.the.end.

She’s not coming back, he said.

No, she’s not. I don’t think she was ever there to begin with. She built her castle and she hid behind it, where no one could reach her. So when she woke up, she cried. She didn’t want to wake up.

I don’t blame her.

I should start living.

No, I thought. You don’t want that. It’s overrated. I live every single day and I have yet to find one that was worth it.

Get busy living or get busy dying, I guess.

Either way, you’re busy.

What happens, then, when your biggest regret for the day was stepping away from a car that was about to run you over? You’ve stopped living, but your attempts to die have failed.

At least you’re busy.

What’s wrong? he asked.

Nothing, I thought. Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.

What was it?

A word. A cut. Another word. Another cut.

When will you leave and where will you go?

Tomorrow. I don’t know where I’m going, but it’s going. I doubt anyone will miss me, but I give you what’s left of my love and leave you here. Because morning is when the day ends. And maybe I’ll find what I’m looking for when it does.

Blind Hatred

He knew what she was doing.

Her best friend was no longer talking to her. Her (now ex) best friend caught her sleeping with her boyfriend one night—the ultimate betrayal any girl could ever commit against another. She planted seeds of lies and deceit between her brother and his girlfriend so they would break up. And they did, but now her brother no longer acknowledged her existence. And she called her mother so many names that now, she couldn't look at her daughter without crying.

And now, she was trying to tear him down. She was trying to air out all of his dirty secrets in front of his friends. She had one too many Long Island Iced Teas and now she was regaling them all with tales of the women he had betrayed. She recounted, with particular relish, the time he impregnated his high school sweetheart and broke up with her the minute he found out.

So that didn't exactly put him in the best light. But he was sixteen, after all. He panicked. He didn't know what to do, so he did the only thing he knew how to do in that situation. He ran.

But he wasn't running this time, especially since he knew what she was doing.

He watched from a distance as her fingers trembled over the straw of her drink, laughing mirthlessly, not noticing the awkward glances his friends exchanged. And despite her inebriated state of mind, she told her dirty stories with a certain grace and aplomb that only she was capable of. She was a storyteller. She always had been, she always would be.

But he knew what she was planning, and he wasn't going to let her get away with it.

Because he had known her since she could walk. He knew how she thought. He knew what made her tick. He had been there with her through thick and thin. And he knew.

He saw the scars a few weeks ago. And he noticed the dead look in her eyes soon after. That was around the same time she started breaking all the relationships that held her together.

She was working so hard to get everyone to hate her as much as she hated herself. She wanted everyone to rebuke her and ignore her so they wouldn't notice, so they would be too preoccupied with their anger and hatred for her to see what she was doing to herself. She wanted them to stop caring about her so that when she killed herself, they wouldn't miss her.

He saw it all, though no one else could. And he knew that she was counting on him to run, like he had so many times before. But he wasn't going to this time.

So when all his friends finally left, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back to his apartment. And there, he hugged her. He hugged her so hard, like he was trying to crush her. She struggled at first—she pushed and kicked and flailed her tiny fists, but he was too strong for her.

Finally, she gave up. And when she did, she clung to him and wept.

***

Ciao.

Green Eye

He was ninety-percent certain that he was going to hate living in that neighborhood.

For one, the house was too big. Most people liked big houses, but not him. Big meant conspicuous--overbearing. He didn't have enough furniture to fill his vast bedroom and he was loath to get more because he felt it would be superfluous and unnecessary. And what was worse, every other house in the neighborhood was the same size.

For another, the neighbors kept to themselves. He and his family had been moving in for two days and not a single person had come over to introduce himself or herself with a poorly made casserole or pie. Now, granted, he didn't think the casserole was absolutely necessary, but it was considered good manners by pretty much every suburban neighborhood in America to introduce yourself to the newcomers. But apparently this neighborhood was the lone outlier.

His mother tried to excuse this behavior--claimed that they were busy and would eventually come over to introduce themselves when they were sure that everything was settled in. And as for the casserole thing--no one likes casseroles anyway.

Personally, he didn't buy it. And he blamed his neighbors' bad manners on their gargantuan houses. They were too preoccupied with their tiny lives in their huge houses to acknowledge any newcomer. How self-centered.

