Nathan likes it when he gets blisters.
His new shoes for school pinched and he had one on the side of his big toe on his right foot. His mother put a band aid on it, and a few days later the pus had drained and it was a loose flap of dry skin clinging to the side of his toe like a leathery, deflated balloon.
He was sitting on his bed, reading a book on geography. He paused in the middle of a section on rivers in Africa and wrestled his right foot onto his lap and removed the sock. Then he leaned over and took the sock off his left foot too, so he wouldn’t be uneven.
His mother had safety-pinned the ends of his pillow cases closed because he was afraid the pillow would fall out while he was asleep. He removed one of the rusty pins and took it to his foot.
Even though the skin flap from the blister was still a part of him, he couldn’t feel the pin pass through it. He could see the red-brown of it, though, beneath his semitransparent and yellowing dead skin, and he wiggled it within the once-blister. He could see the pin moving beneath his skin, but he couldn’t feel it.
He left the safety pin in his blister and undid another one from his pillow case. He stuck it in his other big toe, and immediately felt a sharp pain. He pulled it out and a tiny drop of blood followed.
He removed the pin from his right foot too and put his socks back on. He’d have to go wash his foot soon, in case of infections. He wondered what would happen if he stuck a pin to his blister before his mother put a band aid on it.
The monkey bars at school always gave him blisters on his palms. He’d have to experiment soon before he developed calluses.
--
WHERE DO I GO WITH TINY DERANGED CHILD D8
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Catherine's Friend, scene-ish thing 3
PROOF READING DOESN'T EXIST IN MY WORLD.
-
Alexa hadn’t been in on the plan before, but early Friday afternoon she showed up with two brown paper grocery bags full of cheap beer. Catherine and I had never really liked her because she tried to dress like a rocker, but she was the one who had told our seventh grade class all the dirty details of sex and who’d gotten me a pack of cigarettes when I wanted to try smoking in ninth grade. So as long as she could bring alcohol, she could come help us host. That’s what we told her when she’d called about I flier we’d put up on her block.
“We thought we’d have an open bar here,” Catherine explained and gestured toward a collapsible table we’d set up off to the side in the living room. Alexa grunted in recognition and dropped her bags on the white plastic table.
“You’re house is even ritzier on the inside,” she said to Catherine, who blushed. I thought that was an awfully rude thing to say, and I told Alexa as much. She just shrugged it off.
“I’m just saying it’ll be a big deal if the house gets ruined, is all,” she answered. “Even if you have a ‘plan,’” – she made obnoxious quotation marks in the air with her fingers – “some shit is bound to get busted. You sure you want to open this thing up to the whole city?”
“Of course we do,” I snapped.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not?” Catherine countered.
“Because it’s stupid,” Alexa answered.
“Then why are you here?” I said. She glowered.
“I like a good party,” she admitted.
“Exactly,” Catherine said proudly and even stuck up her nose a little. Then without a word to Alexa went off into the kitchen to start pouring potato chips into bowls. We’d argued about it earlier– food wasn’t really necessary– but Catherine was afraid people would get hungry and go through her fridge, so we got the cheapest we could find.
I could see Alexa over in the sitting room, and she was lounging on the couch with her stupid combat boots on the coffee table.
“I don’t think she’s going to leave,” I said to Catherine.
“Shoot,” she said back as she opened a chip bag. “Should we kick her out?”
“We said she could come,” I said and passed her a serving bowl.
“To the party.” Catherine dumped the entire bag into the bowl and stray chips went scattering across the counter. “We never said she could hang out before.”
“Well then you kick her out,” I said. “It’s your house.”
“I can hear you,” Alexa called from the sitting room.
Catherine blushed again and bent over the counter, focusing everything on picking up lost chips. I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t want to confront Alexa in a house that wasn’t mine. So we just stayed quiet and didn’t talk much for a while as we prepped the house for the party. Alexa eventually feel asleep on the couch, which we hadn’t covered yet. We decided we’d do it when the party started and Alexa would have to wake up.
-
Alexa hadn’t been in on the plan before, but early Friday afternoon she showed up with two brown paper grocery bags full of cheap beer. Catherine and I had never really liked her because she tried to dress like a rocker, but she was the one who had told our seventh grade class all the dirty details of sex and who’d gotten me a pack of cigarettes when I wanted to try smoking in ninth grade. So as long as she could bring alcohol, she could come help us host. That’s what we told her when she’d called about I flier we’d put up on her block.
