salvation.

ii. Martyr Me

“Agnes, the bones. I saw his bones. Black, charred, sucked dry. Agnes, you have to get away from here.”
Angelica’s blood red eyes are rolling wildly from side to side. My fingers leave pale yellow indentations on her forehead, her cheeks, her chin as I try to hold her still so Dr. Constance can administer the anesthesia. Angelica has never taken well to the electro shock treatments, but without them she is barely human.
Another orderly rushes in and helps me grab hold of Angelica. I watch as Dr. Constance inserts the syringe and Angelica’s body goes limp.
“Rest now Angel. You’ll be alright when you wake,” I whisper as I gently stroke her tousled blond hair.
The brightly lit corridors of the hospital daunt me with their infinite silence. I hear soft moans emanating from Angelica’s room and unlock her door.
“My skin…can you see my skin Peter? It feels…I feel fire. It’s going to swallow me whole. Peter, I need some water…”
Angelica’s pleas rise in a steady crescendo of fear and desperation.
“It’s Nurse Agnes. Do you want a glass of water Angel?”
“Agnes…Agnes, it’s my skin. The outer layer. Can you see how red it is? Agnes, tell me you can see my flesh boiling.”
“Darling, your skin is fine. You’re not on fire. Let me open the window. It’s warm in here.”
I release the catch on the window, exposing the steel black bars. Before I can turn around, Angelica has my ponytail in her tightly closed fist, tugging me back toward the door. I lose my balance and fall awkwardly, the base of my skull slamming into the tiled floor.
“Angel! What the hell are you doing?” I manage to yelp.
She’s on top of me, hands placed firmly on my shoulders, pinning me down, her face inches from mine. Her breathing is shallow, exhaling and inhaling short spurts of air, her dark eyes locked onto mine.
“Helena, listen to me—the demons are inside the building. I heard them chanting through the pipes. They’re coming for our souls. Helena, we need to leave now before they find us.”
“Angelica, you have to get off of me. Angelica, it’s me, your nurse. Please Angel, let me up, you’re hurting me,” I plead with her, hoping to snap her out of this manic state.
I look up as the door swings open and Joshua is standing there, his eyes darting from Angelica mounted on top of me to the expression of terror on my face.
“Angelica! Get off of Nurse Agnes,” Joshua yells.
Angelica blinks twice, her stare vacant, her breathing somewhat normal again.
“Agnes, goodness why am I on top of you? What happened?”
Angelica releases her grip and stands up. She puts her hand out, offering to help me off the floor. She kneels down next to her bed, hands clasped together and closes her eyes.
“I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son our Lord…”
I leave Joshua to tend to Angelica, as I make a quiet exit, Apostles’ Creed ringing in my ears.


