Pink elephants and serious conversations
She looked up as the door opened again, expecting another couple to exit with their farewells. To her surprise, he emerged, holding two steaming mugs, attempting to wrestle the door closed with minimal spillage. She watched for a few moments, waiting, then he sighed and held out a mug without looking at her. She took it without a word, drinking as he pulled the door shut and sat on the stoop beside her, nursing his own beverage.
They sat in silence for a few moments, then he broke it. ”Too dull indoors, or do you just enjoy frostbite?”
She looked down, realizing slowly that she couldn’t feel her toes any longer. ”I forgot that I wasn’t wearing shoes.”
He nodded, taking another sip, and waited.
She sighed. ”You need to promise to relax and not run screaming.”
He looked surprised. ”As long as you don’t pull out a rusty knife, I think we’re good.”
She took a deep breath, then it all came spilling out, words tumbling over others in a rush to emerge into the real world. ”I… can’t be serious around you. It’s not that I don’t want to be, but simply that it is a very bad idea. In fact, I need to avoid you.” She waited, watching him from the corner of her eye for any sign of a reaction.
He took another drink, then looked down at his mug. ”Well, when you finished our conversation then practically ran from the room, I figured something was up.”
This was it. Now or never. She set down her mug and angled her body to face him slightly. ”You are a Good Man. You’re witty and smart and wickedly funny, and I see the deeper, more serious parts that you try to hide, too. I feel drawn to your soul, almost compelled to be near you, and that scares me more than a little bit, especially given–” she waved her hand, alluding to their earlier exchange, “everything. It’s not a good idea for me to talk to you, yet when we do I find myself truly enjoying the banter. You keep me on my toes, which is rare among my acquaintances,” she finished with a laugh.
He still stared down at his drink, his mouth unmoving, but his eyes crinkled for a moment.
She shrugged. ”Don’t say anything, don’t try to make me feel better because I don’t feel sad or embarrassed or awkward. I only wanted to tell you because I can only dance around for so long.” She waited a beat. ”And I might’ve overindulged on the egg nog.” Another beat. ”And I told myself that if by some miracle you came out here, I’d be honest with you whether you wanted to hear it or not.”
He finally looked at her, face impassive. ”Well. Thanks for your honesty.”
She grinned. ”Hey, who doesn’t want to hear that they’re compelling? Even though it’s a dead end road,” she finished quietly.
Something flashed across his face, faster than she could identify. ”Dead end? Are you sure you don’t have that knife around here?”
She laughed out loud and bumped his shoulder with her own. ”You know what I mean.”
He finally grinned in return.
She stood, brushing off invisible dirt. ”Well. I need to go drink a lot more. I promised Jessica that I would keep up with her, and she’s really slamming them back.”
He stood, and picked up their empty mugs. ”Oh, one quick thing.”
She looked up at him, realizing suddenly that he stood so close she could feel his body heat, and she forced her automatic hum of approval into a question. ”Mmm?”
“I agree.” His voice sounded gravelly. ”We should stay far apart and keep the banter shallow and witty.” Was he leaning closer?
She swallowed. ”Of course, shallow and witty is my natural state, so that won’t be too difficult for me.” He was telling her to keep away from him. She curled her fingers into fists to keep from reaching out to touch him.
His mouth quirked up in a grin, then suddenly he asked quietly, “Why are you with him?”
She blinked at his sudden desire to confront the elephant in the room. ”Uhm. What?”
He made an impatient gesture, his eyes intent. ”If we’re not going to have a serious conversation after this, then I’m going to ask my deep burning questions now.”
“Well…” she shrugged. ”He loves me. He knows me. He’ll be a good father, good husband. If I don’t have the fireworks and the fiery passionate craziness, that just means I’m a grown-up now, right?” She looked down at her fingers, twisting and clenching over one another.
“So he’s safe.” His voice was flat, a low monotone.
Her head snapped up, eyes angry. ”And?”
“And it’s a copout and you know it! You’re choosing the safe, steady path because you’re too afraid to risk anything, but the whole point of loving someone is that you risk everything, every day, all for that person who makes you so crazy with love and fear and anger that you’re dizzy every time you look at them, and they’re so irresistible to you that you’re practically ‘compelled’ to seek them out using the flimsiest of excuses just so you can be near them for a few blessed hours before parting ways again until the next time.” His voice had steadily risen until he was shouting, hands stabbing the air to make his point.
Her mouth hung open in shock. ”How dare you!”
He suddenly dropped the mugs on the lawn, grabbed her upper arms and yanked her to him, kissing her hard on the mouth and releasing her just as suddenly. ”Stay away from me!” he shouted, and turned to go inside.
She reached out to pull him back, whether to shake him or slap him was undecided, but he turned back and slid his arms around her just as she flung her arms around his neck, and their mouths fused in a desperate kiss, full of anger and longing and frustration and pent-up desire.
When he finally released her, there were tears on her cheeks. He gently touched her jaw with the back of his hand, and said quietly, “Go back inside, you’ll freeze out here.”
Her lips parted for a moment, and she hesitated, about to speak. But he bent down to pick up the forgotten mugs, and she relented, stumbling back inside the house, head whirling.
New Moon: the movie event
[Uh. sorta-spoilers, although unless you've been living under a rock, you already know what's up.]
I enjoyed it. I think this is a case where the movie is much better than the book.
[This is, of course, because the book was so very, very bad.] [SO. BAD.]
But I would suggest to you, the casual viewer: save your money. Or go to a matinee. And bring some Pepto-Bismol; you’ll need it.
Fans will like it, maybe even love it. Jacob is practically perfect, Edward flails about in full emo-drama-queen mode, and Bella stumbles around looking (very) pretty and helpless, while giving her vocal chords quite a workout.
(She screams. A lot. My unprofessional tally is as follows: inaudible wailing [6 or 7], “please” [9], “no” [7], “stop” [4].)