“We thought we’d have an open bar here,” Catherine explained and gestured toward a collapsible table we’d set up off to the side in the living room. Alexa grunted in recognition and dropped her bags on the white plastic table.
“You’re house is even ritzier on the inside,” she said to Catherine, who blushed. I thought that was an awfully rude thing to say, and I told Alexa as much. She just shrugged it off.
“I’m just saying it’ll be a big deal if the house gets ruined, is all,” she answered. “Even if you have a ‘plan,’” – she made obnoxious quotation marks in the air with her fingers – “some shit is bound to get busted. You sure you want to open this thing up to the whole city?”
“Of course we do,” I snapped.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not?” Catherine countered.
“Because it’s stupid,” Alexa answered.
“Then why are you here?” I said. She glowered.
“I like a good party,” she admitted.
“Exactly,” Catherine said proudly and even stuck up her nose a little. Then without a word to Alexa went off into the kitchen to start pouring potato chips into bowls. We’d argued about it earlier– food wasn’t really necessary– but Catherine was afraid people would get hungry and go through her fridge, so we got the cheapest we could find.
I could see Alexa over in the sitting room, and she was lounging on the couch with her stupid combat boots on the coffee table.
“I don’t think she’s going to leave,” I said to Catherine.
“Shoot,” she said back as she opened a chip bag. “Should we kick her out?”
“We said she could come,” I said and passed her a serving bowl.
“To the party.” Catherine dumped the entire bag into the bowl and stray chips went scattering across the counter. “We never said she could hang out before.”
“Well then you kick her out,” I said. “It’s your house.”
“I can hear you,” Alexa called from the sitting room.
Catherine blushed again and bent over the counter, focusing everything on picking up lost chips. I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t want to confront Alexa in a house that wasn’t mine. So we just stayed quiet and didn’t talk much for a while as we prepped the house for the party. Alexa eventually feel asleep on the couch, which we hadn’t covered yet. We decided we’d do it when the party started and Alexa would have to wake up.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Meta-Broccoli 8D
Little rough around the edges. 60-70% trufax. Needs proofreading.
--
When I was a child, it never occurred to me that God was real. Church was just one of those silly things that other families did that my parents quietly ignored, like overcooking broccoli of taking away toys from disobedient children. Biblical stories were read to me between fairy tales, and I thought them one and the same. The lord was the fairy godmother: someone who always helped out the heroes and heroines of stories, but couldn’t come help YOU because they weren’t real.
Yet I’m sure it never occurred to any of my more religiously inclined friends that God could ever not be real. I’m sure they raised their eyebrows at my undercooked broccoli as much as I did at their overcooked broccoli, and I’m sure they thought it was odd my parents never punished my misbehaviors with more than a stern telling-off. I’m sure they understood the difference between God and a fairy godmother.
So while my friends where in church on Sunday mornings, my little heathen self went stomping around in the woods behind our house, getting covered in bug bites and tangling my hair in branches. I’d pretend I was a princess being chased by a troll, that I was a witch collecting ingredients for a potion to poison a princess, that I was on a quest from the king, that I was on a quest from God, that I was meeting a secret friend, that I was running from the Devil, that I was a wild forest-child raised by wolves.
Sunday afternoons I could usually find a friend to play with, fresh from brunch with their church-friends. We’d play the same games I’d played in the morning, and then after my friend went home my mother would serve me undercooked broccoli for dinner.
In first grade I made my first friend who wasn’t Southern Baptist. His name was Sam. He was Jewish. He wasn’t much different from everyone else, especially since his mother made overcooked broccoli too.
I knew how Sam’s mother cooked broccoli because I had him over for dinner once. We had broccoli because it was the only vegetable I would eat without a fuss, and he complained to me about it later.
“It was too crunchy,” he whined. “And it tasted too much like a salad.”
But he had eaten it anyway, which was more than I would have done.
When asked about my religion, I always said Christian because my friends were Christian and my grandmother had a picture of Jesus on the cross in her bedroom. We celebrated Christian holidays: we had presents on Christmas and chocolate rabbits on Easter. I had been to a handful of different churches with friends. I knew Christian kids’ songs. So through my childish logic, I was Christian, even if I thought God was the fairy godmother.
