog. Because, you know, that's how we gingers do it.
They critized me on my lack of belief in heaven and the usual.
All I have to say is that people who believe in religion, they believe it on faith. Faith's denotation is the belief of something with the lack of any solid evidence or proof.
I don't do that because, frankly, I'm not a freaking idiot.

Agh. Help.

Last night, when solely my mom and I were awake, I heard a loud clatter from behind me.
I had been sitting on the floor in my family room, watching TV. I am an extremely anxious person and I always expect bad things to happen so, of course, I immediately sprang up and spun around. On a wall visible from where I had been sitting, we have a speaker for our doorbell with a cover on it. The cover was spinning slowly on the ground, having just fallen from the wall. And then I saw a black shadow cross from the area the cover lay to our back door.
Oh my God.
My house is haunted.
I knew it!

Bloom.

"I've spent my whole life chasing immortality,
having the need--not just the want--to be extraordinary.
There's a certain unpleasantness to drowning in the knowledge,
that I'll die in the middle of a sent--"
The Fault In Our Stars
Bloom
Something about this part of this song strikes me so hard. I love the novel The Fault in Our Stars by John Green (furthermore referred to as TFioS for the sake of shorthand), and I have since it was released. I read it in a matter of hours, absolutely bawling during the second half. I won't say what made me cry so hard; I don't want to spoil it for anyone who has not yet read it (cough Kylie cough).
Because that book spoke so profoundly to me about the matter of our impermanence, as individuals and as a species, and what defines a meaningful life--and death--I, of course, dived headfirst into many different branches of fanship. TFioS touched so many lives and I wanted to see how it had.
This song was one of the first things I found.
It seemed like Bloom dove right into my head and ripped out my deepest dreads and feelings and vomited them into their song (which is beautiful. It's on iTunes). These lyrics have been stuck in my head, tattooed to the back of my eyelids; I hear them when I'm awake and see them while I dream.
I will never be able to get over them.
They're words I've always secretly lived too and words I want to stop relying on.
They're words I want to honestly say don't describe me.

Avery Reviews a Thing: Chernobyl Diaries

If you know me in real life, you know that I am an avid go-to-the-movies-every-weekender. I figure based on the sheer amount of movies and books I consume (obviously not literally) and because I struggle with posting things, I could review some of them.
So, just pretend that's there's some kind of jingle that goes along with "Avery Reviews a Thing" and let's get on with it.
Let's start with the short list: what I liked.
Chernobyl Diaries (henceforth CD for efficiency) is set in an absolutely stunning setting. I love the look of derelict building and CD does not disappoint, set against the town of Pripyat. Every scene in that movie is absolutely gorgeous and creepy to the extent of goose bumps.
I found two of the characters likable, Chris (played by Jesse McCartney) and Uri (played by Dimitri Diatchenko). Chris was pleasant and adorable, as Jesse usually is, and I felt he deserved much more screen time than he was allotted.Uri had a beautiful accent and embraced all Russian stereotypes which I found pleasing in this movie.
Now for the things I didn't like.
Let me start with the one that jumps out most obviously to me: the camerawork. It was like a Bourne movie all over again. The camera man was shaky the entire movie and it was hard to focus on anything but how annoying it was.
All of the characters other the two mentioned above that I found likable. They were flat, boring stereotypes and the girls were disappointingly weak, even Amanda, the main female. I never got the feeling that Paul, Chris's brother, cared all that much.
Along the same line, the "monsters" or "patients" or whatever they were didn't scare me at all. In fact, every time someone was grabbed by them, I got the vibe that they were going to have a dance party and get high or something (I have not idea why these thoughts popped in my head when I was watching the movie but they did). I was never really that scared of them and was confused why the characters found them so scary.
Finally, the slaughtering. I found it odd that almost everyone survived up until the end. The entire movie was basically the build up to everyone's death. I didn't like the pacing, basically.
Overall: two out of five exploding nuclear reactors (stars are so over rated, after all).

The Truth.