Ladies (and hey, gents), this movie is for you. I’m pretty sure Jacob spent the entire film shirtless (sooo worth the ticket price alone), and there’s even an extended scene with Edward’s pasty pale glittering torso. Carlisle is in full McSexy McSparkly mode, Charlie is absolutely adorable, and Emmett gets in a few good smoldering looks and fun lines for the .5 seconds of screen time he’s allowed. And the werewolves are funny and oh-so-cute too.
All in all, a good eye-candy film.
Well. Besides the scenes where Bella had a full psychotic break and sat in a chair for four months while the camera swept lovingly around her catatonic form while the seasons passed outside her window.
Viewers beware: take a chug of the P-B (or the hard alcohol of your choice) when you see Edward take her into the forest… it’s pretty rough going for a while.
But then comes Jacob. And he really steals the movie. I can’t say enough about him, so I won’t say anything at all. After all, the boyfriend (who, to give him credit, stayed awake for the entire movie. ready everyone? awwww) wouldn’t be too pleased to hear my inner monologue. And, uh, pretty sure T.L. is still jailbait.
But he’s hilarious! You can tell he truly enjoyed doing this movie. And we deeply appreciate it.
Anyway. I think director Chris Weitz did a much better job with this one, especially given what he had to work with.
I want to sleep, so I’ll just leave you with these final thoughts. My complaints? Mostly cosmetic. (hooray!)
-the Cullens’ eyes. Really? Even the first movie’s vamp-eyes looked better. They look like they’re on acid during the entire film. dilated pupils, the contacts could not look faker, etc. While Edward wasn’t exactly supposed to focus on Bella for the majority of his screen time, it still bothered me that it looked as if they’d filmed B & E on two separate planets locations and green-screened the actors together.
-the flower field scene(s). Was it supposed to look like they raided the fake flowers aisles at Michaels and “planted” each sprig exactly two feet apart from the next?
-Bella’s hallucinations of Edward. Again, he never really looked at her. CG has come a long way, guys. Shame.
All in all? I had fun. I’ll probably see it again, although I will be fleeing the theater after the epic scene with the Volturi: it’s all downhill codependency from there.
and after the sugar rush comes the crash…
Gag me with a ladle.
I read New Moon.
It’s like she read Wuthering Heights and said, “Gee, those two kids aren’t nearly angsty or psycho enough; what can I do to add to that?” Also she decided to portray them in a more “romantic” light by adding a thousand and one positive (or purple-prosaic) adjectives to the tale.
And she’s not so good at the subtle paralleling Romeo and Juliet, either. I always hated that story because the kids were far too impulsive for their own good. And I had no patience for those who would romanticize them because they die. What is the point of making a grand romantic gesture when it ends in death? I fail to understand.
Ugh.
Excuse me while I go throw up.
I started to read Eclipse, but I couldn’t get past her father’s (extremely accurate) Voice of Reason, which she (of course) promptly disregards.
“I don’t think you should dump all your other friends for your boyfriend, Bella,” he said in a stern voice. ”It’s not nice, and I think your life would be better balanced if you kept some other people in it. What happened last September…”
I flinched.
“Well,” he said defensively. ”If you’d had more of a life outside of Edward Cullen, it might not have been like that.”
“It would have been exactly like that,” I muttered.
What.
The.
Hell.
What is wrong with her? What is wrong with people, that Bella’s life is full of acceptable logic? What is the draw for these books?
I have to laugh, because otherwise I’d turn all glitter-rage-sparkle-vengeance and smash.
I’ve had a few relationships. I was even deeply invested in them. There was one, in fact, that sent me into the spiraling depths of despair that Bella describes. However, I knew that if I spent time obsessing sulking dwelling on it, I’d turn into a zombie too.
So I threw my time and energy into my friends, various activities, and lots (and lots) of Friends. (What can I say. We all have our forms of escapism.) And hey guess what. As time went on, I was able to see that he wasn’t the best thing to happen to me, and that I was okay without him, and I was even happy.
I didn’t throw myself into a crutch relationship with another boy. I didn’t wake my apartment-mates screaming. I didn’t fall into a catatonic state. I moved on.
And actually, it’s better this way; I’m infinitely happier (and healthier) with the bf than I was with the ex. (Yeah, the ex could give Edward lessons in co-dependent psycho emotional-abuse.)
So I have very little patience for her stubbornness and her inability to pull herself out of the moping. SMeyer tries to make her sound heroic, cast her in a sympathetic light for all her suffering, but it just makes me wish I could reach into the book and throttle her. I don’t blame any of her “friends” for refusing to speak to her. (Poor, puny mortals with your normal lives and your average human qualities.)
::stretches for something positive to say::
Jacob is the healthiest of all the characters that she’s written. (so far; I hear has a weird personality transplant in Eclipse.) But honey, as the brilliant cleolinda puts it,
(Jacob, give up. Also, any guys somehow reading this: sometimes, girls get fixated on guys, to the point where they’ll drop whatever they’re doing, whoever they’re with, to run to them. Give up on those girls. If they can’t collect themselves and make that choice to stay with you, they’re not ready to treat you with any kind of respect. I’m saying this from an observer’s experience here.)
yeah. It’s sad but true. Don’t waste your time. Somebody worthwhile is bound to notice you; don’t spend your time bashing your head against a brick wall.
also, she ties in WH very well.
