Tuesday, April 19, 2011

March 3rd, 2626


I took Lucy to the ice-rink today. My new metal bones were wanting for exercise. Ice-skating is my favorite activity of all time, I think. Honestly, of all time. Over sex, even, and I really used to love having sex. I forget sex. But the rush I get when the cold, icy air splits in front of me as I glide across that crystal block is something I can't ever forget. It's peaceful.

It was her first time on the ice. She did great. I don't want to love this kid but I feel myself starting to. I don't want to feel vulnerable. I don't want to feel like something I love is just going to poof! out of existence. Lucy is different, though. Her laugh reaches into the depths of me and pulls my laughter out, too. Her tears become my pain. Her life is inexplicably tied to mine. She isn't even my child. She's not my Domenica. She's Lucy, though, and while I love her differently, she reminds me how in love I was with my daughter. Not how horrible I feel that my daughter no longer is. That I never knew how she died. Or when.

I kept my eyes on Lucy's black curls as she began to get the hang of the right way to glide. She got the hang of it so fast and I felt such pride. I looked around at the ice rink, down over the rails at the green field below, and thought to myself how proud I was of the rest of the world, for getting the hang of it. We fixed so many things, together. I feel such pride about our campaigns. The Under Grounder Movement, that was the one I was thinking of today. We've got everything figured out, it seems. I just can't figure out what happened to Domenica. It will never stop haunting me. Lucy reminds me of her, so very much.

So long as Domenica haunts me is so long as I'll wait it out here to find her. I never stop funding that search. But just like 200 years ago, just like 400 years ago, just like almost 600 years ago, all they know is that Domenica disappeared.


Monday, April 18, 2011

December 3rd, 2036


Here it comes. The fuse on this 9 month stick of TNT has finally been lit. The little monster's coming now. I'm leaving to go to the hospital and I thought to write quickly before I'm tortured by birthing out some screaming little ball of rapid cell division. Dijon's picking me up. My water broke. I feel disgusting. I'm in pain. She'll be here any minute and I'm packing up my stuff to go to the hospital. Which is really just this book, a dog-tag to squeeze through the pain, and a pillow with a shirt tucked in it.

I'll write as soon as this whole giving birth thing is over.

I love you, Eros. I'm scared and I'm all alone. But I'm alone only for a couple more hours. Til the big fucking kaboom! And when this thing blows I'll never be alone again.


July 20th, 2454


If it weren't for Bali, I'd forget the world. I feel my memories slipping out of my grasp every day. And when I remember, it shocks me. It scares me. The life I remember makes me fear not for myself, but of myself.

Dr. Twinn thinks I should read my journals. To jar my memory. The monitor's show my brain is fully functioning. It shows that all of my memories are there, the only problem is turning them back on. He says it looks like a "gray fog" has blanketed that area of my brain, that the fog is sharing the space where my memories are. He says he's never seen a thing quite like it. He says my prefrontal area (whatever the hell that means) is completely enshrouded by a gray fog. He says that the fog shows on the monitors but doesn't exist in any of the scans they print or samples they take and that when they laser through to my brain, there is no fog there. It just vanishes, he says. I wonder if it's my soul, protecting me. From myself.

Today I remembered the day Domenica was born. I remember how lonely it was. No Liam. No Bali. Just Frank and a ghost hand. And almost directly afterwards I remember the day she disappeared. The same day my soul disappeared. I screamed. I cried and cried. I remember not allowing myself to have that memory. It hurts to bad to think about. But I looked down at Bali and remembered and I couldn't stop the onslaught. It was a horrible memory. I never found her. And I remembered Frank's face. I remember the news. I remember how angry he looked at me. There was nothing I could do. And then I remembered Liam's pain. His fear. And I remembered when he forgot. How jealous I was, that I couldn't forget. That we couldn't die together.

And when I remembered again that I never found her, I called in Dr. Twinn, told him I was in too much pain, and took drugs to sleep through my day. My dreams were awful. I dreamt of when I was a small child, memories I have forgotten for so very very long. It was almost like a flashback. It was the day I woke up from my coma. I flashed back to when my eyes began to flicker open. In real life I remember seeing Frank's face above mine. I remember feeling fear because he seemed so evil in that moment, but I recognized it was just my own fear to wake up. In the drug-dream today, Frank was evil. It was Frank and I knew it, but there he stood over me while my eyes flicked awake with the head of a wolf, howling into the open moonlit sky. Howling out the name "Domenica". And I never woke up from that coma. I just watched him howl her name, in this dream.

Its closer to midnight now and I'm waiting for new drugs to kick in so I can sleep away these memories. I specifically asked for ones that would turn off my brain's ability to dream. I don't want to dream like that again. I told Twinn I felt less rested having had those nightmares and that I felt almost like the nightmares were replacing the actual memories. My brain, I hope, will forget the memories and the nightmares by the time I was up. For good. I hope this fog infects my prefrontal area and purges me from everything.


