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Okay, so there's this tree. No one in the town where Jack lived knew where it came from; it just sprung out of the ground one day in true fairy tale fashion, and now there it was--fifty feet tall if it was a foot. The lowest branches were higher than any of the ladders in the town could ever hope to reach (even if they ate all their vegetables like their ladder parents had told them to). It was kind of a good thing, too, because to the eyes of everyone in that town, the golden leaves that sprouted from these branches were actually made of gold.
The tree happened to sprout in Jack's front yard, and he wouldn't let anyone near it. "There's something special about this tree," he would say, "and I'm not going to let a bunch of greedy townspeople cut it down just because it looks like it's got gold leaves." It wasn't that he wanted the tree all to himself; he just didn't want to see anybody hurt it.
For the most part, people left the tree alone. After a while, it became a sort of local legend--the Golden Tree. Its branches stretched out over the town, blanketing it in shade during the summer so they could stay cool, but not harming the crops any. People came from miles around to see this miraculous tree. They thought it could cure diseases, or bring them good luck if they pressed their hands to its bark. None of that was true, of course--it was just a tree. The fact that it had grown up right out of the ground was reason to wonder, but after all it was still just a tree.
One day, Jack fell terribly sick. He gathered the townspeople into his bedroom--which was fairly large, as bedrooms go--and told them sternly, calmly, "Do not harm the tree." Those were his dying words. Do not harm the tree.
They all agreed. Jack was buried near the base of the tree, and for a time nobody thought twice about it. The tree grew, and so did the town.
One day, a man wearing black came to the town. "That's a big tree," he said. "How'd it get so big?" One of the townspeople said that they didn't know; that it just grew with the town. They told him the story of Jack, and how he had warned them never to harm the tree.
"That's silly," said the man wearing black. "Look at all that gold up there. This town could be rich!"
The town had forgotten how golden the leaves were--after all, they'd gotten rather used to them. But now that an outsider pointed it out, the leaves seemed to regain their luster.
The town had a meeting. Everyone voted. 99:1, the town voted to cut down the tree. The one person who voted against it was a little girl named Beth. She didn't want them to cut down the tree, because she liked the shade it provided, and it wasn't hurting anybody else so why should they cut it down?
The day they cut down the Golden Tree, the sun was shining especially hotly. It took five hours to saw even half-way through the trunk--it was surprisingly hard, and the trunk itself was more than four feet wide--and at that point stormclouds started to approach the town.
The townspeople got nervous. They'd never had to deal with a rainstorm before; the Tree had always protected them. "Let's stop cutting it down," said one person. "We can finish tomorrow, when the storm's passed."
But the man wearing black simply shook his head and laughed. "With all the gold in those branches, you can all buy umbrellas to protect against the rain!"
So they continued to cut through the Golden Tree. People started to wonder what they should buy with all the gold from the tree. Bigger houses, better farming equipment...one person even suggested paving the roads with gold. They were all very excited.
All except for Beth. One of the leaves had fallen from the tree's branches. It drifted and flitted about in the air before finally coming to a rest in her hands. She put it in her pocket for safe keeping. It wasn't as shiny as it had looked in the summer sun, but it was smooth and soft, and she liked it.
The tree came crashing down just as the storm settled on top of the town. It landed with a resounding BOOM on top of Jack's house. They all rushed to the top of it to gather their reward...
...but all they found were yellow leaves.
Everyone was confused. "Where is all the gold?" they asked. But in their hearts they knew that there had never been any gold. It was just a tree, after all. And the storm raged on.
BOOM! BOOM! The thunder crashed. People ran for cover from the rain. Some people tried to start a fire to stay warm, but the rain only put it out.
Beth went to the Golden Tree's stump. "Why did you lie to us, Mister?" The man wearing black was standing on the stump.
The man wearing black leaned down to her, and lowered his voice so that no one else would hear. "Now you know what the rest of the world sees when it rains. Isn't it beautiful?"
BOOM! BOOM! Suddenly it rained very hard and Beth had to shut her eyes. When she opened them again, the man wearing black was gone. |
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Earl 1
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Aug. 25th, 2004 @ 01:25 pm
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Dear Journal,
Today's my birthday. I just woke up. I'm twenty-nine. The reason I'm writing so early in the day is that for some reason we left a window open last night, and it must have rained because there's a big puddle of water in the middle of the floor near the window in the main room. Lying in the puddle is a dead robin. I wanted to sketch it. I've never sketched anything before, but I've also never woken up to a dead robin in a pool of water.