[Jacob is] far too good and normal for her. Notice how she can’t even pay attention to him? It’s because she’s exactly like Cathy Earnshaw–she can’t function unless she’s got Heathcliff to bounce her angst off. (Have I ever told you my theory that Wuthering Heights is not romance but actually horror, about two emotional sadomasochists who lay waste to everyone around them, using them as pawns in their own personal war of attrition? Because, I mean… that’s pretty much the whole theory. ~The More You Know~)
It makes me sad fills me with frustrated anger. The whole mopey “I’m not worth it” angst that Bella has, Edward’s inability to understand how she could believe him when he lied to her face (also the lack of apology and how she just kinda went “oh well I still love you let’s just forget anything bad ever happened” and got annoyed with her dad for being normal and a father)…
::deep breath::
These books are sooo bad! There’s no concept of adulthood! It’s written from a teenager’s standpoint, and of course they already know everything, so anyone who could offer a voice of reason is portrayed as distant or helpless in some other way (see: Renee’s childlike view of the world as well as her physical distance, Charlie’s inability to cook as well as his emotional distance, and the blatant portrayal of Billy Black in a wheelchair).
And those who could be adults, even though they are eternally 17-25? Carlisle and Esme are distant until after confrontation, always about twelve paces back, unable to tell Edward to take a chill pill and stop being such a drama queen, even when he needs a giant (and swift) kick to the pants. Emmett and Rosalie are perpetually in their own world, apparently stuck at the emotional maturity of their physical age. The ones who become the usual “adults” in situations are also hobbled: Jasper’s bloodlust, suddenly a huge issue, and Alice’s inability to take charge because she’s a woman. (Notice how she won’t do anything proactive, only reactive, even though she can see the future. Jasper’s leaving? I must comfort. Edward’s off to kill himself? I must prevent. Edward’s scheming to keep Bella captive? I must assist!)
Augh. I need to go read some good fiction.
Sherlock Holmes, here I come.
letters to the past
I cannot believe all that both of us have put up with from each other over the years. (Yes, I gave you a lot of pain. There’s no way I’m going to deny that. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.)
I’ve known you for nearly half my life (off and on) and I think I’ve earned the right to be able to call your crap. You were my best friend. At one point, you were even my other half. You knew me upside down and inside out. And I’m fed up with your bullshit. (well, I was a while ago, but only thought to write this now.)
Let’s face it: we’re still going to keep running into each other due to various family connections and church and such (or because fate likes to make you her bitch), so hey guess what, we’re going to hash this out.
A) I contacted you again because I missed you. You were, at one time, the one person who knew me best, and I don’t believe in just tossing that aside lightly. I never learned the concept of “letting go.” and I never thought I would have to, when it came to you. However, you can relax. I did not want to ‘pick things up again’ because of several reasons, not the least of which was our personalities and the way we meshed. Bad idea all the way around. So stop acting so jumpy. I thought I’d made that clear, but I guess I should’ve set it in stone.
(And, to my surprise, contacting you worked! I loved being able to talk to you, to share, to have a small part of that old, pre-disaster connection. It was good, it was fun, it was “us” again. then… wtf.)
B) Like you said, I’ve changed. Grown-up me doesn’t believe in holding back, or pretending. Life is too short for games. There is a part of me that still loves you, (not in the ‘hey let’s date’ way, or the ‘unrequited’ way, but the ‘old friends who shared a lot’ affectionate way), and I probably always will. I’m not going to pretend that you didn’t mean a lot to me, or that you didn’t have a lot of influence in my life. (Not all of it was positive, but we’re human and that’s life.)
C) Good things about you: the way you are able to be attentive to the little things. don’t change that.
D) Bad things about you: never ever ever EVER tell a girl what is wrong with her physical appearance. We know. I still can’t believe I put up with it from you, or that you would have the sheer jackassery to even say it. It still makes me wish I had just outright punched you in the face.
E) Grown-ups say “hey, I’m seeing somebody, so peace.” or whatever excuse you want to use. (Even that is rude, but whatever.) Dropping off the face of the planet is the most cowardly of all possible recourses you could’ve used. And that’s sad. Even for you. I know you take ‘non-confrontation’ to new levels of ridiculous, but really. Man up. Even the unspoken one had the fortitude to call me, and he was the scum of the earth.
F) Along those lines, yes, the bf and I are together. I guess it’s not surprising to a lot of people, but it’s something that really never occurred to me before. I guess I win that age-old question of whether he loves you more than he loves me.
G) If you’re happy, then great. Really. I hope the east coast is amazing for you. If I ever see you again, I’ll smile and be nice, because like I said, life is too short for pretending. I just didn’t want to leave anything unsaid.
I’ll be honest, I’ve wished that I could just banish you forever. I know you said that it’s hard for you to ignore me, and that you wanted to see if I’d “reconnect the threads” or something. The truth is, I don’t think those ‘threads’ will ever fully break. And it frustrates me. A lot. You’ve said before that I was the one person you could count on for the rest of your life. Well… I’m holding that end of the bargain. Yes, our love has changed (drastically) from what it was. Perhaps, in your case, it’s faded entirely.
I give up. I’m putting all my cards on the table, because I’m at a place where it’s okay for me to completely humiliate myself in front of people who have demonstrated that they could care less whether I take a flying leap into the lake or whatever nonsense phrase you’d like to use. (It helps, I suppose, to know that I have someone who loves me and has never treated me half as badly as you did at one point.)
Let’s review, okay?
no more crap… I missed you, not in love with you, there’s a big difference… ummm… good and bad… other people…. oh yes. one last thing.
I have bigger balls than you.
Have a nice life.
trivial pursuits, or It’s Not Stalking If It’s On The Internet
No, I’m not talking about the hypothetical occasional facebook-stalking of my ex. (which never happens.)
Or my sick obsession with The Superficial. (seriously, what is with that? I can’t stand shows like The Real Housewives of Atlanta/OC/Trailer Trash and I really judge people who watch The Hills or anything affiliated with MTV or VH1, but that site is strangely addicting. perhaps it’s his scorn for… well, everyone that amuses me.)
I am referring to my newest internet crush: she (cleolinda) says brilliant things. Things that answer all the questions to life. For example, that bad boy obsession that all girls have, but are somehow unable to properly explain?
