aaange! (neonbuzzz) wrote,
aaange!
neonbuzzz

yeah, livejournal.

alright, I'm now using this space to work on my college essay... Feel free to take me off your friends list if it takes up too much space. Also, feel free to make any suggestions if anyone actually reads this.




it wasn't supposed to be like this.
IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS.
IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS.

He was charged with attempted murder. I didn't even know he owned a gun. But now I knew he owned plenty. The police told me. Private eyes.
It wasn't going to be like this. We were just going to buy a new fridge. Paint my room. Get a new house. We just bought a new fucking car. But now what? My mom can't stop crying. I can't stop crying. My face stung last night from how many tears streamed down my face. I tried to count them, but the cops just wouldn't stop talking.
I heard a gun shot. And then he left. He fucking left me up in my room and drove away. He left me by myself to wake up to police men in my driveway. Their cars blocking off my house. Telling me I couldn't go back inside, it was a crime scene. Law number X said I couldn’t get my shoes. Law number X said I had just become a subject. Law number whatever decided my life was just about to change.
They kept asking me questions. I didn't know the answers. I didn't know what happened. They forced me to stay in that cold fucking police car until I had finished my statement. They wouldn't even let me go see my dad when he got there. They made me just finish writing. Write. Write. Write. Right.
Then I cried in my dad's shoulder. He just sat there and rubbed my back while we waited for my mom to come home.
She couldn't stop crying. Not even to look brave.
She said everything was going to be ok. Christian was right in pulling the trigger. He was right. He was right. He was right. Law number X says self defense is not a crime. But who cares? The people harassed us. Why should it matter? They called us fucking pigs. Freedom of speech, they said. Freedom to bare arms. Abused bill of rights. Who cares? Not the police. Not the ones who watched me fucking sob in their car and wished me a happy birthday.
I can't tell anyone. Except Sam. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Sam.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you, Christian.
soon everyone will know. "THERE'S THE GIRL! HER STEP DAD TRIED TO KILL SOME GUY!" I can hear them now.
Mom told me to keep my head up. She said he would come back home. I would come back home. Our happy fucking family would come home. The fucking Cleavers. Everything would be okay.
But dad wont let me see you again. He’s afraid. I’m afraid. The police were looking for the bullets for hours. I think. I don’t know. They wouldn't tell me anything.
I’m afraid.
Mom says we'll be alright. We’ll get our house back. We’ll be fine. But I can't look at her without sobbing. We’re not fucking alright. He’s in jail. And my mom and I sit her. Confined. I have another house, but she doesn't. Where will she go?
His dad was there. Looking so frail. I cried on him, too. Or for him. Whatever. He just said everything will be alright.
Are these people insane? Nothing's going to be alright.
I can't breathe.
I feel so trapped.
I'm so fucking numb.
I can't eat.

Where’s my perfect family? Where’s our pool? Where are our perfect dogs? Our trampoline? What happened? It was the gun..
This is all a dream.
I’m so fucking numb.

-

And now I have all this sympathy. From people who were strangers to me. Now they want to help me.
Well I don't want to hear them. Or touch anyone. Get the fuck away.

-

Besides the fact that my dad wont ever let me stay under the same roof as Crhistian again, things might just be ok.

When I don’t think about it, I don’t hurt.

-
Isolation.
It happens when I can't face people. When I call things of and break people's hearts because I’m incapable of dealing with my own fucked up emotions. It happens when my old best friend calls to tell me she's sorry and she misses me and wants me to call, but a week passes and I can’t seem to pick up my phone.
It happens when my mom and I lay together on the same bed watching the little mermaid, but I put a blanket over me so I won’t have to worry so much about touching her. I don't call my dad to tell him where I’m staying, instead I leave a message. Voice to voice interaction is too much strain.

It’s called isolation. And it's going to be the end of me

-

My guidance counselor called me down to talk about “the incident.” Welcome to the school of undesirable conversations. She told me it was my vice principal who told her all about it. Welcome to the hell of unnecessary rumors.