At some point I thought to ask questions. I asked my mother, “Why don’t we go to church like everyone else?”
We must have been driving somewhere, because I remember her suddenly becoming fixated with fiddling with something on the dashboard.
“Oh, well,” she answered vaguely. “Your father and I don’t really believe in those things. Did you remember a jacket?”
My father also claimed he didn’t believe in garlic salt or Windows brand computers, which obviously both existed, so I wasn’t sure what this answer meant. But I told her yes, I had my navy jacket tied around my waist, but did she really think I would need it?
But aside from the church thing, we did Christian things, so we must have been Christian. I told my friend Madeline as much when she accused me of being a fake Christian.
“You don’t even know the Christian song!” she yelled back.
“I know other songs!” I said back. “Like– like the one about Noah and his ark!”
“You don’t ever go to church,” she said.
“I’ve been with you to your church tons of times,” I snapped back. In reality, it was probably only three or four times, but I felt religion was something you had to defend strongly.
I left then, even though we were at my house. I went into the living room and pouted on the couch for a while, and Madeline eventually came out of my room and said she was hungry. We had crackers sitting on the kitchen floor and didn’t talk about church or Christianity for the rest of the day.
I don’t know what made me think of that conversation again, but one day I went to my mother and asked her what made someone a True Christian.
“Believing in Jesus,” she said right away.
“What about God?” I asked.
“They’re the same,” she said.
“I thought Jesus was the son of God,” I said.
“God is three people,” she said.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
The following Sunday my mother took me to church with one of her coworkers. She said she wanted me to go to a Catholic church because that was how she’d been brought up, but Miss Jamie was Episcopalian, so that would have to do. So I went with Miss Jamie and came home with her and still not understanding.
I told Sam I thought maybe I wasn’t Christian.
“You do Christmas,” he said.
“But I don’t understand God and Jesus,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Neither do I.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “You’re not Christian. We Christians need to get this.”
“So you’re Christian?” he asked.
“I guess so,” I said. “That’s what everyone who’s not something else is, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he agreed.
I asked Madeline if she knew why God and Jesus were the same. She said, “God comes in three parts. Like an Oreo.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I told you you weren’t a true Christian,” she said.
One night when we had broccoli for dinner again, I asked my parents if we were Christian.
“Is this about church again?” My mother asked.
“Kind of,” I said back, pushing the broccoli around on my plate. “We’re not Jewish like Sam, and we’re not Muslim or Hindu like we learned about in Social Studies, so we have to be Christian, but we don’t go to church.”
“You don’t have to go to church to be Christian,” my father supplied. “Your grandma never goes to church, and she’s very religious.” My mother nodded in agreement.
“Because she has a picture of Jesus on the cross on the wall?” I asked.
“No,” said my father, “because she believes in Jesus and what he died for.”
“Do you believe in Jesus?” I asked. My parents exchanged glances and we quiet for a long time.
“No,” my mother said finally.
“Then we do we have Christmas?” I asked.
“You like Christmas,” my mother said.
“But why do we have it?” I persisted.
“Why do we have Thanksgiving?” my father countered.
“Because we’re thankful for what we have,” I said the way I said every Thanksgiving dinner.
“That’s why,” he said, and we went back to eating as was normal.
At night I wondered, Do I believe in Jesus?
And I had to say I didn’t, because Jesus was God and God was the fairy godmother and the fairy godmother isn’t real.
This thought frightened me. All my friends and their overcooked broccoli believed in something, Christian or Jewish or anything else. I did Christian things, but I wasn’t Christian. I couldn’t bring myself to believe in God and it felt as if I couldn’t bring myself to believe in gravity.
“You have no faith,” something in the back of my mind said. I pushed it away, and I spent years pretending I wasn’t completely godless because I wanted something to believe in.
In fifth grade, we had an exercise where everyone sat in a circle and we said what we believe in. I don’t remember the point of this, probably something about how beliefs shape us or how we are all different. Most people said God or Jesus. One person said Santa Claus as a joke, and we all laughed.
I almost said I believed in God, but I didn’t want to lie.
