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07 February 2006 @ 10:08 pm
I shouldn't do it. I know I shouldn't. I'm eighteen years old, and I don't need to be cuddled at night, anymore. According to him, I didn't need to be when I was eight, but that has nothing to do with this.

My lower lip catches between my teeth and I gnaw at it as I consider my options. He just left, won't likely be back till at least dawn, if then. I never sleep so soundly that I wouldn't be able to hear him when he came home. I've always been able to scramble back into my own bed in time, or very nearly. I wouldn't let that happen again.

My chest aches and my stomach feels horribly empty, even though I had a filling supper. I love her so much...why shouldn't I be able to sleep in the same bed as her? To wake up in the morning and find her lovely face only inches from mine. Why shouldn't I be the one who gets to snuggle into her during the night? God, if only I could be her husband, instead of him. I would make love to her every morning and every night. I would give so much...

And now, here I am, afraid and hesitant to crawl into bed with her. I know I shouldn't. She advised me against it, saying that it was too risky, but my love for her, my desire, my fear of being alone is too much for me, and I fling the covers from myself and get out of bed, my mind made up, at last.

She's all ready asleep when I creep beneath the covers of her bed. I've never seen an angel sleep, of course...I've never seen one, at all, but if I did, she is what I'd expect them to look like. So peaceful and lovely, I can't help but reach out my hand and stroke her cheek, gently. She stirs at this, and I have mixed feelings of shame, excitement, but mostly love.

When she opens her eyes and sees me, a smile spreads across her sleepy lips, painting an identical one on my own.

"I'm sorry," I apologize needlessly, "I couldn't sleep, and...I missed you."
 
 
Well, being the self-absorbed bastard that I apparenly am, I'm gonna have to go with something along the lines of, "What do you think of me, anyway?" Like, I could ask that of someone I've just met, someone I haven't even talked to, someone I've known for years, and I'd expect a fucking honest answer. But I'm assuming that this is a ficticious scenario, and therefore we'd get the truth, no matter what. So yes. The fact I would most like to know about other people, is what they think of </i>me</i>.

One could argue that by this show in self-interest I have low self-esteem and must rely on others to get my emotional high. That's not really true. I'll admit to needing people, just liek everyone does, but it's probably for different, less compasionate reasons. This was definitely true a year or two ago, before I was reduced to this pile of black-clad sexual frustration on the couch. But I mean, come on. If you had the chance to just worm into people's minds and pick out what they were thinking about you, wouldn't you? Not if you're fat and ugly, I suppose, then no. But, hello, I'm not, so I'd want to know. Yes, to feed my ego, I'll admit to that, at least.

Other than that, I suppose I'd want to know the strangest way/place/person with whom they've ever had sex. Maybe just to feed my own perversion, or maybe just to be confident in the knowledge that I've had some pretty fucked up sex, and if anyone I meet has had weirder, I can congratulate them.

Adolescent, self-centered, immature, yes. Okay. But dude, come on.

Fine, what would you like to know?
 
 
21 September 2005 @ 10:15 pm
Do you ever feel invisible? Not just, you know, ignored...but seriously, like, non-existent. Or maybe like a vapor, something not quite a solid, nor a liquid, nor a gas, and people think they notice you, occasionally, but really they're just imagining things.

I feel like that constantly. Even in my own little circle of friends I sometimes feel completely on the outside looking in. I don't ever say anything...maybe I should. But if I did, would it make a difference? If, one of those times, I pulled Angie or Steve...no, definitely Angie...aside, and said, "Hey, is it just me, or are you guys completely ignoring me?"

And it's not even like it happens only when I'm in big groups, either. Of course I'll provide you with examples.

Today I was walking down the hall on the way to lunch, and I was reasonably certain I was the only one occupying the hall, other than my friend, who comes bounding up to me with a huge smile on his face. Well, he's more of an accquantaince, if you want to get technical. Anyway, I said, "You look awfully bouncy, today." I wondered what had just happened that could have made him look so enthused. Did he have some good news for me? Was I invited to a party? Was our English class cancelled, again?

