60

An intelligent woman.
A beautiful woman.
Knew all the variants, all the possibilities.
Reader of Duchamp's aphorisms and the stories
of Defoe.
In general possessing an enviable self-control,
Except when she got depressed and got drunk,
Something that could last two or three days,
A succession of Bordeaux and Valium
That would give you goosebumps.
Then she'd usually tell you what happened to her
Between the ages of 15 and 18.
A pornographic horror movie,
Naked bodies and business deals that skirted the law,
A vocational actress and at the same time a girl with
strange strokes of greed.

An age like any other, I told her when we dined
By candlelight
Pondering the flow of the planet's most literary river.
But for us prestige lay elsewhere,
In bands possessed by slowness, in gestures
Exquisitely slow
From dishevelment
In dark beds,
In the geometric mutliplication of empty shop windows
And in the grave of reality,
Our absolute,
Our Voltaire,
Our philosophy of bedroom and boudoir.
Like I said, an intelligent girl,
With the rare virtue of foresight

And she wasn't going to be any less,
A bankbook and a photo of Tristan Cabral,
Nostalgia for the unlived,
While that prestigious river trailed a dying sun
And down her cheeks rolled seemingly gratuitous tears.
I don't want to die, she whispered while escaping
In the shrewd darkness of the bedroom,
And I didn't know what to say,
I really didn't know what to say,
Except to caress her and support her while she moved
Up and down like life,
Up and down like the poets of France,
Innocent and punished,
Until she returned to Planet Earth
And from her lips sprouted
Passages from her adolescence that filled our bedroom
on the spot
With copies crying on metro escalators
With copies making love to two guys at once
While rain was falling outside
Over garbage bags and over abandoned pistols
In the garbage bags,
Rain that washes everything
Except for memory and reason.
Dresses, leather jackets, Italian boots, lingerie to
drive you mad,
To drive her mad,
They appeared and disappeared in our phosphorescent,
throbbing bedroom,
And quick strokes of other less intimate adventures
Flashed in her wounded eyes like fireflies.
A love that wasn't going to last long
But that by dessert would have become unforgettable.
That's what she said,
Seated by the window,
Her face suspended in time,
Her lips: a statue's lips.
An unforgettable love
Beneath the rain,

And in the middle
All the inextinguishable capacity to inflict pain,
Undefeated through years,
Undefeated through loves
Unforgettable.
Yes, that's what she said.
An unforgettable love
And brief,
Like a hurricane?
No, a love brief as the sigh of a guillotined head,
The head of a king or Breton count,
Brief like beauty,
Absolute beauty,
That which contains all the world's majesty and misery
And which is only visible to those who love.

- Roberto Bolano

57

You asked me recently, how I was since we last met. I said fine, you know - just work and stuff. What I meant to say was disjointed, discontented, irrevocably horrendous. And not at the absence of you. But at the absence of sanity.

It's funny you know - how in order to escape the questions and permeating stares of everyone from that life - I created another person. It's ironic though, that the new person, this mythological being of resonating thought is conducting and shouting the story, our story to the world, and everyone asks her questions and she answers. Because she can. Because it's not her story. And I don't mind. I have always wanted my version of the story out there for all those disbelieving collegues and peers who thought it was nothing but inconsequential lies and only listened to the chinese whispers. I don't mind her answering the questions she tries to answer. It's not her story, I just allow her to tell it.

My fear though, is that once she is caught out, once I am exposed as the true narrator, I will have to live in another persons shadow, and then another and another, until eventually, I will be living in the darkness. In the darkness no one can find me, in my world there will be no lights that people can switch on to find me and point their accusatory fingers. In my world - it will be just me and the shadows of my existence.

For so long, I have waited for this story to be told. So that all those people who pointed and stared, laughed, mocked, abused me can understand why all this happened.

You know - I think I have said that this all made me who I am today. Well now, I don't believe that. I think I was already who I am today. I think you just opened my eyes to it. I think you just mastered a new plan for my life, by the forces of whatever conscious thought and karma is out there, to help me see that if I continued with my own plan of self-destruction, I would not only destroy myself, but everyone else around me.

I am sorry. I don't lie when I say that, and I say it with no hesitation. That is my one ultimate truth. But I think sometimes, that I cannot stop. This way of life, this disease is embedded so deep in my blood that I cannot escape it until I escape this life.

So I think, for now, that Amelie can continue to live in the shadow of my previous existence. So I can try and break out of these chains that have weighed me down for so long, too long. And if anything happens in the meantime - I can't be blamed. It's not me, it's Amelie. She is yours now. Don't treat her any differently.

Besides all this, how am I?
I'm fine - you know, just work and stuff.

56

There Was A Time, I Need Not Name


There was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same
As still my soul hath been to thee.

And from that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,

None, none hath sunk so deep as this---
To think how all that love hath flown;
Transient as every faithless kiss,
But transient in thy breast alone.

And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,
Remembrance of the days that were.

Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again,
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain.

Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.

George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron

55

I don't see your face today. Because I know I don't need to. I just ache for you, as always. I can feel the heat of the sun shining even though it is behind black clouds, and I am warmed by this, knowing that soon, soon the warmth on my skin will be from your hands. Soon my flesh will be clawing at yours, trying to get in, in so deep that there is no escape.
I want to die, I want you to plunge into me so violently and fill me up so much that there is no room left for my insides, so there is only room for you, so you can take up residency within me. I want to open my eyes and see blackness, with your face fading in. Smiling, laughing, eyes as blue as the ocean, letting me swim in you.
I know I don't have to wait long for this, but this dying, this long and painful death that I have been enduring, basking in for so long now, will carry out forever, it wont end until you put an end to it. Please don't. I enjoy the pain of not having you here. It makes the joy of having you near even greater.
But I don't have to wait long now.
Tomorrow
Tomorrow
I'll love you
Tomorrow
It's only a day away....

54

I can feel myself slipping. As the dusty pink sky scatters itself against the city skyline, dispersing a faint pink glow that reflects off the river, bounces off the building windows and tinges the black asphalt roads with a cotton candy lining, I can feel myself slipping, fading with the sunlight. The train is rattling along the tracks, going faster and faster, sending my mind into further oblivion. Looking out the window I can see all the cars full of suited employees making their way home to hot cooked meals and warm beds.

I feel so cold lately. No matter how close I sit to the heaters, no matter how many layers of clothes I pile on to my body in a vain attempt to hide it from the prying eyes of ogling men, I still feel so cold. My bones shiver and my knees ache at always having to support my tiny frame. I don’t think I have the energy to stand up anymore. But lying down hurts so much. When I lie down, your chest is not there for me to rest my head on, your arms are not there to wrap around me, your hands are not there to caress my ribcage, your breath is not there to let me know that you are real.

Life is an exhaustion to lead. Breathing is a struggle to continue. What is the point of it all, if only to get through this torture? But you are gone now, how will I carry on my existence without you? You are my existence. I can’t be who I am without you here urging me on.

My days go by in a blur now. All I see is grey. My peripheral vision has shrunk to only see what is front of me, to block out the people behind me, beside me, pointing and laughing, looking at me with pity and disgust in their eyes. Dirty slut, they call me. What is a slut? Someone who sleeps around with many people? What am I then, how can they call me that, when I’m still untouched?

But they don’t know that. Will they ever know that? Will you stand beside me whilst I scream and cry and try to release this torment that has taken hold of me? Will you help me pull off these cold metal chains that weigh me down and stop me from moving forward? Will you caress my back and stroke my cheek, as I try and sleep away this exhaustion? Will you hold my hair back as I double over and purge the disgusting memories of the things I have been told, as I purge all the lies?

I try and live my life as normally as possible. I feel like an actress, going through the motions, reading the lines, saying what I am supposed to say, what they want to hear, looking where I am supposed to look, and avoiding the eyes of those I’m not supposed to look into, doing what I’m supposed to do, and nothing more.

There is not much else I can really do. There is not much more I can really feel. All I feel now is the absence of you. This deep, ravenous craving I have for you that takes hold of me at night, like a succubus takes hold of its victims, compels me to search for you. Everywhere I go, I look for you, every time the phone rings or I receive an email, I pray that it’s you. Until all the voices I hear and all the faces that glide past me are yours. And because my breath halts every time I think I see or hear you – now, I have just stopped breathing entirely.

Your voice is what reeled me in to you in the first place. Do you remember? I told you that once. How your voice, the first time I heard it, lit a fire in me that was so compelling, I lived my life to just hear your voice – even when I had you. I haven’t heard it in so long now. So long that even the memory of it is slowly fading. I don’t want it to fade. The thought of this scares me. I remember the last day I saw you. Its funny isn’t it, how both of us knew we were soon to come to an end. We just didn’t know how soon. It shocked us. Out of nowhere our lives were ripped apart by complete strangers. Cold, numbed, unknowing strangers. They shattered us. Tore us apart and expected us to keep living.

