Dorm Room: ST - Part Zero
She was truly beautiful. An angel in a denim jacket, delivering justice with three-fifty-seven. The younger sister of a pair of orphans that never found usefulness, that never found a decent purpose in this world. She grew up running, well, whatever there was to run under the nose of various authorities. Guns? Sure. Drugs? No problem. I give her points, to be sure. Coming from where she did, this girl had many a chance to score financial security by herding and transporting Asian slave workers, but she never did. A couple of confused, language-trapped Chinese girls a week could've scored her a solid financial backbone. It never happened.
It's as though she went out of her way to find the hardest punches life had up its sleeve, and she screamed at fate to throw the damned things before she got bored. And so it did. Then she dodged and tossed in a vicious hook. Life was, as usual, unprepared for the "frail" little Asian-American girl to come back with anything worthwhile. Fate was sent spiraling to the pavement. Bless her.
I would have given anything for her to be able to keep it up.
For a number of years we had lived off-and-on with a group of men, war-born boys who had never grown up, had helped dictate our futures. One of them was her brother.
For those years, we attempted to chronicle our misadventures through life. From malls of content citizens to colonies of bullet-spewing mobile suits, we had told our story.
After long enough, after having fought the physical and emotional, this woman and I decided to take the tale down. To make it private. We felt we didn't need to show it to the faceless masses anymore.
For she and I had found each other, and that was reward enough for what we had been through. Once again, I would have given anything for life to have had an endless repeat button. We pretend that our histories are something that can be shoved into a corner and quieted with distractions and duct tape gags. Sometimes they are, but more often-than-not, they crash down our front doors with blazing machine guns at the moment we come down the stairs least-prepared.
This is the story of what happened to that wonderful potential.
This is the story of six guys, one girl, and a house not nearly big enough for the lot of them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For the continuing story:
http://www.facebook.com/people/Dorm-Room/1587806386
It's as though she went out of her way to find the hardest punches life had up its sleeve, and she screamed at fate to throw the damned things before she got bored. And so it did. Then she dodged and tossed in a vicious hook. Life was, as usual, unprepared for the "frail" little Asian-American girl to come back with anything worthwhile. Fate was sent spiraling to the pavement. Bless her.
I would have given anything for her to be able to keep it up.
For a number of years we had lived off-and-on with a group of men, war-born boys who had never grown up, had helped dictate our futures. One of them was her brother.
For those years, we attempted to chronicle our misadventures through life. From malls of content citizens to colonies of bullet-spewing mobile suits, we had told our story.
After long enough, after having fought the physical and emotional, this woman and I decided to take the tale down. To make it private. We felt we didn't need to show it to the faceless masses anymore.
For she and I had found each other, and that was reward enough for what we had been through. Once again, I would have given anything for life to have had an endless repeat button. We pretend that our histories are something that can be shoved into a corner and quieted with distractions and duct tape gags. Sometimes they are, but more often-than-not, they crash down our front doors with blazing machine guns at the moment we come down the stairs least-prepared.
This is the story of what happened to that wonderful potential.
This is the story of six guys, one girl, and a house not nearly big enough for the lot of them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For the continuing story:
http://www.facebook.com/people/Dorm-Room/1587806386