2) Girls like bad boys: Believe it or not, this is actually tied to Point #1. I’ve held this as a general theory for a while, so listen up, nice guys (or Nice Guys), but maybe not for the reason you’d think. I actually don’t think girls like a guy who treats them bad. But I do think they–we–get off a little on the idea of changing someone for the better, or the idea of having the power that someone loves us so much that he’ll change or sacrifice something for us. (I don’t have the patience for fixer-uppers in real life–if I’m going to be with you, I want you to be a fully formed, fully actualized self before I get there–but I’m a sucker for the trope in literature.) A nice guy doesn’t need to change, and, most importantly, he’s already nice to everyone. How do you know that you’re special if he treats everyone else with as much kindness and respect as he treats you? The “bad boy” type, though? He may range from simple, garden-variety jackhole (hello, Sawyer!) to appalling psychopath (hello, Dr. Lecter!), but you know he loves you because he’s completely different around you. You are an exception to his very nature. This is how “villain” ends up drifting towards “antihero”–Dracula, the Phantom of the Opera, Spike on Buffy, fanfic!Draco Malfoy–but you even see it with straightforward heroes: Mr. Darcy and Mr. Rochester are both cold, prickly, withdrawn types until Lizzie Bennet and Jane Eyre arrive, respectively, to bewilder and melt them. That’s the fantasy. (Note: this is not a comparison of quality.)
It’s true! This is your answer, boys who are constantly confused by our compulsion to, as Chandler put it, “date leather-wearing alcoholics and complain about them… to you.”
Of course, most girls end up making the mistake of dating that type. Then, when they meet a truly Nice Guy, they don’t quite know what to do with them and usually end up heading for the hills. (He opens the car door for me, Mom. Who does that? I’m breaking up with him tomorrow.) (no, I do not have personal experience in that area at all.)
I’ll see you guys later; I’m busy catching up on her deep and philosophical musings.
And reading Growing Up Cullen.
saint_renegade: let’s talk about Edward during most of new moon
saint_renegade: when he was away from bella/his family
oxymoronassoc: JAUNTING ABOUT
oxymoronassoc: BEING EMO
oxymoronassoc: IN SOUTH AMERICA
saint_renegade: you know he sent long letters to emmett/rosalie
saint_renegade: just weeping the whole time
saint_renegade: talking about his great woeoxymoronassoc: he’s chilling, sparkling, under a mango tree in the amazon
oxymoronassoc: hoping to get eaten by a snake or whatever
saint_renegade: I AM A BOTTOMLESS PIT OF SADNESS
oxymoronassoc: I DESERVE NO LESS THAN TO BE STRANGLED BY THIS ANACONDA
saint_renegade: just lying there sobbing for days at a time
oxymoronassoc: the locals think the forest is haunted
oxymoronassoc: or that there is a cow
oxymoronassoc: slowly dying
oxymoronassoc: in some quicksand
oxymoronassoc: I HAVE SCARED AWAY THE LOCALS
oxymoronassoc: THEY COULD NOT BEAR THE SOUND OF MY ANGUISH
oxymoronassoc: NOW I MUST BEAR THAT BURDEN TOO: I AM A SOCIAL PARIAH
yeah. will my life ever be normal again?
The Storyteller… chapter 11
A/N: I’ve had a general sketch of where this story should go for a while, but it’s been slow going. It’s picking up a bit now, so I should be posting (somewhat) regular updates. (of course, now that I say that, who knows what’ll happen.) Thanks again for your reviews; they truly make my day!
Chapter 11
Wendy stretched, smiling sleepily, her arms above her head. She’d had such a delicious dream. It had been so difficult to sleep at first, but as she finally dropped off, she could have sworn that someone had been with her, lulling her to sleep with his steady breathing and soft touches to her hair. She slid her hand to the place beside her, only to find that the sheets were cold. Strange, I could’ve sworn…
The doors flew open with the now-typical flourish that preceded Smee’s appearance. She sat up in bed, blinking as he carried in a tray of questionable-looking porridge and a steaming cup of… something. But what caught her attention was the fact that he was accompanied by the Captain, looking as pristine as ever. She was suddenly aware of her tousled hair and the fact that she was clad in only a nightshirt—his shirt. Wendy hesitated, then drew up her chin, refusing to be intimidated by his mere presence.
“Good morning, Red-Handed Jill,” Smee said cheerfully as he placed the tray on the bedside table. “Did you sleep well?”
She smiled gratefully at the friendly pirate, realizing that she was hungry. “Yes, thank you.” She turned to the Captain, and offered a smile in truce. “Thank you, Captain, for the use of your quarters. It was quite kind of you.” And, she realized in surprise, it had been unexpected. Their discussion the night before had certainly raised a few questions in her mind. He’d been polite and courteous to her, while she had been tense and combative. Perhaps she needed to reevaluate both his position and her own.
His expression did not change, although she thought he seemed pleased as he said casually, “Well, we couldn’t place you below with the men; you’d never get out alive.” She flushed slightly, but couldn’t keep a cough of shocked laughter from escaping. His lips twitched in return.
Smee looked as if he were torn between amusement and embarrassment. “Yes, well, we have clothes in the hold that may fit you. When you finish eating, come find me and I’ll help you look through them. They’re not ladies clothes, but you can’t exactly be picky, now, can you.”
She merely nodded, and Smee turned and left the room. The Captain stood in the doorway, avoiding her gaze, looking at a book that he’d selected at random. He seemed uncharacteristically off-kilter, and she wondered where he’d spent the night, and whether he’d slept at all.
“Is there something you forgot, Captain?” she asked sweetly.
He hesitated, staring at the book he’d lifted, then looked up at her. “How long has it been, for you?” She looked so comfortable in his shirt and his bed that he nearly groaned. Why was she sent to torment him so?
She instinctively knew what he meant, and swallowed hard. “Years. Many years.” Much had happened since she’d last been in Neverland.