June 13th, 2030


I should be feeling alot more awful than I do. We had our very first fight last night. Numero Uno. I thought I'd feel alot worse about it. But the fact that we got through it without a shout, a curse, or someone feeling hurt makes me feel like this thing I have is the most special thing in the world. Our ability to communicate is remarkable. The fact that now it's afterwords and neither of us feels the slightest bit perturbed is even more remarkable.

It was my fault, Eros. I'm a dumb idiot. I'm the most obliviously blonde woman I've ever known. I just don't seem to get things, sometimes. We were in the bar. I'd been off to the side of the bar in a booth talking with my cousin Ryan who came into town for the weekend. Liam met us after work and approached us with a smile. We did some brief introductions before Liam left and made his way into the mass of people dancing around the bar. I didn't follow him. I lost Liam in the crowd for about an hour, losing myself as well in a catch-up conversation about my crazy family with Ryan. The two of us laughed alot, drank alot, and enjoyed our small reunion to the best of our ability. I assumed Liam was giving us family time and himself socializing. I didn't feel uncomfortable about the distance in the bar, figuring it didn't really matter if we were doing our own seperate thing. I was mildly curious why I didn't see his face for something over an hour, but I wasn't nervous or bothered by it. When he resurfaced, his face popping out in the thinning crowd, I noticed he was sitting at the bar alone. And I didn't go sit with him, assuming he was still doing his own thing. About twenty minutes later Ryan began to say his goodbyes and I was a little bit sad he hadn't had the opportunity to get to know Liam. I dragged him to the bar, hoping Liam would at least attempt to converse with him for a minute or so. But instead he said "It was nice to meet ya, man. See you around" and he got up and walked away. This irritated me and Ryan together and I failed to explain that this wasn't Liam's normal character. When I went back inside, Liam was gone.

I searched for him for closer to an hour. I walked around outside the bar. I checked the surrounding blocks. I called him. I checked the bathrooms, even. Then I went home. Sitting on my doorstep, apparently having skateboarded to my house, was Liam. He was angry at me because he had asked me if Ryan and I wanted to talk. Neither Ryan or myself realized he'd asked the question meaning did we want to talk with Liam, at the bar, and neither of us realized he expected our company and expected we pursue him through the crowd. And so we just sat and continued what we'd been doing. Talking. Liam thought we were ignoring him. That I was unwanting of him and his company. That I'd purposefully wanted him to go away. He was nervous because he thought I was ashamed in front of my family. He thought I cared whether Ryan would approve.

I feel happy this happened. I had the chance to assure him of me. Of how PROUD I am of him. Of my intentions. My dispositions. Ultimately, I had the chance to assure myself that we can calmly handle whatever misunderstanding may come our way. So I don't feel awful. I feel thrilled. I'm so fucking lucky. We didn't shout. No curses. No hard feelings afterwards. The only thing that was left when the dust from this little skirmish settled was two people looking at one another with alot of love in their eyes. Recognizing luck. And joy. And a reason to make doubly sure that nothing can ever come between us. A reason to follow a person to the ends of the Earth.


April 4th, 2030


I know once in a lifetime when I see it. I'm feeling almost sick about it. I'm not this lucky. I've never been. My life self-destructs far more often than it works out in my favor.

I feel like I'm gonna lose him. You know? Eros, we finish one another's sentences. We're on the same plane. At least thats how it seems. But I've been a sucker before.

I'm just waiting, now. For the bomb to go off.


Tuesday, April 5, 2011

November 20th, 2036


I really love Dijon. That woman is such an inspiration to me. I haven't thought much about naming a Godmother for this kid, but I'm going to ask her. Today, Frank got called in by a hospital two towns over. They needed all hands on deck because there was a bombing in the Brightside Commons mall. Apparently there are hundreds injured (huge mall) and the whole thing blew apart so Frank had to go be an actual doctor to people who actually need him. Dijon, upon finding out I'd be alone at my birthing practice today (which led to her finding out that I'd be alone in the birthing minus Frank whose actually delivering the kid) volunteered to be my birthing partner. Maybe its all these extra cocksucker horomones that course through my damned veins, but whatever, it made me cry. I was so touched. I was considering not going to the practice, but with only two weeks left before this kid comes, it doesn't really matter how much pain I'm in, I've gotta be prepared. Frank says I'm fine anyway, and that I don't need to be resting so much anymore. My boobs don't really hurt hurt, anyway, they just ache. And my back feels a great deal better. Dijon is saving me by coming, though, because that fucking practice is normally dreadfully boring. And she's saving this kid. And Frank. And my life. I can't thank her enough, really, for being there. For knowing me during this time of my life.

While we were in the gym, me on my back on my little purple yoga mat resting my head in Dijon's lap, we whispered over the "soothing Earth sounds" to one another, cracking jokes about our flamboyantly gay birthing instructor. I mean, the flamboyant gay thing is fine. In this day and age, gay and flamboyant is just as normal as happily married and Catholic. But the fact that a flamboyant gay man is trying to teach me how to shoot a fetus out of my uterus with a spandex shirt and poncho pants on, well thats fucking funny. Then we started cracking jokes about the couple next to us, two of the most wildly obese mongoloids I've ever seen in my life. We felt horrible making fun of them so much, but I mean come on. The woman farted. And throughout the room her fresh ass odor permeated and infested all of our noses and Dijon and I, at that point, lost our shit and just couldn't stop laughing. Those poor people. It was one of the most soothing of all the sessions I've ever gone to simply because I soothed all the pent up douchebagginess I've been harboring in my soul. Without Liam to joke with, I've felt so pent up. Frank can't joke so much with me. He's so serious all the time, about my health and my sanity and about the little monster, that he forgets that I'm his friend. Dijon gave me such relief today. If for that alone, I'm eternally grateful.

