Suicide Holiday

When I Killed Myself And No One Cared

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Wed, 23 Jan 2019 20:01:00 +0000

Suicide is a topic that seems to spin around in my head pretty often. It’s not that I’m suicidal often - I don’t even have depression – but I’ve published an entire trilogy that’s based around the dramas of a suicide pact. That requires research. That, for me, requires method-writing. I’ve written essays for the American Association of Suicidology, I’ve made videos about the mechanics of suicide. My close friend even got me the second edition of their textbook! I’m in love with it. And I have a few close friends who dwell on darker topics as well.

So we collaborate. We exchange ideas. We know we’d creep others out by being so candid about these topics. My facebook is full of little conversations that would get me committed. But, one day, I told a nazi who came on my page he should off himself.

I was banned. He was not.

During this ban, which lasted a week, the aforementioned close friend, F, told me our other friend passed away. This friend was a co-writer and had a very common interest with me, which she displayed with much more fervor and enthusiasm than I do in my more clinical approaches. Serial killers. Weapons. A little gore. True crime, baby!

Since F and I run a group together for people on the autistic spectrum, he posted about the death and tagged me while I was banned. This was all well and good, except the wording somehow lead everyone to believe I’d died by suicide. At a cursory glance I could see why they thought that, but his post included “struggle with addiction” and the overall gist was that she took her life.

Everyone thought that not only I had an addiction issue and accepted this with no question (I’ve never had this specific demon,) they accepted I’d killed myself in a very blasé’ way. No one was shocked I’d killed myself. These are people who don’t even know about the one attempt I did make in 2013.

The only person who really seemed concerned was a non-native English speaking friend who I’d actually confided in the past when I felt very, very poorly. He sent me an Instagram message asking if I was okay and was relieved when he saw I’d posted a photo that day.

Days go by, F cleared up the misunderstanding, the ban ends. I log on and I read the knee-jerk comments in response to “my” untimely death.

Not a single shocked response. Not one. It was viewed as unfortunate, sure, and a few people seemed like they’d miss my posts, but otherwise? Nothing. No one called me to see if I was alive. No one really asked for details or showed concern for my kid.

I’ve seen many suicide responses. I have a tattoo on my back dedicated to a teenage friend who stepped in front of a train in 2014. I read the news articles, but more than that, I pay attention to the accidental overdoses and suicides of friends and friends of friends. I watch the reactions.

“I can’t believe it!”

Well, everyone believed it without even fully reading F’s post. So I tried to examine why. I remember my ex getting me to watch Full Metal Jacket because I reminded him of that guy. Yeah, that guy. I also wondered, more recently as I head into a severe life change and divorce, who would it hurt if I did it?

My kid, yes. My dad.

And that may be it. I confide in very few people when I’ve got suicide on my heart – not just on my mind. When it’s on my mind, I’m writing. I’m making it into art. It’s a starry-eyed free-fall on a crisp evening in which I hit the concrete and my pain is absorbed by cracks in the concrete, never to be felt again by me.

That’s suicide on my mind. Suicide on my heart is tying tiny nooses out of ribbon to be sure I still know how. Suicide on my heart is examining the ceiling to see if it’s tall enough and sturdy enough for a noose to be worth it. Suicide on my heart is googling how to get a rope properly tied around a tree that’d be tall enough to work, without attracting attention. It’s wondering which box I packed my rope in. It’s deciding maybe that’s not the method for me, and toying with the realities of other ones.

All of which I’m well versed in, because of suicide being on the mind, career-wise. Writing-wise. My last time to make a google search at all, and how terribly unhelpful it was by telling me exactly what I wanted to know. See? On the mind, it’s a piece of a story. When it crawls into my heart, I’m careful who I speak to about it. Because hauling me off to the ward won’t help.

But the realization that people may be kind of expecting it? That was weird. I’m usually a fairly upbeat albeit sardonic person. I can be pretty mean, but I do so eloquently and with energy. I preach passion for life above all else. I’ve spent my entire 20’s helping suicidal and otherwise ill or compromised people via youtube and other social media avenues. They come to me, I don’t go to them.

Because I’m not the suicidal one.

Stigma be damned, if everyone thinks suicide is how I’m going to die, why hasn’t anyone tried to help me? This is a life. I know, I know, it’s just mine, but it’s a life, and if you think I’m going to take it from myself, the least you could do is check in on me. No, I am not owed care and no one should feel obligated to concern themselves with my life. But if I was someone else, they would've. It's got an aching sting to it. My photos and posts don’t usually reflect my current emotional state because I don’t always have an emotional state. Sometimes I’m just in my mind.

But if it’s creeped into my heart… just remember, you could’ve checked in. On your friends, your parents, and maybe even me.

Dizzy

People Who Call The Handmaids Tale "Torture Porn" are Sheltered Buffoons

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Wed, 27 Jun 2018 04:21:00 +0000

The Handmaids Tale is a science-fiction dystonia written in the early 1980's by one Margaret Atwood. It has since become a movie, and an international sensation as a Hulu series featuring Elizabeth Moss as June (Offred.) We're in season two right now with a promise of season three, and many viewers are clutching their pearls and crying "torture porn" when they intentionally view harrowing material that is based entirely on real life. Many are announcing they shan't view "women being tortured for the sake of entertainment" anymore. That's a might fine high horse. One of Atwood's rules for writing the book, and a continued rule for writing the show (which she was consulted on) was that nothing could be used that had not already occurred or wasn't currently occurring in some place in society, somewhere in the world, whether historical or modern. That's why in the book, cops don't fire at protesters with guns, and in the show, they do. Things have regressed since Atwood wrote the book.

The rise of the religious right in response to feminism brought on such cults that still exist today such as the "Quiverfull Movement." These people warp scripture to use women as incubators in order to have as many kids as possible so as to have a "quiver full" in God's army. Doesn't sound too far off from Gilead's Sons of Jacob militarized cult. In fact, if the movement were to blossom further...well. You've seen the show. And you can read one woman's account of living in this cult here https://theestablishment.co/i-grew-up-in-a-fundamentalist-cult-the-handmaids-tale-was-my-reality-fae2f77263d9
In fact, as the current 45's Administration keeps rolling back women's rights, we are in danger of being forced incubators once more lest desperate women resort again to the wire coat hanger.
But no, viewers are a bit more concerned with writing opinion pieces about "where are the fat women" and "where are the celebrities" in the show rather than focusing on the reality of it. You don't get to be a fat sex slave. You don't get to be a celebrity sex slave. You get out or you don't.

The show uses the concept of a fertility crisis as a way to enslave women. Current groups like ISIS should be an eye-opener to how this show is very much a display of the real world and not some form of torture porn made for sadists. Isis members rape captive women in places like Iran and Syria to mass-produce indoctrinated soldiers and more women who will be indoctrinated to be fine and dandy with this, but unlike Nick's child-bride Eden who fully believes in the Sons of Jacob cult and is totally cool with being banged through a hole in the sheet because her parents taught her that's normal.
Millennials choosing not to have kids because of income inequality is a fact being distorted as we speak to strike fear of our own fertility crisis, when indeed low birth rates are not the same as low fertility rates.

One the show, we see Ofglen (Emily) subjected to female genital mutilation once the regime discovers she's a lesbian - but still fertile. This happens all over the world to "prevent female sexual desire." As Aunt Lydia says to Emily, "You will no longer want what you cannot have." And no, I'm not just pointing fingers at the Middle East. This happens in England. It can be found in the US.
And on the topic of the fabulous character Emily, who is forced to see her lover hanged, let me remind you that gays have been hanged in the past, murdered, imprisoned, and even now are being put in concentration camps in Chechnya. And that's not even to mention the pink triangles of the Holocaust. But poor pitiful you for being "forced" to think about this by a show you paid to watch.