Then one day, as he was walking aimlessly around his gigantic backyard, he heard the sound of creaking from the house on the opposite side of the street. He looked up and felt his jaw practically fall to the ground and what he saw.

In the backyard of the house behind his, he saw a girl with dull red hair scaling the trellis leaning against the side of the monstrous house. The girl was lithe and graceful, and obviously skilled at climbing trellises--like she had done it a million times before.

But what was she doing? Did she live there? If so, why was she climbing up the trellis? Was she sneaking in to see her boyfriend (or girlfriend)? Was she a burglar? Was she going through the neighborhood to steal valuables from the host of conspicuous houses?

So great was his curiosity that he couldn't stop himself from shouting, "Hey! What are you doing?"

The girl heard his shout and turned her head. And even from his poor vantage point and far distance, he could make out a pale face and the sharpest green eyes he had ever seen. And those green eyes had some kind of intense piercing power or something, because the minute they fixed on him, he froze. He stood stock still for what seemed like an eternity as her razor eyes stayed focused on him. Then, after that prolonged moment, she turned away from him and continued climbing. When she reached the top, she swung her leg onto the roof and clambered through the nearest unlocked window.

He stood there for several shocked moments. He was trying to recover from what he had just witnessed--and also from the girls cutting gaze. Even though he was no longer within her sight, he was still trying to reorient himself from the havoc her emerald irises wreaked within him.

And truthfully, he was a little confused, as anyone who had been in the same position would have been, he was cure. Maybe she lived there--at the very least, she knew someone who lived there. But who was she? Was she a neighbor, or was she an intruder? One thing was for sure: she was interesting.

He was still ninety percent certain he was going to hate living in that neighborhood. But there was still that remaining ten percent that gave him hope.

***

Ciao.

iPod Mentalist Challenge

"Gasoline" — Audioslave

All Patrick wanted to do was get as far away from Sacramento as he could. He just wanted to hop in his car and drive until he ran out of gas in the middle of the desert. It might not have been environmentally safe, but it was the only thing he could think to do.

This intense need for escape was the first he felt since his wife's murder. But back then, he wanted to leave to escape everything that reminded him of what he did and what he lost. Back then, he wanted to fall away from the face of the earth. This time, he wanted to escape the way a new woman was looking at him. He wanted to run away from her disappointed expression.

He knew he failed her, and he would have rather died alone in the middle of the California desert than to see her face.

He was sorry. So sorry. But in the end, that's all he ever was: sorry.

"Lonestar" — Norah Jones

It had been six months since Patrick Jane had murdered Red John. Six long months since he ran away.

She did not miss him, she kept reminding herself. He was a damn nuisance and he was sloppy and cold and insensitive. And in the end, he was a disappointment.

She had been so sure that he would have grown to realize that hating Red John would ruin what was left of his broken life. She was so sure that he would regain just the tiniest bit of compassion. But he hadn't, and now she had to live with six months of bitter disappointment.

But despite the fact that she didn't miss him (She didn't!), she couldn't help but wonder what he was doing at any given moment. Every night, she would stand out on the balcony of her apartment and stare out at the few stars she could see and wonder: was he okay? Was he alive? Was he finally at ease now that he got what he wanted? But then she would sigh in resignation and go back inside

Really, she should be used to this by now; every man in her life ended up letting her down. Patrick Jane was no exception.

"Damn Girl" — All-American Rejects

This was one of the days that she understood why he ran away. 

Don't get her wrong — she was still pissed off. She was still bitterly angry that he escaped without so much as a goodbye. But today she could understand why he did. After all, he said the whole time that he was only consulting for the CBI until he caught and killed Red John. And he'd accomplished his objective. So there wasn't a reason for him to stay.

She understood — but it didn't mean she liked it.

Because it wasn't seven months after his disappearance until she realized that she had been in love with him the whole time. She used to hope and pray that, given enough time, she would become all he needed. She thought so fervently that one day, there would be enough room in his broken heart for her and the memory of his deceased wife. 

But now, it was too late. He was gone, and she was left to pick up the pieces, as usual.

And as always, she understood.

"A Postcard to Henry Purcell" — Jean-Yves Thibaudet

He was in England.

Almost a year after Jane's disappearance, he sent Lisbon a postcard from the English countryside. And all it said was, "I'm sorry."

