This is a bloodbath of emotions. Not an update. ifjfkjsdfunnghhh I don’t want tooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
I will stall.
These are some pictures of some plants around my house. :DDD
Nngh I need to stall some more.
I found this in my fridge. The peeps that I have on Facebook have seen this. But. It’s stalling.
Perhaps listen to this while reading this update? I mean. The sound of it. I think I would like reading it with this song in the background, yeah.
Here’s the rest of this update’s playlist.
Between Two Points.
Thank you, Chono, for this band. Eyes Closed.
I did not at all think it was possible to love Blackmill more than I already did. NNgh it makes me crey.
Kenzie put this on her birthday set for me. But I am linking it again because it is just so amazing. And it takes up some space in this installment. Rrngh I can’t listen to it just once. This is one of those songs that should never end because it is just that good.
Jesus Christ how many links can I put on one set.
So. I was pondering whether or not Diesel should have the ability to cook, and cook well. And Chono and I talked it over a bit. So I then decided to research Bosnian foods. This was the first thing I saw when I wiki’d it. I screamed. http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/89/Sarburma.jpg/283px-Sarburma.jpg
Then I laughed for the next eleven minutes because 1) I screamed and 2) I don’t know why I screamed. I remember the horrified gasp that I sucked through my teeth, too. I feel culturally intolerant, for admitting this, but this is what went down and I was very, very amused at my reaction, and I hope you are, too.
I got my hair trimmed todai. :3 It looks all body-ful. I also bought two blouses, a belt, and a tube of lipstick that I thought was darker but it wasn’t. And a bunch of Chupa Chups.
Okay. Now that I’m done stalling. Just. Just let me mail-order another entire chest cavity, for it and its contents were disintegrated agonizingly from its place below my neck. They’re going to over-charge me for shipping and handling, too, and someone will probably break open the package and take it for themselves. I didn’t even have insurance on it.
I am never fucking doing anything like this ever fu cking again. And although I feel like it’s not done. I’m publishing this motherfuc kker. I don’t want to read over it again.
Ms. D. A. Rosendov.
“Sinter, why haven’t you made anything Bosnian for me?”
Sinter burst out in laughter, and I did as well. She said, “Roman. I have. You couldn’t even look at it.”
“What? No? When was this?”
“Roman, this was when I arrived,” I said. “We made something that you COULD like.”
“Wh. . . That bread thing? That was like curled up?”
“Yes, sarburma,” Sinter laughed as she took a sip of her coffee, “you hated it.”
“Tsh. . . You said that dish was Ukranian.” He got up from the barstool, and went into the other room, tripping over a box. He swore.
Sinter and I were giggling. “We’ll make him sarma,” she said in Serbian, “and we’ll take a picture of his face.”
“Ohhhhhh no.” I picked at the bagel in front of me.
Sinter sighed quietly, serving an egg on a plate. “Roman.”
“Just a minute.”
She leaned on the counter in front of me, smiling at the sink, speaking in Serbian. “We were talking about getting married.”
Excitement. “Were you?!”
She nodded, looking a little hesitant. “Yes.”
“Well, I don’t see why not! How long have you been together? How many years?”
“. . . I don’t know? Over. . . Thirteen?”
“And you’ve refused to marry him all this time?”
She nodded, sipping her coffee. “Well I mean. . . He’s just a jerk.”
“A jerk you’ve been with for over thirteen years.”
“Yeah, well. . .”
“I can’t see anyone else putting up with his crap though, Sinter. But I don’t think he should be alone for the rest of his life. I love Roman, you know?” I said.
“Can you guys stop speaking in Serbian? I can hear you from the other room, but I don’t understand. I feel like you’re hiding stuff from me.” Roman said as he came in the room. He ate his egg in three bites.
Shipley handed me another stack of books. “I hear Jury’s still pissed about getting arrested.”
“Hmmmm.” I put the books in the proper places on the shelf. “At who?”
“Well. ABOUT getting arrested. And that one guy, I guess.” He pushed the cart forward, then singing aloud pleasantly. I followed him. “. . .nighhttime, sympathize, I’ll be working on white lies; so I tell the truth. . .”
“Well. Okay. Because vouched for him.” I stopped when he stopped. He then handed me another stack of books.
