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“… no way to know no way to know …” The soft sounds of her voiced repetition, chanted on the wind and in her head and down in shallow echoes through the alley. They have followed her only since the corner, picking up her trail and watching to see if she’s worth the trouble of a mugging, or just another one to beat down and run from; an addition to his game score. “… so quiet now how am I supposed to, all gone, all gone …“
She’s a broken brain bitch that’s for sure; but she’s not in rags, got that black too large coat and black shiny fabric bag that looks weighed down by something good. “… where’d they go … so quiet …” ‘This bitch has to go.’ Suddenly the short female figure, bundled against the spring cold and the light rain, a figure black as the shadows of this alley that leads from Princess through to 1st stops and shouts, ‘… head back like some damn dog …’ “WHERE are you ALL?”
Both he and his wingman jump and turn to look at each other. “Fuck Ronnie this might be more than it’s worth.” The taller of the two, Ronnie, grins with his white teeth, flashing-fang. The son of a middle class family he’d had the benefit of straightening; the teeth at any rate, not his life though. “Chris, who gives a fuck let’s beat some ass.” They begin their run at her; separating, coming at her almost laterally in their final predatory wolf-steps. Ronnie’s fist is high in a striking pose.
“Helen? Let’s talk for a moment about the changes. Last week you told me that there had been some improvements.” Dr. Kadherin Thorensonn’s hand pauses, the red, metal clad, pen poised just over her legal sized pad. “Yeah, but …”; the pen is laid on the pad and the fingers of the doctor’s right hand rise and remove the eyebobs Geek Girl reading glasses she’s lately developed an affection for, from the bridge of her aquiline nose. Her eyes narrow with the lashes obscuring the green of her irises.
“But?” “I’m lonelier now … I mean I’m not distracted as much but …” “But you’re lonely.” “Yeah, especially for the girl in Cali …” “The one you said was finally happy?” “And her friend Meg. Yes. I miss her laughing at my French and I miss the city.” The doctor’s hand reclaims her pen and she jots a note to make a lunch appointment with Desma later in the week. “How are things going at work?” “Okay.” The doctor waits, her silence the, now learned by Helen, demand for more information. “It’s fine really. Desma is adding some hours and I’m doing the register now.”
“How are you sleeping, you look more rested today than you have in some time; I see you’ve put some makeup on.” “The anxiety attacks are still there; but I don’t wake panting and smothering like before. I slept good last night.”
‘… lying of course … her tells are so clear … the basically honest cannot conceal …’ “Let’s do the routine then Helen.” Helen smiles, she enjoys the simple things; opening her bag she takes out the pharmacy containers, now the count is down to only two. The cared for hands of the psychiatrist pry the white lids from the amber plastic tubes and spill the contents out on the note pad. “There are twenty-two; you aren’t taking the doxepin.” She suspects that the accurate count on the clozapine simply indicates that Helen does not want to be confronted on not taking that medication as well. She decides not to confront Helen; her physical appearance and life improvements indicate that Helen is finally succeeding.
After her last booked appointment of the day, and her updating of the files for the clients she had treated, Dr. Thorensonn rises from her desk. Looking about at the subtle shades of green, the gleaming brass, the few pieces of expensively framed art hanging on the walls, her gaze fixes upon the white Chinese porcelain vase with it’s now failing spring bouquet. She lifts it and walks across the thick woven slate grey nap of the room’s carpeting.
As she reaches the door to the private en-suite bathroom she grasps the vase in her right hand as her long well cared for fingers grip in friction. Freed, her left smooth skinned hand applies pressure, pushing the lightly stained deeply grained wood of the door open. There is a moment of seeming dizziness, a tightening in her stomach. An unsettled balance of resistance and gravity and the precious object is in the air.
‘Helen’ in her mind suddenly.'... broken, unrepairable...'; splinters and shards caught mid-air as vase meets marbled flooring. The eye and mind freeze each flake of glistened fire-glazed white, then release all to fall in that afternoon shaft of light passing quantized, temporal, and gradually fading.
Ronnie leaps as the black clad woman turns; the length of her coat spreading in unfurling Sufi waves. He stops short as the light reflects from the graphite grey wave patterns along the large ceramic blade’s surface sliding across his throat. Chris’s thighs and claves grip tight and his feet slide on the rain-wet shine of the oil-slicked pavement ‘… fuck, butt-flat and ass-wet …’.
A heated mist burns dot-patterns across his brow and the moon white oval of the crazy bitch’s face leans close into his. The weightless spring rain cools and pleases him.
“Helene! Helene!” The woman’s voice carries through the olive laden branches of the hillside; “Helene! Come now!” The twig-thin, sun brown figure seen fleetingly through the lower new growth branches dances from trunk to trunk; “Here Mamma! I’m here!” Then running closer to where the smiling woman stands with her hand tucking back an errant strand of dark brown hair; “No Mamma over here now!”
The woman is frustrated, but within, she knows that one day this moment to be lost, will survive only in her daughter. Her child, this precious child, grows. “Helene, hurry. Papa wants to take you to the village to visit with the teacher before your school begins.”
I became a loom ... a work of wood and oils and flesh and pain ... I became words, woven together to impart myself, an offering of memory and love ... I became a crowd of voices longing for that final color that might complete ... I found her, a sorceress who located my heart ... I am Amanda here to open, here to pound loud and set you upon a journey ...
Let me tell you a story ...
Farcebook I only use for music and posting links to my work here ... Gargle Plus is the same ... now ... TubeOfYou? lots of music that i likes mmm hmmm
Favorite visual artistNatalie Shau. (long list of DA photographers and manipulation freaks)(Leana*kiss)Favorite moviesHigh Art, La Femme NikitaFavorite TV showsCarnivale, Walking Dead, Two Broke Girls, NOVA, Discovery Channel (anything)Favorite bands / musical artistsCollide, Apocalyptica, Blonde Redhead, DIE ANTWOORD!Favorite booksKissing Dead Girls, Look at Me, The Keep, Ghost WalkFavorite writersJennifer Eagen, Daphne Gottlieb, Marina Tsvetqeva, Sofia Parnok, S.PlathFavorite gamesspin the bottle, whack a trollFavorite gaming platformpool table, bar topTools of the TradeMac Book Air, Windoze 7 crate of crap, Nikon D200, Epson Perfection V750 ProOther Interestsphotography, modeling, kleptomania, screaming at strangers and then stun gunning them
For the ensconced demented deviants among us!
Yes, I AM a gay American woman; and damn proud of that. I flirt shamelessly with females, males, and photos of kittens. Anyone who let’s that go to their heads (eyes.the.homophobic.female.artist) is not only stupid but arrogant.