(Two warnings: trigger warning for any and all who self harm. Also, I am in no way endorsing self injury nor claiming that everyone who suffers from what I do self injure.)
So, as someone who suffers from depression and anxiety, I self harm.
I want to clear up any misconceptions about why I do this. Oh, another warning: I'm not claiming that this is true for everyone.
I don't want to hurt myself. I don't like hurting myself. I'm not a masochist. I hate the way cuts look and how I have to hide them from my friends and family.
When I get really triggered (which, for those of you who don't know self harm terminology, that is what it is called when something makes you want to cut/burn/scratch/bruise. Basically, it's anything that makes you so upset that you hurt yourself. Hard to explain to people who don't know what it feels like.), it's like this whole other part of my brain takes over. I have no control over myself. It's like this primal part of my brain switches on. No, not even primal. Something primal would want to protect my body and keep it safe from external injuries.
The part that takes over is sub-primal, out to kill the things inside of me, that aim to injure me internally. This is probably making me sound completely crazy but it's like that other part of me is more worried about the monsters inside of the than the ones around me.
And when its all over, I just bawl. I hate what I do to myself; I hate how I can't control it; I hate how it takes over my life.

A Common Misconception That Needs Clarification.

So, I was reading a story on Tumblr by someone whose username shall remain unknown. It was very well written with dynamic word choice and good flow.
And then we got to a sex scene.
I have no problem reading sex scenes; in fact, I find them interesting and way more accessible than sex scenes in movies. The scene was going great--the same compliments as above--until the boy took the girl's shirt off.
He put his hands on her hips and stroked with his fingers her... ribcage?
Unless this MC had extremely long fingers, touching one's ribs with your hands on their hips is utterly improbable and then it hit me.
I have encountered this misconception in an unbearable amount of stories, both published and not.
The hips are the bones that stick out on the front left and right sides of your body, making up your pelvis. Your waist is the bit above that where, on a woman's body, the lines of her sides curve in and then back out, in an hourglass shape.
Your ribcage is touchable from your waist but not from your hips.
Alright.
I'm glad we have that cleared up.

Marcus's Home for Special Children (P.7)

I let my eyes slip closed again. “Thatcher, what are you doing here? You’re going to get in trouble… again.” My voice sounds absolutely languid. That nagging feeling that I couldn’t place about him was pressing against my mind.

“I’m sorry ma’am. I’m a maverick. I don’t play by the rules. I’ve got impunity.” I don’t respond to his hushed voice, only sigh. He presses on. “How are you?”

“Bleh.”

“Well, you should start to feel better.” His fingers touch mine lightly.

I twitch my pinky and ask, “Why? I just want to sleep. I don’t want to do anything or go Outside or vomit or hallucinate. I just want to sleep.” I remember that he still doesn’t know what’s wrong with me and I still don’t know about him.

“If I asked you to run away with me, what would you say?”

At this, I found the strength to recoil away from him. “I’d call you crazy.”

“But it’s crazy enough to work. We could escape and I could show you what’s really out there, across the ocean, off this island.”

“We know nothing about each other. We obviously are completely different Thatch. I can’t do it.” What I really can’t is believe he’s asking me to do this.

I see the outline of Thatcher’s head drop, feel his hands move away from mine. “The world is made up of nothing but people and the spaces between those people. Those spaces mean nothing. They don’t make us different. We’re all more alike than anyone seems to get.”

“I’m not getting in trouble again. And where have you been?” I try to keep all concern out of my voice. I just want to lie in this bed and do absolutely nothing. I wish he hadn’t come. I wish he hadn’t mentioned running away from the Home.

“All I’m saying is I’m glad you can’t see me.”

My voice colors with the worry I had been trying to hide. “Why? What did they do to you?” The helpers have always been way harder on the boys at the Home than girls, in case you hadn’t realized that yet.

A twinge in my stomach forces my attention away from what Thatcher is about to say. I interrupt him. “Move.” My strength returns in a wave.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Even as he asks it, he pushes away from me. I lean over and puke over the bed, where Thatcher had been sitting moments before. And I’m crying before I even know what’s happening.

I wipe my eyes but the tears keep coming. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I almost threw up on you.” I just feel so embarrassed and sick and insane all in that one moment, it’s overwhelming.

The bed beside me sinks a little as Thatcher seats himself there. I feel his palm rest lightly on my cheek. It’s unexpected and I smack his wrist, breaking the contact. Before either of us can speak, we hear footsteps.

“Someone’s coming,” I say, urgency flowering in my voice. I feel him roll off of the bed and there’s a quiet shuffling and then silence. I lay back and let the few drops of sweat descend down my face without wiping them away.

A lit lantern swings into sight in the door on the opposite end of the long room. I can see an elderly nurse wobble into the room. The hand wrapped around the handle of the lantern shakes violently. She slowly makes her way over to my bed. I silently will Thatcher to not make a sound.

“What have you done?” she asks, voice as shaky as her grip.

“I threw up,” I say and feel my cheeks redden.

