(no subject)
i typed all this yesterday::
today has been so awkward. i don't really understand a lot of it, yet at the same time, what is there to not understand?
due to some pushing from rebecca i pulled together the nerve to call amanda. it had to be the first time we really, truly talked in ... three, four months. and it was such a good feeling. we were both scared to call the other because it had been so so long and it was all very awkward and a little embarrassing, until i made the call.
"hello?"
"is.. amanda there?"
"hiii!"
"HIII ohmigod i miss youuuu *cryyy*"
and we talked for two hours, and it was like old times, only we were looking back on old times instead of .. living them. and junk. and it was all meaningful. the end
it really wasn't as long as i make it seem, it's just that i love to go into detail in my dreams, because it's so hard for me to remember even having a dream after like. a day.
....
i was in the rent house. it was one of those dreams where you automatically knew why everything that was out of place was that way. like you'd been living that way, like it was reality. anyway. the house was full of furniture, and i could tell that i lived there alone. it was obviously a few years ahead of now, because it was fixed up (no holes in the walls! score) and looked like i had settled down there. i was in the kitchen, and by the angle of the house i could see into one of the two bedrooms, and it looked like an art room; it had that old drawing table that used to be set up in the music/computer room (...the room i'm in) and there were papers everywhere in there, on the floors, on the walls, some crumpled up, some paper balls, some framed, some in shreds. a canvas in the corner, and the drawing table against the wall closest to the door, with a black swivel chair (papers in the seat) facing the drawing table. i know i went into insane detail, but i just loved it for some reason.
i looked back at what i was doing, and saw i was making some ramen noodles on the stove. i guess i lived as an artist, because if i had any money at all, i would spend it on nicer food than ramen, which makes me want to barf. funny, i used to love it, then all of a sudden it always makes me sick. but i don't actually throw it up, so if it was necessary to live, hell yes i'll fucking eat it. i'd eat a tub of flour if that was all i had.
but anyway.
it was nighttime, and it was raining pretty heavily. thunder crashed and it made the back door rumble very lightly, and i felt uneasy (i love when my dreams are so vivid! the details could make my heart skip a beat with joy). i glanced at my watch; it was about 3:20 am. i found it funny after i woke up that even though i was obviously at least eighteen, i still wore the same bracelets, and my same green watch from wal*mart. i never went out of style. hottt. hahaha me = lame
so i poked at my ramen with a fork, pressed it down to the bottom of the little pan in hopes of it cooking faster. then, all of a sudden, BAM! something slams into the back door, which is like four feet from where i'm standing, and this thing hits so hard the blinds fly out at least a foot away from the door before slamming back into the door. the impact scared me so badly that my fork went flying into the counter on the other side of the (very small) kitchen, and i kind of tripped back and started to fall to the floor, but that kitchen is freaking TINY so i hit the cabinets behind me and my hands slipped into the sink in an awkward position, so i was basically slung down, hanging from the cabinet, my hands on the inside of the sink, which is all that's keeping my ass from hitting the floor.
this is the part where i go into less detail about everything;
i look up at the back door as i pull myself up and the blinds apparently fell off the door when they swung back into it, cheap things. i saw the face of a young man staring with wild, horrified eyes, straight into mine. his hands were covered with blood; his shirt was soaked with blood as well, which gave my door a fresh coat of red. he was so frightened and something in me told me that he was in dire need of my help, and everything i had been taught when i was younger (ALL STRANGERS ARE BAD PEOPLE. this lesson brought to you by ashley's mom) must've flown out my ears, because i rushed to the door, kicked the blinds out of the way, and let the poor boy in. he stumbled and fell onto the floor, and i swiftly yet silently shut the door behind him and locked it. he squirmed as i knelt down to his side and pulled himself to his feet, water and blood flying all over my house. he stopped and stared into my eyes, with that same wild expression, and we were both silent. the rain had died down a little, and in the complete silence i could hear voices outside.
and i had thought before that his eyes couldn't get any wider.
i knew immediately that he was running from those voices, those people. i instructed him to go into the bathroom and wait for me, and he nodded without a word and stumbled in the direction i pointed. i meanwhile grabbed a thin blanket from the couch (it looked as though i had been laying there, curled up with a book that lay on the coffee table) and hung it from the hooks that used to hold up the blinds on my back door, so nobody could see in through the dark sheet (for some reason, the bloodstains on my door weere gone). i turned out the kitchen light, turned off the stove and pulled my ramen onto the counter, and rushed to the bathroom.
i stepped in and shut the door quietly behind me, then lifted my head to see the boy was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his head down. was he ashamed? i guess. i paid it no mind, simply ducked down to the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a homemade first aide kit that paranoia built. i sat on my knees before him and opened the lid to the kit.