I'd better move it before Karen wakes up; she's never been very good around dead animals.
Today we're going to see Hamlet. In London. I don't know how anyone managed it, but we have two coach tickets to go to England today. I'll let you know how the flight was when we land. I'm really excited, although the dead robin is a bit sobering. I don't know what it means, but it can't be very good. |
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(Inspired by Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, Pulp Fiction by Quentin Tarantino, and a picture by Snow Huntress of the Gryphon Guild; I'm about to start reading Good Omens and watch Pulp Fiction, so I'm trying out my hand at philosophical fiction. Wish me luck!)
The television blared. "...I'm trying, Ringo," said the character Jules. "I'm trying real hard to be the shepherd."
The man in black pressed a button on the remote and the screen turned to static. "That is one fucked up motherfucker."
The man in white looked at the other. "What do you mean? It made perfect sense to me."
The man in black gestured to the black-and-white fuzz on the screen. "Guy steals his wallet, so he pulls out a gun? Even I have better priorities than that."
The man in white shrugged. "You just haven't been through the same things that he has. It's hard to interpret that situation from his point of view if you've never been in his shoes."
The man in black made an annoyed sound. "I've been through a lot worse shit than him. Hell, I don't even wear shoes." He uncrossed and recrossed his legs and put out his cigarette on his hoof.
The man in white rolled his eyes--not that anyone could tell. "You're just upset because your ass is frozen to your chair."
The man in black stared at his friend. "For your information, I didn't ask to be put in this predicament. I was all set for a vacation in Aruba. And you'd be upset too. It's fucking cold."
The man in white shrugged and turned his attention back to the television. "Happily, I never sat down. It's not my fault you got tired."
The man in black let out a mocking laugh. "You never challenged the Big Man's power! You'd be damned tired if you'd gone up against the forces of Big White Cloud Guy."
The man in white smiled. His teeth were obnoxiously clean. "And you wouldn't be sitting with your ass frozen to your chair if you'd been content with where you were. I'm no Saint--"
The man in black interjected, "--Because you're not mortal and you're not dead--"
"--but I enjoy what little freedom He gives me. You should, too." He grabbed the remote from his friend's hands. "I'm turning on Fox News."
The man in black groaned. "I can't believe you watch that bullshit."
The man in white shrugged. "O'Reilly has a lot of good points."
"Yeah, he would, if he weren't such a self-righteous asshole--"
"--no pun intended--"
"--who lied about everything he discussed." The man in black uncrossed and recrossed his legs, and relit his cigarette. "That man's a lot more evil than I've ever been."
"He just has anger management issues."
"Like our friend with the .9mm. But there's a big difference."
"What's that?"
"Jules is a character. O'Reilly is a real man. Even I'm scared of him."
"This is true. Nobody from Heaven's gone anywhere near him since the incident."
"How's Jemazar doing, anyway?"
"Critical condition still. The Big Man gave him a Bronze Star, though, and a Purple Heart."
"You angels," said the man in black. "I swear, you pay more attention to American politics than anything else. It's like cocaine for you people."
"We aren't people."
"Whatever." He looked at the television screen briefly, where Pat O'Reilly was yelling at another of his guests. "Please...change it to the Powerpuff Girls or something. Anything but this drivel."
"You watch the Powerpuff Girls?"
The man in black paused. "You tell anyone and I'll--"
"--after getting out of your frozen toilet--"
"--make O'Reilly look like Joan of Arc."
"He really bugs you that much, doesn't he?" The man in white laughed. "Alright, I'll change it to Survivor."
"At least it's fiction." The man in black relaxed.
[EDIT:
I'm on page 51 of Good Omens. Quite clearly, I'm out of my league.] |
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Dear Diary,
I gave in to temptation today; Karen gave me a coupon for an all-you-can-eat buffet, and I spent about half an hour there. I surprised myself at how little I was able to eat, but what I could fit in my stomach was delicious. Rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, caesar salad, and a slice of chocolate cake for dessert. I had to cover my mouth with my napkin to keep myself from laughing. When I came out of the bathroom, Karen said that I looked happier than a rich kid at Christmas. I just gave her a hug and said "Thank you" about a hundred times.