“I believe in the universe!” I announced proudly. I wasn’t even sure what exactly I meant by this, but no one questioned it. The teacher just nodded and turned to the next person. This excited me, because that must have meant this was an acceptable thing to believe in. The universe was real, and I could believe it would go on without believing in God.
Madeline believed in God and Jesus, Sam believed in God without Jesus, and I believed in the universe. We were friends, we liked the same games, we all believed in something. After all, broccoli is broccoli, no matter how you cook it.
--
When I was a child, it never occurred to me that God was real. Church was just one of those silly things that other families did that my parents quietly ignored, like overcooking broccoli of taking away toys from disobedient children. Biblical stories were read to me between fairy tales, and I thought them one and the same. The lord was the fairy godmother: someone who always helped out the heroes and heroines of stories, but couldn’t come help YOU because they weren’t real.
Yet I’m sure it never occurred to any of my more religiously inclined friends that God could ever not be real. I’m sure they raised their eyebrows at my undercooked broccoli as much as I did at their overcooked broccoli, and I’m sure they thought it was odd my parents never punished my misbehaviors with more than a stern telling-off. I’m sure they understood the difference between God and a fairy godmother.
So while my friends where in church on Sunday mornings, my little heathen self went stomping around in the woods behind our house, getting covered in bug bites and tangling my hair in branches. I’d pretend I was a princess being chased by a troll, that I was a witch collecting ingredients for a potion to poison a princess, that I was on a quest from the king, that I was on a quest from God, that I was meeting a secret friend, that I was running from the Devil, that I was a wild forest-child raised by wolves.
Sunday afternoons I could usually find a friend to play with, fresh from brunch with their church-friends. We’d play the same games I’d played in the morning, and then after my friend went home my mother would serve me undercooked broccoli for dinner.
In first grade I made my first friend who wasn’t Southern Baptist. His name was Sam. He was Jewish. He wasn’t much different from everyone else, especially since his mother made overcooked broccoli too.
I knew how Sam’s mother cooked broccoli because I had him over for dinner once. We had broccoli because it was the only vegetable I would eat without a fuss, and he complained to me about it later.
“It was too crunchy,” he whined. “And it tasted too much like a salad.”
But he had eaten it anyway, which was more than I would have done.
When asked about my religion, I always said Christian because my friends were Christian and my grandmother had a picture of Jesus on the cross in her bedroom. We celebrated Christian holidays: we had presents on Christmas and chocolate rabbits on Easter. I had been to a handful of different churches with friends. I knew Christian kids’ songs. So through my childish logic, I was Christian, even if I thought God was the fairy godmother.
At some point I thought to ask questions. I asked my mother, “Why don’t we go to church like everyone else?”
We must have been driving somewhere, because I remember her suddenly becoming fixated with fiddling with something on the dashboard.
“Oh, well,” she answered vaguely. “Your father and I don’t really believe in those things. Did you remember a jacket?”
My father also claimed he didn’t believe in garlic salt or Windows brand computers, which obviously both existed, so I wasn’t sure what this answer meant. But I told her yes, I had my navy jacket tied around my waist, but did she really think I would need it?
But aside from the church thing, we did Christian things, so we must have been Christian. I told my friend Madeline as much when she accused me of being a fake Christian.
“You don’t even know the Christian song!” she yelled back.
“I know other songs!” I said back. “Like– like the one about Noah and his ark!”
“You don’t ever go to church,” she said.
“I’ve been with you to your church tons of times,” I snapped back. In reality, it was probably only three or four times, but I felt religion was something you had to defend strongly.
I left then, even though we were at my house. I went into the living room and pouted on the couch for a while, and Madeline eventually came out of my room and said she was hungry. We had crackers sitting on the kitchen floor and didn’t talk about church or Christianity for the rest of the day.
I don’t know what made me think of that conversation again, but one day I went to my mother and asked her what made someone a True Christian.
“Believing in Jesus,” she said right away.
“What about God?” I asked.
“They’re the same,” she said.
“I thought Jesus was the son of God,” I said.
“God is three people,” she said.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
The following Sunday my mother took me to church with one of her coworkers. She said she wanted me to go to a Catholic church because that was how she’d been brought up, but Miss Jamie was Episcopalian, so that would have to do. So I went with Miss Jamie and came home with her and still not understanding.
I told Sam I thought maybe I wasn’t Christian.