I am not living.
I died that day.

53 - When We Two Parted

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shrudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee so well--
Long, long I shall rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.

By Lord George Gordon Byron

52

I have worked "me" out.

Am I really a b!tch though?

I don’t think I have feelings, I know that sounds odd, but - I think I think I have feelings, but I don’t really feel them.

I think too much, and when something bad happens that requires me to cry or feel love or feel hate, I don’t actually feel those feelings, I just think them, so that I can continue to function normally.

Ie: I just had fight with one of my best friends (male) – he is all upset about it to the point of actually shedding a tear, where as I just want to avoid him, I don’t want to see his tears or hear his pleas, I don’t want to have to deal with his emotions, I don’t want them transferring to me. And although I miss him and feel bad about what has happened – I really don’t care. Like, I can walk away right now and not feel anything, I don’t feel anything. I want to either go back to the way we were, or leave it for good. Feelings just don’t enter into my equation.

And like – when I seem to get emotional –
I only say things because they seem like the right thing to say at the time.

“you make me want to smile all day” blah blah blah.
What crap is that! I don’t FEEL that! But I know its what they want to hear, keeps them happy, makes me seem normal to them.

I think I need help.

I don’t know if this is part of what happened – like, knowing I lost so much, its safer not to get close anymore?

51

You are a hunter, but I don't realise that yet. I walk through the woods with you, not realising that I am walking into your trap. You hold my hand and tell me sweet things, tell be everything will be okay, that there are no strings attached, that I am still free. When really you are saying, "You are mine, you aren't going anywhere."
All my life I have fought to be free, but now you are chaining me to the walls of your mind, feeding me everything I want to hear, everything I want to believe, and I fall into you, believing in you, not knowing who you really are, trusting my false instincts, and then, I slowly die.

I can't breathe because the hold you have on me is so tight. When I think of you I am physically sick, I think I am going crazy.

Everything I do is for you. Everything I say is about you. In all my dreams, you are there. You haunt me with everything you did and everything you do. When will I ever be rid of you? When will I ever be free? Whenever I get close to you, you fall away, keeping me hanging on as you make a new life for yourself, yet I can't do the same.

You tell me to wait for you, be there when the time comes, knowing full well that I will do that, you make me lose my life for you whilst you sit back and tighten your grip. Is it a game that you like to play? Toying with my mind? Am I the first or one of many? Do you enjoy it, what you do to me? This game that you like to play. Do you enjoy watching me crumble? Do you enjoy watching me bleed to death in your trap?

But then you make a meal of me. You drink my blood and eat my flesh like Jesus told his disciples to do, because that will make me a part of you, and you a part of me. Keeping me trapped, forever.

49

He made me want to kill. Its weird.
When I was with him, I wanted to kill my brother because it seemed that it was him that drove me to where I was, and when I wasn’t with him, afterwards, I wanted to kill him, especially when that bitch told me what they did.

For so long I haven’t spoken to you, no e-mails passed between us, but then I thought of you and all of a sudden “you’ve got mail” pops up on the screen.
I froze when I saw your name in my inbox. And of course now here I am contemplating seeing you again. Why is it that every time I write about you, it turns into a letter to you?
It always changes from ‘him’ to ‘you’. See what ‘you’ do? See what ‘he’ does?

Killing is pretty harsh isn’t it? I didn’t think it was at the time. Back then I was prepared to kill. Not just kill, but murder. I thought of how I was going to do it, what I was going to say, wear, leave the scene. I even got myself so worked up and ready to do it that I left a message to the priest asking for his forgiveness just in case I actually went through with it.

But of course I didn’t.

Back then I had nothing to live for. I was prepared. I was a serial killer, but only in my mind.

I tried killing my brother once. When he was sleeping I shoved a pillow over his face. I can’t remember what stopped me.

50

People holding each other, holding hands, arms around shoulders, touching each others faces.
And I sit alone. All these people that hold each other, all the ones I see are of similar ages, and they all look so compatible.

Dear D, I wish you could see me now.
Would you feel the same? Would you hold me the same way that they hold each other?
I wish I could see you now. I wish everything was how it was before.

But everything has changed. Nothing will ever be the same again.

This train is crowded. A man sitting next to me is wearing a beige, brown and blue tartan jacket with creased jeans. Nothing at all like you would ever wear. He is reading “Bringers of Death”. What does bring on natural deaths? I know love is killing me. How can everyone say that love is beautiful? Love is the worst kind of pain I could ever imagine. No one I ever see is quite like you.

I am so tired. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I can never stay awake, and when I do, I just do stupid random things.
I cut my hair yesterday. I was tired and I went into the bathroom and started cutting random pieces. I couldn’t stop myself. Perhaps if I made myself ugly no one would pay attention to me and my life wouldn’t be so complicated. I doubt it.

I have a constant headache. Nothing is helping it, or my tiredness. I don’t want to take drugs, but I cant see another choice at the moment.

I have work tonight. Can you imagine how I feel?
The park bench looked so tempting. I think if I sit down anywhere I could fall asleep instantly. I sleep well enough and my diet is fine, but I am so damn tired!

What is this world coming too? Everyone’s dying.
Terrorists are taking over, bombing everything and everyone, hurricanes are tearing apart major cities.
Maybe I should start believing in God.

I never wanted you to be a father figure to me. Although I do blame my father for my falling in love with you. Why do I do that?
I love you. I love you. I love you.
That sounds so strange now. Its been over a year since I last saw you and I cant stop loving you. No matter how much I hate you, I love you even more.
No one has ever been able to replace you. No one ever will.

Every other girl with their boyfriends the same age as themselves. Yet I don’t find that appealing. Age has a hold on me.

48

It’s weird how I felt when we were found out.
Indifferent. Empty. Hollow.
Yet light, as if there was a breeze drifting through me and I was finally free to fly away. I felt as if I was floating out of my body, watching everything happen from above.
I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be with him. It was relief that my secret was finally out. I could once again breathe.
But I wasn’t free from anyone.
I was still attached to all of them.
I was only free of the secret.
Don’t let them grind you down, I kept saying to myself. But what difference did it make if they did or not?
I was grinding myself down.

47

Seeing you again doesn’t make this pain any easier.
I am sick and tired of everything always being secret.
I am sick and tired of always having to say goodbye.
I can never have you and I have to learn to accept that. I have to learn to forget you.
But I can’t do that and I don’t know why.
I can’t hate you.

I try so hard to be angry with you. But it doesn’t work.
I am only ever angry at our situation, not at you. Or is it my situation? Because I really don’t think you care. My life doesn’t affect you. What happens to me doesn’t bother you.
So why do you affect me so much? Why does everything bad that happens to you bother me so much?
Why do I still love you?
Why did I ever love you in the first place?

This love hurts so much. The further away you get, the tighter my heart strings are pulled.
It is so pointless me telling you all this. This whole story is pointless because you don’t care. It is probably one big ego trip to you. Boosting your egotistic make mind because you made a naïve teenager become utterly obsessed and in love with you.
How dare you.
I was just an innocent.

Everyday I keep telling myself just one last time. One more email, one more visit, one more touch.
But one more turns into two more, then three more. Or I’ll tell myself that in one week I’ll leave you for good, then in one month, one more year, or the night before my wedding, then I’ll be cheating on my husband with you.

You are my addiction.
My secret stash of drugs.
I have to have you in my life.
I can never say goodbye.

46

Sometimes I want you to love me. I want to be the only one you yearn for.
But this is so dangerous.
So very, very dangerous.
It is a mind game.
A death wish.
I realized I loved you when they told me what would happen to you.
I couldn’t handle it, not any of it.

When I had you, I just used you to escape my life, so you could be someone I could go to and forge about everything else. But then, after awhile, it wasn’t about the fact that our bodies entwined with each other whenever we met in secret. It was an in-love situation where no one else mattered, and no one else besides you could give me what I wanted. Because what I wanted was you.

The mind can play extraordinary games with you when you are hiding such an extraordinary secret. Its like the feeling you get when you are drunk for the first time, when you know you shouldn’t be, when you can feel everybody’s eyes on you and you keep thinking “Oh my God, they know I’m drunk! I’m in big trouble!”
When really, no one is looking at you, and in fact it is just your guilty mind going into overdrive.

I can see your smile sometimes, in my mind, and hear your laugh, such a happy, and beautiful laugh that I loved to hear because I honestly cannot remember the last time when I had made a man laugh, except you. And I know that most of the time you were laughing at my immaturity or the childish things I did, like calling you Moses, but I didn’t care. Because when you laughed, your eyes would glisten and you would be happy. When you laughed at or with me, the smile would stay on your face for hours.
I loved to see you happy. Your happiness initiated contentedness within myself that I am truly grateful to you for. Were you genuinely happy?

