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?”

Writers and Depression.

Fun fact: Writing is the most "at-risk" occupation for depression.
The list of writers who suffer from depression--some of whom have ended their own lives--is endless, some of the more famous being Ernest Hemingway or Virginia Woolf.
There are so many ideas and theories out there that aim to find the reasoning behind this. Some people believe that it is because many writers are quiet, reserved people who are pre-disposed to be depressed, especially when put under the pressure that writers have. Or because writers are the silent observers of the world, the people who must dig deep inside of themselves to pick apart their faults to truly and accurately write about them, they grow insecure of themselves. Others claim it is the long hours of solitude or unstable pay or economic depression that books are suffering now.
I, like many others who consider themselves writers, am depressed. I have been suffering from periods of extreme depression, self-loathing, anxiety, panic attacks, and the solid belief that I should be dead for nearly four years. However, I'm lucky enough to have periods of time where I feel completely ecstatic with life, unlike many authors. But when I have an episode, I grow unwilling to eat, or I eat too much, I lose interest in everything, not just writing. I sleep an unhealthy amount or not at all and have immense amounts of insecurities, about myself and my relationships with other people. I don't follow through on things I need to do, such as homework or projects with friends.
Nothing anyone can do helps me. I just have to wait for the episode to pass, curled up in my room with the lights off. My episodes usually last a little less than a month.
I'm in the midst of one now.

Scotland: On Edinburgh

Hey guys. I am officially back from the grand land of the United Kingdom. And by that I mean Great Britain. (For those unaware, the United Kingdom {or the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, as it's actually called} is the political entity and Great Britain is the island containing Wales, England, and Scotland.)
The next blog posts will be a mixture of my experiences over Spring Break and the regular novel-esque posts I usually have. I apologize if you're not all that interested.
Anyways, the first post I'd like to write is on the first place I went: Edinburgh (pronounced Edin-burro, with a soft "o" at the end). First, a little history. Edinburgh was the capital of Scotland, when it was independent. Scotland joined with England, surprisingly peacefully, in... 1717? Oh, 1707, Wikipedia tells me. Edinburgh is ridiculously old, with many of the original buildings still standing. Edinburgh has been called the "Athens of the North" because of it's amazing university, mainly its medical department. Many people came from all over Europe to attend the medical center as it was one of the few to allow the dissection of human bodies, which will be relevant later.
Edinburgh was amazingly beautiful. The edifices were magnificent. My favorite place was no doubt the Grass Market, called such because it was the place where grass-feeding animals were sold, bought, and traded throughout its history. However, it was also the sight of public executions, always a subject that has fascinated me. There is a large pedestal at one end of the market to mark the part where the executions took place. Just beside that is the Last Drop bar, a place where criminals were allowed to have their last drink. Ah, those Scots. Always the alcoholics.
The executed bodies were the ones that were used for dissection at the university. However, the school only got one body a year, which was problematic, obviously. This led to the all-too-common body snatching. Edinburgh has a stupefying history of body snatchers, the two most famous probably being the Williams Burke and Hare. However, these two were murderers, not body snatchers. They didn't dig up corpses to sell, they killed people who stayed in their inn. Common misconception.
All in all, I'd have to say that after my experiences in Edinburgh, I'd say that's where my loyalties lay. I am a bona fide Edinburgher.

Websites for Writers.

So, I find that websites have helped me a lot in my path towards becoming both a better writer and a more intelligent person. In case anyone was wondering, I've decided to make a list of my absolute favorite websites.
1. http://www.dailywritingtips.com/ This website is exactly what it sounds like: Daily writing tips. They're easy to understand and fun and creative. One of my personal favorite articles is 100 Beautiful and Ugly Words.
2. http://wordsmith.org/anagram/index.html This website takes anything you type into it and anagrams it. It's really helpful, especially with the story I'm writing currently. One of my characters only speaks in anagrams of what she means to say.
3. http://www.derf.net/palindromes/old.palindrome.html Similar to the one above, except this is a list of every palindrome. A palindrome is a word like "racecar" or a phrase like "Rot can rob a born actor" where the meaning is the same both forwards and backwards.
4. http://ninjawords.com/ I really like the random option on this website. It's incredibly fast and spits a random word out. The words really are random. And it's called Ninja Words. Can you get better than that?
5. http://www.litquotes.com/ This website is just a bunch of quotes from literature which is really nice when I want a character to quote something. Very helpful.
6. http://www.springhole.net/writing_roleplaying_randomators/index.html This is a random generator that generates almost anything you ask for. I recommend it for inspiration.
7. http://figment.com/ This one's like Wattpad but - argusbly - for more advanced writers.

