deirdre deirdre She sat on the window sill, one leg curled under her, her head resting gently on her closed fist. She sighed, and gracefully rose to walk across the room. Was this all her life was going to amount to? Sitting here on the inside, looking out at all the busy people with their fulfilling lives? Sometimes she didn't even care. She was used to being alone, used to being lonely. She was alone in the house all most all day, and suffered through her company every night when insomnia struck. She shuddered, hating her self, and hating the world. She wrapped her arms around her, tugging her sweater closer. She resumed her pacing in the room that had become her sanctuary, wishing it was different, but knowing it would never be. Reaching the door, she stopped, and hesitantly placed her hand on the knob. Then, she stopped dead. Her eyes clouded with memories. Out there wasn't safe. She pivoted, walking briskly back to the window. She shivered as she stared unseeingly at the sun beating down on the water. She couldn't see the beauty of the world. The gentle breeze whispering through the autumn leaves, the soft, rounded waves slowly creeping up the sand, then retreating, leaving behind small treasures that would light up children's eyes, and cause the air to fill up with their unsoiled, full hearted laughter when found. All she could see was death, destruction, waste, cruelty, betrayal. The memories came flooding back, no matter how hard she tried to stop them. So, she slid down to the floor, curled up into a ball, and let them come. ----------------- Deirdre sat in stunned silence as the words hung accusingly in the air. "You remind me of you're mother." She would have laughed if it didn't hurt so much. She didn't know that she could still feel that much pain. It was the same thing she had heard all her life, but reversed. Her mind flashed back to the screaming matches with her mother. "You're exactly like HIM!!" Him being her father, and being like him was the worst thing imaginable, if you asked her mother. And now, her father. Deirdre stared at the wall, and they watched her for some flicker of reaction. Imagine, she thought, her face showing nothing, to contain only the worst parts of both your parents. And neither of them had the slightest qualm about telling her she was a horrible duplicate of the other parent. She wanted to be alone. To dwell in the bottomless pit of her life, to wallow in rejection, to drown in self pity. So, she agreed with everything they said, then walked numbly up the stairs. Just like her mother? Just like her father?!? She was nothing like them. She HATED them. Just like them? The screams echoed in her skull. She'd show them. She calmly sat down on her bed, and reached for her knife. ------------------- She sat in the dark, with her trigger music on, her knife resting on the keyboard, and the cheesy tropical flora cup blocking the bottom right side of the screen. She raised the glass to her lips, and gulped down half the contents. Liquor. One of the only friends she had left. Her cigarettes were taking up most of the mouse pad, but she didn't care. She didn't want to talk to anyone, anyways. How sad is it, she thought, that the only interaction I have with friends from the past is through this tiny little box. She stared at the screen longer, as if searching for the answers to her problems. She didn't want to go back to what she was before, but she had no choice. The people that saved her from her self years ago were slowing fading away. It seemed like she was the only one who had trouble replacing the relationships of the past. "Higshool is over," They'd say, as though she knew that things could never be the same. They didn't care anymore. She had no-one to care for her, no-one to care about. With trembling hands, she lifted a cigarette to her mouth, and watched the flickering flame of the Bic. She inhaled deeply, and wished she could feel the tar coating her lungs. She thought back to the begining of the day. She had been so happy, surrounding herself with memories of James. She read the old emails, and journal entries, and then emailed him to remind him of what they used to be like. But James had been away at college for two years, and he was making his life his own. He had said in his reply that the memories were crushing him, so he had to start over. She cried as she read the email, and cried even harder as she wrote back to him. She was happy for him, but where did that leave her? In her final email, she wished him the best, and bade him goodbye. James couldn't have known it was forever, but she did. He needed to move on with his life. He had to embrace the happiness that he deserved, and she would do nothing but remind him of the past. So she said goodbye, and let go of him forever. Now she had nothing left. James had been her family, more so than anyone that was related to her by blood. Love was thicker than blood, or so she had thought. Sydney was fading away, as well. She had her new friends at university. She had people that she could sing with, and debate with, and roll around in piles of fallen leaves, if she so choose. Hannah was hours away, with all her new friends as well. She never saw any of the old gang these day. The emails were few, and far between, and phone calls were even more rare. She glanced down at the keyboard, and hoped her roommates didn't plan on coming down anytime soon. She heard the clicking, felt the vibrations across her palm as the blade slid past the notches, until finally it was visible. She looked at the stains, and thought back to when she had gotten it. It was in highschool, where all the important events in her life seemed to have happened. She was sitting in art one day, and it was just there, on the desk. Yellow and gray plastic, with a sharp, shiny blade just visible. She checked to see if anyone was looking, and when she was sure that noone would see her, she slipped the knife up her sleve. At the end of class, she dropped it into her backback, and walked out the door. That knife had given her hundreds of scars, and now was the time for it to give her hundreds more. Deidre took another drink, then picked up the knife. 050214 what's it to you? who go blather from