It was selfish of me, very selfish indeed to involve myself in a relationship with you. Sorry. I knew all along that things would never go according to plan. But you knew that as well, didn’t you? You should have; you’re the one with the most life experiences; you’re the one that should know all. I’m still learning.

At home I was like the Mona Lisa. Always smiling a knowing smile, yet nobody knew what I was smiling about.
My
Secret
Smile.

45

I remember when I was about six years old; I watched a Pierce Brosnan James Bond film. The only scene I remember is when the female villain took an older man under the deck of a boat and fucked him. She fucked him so hard that he died. I didn’t realize at the time that he had died from a heart attack, but what implanted itself in my mind was that she fucked him to death. Ever since then, I had always thought that girls hold all the power. Piss us off and we will fuck you to death. Literally.

I think from that film I got the impression that men are to be used. Very selfish really, considering I didn’t even pay enough attention to the film to get his side of the story.

I don’t want to sound like a horrible person, but if you want to know my story, this is how it is going to be told. I will give you my side, and maybe then you will think that his isn’t that bad after all, and you will blame me, which is what I have done this whole time anyway. I don’t mind really, it makes sense. You will see.

43

It seems that when you enter into high school, everything changes. Your friendship groups, your family life, your social belonging.
It seems that we try to make high school what we always perceived it to be in the movies, magazines, and books we read.
But then again, if it wasn’t for these movies, magazines and books, high school would be a dull and boring place that students go to, to actually learn.

How is it then that a high school that is not in America and should not be Americanized, manages to have all its students roped into the belief that high school is all about sex, drugs and rock n roll?
Because that’s what it is.

Each boy was a conquest.
Each kiss was a point.
Each love letter was something to display.
Each boy you said no to was another boy that knew you were still free for him.

Well that’s what it seemed.
But let’s be honest. The only years that we actually spent learning were in the last 2-3 years of high school when it actually mattered.
The first 1-2 years were spent trying to get the hottest boy to notice you, or flirting with the teachers to get on their good side.

When a boy came along that we actually said yes to, life revolved around him.
Classes were spent staring at him.
Breaks were spent following him around.
Nights were spent dreaming of him.
Toilet breaks were spent touching up the still caked on and badly applied makeup to make him notice you even more.
If he had detention, you would do something wrong so that you would as well.
Detention was either for him, or for the teacher that you had a crush on that you could now spend more time alone with after school.
Even if you weren’t allowed to talk.

When I was “going out” with Ziggy, my life revolved around him.
And even though we only “dated” for almost a week, when he broke up with me, I cried for about three.

First crush.
First love.
First heartbreak.
Always hurts the worst.

44

Wagged classes. Scrappy hair. Smudged mascara. Heartbreak.
And so the tumultuous tales of boys to men begin.
The first crush begins it all.
The crush.
The obsession with boys.
The heartache.

Us girls began to read magazines way beyond our years, so we could sneakily read the sealed sections under the table in science class, trying to gain tips on how to give a better blow job, even though the mere thought alone of having a penis anywhere near our lips was enough to make us dry retch.

We would go to the library to read the human biology books designed specifically for the eyes of a male or female alone, so we could analyze and giggle at the diagrams of the male or female anatomy.

We would roll our skirts higher and put added padding in our bras, or just wear a bra when we didn’t even need one.

All this to give us more sexual appeal.
Why? So we could play under the table in math’s class? So we could brag to our friends about our sexual escapades with full detail, even when we never even kissed a boy, only read about how to in a magazine?

And what did it get us?
A name.
Slut.

42

Thirteen.
The unlucky number? Maybe so, but that’s where it all began for me.
When I was thirteen I was in grade eight at school. I was skinny with short black hair, and the tiniest girl in the school. I had a pretty good social group. It wasn’t until years later that we all dissipated away from each other.
When I was thirteen I was the queen of my brother. He was eleven and still in primary school. I was where he wanted to be and everyday after school I would be hounded with questions about high school life.
If only he knew what it was really like, maybe he would have stopped asking questions. But then again, if he was anything like me, he would have researched further.
High school was full of the typical groups you see on American high school movies. The tomboys, the girls and the boys who nobody could really decipher their true gender mainly because puberty hadn’t developed in their bodies yet and their voices hadn’t cracked, and they all had the same length and colour hair.
The populars, the people who could and did get along with anybody. They didn’t even need to necersarily get along with anybody, they just needed to be known by everybody and they were in. most of them even had the advantage of being well off in the social scheme with their parents being presidents or part of the rotary groups and other social clubs, or they were just plain wealthy.
Our best friends, the girls who sat up the front of class and may as well have used a Dictaphone to take down every word that the teacher said, did all their homework within the hour of receiving it and never missed a day of school. These girls became our best friends when we didn’t take notes, never did our homework and constantly wagged classes.
The others, the girls and boys who tampered with the “other” world. They wouldn’t necessarily wear black, or even show any signs of what they did. But everybody knew. These were the people who left school grounds at lunch time to go into the scrub, they would sit in the library and read books from the supernatural section, they would tune their minds out in class, and if you watched closely, you could see their mouths moving in some chant.
But then there were the people who were part of everything. Or at least more than one “class” of people. There were popular best friends, or there were other best friends. I guess I was a sort-of-popular other. I wasn’t exactly popular. My parents weren’t rich. They didn’t belong to any social clubs. But I did have my group of friends in the popular circle. And some of us were part of the others.

When you’re thirteen, your parents think you still have a few years to go before their child even begins to think about sex. They don’t think to question why their child wants to stay up late to watch the MA rated movies when at the beginning of the film there is a warning about the elaborate sex scenes.
Even though at thirteen, when your breasts are still budding, and you have no curves whatsoever, and your parents are considering sending you to the dentist for braces, its sex before school that’s on your minds. We didn’t go to school to learn. If we did, we wouldn’t spend 2 hours in the bathroom before school experimenting with our makeup that we “borrowed” from our mothers cabinet, or bought for ourselves on the sly. We wouldn’t burn our hair to a crisp with hair straighteners, and we wouldn’t still consider stuffing our bras that still don’t really fit anyway.
If our parents wouldn’t let us wear makeup until we were fifteen, there was also the option of keeping a makeup bag and mirror in our lockers at school, or getting to school early for the morning makeup-meet in the girls bathroom before home room. Because there was no way in hell that the thirteen year old boys who only thought about football and skateboarding could even glance at a girl if she didn’t have her badly inexperienced coat of makeup on her face.
But there weren’t just the thirteen year old boys that were on our dirty little minds. There was of course those men that are at the school everyday, the ones that do their best to teach you, the ones that sit at the front and give you penetrating stares with no idea of how our minds were interpreting those looks. As far as we were concerned, if we hitched our skirts up a bit, and tried to make our girly thirteen year old voices sound sexy, those penetrating stares meant a lot more than just “pay attention or you have detention”. We would dream about those teachers. Fantasize about them, and if we did have a crush on a teacher, his was the one class we never wagged, and did our best to either impress in, or act dumb so that we got that little bit of extra special attention that would make our hearts flutter and our in-betweens twitch when he stood behind us and spoke into our ears as his arm went around us to show us something on our papers. It was those moments that we longed for. We could breathe in his scent, and lightly touch his arm because he was practically hugging us from behind anyway. And then when he returned to the front of the class, we would remain in our daze and believe that we had a special connection with him, and that every look we received from him after that was a special signal that only the two of us could understand.

Then came the time where us girls had to decide amongst our selves what thirteen year old boy we were in love with and which one would become our first boyfriend. There were fights in which we had to justify ourselves in why we were a better choice for him than the other girl or girls that wanted him. Whether it is because he lived the closest to us, or we had more classes with him, or we were the same nationality, or even because our heights were perfect for each other. He was taller, and she just had to tippy-toe the tiniest little bit to be able to kiss him, even if she never did.

I still am not sure how I won the chance to pursue Ziggy. Perhaps it was the height debate, or the nationality issue. No body new where he got his dark skin from, but I rubbed in the issue that I was half Indian. So I tried to make the girls believe that maybe he was Indian too, although I knew for a fact that he was from a Mediterranean island.

Thirteen year old boys don’t pay much, let alone pay any attention to thirteen year old girls. The entry to high school life for the boys, was finding new mates to kick the footy around with, or finding new people who knew of better skate parks.

41

When I was sixteen, I took up work experience on the weekends and public holidays. When I was sixteen my brother went to jail for the first time. When I was sixteen I was told my father was dead. When I was sixteen I was abused by drug addict parents. When I was sixteen I tried to escape it al. When I was sixteen I had a painful affair with my boss. It killed me.