Walks right past me.

I turned around and saw two girls I don't know, and he was talking to them excitedly. I stood there for a moment, my ten thousand books balanced on one hip, my eyebrow raised incredulously. Finally he noticed me standing there, staring in dumb disbelief at the back of his head, and said, "Sorry, Mort, I was looking at them."

Yeah. Obviously. Have a nice day.

A similar thing happened, yesterday, actually. This really cute girl, Jammes (but she pronounces it 'James' for some reason, like her name is too French for her liking), was walking rather slowly down the hall, ahead of me. Again, on the way to lunch, relatively empty hallway (I take a kind of side-hall that tends to be pretty deserted). She stops, turns around and looks at me with a kind of coy smile on her face. I'd noticed her before, and I've always thought she was pretty. I'm fortunate enough not to have any major crushes, but I'm not sure if that's better than having a bunch of little crushes on, like, every pretty girl at school...which I do.

My cheeks turned red, immediately, and I felt that lump rise up into my throat that always makes it so impossible to say anything when things like this happen. Still, I try my best, and even as she's starting walking past me in the opposite direction, I manage to squeak out a, "Uh, hi Jammes." I pronounced it correctly, and everything.

"Are you coming, or what?"

Her friend was behind me, the whole time, and had stopped to get a drink at the fountain. It's all I can do not to take my 600 page history text and smash it into my forehead, right then and there. Honestly. Why would she talk to me? In a deserted corridor, nevertheless...all though, I suppose it'd be safer for her reputation to do so, there, than in plain view of our fellow students. Sigh.

This isn't just lately, either. I guess for some annoying reason, I'm just noticing it more, lately. I've always been a dork, a geek, a dweeb, a nerd, whatever the hell degrading four (or five) letter word you want to use to describe my lack of popularity, unfortunate skin condition and interest in Dungeons and Dragons...I've always been that. I probably always will be. It pisses me off, but I'm not alone in it, so it's mostly okay. We dorks gotta stick together, and we do, for the most part. Except for when they ignore me.

I'm pretty sure they don't do it, deliberately. But a couple of days ago, also at lunch, I came up behind Angie in the line and started to talk to her. She didn't respond. No one else was talking to her, I wasn't speaking all that softly, she just wasn't hearing me. Finally, she turns around and goes, "Oh, hi Mort."

"I've been talking to you for like, a minute and a half." Exaggeration is usually apropros in situations such as these, so I utilize it as I see fit. No one really seems to care.

"You know how deaf I am," she replies, lamely, and shovels more pickles onto her burger.

In a group of three or more people, I can't get a word in. The fact that I may not have anything noteworthy to say is irrelevant; it still makes me feel like crap. The only time anyone really notices me is during D&D, or when I'm with my parents. They claim to never see me often enough, and I respond by saying I'm doing them a favor, trust me. My sister could give a damn if I fell of the face of the earth, and the feeling is mostly mutual. It just bothers me when my own alleged "friends" act like I'm not there.

Oh well. I guess that's a sufficient amount of bitching for today.
 
 
19 September 2005 @ 01:17 am
The house was very quiet as evening turned to night. I was quite tired, indeed, and I found my bed made and waiting for me in my room. Well, our room, mine and Nadir's, but he was off at court and wouldn't be back until the morning. He'd been gone for a few days, all ready, and it was always trying, for everyone, when he was summoned. He hated it, there, and I hated what it did to him.

Sometimes we would talk, foolishly, of moving elsewhere...out of Persia, even. To India, perhaps, or Egypt. Sometimes I would joke about moving to England, France...dress up in overlarge costumes and parade myself about, with my face bared. We laughed about such things, often...but quietly. When you live in a country wherein a visible lock of hair can earn you a beating, you learn to jest softly about such things. Not that any such thing had ever happened to me, of course...but the danger was there.

I slid my bare feet beneath the smooth, cool sheets and made myself as comfortably as I could do, without my husband. It was always so empty, without him...cold and lonesome, with nothing but the pillows beside me. I wrapped my arms around my torso sadly and rested my head in the safety of the pillow. Nadir...
 