“I can smell.” She avoids the vomit on the floor and sets the lantern on my bedside table. Her wrinkles are thrown into sharp relief, deep lines seemingly carved into her skin. As she bends to grab a basin tucked in a drawer in the table, I stop breathing for a full ten seconds. I’m guessing that Thatcher is underneath my bed and if she turned her head to the side at any moment, she’d spot him.

But she doesn’t.

She fills the basin up with a pipe sticking out of the wall. As the foaming water falls from the tap, she pulls a rope and I can imagine the bells tolling in the helpers’ quarters.

She tugs a towel from her shoulder and dips it into the water, proceeding to dab my sweaty skin. “Have you gotten any sleep at all, Rose?” I don’t even know this woman, though it’s not surprising that she knows me. Most who work in the Home do.

“No.” I don’t like the direction this conversation is going. I’m not ready to tell Thatcher about my problems, even indirectly. I never thought I’d care about someone’s opinion.

“Well, you should be getting there soon. You’ve hit the hallucinations and the—”

“Yes.” My abruptness stops her. Thankfully, we can’t finish the conversation because a duet of helpers enters. As the nurse turns to look at them, I hear a very quiet shuffling underneath the bed that one would only notice if they were listening for it.

The helpers stand aside my bed. One of them looks unfamiliar which is odd because I’ve met and become acquaintances with all of the helpers. That may not be obvious, however, seeing how roughly they treat me and my friends. But their jobs come first and I recognize that.

But this helper seems new. He’s young, probably in his twenties, and he’s attractive. He’s got a pair of deep scratches trailing down his face and I realize that he may have been the one to pick up Josh. Those scrapes were very much a signature of Josh.

“What’s wrong?” the new guy asks.

The old lady wrings out the towel she had been using to dab my face and says, “What do you think?”

The new helper turns to me. I tilt my head towards the puke on the floor. He pales and turns to the other. I hear their brief exchange. “This isn’t part of the job.”

“There is nothing we can’t be called upon to do.”

“Seriously?”

“Stop being a little bitch and do it.” I roll over as they kneel on the ground. I want Thatcher to get out and then I want to sleep.

My eyes slide to the space below the bed beside me. Thatcher lies below it, his palms pressed against its underside. He presses his lips together to suppress some kind of laugh. How he could be laughing at this point I don’t even know.

There are groans behind me and dripping noises. As New Boy lets out a small cry, I cover my mouth with my hand. Now I know what Thatcher is smiling about.

The lantern bobs towards the end of my bed and the woman says, “Hurry up. I’d like to return to bed.”

Finally, I see their large shadows fall across my bed and they head off. As soon as the lantern is out of sight down the hall, I watch Thatcher squirm and escape from under the bed in the moonlight that has drifted in through the window. He digs his hands into my mattress and leans in very close to my face. Centimeters away, he whispers, “I better go back to bed, shouldn’t I?”

I hold my own, not showing he intimidates me. I breathe back, “You should.” With the dismissal, he pushes off away from me and takes off at a silent jog. I let myself fall against the pillows stacked behind me. Every time he’s with me, he makes me feel… naked. Like he can really see me and that’s why he hasn’t asked about my messed up brain. I roll over in bed, again trying to hide a smile as I close my eyes.

Marcus's Home for Special Children (P.6)

The helpers escorted me back to my room but as I slam the door, the sun pokes its small pink fingertips over the horizon. I fall to my bed and try to think back to earlier. I can’t believe Thatcher forced me to go with him to go outside.

I feel so embarrassed and I curl up into a ball, resting my forehead on my knees and just crying. What if he had actually hurt me, like Doctor Marcus said he could? And because of him, Doctor Marcus now has me on his radar, knowing that I have to be watched for other misbehaviors. I rub furiously at my eyes and sit back.

And something hits me.

What if Thatcher isn’t even real?

I started hearing things around the time he showed up. I had that first vision with Mary the night he showed up. But why would Linda encourage my hallucinations? Unless she really didn’t. I could have imaged everything having to do with Thatcher.

I slide from the bed to the ground and dig around underneath my mattress. I pull the slightly crumpled drawing out, clamping it firmly in my shuddering hands. The picture on the paper fades in and out of my vision.

I shove it back under my mattress. The lock clicks open but I pace back and forth in my bright white room, dragging my fingers through my hair. I fling my closet open and shed my pajamas for day clothes then I slip from my room. The halls are filled with children and young adults shambling towards breakfast and I join the flood.