“I think Mikey’s here.” He said after a few more stops. “I wonder when Borden will wrap up that case.”
“Mmmmmyes I saw him earlier. It was Borden’s first case, yeah?”
“It was. I remember my first case.”
“Who was your superviser?”
“Mmm. . . Etian Salinger.”
“He wasn’t much of a detective, though, was he?”
“Nope. Not at all. All he did was stud his clothing. And drink some hipster tea. GHAWD he was a hipster. A crappy hipster, at that.”
“Where is he now? Is he still lurking here?”
“I. . . I don’t think so. He’s like twenty now. I hear he’s an accountant.”
Then, a guy with pink hair strolled up to Shipley, and poked his side. “Shipster, can I have the key to the movie room?”
“There is no lock on the door, G. There’s nothing of any value in there.”
“But the door is locked.”
“I’m not giving you the keys. I don’t even have them.” Shipley pushed him back with a hand. “Get lost, I’m working.”
He sighed, making eye contact with me. “Does this dame have the keys?”
“DON’T CALL HER A ‘DAME!’ I SHOULD SICK VANCE ON YOU FOR SAYING THAT! SHE IS SACRED.”
“Hi, my name is Gambit.” He gave me a crooked smile that was rather attractive. I was, of course, blushing, as he took my hand and began to lift it to kiss it.
Shipley smacked him. “D, don’t touch him. He might have STD’s.”
“Who’s to say that this won’t turn into sexual contact sometime soon?” he winked. “D? Is that for ‘Dame?’ Or ‘Darling?’ Or for ‘Dazzling Eyes?’“
I, of course, couldn’t help but giggle. Shipley yelled at him. This went on for the next few minutes, until Gambit walked away in self-dismissal.
After clearing the cart, Lyle kept watch at the front desk in the library. Shipley and I met up with Kit in the kitchen, who was speaking to Friday. Friday threw the napkins everywhere when he saw Shipley. “HEY YOU’VE GOTTEN TALL.”
Shipley responded as his hair was being ruffled. “You haven’t come by in like a year.”
I took an orange from the counter. “Jury will cry when he sees you, Friday. You dyed your hair brown this time?”
“Yes I did. And it looked like he was going to, when I saw him earlier,” Friday laughed. “Roger told me he got in trouble recently.”
Sighs came from everyone but Friday.
“And then Vance tells me, ‘No, love, I will be bringing a surprise home later.’ “ Torah scoffed. “He was supposed to treat me to coffee. I want coffee.”
“Hm, he skipped Statistics earlier. I wonder where he went.” We entered the kitchen. Torah went immediately to the coffee.
She groaned. “UGH I wanted that blouse so bad.”
“Paying that much for it would have been ridiculous, though.”
She laughed, waving an accusative spoon. “You’re one to talk, D! That one costed more!”
I peeked down at the white lace blouse in question, a guilty expression on my face. “It was too cute. . .”
She groaned again. “I spend all of my money on books and crap. . .”
We remained in the kitchen for the next twenty minutes, while Torah prepared her coffee. I myself had a slice of toast.
We hadn’t noticed him enter, but we saw Jury exit the pantry with a box of cereal as we were preparing to head to the library. Torah and I gave him a pleasant, “Morning.”
He coughed, “Top of the morning, ladies in the kitchen. As you should be.”
Torah and I threw a blank stare that felt well-rehearsed. She finished her coffee within another minute or two. Jury took his cup of ice to his mouth, chewing. “Is that a new blouse, D?”
Torah had exited the kitchen. “Mm, yeah. How’d you know?”
He took the cup of ice to his mouth, looking away. “Looks nice.”
Only dry heaves that conflicted with coughs came as I sat in front of the toilet. With quivering hands I gently held my throat, and with every breath I tried to take my body tremored with an uncontrollable sob. My nose ran and I tried to lessen the flow with disgusting snorts; this being one of the many sounds that came from my out-of-control face.
"Diesel," he huffed, banging on the door. "Baby, I'm sorry. Let me in."
I couldn't say anything. My gags overtook any response I tried to vocalize, causing an excruciating pain to bleed throughout my torso and burn in my stomach. The coughs were still uncontrollable. I would have thrown up, but I hadn’t eaten anything that day.