40

When I was sixteen, my step-fathers family moved in with us. They took over everything. They drowned out my brother and I. They would punish us. They would blame everything that happened on us, and our parents would just accept it. Locks were put on the outside of our bedroom doors, light globes taken out. We had to come straight home from school and whilst my brother was condemned to his bedroom, I was made to wash, iron and fold their clothes, clean their bathroom, vacuum their bedrooms and polish every inch of their house. Everyday. Then go to my room and not do my homework as they didn't believe in homework. That was for school only. We were allowed out for dinner, to set the table, eat, keep our mouths shut and then clean up after everyone. If there was a single crumb left in the kitchen or the dining room afterwards - we were hit, dragged, pulled by the hair and made to scrub everything all over again.

39

When I was sixteen, I came home from school to get ready for work when my mother told me my father was dead. That was it. Jim is dead. I cried, hysterically. Then I was hit. How dare I grieve over someone who is never around? He isn't your father. Your father is in the backyard. Now go to work.

38

When I was sixteen, my mother and step-father would demand that I fill up their home made milk-bottle bong with fresh water and then force me to sit with them whilst they killed each brain cell individually by getting stoned to incomparible measures. They would then force me to talk about my day, week, school, my brother, even though they weren't lisstening to a thing I said as they blew the marijuana smoke out of their throats, coughed to make the effects stronger and hacked up the bile that was lining their smoke filled stomachs.

37

When I was sixteen, I watched as my brother donned his school uniform, stole our parents bottle of Jack Daniels from the liquor stand and drink himself stupid before running all the way to school and passing out from alcohol poisoning as he entered the classroom. A bunch of half-cast kids bashed him up when he was defenceless, probably for not sharing the bottle that he drained in five minutes flat. My brother went to a juvenile detention centre when he finally hit back. Once.

36

I existed before this, I existed during this, and I can exist after this because I can control whom I will turn into and where I will go with my life. I will not be reduced to a minority. I will become everything and all because I can exist. I can become, and because I can move on. I will become happy.

35

Taken from your life
Like a book that’s ripped from your hands
Never wanting to let go.
I want to see what you will do for me
Wanting you to cry or show some emotion
You can’t see that I am trying
So hard for you to notice me
But to you I don’t exist
I died the day you left.

Why do you like screwing around,
With everything that was important to me
My life, my heart, my love,
The only thing that kept me sane
In this world that is nothing but purgatory.
You were prominent that’s why I chose you
But you are just like the rest of them
When it comes to the end.

I tried to grasp hold of everything I could
But like a lock of hair in the breeze
You slipped through my fingers.
I tried to imagine life without you
It is nothing like what I anticipated.
This is beyond my experience
You’ve done this more then me.
I thought that things would be easy
But I’m still yet to see the truth.

34

Please just let me pretend. Let me pretend that you are off somewhere saving the world instead of running for your life. Let me pretend that you are watching me through your own eyes and not those of spies. Let me pretend that you are someone different. Daddy, please let me pretend you love me.
When I told you what I had done, you said you still love me, but I heard the disappointment, I’d know that silence anywhere. It is your silence, and after it you resume questioning like I am someone being questioned in an interrogation room. I know I’ve never disappointed you so much as I have now. I know I’ve never felt so alone as I do now. You still don’t even know the full story. But I couldn’t tell you, there wasn’t enough time. You said that you didn’t know whether I loved him or not, so you wouldn’t judge the situation. But I don’t love him, I love you. Don’t you see that? Don’t you understand? Does no one understand? I was with him because of you. He was the closest thing to you that I could find. They say that a fatherless woman chooses a partner like her missing father. They are right. I needed you and where I couldn’t fine you, I found him.
Mom doesn’t understand why I still love you. You’re not here, you never have been. They don’t understand that I have a connection with you. You probably don’t even understand it. You are the most evil man that I have ever met. You are the devil and I am your light. I can always remember that whenever you hit mom and Tom, whenever you flew into your rage, whenever you became possessed, and then you looked at me, you stopped. I was the medication that made everything better. You never touched me.
“You are my angel” is what you told me. Let me still be your angel. And if you don’t love me anymore, at least let me pretend that you do. Because they wont let me pretend.

33

I can’t begin to tell you how much I would have loved you, if you had ever existed. Your life would have been hard, and my little darlings I could not have ever innocently let you live a life of hardship like I have.
My mother gave birth to me very selfishly, and I have never forgiven her for that, of course I keep my pain to myself. I was not about to let you grow up hating me for bringing you into a world and a life that is so painful to endure that I try to escape it everyday.
I don’t know where you went, but I say with no regrets that I’m glad you’re not here.
You would have grown up without a father, and as I myself have done the very same, I could not inflict that upon one of my own.
You were conceived in absolute happiness, but you would have been born in absolute sadness and regret.
If you had stayed with me just a little bit longer, I would have made you leave, please understand though that it would have been for your own good.
I would not have been able to live with myself if I brought you into this world. You would have one day had to learn the truth about everything, and I would not have been prepared to do that.
I don’t think your father ever loved me, or if he ever would. But he brought me so much happiness and an acceptance that I had never felt before.
Sadly, we were not accepted as a couple and we were forced apart before I knew about you.
You might have had his blue eyes; such an icy colour but so warm that I often wanted to swim in them. You might have had his nose; a strong, broad nose that carried with it a sense of authority and power. Or you might have had his hands; with fingers so strong and thick, yet almost feminine hands that gave me the warmth of a fire when they held me.
But my darlings if you had my heart you would understand why I would have had to let you go.
If there is anything in this world that I ask forgiveness for, it is for even having the mere thoughts of letting go of my own forever.
Please forgive me, my little ones.

32

There is a tree, a single solitary tree on top of a hill.
On the tree there are apples, red, the fruit of sin.
At the bottom of the tree sits a girl, a woman, a lone figure, sitting by herself. The grass on the hill is a deep green and the sky is a perfect blue. The scene is picturesque. The girl is sitting silently with her eyes closed and legs crossed, as the ripe apples fall around her. The sun is slowly setting in front of her. The day is perfect. The birds are chirping merrily in the tree, there is not a single cloud in the sky, and there is radiating warmth from the sun as it beams on her skin. Apart from the birds, there is silence in the air, not a single sound.
In the girls head is confusion, temptation. There is no serpent to offer her an apple, but she knows the offer is there. She has offered herself. She has become the apple, the ripe, ready apple and she has dropped herself into sins very own hands. Sin knows that he shouldn’t take the offering; he should not bite into the apple. But temptation is too much and sin takes a bite of the apple.
The deed is done.
The apple has been taken, eaten.
There is no turning back.

31

What if this is it? What if this is the end? I don’t want this to be over yet; I’m not ready to move on. I can’t even grasp reality yet. I can’t move on because moving on requires forgetting and putting everything in the bin, all the memories lost and forgotten, irretrievable. I’m not ready to do that just yet. I don’t want to forget you. I want to hold on to you and not let go.
When I lie awake at night I can feel your arms go around me, the warmth of your skin against mine, the gentle tightness by which you held me. I don’t want to forget you. I still want to see you again. Sometimes when I am angry or feeling alone, I find myself planning ways that I can see you; where it will be, when it will be, what I will say.
But I know that if I want peace in the world, I can’t possibly see you. But I want peace within myself, and therefore I have to see you.

30

The clock that hung above the blackboard was slowly ticking by. Too slow. She needed to get out of that classroom, walk away from the noise, hide away from the stares and whispers. She didn’t know where to go once the bell had rung. She had to go home, but couldn’t bring herself to go there. The bus ride would be bad enough. Having to sit too close to the people who knew her darkest secret whilst they yelled abuse and whispered profanities at each other, leering at her with their snide remarks. She had to get away, even if she had to endure the bus ride, she had to get away.

She sat up the front of the bus, near the driver. Even there, she could feel the heat on the back of her neck from the stares. She could feel her ears burning from the whispers. In the reflection of the front window, she could see all their eyes on her. And one by one, as they all hopped of the bus, she could hear their chuckles.


She never bothered trying to make them understand. What good would it do? Everything she said now was just dismissed as inconsequential and jejune. How could they possibly understand if no one was prepared to listen? So she stopped talking. Quite simple really, why talk if no one is going to listen? She didn’t have enough breath left as it is.

One by one, they all got off the bus, leaving her alone. She rode it to its last stop in the city. The city of strangers, where no one would stare at her like a criminal. Where no one would whisper to others about what she had done. No one knew her here. She was safe.

She walked around the city for awhile, following the crowds, standing in the shadows. At this time of day everyone was on their way home, not concerned about passersby. When she got to the church, she could breathe.

It wasn’t that she was religious. She didn’t believe in God. It was the silence and emptiness of the church that drew her in. The building, with its tall pillars, hard pews, its darkness, enveloped her and told her she was safe.

Kneeling down at a pew, her breath began to come fast. The noise from the school, from the bus, from the strangers in the city had welcomed themselves into her mind and for the first time, she couldn’t clear them out. Everyone had begun to scream at her, hiss at her. Her body felt bruised, her mind exhausted. She was tired of trying to breathe through her choked cries.