After the practice ended I asked if she'd allow me to take her to lunch. We went to C'est La Vie, this little bar on the outskirts of Santa Fe that I discovered the other night during one of my moonlight walks. Of course I'm not drinking, but I went in for an apple juice because I needed the atmosphere. It is much cooler of a place in the daytime. I led her to a booth in the corner and we talked over the gentle sounds, actually soothing sounds, of a little mexi man playing a bitty guitar. I swear, Spanish guitar does to me what nothing else in the world can do. Santa Fe has taught me one thing, at least. I love the guitar. We got some virgin cocktails (I know, how gay?) and I listened to Dijon tell me the most inspirational of stories. She comes from San Diego. When she was three years old she moved there from Connecticut with her drug addict mother who was fleeing from her abusive father. She's never met him. Once in San Diego, her mom found that the escape she had wanted, from the drugs and the abuse, was only doubly bad on the West Coast. Drugs are harder there, easier to come by, and everyone who lives there is trying to escape from something. So they're all crazy. They're all on drugs. They're all struggling and poor. Of course her mother got mixed up in the wrong crowd, almost right away, until she was freebasing two or three heroin pills every couple of hours. Dijon was left on her own most of the day while her mom was busy being high. And then her mom met Wiley. Wiley the fucking coyote. Thats what he called himself. Wiley Coyote. His real name was Wiley Marlou, but that fucker thought himself Wiley Coyote and thats how Dijon remembers him. He supported Dijon and her mom, they all moved into an apartment together, and while Wiley and Marjorie (the mom) got high and banged one another in the bathroom, Dijon grew up largely fending for herself. She remembers a lot of loneliness from those days, she says. Anyway, Dijon was eight the first time Wiley raped her. He raped her a hundred more times, she said, than she can remember. Those were her words. "Over and over, he'd rape me. While my mom was out scoring drugs, he'd tie me down and mouth rape me. Or he'd hold me against the wall and stick his dirty cock in my vagina". Her anger about the whole thing is so obvious in her words, and rightfully so. A year went by before he'd started to do things that would mark her. He'd sometimes hit her, or pinch her, and finally he ass raped her. And for two days she couldn't walk or move. The toilet water was bloody and so Marjorie freaked out and thought Dijon was starting her period. Bought her pads and tampons and all the like. Little did she know, the stupid cunt. Wiley fucking Coyote.

The situation came to a head when Dijon killed him. I'm not joking. She stabbed him to death. One day when Dijon was twelve years old, Marjorie (who was now a working drug addict instead of just a drug addict) was gone for the evening and Wiley started his, what Dijon calls "new sadistic rape ritual". He would tie up her arms and tie up her legs so that she hung from the kitchen ceiling in a U shape. And he'd rape her in the butt while she hung like that. So sickening. And he left the kitchen to take a shit. Thinking Dijon was tied up tightly, that fucking asshole. But as he stopped supporting her weight the knots in the ropes slackened instead of tightened up. Dijon recalls the moment lucidly, describing how the unraveling of the ropes was almost magical, almost like she was willing it so, until she had her hands freed. She says the hardest thing in the world was trying to stay bent in that U shape with no support, untying her feet. But she got herself free. She didn't describe her killing him in detail, for which I'm grateful. I'd surely have had a panic attack. Anxiety. But she told me that she calmly walked to the drawer, took out the sharpest and biggest knife she could find and attacked him while he sat there, vulnerable and shitting. After that she went directly to the police, obvious evidence of the rape on her rope-burned hands and with all his genetics on the places he'd touched her. She sued her mother for negligent parenting by the time she was sixteen. She was put into the custody of her Godmother after her mother's swift arrest and placement in county. And she has never spoken with her mother since. Marjorie is dead, now, but before she died she would send Dijon a letter every single day. I don't think that Dijon ever read a single one. She says she just put them into a box and left them untouched.

I have never been more sure of a person in my entire life. I haven't wanted a Godmother for my kid. But if there is one person in this whole world I trust with my little monster's life, its her. I've got so much respect for her I feel like I'm overflowing with it. And I think when we left the bar she knew that. So tomorrow I'm gonna take her to dinner, I think, and ask her if she'd do me the honor. I hope that Frank is not offended that I don't ask him to be the Godfather. I love Frank, he's my best friend, but something tells me he wouldn't be up for the job. Anyway, I'll write again tomorrow with details of whether I go through with it. For now, I'm exhausted. Love you, Eros. Sorry I've been so aloof lately. I'm just...hurting more than normal.