Sorry? Sorry? That's all he had to say after the whole fiasco? Sorry? Lisbon was so upset by the postcard that she ripped it into fourths and threw them into her trash can.

But the next day, she peered into the wastebasket and sighed. Any news from Jane was good news, right? At least she knew he was alive. So she fished the pieces of the postcard out of the trash can and taped them back together. Then she pinned it to the wall behind her desk.

Of course Jane was sorry. What he had done was almost inexcusable. But it was time that she forgave him. And it was time for her to stop feeling sorry too.

"The Boys of Summer" — The Ataris

It had been almost two years since Patrick Jane had left the United States. Well, now he was back and he was ready to rebuild the bridges he had burned so long ago. Starting with Lisbon.

But when he got to her apartment — armed with a bouquet of red roses to symbolize his apology — he realized that she no longer lived there. In fact, she hadn't lived there for a long time.

His first immediate thought was panic. Nothing had happened to her, right? She was still alive — she had to be. She was one of the toughest people he knew.

His mind started running a million miles a minute, concocting thousands of scenarios that might explain why she wasn't at that apartment anymore. Obviously she moved, but why? Lisbon was a very steady person and she hated change unless it was absolutely necessary. She would have moved only for very big life events: if she got another job in another area, for example. So he immediately started searching for a Teresa Lisbon still residing in California.

Of course, there was always one option that he didn't want to consider: the fact that she might have moved in with a significant other. The mere thought of Lisbon with another man made him sick.

But all he could really conclude at this point was that she was gone, and he might have been too late.

"Time Goes On" — L'arc~en~ciel

She couldn't believe it. Two years after he left, he expected everything to be as it was. He just waltzed into the CBI headquarters and grinned that same cocky grin as he always did and greeted her as if nothing had changed.

Of all the damn nerve! He even hugged her!

This wasn't good — not at all. The minute he walked into the bullpen, all the memories and all the feelings she fought for two years to repress came rushing back in an overwhelming deluge. It came back effortlessly, almost like breathing.

Why? Why couldn't he stay in the past?

Roger had been watching her more closely than usual and really, she couldn't blame him. The way Jane hovered over her would have made anyone wonder. Hell, it made her wonder. But she shouldn't be wondering, especially now that she was engaged to someone who wouldn't leave her when the going got tough. Roger was dependable. Roger was stable and safe. He was everything Jane wasn't, which was why she chose him in the first place. He was predictable, but most of all, he was safe.

But the minute Jane was back in her life, she found herself questioning the security she worked so long to build.

Two years. Two damn years and it didn't feel like time had gone on. In so many ways, in fact, time stood still.

"Walls Fall Down" — Bedouin Soundclash

It was no secret that Lisbon was one of the most guarded people on the team. Perhaps even more guarded than the former CBI consultant. The walls she had built rivaled the friggin' Great Wall of China.

There had been many a person who attempted to tear these walls down; Roger Wells, her fiance, was the most recent to try. And for a while, she had him believing that he had successfully demolished them. but when Patrick Jane came back into the picture, he realized how little progress he had made in the year they had been together.

Because the minute Jane hugged her, Lisbon shut down. Her face became blank and she refused to even look at Roger for the rest of the day. And every time he tried to talk to her, she would slip out of the room before he got the chance.

And Roger Wells was a very observant man — not nearly on the level of Patrick Jane, but he could certainly hold his own in an investigation. And just by observing the way Lisbon acted around Jane and vice versa, he could tell that there was soemthing there, or at the very least, there had been something there.

And Roger never considered himself a jealous man until he realized that his gorgeous, but severely guarded fiancee had let her walls fall down for another man long beore Roger was ever in the picture.

"In My Life" — The Rasmus

If there was one thing that Teresa Lisbon was proud of in her life, it was her ability to make clear, controlled decisions without outside influence. It was one of her many strengths as a leader.

But ever since Jane left, the decisions she had once so confidently made were no more. For two whole years, she could feel Jane's presence hovering over her shoulder, affecting every decision she made. Sometimes she would do something she was sure Jane would approve of. Sometimes she would deliberately do things that wold piss him off. But most of the time, she would try to do whatever she could to forget about him. Which is how she found herself engaged to Roger Wells.