"i'll have to pull off your shirt," i said as i reached for the bottom of his shirt. i didn't want to scare him anymore than he already had been, so i wanted to make sure he knew what i was doing, even though i was sure he was aware. safety precaution.
i pulled off his bloody, wet shirt and threw it into the tub behind him. he lifted his arms a little to ease my trouble with taking his shirt off, and he lifted his head for the first time. he dared not to look at me; his head turned to my left, his eyelids low, with a blank yet sad expression in his dark eyes. blood dribbled down his forehead, down the left side of his nose and over his lips, and fresh tears streaked down his cheeks, though i could tell he was trying to hold them back.
i tried my best not to pity him, but simply to concentrate on helping him out. we were both silent; he only flinched twice when i pressed an alchohol-soaked gauze to some of his wounds and tied the bandages around his chest, his arms. i couldn't exactly tell what the weapon of choice was in this situation; it looked like he was beaten with a 2x4 in some places and whipped in others, and sliced in even more areas. he was bruised near his wrists more than anywhere else, which made me think he was pinned down and tortured. it was harder to keep from pitying him, and i almost felt myself start to cry for him, though i held it back.
after covering his back, chest and arms with simply too many gauzes and/or bandages of any kind, and cleaning up his wounds on his torso and face, i asked if he was injured on his legs at all. his eyes darted to mine, though his head never turned from my left, where it had been since he removed his shirt. the look from his eye was a cynical one, though i could still see the sadness in his eyes. i lifted my hands up defensively, looking down a little and apologized for asking. i smiled a little when i looked up at him, and lifted my right hand to his face, where i wiped a recent tear from his eye, but it only drew more. it was as if i was the first soul who ever did a nice thing for him.
i held my grin and pulled his barely-tied worn converse off his feet. i tossed them, followed by his socks, into the tub, and he finally turned his head forward, though hanging down very lightly, to watch me.
"you'll need something to sleep in," i stated, lifting myself off the bathroom floor. "come on, i'll show you where you can sleep." i held up my right hand, and he stared at it for a moment. he hadn't uttered a word to me the entire night, but i didn't care. he looked up at me as he softly took my hand and stood up, and i smiled again. i lead him into my bedroom and opened my bottom dresser drawer, pulling out some giant drawstring blue plaid pajama pants and a large black shirt and handing them to him.
"you can change in here," i said, "just leave the rest of your wet clothes in the tub, and i'll get them in the morning." i pulled out a pair of green plaid drawstring pajama pants, since the ones i wore were wet and bloody. i slipped out and shut the door behind me, then changed pants where i was standing and threw my old ones into the tub. i sighed and went into the kitchen to throw out my ramen (apparently i'm a picky starving artist) and set the pot in the sink. by that time the boy had gone into the bathroom and thrown his pants and boxers into the tub, and he stood in the threshold of the bathroom, watching me curiously. i walked up to him, grabbed his hand and pulled him into my bedroom again.
"you can sleep in my bed tonight," i said, gesturing towards it with my free hand. he just stood before me, staring down at the ground. i looked up at his shaggy brown hair (think emo) and lifted my hand to run my fingers through it. he lifted his head up to look into my eyes. he had started crying again. it was then that he spoke.
he started to tell me his story, but i really couldn't understand very well because he was sobbing so violently.. but it turns out he -was- pinned and beaten, by those kids who were following him. says they made fun of him because his family fucking died in a car crash. and he was in a weak state of mind, that he couldn't think properly, that whole weeks would pass by and he wouldn't realize. he had no will to live, no will to fight, and the boys took advantage of that.
and i ended up crying, but i didn't want to.
--------
[/yesterday's post]
usually my dreams aren't so long, or detailed, or realistic, and i wished i hadn't woke up then, but i think the phone rang. i don't really remember. it was horribly tragic though.
anyway, i want to kind of rewrite it - change a few things around - turn it into a story. i don't know if i want it to be a short story or what, but i want to turn it into something. because the weird thing is, i've had this dream at least a dozen times before in different forms. it was always someone at my house, someone in fatal condition, and i nursed them back to health. sometimes they were sick in the rain, sometimes they collapse in my driveway from starvation, sometimes it was someone i knew, sometimes it was a stranger, sometimes a girl and sometimes a boy.
i remember now, having a dream similiar to this one, of a person slamming into my back door and smearing blood everywhere, but last time i tried to open the door for her and then my dog sadie mauled her, and elvis came up and bit her head off. needless to say, i never nursed her back to health. but there was a guy whose arm i sewed back on once.
i dunno, i guess it's the healer in me. the need to help people out. it's just that these people are in more critical condition. i don't understand why i always have the right first aide materials, but who cares, i'm like superman!!
i've been trying to think of a continuation to the story, and i have a little bit in mind, but none of it is really getting anywhere. i tried so hard last night to make myself dream the ending but got nowhere.
oh well. i have starbucks. who needs writing when you have starbucks? nobody, that's who.
today has been so awkward. i don't really understand a lot of it, yet at the same time, what is there to not understand?
due to some pushing from rebecca i pulled together the nerve to call amanda. it had to be the first time we really, truly talked in ... three, four months. and it was such a good feeling. we were both scared to call the other because it had been so so long and it was all very awkward and a little embarrassing, until i made the call.