iii. Demonic Disguises

“Angelica, stop fucking praying. No one is listening to your crazy psycho babble bullshit. THE ALMIGHTY GOD IN HEAVEN ISN’T LISTENING. Don’t you understand that by now?”
I jab my finger at the bone colored crucifix on the wall, “Jesus didn’t die for your sins. Yours are beyond forgiveness Angelica. You’re doomed to hell.”
She stops muttering her ridiculous incantations long enough to look at me and reply, “The Lord is in all of us Joshua. Even you darling.”
“Oh, really? Did Mary Magdalene tell you that in your sleep? That I’m your savior in disguise. Too fucking bad. I’m not your heaven sent angel. I torched my wings last week.”
Angelica gets off the floor and turns to me, “Joshua, take me outside. Can we go for a walk now?”
The grounds of the mental institution are spacious and ironically beautiful for such a depressing place. We move amongst the neatly trimmed garden filled with richly colored flowers of all types—lilies, petunias, and crape myrtles. My senses are hypnotized by the mixture of floral fragrances.
Angelica has her arm linked through mine, her hand shoved into my right pocket. She seems calm for the moment—normal. I know why she allows me to spit obscenities at her and denounce her faith. And I know that she will always ask me to keep visiting her. It is how she reminds herself of her impurities; I am her executioner, her punisher.
She reaches up and methodically fingers the small circular imprints around my neck.
“Joshua, these marks have not disappeared yet. The incident was so long ago it seems. Perhaps they have become permanent.”
“Angelica, you tried to strangle me with your fucking rosary beads. I think one of them actually punctured my goddamn skin. I don’t think the scars are going to go away anytime soon.”
“Oh, Joshua, I’m sorry. I thought the demons had infested your soul…I thought they were going to take you away from me. I had a nightmare that Porphyry was chasing me with burning scripture, threatening to gouge my eyes out. And when I woke, I thought that Lucifer was in our bed trying to drag you down into the depths so I grabbed my rosary beads and wrapped them around his neck, hoping to deter him somehow…but it was really you, Joshua. I thought you were the devil.”
Angelica’s nightmares and visions still make me uneasy. But I know that I can do nothing to assuage them. If there is a God, then maybe she was meant to have these spiritual episodes.
“I’m not the devil. You’re not a saint. Or a martyr. You’re a psychotic woman in desperate need of medication and electroshock therapy. Face it Angelica, your illness has destroyed your sanity.”
Angelica drops to her knees, meeting the hard concrete and she erupts into heart racking sobs.
“Joshua, why do you torment me? What have I done to receive such brutal punishment?”
Her back is hunched over and her hands are covering her face, her body shaking uncontrollably. I look down at her frail figure. I listen to her strained cries.
And I say to her, “Don’t you remember? You murdered our only son.”

saviors.

I…I am not crazy. This is what they tell me. Deep puddles in their eyes and golden flakes of skin chipping off of their finely constructed statues. But… I am crazy. I don’t know what kind of crazy. This is what I tell myself. Because to you I am just another her, just another she, another it. And… and their eyes, they get so big and wide, wounded lambs sacrificial offerings to God. But their fucking eyes and darting tongues. They hold me, pet me, stroke me. Whispers, frantic hushed sentences.
I… I swear I am not crazy. And this is what I tell myself before I am thrown into salty waves, gulping sodium and seaweed, praying for a lifeboat and rescue team … (I am not crazy)…. Until I scream BE MY SALVATION.
Infinite corridors, the red walls hug my skin, seep through my pores, ignite my blood. I feel the flames dancing on my ribcage but I do not falter.
A book falls through the ceiling and lands at my naked feet. I pick it up and stare at the words, etched in gold letters on the cover: HOLY BIBLE. The page I open to Luke Chapter 13, verse 12… woman you are released from your infirmity… ink begins to drip off the page. The pages explode with searing orange flames… an inferno trapped within scripture.
Incoherent screams rip from my vocal chords. Blood tears pour steadily down my cheeks and I am beating the crimson walls wildly wishing to break through the cement.
Voices taunting me, “no one can save you.”

My heart, the size of my fist.
Encased in strings, as he delicately strums a melodic progression of chords: F Major 7.
His clear blue eyes, all I see are his clear blue eyes.
And he strums, A Minor.
All I feel are his silky curls intertwining with my fingers.
The stubble on his chin kisses the cracked surface of my parched lips.
And he strums, G.
The smooth contours of his muscles tense under the pressure of my curious hands.
He plays bitter sweet melodies on my soul strings,
And he strums, D Minor.
Our bodies are mere instruments, performing symphonies only audible to our ears,
Serenading the darkness hidden within.

The last chord resonates within me as cold metal awakens my senses. I am bound to this table of nightmares. Nurse Agnes hovers over me, shadows daunting me from the white plastered walls. I am not here.
“Angelica, hold still. We’re not going to hurt you.”
The starched uniform whispers poison into my ears.
Please go away.

multiple person perspective (literally)

Plot (created by me)

A teenage girl has locked herself in the bathroom to hide from the intruder that has entered her house. She has no means of communication and no visible weapons that she can use to protect herself. The intruder is ransacking the house and is unaware that someone is in the house with him.



