You’ll draw the ugliest, most twisted things when you’re not okay, as if you could do them but never would, it becomes a dead letter to your desires and demons.
Desire becomes shredded and eventually destroyed, allowing nothing but self-doubt in as the calmest of days will have the biggest inner turmoil.
The noise in the head becomes awfully loud, wishing to destroy the whole canvas, not being able to focus on anything detailed and no ideas coming out due to anxiety, just a trickle of something and that’s enough to make the day productive.
And I avoid her at the funeral the next day, making everything bleak and reminding of how everyone had avoided everyone else in the same city, making sure the streets would be free of memories no one had wanted after the glue had died off, no one wanted to waltz with anyone, the hate was just as bitter as it could’ve been on the moon. The illusion of parental love is just as sane as the illusion of some everlasting love. I had seen Jamie a bit before I had seen Lana. He shuffled and nodded at me, before taking a seat in the church, on the opposite side and behind as well. Lana had walked in a bit late, heels clicking just before the service and I had watched how her hair had now a soft chestnut from the blonde I would’ve cherished her in. I turned back, hugging myself among friends and relatives which disliked me as much as I had then. The small part with food was even more quiet, those who cried barely contained themselves while the rest would just eat slowly or refuse at all, it was as if I could’ve taken photos and done an exhibition of them, Jamie would’ve back in the day, but we all decide which lovers to keep in our life.
It’s even weirder to see Jamie choose Lana as a conversational partner as I approach them. Lana then looked at me, barely smiling and hands carefully holding her black clutch.
“I was just telling Jamie that I know that you’ll be trying to get the house, but mom told me she would leave it.”
“I know. But she also said the same thing to me-”
“She left no will, Alison. Neither do I want a half-half.” Lana shrugs, holding herself under her nails, stating the obvious as well.
“I don’t think either wants to split the house, Lana, you can get everything else-” I insist, shoving my hands deeper into the black pants I seem to be wearing, matching everyone else even mom in the grave.
“No, I just want the house. I don’t care you moved in it, you can keep mom’s living house, it costs more.”
“No, I want the house I’m in. My childhood was spent there, while I have no fond memories of the house she lived in.” I feel even more vulnerable as I see Jamie step a bit back and quickly wink at me, probably shoving me quickly as a client, already. I fume at him, but ease at his own management.
“Fine. We’ll see that in court, anyway.” Before she even gets to say anything, I mutter that Jamie’s my lawyer and she just shrugs, excusing herself as then I’m left with my ex-husband with no visible dog for a change. Excusing myself is more than obvious as I seem to be numb all day and not even Jamie or Lana stir any visible emotions in me, as we both head out and he passes me the cigarette box without thinking and I light myself a cigarette and we awkwardly brush off that we would share a cigarette before, now lighting two separate. As if now the misery of life requires far more tranquilizers.
“Funny, both you and Lana changed hair colour... like an exchange.”
“Is that supposed to be some backstab, Jamie?” I add his name fast before calling him an ex-husband to his face, because sometimes I don’t even want to recall that he even has a name.
“Switch over.” He ignores me and I regret saying nothing degrading, as he finds the words he had been searching for and possibly sharp feelings of annoyance, as regret is a childish thing.
“Fuck off.” I snap, holding from blowing smoke in his face, as my head spins lightly from the exhaustion and the desire to push away the image of a dead mother.
Dreams are distant memories which never happened.
I had dreamt that night that Lana had been in my bed, naked again and like in any odd dream it contained the cliche gun against my forehead and I had sat up, not even bothering to smoke or drink water, as I had gone back to sleep to walk upon the odd dream now with Jamie right in front of me, to remind that a given heart is never taken back to you, even if you can see them walking with it around their neck. Sometimes I wonder what even is the point in confessing when you don’t know what you want and what should’ve been expected and where to even strut forward. Either way I’ve got my heart right in front of me as we both smoke and I know what I have done and what he has done.