"hello?"
"is.. amanda there?"
"hiii!"
"HIII ohmigod i miss youuuu *cryyy*"
and we talked for two hours, and it was like old times, only we were looking back on old times instead of .. living them. and junk. and it was all meaningful. the end
it really wasn't as long as i make it seem, it's just that i love to go into detail in my dreams, because it's so hard for me to remember even having a dream after like. a day.
....
i was in the rent house. it was one of those dreams where you automatically knew why everything that was out of place was that way. like you'd been living that way, like it was reality. anyway. the house was full of furniture, and i could tell that i lived there alone. it was obviously a few years ahead of now, because it was fixed up (no holes in the walls! score) and looked like i had settled down there. i was in the kitchen, and by the angle of the house i could see into one of the two bedrooms, and it looked like an art room; it had that old drawing table that used to be set up in the music/computer room (...the room i'm in) and there were papers everywhere in there, on the floors, on the walls, some crumpled up, some paper balls, some framed, some in shreds. a canvas in the corner, and the drawing table against the wall closest to the door, with a black swivel chair (papers in the seat) facing the drawing table. i know i went into insane detail, but i just loved it for some reason.
i looked back at what i was doing, and saw i was making some ramen noodles on the stove. i guess i lived as an artist, because if i had any money at all, i would spend it on nicer food than ramen, which makes me want to barf. funny, i used to love it, then all of a sudden it always makes me sick. but i don't actually throw it up, so if it was necessary to live, hell yes i'll fucking eat it. i'd eat a tub of flour if that was all i had.
but anyway.
it was nighttime, and it was raining pretty heavily. thunder crashed and it made the back door rumble very lightly, and i felt uneasy (i love when my dreams are so vivid! the details could make my heart skip a beat with joy). i glanced at my watch; it was about 3:20 am. i found it funny after i woke up that even though i was obviously at least eighteen, i still wore the same bracelets, and my same green watch from wal*mart. i never went out of style. hottt. hahaha me = lame
so i poked at my ramen with a fork, pressed it down to the bottom of the little pan in hopes of it cooking faster. then, all of a sudden, BAM! something slams into the back door, which is like four feet from where i'm standing, and this thing hits so hard the blinds fly out at least a foot away from the door before slamming back into the door. the impact scared me so badly that my fork went flying into the counter on the other side of the (very small) kitchen, and i kind of tripped back and started to fall to the floor, but that kitchen is freaking TINY so i hit the cabinets behind me and my hands slipped into the sink in an awkward position, so i was basically slung down, hanging from the cabinet, my hands on the inside of the sink, which is all that's keeping my ass from hitting the floor.
this is the part where i go into less detail about everything;
i look up at the back door as i pull myself up and the blinds apparently fell off the door when they swung back into it, cheap things. i saw the face of a young man staring with wild, horrified eyes, straight into mine. his hands were covered with blood; his shirt was soaked with blood as well, which gave my door a fresh coat of red. he was so frightened and something in me told me that he was in dire need of my help, and everything i had been taught when i was younger (ALL STRANGERS ARE BAD PEOPLE. this lesson brought to you by ashley's mom) must've flown out my ears, because i rushed to the door, kicked the blinds out of the way, and let the poor boy in. he stumbled and fell onto the floor, and i swiftly yet silently shut the door behind him and locked it. he squirmed as i knelt down to his side and pulled himself to his feet, water and blood flying all over my house. he stopped and stared into my eyes, with that same wild expression, and we were both silent. the rain had died down a little, and in the complete silence i could hear voices outside.
and i had thought before that his eyes couldn't get any wider.
i knew immediately that he was running from those voices, those people. i instructed him to go into the bathroom and wait for me, and he nodded without a word and stumbled in the direction i pointed. i meanwhile grabbed a thin blanket from the couch (it looked as though i had been laying there, curled up with a book that lay on the coffee table) and hung it from the hooks that used to hold up the blinds on my back door, so nobody could see in through the dark sheet (for some reason, the bloodstains on my door weere gone). i turned out the kitchen light, turned off the stove and pulled my ramen onto the counter, and rushed to the bathroom.
i stepped in and shut the door quietly behind me, then lifted my head to see the boy was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his head down. was he ashamed? i guess. i paid it no mind, simply ducked down to the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a homemade first aide kit that paranoia built. i sat on my knees before him and opened the lid to the kit.