Intruder (written by John)

After taking the family’s valuables, I fixed myself a snack. I ate potato chips, left over steak, and kimchee. There was no rice in the rice cooker. I washed it down with Soju. That was a kick ass snack. I’m gonna take a leak before I make my escape. I can’t help it. I begin to break down and cry. My conscience is getting to me. I’m unemployed, broke and living in a tent. I use to work at the fuckin’ factory. I gave them forty years of my life. As I try to push the bathroom door I hear a whimper.

“Is any body there?” I shouted.

There was no reply. I knocked again and shouted louder.

“I won’t hurt you. Please open up.





Teenage girl (written by Libertie)

Holy shit, holy shit….Think, quick, what am I gonna do? Where is my fucking cell phone? Did I tell mom I love her?

Oh my God, he’s coming! I’m gonna die…what if he rapes me?

He tries to open the door and I try not to make a sound.

“Is any body there?” he shouted.

I stayed silent. He tried the door again and shouted again

“Open up. I won’t hurt you”

I didn’t know what to do. I was trembling.

“ I am very flexible and have taken many self defense classes. Either you get out of here now or I am gonna open up a serious can of whoop ass on you” I shouted

“Sweetheart, I am not here to hurt you. Just come on out and lets talk” he said.

“Listen guy, Im no fucking idiot. You came here to rob my house and now want me to believe you’re not gonna hurt me.”



Intruder (written by Prof. Ramjerdi)

“Officer . . . what did you say your name was?”

“Officer Kimchee.”

“Kimchee? Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s so ironic. . . ”

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law . . . “

“. . . because it’s all because of the kimchee that this happened. . .”

“Roger, do you want to take this asshole’s statement or should I?”

“I’ll stay with the EMT guys.”

“ . . . ‘KIMCHEE KIMCHHEE KIMCHEE,' she kept screaming at me . . .my wife. I couldn’t take it anymore.
no job no kimchee she was going to leave me take the kids go back to Seoul a Korean with no kimchee is water buffalo with no balls I was desperate I didn’t know the girl was here I just wanted the kimchee the fridge was packed with it I knew it would be the guy’s a kimchee dealer Mama Lee’s Kimchi the hottest in the city I ate 5 jars I was starved I filled my backpack with 55 jars and then I had to take a dump because that’s the way it is with kimchee I tried to open the bathroom door that’s when she came at me the shower curtain rod who would think a little girl could be a samurai I had to defend my self Yes I confess I threw the bottles at her one after the other smashing against the bathroom walls shattering splashing kimchee all over walls mirror tiles skin she screamed her skin sizzling to raw bone bone powder and knobs Mama Lee’s Kimchee it’s the best."

short.