“You do Christmas,” he said.
“But I don’t understand God and Jesus,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Neither do I.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “You’re not Christian. We Christians need to get this.”
“So you’re Christian?” he asked.
“I guess so,” I said. “That’s what everyone who’s not something else is, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he agreed.
I asked Madeline if she knew why God and Jesus were the same. She said, “God comes in three parts. Like an Oreo.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I told you you weren’t a true Christian,” she said.
One night when we had broccoli for dinner again, I asked my parents if we were Christian.
“Is this about church again?” My mother asked.
“Kind of,” I said back, pushing the broccoli around on my plate. “We’re not Jewish like Sam, and we’re not Muslim or Hindu like we learned about in Social Studies, so we have to be Christian, but we don’t go to church.”
“You don’t have to go to church to be Christian,” my father supplied. “Your grandma never goes to church, and she’s very religious.” My mother nodded in agreement.
“Because she has a picture of Jesus on the cross on the wall?” I asked.
“No,” said my father, “because she believes in Jesus and what he died for.”
“Do you believe in Jesus?” I asked. My parents exchanged glances and we quiet for a long time.
“No,” my mother said finally.
“Then we do we have Christmas?” I asked.
“You like Christmas,” my mother said.
“But why do we have it?” I persisted.
“Why do we have Thanksgiving?” my father countered.
“Because we’re thankful for what we have,” I said the way I said every Thanksgiving dinner.
“That’s why,” he said, and we went back to eating as was normal.
At night I wondered, Do I believe in Jesus?
And I had to say I didn’t, because Jesus was God and God was the fairy godmother and the fairy godmother isn’t real.
This thought frightened me. All my friends and their overcooked broccoli believed in something, Christian or Jewish or anything else. I did Christian things, but I wasn’t Christian. I couldn’t bring myself to believe in God and it felt as if I couldn’t bring myself to believe in gravity.
“You have no faith,” something in the back of my mind said. I pushed it away, and I spent years pretending I wasn’t completely godless because I wanted something to believe in.
In fifth grade, we had an exercise where everyone sat in a circle and we said what we believe in. I don’t remember the point of this, probably something about how beliefs shape us or how we are all different. Most people said God or Jesus. One person said Santa Claus as a joke, and we all laughed.
I almost said I believed in God, but I didn’t want to lie.
“I believe in the universe!” I announced proudly. I wasn’t even sure what exactly I meant by this, but no one questioned it. The teacher just nodded and turned to the next person. This excited me, because that must have meant this was an acceptable thing to believe in. The universe was real, and I could believe it would go on without believing in God.
Madeline believed in God and Jesus, Sam believed in God without Jesus, and I believed in the universe. We were friends, we liked the same games, we all believed in something. After all, broccoli is broccoli, no matter how you cook it.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
You get 400 words of Omni-People AND NOW I HAVE TO DO HOMEWORK K?
When Allison Priest arrived home from her normal Friday afternoon classes, there was a homeless man sitting at the table drinking coffee. She considered screaming but decided instead to deal with him in the usual way one deals with homeless people, by ignoring him and hoping he would go away. She walked by him without a second glance and went into her room, where she dumped her book bag onto her bed and changed into a T shirt.
When she came back out, he was still there. He seemed to be studying the three identical prints Olivia had framed and spaced equally across the wall of the main room. His clothes were ragged and of no particular color, while his hair and massive beard were black and shaggy. His skin was deeply tanned and he seemed much too comfortable sitting in Allison’s spot. She could smell him from where she stood.
Determined to continue ignoring him, Allison marched past the table into the tiny kitchen. She found lined across the table six glass bowls, each containing a different color of M&Ms. Evidently Olivia had found her stash again.
Allison pretended to peruse the contents of the refrigerator as she contemplated what to do about the homeless man. She wasn’t sure why he was there, nor was she sure how to go about asking. What did you say to someone sitting around your apartment like he owned it? What if she had accidentally gone into number 5 instead of number 6 and this was his home? But wait, if he was homeless–
“I’m back!” Olivia had returned. Allison closed the refrigerator door and peered through the kitchen archway to see how her housemate would handle the homeless man.
Olivia was carrying a bulging plastic bag. From it, she removed a bottle of Febreeze and sprayed all around the main room. Then she hand the rest of the bag to the man and showed him to the bathroom. He locked the door and a few moments Allison heard the shower.