Priests are hanged in the books and novel. Anyone who shows political difference of opinion is killed. "Unwomen" and "Unmen" are forced to do fruitless work in the Colonies, much like concentration camps. Atwood was also inspired by puritanical law, which was the ruthless beginning of our colonization in the US. Suicide bombing that Gilead deserved but that the Handmaids didn't and even in death, stripped of their real names. (Ever see old headstones that just say "wife of Some Guy?") Stonings still happen. Handmaids existed. Eyes removed, hands cut off - that's all real, so buckle the fuck up.

And I'd keep going into detail but the new episode is coming on and we'll be witnessing a scene taken from the concept of drowning witches, but rather than a river or a well, it'll be a pool. I'll let you do your own research. As a horror author I cannot understand the concept of consuming media one cannot emotionally handle and then whining about it all over the internet as if the writers personally victimized you. One day, you'll be awake, and you'll have no choice, and it won't be a show. It sure as hell isn't for the children being ripped away from their parents at our boarders. Praised be, bitches.

Jessica Endsley

The Anti-Wife

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Sun, 22 Apr 2018 21:58:00 +0000

Almost all of my close friendships and relationships have been with men. All different kinds of men - well-behaved, anxious guys, unemployed men with no intentions of ever living independently, womanizers, asexuals, wealthy men, drug dealers, ex-cons, entire bands, artists, tech nerds, feminine men, and the picture of macho. The two people I know in real life who I've invested the most emotion in other than my child are also men - my husband, and my father. Men generally feel very comfortable talking to me about anything from their day to their sexual hangups. Often in the same conversation. I can roll with those punches.

The one man who won't talk to me is the one I married. For the longest time - about 5 years - I've wondered why guys everywhere adore me unless they're my husband. His eyes do not light up when I wear my nicest outfits, revealing or not. Our physical contact consists of mostly side-hugs. Our conversations consist of our disapproval of his work schedule and talking about our kid. At best, it's just me telling a grown man that if he doesn't pick up after himself, his shit shall be in the trash. Or at best, it's me preventing utter disaster.
He never really saw the version of me that most men see and interact with. When we met, both of us were marriage-minded so we saw each other through the "potential spouse" lens. We had similar family goals, and he wanted to work and I wanted to work from home to focus on writing and being a mother. He could see me as a Wife.
I'm not bashing him for this. I'm not bashing him at all. But he was missing so, so much about my personality by using that lens. And much of what makes me the me people love are traits he wanted annihilated immediately. There are things about me he may never get a chance to know because he sees the version of me opposite what my adorers see. I'm their Anti-Wife.

What it means to be an Anti-Wife is to accidentally be what men really want. The Anti-Wife isn't a household prop. The Anti-Wife doesn't nag. The Anti-Wife listens freely to conversations about sex, and participates in these conversations without shame. She encourages you to take another shot instead of making you walk on eggshells about it. She sets up nights with the boys. And she may even have ideas more fun than yours. She's not after anything you have, and she's not giving away anything but brainwaves. The Anti-Wife wears what she wants, and wearing what she wants means plenty of skin and just enough makeup to keep you dying for a few seconds of eye contact, since she's sporting one of the worlds rarest eye colors.

The Anti-Wife has nothing to lose when you're manic and spending money and flattery like both fall out of the sky into your lap. She's the best person to go to in a depressive episode, too, since she knows what not to say because you've heard it millions of times before. Misery loves company, and the Anti-Wife is the perfect companion for the miserable because she's upbeat and even prophetic at your conjoined lowest points.
The Anti-Wife will scheme with you. If you've got insomnia, you know she's probably awake, and by dawn you'll have devised 3 very plausible, ethically questionable ways to get rich. Or famous. Or revenge. She enjoys these conversations, and you can tell, and it keeps you coming back. And you even find yourself having mad respect for this lady.
You might even respect your Anti-Wife so much you read her books and find out she wasn't exaggerating when she said she loves to write. You may even find yourself buying her art.

When you've destroyed your life due to bad decisions, and you tell her all about it, she nods understandingly and reminds you of why it will eventually be totally worth it.
Her life won't be destroyed by any of your destruction, so she's at liberty to be herself and not the single voice of reason for an entire family. Because you, non-husband, have not put me in the role of being the one thing that keeps three lives from detonating. You, non-husband, are simply happy to have my company and my words. You, non-husband, have left more room for growth in our relationship than my husband did from the moment he clicked on my dating profile. When I talk to you, non-husband, it's not often my child, home, and life hanging in the balance. It's just talk.

Will the man who decided to become my Husband, which is a coveted position according to many men to whom I am the Anti-Wife, ever open his eyes wide enough to love me? I'm not holding my breath...but I'm not holding back, either. I don't need validation that the dishes were put away or that my cooking is good or that I'm a loving mom, because I already know those things. I'm not a list of everything wrong with you, Husband, and I don't know why you chose to become a list of everything that sounds like the word Drudgery. The woman other men see is far closer to reality than the collection of menial chores that my husband sees when he looks at me. If he could see me, maybe like the others do, he would care about my happiness. He could see all that and more, if only I were his Anti-Wife.

Dizzy

If We Must Pity Borderline, We must Rethink the Narcissist

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Sun, 18 Mar 2018 18:31:00 +0000

Narcissists. In the last few years, it seems like everyone knows one. It seems like everyone was raised by at least one. And it seems, quite frankly, that if one if not overly fond of a person, it's because the person must be a Narcissist. The word is thrown around with the same hatred and shredded meaning as "trash" but with all the self-victimization as a person being called, with seething hatred, trash. The word's got a bite to it, some sting.
We've been given a free card to just plain hate them.

But what is a Narcissist, and why are they so very terrible? Pathological, long-standing and prevalent Narcissistic behavior is what is known as Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Personality Disorders do not go away, but they can be "toned down." It's not vanity, it's not thinking you're fabulous, and it's not even just low empathy. It is destructive. That's why it's in the Cluster B with the other malignant Personality Disorders - the ones that make for a good villain in a thriller or a type you love to hate in a comedy. They're the serial killers, the angels of death, the homewreckers, the train wrecks. Let's look at who else take up the company of the dreaded Narcissist under Cluster B!

Cluster B is called the dramatic, emotional, and erratic cluster. It includes:

Borderline Personality Disorder.
Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
Histrionic Personality Disorder.
Antisocial Personality Disorder.

Disorders in this cluster share problems with impulse control and emotional regulation.

Not so surprising that the malignant types are grouped together, right? So what does "malignant" mean? "Disposed to cause harm, suffering, or distress deliberately; feeling or showing ill will or hatred." That's not pleasant but, like I said, these are the Personality Disorders that make for what we like to collectively call "evil." The life destroyers. The bringers of the drama. But wait isn't...isn't BORDERLINE just self-injurers who feel sadness and loneliness too intensely? Don't they just have a fear of abandonment? The Mighty told us not to stigmatize Borderline Personality Disorder! They can't help their mental illness-

WAIT RIGHT THERE. So, they cannot help their "mental illness" which is sitting pretty right next to "Anti Social" and "Narcissistic" personality disorders - never mind Histrionic - but the Borderline deserves empathy, care, compassion, and understanding that the Psychopath and Narcissist don't? (If you didn't know, Anti Social is what they DSM calls Psychopaths and has for a very long time.) Let's look at what Borderline Personality Disorder actually consists of, other than alarming suicide attempt rates and putting off therapists from ever wanting to touch the case.

They idealize and devalue the people they get close to from minute to minute. The triangulation that Narcissists and Psychopaths use to keep their victims trapped in a relationship with them? Borderlines do it too, but they do it with a touch of dramatic flare, often in the form of emotionally blackmail over their very own lives. Instead of making their victims feel drawn to them again and bringing about more Oxycontin release, they say things like, "If you leave, I'll kill myself, I hate you, please don't leave."

These are the "psycho girlfriends" of the Personality Disorder world. And unfortunately, it's vastly over-diagnosed in women and missed entirely in men.

