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Previous entry: Okay, ENOUGH ABOUT MICHAEL JACKSON. in category (general)

Story, First Page, Slightly Mature, Read at your risk >;DCategory: (general)
Monday, 6 July 2009
12:46:50 PM (GMT)
So this is a story about a girl, who falls for a guy, but not in love as you might
think, as she already knows that it’s the twenty-first century, and love died along
with the Dodos. So let’s give her a name, something no self respecting parent would
ever name their child, not if they gave half a shit about what their child’s future
social life would be like. And let’s name the guy something offhand as well,
something you would be more likely to find in an obituary notice than in, let’s
say, your tenth grade homeroom. Why don’t we make them different? From each other,
and from the rest of the world. She can have a confused psyche, and he a confusing
life. They will meet, not as a chance, or as a twist of fate, but as destiny’s
     And just as a stroke of twisted morbid sadism, why don’t we make them both
.   .   .
     I looked at her as I would to a stocky man wielding a chainsaw, but as if I
wasn’t sure if she was going to start threatening to cut off various appendages
yet. For some strange, unexplained reason, I was under the impression that if I just
stared long enough, the mocha coloured pupils would surrender her secrets; that if I
dove deep enough, I could make some sense of her. She stared calmly back. The kind of
calm derived from a psychotic serial killer the moment before she decides to puncture
your lung with a toothpick. Somewhere in the back of my mind, someone told me to go
to sleep, but I ignored the command. I was fascinated. She posed as such a mystery,
everything she decided to do seemed unorthodox, like if she chooses her actions based
on how surprised the people around her were, rather than using logic. She looked
surprised that I had thought of that revelation, her eyes went wide, and her pupils
dilated. I blinked; she copied my actions, her short eyelashes temporarily closing my
line of vision.
     Go to sleep! The voice started up again, this time sounding a bit more like my
mother. The voice materialized outside my door, sounding irritable. The muttering
continued: and stop looking at that goddamned mirror! I closed my compact, too tired
to think about how my mother was supposedly living a 23-hour drive away. I exhaled a
breath that I didn’t know I’ve been holding, flopped on my bed, utterly
exhausted, and fell into a sleep not unlike the living dead.
     Before I had the conscious decision to wake up, I could already feel a sort of
simmering argument coming from downstairs. Before I realized it was an argument
between two humans, and not some sort of mammalian rodents, I knew it was about me.
The square of every conversation under the roof of this house, confrontational or
not, seemed to be about be being Here, and not Somewhere Else. Dear step-mummy was
too worried about the kind of influence I would have on her spawn. The spawn of the
devilish woman who sucked out the soul of my father through his “happy gland” and
kept it somewhere along the area of her cervix, and in the process got herself
knocked up. I wasn’t too fond of being Here either, so I just stretched, and
     The argument didn’t last long, it simmered, came to a boil, and then
evaporated, just like most conversations involving something two sane adults and
something they wanted to ignore. After five, ten minutes of silence, it dawned on me
that they were waiting, waiting for me to go downstairs. I smiled; it seems as if
they decided on some kind of agreement. I deemed it appropriate to haul myself out of
bed, and brush my teeth as if I just woke up and was slightly irritable with having
to get up.
     I clomped down the stairs and into the kitchen, looking everything like a
fifteen year old in need of her morning sugar fix. They were there already, my dad
and my late mother, and looking slightly apprehensive, much to my delight. While
toasting my Eggo waffle, I snuck glances at the mismatched couple behind me.
Stepmother looked more worried, her makeup smeared, as if she applied both mascara
and eyeliner without sticking out her tongue in that artistic manner we all know so
well. My father looked more stoic, passive. A plate of eggs lay before him, but he
never touched, looked at or ate them. I remembered with a pang of something like
sadness−but not quite sadness, because if I opened that dam it would never stop
flowing−of how life was like before. When me and my dad would have petty play
arguments about pointless things, like whether we should have ham or turkey for
thanksgiving dinner, and if we had ham, whether we should call it “ham” or
“jambon”. Because even though we lived in an Anglophone section of Canada, jambon
sounded so much more appetizing. Those times are gone; they came A.M and B.S, after
mom and before stepmother. Honestly, I don’t know how my father chose her. I think
he walked into the nearest strip club and picked the first woman he saw with decent
cooking skills, and no visible sign of C-section.
The sound of her breathy, irritating voice brought me out of my brooding. The
terrible bitch had a terrible bitching voice to match. Her voice matched her
profession. It was the falsetto sultry kind. The kind that can charm underage patrons
at youth beds straight to her bed, but also made her sound completely horny every
moment of the day, like if she didn’t satisfy “her needs” three times every
hour with a stick of some sort of stick-like object, she would go stark-raving-mad.

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