Karen said that we can go back there once a week until I'm ready to start going daily. She can afford it now; she got a new job as a reporter for the Herald. She said that whatever it takes for me to start eating regularly, she's willing to pay for. It's times like these that make me wish I were a lesbian. haha!
Next week is my birthday, Diary. I think I'm going to try and type up some of the things I've been writing in my other notebook. There's one story I wrote that I like a lot: "Tomorrow in Heaven; Today in Hell". Maybe I'll print it out and send it out to a magazine or a publisher. It would be nice to bring in some kind of income to help out. It is, after all, my apartment. I'd try to get a job, but it's going to be hard to convince people that I'm worth hiring when I look like a stick. In a few months, hopefully, I'll have some real meat on me and I'll see if I can get hired somewhere. I'd like to get a job as a writer; it's very calming for me. Maybe I could be a journalist at Karen's newspaper! That would be fun.
For now, though, I'm going to ride the train. I'd better bring a bottle of water, though.
I really enjoy watching the types of people that get on and off at the stops. I see businessmen and women, children going to school, people going to visit friends at home or in hospitals. Sometimes they're carrying briefcases, or backpacks filled with books. My favorite, though, is the bouquet of roses. You can tell a lot about a person by the kinds of flowers they carry with them. Or anything they're carrying, really. Roses, though. People going to meet their boyfriends or girlfriends for their anniversaries. Apologizing for something they did wrong. Or maybe just doing something nice for someone.
They're always smiling and jittery, too, like they've just received a free ticket to Heaven. Someone gets on the train with a bouquet of roses, and suddenly everyone knows exactly how they're feeling--and usually, it rubs off.
A few days ago I saw the young man from one of my first entries--the one who was crying. I didn't know how appropriate it was anymore, but I gave him the note I'd written. He looked at me, smiling, completely confused as to who I was or why I was handing him a piece of paper. I told him that I had seen him a couple years ago on the train and he looked upset, but that he got off before I could give him the note. He read it, and suddenly he was touching my hands, wiping away tears, thanking me. He said that the reason he was crying was that his parents had just been killed in a car accident. Wow, I said. I guess that could shake anybody up. It was his stop next, so he couldn't stay, but he thanked me again. He got up with his bouquet of roses and got off the train.
Right now I'm sitting where he was. Whenever I see someone with a bouquet of roses sitting on the train, I like to sit where they were sitting; the happiness seems to stay there even after they get up, and I like to sit and bathe myself in it. I sit in that aura of happiness and I feel my spirits being lifted.
Now, though, there's rain in this spot of summer, and I can't hold back the lump in my throat. My watch beeps, signalling that it's time to take my AZT. I take the pills, but let the watch go until it tires itself out.
Amazing, isn't it? That even after two years, a spot can still hold that much power of your emotions. Simply amazing. |
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Dear fucking Diary,
Why?! Why not fucking ME?! What the SHIT, God! What, my life wasn't far enough into the shitheap for you, so you had to chuck THIS at me too?! I hate you! I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you!! GIVE HER BACK! What'd she ever do to you, huh? What the FUCK did she ever do to you?!
GIVE
HER
BACK!!
Aug. 15th, 2004 @ 12:02 am
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| » Journal Entry 6 |
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Dear Diary,
My cat, Jackson, died today. He died fighting valiantly against the oncoming car, but alas he did not survive. We buried him next to the stoop in front of my apartment building. He will be missed.
This whole week was pretty awful, actually. My insurance company dropped me like a box of Michael Bolton albums, John called to see if we could get together sometime, and Karen got fired from her job at the radio station. Why was John calling me an awful thing? I'll tell you why: John hasn't seen me since we broke up. He doesn't know how much of a shadow of reality I've become. I can see my ribcage when I look in the mirror. My breasts have gotten even smaller than they already were. I look like a ghoul.
I know I should be eating. I look at food, and I think, "That looks really good." I'm always hungry. But what am I supposed to do? I don't deserve food that someone else could be having. I'm dying. I've been dying for almost two years now. And now John wants to go on a date. Real freaking considerate of you, John.
There was one good thing that happened to me this week, that actually made me smile for a minute. Halloween was Wednesday. I didn't have to buy a costume. Some trick-or-treaters came to my door from down the hall, and I opened the door, and one of them actually screamed "It's the boogieman!"