Marcus's Home for Special Children. (P.5)

My hand reaches out and intertwines with his. That goofy smile returns to his face as he pulls my from the room, shutting the door quietly behind me. It feels like time passes slowly as we scurry down the hall, our hands drifting apart but occasionally bumping. My nightgown flutters behind me like the wings of a bat, snapping the air.

We reach a corner and Thatcher grabs me, stops me, pulling me towards him. “Name something impossible you’ve always wanted to do.”

I’m taken off guard. “Uh, see the stars.”

Our voices are hushed, barely a noise above a breath. Far off and above us, I hear someone screaming. In the darkness of the windowless hall, I can hardly see Thatcher, only the straight line of his nose barely an inch from mine. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’ve never seen the stars?”

I shake my head. “Not in person. Only through my window.”

“Well, that’s not impossible. Name something that’s really impossible.”

I give this one an actual second of thought, drumming my fingers on my stomach, hyper aware of our closeness, his hand on my upper arm. Every nerve in my body screams to pull away, that the contact is wrong and I shouldn’t like it, but my brain ignores all of it and I remain where I stand.

Finally, I murmur, “I want to taste the stars.”

I can feel his smirk in the darkness. “Do you trust me?”

No, no I don’t. But my heart and head say, “Yes.”

“Then don’t ever look back.” With that, he catches my hand up in his again and tugs me around the corner and takes off running. The adrenaline pumping through my veins makes it easy to keep up with his long legged strides.

Even though our feet are bare, we make no noise; the wood worn from years of rambling feet smooth beneath our own. A giggle rises in my throat and I don’t repress it.

I’ve never felt this way, so free and crazy in a severely not crazy way. My eyes tear up from the air whipping past them. Thatcher’s firm grasp urges me onward. Everything about this night just feels so magical and real and right.

When we reach a door that Thatcher finds by feeling around, groping in the dark, he drops my hand and messes with the lock again and the door glides open again. He turns to me, backlit by moonlight and walks backwards out the door, beckoning me to follow him. I do.

My feet press into moss on the ground and I recoil for a moment. I’ve never felt anything so soft and living on the ground before and its dampness startles me. But I take another step out the door. I’m outside, unattended, for the first time in my life.

Thatcher shuts the door behind me once more and I take a moment to turn in a circle, marveling at the cosmos above me, mouth hanging open slightly. They’re so much brighter without the cloudy glass between us. They twinkle far above me, winking down at the two of us. Even in the darkness, the outlines of trees in the yard miles away are more real and animated than anything I could have imagined.

I hear a chuckle behind me and turn, having completely forgotten about Thatcher for the moment. “Sorry,” I splutter. “It’s just so… shocking.”

I see him raise his hands in the darkness, palms facing me, “No, really Rosa. Take as much time as you need.” I want to sit down and know what it feels like to sit in grass on a cool summer’s night but I know it will stain my white dress and I can’t risk it.

Taking a few more minutes to crane my neck up, staring in wonder at the huge, beautiful moon. She is full and fat, casting a bright light down on us as the clouds pass from over it. I run my fingers through my hair, pulling it from the nape of my neck and up into a messy bun on my head before letting it fall again, feeling the wind brush the delicate skin there.

Then, I turn back to Thatcher. “Thank you so much,” I say.

“We’re not done yet,” he replies, then turns away and climbs up onto a large garbage can. I follow warily behind and he helps me up. “Now just jump up and grab the ledge,” he says and I feel his warm breath carry towards me.

Thatcher does just that, dragging himself upwards and onto the roof. I try to and catch the ledge but I’m not strong enough to pull myself up. The Home doesn’t focus much on physical education.