I am not here to demonize anyone who has Borderline Personality Disorder but I'm not here to pretend it's the only Disorder on that cluster that deserves human compassion. Narcissists are thought to be formed by childhood neglect and abuse but we don't have a windows worth of light we wish to shine on that disorder. What actually happens to the Narcissist is that they become so terrified of vulnerability, they will do anything to avoid it, whether it's to be covert (think of your "introverted and too sensitive for this world" friend) or to be grandiose and far superior to everyone else (your friend who is never wrong and exaggerated every job title they've held.) And so there has been talk of re-naming it Vulnerability Aversion Disorder.

People don't want them to change it because "a narcissist is a narcissist! A bad person is a bad person!" If the shoe fits, and the old one has holes in it, why can't we just lace that new one up and wear it? When did we collectively decide that someone else's low empathy was an excuse to throw our own empathy out the window, right along with compassion and rational thought? Maybe we want an angry buzzword like "Narcissist." Forget helping the people with the Personality Disorder; we just want someone to hate! And we want it easy. We. Want. Someone. Easy. To Hate.

Are you really going to bully people who are utterly terrified of being vulnerable? Where the Borderline may literally bleed their vulnerability out of their bodies to get their way, the Narcissist will pretend they don't even have blood to get their way. If they have blood, they have a weakness, and who needs that? Who needs to be human? Not the Narcissist, who needs no one.... except for everyone, because despite vulnerability aversion, Narcissists DO require lots of Narcissist supply. They need. Much like the Borderline needs you to stay and needs you to love, the Narcissist needs you to have an opinion about them. Love them, hate them, but do not ignore them. To be ignored is to be raw, like a baby crying and ignored - maybe even for hours, where the pathology began - the birth of that very Narcissist.

Mark Twain wondered who might've been decent enough to ever pray for the Devil. I'm not as brilliant as Twain; I simply wonder who might be decent enough to pray for that neglected infant, even if it's thirty years after the crying came to a bitter end.

Jessica, The Classy Aspie.

The Massacres

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Fri, 16 Feb 2018 16:41:00 +0000

I walked into each class on the first day of the semester and surveyed the room for potential hiding spots. Biology classes had those big tables they said would be great for hiding under, but we all knew those tables were so tall that anyone with aim could execute us all. The cabinets, though - I'd hide there. The art class had lots of cabinets too, and the desks were more solid and low which I found very important because art class was on the same floor as the principals office, two always-empty bathrooms, and it was quite an easy target. And on the first day of the semester, I'd fix my hair in the bathroom mirror and remember the orders that, if in the hall during a Lockdown (for school shooters) that I was to run in the bathroom and lock the door, opening it for no one.
My friends and I asked each other when we thought it would happen at our school - a large school represented by the Confederate flag in Louisiana - and who we thought would do it.
And we all agreed we knew people who would shoot us up in a heartbeat.

That was a decade ago.

I no longer go to classes but I've got a small person rapidly approaching school-age and I adamantly refuse to put her into public school for many reasons, but the pure epidemic of school shootings definitely plays a part. I know that the mall, church, or musical outings are all now deemed likely places to get point-blank murdered, but schools are the worst. And, to this day, I know people who I'm shocked haven'tended up on the news and frankly, if they wanted any fame from the crimes of their urges, they're too late - we're so desensitized no one will remember the next guys name.
When my friends and I would gossip about who may be a culprit, there were common themes.
White. Male. Isolated. Often they'd never dated, or they had unusual sexual tastes. But to me, being a bit more of a chase-the-rabbit-down-the-hole type of girl who'd eventually major in psychology, it seemed like the common threads were woven even more tightly. And these threads have remained in the last decade.

They had the same walk. They often had downward cast eyes, poor posture, and other defensive body-language not unlike my own. But they didn't look bored or shy or even like they'd ever enthusiastically defend themselves. They looked ashamed.

Enjoyment and disgust are two of the most basic, primal emotions. If a one-year-old is splashing spilled milk on his tray and enjoying a new finding and then the father erupts into the room with "what in the world are you doing?!" that child shifts quickly from joy to shame in the reaction by the parent of disgust (or even anger.) Shame isn't something that magically came about due to the Abrahamic faiths like many of my atheist friends seem to believe. Shame developed for a reason - it keeps us in line with the rest of our social circle.

And this is where things get trickier. Not everyone has a social circle. I don't. Many of my online friends don't. There is a societal expectation in the west to be an extrovert. To have friends. To have at least three or four people to call for help or to hang out. When you don't have that, you're deemed weird, and that's not just by a few choice bullies - it's known and accepted.
When shame comes from the very shunning from society itself, society is where the damage will be spread.

Some of these guys find solace online with forums and groups full of people who are angry and dejected. These places all have their reasons, but generally it's some form of white supremacist sexist garbage. They give impressionable, angry, isolated young men a reason for their bitter season. They put some fire behind that rage where it's really just a void. They find ways to place their sexual hangups at the fault of women. I read and analyzed Elliot Roger's Manifesto - it was one of the most painful things I've ever read. Rejected, spoiled little boys who were never taught how to be men are the ones murdering children.

It's not allowed to speak on this topic without offering a solution that will be shat on either way. I'm not going to say "just talk to lonely people" like one joke of an article I just read said was literally the solution to the issue - thinly veiled NRA propaganda. I'm not going to rant about healthcare. Stop teaching boys that they have to be loud to be masculine, that they need to be powerful to be masculine, that they need to compete to be masculine. Stop teaching boys that femininity is the opposition to their male identities, but that the two compliment each other. Stop teaching boys not to feel feelings and if they say they CAN'T feel feelings, help them learn to.

Stop.

You're Disgusting

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Fri, 16 Feb 2018 13:14:00 +0000

The feeling of disgust. Not only is it a very baseline emotion which helps keep us safe individually and, at one point, as a species - it's also the only thing that stands between reality and rationality.
Ever had that "they're just off, something isn't right" reaction to someone who was very outwardly normal? That frequently comes from instinctual disgust.
And there's no reason to limit this disturbing feeling to the things that are "icky." Intellectual and emotional disgust are always here to pick up the slack.

Much like our pupils shrinking at the sight of a nausea-inducing dumpster truck full of feces, our instincts about the people we encounter, befriend, grow close to, and become arch-enemies of can be spot on even before we know why we're correct. The tiny pieces of the picture we paint when standing before another human being makes a tremendous impression. Small cues may make it hard for some of us with social issues, but if you take a deep breathe you'll soon come to realize that you're sending and receiving messages to everyone in the room. No wifi required.
Hence the social exhaustion you may experience if you found your way to this blog.

If I have a few days in which I feel any hopefulness towards my fellow man - and to be clear, by hopefulness, I mean a bittersweet sense that maybe not everyone is terrible - it will surely soon be ruined by an onslaught of gross from social media, short encounters in markets, and in my personal life. I can be as alone as I am, as reclusive as I am, and still, someone will disgust me.
I don't always know what to do when I feel this way. Often it's a waiting game. Or it's a quick revenge. But there's always the joy of existing in the same space as someone that makes your internal organs scream "get away, get the fuck away!"

The upside to disgust and the plethora of it that I deal with is that it's often the ticking before the bomb goes off. Revulsion lets me know that even if I haven't figured it out yet, something is wrong with you. You're a con man. You're a serial killer. You're a pedophile. You like mayonnaise. Without the gut-wrenching antipathy, the loathing, the desire to punch and puke every time I look at you - the fact you're disgusting may catch me off guard!
And we cannot have that.

Dizzy

Euthanasia 5-8

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Fri, 12 Jan 2018 18:18:00 +0000

Chapter5

October 5

Everyone is wondering where Francis may be. And I am so unconcerned about his having gone AWOL. I rarely seem as concerned as I feel, so they suspect nothing, but I know more than they think this time. My thoughts are usually wrapped up in some other fashion- panic is an old enemy, weaker than ever. I'm the only one who was very close to Francis, so why does it matter to them? If they’d cared when they had a chance, perhaps this all could have been avoided.