A noise from the front of the church had startled her. Someone had come in and was staring at her. She couldn’t tell if it was the priest, he looked too young. He continued to stare at her whilst she held her breath. Her mind continued to scream at her. He sat down at the organ and his hands hovered over the ivory keys. Her breath was coming back laboured. He began to play. The music was matching her mood but it was loud enough to drown out the voices in her head. After awhile, her head hit the pew hard. Her eyes closed and there was silence. She didn’t care if she was breathing anymore.

The voices were gone and all that was left was the stranger at the organ, who had understood enough to clear her mind.

29

I want to tell you something first.
This is not intended to make him look bad. This is not intended to try and cover anything up and this is not intended to manipulate the facts.
Herein is the truth.
The story as I lived it, as I saw things, as I experienced, heard, saw, spoke them.

Nobody wanted to know this story. They heard snippets through rumours and then constructed the rest, twisted the tale, and spread them again.
This was one big game of Chinese Whispers. And I was stuck in the middle.

There comes a time in ones life, where, after being told a certain thing for such a long time, that you begin to believe it, true or not.
This is what happened to me. I had given up trying to tell you all my side of the story, for you didn’t want to know, you didn’t care. You saw it as rumour saw it, and that was all you thought you needed to know.

That wasn’t fair on me.

So I began to believe what you told me. That he was in the wrong. That I was in the wrong. That it was all my fault.
To a degree, yes, I believe it is my fault.
But there are two players in this game. Each at a fault of their own.

Don’t judge a book by its cover.

28

It was a muggy night after a hot day. She had arrived home from school and wanted nothing but to curl up in bed and sleep. Her neck was causing her so much pain that she could hardly move her head. It had been hurting for a few days.

She was missing him that day. Missing him terribly. Not only was it almost a year since she had last seen him, but it was also a Wednesday. Their day.

She noticed the car when she walked up the driveway, the dusty black sports car. She wasn’t in the mood for his presence today. He had been growing awfully close to her, in a forceful way. She couldn’t tell her mother she no longer wanted to see him, she no longer wanted to have to spend so much time with him. He had only just reappeared back in their lives, and it didn’t seem like he was leaving anytime soon. She would just have to learn to live with him. Unfortunately.

She knew that he had been told stories about her, but of course, when her mother tells stories they can be anything, so she wasn’t aware of exactly all he knew. But she knew he was aware of the basic outline.

He mother met her at the front door and told her to hurry up and get changed because she had to go with him tonight. Even though she didn’t want to, she had no choice. He was taking her to see a movie, he was aware she had a sore neck, but she had to go anyway.

She went to her room and struggled out of her school clothes. Even brushing her hair was a chore as her neck kept jerking backwards with each stroke of the brush. She wanted to cry. She didn’t want to go. Again, she was being forced to be at his beckoning call. He had no right to do this, he wasn’t her father. He was nothing to her. But he knew her father, used to be close to him. Her mother didn’t want him to slip out of their lives again. Her mother was convinced he was in love with her.

But she knew differently. From the way he looked at her, the way he always asked her mother questions about her, how was she in school, does she have a boyfriend, and has she had sex yet? And then, even after hearing the answers from her mother, he would ask her. She didn’t want to answer him, but his eyes frightened her. She knew exactly what he was capable of. She had seen it, lived it, and told to shut up about all of it. Her father had walked away from it all…. Why couldn’t he? Why did he have to come back now and latch on so tightly? Why?

Ever since D had left her, she could feel all their eyes on her. Watching her, engulfing her. They didn’t have to, they didn’t have to know. But her mother had told them. All of them. And now she was their prey. She hated her mother. She wasn’t allowed to see a counsellor or talk to anyone about it, but her mother found comfort in telling everyone what had happened, how easy her daughter was, how open she was for older men. Her mother didn’t see the way they all looked at her now. Wanted her now. Claimed her now.

He was sitting at the table in the courtyard, waiting for her. He was looking through a book and smiling. She got closer. It was a photo album. Her photo album.

“What are you doing?”
He looked at up at her and smirked. “Looking at you in that fiery red dress.”
“Right, are we leaving?”
“Not yet.” He smiled.

She was furious. She had to sit there for the next thirty minutes whilst he looked her up and down and chatted with her mother. She couldn’t say anything. Her mother wouldn’t accept it anyway. Her mother would beat her again if she found out. Just the memory of being curled up on the concrete floor whilst her mother kicked her repeatedly just months before hand was enough to keep her mouth shut. Her mother couldn’t handle being wrong, she thought he was in love with her, hence all the time he was spending at their house, oh how wrong was she!

Finally, time rolled around and it was time to leave. She hated getting into his car. It was so small and low to the ground. She always thought about escaping it, but she knew it would be so difficult to do so. It was too low to the ground. She would trip, fall, be caught again. It wasn’t worth the hesitation.

He made idle small talk in the car. Asking her about school, work, politics. Eventually he began talking about her father. What was he like when she lived with him? She didn’t answer, she refused to talk about her father with anybody. Especially him. She didn’t trust his motives.

He pulled the car up along a café strip in town and began to get out of the car.
“I thought we were going to see a movie?”
“We are”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“We are going to have dinner first.”
“We could have eaten dinner at home.”
“Yes, we could have.”

She wanted to run. She knew the way home. But all her mother would do is ask her questions and then lash out. She wasn’t prepared for another fight, even if her mother had forced her into this situation.

She followed him into an Italian restaurant and sat down at a window table. She was glad it was a window seat. The window was directly behind him and she could stare out the window instead of looking at him. He disgusted her. How dare he degrade her like this. How dare she let him get away with it.

Whilst waiting for their meals to arrive he tried engaging her in conversation about her father again.
“You know your father is never coming back. He is probably dead by now anyway.”
She had only just spoken to him that morning, she knew he wasn’t dead.

Dad… I wish you were here. I wish you were standing behind that window. I wish…

“I know. Oh well.”
“You don’t seem very talkative tonight.”
“Should I be?”
“No. I’m just making an observation”
“Right.”

When their meals arrived at the table she couldn’t eat fast enough. She wanted the night to be over.

She kept the conversation to a minimum so that he would hurry up and finish his dinner. Eventually, he did and they left.

The movie was about mind-play. A documentary on how everything that happens in life creates a circular affect for everything else in life. How one relationship paves the way for all the others. How one single action stimulates many more in life.


Watching the movie hurt so much. She couldn’t see the screen without putting herself through agony due to the pain in her neck. It was hurting more and more. The movie seemed to go forever. Although a good one, she couldn’t keep her mind on it. She could smell him. She didn’t want to smell him. She wished he would go away. It was an art house cinema and therefore not as dark as the others, otherwise she would have snuck away. But she was too afraid to face the consequences at home if she did. But she didn’t want to go home either.

Finally the movie ended, she began walking to the car but he steered her towards a coffee shop.

“Aren’t we going home?”
“No, not yet. We’re going to have a coffee.”

He never asked her permission to do things, he stated them as facts. This is the way it is. This is what we are doing. This is what you are going to do. And she had no choice but to go along with him.

At coffee he began asking her questions about D. She didn’t want to talk about him. She said so. He was manipulative.
“Well, like the documentary said, everything you do affects everything that will happen from now on.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing, just making an observation.”
“You’re full of those aren’t you?”

Finally the night was coming to an end. They walked out to the car and began to drive back to her house. It was getting late and she had school in the morning. He didn’t pull up at her house. He parked a few streets away in the dark.
“What are you doing?”
“Your mother said you have a sore neck, I have some ointment.”
“Thanks, I’ll put it on when I get home.”
“No. I’ll put it on now.”
“It’s ok, I can do it myself.”
“No. Now come over here.” He indicated for her to get closer to him, and dragged her when she hesitated. She immediately regretted the skirt she had on.

He told her to move her hair out of the way and tie it up, handing her an elastic.
Slowly, she tied up her hair, trying to delay receiving his touch. His hands on her. She felt sick at just the thought.

He poured the ointment into his hands, she almost choked at the strong chemical smell. Then his hands where on her, massaging her neck, hurting more and more. Slowly his hands worked their way round to the front of her neck, digging in, pressing harder and harder. Her breathing getting harder and harder. She began to panic. He knew where all the pressure points where. What was he going to do?

She couldn’t breathe. She was choking. She thought the chemicals in the ointment where getting too strong for her, but then she realised why she couldn’t breathe. Why her head was feeling light. Why the world flashed black every couple of seconds. One of his hands had stopped massaging. It was pressing against her throat. She couldn’t breathe at all. She couldn’t say anything… she couldn’t struggle.

Then the other hand, stopped, moved down her torso and slipped under her shirt, dragging her closer and grabbing her breasts, hard, painfully.
Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she couldn’t do anything, she couldn’t move. Her whole body was paralysed and she was simultaneously blacking out with every touch.