His father looked shocked, and assured the child that I was only the lady from down the hall. It turned out to be a fucking genius thing to say, actually, because it prompted the kid to say, "The boogieman is living in the same building as us and we haven't moved yet?!"
I gave the little fucker a Reese's and closed the door. That was when I smiled. I even let out a little chuckle. This is what life has become, I thought. I'm the monster parents use to terrify their children. I'm the thing that goes bump in the night. The reaper. The Holocaust victim. Look at this body, I think. I could cure supermodels with this husk.
I'm not anorexic. Anorexics don't eat because they're trying to lose weight--because they have a distorted image of themselves. I don't eat because I know it doesn't make any difference in my health so why waste the money on something that isn't going to cure me? It would be much better spent on something like, say, a computer.
I bought a computer today. Still trying to figure out how to turn the thing on, but I have a computer now. Another few months of fasting and I'll be able to afford a modem. Or I could just get a library card.
Books upon books upon books, and we don't read a single one of them unless it's funny or is about sex. It's the American way, as they say. That rhymed. I was a poet all this time, and it never occurred to me. Haha.
I called John yesterday. I told him to go fuck himself. I don't know why I did that, but it felt really good to yell at somebody for once. I've been standing by listening to people make remarks about my appearance, never once saying anything in return. And sometimes they really deserve it, too. Sometimes they're just as skinny as I am. The only difference is that I know how skinny I am, and they don't even think they have a problem. I'm the anorexic. More than that, I'm the diseased anorexic. Don't touch her; you'll get cooties.
I think I was drunk, now that I really examine it. Maybe I'll call him later today and explain everything. Or maybe I won't. He did say "You sound awful" when I greeted him, after all. Then again, I was drunk, so it could have been anything, really. Maybe I didn't even call him.
I have a confession to make, Diary. I've been cheating on you. I bought a new notebook, and I started writing in it. Not the kinds of things I write in you, though; the stuff in that notebook is all fake. I don't even think I have real feelings for it. I swear, it hasn't progressed beyond cuddling and kissing. Haha. In all seriousness, though, I decided to start doing some writing. I figure, I'm dying, so I might as well do something worthwhile to make people remember me, right?
Prediction: in two months, I won't even have any skin left. I'll just be a walking, talking skeleton. No muscles or organs. I'll just be magically walking around. People will stare at me in wonder, and then the tabloids will release a new story: "Pentagon releases experimental undead AIDS victim on populace; Subject has love affair with Elvis Presley". Haha!
I told Karen she could move in with me until she finds another job. Do you think that was a good idea? I think so. She's still my best friend, even though she was afraid of me at first. I guess I have that sort of effect on people. She's moving in tomorrow. I offered to help her, but she took one look at me and told me that I shouldn't do any heavy lifting. "Heavy lifting?" I said. "You don't have that much stuff, Karen." I smiled, but she didn't even blink. Good old Karen, always concerned about her friends.
Yeah. FriendS. She's got more than one. I wish I could be that charismatic. I guess I got screwed in that department when I found out I would become the next episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark?, though.
Aug. 14th, 2004 @ 08:53 pm
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| » EndQuest 1 |
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We rounded the last corner and burst into a dimly lit room. It appeared to be some sort of study: books lay scattered on the stone floor pieces of parchment interspersed with short scribbled notes-to-self. In the center of the room was a desk, its top in complete disarray. And there, sitting in a chair with his attention focused entirely on a journal he was writing in, was the man we'd been seeking for the past four years. We'd crawled through, over, under, and around every single obstacle he had placed before us, losing several of our company to spike-filled pits or pools of acid. Our archer and designated spokesman, Jerl, cleared his throat.
The man looked up from his work. "Yes?"
Jerl rolled his eyes. "Well, we've found you. Isn't it about time we killed you or found out some dramatic truth about your real motives?"
The man squinted his eyes briefly, and then was immediately on his feet. "Oh, you're the ones that were looking for me!" He came around and shook each of our hands, leaving us all with confused expressions. "My, you all look different. Older." He looked us over. "There are only four of you. What has happened to Taenia, Lip, Scin, Fralen, and Bonn?"
Jerl fumed. "Dead, you idiot! Killed by YOUR traps!"