As I stand in line with the warm and slightly damp tray pressed to my chest, I look around, trying to see familiar faces. Josh and Robert already sit at our table and a few people back stands Rissa. The table where Thatcher usually sits is empty.

Pills on my tray, I trudge to the table, sitting myself beside Josh. “Hi you two,” I say, keeping all emotion out of my voice. Josh mewls quietly and Robert murmurs a greeting. We eat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the occasional scream that resounds through the room. Rissa joins us.

I place a finger under Josh’s jaw and say “Let me see your face.” He struggles for only a moment before giving in and letting my tilt his head towards me. The cut in his face are still there and as I lightly touch them, I worry they’ll scar. Then I ruffle his hair and say, “Thank you.”

“So, what do you think the alarm went off for last night?” Rissa asks, excitement filling her wide eyes. “I think someone snuck out ‘cause I heard someone running outside of my door way before the alarm went off.”

I stay silent as they discuss the possibilities and wonder about the punishments. My bagel is dry and hard. Finally, Robert turns to me and asks, “Where’s that b-boy you s-sit with now?”

I tap my feet below the table. “I don’t know.” I’ve never lied to these kids before. I’m slightly disgusted with myself. They continue talking, their conversation moving away from the alarms to the girl that killed herself on the playground.

I rest my head on my fist and try to casually glance over my shoulder at Thatcher’s table. He still isn’t there.

The table I’m sitting at falls into a sudden noiselessness. They all stare over my shoulder. As I turn, I expect to see Thatcher. But, instead, a tall, lean brunette girl stands there. Her eyes are just as black as Thatcher’s. She doesn’t look nearly crazy enough to be here.

“Are you Rose?” she asks, her voice snide and cold.

“Yeah? Why?”

“I’m Jocelyn.”

“…Okay?” I say hesitantly. I’m extremely confused who this girl is and why she’s talking to me. Behind me, Josh lets out a low hiss.

Jocelyn puts her hands on her voluptuous hips and glares at me. “Would you like to explain to me why you got my brother in trouble?”

And finally, it clicks. “You’re Thatcher’s sister.”

“No, really?” she says.

“There’s no need to be condescending,” I reply, my eyebrows knitting together. Who does this girl think she is? There’s really no need at all for her to be rude and she has no right to be either.

“I’m condescending?” she asks, laughing briefly, rudely. “Do you even know what condescending means?” I really don’t like this girl and I’ve known her all of thirty seconds. An angry flush creeps up my neck.

“Yes,” is all I manage. I take another breath and say, “I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. Unlike you because, Thatcher got me in trouble, not the other way around, you incompetent bitch.”

“I’ve been called worse by better.” I’m standing now, though I don’t remember ever pushing up from the table. Jocelyn is at least five inches taller than me and I have to look up to make eye contact. In the back of my mind a question blooms. Why are they both here? It’s so rare to get even one crazy in a family.

With that retort, she turns, whipping my face with her wave of brown hair. I watch her push into the restroom at the other end of the dining hall.

My shoulders rise and fall rapidly, moving with my breath. Josh wraps his arms around me and meows softly, comfortingly. “Who was she?” I demand.

I hear the bell toll and as Robert passes me, he says, “You heard her. She’s Thatcher’s sister.”

I sit cross legged in the hard chair in the therapy room, hands on my calves. Doctor Collins talks across the circle of self control, self respect, and self love. The three essential selves. Josh sits to my right, licking the back of his hand and rubbing the side of his face with it. I know that my turn to talk is coming up.

As if having read my mind, Collins turns to me and says, “So how are you today, Rose?”

“My head hurts.”

“Oh, interesting. Scale the pain for me.” His pen hovers over the surface of the clipboard, waiting for my answer. I curl up, resting my forehead on the tips of my fingers, glaring at the floor. I don’t mean to be angsty. It just gets ridiculously annoying to have the same questions asked in the same pitying voice. I’m a person and I don’t want pity. I want to be treated like a fifteen year old.

Granted, I’m not special by wanting this. Every teenager thinks adults don’t understand them or they don’t treat them like they should be. So it doesn’t make me an individual to get angry at Collins or Marcus or anyone else who treats us all like this. It just makes me a normal, hormonal teenager.

“Rose?”

I look up, having completely forgotten about him. “Oh, sorry. A four, I guess.”

“Well, that’s good to hear!” He grins, and everything about it is just so fake. As he continues around the circle, I untie a scrap of fabric I have tied around my wrist and I tug my hair up into an ugly, lumpy ponytail.