-







Mom, I love you. But sometimes you forget that you are the mother, here.
I can't keep wiping your tears away from your face and paying for our dinner as your run out of the restaurant.
I can't keep watching you cry, telling you not to worry.
Because I want to fucking cry too. But I can’t. Because the tables have turned, and I’m taking care of you, now.
I have to tell myself that it's all okay, even my favorite teacher- the one i can tell ANYTHING to, I can't cry in front of him. Not anyone. Not my best friends. Not my fucking self.
But a letter in the mail says that soon our house will no longer belong to us. Aletter in the mail says those people are suing us for all that they can. A letter in the mail says that soon we'll have nothing.
see also: poor.
see also: homeless.

Take a drink, mother.
And take me away from here so I can start a fictional novel about a little girl who watched her world fall apart from the confines of her father's house, and didn't say anything. A little girl who could scream in the locked bathroom as long as no one was home and she wasn't in front of the mirror. About the little girl who wished she could save the world, but could barely get out of her bed.


-

And I'm starting to wonder when it was I started bawling at the mention of an empty pool. Empy pools like empty laughter when we make empty jokes about our empty house. And empty threats that got filled with either bullets or eviction notices or lawyers bills. And while they call this new place home, I can't make my mouth move that way. I don't have a home. Maybe this new building will satisfy. Three weeks turned into three months. I bet they didn't think that would happen. I bet she wouldn't have promised me our new "home" at the end of April if she really meant June. And I’m starting to question the motives of this fifty dollar bill she gave me. I bet you didn't know I’d use it to buy drugs. Drugs that I used to inhale everything away.
The only one who isn't broken hearted is the only one who doesn’t have a heart. I’m not talking about someone who doesn't exist. I’m talking about me. Subtly doesn't seem to be my strong suit. Apparently disguises are.
I can’t feel. Still.
Where’s my therapist when I need her?

-





One might call it irony, or maybe karma, that just one year ago I was crying in my best friend's room about having to move into that damn house. But here I am, laying on empty sheets, surrounded by empty walls that used to be filled with pictures of passing friends, soaking my cat's fur with worn out tears. These walls were once filled with magazine covers and Johnny Depp. They were covered with Shannon and Kristine. But just like everything else in my life, I tore it all down. Every picture, every page, every god damn piece of tape- I ripped it off when this fucking house ripped out my heart. The tape rips and leaves marks of plaster that I refuse to let them re paint. Don’t they get it? Each mark of plaster represents a shard of my scattered heart. I am supposed to be able to piece this back together, but instead they want me to cover it up with some new color that will make me look just like everyone else. Suddenly, paint is all I need. But, you see, I don't HAVE paint. I don't own any fucking colors dark enough to cover up everything I have to hold inside. So instead, I pick up this cat, and put on my new dark sunglasses. I paint on a smile and walk downstairs. I tell my mom everything I want packed from my room, which consists of solely a bed and a desk. She questions my motives and follows me across to the pool, where I dip my feet in- and make sure that no one can see that I’m crying. I sit. I sit. I sit. And eventually, the questions stop. The world stands still. And it's almost as if this house is mine, and I’m normal. Almost.

-

The Daily Show is running on repeat and everyone’s laughing and all I can see are the four police cars lined up outside and my dad says, “look familiar?” and I say, “well, our neighbors weren’t so close.” And we get one good fucking chuckle from my pain. But the blue lights flash to blood and gunshots. And guns mean tears and tears mean five more diary entries tonight. I feel avoided and unwanted. But my shrink will tell me what to do. Just five more days.