He looked confused. “Yet you say that I have not aged.”
She blinked. “I don’t recall mentioning such a thing,” she said, willing herself not to turn red. She could not let him know that she had memorized his every characteristic, that she had been so aware of him in her younger days that she’d been able to tell instantly that every line on his face had been the same. Her attention had not changed, either; she was still hyper-sensitive when it came to the Captain.
He relented, surveying her silently for a moment, then said softly, “The men do need a Storyteller, Red. Simple pirating is not enough. It never has been.”
Suspicious of this apparent non sequitur, she nodded wordlessly. He closed the book, put it on the shelf, and left the room without another word.
Wendy bit her lip as she pulled the breakfast tray towards her. A Storyteller was needed, and she just so happened to have thousands hidden, repressed deep inside. Perhaps she could truly become Red-Handed Jill once again. It wouldn’t bring back all of her memories, would it? Some could still stay hidden?
-+-
Wendy made the giant bed, then donned her clothes from yesterday and went to find Smee. She was pleased to discover as she walked that while her wounded leg still throbbed with pain, she was able to get by with a limp. She wouldn’t need a stick to lean on.
Smee took her down to the hold, chattering all the while. As she walked through the ship, she was uncomfortably aware of the many eyes upon her. She wondered if the Captain had made a general announcement about her presence on board, for the eyes did not seem curious, but simply watchful. Some felt rather predatory, however, and she quickened her step behind Smee as he led her to the giant trunks in a corner of the hold.
“Here we are.” Smee groaned with effort as he opened one. An explosion of fabric lay inside, and he began pulling out pieces of clothing, one by one. “We’ve been gathering booty for so long that we never know exactly what we have anymore. We’ve gone through about eight cabin boys, and I’m sure some of them left their old clothes behind, so we’re bound to find something to fit you,” he said kindly.
She pulled aside shirts that looked about her size, and found a few pairs of trousers that could fit. There was so much inside the first trunk that they didn’t need to look inside the second, although Smee insisted upon opening it as well.
As she looked at all of the fabric, an idea came into her head. “Smee,” she asked cautiously. “You say that you and the men never use these clothes?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” he said, then looked at her curiously. “Why do you ask?”
A slow smile began to cross her face. “Oh, no matter. I need to bring something up with the Captain later.” She got to her feet, stretching out the soreness in her leg, and began to help him put the clothes away. “Tell me, is there anything I can do to help pull my weight around here?”
Smee paused. “Well, you could ask Cookie if he needs help fixin’ the meals. The man’s a master chef but I’m sure more hands won’t hurt. Anything else and you’d be stuck with the men for long periods of time, and that wouldn’t be fun for anyone, least of all you.”
She smiled at Smee even as she fought back a shudder, grateful for his thoughtfulness. “Well, would you show me where to find Cookie?”
-+-
Wendy growled at the full five-gallon buckets she was attempting to drag towards the stairs. The cook hadn’t taken kindly to her intrusion upon his domain, and had relegated the task of water retrieval to her. Of course, the freshwater hold was kept down two flights of stairs; something about the necessary relocation due to dry rot and rat infestation had been muttered as he’d shoved the buckets into her arms and pointed her to the steps. She’d shouldered her burden and marched away, as best she could. It seems the man took a personal dislike to her, and had decided heavy labor would be the best punishment. Had he heard her thoughts on the porridge that morning?
“Men,” she muttered as the bucket sloshed alarmingly. “Too stubborn to know what’s good for them.”
Footsteps sounded down the shadowy corridor, and she fought against the sudden pounding of her heart. She hadn’t seen the Captain since his cryptic words before breakfast, and he was not likely to show his face down here. She forced her breath to slow; she did not like the way her heart leapt at the first sound of boots on the steps. Calm down, Red. He’s a bloodthirsty pirate who may or may not be holding you captive on this boat. Simply because you happen to dream about him in disturbing detail does not mean that reality will comply with your imagination.
Yet she still looked up eagerly as the footsteps drew nearer, only to see an impeccably dressed pirate making his way down the steps towards her.
She waited, shoulders back, eyes focused on the bucket, hoping that the man would simply ignore her and walk by. She moved back into the wall as he approached, giving him ample room to pass her, but he suddenly stopped and looked at her. His immaculate appearance began to fade upon closer inspection; he appeared out of place in the spotless clothes, as if he were playing a part, but felt ill at ease in the material.
His expression, however, was what caused chills to run down her spine; his gaze was fixed upon her and there was a hint of hatred as well as anger and desire on his face. Yellow eyes narrowed as he closed in on her personal space. “Well, if it ain’t the Captain’s newest pet,” he growled, his breath making her gag.
“Please step aside; I need to be on my way,” she said resolutely, but he moved in closer and lifted a hand to trail down the side of her face. She flinched away, but he pressed closer still and chuckled. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end in sudden premonition.
She tried to push him aside, but he grabbed her forearms and squeezed, making her bones nearly grind together and bringing tears to her eyes from the pain. “Now, now, girlie, I’ve had my eye on you, and you’re going to appreciate it proper, like a good girl should.”
Oh, God, here came the memories. Wife is second to Husband. When will you learn to speak properly to your betters? If I’m going to marry you and take you out of this hovel, you are going to learn some respect! He had appeared so pleasant at first, and her family had liked him. Too bad the most innocent looking sheep often turned out to be the worst kind of wolves.
She shook off the past and focused on the alarming present. “Let me go,” she said firmly, willing the tears in her eyes to disappear even as she wished her voice could be louder.
The pirate laughed. “Why isn’t that charming, she’s trying to tell us what to do.” Fear rose in her as she realized he wasn’t talking to himself, that another man had appeared in the small corridor. Her odds had just gone from bad to worse.