I get up and murmur something or other about the bathroom then, without waiting for a response, I push my way out the door. Technically, I need to wait for another therapist to walk me there, but I just can’t wait.

Once in the bathroom, I lean over the sink, hands gripping the porcelain so tightly that my knuckles are white. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. Something on the edge of my consciousness flutters. Something about Thatcher and Doctor Marcus. One of them lied. I don’t know how I know, but I do. Yesterday, one of them lied to me and I can’t figure it out. My mind leans towards Thatcher.

My heart disagrees.

I roughly grab the faucet, turning the cold water on. It gushes from the rusty pipe jutting from the top of the sink. It splashes up on my clothes and I cup some of the icy water in my palms, bringing my face down and submerging it.

The water stings my cheeks and my eyes burn. I cup some more and dip my face in again. Gasping as I straighten, I stare at the girl looking in the mirror me. My eyelashes stick together in points like stars and my skin has a pink flush to it.

I feel like I’m going crazy.

Man, that was “punny,” wasn’t it?

I dry my face on the bottom of my shirt and exit the bathroom, trudging back to the therapy room. Linda is outside, waiting for me. She looks pissed. I halt a few yards from her, my heart rate speeding up.

“Rose, we’re having another private.” Her tone is clipped.

“About what?” I ask evasively.

She clucks her tongue, as she always done when she’s angry. “What do you think, Rose? I can’t keep covering for you.” She grabs my arm roughly and drags me towards the garden. I yelp but she ignores me.

She sits me down on of the marble benches and paces in front of me. I tilt my head to the side. She finally speaks. “What is wrong with you, Rose? Why on earth would you leave the Home?”

I rise. “I don’t know!” I’m so confused. Last night feels like it happened so long ago and it’s all fuzzy and disconnected. “I don’t even remember what happened, okay?” Linda opens her mouth to yell at me again but I hold up a hand, doubling over. I vomit all over the ground of the garden. I cough a few times then wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, sitting onto the bench behind me.

Linda’s face is tense, wrinkles creasing her forehead and chin. She pulls a radio from her belt and says into it, “I need a clean up in the garden.” A drop of sweat runs the length of my cheek.

My mouth is bitter and sour. I spit onto the ground, trying to get the taste from my mouth. “I have a question.”

“What?” Linda asks, her voice frustrated. What does she expect from me? I respond to her better than any of her other patients.

I ask my question anyway. “Is Thatcher’s sister here?”

Linda nods but I don’t have time to respond. I lean forward and throw up again. “I am so hot,” I say. My tongue feels heavy and thick. A helper walks up, flanked by two men in yellow suits. The helper takes one look at me and swings me up in his arms. I’m so weak that I don’t even fight back. I merely look over his shoulder at Linda.

She’s half turned away from me. My neck falls limp and I watch the lights high above me swing in a light breeze. The helper’s arms are tight around me, almost painfully so.

He carries me to the infirmary. I lay there, my vision blurring in and out of focus. I let my head loll to the side. I’ve never gotten this sick. A nurse walks up and jerks my head back up, clutching my jaw in her clammy hands. I let out an odd sort of mumble that’s half a grunt and half a whine.

She flashes a light in my eyes and I flinch, slamming my lids shut. She tugs them back open with her thumb and forefinger. I squirm below her grasp. I’m so not in the mood right now. I try to summon the strength to slap her hand away by my fingers merely twitch weakly at my sides.

The nurse spends the next god knows how long poking and prodding me, lifting my head up and pouring a bitter tasting medicine in my mouth. I watch the sun go down through the window across from my bed. At some point, my eyes drift shut.

I still feel her taking my pulse and hear her muttering darkly to herself. I just want to sleep. At some point, her footsteps drift away and I let out a long sigh. Alone, at last. Alone to suffer and wish my week of sleep would just come. This was always the worst part, when the weakness sets in and I struggle to move.

It’s just never gone so straight from the vomiting to the weakness. I usually have a few hours, at least.

As the night drags on, I grow more and more bored. I’m also starving. I never had dinner. There’s a faint dragging sound, like something moving across the ground but it sounds far away and I push it from my mind.

Just as I’m seriously considering doing… something (I’m not exactly sure what I could do in my current state), something brushes the back of my hand. I try to tug my eyes open but they barely move. I can see through the crack in between my lids. A dark shadow hunches beside me. I can’t make anything out.

“Who’s there?” I mumble, hoping they understand what I’m saying.

“Who do you think?”