He nodded, digesting the information. "They weren't really traps, you know. The pools of acid were very clearly marked, and the pits of spikes weren't concealed in any way. In fact, considering all the help I've given you along the way, I'd say you did rather poorly." He waved the issue away. "But that doesn't matter. You're here, so I might as well give you what you came for."
Jerl's eyes brightened. "An epic struggle to your death, whereupon we loot your study for any valuable items?"
The man seemed bewildered by this comment. "What...no, no. I'm just going to give you the item you want, that I have." He went back to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small pouch. "Here you are," he said, and handed the bag to Jerl.
Jerl looked at it. We all knew what was inside: two-hundred and fifty-three gold pieces. Exactly the amount that he had taken from us four years ago. He dropped it on the floor, and nocked an arrow in his bow. He pulled back the string and pointed the weapon directly between the man's eyes. "Look, sir. We don't want any trouble. But when you send us on a life-threatening mission that kills more than half of our company, you'd damn-well better expect to fight us for it. Now you can either give us a fight that we'll all remember for the rest of our lives, or I can just kill you now. But regardless," and with these final words Jerl clenched his teeth, "we've been walking through a maze for the past four years, and we're all a little pissed off. Am I clear?"
The man pushed Jerl's bow aside saying, "Yes, I understand your predicament. However," and with this he strode back to his desk and addressed us all as a group, "I have to host a party in two hours, and I haven't finished my speech for the guest of honor yet. He's quite a delightful chap, you know; fought three dragons at once, they say. And not only that--"
I was the only one in the group who used magic. I wield the power of the universe. I bend reality itself to suit my whims.
I cast a spell of charms on the man and said, "Fight us, worm."
And so began the battle of our lives.
Aug. 12th, 2004 @ 10:14 pm
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| » Planar Travel Log 1 |
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So, this is what it's like to be floating around in the endless void outside the universe. Interesting. Rather, the predicament is interesting; the place itself is rather nonspecific. The lack of voluntary motion also leaves a little to be desired.
How did I get here? Let's examine it, shall we? Three dog-like demons surrounding me on the edge of a cliff, and then they did some sort of magic trick type thing. Now I'm here. Fascinating story, isn't it?
Oh look. A speck.
You know, when you ignore the sheer infinite vastness of oblivion and the impenetrable black of it all, and the sickening cold, and the lack of breathable air (I'm afraid to breathe, though; for all I know, the air might be perfectly fine), this isn't such a bad place. There's nothing here, but you know what? That just makes it peaceful. Nobody around to interrupt me when I'm...ah hah. Now I remember why I panicked when I first arrived.
Aug. 12th, 2004 @ 07:53 pm
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| » Journal Entry 5 |
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Dear Diary,
Well, that was a long half an hour. Karen was upset because her boss got mad at her and made her stay late. She works at the radio station, and they were out of regular coffee, so she had to fix him decaf. I would hate to work in a place like that, where you got blamed because you did your job to the best of your abilities. If she hadn't gotten him any coffee--not even the decaf--he probably would have fired her.
She doesn't get paid very well, either. I mean, she gets paid better than I do, but I only work in a supermarket. Maybe I should have gone to work today, I think. But I stare at Karen, lying asleep with her head in my lap. That's more important than a paycheck.
My watch just beeped, meaning it's time to take my AZT again. I hate these stupid pills. I don't even know if they're working. I should have brought a bottle of water with me, but I didn't think I was going to be riding the train this long. Using my saliva works fine, but it's disgusting. Like swallowing a cracker without chewing. There's nothing protecting your mouth and throat from it; it's just there.
Karen looks a little better, now that she's sleeping. Her boss must have really worked her hard. I wonder if he knows how irritating he's being.
What if that oversized business man was her boss? Wouldn't that be irony! But I doubt it.
I hope Karen wakes up soon; I'm getting kind of tired. But I'm not going to leave her alone on a train. I'll stay here all night if I have to. Oh ee oh, whoaa. Haha.
It's 10:00. I've been riding this train for eight hours. I ought to start getting paid for this. "What do you do for a living?" Oh, I sit in trains until Karen wakes up. "That's a good job. I wanted to do that, but I couldn't fit the minor into my schedule." Oh really? What are you? "I'm a doctor." haha. Yeah, right.
The train's stopped. Out the window I can see that this is the end of the line. I guess it isn't going anywhere else for the rest of the night. And now I've got a sleeping Karen to take care of. I guess I'd better wake her up so we can start heading home. I've never been here before, though, so it could be interesting. I'll keep writing whenever I can.