The perplexing behavior of waiting until a person’s eyes are sewn shut to send flowers must generate at least one half of my general disdain for others.

I believe Lewis is on to me, and I can’t care, because what's there that Lewis can do? Nothing. He can attempt to throw me into a guilt-trip as he tends to do, but it never works, for guilt is not a piece of me or at least not a piece I have had intact in the last several years.

Francis is fine. Lewis suspects me of foul play even when I really have not done anything. It was a wonderful day, I think.

And it feels like I have done one of the best things that I have done in the entirety of my life. I knew he would not last until October 7th but I was hoping he would. I am not bitter that he fucked up my perfect plans of the perfect seven dying on the perfect day of October 7th. It throws everything off balance, but we will make it. I can't be mad at Francis.

When he called and told me to come over, I knew why, so I took the Pact with me. It was nearly two this morning and I was in my bed, listening to music on my headphones, thinking, and my cell phone rang. I hoped it was Lewis but it was not...and then I realized I was happy to see it was Francis.

So, I went to Francis's house, walking along the levee and through the forest in the cold, and when I entered his room, he was sitting against the wall with his wrists freshly cut. The inside of his room was dark and cold and I could barely see. You fucking have utilities, unlike me, I thought. Use them.

“Erika, finally,” he said. I pulled out the Pact.

“Honestly, why can you not wait? Does knowing you will die soon, with all of your friends beside you, not make it better? You could be a part of something fantastic.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. I knelt down beside him. His room felt eerie and he was crying. “I can never, ever have you because I know you'll die. The worms are all over the walls.” I looked around at the walls. I recalled that this wasn’t an unusual claim and directed my attention back to the subject. What was the subject?

“What?” He had clearly taken a number of pills judging from the several half-empty bottles on the floor in the corner of the room. Perhaps the medication he had always refused, followed with whiskey. “What do you mean...?”

“I have thought about it for the two years since I knew I loved you, you're going to die. You want to die. You don't love me at all.”

“Everyone dies,” I replied. “And you're wrong.”

Francis had made his feelings as vague as possible since we were set up for homecoming by Miriam. Did he think I was someone else? It is possible, I thought, that I had simply been unable to take a hint and mistook a lack of words for a lack of feeling. Maybe spending that night, and several other nights, together meant something, but since he never made an official move, I had assumed his mind had been changed.

He took the Pact from me and smeared blood from his wrist over his own name.

“I'm not wrong. And dying one day...isn't the same as constantly seeking it out...” he slurred.

“Why?” I asked.

“All you want to do is die. I’m wrong for caring because I know you’re selfish. You’re always talking about how you have to take care of your hit-list, and you want this all to happen…to see what will happen! If you could fall and keep watching, you would, and you know it.”

“They are not urges,” I snapped. “They are thought-out philosophical principles.”

“I know, Erika. Everything is a philosophical principle. You don’t want to be dead; you want to die. You're the only one I've been with. And you really like Lewis.”

I felt stunned for a moment. I was glad it was dark in the room; I may have made a face.

“Why do you think that?”

“I don't think it, I know it, Erika,” he said. “When you're around him you act like a couple. He is overbearing. He knows nothing of the walls.”

I sighed. I wished I could ask Miriam what I was supposed to say in this situation. She would know.

“You're wrong,” I said again. “I love you.” I heard his hand slide across the floor slowly until it found mine. This is so strange.

Our conversation led me to the conclusion that he felt he was in love with me and couldn’t cope with the fact that I would kill myself soon and that I would never be happy with him. He hated my infatuation with Lewis. Sleeping with me made him emotionally attached. He was in too much pain because of that. But there had to be more, and the more that I asked, the closer I came to realize he was simply alone.

He said he was afraid I had only been pretending whenever I showed him emotion in our time together. I wondered why I needed to explain that when I show emotion, it tends to be genuine.

He couldn’t see me die even if it meant he would be dying alongside me. He didn’t want to ruin my plans by getting emotional on Sunday (although not holding out until Sunday was bad enough.) And then he asked me to help him complete his suicide. I was obliged to have been chosen by someone to assist in their suicide; the only time I had terminated anyone before, they didn’t consent to it. Too often I merely injure.

As of late, I have done my research.

I gave him pain pills from in my purse, and let them work while I sat with him and talked to him... he remained calm. In fact, I had never seen anyone still alive so sickeningly calm – I was more nervous than he was. I had always known Francis suffered from frequent bouts of psychosis but refused treatment other than appointments required for him to receive funds from the state but now I am positive that it was his primary cause of death.

Who wants to die just because self-controlled mortality will one day take a toll on someone you love? Who wants to live when they are ostracized by everyone due to a supposed illness and their family doesn't even talk to them? And why does he keep talking about worms?

“Erika,” he said slowly. “Why can’t you love me?”

The dark shade of blue across the room continuously captivated my attention as I waited for the final moment.

“I told you I do. Who said I don’t?” I retorted.

He put his fingers over mine and looked at me. He was still bleeding a bit from his wrists. I never have had much room for anyone in my emotional spectrum, but Francis was always fascinating. I don't know exactly what love is, but I know I love all my signers.

I also know that I love Francis differently than I originally intended to.

“Do it…when I’m dead.”

“What do you mean?”

Please do not be implying…

“Be sure...no one finds out you were here. Do the cleaning when I'm gone.”

If anyone found out I had been in his house, helping him kill himself, I could be arrested before Sunday even though I was doing anything wrong. All DNA left here by me would easily be explained by the fact that I’d been over so many times. I leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were cold; so were mine. He wrapped a blood-stained arm around me and pulled me closer. This was distracting me from what I was there for, but what was the rush? This is the last time I’ll kiss anyone…

“No cleaning required. No one will know I was here for anything I wasn't supposed to be here for,” I told him.

He tried to smile and pulled me closer.

“Not anything?”

Our friendship had been a great one. We never had turbulence and I never had to hide or feel inclined to fake some kind of foreign emotion around Francis. He never had to hide his crazy around me, either. And despite the fact that little became of my urgings for him to be closer to the other Pact signers, he did have a small social circle to keep him grounded more than he had in a very long time. At least he wasn’t alone.

“I will see you in a few days,” he said.

“Keep an eye on the crown.” I smiled. This was it. Time’s up, Erika. Do it.

I quickly removed my pistol from within my purse, cocked, pressed it to his right temple, closed my eyes, and pulled.

After a few moments, I opened my eyes. Am I dreaming? Have I lost my fucking mind? The blood splattered across me looked and felt like thick, wet paint. It was warm and I trembled. Oh my God, what did I do? What did I fucking do?

I’d been kneeling very closed when the trigger was pulled; I experienced this act of euthanasia as near as I could to that of a physician. That is what it was, and this is what I’d become – a physician. One that knows the cure.

A physician with a specialty of assisted suicide. It was a beautiful composition. But I couldn’t stop shaking.

I stayed with him for half an hour after his death to charge my phone, contemplating whether he had jinxed my plan entirely into failure, and observing him change. Francis was a nice boy and it’s a shame he cannot go out with the rest of us, but he’s painless now. Maybe he was better than us. He lives alone in the forest right near the river, so I wasn’t worried anyone saw me, and sound is no issue when you have a silencer. It was one of the most remote areas within St. Christina’s limits. Not really any need to move the body since it was a suicide.

I wondered briefly if I had just contributed to the widespread rumors of the St. Christina forests being haunted in my releasing of Francis. No, he will be waiting for us. The scene looks and smells like suicide because it is suicide, so no one (save Lewis) is going to suspect foul play. What do I broadcast that he picks up on? I removed my silencer from the gun and cleaned my prints off with a makeup-wipe. I wrapped Francis's right hand around the gun handle loosely; I wouldn’t need it anymore. I turned on Francis’s desktop computer in the corner of the room, sat down, stared at the screen to avoid looking at Francis. I signed in with his password “nightwedding.” Opened writing program, typed a note, and printed it. I changed his password to a gibberish bit of nonsense and logged off.