2. Father, in fear of.

Sometimes my father and I sit in silence. From across the kitchen table, I steal glances at him, waiting for him to speak. But all I see is his facial expression- one I have come to recognize over the years. He is sitting sideways in his chair, with his chin cupped in his left hand, his dark eyes staring straight ahead of him. I know he is in some distant land, maybe the open countryside or up on the tallest mountain in Korea, perhaps dreaming of an easier life. I remain quiet and wait for my father to come back to me. He stirs slightly and I watch him as his fingers trace letters onto the wooden table top. I have watched him do this ever since I was a little girl. But I have never been able to read his invisible ink. And I have never asked, in fear of interrupting his train of thought. He looks up at me with a puzzled expression, probably because he forgot I was sitting there at all and says, “Bring me our atlas.” I retrieve our world book and set it down in front of him. He puts on his bifocals and rifles through the gold lined pages until he stops at a map of Africa. He turns the book sideways so I can look on with him. With his index finger poised over Ghana, he says to me, “I remember the red fire ants in Africa. If you walked on top of their ant hills, thousands would file out and chase you.” I raise my eyebrows in skepticism and reply, “Is that why you have all those little scars on your legs daddy?” His booming laughter causes the crystal chandelier to rattle and he says, “No babo*. But I once saw someone covered head to toe with those fire ants. One minute later, there was nothing left of him.” Like most of my father’s stories, I take this one about the flesh devouring ants with a grain of salt. To present day I am still unsure of what my father was doing in Africa for over a year. But I do not ask him, in fear of discovering something I do not want to know.
The only times I remember my father intervening in my life were the times when I had fucked up. When I was 13, I got caught forging my seventh grade report card. The scene replays in vivid detail:
I am reading a book in my room when I hear my mother calling my name, “ANNA!” We were taught to always answer “Yes!” and never “What?” I walk into the living room where both of my parents sit side by side puffing on long white cigarettes. I understand there is tension in the room and stand awkwardly in front of them, avoiding eye contact. I hear my father speak first, in a low grumbling tone, “Face the wall, kneel down, arms straight above your head.” I follow his instructions without hesitation, but I feel the tears building up in my chest. I hear my father get up and leave the room. I count each time I inhale and exhale to prevent the salt water from tumbling out. I get to 20 breaths when my father returns and tells me to stand up and lift my pants above my knees. I stand there facing the white plaster, my calves bare. “Why did you try to cheat me?” My father yells. I provide only silence. Without warning, I am shattered upon the first lash- leather whipping raw skin. I stagger forward an inch and my father tugs me backwards by the ends of my hair. I give in and allow two tears to escape. “I didn’t raise you so you could lie to me!” I feel the second explosion of searing pain starting in my calves and spreading to every nerve ending in my body. I do not stumble this time. My arms are still above my head but I do not register the numbness because of the stinging burn pulsating through me. My father is silent during the next three lashes. He stops and growls at me, “Get back on your knees and keep your arms up. You will not move until you see my face in front of you.”
My father is telling me to kneel here until I begin to hallucinate. I sit on my feet for three hours until I am given permissions to stand. I know I am not able to stand immediately and so I lean back on my hands and massage feeling back into my purple feet. That was the first and last time my father whipped me. I never asked him why he had to whip me with his leather belt, in fear of another whipping.

experimental writing.

Exercise #1 (attention to detail).

I stand here before the mirror. It is a 3 feet wide full length mirror from ceiling to floor. I stand here to inspect the destruction I have caused. My straight black hair is a stringy tangled mass with stray wisps sticking out at wild angles. My eyes are encased in deep, dark circles, my stubby eyelashes are inefficient in keeping the dirt out. There are permanent wrinkles on my forehead stretching from my left temple to the right. My nose is proportionate to the rest of my features, but it is still imperfect. My lips, neither plump nor stick thin, are turned down at the corners and cracked from the harsh winds. My gray pull over hoodie is ripped in several places and the zipper is no longer fulfilling its purpose. My dark blue jeans are caked with mud and torn at the knees. I am not wearing socks. I stand here wondering if perhaps I should capture this moment on film. This moment of inner chaos, clearly visible on the exterior. I stand here wondering why he had abandoned me on the side of the road 7 miles from my house. I stand here trying to remember all the hateful things he had spat at me. But I cannot identify exactly what it is I am feeling at this exact moment. Self pity? Contempt? Hopeless? I shun my feelings and return to destruction.

Form #1 (subtitles).
3 AM Ice Cream.
We sit apart from one another. I am staring down into my small bowl of vanilla ice cream, spoon poised above it. At 3 A.M., the diner is still buzzing with late night caffeine addicts. I can feel Andrew's eyes roving my face, perhaps searching for some sort of recognition- that I am here with him, and that I know he is expecting an apology. But I refuse to look up at him. The tiny dark specks in my ice cream are much more appealing to me. I feel stubborn and defiant. I dream that I am somewhere else where I do not have to deal with consequences. I am always dreaming of that place. This is why Andrew is always shaking me back to reality. This is why I will always fall short of his expectations.