Making up her mind quickly, she flew into action. Twisting her wrist around, she kneed him in the groin and pulled away as he let go and yelled in surprise at the pain. Whirling around, she raced towards the stairs only to find herself falling suddenly. The second pirate had tripped her, and was pulling her backwards by her injured leg. She kicked out desperately, but the first man was stepping over her now and pulling her up by her hair. She gave a strangled cry of pain, but he punched her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.
Panic flooded her, and she found herself desperately crying, “No, please stop, not again,” wordlessly as they pushed her against the wall. Help, please help me. The first man grabbed her neck and began steadily squeezing as the world slowly went black.
-+-
The Captain was moving before he realized it, striding, nearly running across the deck of the ship to get down into the hold. His men moved out of his way quickly once they saw the look in his red eyes; they recognized the spectre of death in his gaze.
He couldn’t quite understand the deep-set trepidation that motivated him; he only knew that if he didn’t get somewhere now, something horrible was going to happen. As he raced down the stairs, he heard a yelp, then a thud from the darkened corridor ahead. Another voice cried out, and his blood ran cold. Help, please help me.
Wendy.
aaand a new obsession begins, or How I Lost My Entire Weekend
I caved. I finally read Twilight. All the way through. (for those of you who have been here a while, I attempted to do so back in… February? March? but couldn’t finish because it was mind-numbingly awful of my many social obligations.)
However. A new day breaks, and a new obsession begins.
(Except when I say “obsession,” I mean, you know, a mild sort of amused interest.)
I bring you a new word, guys. ”Lolfan,” defined as those who have read Twilight, understand the insane compulsion to somehow finish the books no matter how bad they get, and can still function in society without beginning a desperate search for “their Edward.” (or comparing their significant others to the aforementioned fictional character.)
“I pretty much made up this word just now to describe the kind of people (i.e., me) who read these books for the sole purpose of snarking on them and yet cannot stop oh God please send help. Levels of affection for the subject matter may vary; macros and icons are often involved. Twatlighters (see below) are a good example of lolfans.”
These are my people! My long-lost tribe, my band of brothers! (I fear, however, that no one will ever share my strange fascination with quoting obscure sections of Henry V. Thanks, Dad.)
But. I still can’t stand Bella. Sorry. I tried. (but blech.)
If you would like to add joy to your life, regardless of your status on the whole “fan” scale, read Growing Up Cullen, in which Edward is characterized as a 40 year old mother on a bad day due to all the other Cullens’ constant crazy-making and poor angsty Edward is all on his lonesome… scrapbooking and listening to Nickelback cds. Nobody understands him, you guys.
(and oh, the late-to-the-party glee I have: there’s more).
…hours of clicking later…
Oh sweet lord of the rings. What have I stumbled clumsily across?
He had reddish, blonde-brown hair that was groomed heterosexually. He looked older than the other boys in the room — maybe not as old as God or my father, but certainly a viable replacement. Imagine if you took every woman’s idea of a hot guy and averaged it out into one man. This was that man.
Nightlight, a Twilight parody.
There goes my entire November. See you guys on the other side.
oh. and yes, I’m going to see Jacob’s abs that movie. but only because my boyfriend’s sister is dragging both of us!
The Storyteller… ch10
Chapter 10
The Captain gathered a few necessities from his cabin, then paused before he left the room. Feeling more than a little foolish, he returned to the bed and plumped the pillows, then began digging in the closet for suitable nightwear for one as small as she. Perhaps one of the women who visited the men had left something behind? Even as he searched for a nightgown, he frowned at the thought of her wearing something that had been worn for such purposes. She should have something untainted.
Caught in a moment of rare indecision, he finally yanked out one of his old, well-worn shirts, and laid it on the bed, then turned and stormed out of the room with his belongings, refusing to look back. He’d already done enough foolish pandering to the girl; if he wasn’t careful, she’d be running the ship before long. It was hard for a Captain to be regarded as bloodthirsty whilst asking a dainty chit if she’d like sugar with her tea.
-+-
Smee opened the door for Wendy, grinning all the while. “Captain’s orders, Red-Handed Jill,” he said cheerfully as he pushed her in.
She took in the scene with one wide look, then whirled, eyes flashing with anger. “I beg your pardon? Surely you are joking.”
Smee raised his eyebrows. “You don’t like it? This is the Captain’s room. There’s nothing better in the whole ship!”
She folded her arms. “I am well aware of the Captain’s tastes. I simply object to being forced to share occupancy.” She knew there had been a spark of attraction, an electric arc connecting them, and something more subtle that bonded their very souls together, but for him to have the audacity to assume that she’d repay his actions on her behalf with her body… well. She had a few things to say about that.
She realized that Smee was laughing so hard that he was clutching the door for support. She assumed her most regal posture and stared at him imperiously. “Is there something I have overlooked?”
The man wiped his eyes and resumed grinning at her nearly maniacally. “Why yes. The Captain ain’t here, is he?”
She looked about, paying special attention to the shadows where he was wont to lurk. “I suppose not.”
Apparently that was her answer, for he blinked at her as if she were slow. “Well, then.” The little man began to walk out of the room, then paused and turned. “The Captain isn’t in the habit of forcing women to his bed,” he added in a confiding tone. “I would’ve thought you’d know that.” Then he closed the door, leaving her gaping after him, uncertain if she were confused, insulted, or simply annoyed.
She finally decided to ignore it, tantalized by the opportunity to look about; it was not every day she was given unrestricted access to the personal chambers of the very man who captivated her so.
The most prominent object in the room was the bed, and she found herself drawn to it relentlessly. It was large enough to sleep three men comfortably, and she forced herself to refrain from thinking about who had shared it with the Captain in the past. That sick feeling in her stomach had nothing to do with jealousy, it was simply a result of fighting with him before dinner.