My hands continued to stroke my throat that throbbed whenever I applied pressure to the spot in pain. When my heaves slowed and I was able to calm my diaphragm, aside from hiccups, I tried to stand. I reached for the counter, but my fingers made no purchase when they came in contact with the surface. My arms and torso both throbbed and shook, and my knees quaked. My panties hung limp on my hipbones – the elastic was pulled; shot. Underneath the center of this fabric was a pain I’d prefer not to describe.
I managed to get on my feet after a minute of breathing on the floor. I ignored the mirror as I turned on cool water to wash my face.
"Look, I'm sorry. Baby, are. . . Are you okay?"
I was still sniffling when I dried my face off. I then dared to look in the mirror. "Y-you can f uck off." I whispered. The mascara that bled onto my lower eyelids darkened that area, making it look like I had awful bags. There was also a noticeable cut on my clavicle. My throat still throbbed, and when I pushed my hair behind my shoulders, there was a long and narrow purple bruise at the base of my throat. Blood clotted on the right side of my bottom lip, where a small cut sat on the raw flesh. I remembered my shorts were still in the living room, though I couldn’t remember where they were thrown.
When the pain of the gagging wore off, everything that had just happened overtook my thoughts in a blurried rush.
I had to make a trip to get my text books from Bryant's house. I hadn't seen him since he went to the emergency room a little more than two weeks ago, and after what I had told the police, I was afraid to know if Bryant found out about what I said.
When I pulled into the driveway, no one's car was there. I half expected for Bryant's mother to be home. Bryant's parents had gotten a divorce recently, and his mother had been in Sweden for the past month and a half. His mother liked and trusted me, so if she saw me in her house carrying my textbooks, she wouldn't mind. After all, she was the one who showed me where the house key was hidden.
I entered the house, replacing the key in its hiding spot. I peeked into the garage, making sure no one was parked in there. It was empty.
I reentered the home, first checking the dining room table for the textbooks. They weren't anywhere to be found. I checked the upstairs living room, his mother's small study (where I had gone to look through her encyclopedias), and Bryant's bedroom; the only places I could have taken the books whenever I was over here. At that point, I was convinced that I had just missed them back at Sinter and Roman's new house. I had already asked Borden if he'd taken what I was looking for.
I returned to Bryant's bedroom to grab my tin of lip balm and take my headphones, when someone entered the room.
"Looking for these?" It was Bryant. He tossed the three textbooks on the bed like pillows.
"Oh, you had them. Thank you." I took them into my arms, and smiled graciously at Bryant, who leaned against the door frame. I began my exit, but he spoke right as I passed him at the door.
"Don't give me that innocent fu cking look."
My heart skipped a beat. I couldn't help but stop in my tracks.
"What the f uck did you tell the police?" he said. He put a hand on my shoulder and turned me to face him.
If my thoughts were a man walking down the street, he would have tripped and stumbled into on-coming traffic. I met his eyes. "W-what?"
"What did you tell the police?" he crossed his arms. His gaze was some what challenging - like he dared me to tell the truth.
"What do you mean, 'what did I tell the police?' " I gathered the cord of the headphones into my now clammy palm and stuck them in my sweater pocket
"About that night. You KNOW what I'm talking about."
"What?! When Jury supposedly smashed a bottle on you?"
"The fu ck do you mean 'supposedly?' It happened!"
"Well that's obvious." I hugged the textbooks close to me.
Bryant huffed, running a hand over his face. "Okay, if you didn't talk to the police, then the fu ck? You've been avoiding me for the past two weeks. You haven't answered a single one of my calls or texts. Have you been around Jury?"
"Oh, right, well the police somehow think that Tristan and I fu cking beat him that night. How did they draw THAT conclusion?"
"Maybe Jury told them."
"You talked to him. And you BELIEVE what HE told you?"
My heart rate began to accelerate. "W-well, a little, because you didn't tell me anything. You came in and you were swearing at me and I was and still am pissed at you."
He took a step towards me. "Did you talk to the police? Were you there when he got arrested?"
"Actually," my heart rate continued to accelerate, "I was."
He eyed me, his eyebrows furrowing. His mouth hung slightly open, and he tilted his head. "So you DID talk to the police?"
My heart rate. Skyrocketing. I hugged the books tighter. "Ye-eah. I had just taken Rhetoric and Roxanne to the post office. The police were out front when I pulled in. Roger asked me to speak up for Jury, so I did." My heart rate. I just used the words 'speak up.' My heart rate.