"i'll have to pull off your shirt," i said as i reached for the bottom of his shirt. i didn't want to scare him anymore than he already had been, so i wanted to make sure he knew what i was doing, even though i was sure he was aware. safety precaution.
i pulled off his bloody, wet shirt and threw it into the tub behind him. he lifted his arms a little to ease my trouble with taking his shirt off, and he lifted his head for the first time. he dared not to look at me; his head turned to my left, his eyelids low, with a blank yet sad expression in his dark eyes. blood dribbled down his forehead, down the left side of his nose and over his lips, and fresh tears streaked down his cheeks, though i could tell he was trying to hold them back.
i tried my best not to pity him, but simply to concentrate on helping him out. we were both silent; he only flinched twice when i pressed an alchohol-soaked gauze to some of his wounds and tied the bandages around his chest, his arms. i couldn't exactly tell what the weapon of choice was in this situation; it looked like he was beaten with a 2x4 in some places and whipped in others, and sliced in even more areas. he was bruised near his wrists more than anywhere else, which made me think he was pinned down and tortured. it was harder to keep from pitying him, and i almost felt myself start to cry for him, though i held it back.
after covering his back, chest and arms with simply too many gauzes and/or bandages of any kind, and cleaning up his wounds on his torso and face, i asked if he was injured on his legs at all. his eyes darted to mine, though his head never turned from my left, where it had been since he removed his shirt. the look from his eye was a cynical one, though i could still see the sadness in his eyes. i lifted my hands up defensively, looking down a little and apologized for asking. i smiled a little when i looked up at him, and lifted my right hand to his face, where i wiped a recent tear from his eye, but it only drew more. it was as if i was the first soul who ever did a nice thing for him.
i held my grin and pulled his barely-tied worn converse off his feet. i tossed them, followed by his socks, into the tub, and he finally turned his head forward, though hanging down very lightly, to watch me.
"you'll need something to sleep in," i stated, lifting myself off the bathroom floor. "come on, i'll show you where you can sleep." i held up my right hand, and he stared at it for a moment. he hadn't uttered a word to me the entire night, but i didn't care. he looked up at me as he softly took my hand and stood up, and i smiled again. i lead him into my bedroom and opened my bottom dresser drawer, pulling out some giant drawstring blue plaid pajama pants and a large black shirt and handing them to him.
"you can change in here," i said, "just leave the rest of your wet clothes in the tub, and i'll get them in the morning." i pulled out a pair of green plaid drawstring pajama pants, since the ones i wore were wet and bloody. i slipped out and shut the door behind me, then changed pants where i was standing and threw my old ones into the tub. i sighed and went into the kitchen to throw out my ramen (apparently i'm a picky starving artist) and set the pot in the sink. by that time the boy had gone into the bathroom and thrown his pants and boxers into the tub, and he stood in the threshold of the bathroom, watching me curiously. i walked up to him, grabbed his hand and pulled him into my bedroom again.
"you can sleep in my bed tonight," i said, gesturing towards it with my free hand. he just stood before me, staring down at the ground. i looked up at his shaggy brown hair (think emo) and lifted my hand to run my fingers through it. he lifted his head up to look into my eyes. he had started crying again. it was then that he spoke.
he started to tell me his story, but i really couldn't understand very well because he was sobbing so violently.. but it turns out he -was- pinned and beaten, by those kids who were following him. says they made fun of him because his family fucking died in a car crash. and he was in a weak state of mind, that he couldn't think properly, that whole weeks would pass by and he wouldn't realize. he had no will to live, no will to fight, and the boys took advantage of that.
and i ended up crying, but i didn't want to.
--------
[/yesterday's post]
usually my dreams aren't so long, or detailed, or realistic, and i wished i hadn't woke up then, but i think the phone rang. i don't really remember. it was horribly tragic though.
anyway, i want to kind of rewrite it - change a few things around - turn it into a story. i don't know if i want it to be a short story or what, but i want to turn it into something. because the weird thing is, i've had this dream at least a dozen times before in different forms. it was always someone at my house, someone in fatal condition, and i nursed them back to health. sometimes they were sick in the rain, sometimes they collapse in my driveway from starvation, sometimes it was someone i knew, sometimes it was a stranger, sometimes a girl and sometimes a boy.
i remember now, having a dream similiar to this one, of a person slamming into my back door and smearing blood everywhere, but last time i tried to open the door for her and then my dog sadie mauled her, and elvis came up and bit her head off. needless to say, i never nursed her back to health. but there was a guy whose arm i sewed back on once.
i dunno, i guess it's the healer in me. the need to help people out. it's just that these people are in more critical condition. i don't understand why i always have the right first aide materials, but who cares, i'm like superman!!
i've been trying to think of a continuation to the story, and i have a little bit in mind, but none of it is really getting anywhere. i tried so hard last night to make myself dream the ending but got nowhere.
oh well. i have starbucks. who needs writing when you have starbucks? nobody, that's who.