“Olivia…” she started. The other girl, who was blonde and pink across the cheeks from mild rosacea, turned and beamed at her.
“When did you get back?” she asked pleasantly.
“Um,” replied Allison and gestured toward the bathroom door.
Olivia frowned in confusion.
“Who was that?” Allison asked.
“Oh,” said Olivia, “that’s Conrad.” And she went to straighten the couch pillows.
When she came back out, he was still there. He seemed to be studying the three identical prints Olivia had framed and spaced equally across the wall of the main room. His clothes were ragged and of no particular color, while his hair and massive beard were black and shaggy. His skin was deeply tanned and he seemed much too comfortable sitting in Allison’s spot. She could smell him from where she stood.
Determined to continue ignoring him, Allison marched past the table into the tiny kitchen. She found lined across the table six glass bowls, each containing a different color of M&Ms. Evidently Olivia had found her stash again.
Allison pretended to peruse the contents of the refrigerator as she contemplated what to do about the homeless man. She wasn’t sure why he was there, nor was she sure how to go about asking. What did you say to someone sitting around your apartment like he owned it? What if she had accidentally gone into number 5 instead of number 6 and this was his home? But wait, if he was homeless–
“I’m back!” Olivia had returned. Allison closed the refrigerator door and peered through the kitchen archway to see how her housemate would handle the homeless man.
Olivia was carrying a bulging plastic bag. From it, she removed a bottle of Febreeze and sprayed all around the main room. Then she hand the rest of the bag to the man and showed him to the bathroom. He locked the door and a few moments Allison heard the shower.
“Olivia…” she started. The other girl, who was blonde and pink across the cheeks from mild rosacea, turned and beamed at her.
“When did you get back?” she asked pleasantly.
“Um,” replied Allison and gestured toward the bathroom door.
Olivia frowned in confusion.
“Who was that?” Allison asked.
“Oh,” said Olivia, “that’s Conrad.” And she went to straighten the couch pillows.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
As a child, Allison Priest was unfortunate enough to believe her parents when they told her she could grow up to be anything she wanted. She was also unfortunate enough to grow up during a time when medical dramas were popular and, preferring them to crime shows, she became convinced in was her own self-proclaimed destiny to become a doctor.
Monday, March 1, 2010
A Haunting Tale, PART OOOONE
WARNING: Mucho swear-o ahead. 8D
--
So I’m sitting on the bed, and Laura has some book open, and she’s telling Amber about how she’s certain the “spirit” has been getting restly lately, and they both want to contact it because they both think they’re fucking psychic.
They both get all excited over the ritual, and they’re freaking out because they don’t have the right sort of incense on hand, and they call that bitch-faced girl Kayla because she was on this damn paranormal train way before they were. And Kayla tells them they can just use some other type of incense. Like it fucking matters.
So they’re both trying to purify the room or some shit like that by making it smell like a fucking whore house, and I’m still sitting there on the bed wondering what the hell happened to this house.
Like, she used to be all normal and play with mommy’s makeup and sit around texting and eating cheetos and then texting about how she’s going to become fucking obese because she’s eating cheetos, but now all she does is look up creepy ass things on the internet and then talk to her goddamn friends about the Other World and shit. And they’re all convinced this goddamn house is fucking haunted, by like two or three ghosts. One’s some bastard from the Civil War, and the other’s this chick their age who drowned in the pool this house used to have. And maybe there’s like a dog or cat or something, they don’t know.
Anyway it’s the chick they’re all flipping shit about, because since she died at their age they think she’s jealous or some shit like that.
So they’re going to call her up or something, and use this old barbie as a medium. What the fuck. They’re going to try and talk to a fucking possessed barbie doll. Like that’ll work. At least they have a real goddamn book this time, instead of some shit printed off the internet.
To connect the doll to the girl, they dress it it some swimsuit Laura manages to find, because the girl drowning and all. What the hell. Like someone’s going to just jump into a barbie doll because it kind of reminds them of how they died.
They think the girl’s name is Abigail, so they write that name of three fucking sheets of paper, then burn the pieces in a clay bowl. Why the fuck do Laura’s parents let her have a lighter anyway?