The First Time.
This memory will never fade into the dark recesses of my mind. It will always remain where I have kept it. I met Andrew for the first time in late December. The snow had turned to ice and covered every inch of every sidewalk. I remember how I couldn't stop the rattling in my bones. I felt the cold invading every crevice of my body. I had avoided eye contact with him for as long as possible. I was paranoid that he could hear the frantic beating of my heart, but he simply asked me if I was hungry. We sat down to dinner, across from each other, and I was forced to look at him. I was indifferent to his appearance. I dreaded the rehearsed small talk that had to take place before the real conversation would begin. I watched Andrew's facial expressions- the way his eyebrows came together when explaining the details of his work, the way his lips slid to the side of his face when he was thinking about something, the way his tone of voice changed when he became serious. To my surprise, I found myself intrigued rather than bored by this stranger.

Throwing Up.
I am in my bathroom. I prepare myself by changing into a dirty t-shirt and tying my hair back. I don't feel nauseous, just overstuffed. The not-yet digested pasta from 20 minutes ago is already beginning to weigh me down. Throwing it back up was the only way I'd be able to sleep tonight. I kneel down on the marble floor, position myself over the porcelain bowl, and plunge my right forefinger into the back of my throat making sure to hit the uvula. I feel the food begin to rise but my stomach needs another push. My eyes begin to water and I take a small breath. I withdraw my finger and in mid-gag, take another plunge. I repeat this at least four times before I feel that most of the food I ate earlier is now in the toilet bowl, waiting to be flushed. The stench fills my nostrils as I stand up and turn the faucet on. I am calm.


His words and his actions have been carved into me, I cannot deny him nor forget him. Everything I write will always somehow be related to him, if not entirely revolving around him. It will all be fiction, but it will all be truth. He is a paradox.

stop for a second.

hmm first i need to construct a to-do list before my memory fails me completely, as is usual.

1. For Wed: essay questions for history final
2. GET PANTS HEMMED for (see #3)
3. Thursday: interview @ Fletcher & Co Literary Agency 78 5th avenue with Sara Wolski. & possibly coffee with Jules afterwards.
4. Friday: 11:30 A.M. academic advisement to register for next semester;
ALSO inquire about transferring to 4-year and credit xfers. MUST LEAVE QCC AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
5. Get a move on with short story, most definitely do a re-write for beginning.
6. Consider possibly going christmas shopping, although i have no available funds to spend on gifts and I also hate the holiday season in its entirety. Christmas music makes me feel suicidal (overly dramatic, but true).
7. PA this weekend (try to avoid a screaming match with mother).
8. Study for finals, unfortunately. I know I'm going to forget that the Sun is 3 times as massive as the Earth (is it 3?), the quadratic formula, and that the Peloponnesian war was between Athens & Sparta (right?).
9. The Met, possibly, maybe next Tuesday ... though Bialo-Padin was adamant about the fact that I do not need extra credit.
10. GOSSIP GIRL TONIGHT<3

Hopefully I haven't left anything out. hm.

there was only dread.

i am not a fearless person. Nor do I claim to be.
I fear complete failure in my life, as I can define failure to be utter disappointment and the reality of living in it. If I were able to define success in my own terms- I am most certain I would fear it also, of what I would do after I have reached success, where the next turning point may be, if any exist.
I fear vulnerability. My predator sniffing out my weaknesses and using them against me, I would be facing a dead end.
I fear my rash decisions, which I still possess the ability to make them from time to time- forgetting to consider consequences and how much I am willing to sacrifice, or not sacrifice. To choose between right and wrong, convenient and inconvenient.
I fear my own emotions- for they sometimes prove to be the catalyst to my downfall. My emotions are sometimes fleeting, are sometimes stable, and sometimes prevail over logic.
I fear indecisiveness, and also not being given a choice in whatever situation presents itself.

i do not fear loneliness, though at times I do dread it.

I must live in this world, as all others do, and not just as a dead soul.