Not to be misunderstood, she loved him in her own way. She was sure of it. But as much as she tried to give herself to him, she couldn't give him all of her, because Jane still held a substantial part.

And as much as she hated it, she found that he was affecting her decisions more and more now that he was back. She found herself eating foods he had suggested from before, or buying things in colors he liked.

Gah, she had to stop this! She was engaged to another man whom she loved and would provide her with the stability she craved all her life. She couldn't let a man, who had a habit of disappearing, keep controlling her like this.

This was her life, and these were her decisions, not Jane's. She was the master of her own fate, decider of her own destiny.

Now if only she could make herself believe that.

"Let's Go Get Stoned" — Ray Charles

Ray Charles blared through the speakers of the old jukebox as Jane downed his third glass of scotch. Tonight in particular was a Ray Charles kind of night.

He couldn't get that image of her with him — he refused to call him by his name — out of his head. His hands were all over her all the time: on her waist, around her shoulder, cupping her face...he felt slightly vindicated when she shyly pulled away (which was most of the time) but it still made him crazy to see.

Why was she marrying this guy anyway? What was so great about him? He looked like a total square: perfectly parted brown hair, plain brown eyes and a bland suit with an even blander tie to match. Lisbon had to go for the most boring guy on the planet.

Jane no longer claimed to be a psychic, but he could tell that the marriage would be headed straight to the divorce courts. Lisbon was too steady and she found a man too much like herself. She needed someone who would keep her on her toes. She needed someone who could excite her. She needed someone like Jane.

He knew that he would have been perfect for Lisbon and he suspected that she knew it, too. He could see her eyes flicker his way whenever he thought he wasn't looking, but he was always watching her. After two years, he couldn't bear to take his eyes off her.

When did she say the wedding was? Two weeks? So soon...

"Bartender," he called. "Can I get another?"

The bartender raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

Nope. But as Ray Charles said, let's go get stoned.

"Don't Let Me Down" — The Beetles

"Teresa?"

Patrick Jane didn't get shocked very often, but this was definitely a shocking moment. Because Teresa Lisbon was standing in front of him in the most beautiful wedding dress ever created. She was wearing the lightest hint of makeup that made her green eyes pop and her dark hair was pinned in a complicated style that must have taken hours to get right. And she was wearing a veil that had slipped a little, but still remained attached to her head. And what was even more puzzling — she was panting. Like she had just run a marathon.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. Aren't you supposed to be getting married?"

"You weren't there," she accused. "Why weren't you there?"

Jane looked away guiltily. Should he lie or tell her the truth?

"Jane?" she prompted. "Why weren't you there?"

"You know, I could ask you the same question. This is supposed to be the most important day of your life. You're supposed to be getting married, not chasing after a man who isn't your fiance in bars."

"I know," she said. "But I wanted you there."

"Why?" he asked.

"So you could talk me out of it."

Jane looked up, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. "You mean...?"

For the first time since he came back to the United States, he saw her face break into a wide smile. And it was breathtaking.

"He's not you, Patrick." A thrill shot through him when he heard her use his first name. "I've wanted you since the beginning. I just didn't want to admit it until now."

And in an instant, Jane at her side with his arms wrapped her tiny frame. Then he twirled her around, heavy dress and all.

"Teresa, do you have any idea how long I've been waiting to hear those words from you?" He felt as though his face would break in half, he was smiling so hard.

"I have a feeling," she replied dryly. In an instant, she had her lips on his and he hungrily kissed her back. They were both too absorbed in the kiss to acknowledge the cheers echoing in the small bar.

"Just don't let me down," Lisbon whispered when she pulled away.

He shook his head emphatically. "Never."

Ciao.

I started this and I want to keep it somehow

I became the master of the poker face when I was six years old.

My father liked to scream a lot when he felt that I was being argumentative and—according to him—I spent most of my childhood in violent opposition to whatever he wanted. He also labored under the misapprehension that I didn’t understand him and he knew exactly what I thought when I thought it. And in addition to all of this, he was never wrong. So when he started screaming about how I was lazy and ungrateful, I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t say anything, lest I make it worse. And any facial expression that betrayed my anger and intense misery only got me severely beaten. So instead of saying anything or doing anything or even looking like anything, I didn’t. I trained myself to hold a blank mask. It was a defense mechanism I learned early in life.