Since I was already awake and in the mood, I had business to tend to. I retrieved a black long-sleeved t-shirt from Francis’s closet and put it on over my own bloody one.

On the way out, I called Tommy's cell phone to see where he was, pretending I needed advice on what to wear for October 7th. As I had hoped, he was at his boyfriend's house as opposed to home with his parents, which is where I went. He informed me that he would be staying with his boyfriend for the duration of what I calculated as the rest of his life – his parents had been especially brutal lately, and he would rather spend his time with someone who loved him. Good for you, Tommy.

It was almost daylight when I sneaked in through Tommy's bedroom window. Little was visible. I felt frenzied. Move quickly. I found all the fireworks beside Tommy’s twin bed and put them in my purse to later give to Miriam, and went wandering about the house quietly.

I saw his parents’ room - the door wide open - and both of them passed out cold. Down the short hallway, I found the kitchen, quickly shining my flashlight across the counter. The few seconds of light I allowed myself shown bananas, a clean sink, an array of vitamins, a bottle of pills labeled “Larry Smith.” His father. It was a plain white prescription pain pill meant to be taken at night- Vicodin- nothing too lethal... that is, until, I dumped the pills out into my purse for my own keeping and replaced them with a bottle of plain white, although smaller, placebo pills laced in a mega-dose of brodifacoum. I had been waiting to use these for months. I put the bottle back quietly and looked around. Hope he will not notice.

I do not know much about his mother except for the fact that she drinks coffee from dawn until evening, so my game plan revolved around that. At first. I pulled out my allergy mask and put it on, and put on my gloves. I opened the over-sized coffee jar and stared inside, holding the leftover contents of what I’d given Kathleen in my other hand. Cyanide. It would be too obvious. I put it away, closed the coffee back up, and wandered to the living room.

The purse is the window to a woman’s soul. They will search it. I found the keys to the family car and almost laughed out loud at how simple the solution was. Maybe the pills were over-kill.

I was exhausted, and double-checked that I had not left any trace of myself or forgotten anything. And I went outside and cut their brakes.

I made my way through the woods and back through town, weaving between the fences until my complex was in view. Fuck, I hope nobody saw me. If they did, I hope they wait until I’m six-feet-under to report it. What’s to report? Calling the station to report a girls pre-dawn stroll is a sure way to end up on the Crazy List.

It was daylight when I came back inside of my room after sneaking through town so as not to be seen. I took a freezing shower to get all the blood off me. I found it rather amusing that the body-soap I had borrowed from Joshua when I ran out of mine was just as red as the blood I was rinsing off. Simply stickier. From Francis’s blood to Joshua’s Axe would I ever smell like myself again?

There was no way to tell if I was trembling from adrenaline or from the ice-water anymore.

I wrapped up in a towel and I crawled into my bed, rolling up tightly in my blankets and listened to the beginning of a rainstorm. My thoughts raced and raced until I blinked one to many times.

I slept for three hours until Lewis called.

“Robin is looking for Francis but he won’t answer his phone,” he said. “And he hasn’t been online all day.

Even in a sleepy stupor, I was puzzled. If they’re looking for Francis, why are they not checking his house?

“Good morning. Why are you not at school?”

“Don't play dumb, Erika.” I sighed.

I knew he would be suspicious. I knew he wouldn’t tell, though.

“I am not playing anything; I was asleep for once. Imagine that.”

“For how long now, dear? Why aren’t you at school?”

“I cannot wait until the day you get off my case,” I said. “Which is not too far off. So, what are you doing today, other than playing hooky?”

“Coming to get you.” He hung up. My automatic internal reaction was, “Oh shit” and I quickly got dressed. I brushed my teeth. I hid the bloody clothes.

When he got here, he didn’t mention Francis at all. We went back to his house via a silent ride in his truck and sat on his bed.

Sitting on his bed often feels like an interrogation room more than just a bed now that we’re older. We used to wrestle on it, sleep on it, play video games on it, and beat each other up on it after rough-play turned into brawls. Now we sit on it awkwardly and talk, and talking turns into questioning, and questioning turns into quiet distrust. Maybe it’s only me who feels awkward, but he surely looks awkward. Perhaps it’s my imagination.

I shrink into myself and look at the floor.

“I made an A on my science test yesterday,” he said in the middle of some amount of rambling about liquid ink making his drawings messy.

I felt my entire being freeze into my unsavory self; irate and ice-cold. The joyous frenzy was dead for the sake of socializing with someone I care too much about.

“Why are you even trying? You’re going to be dead before the next report card.”

I saw his face was suddenly overcome with a sad look, almost of realization. I sincerely hoped he had not just now realized that he is going to die Sunday. That may cause complications once we’re all standing on the fucking roof. We do not want that. You're in my grade. Not promising.

“No. It's just...good that the last test I take is a good grade, I guess.”

I nodded. Everyone has a way to measure their dignity, and Lewis had finally been able to function in a classroom setting without a panic attack. He’s smart, if often neurotic. His power over his own panic was finally coming around.

I felt cautiously happy for him as I let go of my own inner ice.

The rest of the day was spent walking around in the rain through St. Christina and getting phone calls from the rest of the Pact signers. No one wanted to spend their last Friday at school. They’re asking if Francis has texted either of us because he’s not been online. Lewis wasn’t very talkative, and neither was I; we are usually comfortable in silence with each other. My energy had been spent in the dark.

I was cold in my short, sleeveless dress so Lewis gave me his jacket and it smelled like him. I would have been so much happier if he would just hold me.

Tommy is the only one who seems vigilant about Francis, always wanting to dig into everyone’s problems to find out what is going on. It always was a decent distraction from his own. He will probably never know I’ve set his parents deaths into motion; they had seen him for the final time. It wasn’t unusual for Tommy to bail on his home and he would usually stay gone for a week at least, sometimes even staying with me before my grandmother passed. And this time he decided to spend his final days with Zach.

Everything is going just fine, and we only have one day left. One more day that I will write after this, one more day to feel. Then I will be in the dirt somewhere, literally not far from where I am, but that is only my body. Six people out of their misery, six people less. When you think of six less people, you think of six less people in the population count. Not each individual friend, with all the baggage of emotions, a family, personality, and each other. Not six less lives. Just an even lower population statistic for St. Christina. That is what I am to the world — a statistic. For now. That is until they trace so many things back to me.

Then I’m the bad guy.

“I’m going to need to give Lithium to Zach tonight…” I said as we walked past one of three Baptist churches in St. Christina. It was on a road we’d avoided since someone from the past attacked me near my apartment and I got revenge. After that, he moved from my apartment complex to a house with his grandparents on this very long, curved road.

His name is Caleb and he had bullied me from elementary school onward, giving me black eye not long ago. Lewis broke his nose, but that wasn’t enough for me. Miriam and Tommy were my accomplices in his third-degree burns, but only they know it was me. He has plenty of enemies so I suppose his parents decided that moving him to a more secure location was the best idea.

“You going to take her over there?” Lewis asked.

“I think I’ll get him to come pick her up…” I said slowly. “It’s cold out and he has a car.”

“Yeah…good idea.”

Lewis knows how attached I am to my rat but I cannot bring her with me where I am going. I observed the dying flowers along the road. They were pretty. And I found myself walking so close to Lewis that we were touching, and when I noticed, I pulled away only to return in a few moments like a magnet. He either did not notice, or did not mind.

He seemed distracted. Trapped in his head, holding his tongue.

The rain came down harder and harder over the afternoon.

“Your hair is entirely soaked.” Lewis remarked as we finally walked back up the porch of his house. It had been a beautifully rainy long walk and the sky was darkening. We didn’t bother with umbrellas too often. “Do you want to dry it?”

“I kind of like it,” I said quietly. “I would not mind drying the rest of my body off, though.”