"You did. What?" a book fell from my arms as he pushed me against the wall by my shoulders, taking me by surprise. His grip was like iron. "You 'stood up' for him, over me?"
Heart rate. My shoulders were throbbing. "I-I did it because Jury's my friend. And it didn't affect you directly!"
He threw his head back in a short chuckle. "He's 'your friend!' " he spat back at me, "do you even SEE what he did?! ELEVEN STITCHES." Bryant took a hand from one of my shoulders to pull the bottom of his shirt up, revealing part of the deep, large gash stitched together. "And 'not affect me directly?' So the court date was a magical coincidence---,"
"---that – you know, I don't want you to formulate any other fu cking excuse because," it took a moment for him to get THIS together, "they're all the same." He had his face in mine and he was practictically holding me by my throat with his gaze. "You didn't 'stand up' for him. You betrayed /me./" He released me and ran a hand over his face. "I have to be fu cking /benched/ at the games until this heals. I don't think you realize the other part, that I'll be kicked off of the bloody team if I get in trouble for allegedly beating up 'your friend.' " The way he said those last two words stung my face. I was flinching with every syllable he enunciated.
"Bryant. . . I'm sorry." I stood in silence, hugging the books that remained in my arms.
He turned away and removed his shirt, going to sit on the couch. I involuntarily followed him and briefly surveyed his torso when he sat, and the gash still ran from his collarbone to his stomach. It looked like one long, large scab from where I stood. He had gotten settled into his seat, and kicked his legs up onto the coffee table. "I'm fucking tired of you treating him better than you treat me."
"But I don't!"
He gave me an infuriated look. "Are you even /KIDDING/ me?! You think you prioritize me more than him?!" he was leaning forward on the couch. "THIS discussion sounds familiar."
"Look, he doesn't---,"
"What, 'he doesn't know anything?' 'He's just a kid?' I would prefer to not have to say that you prioritize that fucking /pot-smoking/ ALCOHOLIC over me. That makes me LIVID, Diesel, LIVID."
I went to sit on the couch next to him. I still carried the textbooks.
"I don't think I've made my point clear when I said I don't want you around him."
"Bryant, I've only seen him by /coincidence/ at Wammy's."
"At Wammy's? How about you not go there anymore?"
"What? I take classes---,"
"It's never good for an alcoholic to enter a liquor store."
"What are you saying?"
"You're in an environment with Jury in it."
"An alcoholic reference, though?"
He ran a hand over his face and huffed. "I don't want you fucking around him. I don't want you to be in the same building as him, I don't want you to fucking text or call him, and I don't want you thinking about him." He laughed. "Roman and I could agree on these terms."
I stood. "W-what? You're not my parent, you can't tell me who---,"
"But no, you're gonna talk to Jury anyway! AFTER HE ALMOST KILLED ME."
"Bryant, you don't have to yell."
"Like FU CK I don't have to yell!"
"So you’re going to ‘forbid’ me from talking to Jury? Who the fuc k do you think you are?"
"Are you saying you /will/ talk to him now?"
"I don't think I should be listening to you, because you're being worse than Jury has ever been!" I turned to leave, when he then stood. He turned me around then grabbed my throat, squeezing at the base of my neck. I felt my heartbeat under the pressure of his hands, and I began to panic. I clawed at the vises with one of my hands but they wouldn't budge.
"I don't like that you betrayed me." He leaned his forehead forward, holding my eyes painfully.
I tried to choke out a plea for him to release me, but it didn't work. In fact, I felt him squeeze even harder. Previously, there had been an annoyed wrinkle at the corner of his left eye, along with a furrowed eyebrow. He took one of his hands from my throat and held my chin, pressing a painfully hard kiss to my lips, then planting a trail of limp kisses along my jawline. When he pulled back, his eyes were now vacantly calculating many things as he exhaled very slowly – his eyes glanced from either sides of my collarbone, to his shaking hand on my thoat. He started kissing my numbing lips again, taking one hand from my thoat and slipping it under my shirt.
I could hear my heart beating in my ears and my entire body throbbed and cringed as no oxygen was reaching my lungs and I began to thrash, dropping the books on Bryant’s shoe-less feet.