Thatcher helps me the rest of the way up and I find a thick woolen blanket spread across a part of the flat roof. This is one of the lower ones; there are many higher roofs in front of us and on either side.

Thatcher falls backwards onto the blanket, propping himself up on his elbows, his legs stretched out in front of him. I carefully follow him, seating myself down with legs crossed, leaning backwards on my palms and resting my head on my shoulder.

“Can you taste them?” he whispers into the night.

I open my mouth and breathe in my surroundings. What I understand are pine trees stand out most strongly, a sweet taste, but below that I taste something light and gentle. It dances on my tongue as the stars do high above me.

It’s got a sharp bite to it but also a syrupy texture in my mouth so that I continue breathing it in through my open mouth, large, heaving breaths. “Yes.”

“Then you didn’t pick something impossible enough.” Thatcher speaks softly by my side and as I glance at him, I find his eyes on me, heavy lidded and dreamy looking.

I scowl for a moment and say, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He blinks suddenly and looks away. “Sorry, I’m tired.”

“We could go back, if you want,” I say, a little disappointed. Thatcher shakes his head, staring at his knees, which are covered by his white cotton pants.

We sit in quietness for a bit longer, staring up at the staring and just enjoying the simple pleasure of being in one another’s company. I haven’t had anyone whom I enjoy merely sitting together since Mary, and even then, she always wanted to talk.

Even with the headache tapping its sharp claws behind my eyes, I’m enjoying myself.

“You’re shivering.”

Thatcher rests a hand on my shoulder. It’s warm and slightly rough on my chilled skin. “I don’t usually go outside. I’m used to the temperature controlled inside of the Home,” I say.

Thatcher opens his arms. “Well come here.”

I hesitate. As the moon draws closer to the horizon, the wonder and excitement were beginning to wear off, along with the rebellion my mind had been committing all night. Finally, my brain agrees with my body. I stay where I sit. Not to seem rude, I say, “Let’s just go inside. It’s almost daylight and you look exhausted.” Without waiting for a response, I clamber to my feet and hop down to the garbage can. It clatters loudly.

Thatcher follows me, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he fiddles with the door for a moment. As we walk quietly back down the way we had come, he says, “You don’t seem tired at all, Rosa.”

I suck in my cheeks. I really don’t want to talk about this. As I open my mouth to reply, a voice yells, “Hey! Stop right where you are!”

My heart stops and I look over my shoulder. A helper carrying a thick flashlight flashes it in our faces. Mary flashes before my eyes, her bloodied RUN, and I do just that, taking off sprinting down the hall. I’m around the corner before Thatcher even realizes I’ve moved.

He catches up easily.

We hear the heavy thuds of footsteps behind us over our heavy panting and despite the danger fetching up on our heels, there’s a wild grin on both of our faces.

We weave through the twisting corridors, pumping our arms and smashing into each other at each curve of the hall. Just when I think we’re going to get away, the alarm begins blaring for the second night in a row.

We’re bolting down a long, straight stretch of hallway and we skid to a halt as a group of helpers appear at the other end. We begin to turn but the man who had originally found us has been joined by three others.

My smile falters. Thatcher grips my shoulders and says, “Are you ready to go down with this ship, Captain?” His eyes beg me to play along, to humor him.

“Only if you are, my midshipman,” I reply, clutching onto his shoulders in turn. And a wave of men crash into us. They drag us apart and I try to pull away to get back to Midshipman Thatcher. “Thatcher!” I scream.

I hadn’t expected them to rip us apart. I thought we would be brought to Doctor Marcus together.

“Rosa.” I hear him say the word then there’s a nasty thumping sound, of a fist making hard contact with skin. He falls silent.

I can’t see him as the helpers half drag, half carry me in the direction of Doctor Marcus’s home, just outside of the hospital. I vaguely note the alarm has been shut off.

We descend two floors to the ground floor and they shove me outside. “Come on,” says one in a gruff voice.

“I’m going, I’m going,” I snap, brushing my knees off from where I landed at the shove.

I’ve only met with Doctor Marcus one time before, when I was nine. Someone had broken a little boys arm on the playground and the doctor in charge accused me. After meeting with me over the incident, Doctor Marcus fired the other doctor and erased it from my record.