He wasn’t stopping, touching her wherever he wanted, whispering in her ear things she couldn’t hear. Then she felt it. She didn’t want to believe it, but she felt it. At some stage he must have lifted her to manoeuvre her skirt. She could feel him, behind her, pressing harder and harder. She tried to move but couldn’t. The ointment… the chemical… there must have been something in it…

A final press harder and she tried to scream, but no sound was coming out. She couldn’t cry because the tears would well up her throat and she was afraid she would die with further restriction of her airways, his hands were pressing tighter with every minute. She kept feeling him, harder and harder. More painful than ever. Eventually, she blacked out. Too afraid to feel anymore. Too afraid to keep trying to move.

When she woke up she was in her bed. It was the next day. She had to go to school.
In the kitchen her mother told her she had fallen asleep in the car on the way home and they carried her inside and put her bed. She was wearing pyjamas. Someone had changed her clothes. She was too afraid to ask.

“Does your neck feel better? He told me he massaged it for you.”

27

26

I should have run when I first met you. But instead I stood, transfixed.
Why didn't I run? You were horrible, dirty, pervacious (is that a word?).
Anyone else would have run.

You had come in with your collegue for a business chat with my parents.
My upcoming birthday was mentioned after I made you coffee.

"You know what they say, don't you?" you had said, when we had a moment alone.
"No. What?"
"When an apple is ripe, it's ready to pluck, when a girl turns sixteen, she's ready too..."

I had giggled and walked away. Giggled? Admittedly the good voice in my head was disgusted at you. But the voice that took over had me mesmerised.

This man. This older man was interested in me?

I didn't tell the police that part.
But then, when they asked me, I wasn't exactly co-operating. I was in love. Obsessed. I would have given my life not to have you taken away from me.

I still would.

25

My mother had finally relented and agreed to contact your office about allowing me to work for you.
Of course, she delayed time by not going directly to the top, but by briefly mentioning my request to a common collegue. When she was in the bathroom, I stole his email address from her computer.

I knew I had to act quickly, so I shot him a quick email explaining my intentions. A few hours later I received a brief response saying that he would need to discuss with you.

Then it began. Remember?

You emailed me.
You made the first contact. With a few simple words, you changed our entire worlds forever.

"Are you distracting my employee? ;-)"

Even though I didn't know you, my heart stopped beating for what seemed like an eternity.
Who was this man? This older man in a position of power who was emailing me, let alone winking at me?

My mother would never find out about the conversations which were to follow.
I didn't mean to flirt with you. Honestly.
Despite what you may think now, in those first days, I did not mean to flirt with you at all.
If I recall correctly, the flirting began with you.
Cracking jokes about having me make you coffee in your house instead of just in the office.

How I trembled at the thought of that. IAnd even though common sense told me that I should not be entertaining these thoughts at all, the devil inside both of us took over.

"Now that's a thought... I think I could conjure up a maids uniform..."

24

I wasn’t yet sixteen when we first met in person.
You say we had met before, briefly, but I do not recall.

I had begged my mother, persisted that she talk to you about allowing me to work for you during my school holidays. You see, I didn’t know who you were, but I knew of your position, and I wanted to be there too.
I think a part of me wanted to do it mainly so that I could be a part of the adult world without my mothers’ grip on my arm. I wanted to see how far I could make it in an adults world. Your world.

When we did first meet, officially, I should have known not to go on. I should have run.
But intrigue, danger, the look in your eye held me captive. From that moment I was stuck. Tangled in our pre-made web that only served to become more intricate as time progressed.

How could I have turned away then? I would never have known what could have been.
I would always have been left wondering.
And didn’t they always say:

Curiosity, killed the cat.

23

Was I your Lolita? Frolicking like a child, with my gangly limbs, long flowing hair and high pitched voice. Did I tickle your fancy when I brushed up against you whilst reaching for the phone, or when my thigh touched yours as we were fiddling with wires in the control room?

Were you my Humbert Humbert? Giving me all you possibly could whilst still satisfying your ego and tempering my childish ways.

I remember being in your lounge room. Sitting for a moment before the usual retreat to the bedroom. Glancing at your movie shelf I noticed new additions. All of my favourite movies.

You saw me looking. “Do you like them?”
“Of course I do! How did you know?”
You feigned shock. “Do you think I don’t pay attention to anything you say? I remember everything my girl.”

At Easter when you bought me excessive amounts of chocolate. I didn’t want to eat the bunnies, eggs and gourmet chocolates, just so that I could keep them.

I would give anything to have you back,
I would give my life.
My life
My life is nothing without you.

22

I was a few weeks off turning 16 when I began working for him. I didn’t know what to expect really. I just wanted to do the work, get the reference and move up. I was career driven. Even at that age. I wanted to stay in high school and gain my education, but I couldn’t wait to get out into the workforce. I wanted to be independent.

I didn’t know that my first job would change my life forever.

I think I was too young to understand the rules of “the game” as they call it. I was trying to live in a grown-ups world and trying to play grown-up games. Mind games. Dangerous games in which I had no idea about the consequences. I just liked the games and the thrill of being involved. The thrill of being included in an adults’ world.

I had seen it on movies, you know, where the girl flutters her eyelashes, looks down and blushes slightly to let a man know when she is interested. Or when she ever so slightly leans against him or puts her hand lightly on the crevice of his back to stake her claim.

All so subtle. All so dominating. All so lusciously dangerous.

At school I was ignored. The boys didn’t want to date me, the girls didn’t want to know me. Yet when I was around men, they all jumped at the chance to sit next to me at the dinner table in a restaurant, or buy me a drink at a social function, dance with me at a corporate party. The attention was unexpected. I couldn’t understand it. Why would these men want something that the boys turned their noses up at?

But I wasn’t exactly going to do anything to stop this attention. Why would I? I was finally getting noticed.

Don’t think I was naïve enough to not know what they really wanted. I did. Oh, I did.
But if that was the price I had to pay, then so be it.

I enjoyed the games. They put a spin on my everyday life. Sometimes I would play the game to see how far I could go before abruptly ending it. I know it was dangerous. But even if something bad did happen to me, even if I did push just that little bit too far, it still had to be better than my normal existence.

21

20

19

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But he still lay moaning:

I was much furthur out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking,
And now he's dead,
It must have been too cold and his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh no, no, no, it was too cold always,
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all of my life

And not waving but drowning.

- Stevie Smith

18

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. The warmth of their bodies kept the late afternoon chill out of the bed. They knew they would have to leave soon. But like every other day, they tried to prolong the inevitable. She didn't want to go home, she wanted to stay here in his bed and in his arms. Instead of having sex, she slept; it gave her pleasure of waking up next to him.

He was stroking her back and shoulders, his fingers trailing her skin whilst the Dixie Chicks played on the stereo. She hated his choice of music, but right now, she couldn't care less. A few minutes earlier they had been laughing as he tried to find a song that she might like. He gave up at the end of the CD. There was not a hope that they would ever agree on music.

The day before, he had bought new bed linens. Latex pillows that were so comfortable they made her want to sink into them, she didn't want to do anything but lay her head on those pillows. He had called her at home to tell her that he had gone shopping. He had bought a microwave, and new kitchen appliances as well. She couldn't fathom why, he didn't cook, he always ate out, and the only thing he knew how to make was toast and crumpets. He said that he had bought the microwave so that he didn't have to eat cold pizza, and the rest of the appliances so that the kitchen at least looked used. She laughed at him when he excitedly showed her the proof of his spending.

Something was different about his mannerism today. When he addressed her, he would always say her full name instead of just her first. He did it again when they were lounging in bed.

"What do you want from all of this X X X?"
She stirred out of her drowsines.
"Just to be happy." That's all she wanted. She didn't want to be in a relationship where she was constantly fighting or never agreeing on anything with her partner. She didn't want to always be lonely or depressed. She wanted to be happy.
"And are you happy?"
She looked up at him. "Yes," she smiled, "I am."

The only thing that she was upset about was that she couldn't share her happiness with others. She wanted to shout at the top of her lungs that she was finally happy and that he was her savior, but she couldn't. If anyone were to find out about her relationship, she would never be happy again.

After she returned home that night, she lay in her bed. It wasn't the same. The pillows weren't as soft. The mattress wasn't as comfortable. The blankets weren't as warm. He wasn't there. Once he had jokingly accused her of only being with him so that she could use his bed.

She couldn't sleep. He had kissed her goodbye before they arrived near her street and told her that he would see her soon. He never dropped her home in her street, always around the corner so no one would see them. She had stepped out of the car on the curb, waving goodbye as she began to walk away. He didn't drive. Before she reached the end of the corner, she turned around. He was watching her. She motioned for him to drive. He indicated for her to keep walking. She laughed and walked away again. He drove off, waving as he drove past her. She stopped and turned around, watching his car drive into the distance until it wasn't visible anymore. She wanted him to come back, she wanted to drive with him into the horizon and not have anyone give their opinions, shw wanted to forget everyonbe and be happy with him.