And it gets awkward not to offer good places to eat, because we’ve been to all of them. And it ends up with us embracing the night as if it were a morning and choosing a cab on the streets just confirmed how we’ve both decided to get wasted and we always discuss our silences during food, because all melancholy and bitter relationships repeat, because life makes no sense besides bright traffic lights in the face and lost misfortunes.
Bewilderedness fills the streets outside, as I keep looking outside, both of us getting impatient as we wait for the food and I wonder how much longer would we even last and how much of it was plain used to to dine outside after some crucial event and how many more years would we be clinging onto each other, because the same knife nulls out in the end.
“Have you even talked to Lana, yet? I mean, properly or you waiting for actual official meddling, then?” He answers my own questions before I can even present them, fiddling with his hands first, before checking his empty e-mail box and I wonder if we can even say that when everything we’ve ever bought seeps it’s way into our inboxes these days, because spam becomes our only friend and once I had printed out a bunch of letters, torn them and made a collage, damn thing didn’t sell.
“No.” I shake my head. “We haven’t talked in years-”
“Since when, exactly?” I don’t even have to count the numbers as he asks me that and orders more wine for both of us, confirming with me beforehand even if we both know each other inside out on the bed. And it becomes free flow now. I still pretend to count.
“You weren’t talking to her when we divorced-”
“We barely talk since we were teenagers, Jamie.”
“I’m more than aware of that. You’ve spoken about it, sober and not.” But nothing specifically goes through his eyes and I just sigh, thankfully, as he smirks at his own knowledge. And it’s as if neither of us wants to cut the chase too fast. I glance at him, allowing myself to properly catch his gaze, as I straighten my back lightly, trying to shoo off my sister away.
“So how are you, Jamie?”
I wrote this chapter actually quite a while, I was either too sleepy and/or tired (which I am now, but I'm cool so I'm posting it finally xD) or decided to push out something else.
I think of it rather often in where it goes and it's quite constantly being written in small portions because I like the whole Lana/Alison and Alison/Jamie on the side. I honestly see this as my way of not to sulk at Poison the Rose because I still need to think where this goes and all theories and etc go into this story, so I'm awfully happy that I don't sulk but rather write RV viciously xD
I have rather bad mania or mixed episodes and when I was writing this chapter, the beginning I wasn't feeling too well (bless medicine now xD) so I would cope by writing really heavy stories such as mimosa or explaining death to a baby and on one day it landed on RV:) it's more about that the creepiest things are always written when you're fucked up and to make it even odder the thought properly came to me weeks ago when I was reaidng Exquisite Corpse and checked on the German cannibal and how he stated that you do that when you're fucked up, looking back at many of my stories ranging from Path to I dunno, this NaNoWriMo novel I wrote years ago which I have no idea how it's even publishable because it's frankly a very dark version of maybe A Clockwork Orange and I still think of it, because I'm proud of it, but it's... too fucking violent. So when you're fucked up we all find relief and I always got a kick of writing sick, twisted things because I liked stories like that, it would make me feel better too and I still think Naked Lunch is one of the best novels created, so yeah.
When I was growing up I was just like anyone shrouded with the fact that art has to be created on drugs and I never understood why because I could drive myself up the wall while listening to Ligeti at 4 a.m. or be so depressed or angry that I would write the oddest things and it became a flip, that I can write anything as twisted and vivid without drugs. I've written a few things drunk, but not too much, maybe 2 from the top of my head and most likely poetry.
Obviously the calmest days will have the worst inner turmoil. Hi, anxiety.
One of the things I "edit" is I sometimes write long dialogues and right away as I finish writing the conversation I go back to fit in some phrases after each or so line of speech.
I will just keep quiet plot-wise coz I'm still putting things together and of course, I don't want to spoil anything 8)
The gun and Lana was due to the constant imagery of guns and Lana in Ultraviolence ranging from 'guns in the summertime' to 'got your bible, got your gun' and I'm really obsessed with the album. I'm obsessed with Lana T__T
I love the story, my mouth is shut and I hope you enjoyed it :3 I frankly openly talk about everything there and yeah, please tell me if you like it so far :D since I'm nearly done with chapter 3, then I'll push it out sooner :3