The book wants menstrual blood, which they think is gross, which is fucking is, so they substitute by pricking their fingers with a sewing needle and squeezing three drops of blood each into the tiny layer of ashes of the burned paper.
They they both fucking freak out again, because they realize the book has a footnote that says they can’t substitute salt water for sea water, and Laura starts to fucking wail about how the goddamn ghost chick is going to hurt her and shit. So Amber says no, no, it’s okay, they’ll just use salt water anyway and then if that doesn’t work Laura can spend the night at HER house tomorrow. Fucking pussies.
So they go ahead and water down their ash-blood concoction with their goddamn salt water then they bathe the Barbie in it. What the hell.
Then Amber starts drying the Barbie off and brushing her hair and crap while Laura sets up this circle of candles, but she doesn’t have enough white ones, and she runs off to the kitchen and comes back with a few of those cheap ones you put on birthday cakes. They don’t flip the shit about that substitution, at least. Then Amber put the Barbie in the middle of the circle, and they both hold the lighter as they light the circle counterclockwise, which they think is important. Shit.
Then they sit on opposite sides, and Laura asks for the spirit of Abigail to enter the doll.
Then there’s an awkward pause and they look at the Barbie intently for a minute or two, but then there’s this gust of wind, and some of the candles are blown out, and Laura screams. And I don't know how Laura’s parents haven’t woken up, because as soon as Laura started screaming Amber joined her, and they both get up and run out of the room and I follow them and they slam the door.
Then Amber has this genius idea that they should put salt around the goddamn door, so the ghost chick can’t get at them (because they think ghosts are afraid of salt or some shit like that), but fuck it, the spirit’s in a lump of plastic, what’s it gonna do?
And so I think Laura’s parents are just ignoring them, because with all the banging around in the kictchen they’re doing, there’s no way in hell they haven’t woken them up. Their cat looks annoyed enough. And finally they find the salt, but now Laura’s too fucking scared to go upstairs again, and I almost want to do it for her so she stops fucking whining.
Eventually they both go into the living room and put on the TV, and I sit down next to them. Nothing’s good on at 1:00 AM, and they start chit-chatting over the sound of some dumbass thing on MTV. Then suddenly Amber goes Shh! and they both stop. And they’re this banging noise from upstairs and Laura says oh my god it’s coming form my room.
And so Amber says they have to go up put the salt along the threshold, otherwise it might go into Laura’s parents room, and the cat looks almost as fucking annoyed as I do. They’ve been sitting with the box of rock salt between them, and after some whining Laura grabs it and we all go back upstairs.
The banging noise is definitely coming from inside the room, and Laura almost starts crying. He hands are shaking as she makes a line of salt along the bottom on the door, and Amber stares at the door wide-eyed, and swears to god she can feel the hatred radiating from inside. Then Laura asks if they should talk to the ghost chick, and they both stare at each other for a while, then suddenly they both bolt downstairs. I have no fucking clue why, but I follow them anyway.
And they’re both telling each other about the scream they heard and they’re like,
It was like a kettle on a stove.
Yeah.
Wordless and pained.
I thought I heard it say something.
You’re right. It said like, ‘Beware.’
No, I think it said, ‘Be aware.’
Be aware of what?
Maybe it’s a warning.
It sounded evil. Maybe… malicious?
Maybe it’s a threat.
Amber, I’m scared.
I know.
And shit like that. What fucking scream?
--
So I’m sitting on the bed, and Laura has some book open, and she’s telling Amber about how she’s certain the “spirit” has been getting restly lately, and they both want to contact it because they both think they’re fucking psychic.
They both get all excited over the ritual, and they’re freaking out because they don’t have the right sort of incense on hand, and they call that bitch-faced girl Kayla because she was on this damn paranormal train way before they were. And Kayla tells them they can just use some other type of incense. Like it fucking matters.
So they’re both trying to purify the room or some shit like that by making it smell like a fucking whore house, and I’m still sitting there on the bed wondering what the hell happened to this house.
Like, she used to be all normal and play with mommy’s makeup and sit around texting and eating cheetos and then texting about how she’s going to become fucking obese because she’s eating cheetos, but now all she does is look up creepy ass things on the internet and then talk to her goddamn friends about the Other World and shit. And they’re all convinced this goddamn house is fucking haunted, by like two or three ghosts. One’s some bastard from the Civil War, and the other’s this chick their age who drowned in the pool this house used to have. And maybe there’s like a dog or cat or something, they don’t know.