Aug. 10th, 2004 @ 07:58 pm
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| » Journal Entry 4 |
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[written on the back of a receipt taped inside the notebook)
I couldn't find the notebook.
Dear Receipt,
I don't remember anything from last night. I know that I went out drinking with Karen, and then she had to go because of a family emergency or something. I can't remember if I went with her, or if I stayed at the bar, or if I just came straight home. ...I just found the notebook. Did I really write all that? "Careful, or I'll eat your brains." Haha. I'm clever when I'm drunk. ...But bitter. Is this how I really feel? "Like I need a fucking song to remind me..." I need some time to think.
[written in the notebook]
Okay, I'm on the train now. I don't know how long I'll ride it. There are a few people staring at me, but that's okay. People stare all the time. I'll just stare back. There; that got them to turn away. Even I stare sometimes, if a person's worth staring at. It's not always what they look like, but how they act; their general manner towards the rest of the world. The train stopped a minute ago, and someone got on wearing all black, and white face-paint. In contrast, she was followed by a large man in a business suit carrying a briefcase. The only seat left is next to the girl in black, so he's hugging the case close to himself, like he's afraid she's going to steal it from him. Not that she could go anywhere; with that big frame of his, she's pretty much stuck next to the window. Maybe I'll get up at the next stop and take his case with me. It'd be fun to see what he would do. The girl and I shared a look just now that means, "I know exactly what the fuck you're going through." She smiled, and I think I did too.
The train stopped; she's getting up and getting off the train. I wonder how old she is? Probably not more than 20. I remember being that young. Just old enough to no longer be a teenager, but not quite old enough to drink. I hated 20. She probably does, too.
She had a tattoo on her arm. Some kind of celtic symbol; I don't know what it means, but it looked cool. Maybe I should get a tattoo. I wonder what I should get? Something meaningful. Something I'll understand, but that no one else has to. Maybe something that the people doing the autopsy will really have to think about. They'd talk about me for years to come, as the "girl with the freaky tattoo".
The businessman's getting up. He doesn't look too healthy. He's got an oversized mole on his neck. It could be cancerous, but I don't want to get up and tell him myself. That might make him uncomfortable. That would make me uncomfortable. Being told I have cancer by someone who has AIDS? "Thanks," I'd say, "but I don't think your qualifications are quite right." Haha.
Uh oh. Someone just got on the train who's crying. I wonder what's bothering him. You know, that's interesting; you never see guys cry in public. It must be pretty bad, then, if he's crying on a train. Everyone else is turning away. They didn't turn away when it was me, being inconspicuous. I'm not sure which I'd rather have: being stared at when I want to be left alone, or being ignored when I need someone to talk to.
I'd rather be stared at. I think I'll write him a note. ...Shoot. He got off the train before I finished. I'll just tape in here anyway, in case I see him later. I sure hope he's okay.
Karen just got on the train. She looks mad. I'll have to finish this later.
Aug. 8th, 2004 @ 11:57 pm
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| » Journal Entry 3 |
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Dear Diary,
I haven't written in a while. Not that you care; I just thought I'd tell you. You know, for record-keeping purposes, or something.
I hate the way my life has become. People look at you differently when they know what's happening inside your body; they whisper things when they think you aren't listening. "Look, she's the girl." "I hear she has AIDS." "What a slut." "I bet she's doing drugs, too. Just look at her." I HAVE EARS, you know! That part of me hasn't died yet...
I'm losing weight, but it's not the pills; I know it's not the pills. I haven't been eating. Why should I eat anything? I'm only feeding the virus. Let people who aren't going to fucking die in a few months eat. Corpses don't need to fill their stomachs. That's what I've become. I'm one of the living dead. Careful, or I'll eat your brains. Or your arm. Or something; I'm so hungry.
Karen wants me to find a support group, but fuck that. I'm not going to become part of a fucking musical. "No day but today." Yeah, right. Like I need a fucking song to tell me that time is running out.
You're just a collection of papers, but if there's anything you can tell me that'll help me, please do.
Don't give up hope.
I hate to say this, but I'm pretty much fucked. Unless you've got a cure for AIDS hidden somewhere in you...
Don't give up hope.
Shut up. I don't need this right now.
Please don't give up hope.