Lewis was always willing to let me come to his house when I needed relief from having no heat or warm water although he wasn’t fully aware that my utilities were completely cut off and had been for months. I took a warm shower, thought about the beauty of falling water drops and I hoped to fall off of the high school would be so much like being a water drop. If only I could fade into the concrete. If only I would fall through it.

I got out and put on a white t-shirt and red plaid boxers Lewis set out for me while I was behind the curtain. I felt so comfortable in his clothing.

I left mine over the towel rack to dry overnight.

When I went into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, finally warm, Lewis had cooked cheesy pasta. He put a large amount in a bowl and set it on the table in my usual seat, and sat down across from me with his own bowl.

“I know you don't care about your health since we're about to be dead, but you need to eat,” he said.

I smiled and nodded. Francis said we act like a couple. Was he right?

We both ate and talked about everything other than the Pact. Music, stupid and funny things our friends had done lately, Lewis’s new cellphone, his freedom from his mother, watercolor versus charcoal, what it would be like to open a bakery, things we always wished had happened but never would. Running away.

I finally walked home close to midnight. Lewis had made it obvious that he was mourning what was probably the last day we would spend as best friends; I may have made it obvious, too. He hastily kissed me on the forehead as I was about to walk out of the door after refusing a ride. Lewis was tired. We were wearing almost identical clothing, since I was wearing his and he was dressed for bed.

He had put his hoodie on me and I had promised to bring it back the next day.

“Be careful.”

“Tend to be. Goodnight.”

I stood outside my apartment door whispering quietly to my rat. Tommy’s boyfriend drove over, along with Tommy, and picked up Lithium along with her cage and leftover food. I kissed her goodbye, and she seemed unfazed. Tommy hugged me goodnight as Zach carried the cage down to the car and I tried very hard not to cry. I bit my lip so hard that a drop of blood fell onto my foot.

Tommy knew I was crying but knew better than to say anything about it. I hugged him tightly and whispered for him to go.

Now I am entirely alone in this apartment; even though my rat doesn’t speak, she was good company during the long nights I’ve spent here since my grandmother passed.

This is real alone.

Sunday morning, I will write. And that will be the last from me. No one will read about our deaths from my viewpoint. Naturally. Maybe through the lenses of a few anal-retentive, sensationalist journalists, or maybe from the warped view of the pastors condemning us to hellfire. Not my view.

Sunday will be my last entry. It’s the last of everything. Then I will be forever gone. Finally.

I am curious to know what Lewis writes in his entries, but I’ll never find out. Does he even write long entries, does he use any detail? Does he only write the minimum of what I asked?

I hope it’s nothing mean. I do not say mean things about him. Do I?

Erika

Chapter 6

October 6

Today I called Erika to see if she wanted to go someplace because I was unfortunately determined to make her change her mind by tomorrow just to save myself the grief of going on top of the school alone with her. I won't tell her I got everyone to back out, but she needs to reconsider the consequences of what she's trying to do. I’m only confident that the others aren’t going to tattle because I nearly threatened them.

I do not want to be six stories up with my violent best friend feeling betrayed. Hopefully if she feels important to someone she won't want to kill herself. But Erika is so determined, and now I know tomorrow is going to be one hell of a day. I could very well be pushed, because she has made it clear that anyone who backs out will regret it although I don't think she anticipated anyone backing out once on the top of the school. She thought they would back out before the meeting, that it would be obvious, that once I signed it was really sealed.

In a way this is good, because since no one is going to do it, she has to be alive to come after us.

I picked her up and we went to the park. We used to do this when we were younger so that we could spy on the other people, or we would narrate their thoughts into something stupid but funny or Erika would find a way scare them shitless. I thought she would grow out of that. She didn’t.

But today at the park, she didn't seem too interested other people’s affairs. She immediately began an interrogation.

“Why do you suddenly feel the need to see me every day?” she asked. Her face was blank, her voice was monotone, and I felt sick. “It’s as if we were young again.”

“We are young. We've always done this, until you started ignoring me this summer, and there’s nothing else to do.”

I looked at Erika.

Wrong answer. Very wrong answer. But at least her blankness broke and for almost a whole second, she looked genuinely hurt. Then blank again. I don't understand why that made her upset.

“Okay.”

She moved some gravel around with her feet, staring at them intently. I knew I had messed up as soon as I said it, but especially when she stopped asking questions.

“So, what have you been doing in your spare time?” I asked.

“Getting ready for tomorrow.” She removed her ballet shoes and pinched the wet grass with her toes. “Not really anything else to do.”

“Where’s Francis been?”

The words felt dirty coming from my mouth. As much as I hated thinking about it, Erika did spend a good amount of spare time with him and that suddenly ceased to be the case.

“I don't know. Why don’t you ask him? You and Tommy must think I have a Francis-radar on my head.”

And then, the smirk.

I rolled my eyes. I thought she would at least confess to knowing something of his whereabouts. I obviously knew. Francis told me personally he didn’t feel like waiting for the October 7th showdown and that he would keep his promise not to jump, but couldn’t promise he wouldn’t kill himself. He didn’t want to hear anything from me and simply walked away.

“There’s an issue with that and you know it,” I said and looked away from the water to the place in the sky where it had gotten even darker as the storm moved into town. “How do I ask a dead person where they are?”

These words sounded foreign in my voice. She shrugged and tightened the thin purple scarf wrapped atop her head.

“Is he? And why would you want to ask a dead person where they are, necro?” she smirked at me once more.

This pissed me off. I didn’t care about the rude remark, but necrophilia is very much a sensitive topic for Erika and she’s using the word to be a bitch during a serious discussion about Francis. She spent a night in jail for sneaking around and being suspicious while trying to steal from the funeral home. Everyone at school ran with it and started rumors, deciding she sneaked in for for perverse reasons. That’s the only rumor she’s ever been very bothered by.

But she walked right into this. It was her own carelessness.

“You’re the necro, Erika. Remember? No wonder you’ve stayed single. A pulse is nice at the very least.”

“Yeah. People with a pulse standing on a street corner with AIDS.”

“Nope.”

“Well then, shut the flying fuck up.”

“You said it first!” She was totally unaffected by my screaming. “You're the one acting like you didn't walk right into a motherfucking topic.”

“I know I did and you are losing it. I thought I was supposed to be the one with no sense of humor,” she sighed.

“Maybe those rednecks were right, dear. Did you have fun with Francis, at least, while that lasted? I’d think so considering what I heard you were doing with him at homecoming. After, too.”

She shrugged. I couldn’t stop the words from falling out of a sore place in my mouth. For some reason, I hated that she had been with at the dance with Francis. I avoided bringing up topics that made me unable to control the words I’d say but it usually ended up happening eventually anyway. Silence seems to be the cousin of white lies.

“You know nothing.”

“That’s sick.”

“Would you like any details?” she snapped. “Since you seem so very intent on it.”

My stomach turned hard. I looked at her, and she appeared so poised. No one from a distance would suspect this vomit-worthy conversation to be happening between us. Why couldn’t we be normal?

“No one was dead when that happened. Or the times after.”

“No one has to be dead for the thought alone to be gross enough.” I gritted my teeth. I want to slap her right now.

“Why, because of me, or because of him?”

“The mixture. You could do a lot fucking better.” I knew I needed to stop talking. Why Francis of all people? He could have thought she was a worm the entire time. “What do you mean times after?”

“Clearly, I can’t do better. They’re not exactly lining up,” she mumbles. “And yes, times after, Lewis. You are not my brother, you cannot decide who I do and do not get involved with, which doesn’t even matter now.”

“I never tried to. Not going to homecoming was a big-ass mistake because you clearly need a baby sitter around guys like Francis. Times after,” I gritted my teeth. I don’t want to picture her with him. “You've just been way too secretive lately.”

“When am I not secretive?”

“No normal person chooses to live in an abandoned apartment with no electricity when they have somewhere they could stay unless they're hiding a lot of bad shit, Erika.”