Emotions were dangerous things in my childhood. Father’s anger was explosive and unpredictable. My mother’s anger was emotionally scarring. And my anger simmered on the surface, invisible to everyone around me, but always there. I spent most of my days mad at everything and everyone, including myself, but my poker face was so good that no one ever knew.

Reading people’s body language was also something I learned early in my childhood. It was necessary to gauge my father’s fits of rage, or my mother’s coldness. I could always tell when something was going on or when something was about to happen because I could read it on their faces or in their voices and then I could brace myself or manage to escape it altogether.

My brother didn’t fare quite as well. He never really developed his defense skills past the poker face and his was still inferior to mine. Father always knew that Freddy hated him and later at night when I was tending Freddy's wounds, we could hear Dad rant and rave about how disrespectful Freddy was.

***

I wrote this a couple of hours ago. It was actually longer than this excerpt here, but I wanted to erase the document so I can start something else. But I really liked the first paragraphs, so I'm going to keep it here until I can decide what to do with it.

Ciao!

Just something to keep the skillz sharp

I never realized how much effort it took to breathe. Everyday, every moment I have to constantly remind myself to inhale and exhale. It seems as if I don't concentrate properly, I'll forget and suffocate underneath the weight of it all.

And I never knew how much oxygen can hurt. Every time I force the stuff into my lungs, it burns my chest, like I'm pouring rubbing alcohol straight over my heart. Exhaling is even worse, because the air comes back out and I feel empty all over again. And it never gets any easier.

Didn't Mrs. Sheedy once say in biology that parts of our brains kept tabs on functions like that? Our brains remind our bodies to blink and breathe every so often, to keep us alive. It seems as if that part of my brain has died away, just like the rest of me.

Maybe my brain has simply turned traitor.

I find that I can't sleep anymore either. I always used to think sleep was troublesome and a waste of time, but a necessary inconvenience. Now I keep running from my drooping eyelids, terrified that if I let go for one moment, I will forget to breathe. And even more terrified of what lies in store for me. My mutinous mind won't seem to leave me alone, no matter what I do to avoid this. It's always there, in the shadows, not quite acknowledged but not completely forgotten either.

But I suppose Dr. Caine wants to know something about my first day at a new school. So here goes.

George Clarence High School isn't much different from your typical American high schools. I didn't find anything special about it, anyway. I don't know if I really expected anything, but if I did, GCHS didn't surprise me at all.

I met a girl in my homeroom class. She's nice. She walked me to my classes, sat with me at lunch and offered her notes if I ever needed them. But there's something about her that makes me uneasy. She's just so...eager. Everywhere she went today, I noticed people going up to her and asking her for help and she would willingly do so, no matter what it was. And even when it was obvious that they were using her, she didn't mind.

She must be stupid or she must be a saint. I'm going to go with the former.

* * *

The above was for a story I'm working on. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

Ciao.

Ultimatum

This was an old Twitter status by Michael Ian Black that made me laugh out loud in the library.

"@FrankZappa174 'is it ok to take black the night if i already seized the day?' Yes, if you rage against the dying of the light."

I enjoyed the numerous references immensely. XD

So anyways...

I know that I haven't updated Shadows of Hope in forever. Hell, I haven't even written in forever. But there's are good and specific reasons for this. One, there's school. And school must always, always, always come first no matter how much I hate it and don't want it to come first. Right now I am struggling to stay afloat and let me tell you...it's not fun.

College is breaking my spirit.

Second, I already know what the ending will be.

Reader: ...wtf? If you already know what the ending is going to be, why don't you flipping write it already?!

Me: Well, if I wrote it and posted it, that would mean that the story is over. In Shadows of Hope there's only one chapter and epilogue left. I don't want the story to be over. Kind of like how I don't want ER to be over. This hesitation is probably because I really, really, really do not want to write a sequel and all of you will probably beg me to do so. You'll see why when I get around to it.

Anyways, those are my reasons, but I've decided. To hell with rationality! To hell with school and my career! I love my readers more than that. I should just write it anyway. I could probably knock it down in a weekend or less. And then you guys wouldn't hate me so much. (Or maybe you would for making you wait so long.)

I promise, promise, promise to have it finished by April 25th. That gives you enough time to get the anger over with by finals week.

Love you all! *muah*

Ciao.