Aug. 8th, 2004 @ 10:31 pm
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| » Journal Entry 2 |
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Dear Diary,
I went out to the pharmacy today. The doctor gave me a prescription for Zidovudine, to keep the virus from getting worse. She said that it might be months--or even years--before I started showing signs of having The Disease. You can get the virus and not even know it if you don't get tested. Of course, by then it's too late.
The man at the pharmacy gave me a look when he handed me the prescription. I know what he was thinking. "Slut." Nice girls don't have HIV. Nice girls don't need these pills. Nice girls say no to "that kind of man". Yes, I think. But some nice girls don't know he's "that kind of man". I paid for the prescriptions and left as quickly and quietly as I could. But people saw me. It's hard to miss a crying woman running out of the pharmacy carrying a bottle with AZT.
Not that people knew it was AZT. For all they knew, it could have been some other drug that was embarrassing for me to have to take. Maybe it was something for a rash. Nobody cared, though; athlete's foot is just as bad as AIDS to them--but you can cover your foot with a sock. HIV is all over your body. How do you hide your body?
I called my best friend, Karen. "What's wrong?" she said when she picked up the phone. "You sound upset." I told her. "Oh my god," she said. She repeated it over and over again. My friend is a slut: that's what she must have been thinking. My friend is a slut and I never knew. "How long have you had it?" I said that I only found out a few days ago, but that I might have had it for a few weeks now. "Oh god." Then she hung up.
About fifteen minutes later she showed up at my apartment with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. That was nice of her. "Let's go out," she said. So we went to see a comedian. It was a good show; the comedian was funny, and I laughed a few times. Once, I put my hand on Karen's arm to thank her for the evening, and she jumped. Then she laughed it off, and put her arms in her lap. The show wasn't very funny after that.
After the show we went to a bar, but I wasn't in the mood for drinking. Instead, I ate the pretzels. Someone nearby--an arts student, most likely--started singing a song from Rent.
I got home at eleven o'clock and poured myself a glass of the wine Karen brought me. It tasted like urine. I drank it anyway.
Aug. 8th, 2004 @ 12:59 pm
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I suppose it's about time I started writing something in this notebook my parents gave me; it isn't like I haven't had it for a while now, anyway. I guess I never thought to write anything because there was nothing to write about. That's usually the way it goes, isn't it? If there isn't anything worth writing about, you either don't write anything, or you make something up. Well, until now, nothing was happening, and I didn't feel the urge to make anything up--nothing worth writing down, at any rate. At one point I did have something worth writing down, but I had misplaced my pen and by the time I found it again, the urge to write was gone.
That was almost a year ago, and I can hardly remember what it was that was worth putting words on paper. That's not true; I do remember. I had just gotten back from an evening with a young gentleman--Jon: that was his name. It may have been John, though, with an "h"; I never bothered to ask him how he spelled it, or how he wanted me to spell it. I didn't think I would ever need to spell it; when he introduced himself, it was the beginning of the evening, and by the time I realized what a good time I was having, we had moved well beyond "Hello, my name is". Well beyond that.
It was almost two o'clock in the morning when he finally kissed me goodnight. Yes, that's right; he kissed me. Four hours together, and he was already comfortable enough to kiss me. Not many girls can say that. Not only that, but I was ready for it as well. In those four hours we went from awkard acquaintances to kissing each other goodnight.
But I couldn't find my pen, so I never wrote it down. This notebook sat empty in my desk drawer, just next to the bathroom door in my apartment, never touched by human hands--or at least, never meaningfully touched--for almost four years. But that's a long time to keep something perfectly clean; after a while, you start to wonder why you have something at all if you aren't using it. You create a challenge for yourself--it becomes a sort of game, to see how long you can put off using it; maybe someone will see it and buy it for a lot of money. That would be nice. You could buy a better apartment, or even a small house. But that's silly. Nobody wants a plain notebook with nothing in it; they can go to a supply store and buy one at retail price. And then it doesn't have the slowly accumulating layer of dust.
Sometimes, though, you can appreciate something better when you're using it than when you're sitting back and looking at it, thinking "Maybe it'll move if I stare at it long enough." You can't always count on fate to bring something into your life worth writing down. Sometimes you have to take the normal stuff and make it interesting. Not always, though.
Dear Diary,
The blood-test results came back today. I'm HIV-positive.
Aug. 8th, 2004 @ 12:57 am
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