He swore and released his grip on my throat, pushing me backward towards a window. I coughed and gasped for air as I tried to gain my bearings, and also took note of the receding black that had begun to overtake my vision not but five seconds ago. I clawed for things around me to keep from collapsing, and found the drapes. I tore them down as I lost balance.
Bryant continued to swear, demanding that I come back to him. I realized that I needed to get the fu ck out of there. I coughed and gagged as I got to my knees to stand, and stumbled forward. My sweater was slipping off of my shoulders, and I could hear Bryant coming after me. I realized I wasn't prepared for stairs when I got to them, and Bryant had taken a hold of my wrist.
"If you don't open this door, I'm breaking it down."
I was crying, again. My diaphragm's uncontrollable spasms picked up and I was gasping for air.
"I-if," I was able to choke in between hiccups here and there, "if you come in here and tr-try to lay a finger on me, I will blind you w-with a can of air freshener and gag you with this to-oilet plunger." I located these items under the sink.
"I bet you would. Baby, open the door."
"Wh-why? How do you expect. . . "
". . ."
"How do you /honestly/ think I want to face you?” I felt hysteria build in my chest. “I'm fucking scared for my LIFE."
"Diesel. . ."
Every second of silence felt like a day. "Your m-other's supposed to be home any minute now, isn't she? You just want me out."
"No, look, I want to talk to you---,"
"Y-ou leave me the f uck alo-one until your mom gets here."
"Please let me in. Or you come out, something. I just want to see if you're okay."
"HAHAHA. IF 'I'M OKAY.'" My sweater was torn. I swore aloud. "You better fix the drapes. I'm n-not coming out until your mom's here."
"I'll break the door down." he said softly.
"Y-ou plan on fixing it before she gets back?"
"Diesel, can you come out? Can we talk?" It sounded as if he slumped against the door.
I sputtered out in laughter, rubbing the injury on my lip across my teeth by mistake."Ar-are you even serious?! Is that a JOKE?!”
He didn't answer. I sat with my back against the tub, and I hugged my knees to my chest. I cried out and swore at him after a few minutes. He whispered in response, "I'm so sorry."
Thinking about what had previously happened burned my head, and it felt like my chest was tightening. My legs quivered and I couldn’t stop pressing my thighs together. After rolling my sleeves up to examine what had been done, dark bruises were formed all the way up my arms. My lip throbbed harder than mentioned earlier. I couldn't feel the bruises on my neck. I also couldn’t feel in between my legs. I hunched forward, pressing the numbness. My throat burned so much that I could barely think. My ears rang. To feel like this; to feel stripped of dignity. To feel this terror and helplessness. Any confidence I’ve ever had, and any happiness of my past were a far, distant thing in this moment. Any opinion and any say and authority I’ve ever been entitled to; these entitlements were gone, and I now felt like the smallest person on earth. The realization of being stripped of any control I’ve ever had, the realization of being completely taken advantage of, and the experience of being phyiscally belittled, would render any one just as inaudible as I felt.
"No, you're not." I sat and cried some more. "Why would you do this? You. . . Y-ou shouldn't ever do this. . . "
After sitting in the ear-ringing silence, the hysteria melted into a sort of resolve; resolve to escape. He was leaning against the door. I could see his jeans in the crack, and I could pull it from behind him. After approaching the door as quietly as I could when I gained confidence in standing, I opened it, allowing Bryant to tumble backwards. I leaped over his body and had a few steps in place, then making my way around to the stairs. I took my keys from where I left them on a table in the atrium at the bottom, and snatched the doorknob with shaky hands. Of course, it was locked. I frantically fumbled with the deadbolts and removed the chain. But I wasn't fast enough. He had a hand on the door as I tried pulling it, pressing it closed.
When I looked up at his monstrous face, he had his bottom lip in between his teeth. I thought I observed blood dribbling out of his mouth, but I was too terrified to cease watching his eyes – to see what he had planned next. The blood drained from my hands and face, and I was so terrified I couldn’t even scream or beg him not to touch me, and I couldn’t even move.
He took in my fear, exhaling rigidly. "You can't leave.”
I fucking hate everyone and everything and I will now go sit in the corner and think about why I created this poor girl only to have these horrendous atrocities committed against her.