She forced her concentration back to the bed. The pillows were down, and the sheets were made of silk. Laid out on the end of the bed was a large shirt. Had someone set it out for her? It could fit as a nightgown for her, so she assumed it had been left intentionally. She touched it hesitantly, and found that it was quite soft. It didn’t seem new, instead it looked as if it had been worn often, but it was clean. Had he left her one of his shirts? She found her cheeks flushing at the idea of wearing something of his to bed, especially as well worn as it was.
Wendy blew out a breath in a sigh. “Snap out of it, Jill,” she muttered, and turned her attention to the rest of the room. Unsurprisingly, the walls were lined with bookshelves, and the books did not seem to fit any one genre. Apparently the Captain had varied taste, as she looked over the shelves. She could easily enjoy her time here.
She forced herself to just skim the titles, since she didn’t have official permission to disrupt his belongings. Scattered around the room were various weapons in form of disrepair; it looked as though he was in the habit of mending his own artillery. On his desk lay a rather detailed sketch of the inner workings of new machinery, alongside a book on philosophy. He seemed to be rather more complex than she had first imagined.
She smiled as she looked back at the bed. As grand gestures went, allowing her his room certainly fit the bill. She wondered if he knew that she’d have trouble sleeping in his bed.
-+-
Wendy sat up again, and pounded her pillow in frustration. She kept rehashing her earlier argument with the Captain, and retorts were cycling through her mind. He had brought up valid points; she had thought him a villain, so he had acted like one. Had he truly been ready to kill them? When he had forced her to tell Peter’s story, he had seemed so tormented, driven by a frustration that ran deeper than a mere boy’s game.
And when they had been arguing, she’d felt… something from him. When he’d accused her of orchestrating the story to her own happy ending, she could’ve sworn that he was feeling pain so fierce that she nearly gasped aloud at the sharpness of the ache. And she’d caught a glimpse of a memory of herself and Peter, dancing on air together. Her face had been suffused with light, joy and hope shining in her eyes as she gazed at the Boy Who Would Never Grow Up, even as she wished he would. Had the Captain seen them together?
She groaned aloud, and turned over again. She was never going to fall asleep.
It was his fault, really. His very presence surrounded her; she was trying to sleep in his bed, wearing one of his shirts, and yet she was trying not to think of him. It was hopeless.
-+-
The Captain puffed his cigar in the library, purposefully thinking of nothing, concentrating on keeping his mind free from the clutter of memories and emotions. So far, he’d been able to keep from thinking of her a grand total of–he checked his pocket-watch again. Seventy-two seconds.
He gave up, and began pacing. She’d been genuinely upset when he’d accused her of manipulating the story. Had she truly been unaware of her power? She’d seemed so fierce in her defense that he wondered if she knew the power she carried even now. She still seemed constrained, limited. As if there was a part of her that held on tightly to control, no matter what. The only time he’d seen that control flicker had been when he’d discovered the bruises on her arms.
He frowned to himself, lost in thought. Those bruises had been mottled blue and green, showing signs of nearly healed skin, instead of freshly inflicted injuries. She had received the blisters on her hands here, but not the bruises. Where, then? And who was so bold as to inflict pain upon her?
When he thought about it, her pain threshold was quite high. She’d been bleeding profusely and had been knocked around quite a bit, but hadn’t cried, or whined about her injuries. She had only objected when he treated her as inferior to him.
What was in her past that she was so unwilling to allow him to probe?
He stomped down to Smee’s room. Since he gave up his quarters for Red, he had kicked Smee out of his room instead. He was a gentleman, but he was not about to sleep in the common area with the rest of the men. As Captain, he needed to maintain an air of superiority as well as fear, and both were rather difficult when the men discovered you snoring in a hammock in the galley.
He took off the harness for his hook, groaning as the weight came off. It was a helpful contraption, but difficult to bear at times. The leather strap chafed, so he had taken to smearing the pulp of an aloe vera plant on his skin where it bled. Chief Tiger Lillie had shown him that useful trick; too bad she hadn’t given him an extra arm to reach his back where it truly hurt.
He lay down on the lumpy mattress, grumbling at the courtesy which had necessitated giving up his own soft bed. The little chit should be grateful to him; if she was not, he toyed with the idea of forcing her to bunk with the men, but quickly cast it aside. Even he was not that cruel.
He sighed, and closed his eyes once more, his mind returning to her as if by default. He was not unwilling, this time, and indulged himself by wondering absently what she dreamed. He slowly drifted to sleep, with the scent of lavender surrounding him and a small hand on his chest. He touched her hair hazily and sighed with contentment as sleep took him.
green-eyed monster
She came with us on a couples outing, and I realized almost instantly that I do not like her. I tend to judge people instantly, harshly, and hold them to that, which is my flaw. I admit it, freely. I need to stop being so rigid.
But it still doesn’t change the fact that I’m usually right. ”I can tell instantly about people. It’s a gift.”
When I walked into the room, I heard her saying that she thought we had broken up. She could not have sounded happier about this mistake. BFF was there, laughing at her and the look on my face. The BF looked confused and uncomfortable. I wanted to slam the door in her face, but settled for handing the child to him and being mildly possessive.
Now it’s the little things that make my ears burn and fingers itch to accidentally get caught in her hair… and pull.
She’ll come over whenever possible, “to hang out with the group”… then stay until all the others have left, just watching us. (Who sits on a couch and watches a couple make out?? Can we say ‘creeper’?)
I’m still not worried about him ever cheating on me.
I just have to worry about keeping myself from physical violence.
The boyfriend laughs at me. He thinks it’s sexy that I feel possessive of him.
Then he saw a couple texts on my phone from flirty boys and the shoe was on the other foot.
(Ha.)