His home was about twenty yards from the main hospital building, smoke drifting from the chimney, golden light drifting from the nearly closed windows.

With a man clutching each upper arm, I walk up to the front porch and one of the men knocks, smashing his fist into the wood of the door. The door creaks open and Doctor Marcus looks between one of the men, to me, and to the second man. “Rose.”

Doctor Marcus is tall and extremely thin, with legs and arms like a spider’s, long and spindly. His fingers move constantly, in waves of rising and falling joints. A pair of thick goggles dangles from around his neck and the mint green jacket is three sizes too big. His thick knuckled fingers rest on his hips. The Doctor has this twitch in his neck, where his whole head jerks to the side infinitesimally.

“Come on in,” he says, the wrinkles in his face deep in the lowlight. I shrug the helpers’ hands off and push past him. As the door closes, the backbone I spontaneously grew around the helpers dissipates.

His living room is just inside the front door, with two squishy arm chairs set facing a huge fireplace with a roaring, lively fire playing around inside of it. He rests a hand on my back and directs me towards his office, in the room next door. I twist away from the contact, uncomfortable.

I take the seat across from him as he rifles through a filing cabinet and pulls a manila folder out and tossing it on his desk. Then he seats himself in the spiny chair, intertwining his fingers. “Why are you here?” he asks.

“I was outside of my room…”

“After curfew?” he prompts me. I nod. “How did you get out?”

I press my lips together and as I speak, he begins to shuffle through the papers in the folder. I see my name stamped on the front of the folder and at the top of most of the papers. “The door didn’t lock.”

“Were you alone?” His eyes were cloudy, like he was blind but they followed my every movement, looking for my tells, trying to read the lies in my face. He is a man of few words and that’s what is so distressing.

I shake my head no and he inquires, “Who was with you?”

“Thatcher.”

“Last name, please.”

“I don’t know his last name.” By this point, I’m shaking horribly, like Robert, and my forehead has a thin layer of sweat glistening across it. “I don’t really know much about him, really.”

“So, in the middle of the night, you left your bedroom to traipse the halls with a boy you hardly know?”

Embarrassed, I bob my head.

“Rose, you have been here for as long as I can remember. You are not that foolish. What were you thinking? He could have harmed you Rose. You are a young lady and cannot protect yourself. You’re lucky that the helpers came to your assistance.”

The pain in my head worsens, scraping, digging into my skull. “You’re right. I’m glad they came to my assistance.” Those eyes. They make it hard to focus on anything and the memory of the night begins to slip from my mind, blurring it and making it swirl together like a mess of paint.

Doctor Marcus picks up a stamp and flips to the back of one of the packets in the manila folder, stamping the letter F on the bottom of an “inappropriate behavior” slip. Then, he looks up at me and says, “You may return to your room. One more misbehavior, Miss, and there will be a punishment.”

Quick Question.

Do people even read my blog?
Or am I just being ridiculously hopeful that someone cares?
'Cause I really don't want to put in effort that isn't appreciated. It's immensely frustrating and I do this for my friends, not myself.

Unidentified Snippet

"It's like...well, how does one explain it? 
See, a long time ago, people were hanged all the time for the pettiest of crimes. And they used to do it terribly; they'd make you stand on this stool and tie this taught rope around your neck and then they'd knock the stool out from under you. You'd hang there, failing, blood pouring out of every hole of your body. Eventually, you'd die but it was slow and horrible. So, someone came up with a new way where the rope wasn't so tight and they used a trap door so when you fell, you'd break your neck. Instantaneous, they said. Painless. Well, one day, this guy in Scotland, I think, was going to be hanged and instead of this trap door opening nice and quick like it was supposed to, it got stuck. And it was just like the old way, flailing and beeding and all. The crowd was pissed and they cut this dude down, carrying him all around, throwing this totally unnecessary hissy fit. The cops showed up about then and the crowd dropped this guy's body and got the hell out of there. Turns out he was still alive so they cleaned him up and hanged him again. This time, it went fine. Snap, he was dead.
"I feel like that guy. Expecting my inevitable death to come quick but they keep dragging it out, longer than they promised. I'm just waiting for the snap."


(Written from my hotel room in Glasgow.)