She walked up her driveway and into her house.

She would never see him again.

17

I roam the corridors aimlessly, trying to find a reprieve. Every day, back and forth, walking in circles, surrounded by people but completely alone.
Hoping for someone to rescue me from the musky dampness of the cold, dark walls, but hoping that they don't because I know that if I am rescued, it will only be out of pity. I don't want to be a charity case.
I know these corridors better than anyone now. I know where everybody communes on different days. I know the new graffiti and engravings on the glass windows and wooden doors. I know where I am not wanted.
I don't hope to meet anybody on my lone journeys through the corridors; no, I hope to find myself.
The corridors are quiet but my thoughts echo off the walls so loudly that I often look behind me to see if anyone is there.
Sometimes I have a companion, but I don't walk the corridors with them, and they don't ease my pain.
I wish the walls would swallow me up. Maybe if there weren't any walls, I'd have no place to hide and I'd be stuck out in the open with everyone else. I'd be forced into the crowds. Where will I go?
Where will I go with no place to hide?
Who would want me by their side?

16

She woke with a start. Her alarm clock was playing Shannon Noll's latest song. It reminded her of him. She slapped the alarm clock off and tried to go back to sleep. It was no use. Eight minutes later it went off again. She knew she had to get up. It was a Wednesday and she had Chemistry first period. She couldn't be late again. Quickly getting dressed so she wouldn't feel the cold, she pulled on her uniform and woke her brother up in the next room.

She hadn't completed last night's homework. Sh had too many things on her mind. She had gone to sleep early and tried to block the images out of her head; little did that help. They invaded her dreams whilst she slept.

At 7.30 she waited at the bus stop in the cold. The sun was only faintly shining and the wind was cold on her face. She wished she were back in bed. The bus was five minutes late and she almost missed it when she forgot to hail it down.

At 8.45 she was in class. Luckily, her teacher didn't check for completed homework, so she tried to finish it in class. The teaher was explaining molar masses and Avogadro's hypothesis, but she wasn't paying attention. She took notes down without knowing what they meant.

Today was Wedneday, the day he usually picke her up. The one day of the week that she got to spend time with him. He wasn't picking her up today. He will never pick her up again.

In her maths class she slacked off, trying to be happy with her friends sitting next to her. Smiling a fake smile and laughing when others did, she didn't want anyone knowing her distress. Then someone asked her.

"How is everything going with you know who?"
She was speechless. She didn't want to say anything. She shrugged to let her friend know that everything was fine. Nothing was fine. It would never be fine again.

Near the end of the day, someone else asked.
"Is he picking you up today?"

She wished she never woke up.

15

If I was to tell a story of my love for you, who would believe it? When I try to explain to my friends, they dismiss our relationship as inconsequential and jejune. They will never understand. They just consider me foolish. I don't blame them; I guess I am foolish for falling in love with you. But what do I say about a love that never was? I can only tell of the aftermath, the love that could have been.

Where do I begin? Do I say how it felt to have you hold me, to be in your arms? Do I tell a story of what we did? What did we do? We spent our entire relationship in your bed, not having sex.

14. Comeclose and Sleepnow

COMECLOSE AND SLEEPNOW


1
it is afterwards
and you talk on tiptoe
happy to be part
of the darkness

5
lips becoming limp
a prelude to tiredness.
Comeclose and Sleepnow
for in the morning
when a policeman

10
disguised as the sun
creeps into the room
and your mother
disguised as birds
calls from the trees

15
you will put on a dress of guilt
and shoes with broken high ideals
and refusing coffee
run
alltheway

20
home


Roger McGough

13

Trapped. Like a spider must feel when a screaming ladies husband throws an empty ice cream tub over the top of it. Trapped and no where near as much room that’s needed to move around freely.

Breathe. Breathe. And count slowly. Count the time away.
Look up and see them, staring down at us. Me.
Blink and its not them. Its only the bed post.
Hear a rustle and think someone’s coming in. It was only you, changing position.

I cant feel you. Cant feel anything. Numb.
The pain was there. Once. How long ago was that? Now its just nothing. A hiatus. Its missing so much.

I cant feel the slithering tongue or the probing fingers. Can’t feel the grasp on my neck or the metal on my wrists.

All I can feel is the drizzle down my leg.
I can always feel the end.
That’s when it begins to hurt. Before, I used to feel it the whole time. Now I can only feel the end.
The feeling of relief that shows it all.
Relief from everything.
This was supposed to be the relief in the first place. My escape. The physical pain was meant to override the emotional pain.
But emotions always win in the end, and now there’s more than one problem.

12

His fingers were although long and thick, feminine even, and when I studied them as they were entwined with mine, or doing innocent tasks like typing on a keyboard or driving a car, I did not think of tenderness, usually associated with such beautifully manicured fingers, instead I had erotic thoughts.

Those fingers could do wonderful things to me, things I had never experienced before, and didn’t think I ever would. Such magic only occurs in fantasies, and usually not mine.

His eyes were the blue of a cool morning sky. I could always feel them watching me, observing me. They were playful eyes, always begging for fun, but always so concerned.
Sometime I wondered what he was thinking about when we lay in bed together.
Sometimes I didn’t want to know.
I never asked because he was always so honest with his answers, and I was afraid that he might say something that I didn’t want to hear. But sometimes, just sometimes, I wouldn’t even listen to him speak. I just tuned out so I could look at him, watch him more closely.
When I listened to him, I got scared.
He would talk about possibilities and futures, and what-ifs. I just thought about the here and now’s. I liked to live in the moment and I tried to make him do the same.

I didn’t want to gain feelings for him. I knew it would only end in heartbreak.
He wanted me to grow up quickly so we could fall in love.

11

It’s too hard to explain the effect you have on me, its too hard to explain the reason as to why, no matter what wrong you did, I will always protect you, not let them take away my good memories only to be replaced my horrible thoughts of someone they think I know.



I don’t care what you thought of me then, and I don’t care what you think of me now.

But I will tell you a story. I will tell you a story of a young girl whose heart and soul was ripped out and torn to shreds. A young girl whose mind was lost when she lost you.

You will never understand how you made me feel, but I will tell you the story of that little girl. The one that used to be me.

10

Spoken to you, Dear Dad:

Close your eyes. Go on. I want to tell you something, but I couldn’t bear it for you to look at me whilst I say it. So please, close your eyes.

When I was 15 years old I fell in love. I didn’t fall in love with a person; I fell in love with the idea of being in love with a person. It wasn’t until much later that I fell in love with an actual person. Is that strange? Well, it’s how it happened, so it will have to do for now. You may think that 15 was too young to fall in love, but like I said, it wasn’t until much later that I actually did. Remember at 15 it was still just the idea.

I don’t think at the time that it was just the idea I was in love with. It took a lot of courage and understanding to come to that conclusion and realize what I had done, and who I had turned into. I didn’t like it. But at the time, it was all I had in my life that was anything near a real feeling, no matter how wrong it was.

Do you remember when you met Mum? Did you fall in love with her? To be honest, I don’t think you did. I think you fell in love with the idea of being with her; the idea of how much she complimented you and of what she would do for you and your life. Were you ever in love with her?

I didn’t know you were alive when I did this. I hadn’t seen you in years, heard from you in months. The last I heard was that you had been killed. I needed someone to fill that gaping space you left behind. I needed someone warm to hold me when I cried. Someone warm is not what I found. But I did fill the space, if only for a short while.

He was like you, in many ways: strong, independent, a leader; manipulative. Maybe I fell in love with the idea of filling the gap almost too perfectly. He gave me everything you possibly couldn’t, and everything you did.

I’ll tell you the story in a minute, I just need to get this off my chest first. Please, keep your eyes closed.

I didn’t do this to seek attention. I didn’t do this for anything physical. If anyone should feel guilty out of this, it should be me, not him. And I do. But then, I needed to do it, and he should have known better, so whatever happened to him, he deserved it as much as I did. We were both punished, in different ways, but yet still the same. We both turned out fine in the end, didn’t we?

I missed you. I have missed you since the day you went away. How could I not, you were everything to me. I had nothing when you left. I had hopes and dreams, and a gaping whole waiting to be filled. You weren’t coming back to fill it, so I had to take matters into my own hands.

I wasn’t sorry for what I did, nor did I feel the need to apologise to anyone. But, if I have learnt anything from this, its that no matter what you do, its no one else’s business, until you let them be caught in the web and feed of their energy to keep you alive.

9

We are all trained differently, that is what makes us, us. Each different individual believes in something else. Something different to what others believe. Even if they say that they believe what you do, or even what it is you are saying, the truth is, the majority of them, don't.
Each person has been brought up with a different world view.
But if we really delve into deep enthusiastic thought about it, we are all the same.