It’s funny; I’ve never felt this open in a relationship. I don’t mind that he’s aware that there are guys who would do anything for me. I don’t care that he knows (and remembers by name) that there are three or four who still text me wanting to ‘meet up.’ (“Come on, baby, he doesn’t have to know.”) The first time someone hit on me in his presence was an interesting experience. (We were in a bookstore and he was looking at books one row down, so we weren’t being all couple-y. and the poor guy I had to shoot down was really very creative and sweet.) Instead of being jealous and possessive, he had the biggest grin for the next hour. When I asked him about it, he only said, “Damn straight he thinks you’re pretty and wants your number.”
I think it’s good for our egos, in a strange way. It’s good for us to know that there are other people who want to be with us (and with our significant others), and it helps us reaffirm the relationship by being open about it. I’m not going to lie, I do get slightly more PDA-prone when I know she’s around (and watching…. *shudder*).
I do not, however, enjoy the feeling that she’s keeping tabs on ‘us.’ When I was at his alumni game, I heard her saying in an undertone “That’s his girlfriend,” and other voices saying, “Really?” It helped, though, that he dragged over several guys and proudly introduced me as “This is my girlfriend,” leaving me to supply my name. He loves to introduce me to people like that; relationship label out in front. He’s told me that he can’t wait to introduce me as his wife.
It’s interesting, though, because I don’t refer to him as my boyfriend to other people. I give his name, and assume that they’ll connect the dots, because usually his arm is around me or he’s doing some ridiculously cute boyfriend thing. The other day, the BFF and I were making plans, and instead of saying his name, she said something about “your boyfriend,” and I couldn’t stop smiling.
Life is strange.
We’re still in the honeymoon phase. I wonder how long it’ll last.
Letters to the past
Dear Jerk:
It’s funny, really. You’re the most impulsive person I know, and yet you see yourself as cool, logical, even-headed.
You rushed into the relationship so quickly I’m not sure you even thought about what that would mean. I got swept into the whirlwind romance of it all, suddenly and deeply “in love” so fast that I couldn’t quite see (let alone think) straight.
And it was over, just as swiftly. You were in love with the feeling, chasing it with whomever you could until you got what you wanted deserved.
You insist you still love me, even though we cannot be together and irrevocable decisions have been made. Mostly on your part. By your poor impulse control and your inability to keep it in your pants.
What part of “Goodbye” is unclear to you?
Which word in “Let me move on” do you not understand?
In what way could I rephrase “Leave me the hell alone” so that you can gather the full meaning and the implications involved?
Dear Ex-First-Love:
You are in my brain. I can ignore you easily for the most part, but I’ll see your car model, a camera, certain types of music, and there you are again. It’s as if I can hear your voice in my head, a running commentary on my day-to-day actions, decisions, and circumstances.
Please. Get out. Leave me alone.
And that part of my soul, the one that seems to belong to you? Please leave it behind when you go. I want it back now. I know I said I’d love you forever, but I’m tired of forever. I want to be free.
I’m tired of memories of you coming up and getting in the way of my memories of the boyfriend. I know we grew up together, the four of us, (you, me, the bestie, and the boyfriend), so of course you’ll be there. But I want to look back with fewer regrets. I’m tired of nearly choking on all the words left unspoken, all the bottled memories I have to suppress. I want to move on completely.
I just want closure. You see, ten years of friendship plus a two-year-relationship stint means that there will always be loose ends and lingering feelings. But it’s been four and a half fucking years. There have been others since you, but somehow none of them have managed to stick the way you have. Maybe because you were so good at the manipulation and the emotional abuse.
Jackass.
Fuck off and leave me alone.
Dear Pseudo:
Our relationship has been the most confusing of all. My subconscious still isn’t quite sure how to characterize you, and whenever you come to mind, pain and regret at all that was left unsaid is sure to follow. So many of my day-to-day memories are full of moments with you. Hell, we lived life alongside each other for a good two to three years, so of course I can’t see a blender without thinking of you, or wander down store aisles without hearing your quips about various products. I can’t cook without hearing your instructions in my head; for crying out loud, I still move around the kitchen as if you’re there with me, dancing around each other as we prepare amazing food for friends. I still feel you brushing past me when I reach for ingredients, your hand on my back as I open the oven door.
You started dating her and got engaged so fast that everyone was left stammering, most of all me. (I mean, come on. Two months?? That’s faster than most couples in Hollywood.)
I felt like Sally, sobbing to Harry that, “He just met her… She’s supposed to be his transitional person, she’s not supposed to be the ONE. All this time I thought he didn’t want to get married. But, the truth is, he didn’t want to marry me. He didn’t love me.”
Why? What was so wrong with me? Why didn’t you want me?
If I could take you back now, would I? Of course not. I love the boyfriend, and we much better suited for one another. But… why? There’s this big gaping hole in my heart and I don’t know how to fix it, and I feel like I can’t move on with the boyfriend until I understand why.
Because life doesn’t work that way. It’s always neat and tidy, you always have an explanation, and even though breakups are messy and spew hurt everywhere, you at least get all the answers out there.
…right?
I now understand what my bestie felt like, when her first love got married. The whole time he and that other girl were dating, we’d nod sagely to one another and comment how it was clear that they didn’t belong together because he had totally changed himself for her, and she’d become what she thought he wanted, and it bugged the two of us that neither one of them were being honest with each other, let alone the world.
But then they got married, and she was left standing there, still hurt, confused and rationalizing. Now they’re pregnant, and I still see the pain in her eyes as she tries to reconcile the fact that he’s a completely different person than the man who loved her.
I understand.
Why?
And why do I still miss you so much?
I feel like (and you’ll laugh) Rogue, when she was stuck with the memories of all the people she’d touched. They have all become a part of me, and time isn’t healing as fast as it should.
I wish I hadn’t been so free with love, but that’s the way I am. I love deeply and for a long time. It sucks but it’s me.
I don’t think I’d change anything, because I’m glad of the damage even with the lingering memories. It’s changed me, made me stronger, helped me grow, and I can relate to others that much more. And all of them have helped me love the boyfriend more and more and more, because he truly is my match.