“Where am I supposed to go? Somewhere you can keep track of what I do with my own body twenty-four seven?”

My mind went silent except for the stinging sound of my hand against Erika’s face. Her cheek turned completely red with my handprint and she gasped.

I felt the pain radiate throughout my hand and the regret radiate through my body. She wouldn’t look at me; she bit her lip and stared at the dark gray downpour moving towards us, more eager than angry. We settled in intimate silence.

Erika finally got up and walked off. I was pissed as anything and I knew she had to be upset, so I didn't think to go after her to at least give her a ride home until five minutes later when I decided moron. Destroyer of my own vague plan.

She had admitted to knowing Francis was dead and I snapped on her for being human. She was suicidal. It was pouring. I hit her.

I drove down the street between the park and a deep forest in my nearly broke-down blue truck to look for her and I finally spotted her walking, slowly, tip-toeing by a ditch that was quickly filling with water.

I rolled my window down.

“Get in.”

She just looked at me. This time, her face actually showed sadness. Not anger, not placidity. If it couldn't be blamed on the fact her face was covered in rain, I would have thought she was crying. She's human, Lewis. Stop telling yourself that the pact changed that.

Then she looked really fucking pissed. I said,

“Come on, at least let me take you home. I’m sorry.”

“No,” she mouthed.

Erika kept walking. I pulled over to the side of the muddy street, threw open the door, and got out. I felt now that I was dealing with a person as opposed to a robot.

“Get away,” she warned.

I picked her up around her waist, and for a moment her cold hands slid over my arms and then hesitantly broke away. I shoved her into the truck and before I could get the door shut, Erika had climbed over and was out the driver’s side door. And she looked like she may start running but knew better. She walked slowly, once again, down the street.

I put my truck in park and ran towards Erika, picked her up again, was kicked in the process, and walked back to the truck with her screaming. If anyone sees this, it's going to look like I'm kidnapping her. Fuck.

“Shut up! You need to calm the fuck down.”

I opened the passenger door and shoved her in, shut and locked it. I ran back around to the driver side, got in, and locked that door, switched to drive, and started driving too fast for her to safely jump out of the window.

“Why the fuck can't I go home?” she asked, wavering.

“You can once I know you're not going to do anything fucked up.”

“Why does it matter? We’ll be dead in twenty-four hours!”

“I want you to make it until morning without hurting yourself or anyone else.”

We quickly pulled up to the top of the levee and I slammed the breaks on. Holy shit.

The forest on the other side of the levee by the river was lit up with red and blue flashing lights. St. Christina police were swarmed near Francis's house.

An ambulance, too.

“Oh my God,” I said.

Erika was staring intently, frozen.

“I suppose this was… to be expected,” she replied slowly.

She gazed out the window; we were too far away to see exactly what was going on, but I could see three police cars and the ambulance through the clearing in the trees. Erika saw them, too.

“What the fuck is this?” I asked.

She responded quickly,

“We shouldn't be here. It's like an arsonist watching their fire from within the crowd.”

I looked at her and she slowly shifted her gaze from the blinking forest to my eyes. My heart was pounding in my ears. Francis was found dead and the person likely responsible was sitting in my truck. Erika wouldn’t be this afraid if he’d killed himself. She was more afraid than I was. If she's this scared right now, does she really want to end her life?

“Yeah. Let's go back to your place.”

“Mine? Why?”

“There's only so much more you can hide, Erika; I'm going in your fucking room.”

I pulled up in front of the tall, dark apartment building that I had become so accustomed to for years and then had suddenly been shunned from in the months before and after Mrs. Cohen's death. Erika had become more solitary, busier, and secretive as her grandmother got closer to death. I followed her up two flights of stairs and she pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. We walked in.

The living room was empty except for the rocking chair that Erika's grandmother usually sat in when she wasn't cooking or oil-painting. The television, bookshelf, and rug were gone – just the hardwood floor and creaky rocking chair remained. The tiny kitchen looked untouched and empty other than a bottle of mustard sitting on the counter. We walked down the short hallway, passing the bathroom and her grandmothers closed-up room, to Erika's room.

Her named was painted in purple on the door, as it always had been. Erika Violet Cohen.

It was dark inside, of course, but a small amount of light came in through her window from what was leftover of the sun. Erika walked to her desk and picked up her pink lighter and lit one large candle. I looked around her room; I saw several candles – mostly melted, a small purple box she kept random items in, her writing desk, the small, messy mattress in the corner where Erika had always slept, a large brown bow Erika practiced archery with as a pre-teen, and her black purse in the corner with fire-works sticking out. Her book shelf was gone and her book collection was scattered across the floor; some were open and some were closed. The box-spring was gone. Her dresser was gone.

I glanced at the closet; the door was closed, but I assumed her clothes were still hanging in there as usual. Lithium’s cage was gone, as was Lithium; she had handed her over to Zach last night day after saying goodbye for what she thinks is the last time. A page was open in her sketchbook on the floor, but all I could make out was a water-colored heart in the center of the page. She quickly picked it up from the floor and closed it. Her laptop was in a pink bag on her desk, unable to charge in this apartment. It had been ages since I had seen her on it and she could only update her SocialBook status once in a while from her phone.

“What happened to all the furniture?” I asked. I wondered if her grandmothers’ room was also empty, but by the state of the apartment I was sure it was empty. Erika had gotten rid of all her grandmother’s clothes and probably anything else that made her think too much of her except for the rocking chair. Mrs. Cohen would have had a very stern talk with Erika if she knew anything about the pact. They were so close; if Erika’s grandmother had not been sick towards the end she would have seen there was something going on. Maybe she did.

“Pawn shop. I don't need furniture,” she said, falling onto her mattress. I noticed a small blood-stain near her desk.

“Wow. Why didn't you just leave this place?” I asked. This is so depressing, I thought. No wonder she's suicidal.

“I have had no reason to,” she said. “I wouldn't stay with Miriam long because of her brother and because...Miriam is Miriam...”

“You've always been able to stay at my house.”

I sat down beside Erika. She sighed. The flame from the candle was growing and shrinking on her desk. I watched it. So did she.

The light amplified her paleness in a way, and the way her collar bones stood out much more than they used to. Her shirt was low-cut and I glanced back at her face quickly after I saw the black lace of her bra peeking out. Stop looking there.

She looked like she was disconnected from her body all the time, other than now, when her fingers were gripping the mattress intensely. She was thinking, and she really looked terrified.

“You know how I am about privacy.”

“Yeah and I know you weren't always as private as you are now. Not with me. You got me to sign a suicide pact, you told me about Kathleen before you spiked her, so you clearly have some trust, and I know about Francis.”

I put my hand under her chin and turned her face to look at me. She kept her gaze downward. “What else is there to hide?”

She glanced up at me, horrified – no – stunned by my question, and after a brief moment she shrank back. Erika didn't answer for several moments and wouldn't look at me for more than a split second before darting her eyes away.

“Nothing,” she finally said. “I just like to be alone.”

She was lying and she knew I knew she was lying, but I decided not to press it further. It wasn't anything demented. She looked nervous with me being here, like she was being exposed. Nervous like a normal girl would be…I connected the flashing dots from the last several years -last several months, especially - in my head quickly.

Holy fucking shit.

“You look a little afraid,” I continued, ignoring my own flip-flopping stomach.

“I...don't know what I am,” she said quietly. “I don't know if I'm happy about what I did or not.”

“You mean about Francis?”

“Yes. I did the right thing, but I don't know if I am happy about it. Or worse, if I may have liked it.”

I put my arm around her and she shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, I guess, since it already happened. But I'm glad you are here...”

She wrapped her cold fingers around mine and squeezed. She rested her head on my shoulder.

Holy fucking shit.

I stayed with Erika and talked about the police, Lithium’s new life with Zach, her current feelings and thoughts as well as what I could divulge of mine, and the “records” of the pact-days for another half hour until Miriam showed up and knocked on the door.