We are all human, we all have mind of our owns, repiratory, excretory and reproductive systems, and we have all been set on this wonderful yet horrifying earth for one reason: to keep it occupied.

I remember being on a bus. A student was putting on a tough demeanor and telling everybody that no one can control her or make her do anything.
But we all know that isn't true.

If you were to say what that girl said, step on to a bus and get told that you look like crap, and that your hairstyle doesnt suit you, what is the first thing you think of, besides a nasty name to call them?
You think about why you look like crap and how to fix your hair. And presumably, the next time you step on to that bus, you will look a lot better and you would probably have a different hair style.
Am I right?

Of course, because the truth is, the world's population controls us. The way we think, act and even dress.

Take for example 'goths'. They wear black because most of the time they are depressed and sad. The world has made them like that. These were the fat kids that were called horrible names. These people were the outcasts at high school that could never get a lover. They are the people that couldn't find jobs because they have lost all motivation. These are the people that no one pays enough attention to.
So they wear black, the mourning colour, because they may not have lost a person in their lives, but they have lost their sense of hope and good feelings towards people and the world. Can you blame them?

Although I am not a goth, I know what they are going through. I know what it is like to be rejected, or to feel so sorry about myself that I think I am being rejected, when really, I am not.
I hear people talking about me behind my back, I know the horrible things that they say about me, and I know how two-faced they can be. Especially 'friends'.

Sometimes I choose to ignore it, but most of the time I can't help but feel hurt by it.
I see how people look at me, and how they glance at others when I walk past. I know I am the topic of their ghastly conversations. It's not my fault, although they try and make it out to be. I just see it as their way of dealing with things they don't understand themselves.

I've been cheated on, lied to, jaded, physically and emotionally hurt, abused, used. Images invade my head at night and there will be months that go by when I can't sleep at night for fear of my dreams and nightmares. Not knowing what to expect when I close my eyes.

I hid in a cupboard for days when my mother left me. Now I cannot be in small spaces. I hate driving at night because it reminds me of the long road trips my father used to take me on whilst on the run from the men and their guns.

I am obsessed with death because it is a weight that is always on my shoulder. Death is my sanctuary. If I pretend that I am dead, I lose all sorts of feeling and hurt and I feel like I can be reborn. But I can't, no matter how often I keep trying.

8

7. Sexual, Amber

"Don't you know that when you touch me, baby
That it's torture
Brush up against me, I get chills all down my spine
When you talk to me, it's painful
You don't know wht you do to this heart of mine
Don't make this one-dimensional
The way I feel is sexual - the way I feel is sexual
It can't just be intellectual
The way I feel is sexual - When you're next to me
I confess I watch your mouth move baby
When you're speaking
Study your body when you walk out of the room
You say how much you value my friendship
But I want you addicted to my perfume, hey.
Don't make this one-dimensional
The way I feel is sexual - the way i feel is sexual
It can't just be intellectual
The way I feel is sexual - the way I feel is sexual
When you're next to me. "

Amber

6

5

I don't want to be owned. I won't let danger own me. It is easy for me. When the risk gets too much I put it off. I keep moving to the back of the line.

But then sometimes, the anticipation gets too much. The longing too much and I push ahead and fight my way to get there. And when I'm at the end, I always have to put myself in danger over and over again to get back to that climax. That rush I love. That feels so good and what my whole existence seems to only be about.

All I wait for, all I hope for, all I long for.

It was said, by him, what is the point of being in a relationship if you don't see a future together?

I am too young. Still in my prime, my becoming.

I have grown up ahead of my time. I needed to, when my parents left me, so I could take charge and look after my brother. And now, I want to be young again, to be like a child and have someone fuss over me, take charge of my life. But now, I have put myself into a situation where I have to remain grown up, if not more. Become an adult. Because a child cannot survive this relationship, a relationship an adult can't comprehend.

4

I guess I can see this as my changing. My coming out. My changing from a girl into a woman.

In mind and heart; emotionally.

But not physically. No, not physically, not yet.

It hurts so much, the physical changing.

It is because I know I am in danger.

When I am out of danger I will be more at ease and less able to be inflicted with physical and emotional pain.

And I know the pain is nearing... It has to come.

No matter what, I will feel it, there is no doubt about it.

But I want the pain. The feeling of belonging, somewhere, not in a group of people, but within myself. I will never belong to a group of people. I will always be me.

One day, when I find myself. Or have I already? Is that what this is all about? Or am I still confused? Yes, confused.
Not knowing. Not sensing, but feeling, sort of, feeling what?

Confusion, again.

I don't know.

3

My feeling: A rollercoaster.

Waiting in line for the ride.

Anticipating the upcoming event. Knowing that maybe I shouldn't be doing it. Knowing I can turn back.

The line starts moving, it's now or never.

Proceed with the emotions of anticipation, or stop; go back, turnaround and forget about it.

I proceed, knowing the danger but going ahead anyway.

I sit down and the restraints go around me. I'm locked in place and now there is no turning back.

The ride begins. My heart is pounding, my blood pulsating throughout my body.

Going up... up... up...

Almost at the top and I can't go back.

I'm screaming to get off but I have to go on. I want to go on.

I can only go forward to get to the end.

I have to go higher, reach the top.

I get to the climax but I can't go further, there is no more up.

We stop, are level, contemplating. Thinking, what now?

The rush, moving so quickly, everything happening so fast.

But the rush, feels so good, grips at the heart and makes it stop; feeling nothing but what is. No emotion. Nothing.

Slowing down, coming to an end.

The restraints come off, no restriction anymore.

Get out, see the line. The wait, the anticipation.

Should I? Shouldn't I?

But the rush felt so good.

I get in the line again.

That's what this is. This game. A rollercoaster.

And the danger. So dangerous.

I can fall off at any time. Get caught in the act. Taken off at the top.

A risk. But that's what life is. What love and sexual attraction is.

A risk.

2.

There is an obsessive tenderness and passion, and eating out of one's heart, a sense of longing, an affliction, which remains buried and unchanged from childhood. This is what is called falling in love.

The longing is for reciprocation, the affliction is in knowing that reciprocation is forbidden.
Love is fatal, a sickness, a falling. It breaks the heart and at the same time, to feel such hidden emotions, to be swept and shaken by them reveals a liveliness like fire.

At the moment this passion is requited, and so called normal sexual expression is permitted, it fades. Either disappearing entirely, or being replaced by strong feelings of sexual attraction and affection: love itself.

While it lasts, it is responsible for the most poignant extremes of feelings, raising the possessed person to the skies or plunging him into the depths; it is an occupation, an inspiration, and can become, in certain unstable personalities, a madness.

I am afraid of this love, this madness, this affliction.
Because to me it is forbidden. In everyway possible I should not be feeling it.

Love is commitment. Falling in love is a passion. But that passion sooner or later leads to love. And although I do have a strong feeling of sexual attraction, I try not to feel the affection.

Once, he said what my feelings where: Lust, adoration.
I lust after him. I adore him. That is all. If it becomes more it would be dangerous.
I hope, that is all.

~ Amelie ~

1.

I stopped writing for awhile, I know. Not because there was nothing to write, but because there was nothing of relevance. I didn't want to write something about my private life for people to read. But even by saying that, I know I am contradicting myself.

To hear my mother sing, brings me guilt and shame; my mother, who gave birth to a daughter who is supposed to be loving and never deny her the truth. But how can I tell her? How can I tell her anything, knowing what happens to her when she is inflicted with stress, this would surely put her on her deaths bed.

Sometimes, when we talk, I long for her to ask me something that might require me to tell her everything. I long for her to know everything. But she can't know. Not ever. She should be able to share her only daughters happiness. But she will never.

When I look in the mirror, I wonder why? Why is this happening to me? This should be happening to the beautiful people, not me. I'm not complaining, but sometimes I do wonder.

I think that people are now taking advantage of me because they know what I am doing is wrong. Those that know. When I was upset and Tariq kissed me, I didn't think that I felt guilty for cheating. But everytime that I now look at Tariq, I feel sick. I let emotions take over, but not emotions for him. No, no emotions for him. I think more than anything, now that I think about it, I wanted to know that if I did do anything with someone else, would I feel guilty? Deep down I think I do.

I count the days till Wednesday. But Wednesday becomes too routine after awhile, that's why I sometimes change the days. For variety. Yes, variety. I like that. I don't like routine, I'm afraid of commitment. If I am commited and something changes, I only get hurt in the end. That's why I like variety. If everything is always changing under my control, nothing can go wrong.

But sometimes, I don't like things to be in my control. Sometimes, I like to be dominated. Ha!

I look at children: their innocence. I used to be innocent. I still should be. But now, I am anything but. However, I am also not guilty. Why should I be guilty for being happy and doing what I want to do: for giving into pleasure?

~ Amelie ~