 
13 September 2005 @ 12:55 pm
Erik had been gone for nearly a month, and the manor was beginning to reek of loneliness. It was far too big a place for just the two occupants...and it was twice as bad when it was only me at home. I missed him terribly, and felt quite empty, cleaning and cooking only for myself. As a matter of fact, the only tidying I ever needed to do anymore was dusting, since I really made no mess at all, except for to make myself a meal or two.

Erik and I were not married, though we'd been living together for over a year. Our relationship was a singular one, borne of strange circumstances. By society's standards, it was positively scandalous, according to Erik, but neither of us were really so close to society to notice. Sometimes we were little more than master and servant...Erik tending to his projects and I to my chores. Sometimes we were simply friends, reading (or, in my case, trying to) in the same room, or having tea together (Erik liked his bitter, I liked mine with honey). Sometimes we were lovers, walking hand in hand along the beach by the manor. It was idyllic, as long as Erik kept his temper and I occasionally spoke up for myself, which, granted, was as much miss as hit. Erik could be downright explosive when angry, and I found that despite everything, I still could not quite ask for things for myself. Thankfully for the both of us, I knew when to step around Erik, and he knew how to anticipate my desires.

I sat down on the couch beside the fireplace. It was nearing ten o'clock, and I really should have been getting to bed. I was all ready in my nightclothes, sans corset...how could Western women sleep in the things? I remembered the first time I'd ever been put in a corset, with the dressing woman lacing me up...I'd heard that many women found them comfortable, but I could not. I was not laced over-tightly, but enough to make me woozy. I'd since gotten used to them, somewhat...but I avoided wearing them whenever possible.

My head hit the cushion at the end of the couch as I lay down, staring at the ceiling. It was certainly my bedtime...but the fire was so warm, the flickering flames so comforting...
 
 
 
12 September 2005 @ 10:54 pm
It was dark. Darker than he remembered it being in his room. But his father had been away for nearly a week, visiting relatives, and whenever his father was away, he slept in his mother's bed. It was so much more comfortable than his own little bed, with the pillows that poked him in the eye, and the springs that stabbed his little back when he turned over in the wrong place. Besides, even if her bed had things that poked and stabbed and were otherwise unpleasant, it wouldn't matter, because it also had her. But now his father was back, and so he had to sleep alone, again. His room felt so much farther away than just down the hall from hers...

William shivered and brought the covers up to his cold little nose. He couldn't keep his eyes closed. He'd been frightened out of his fatigue and was now forced to stare in wide-eyed terror into nothingness. Except it wasn't complete nothingness, but semi-nothingness with dark somethings lurking in the shadows. That's what scared him so much. His room was small, so whatever was in it wouldn't have far to go before it reached his bed. He and his mother had checked under it, and in the closet, before she'd tucked him in with a hug and a kiss that were much too short for his liking...but still. He couldn't help but wonder if, as soon as she'd gone, with all of her light and warmth, the monsters had returned. His father thought he was too old to believe in silly things like monsters and being afraid of the dark, and at nine years old, many parents would probably agree. But not many parents were like Charlotte, and that, according to William, was what was wrong with the world.

+++

I couldn't take it, anymore. I had to get out of there. But I was too terrified to move. Every time I told myself that I could do it, I suddenly couldn't move, at all. I couldn't even blink.

"All right, legs! Move it!" I commanded, but they stayed frozen to the spot.

I whimpered most pathetically and covered my head with the blankets. Before long, face was hot and sweaty from my breathing in the small, airless space, yet my nose remained cold. And my hands. And feet. I rubbed them together, but they still felt like ice.

"Mother..." I whispered, hoping that maybe the sound of that word spoken aloud would serve as a threat to whatever lay waiting in the shadows of my room. But I wasn't convinced, and I still couldn't move. I began to panick. I cried, with my head under the blanket, wishing for the sun and the warmth and my mother.
 
 
12 September 2005 @ 11:59 am
For Jacq's benefit: http://www.livejournal.com/manage/invites.bml