more bits. more questions
I poked around that girl’s restroom. When I was in the stall where I woke up, I had a new memory: flushing the toilet over and over again. But when I try to think about why I was flushing, like what was in the bowl, it gets really fuzzy. And that place below my heart throbs like a hammered finger.
I went into the library – lucky for me Clint wasn’t there – and I went to that shelf. My heart pounds, and I start breathing heavily, and when I touch the shelf, I get a vision:
A boy with dark hair, older than me but still high school age, holding a red cloth to his eyebrow. Blood is spilling down his cheek, down his neck in little streams. The eyebrow is swelling, and he’s got a swollen lower lip. I didn’t recognize the face.
I saw the vision, and that place below my heart throbbed like a stubbed toe.
I spent a couple hours going through my old yearbooks, but I didn’t see that face. So who the hell is that boy? And did he really inspire me to sneak to the library, climb a ten-foot bookshelf and start Jilling up there?
That’s CRAZY! I would never, ever do that in public! All my experimenting – and believe me, it’s been tame and infrequent - has been done at home, behind locked doors.
Maybe it’s not as innocent as that. Maybe I hurt that boy, and couldn’t contain the ecstasy I felt from the act.
Maybe I killed him and stashed the body somewhere. Then climbed that shelf to celebrate.
No, that’s even CRAZIER! I could never do that, not even to Clint!
But the fact remains that I don’t know what I did on either of those days, and my parents don’t want me to know.
I wish I had somebody to talk to about this. I’m afraid I’m spiraling, digging down deeper from delusion to delusion, and nobody’s at the surface to throw down a rope.
Talking to the ether is comforting, but the ether doesn’t provide many answers. Just nonjudgmental silence.
…I just thought of someone I could ask. I should’ve put it together when that place below my heart kept hurting.
I can try to talk to Z.
Not that I really believe in Z. But there’s some connection between my memories and that feeling I got from the Cleansing, so maybe something will come to mind if I meditate down there. I don’t know what else to do.
…Crap, Mom’s down there chanting. It could be hours. I’ll have to try tomorrow.
DanneR
I went into the library – lucky for me Clint wasn’t there – and I went to that shelf. My heart pounds, and I start breathing heavily, and when I touch the shelf, I get a vision:
A boy with dark hair, older than me but still high school age, holding a red cloth to his eyebrow. Blood is spilling down his cheek, down his neck in little streams. The eyebrow is swelling, and he’s got a swollen lower lip. I didn’t recognize the face.
I saw the vision, and that place below my heart throbbed like a stubbed toe.
I spent a couple hours going through my old yearbooks, but I didn’t see that face. So who the hell is that boy? And did he really inspire me to sneak to the library, climb a ten-foot bookshelf and start Jilling up there?
That’s CRAZY! I would never, ever do that in public! All my experimenting – and believe me, it’s been tame and infrequent - has been done at home, behind locked doors.
Maybe it’s not as innocent as that. Maybe I hurt that boy, and couldn’t contain the ecstasy I felt from the act.
Maybe I killed him and stashed the body somewhere. Then climbed that shelf to celebrate.
No, that’s even CRAZIER! I could never do that, not even to Clint!
But the fact remains that I don’t know what I did on either of those days, and my parents don’t want me to know.
I wish I had somebody to talk to about this. I’m afraid I’m spiraling, digging down deeper from delusion to delusion, and nobody’s at the surface to throw down a rope.
Talking to the ether is comforting, but the ether doesn’t provide many answers. Just nonjudgmental silence.
…I just thought of someone I could ask. I should’ve put it together when that place below my heart kept hurting.
I can try to talk to Z.
Not that I really believe in Z. But there’s some connection between my memories and that feeling I got from the Cleansing, so maybe something will come to mind if I meditate down there. I don’t know what else to do.
…Crap, Mom’s down there chanting. It could be hours. I’ll have to try tomorrow.
DanneR
posted by DanneR at 5:35 PM
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