meant to write.

9.07.09
I don't deserve to write to you. When I can't even talk to you when it matters most, when I force you to repeat the same questions over and over in the dark.
I begin to see flashes of images rather than think about how I should respond to you.
I see the manifestation of us as our primal selves, ripping and tearing at one another, layers of skin and hair sloughing off, but never shedding any blood. We strip ourselves bare and build each other back up again.
I feel even more guarded than when we began.
I stopped writing because my written words are meaningless. How can I script promises without following through with them?
I make it hard on purpose.
But, I am trying to ignore the fact that I have traveled a full 360 degrees and I am back to where I began: defiant, ignorant, stubborn, selfish, righteous, naive, undeserving.

I hold myself back in fear of...

harlot.

I didn’t plan for it to be this way. the screaming. the way her arms were flailing and her lips were sputtering out frantic insults and accusations. Her index finger slicing through the air.
The way his eyes dropped down, low to the ground, his eyelashes veiling the guilt circling his pupils.
He was always apologizing. To me, to her, to himself.
But to no one at all really.

I was feeling slightly woozy from the ambien I took earlier. I wanted to lie down on his plush bed and rock myself to sleep. There was no hope of that with all her profanities bouncing off the plaster.

He stood there in the middle of the living room, avoiding eye contact with either of us. She was inching closer and closer to him, her words a muddled combination of anger, guilt, and shame. Her face was red, burning, her eyes two glowing embers, and I thought, Lilith resurrected from dirt and filth come to take revenge on mankind.

Her serpent tongue lashing out, I can’t believe you could do this to me. I invested so much of my time into you. And for what? To find you cheating on me with some slut?

He manages to look up at her, his lips a thin white line.

I didn’t care too much about the slut remark. It just reminded me of the games we played in bed- me and him curled around each other, our hands searching and guiding, caressing and pinching, my nails digging deeper into the flesh on his back until fistfuls of my hair are wrapped around his fingers and he’s whispering wickedness into my ears, you’re my slut, aren’t you? Do you like being my slut?
I almost smiled at the thought of us naked and drenched in sweat and sex before I caught myself, remembering where I was at the moment, remembering who was standing there with her wide eyes and snapping jaw.

To:

do you know, it doesn't change- the way I feel about you, at the end of the day.
because I know all I want, is what you got.
[susie suh; all i want]

piano is soothing.

even strangers pray for me.

his fingers move in slow, steady motions;
delicately caressing the ruby chain, a sterling silver crucifix glinting off the end of it.
i become mesmerized by repetitive movement, bodies swaying together with the rumbling of the F train.
but i am focused on him--his hands, his lips, his closed eyes.
i know that he is praying, but to any pair of roaming eyes,
he would appear to be asleep.

another morning.
red and black checkered hunchbacked grandmother, burning red lipstick.
she chooses the seat next to me in a half empty train.
her gnarled, yet nimble fingers unfasten her backpack.
i watch her from the corner of my eye.
you could say it's a hobby, people watching.
she unzips a small black change purse inside of her backpack.
her fingers unravel light pink rosary beads, a small sterling silver rounded crucifix revealed.
she locks it in her tiny fist.
the holy trinity across her chest.
eyes slightly closed.
red lipsticked lips in silent motion.
who is she speaking to? for? about?

Thank you, Professor Ramjerdi

Mink-

Wow. This is publishable work. First step to success as a professional writer is to get published in leading lit. mags. I know some, but am not up-to-date on these as haven't sent out work for a long time, since I've been doing novels. Short story contests are also good things to enter. What are your academic/professional plans? Let's talk before semester ends and stay in touch. I'd like to be of any help I can. The lesbian content goes really well with what you've said you're doing in this story--> unraveling Korean girl expectations.
P.S. This scene is up there with father section of first story. Maybe you're writing a novel and that story and this one are parts of it. I think you should write this novel. I think it could succeed with a great publisher. Anyway, you are doing some great writing and should continue.

-Prof. Ramjerdi

breaking through slowly.

Mink,
all i can say is ¡WOW! Now i get the expression on your face when i asked you last class how the story came out, an inscrutable expression until i read this. I love it when writers flip from one extreme to another-- always a sign that creativity is hot and style is taking leaps forward. Your writing, aside from the father piece has been restrained, emotions and style muted, the tension throbbing beneath the surface, sometimes too much beneath so the reader can't experience. Now the tension has fully erupted onto the page. Technical pyromania. You show the firepower of your writing here and I'm impressed. Of course, I'm biased. I love this kind of writing.
- Prof. Ramjerdi

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.”