-


We went to the lawyers office yesterday. It was the first time I had met him. He wanted to have a meeting with me and go over my statement. Only on days like these is everything real. These are the only times when they make me think about it. And this man just seemed so... heartless. He made me talk and talk and talk about that day. And I would stare off in space and try to remember. Just fucking remember. Well then, why have I been trying so hard to forget? Then he made me listen to this tape. The 911 call. It has a name. Some number. Some code to be easily accessed. I heard my voice on that tape and I put my head in my hands and just tried to block it all out. There I was. The phone in my hand. I had no idea what was happening. I was such a fucking idiot. And it turns out, that call, it wasn't what I thought it was. I thought Christian had called them before the gun shot. Telling them that my mom and had an "altercation" with the man next door. Jesus. They just slap all these names on my history. But apparently Christian called that place and lied. He said the neighbors shot at him. He called and he lied and he buried himself. I must have dreamed the scenario I had imagined. What I wrote on my statement was phone:gunshot:cry. What happened was gunshot:phone:lies. This lawyer sat there and gave me a million more facts that I have to remember for our next meeting. He gave me a brand new history. He gave me a brand new situation. What I thought happened doesn't matter anymore. I’ll get up on that stand and tell them whatever they want to hear. Because, at this point, if I said what I thought I would tell them to fucking lock that liar up for as long as it takes. Because I trusted him. and I shouldn't have. I really hate this. After I met with that man I went into his bathroom and sat and stared and cried and cried. Then I wiped my eyes and went outside. Said a few jokes and told my mom I was fine. Everything was fine. Just fine. Yeah, it's a cover. But who the fuck cares?


What I have so far-






It has been said that the real troubles in life are apt to be the things that never crossed your mind, the kind that blindside you at four o’clock on some idle Tuesday. In my case, it was eight o’clock on a Thursday.
My life shouldn’t have ended up the way it is. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Two years ago we were just about to buy a new fridge, one of the modern silver ones with the ice dispensers. It would have been a step up from our rustic white one which broke down once every two months. We were just about to paint my room, my 78x87 room with walk in closet, step off balcony, and built in shelves for the walls.
But then something happened. An unexpected change of plans. My mom couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t stop crying. My face stung that night from the amount of tears which came pouring down my face. My face felt the way a sunburn looks on an old man’s bald head after falling asleep in the hot sun for three hours. I heard a gun shot. And then he left. Him, my mom’s boyfriend. Middle aged, overweight, balding, entrepreneur. What a catch. He left me up in my room to run away from the police the night he shot at our neighbor. He left my by myself to wake up to police men in my driveway. Their cars blocking any exit I could have found, telling my I couldn’t go back inside my house. Law number 67D said that I couldn’t get my shoes. Law number 98786 said I had just become a subject, a number, a necessity to be questioned. Law number whatever decided my life was about to change.
The men in the cars kept asking me questions I didn’t know the answers to. I didn’t know what had happened. They forced me to stay in a cold police car until I had finished my statement. Badge number 8698 told me I couldn’t even see my dad. He just made me finish writing, writing, writing. When I had finished, I ran on the cold pavement to my dad. No shoes. No socks. Just skin. I cried in my dad’s shoulder while he just sat there holding me in silence while we waited for my mom to come home. There was nothing much to say. When I finally saw my mom, she couldn’t stop crying. Not even to look brave to me. She was vulnerable like I had never seen her before, still, she was telling me everything was going to be okay. Christian was right in pulling the trigger. He was right. Law number 86986 says self defense is not a crime. But what did it matter now? The people harassed us. They called us fucking pigs. Freedom of speech, they said. Freedom to bare arms. This is what the bill of rights is protecting. But who cars? Not the police. Not the men who watched me sob in their car while wishing me a happy belated birthday but forcing me to continue to write down the memories of gun shots and blue lights before they left my head.
I couldn’t tell anyone. It was too awful of a scene to describe. But, sure, it was in the paper, my last name mentioned, my age, the number of guns Christian had in the house, the state of our house, the trash, everything. Soon everyone would know. My mom told me to keep my head up. She said he would come back home. I would come back home. Our happy family would be reunited. TV Family, everything would be okay. But my dad wouldn’t let me see him again. He was afraid. I was afraid. The police were looking for the bullets for hours, a fact I learned only from the papers the following day. I was afraid. But my mother still said we would be fine. Maternal instincts. The Feminine Mystique. She said we would be fine, but I couldn’t look at her without crying. We were not alright. Christian was in jail while my mom and I sat outside our seemingly perfect home waiting to be interrogated more, waiting for permission to leave or for a restraining order. Confined. I had another home. Another family. Another place to go. But she had nothing. All I kept thinking about was where she would go, what she would do. Maternal instincts. I felt so trapped. So number. I couldn’t eat.
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