Anyway it’s the chick they’re all flipping shit about, because since she died at their age they think she’s jealous or some shit like that.
So they’re going to call her up or something, and use this old barbie as a medium. What the fuck. They’re going to try and talk to a fucking possessed barbie doll. Like that’ll work. At least they have a real goddamn book this time, instead of some shit printed off the internet.
To connect the doll to the girl, they dress it it some swimsuit Laura manages to find, because the girl drowning and all. What the hell. Like someone’s going to just jump into a barbie doll because it kind of reminds them of how they died.
They think the girl’s name is Abigail, so they write that name of three fucking sheets of paper, then burn the pieces in a clay bowl. Why the fuck do Laura’s parents let her have a lighter anyway?
The book wants menstrual blood, which they think is gross, which is fucking is, so they substitute by pricking their fingers with a sewing needle and squeezing three drops of blood each into the tiny layer of ashes of the burned paper.
They they both fucking freak out again, because they realize the book has a footnote that says they can’t substitute salt water for sea water, and Laura starts to fucking wail about how the goddamn ghost chick is going to hurt her and shit. So Amber says no, no, it’s okay, they’ll just use salt water anyway and then if that doesn’t work Laura can spend the night at HER house tomorrow. Fucking pussies.
So they go ahead and water down their ash-blood concoction with their goddamn salt water then they bathe the Barbie in it. What the hell.
Then Amber starts drying the Barbie off and brushing her hair and crap while Laura sets up this circle of candles, but she doesn’t have enough white ones, and she runs off to the kitchen and comes back with a few of those cheap ones you put on birthday cakes. They don’t flip the shit about that substitution, at least. Then Amber put the Barbie in the middle of the circle, and they both hold the lighter as they light the circle counterclockwise, which they think is important. Shit.
Then they sit on opposite sides, and Laura asks for the spirit of Abigail to enter the doll.
Then there’s an awkward pause and they look at the Barbie intently for a minute or two, but then there’s this gust of wind, and some of the candles are blown out, and Laura screams. And I don't know how Laura’s parents haven’t woken up, because as soon as Laura started screaming Amber joined her, and they both get up and run out of the room and I follow them and they slam the door.
Then Amber has this genius idea that they should put salt around the goddamn door, so the ghost chick can’t get at them (because they think ghosts are afraid of salt or some shit like that), but fuck it, the spirit’s in a lump of plastic, what’s it gonna do?
And so I think Laura’s parents are just ignoring them, because with all the banging around in the kictchen they’re doing, there’s no way in hell they haven’t woken them up. Their cat looks annoyed enough. And finally they find the salt, but now Laura’s too fucking scared to go upstairs again, and I almost want to do it for her so she stops fucking whining.
Eventually they both go into the living room and put on the TV, and I sit down next to them. Nothing’s good on at 1:00 AM, and they start chit-chatting over the sound of some dumbass thing on MTV. Then suddenly Amber goes Shh! and they both stop. And they’re this banging noise from upstairs and Laura says oh my god it’s coming form my room.
And so Amber says they have to go up put the salt along the threshold, otherwise it might go into Laura’s parents room, and the cat looks almost as fucking annoyed as I do. They’ve been sitting with the box of rock salt between them, and after some whining Laura grabs it and we all go back upstairs.
The banging noise is definitely coming from inside the room, and Laura almost starts crying. He hands are shaking as she makes a line of salt along the bottom on the door, and Amber stares at the door wide-eyed, and swears to god she can feel the hatred radiating from inside. Then Laura asks if they should talk to the ghost chick, and they both stare at each other for a while, then suddenly they both bolt downstairs. I have no fucking clue why, but I follow them anyway.
And they’re both telling each other about the scream they heard and they’re like,
It was like a kettle on a stove.
Yeah.
Wordless and pained.
I thought I heard it say something.
You’re right. It said like, ‘Beware.’
No, I think it said, ‘Be aware.’
Be aware of what?
Maybe it’s a warning.
It sounded evil. Maybe… malicious?
Maybe it’s a threat.
Amber, I’m scared.
I know.
And shit like that. What fucking scream?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)