Erika allowed her in without questions and she sat on the bed on the other side of Erika. Miriam was wearing a long white shirt and jeans and she moved very slowly, her eyes were squinty as if she'd been crying. No matter how non-threatening Miriam seems, I always get the creeps around her, like I would if I knew an alligator wasn’t far from where I was sitting.

Erika tenses up every time Miriam touches her.

“Have either if you talked to the other signers tonight?” she asked, more to Erika than to me. I shook my head anyway as Erka muttered flatly,

“I’ve been saving my battery life.

“Did you know Francis was found dead?” Miriam continued.

“I saw police near his house,” Erika said flatly. “What happened?”

“Oh my God,” I said, pretending not to know. “That's why they were by the levee?”

“Yeah,” said Miriam. “Erika...he couldn't wait for the pact to be fulfilled. He took an overdose and then shot himself. Mason told me.”

She wrapped her warms around Erika and pulled her close. Erika sighed heavily. Even though I had known, and Erika had known and even been responsible to a large degree, the three of us were losing composure. We lost it. It's different when it becomes a spoken reality.

We sat for some time in broken silence and I felt Erika’s soft skin as my hand had ended up resting on her thigh. Erika dismissed both of us abruptly, handing the fireworks over to Miriam.

“I will see both of you tomorrow at 9:00 am on top of the school,” she said.

She handed me the hoodie she'd borrowed the night before to walk home.

“Yeah,” Miriam said.

As much as I wanted to ask Erika to leave that fucking apartment and sleep at my house, I knew better than to add onto her already set plans for what she thinks is her last night even though I don’t know why anyone would spend it alone.

So, I nodded, hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. She shut the bedroom door quietly behind us and I walked out with Miriam.

We walked down the stairs in silence. I felt nauseated and overwhelmed.

“She took that...well,” said Miriam. “Or maybe not. I can never tell.”

“She's going to process it alone,” I said. “And I can't tell either. She was kind of close to him, after all.”

Miriam nodded and fumbled with the fireworks a bit, looking at me.

“Oh...well, I have to bring these in before Mason sits up and waits for me.”

“But you're not going to come up tomorrow,” I reminded her. I put my hands in my pockets.

“I know, but they'll be nice for New Year’s or something,” she said. “What were y'all doing, anyway?”

“What? Oh, we were talking.”

“Erika doesn't like people coming inside anymore. And you were just...talking?”

“Yeah, what else would we be doing?”

Miriam is never direct. She dances around what she wants to say. And because of that, she’s nothing like Erika. Erika likes to rip to the core fast and hard. Miriam is a coward.

“Well...I don't know...I kind of figured, since this is supposed to be her last day...” Miriam stammered. “Um, just that she'd...want to do something else. I don't know.”

She stared directly at me and put her hand on her hip, as if she felt like she was being lied to. You are nothing like Erika.

“Something else? We weren't....no, nothing like that. We didn’t…we’ve never done that.”

Miriam's eyes widened and she nodded. This is getting weirder and weirder, I thought. I need a goddamn drink.

“I'm not going to ask why not... but... okay. Well, I'll see you tomorrow...after everything is settled.” She turned quickly, and I almost wanted to stop her and ask why she thought we were doing something else to verify what I probably figured out the hour before.

I wasn't sure I needed verification, but I wanted it. Everything could make sense now if I only asked for the truth.

I stopped her. My voice barely escaped.

“Wait.”

“What?” she asked turning sharply to glare at me. “You’re almost a grown man, Lewis, you can’t get in trouble. She likes you. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

My heart raced and my mind went blank for several moments before it followed. I stared at her for a moment, no longer wary of her anger towards me – she’s been waiting for me to figure it out.

When she texted me to tell me this months ago, it was brushed off when Erika said Miriam was delusional. Erika tricked me. Miriam tried.

I nod and she tried to smile before turning to walk home. I turn away to walk to my truck.

“See you tomorrow.”

I watched Miriam walk down the road and vanish as I got into my truck, and drove home. I should have offered her a ride but I couldn’t deal with anymore weird conversations, and all conversations between Miriam and I revolve around Erika. Miriam has always the same disdain for me as I had for Francis, and now that's starting to add up.

It's not a good thing that the day before I'm going to try and talk her out of jumping off a building, we get into a confrontation. This is going to be turned around on me that I’m against her, just like the rest of the world, and it will be added to the list of “Reasons Erika Should Kill Herself.”

Talking someone out of suicide should never involve slapping them across the face.

I'm not smart. Never really have been… that’s why I’m in Erika’s grade. Why did I even let the argument get out of hand like I did? Why do I let my emotions control my mouth? I pushed the subject, even; in all honesty – and in all childishness - I started it.

I sabotaged it all right before finding out that she hasn't been hiding any secret from me at all. She's just been hiding from me. Erika has the ability to bring out the worst in me; she makes me neurotic. And angry. Especially since what I heard about homecoming struck a nerve in me. I didn’t want Erika anywhere near Francis and now I feel guilty because he’s dead. And in many situations, she brings out the best in me and shows me the strengths I have. I can’t forget those times. I can't believe what's been going on, entirely undetected.

So here I am, and I'm scared. I hope everyone stays true to their promise. The promise to me, anyway. Which brings me to more guilt.

I have never broken a promise to Erika – not even as kids. Especially not one that was written and signed. It's against my morals in every way. And so it’s hard to make myself talk our friends out of doing what they promised to do even though the end result would be “death.” Am I helping, or am I prolonging their pain?

As far as convincing them not to jump, it wasn't hard to do because at this point in these people’s lives, they're nearly brain-dead. They just want guidance or a sliver of hope. What that hope is based on is up to them. Now I see how Erika got them to sign the pact in the first place – mix a few severely depressed, traumatized, sheltered kids with a very intelligent, delusional narcissist, and you have a memorable cluster suicide. Hopefully it won't work. I hope Erika isn’t literally or figuratively pushed over the edge. I hope this isn't recorded in any newspapers for everyone's sake. I hope no one ever finds out about the pact or about Erika's preparations, and I hope she comes into her right mind long enough to get off that building tomorrow morning and go to the Fall Festival like she has been doing her whole damn life.

Hope is all I can have tonight.

I will get her off the building. Then we really, really need to have a talk about something that's entirely unrelated but is really going to weigh on my mind. Please, don't let her get put in prison. She’ll never survive a Big Sally.

I haven't talked to any of the others much except for Joshua. Tommy's been spending quality time with his boyfriend and texts a few times a day to see how I'm holding up, and Robin texts me to see if everyone's doing okay and if Erika has shown any signs of backing out of the pact herself.

Joshua is very adamant about keeping the others off the building, by force if needed. He is still with me on the plan and has thanked me repeatedly for reminding me that he has a choice, and this our friends have a choice – choices not governed by Erika. He said he's going to be at the festival tomorrow and is willing to help in any way he can.

Only Joshua has seen this evolution as closely as I have.

I'm not sure what anyone could do... even me. We’ve made choices and we’ve backed out of those choices. Our decisions are as fleeting as our will to stay alive. But unless Erika manages to pull me from the rooftop tomorrow, I'll write again.

Wish me luck.

Lewis

Chapter 7

October 7

I have decided to get up extra early this morning to write. Okay, “extra” for me is maybe thirty minutes, and I really did not sleep. At all. I spent hours in my head – my last daydreams, and I would lie if I said they consisted of little more than that boy. I kept my hand to my cheek where he kissed me last night, knowing he was unaware of what it meant for me.

So, awake I stayed. Why sleep on my last night? I’ll have forever to do that. But I am awake, for the last time. This is my last time to wake up, to write, to listen to The Birthday Massacre too loudly for my own good, and my last sunrise to see. I’ve danced, I’ve put on my makeup, I kissed the mirror.

And I am so unbelievably happy.

Death is supposedly so sad and so very tragic... and I’ve experienced grief first-hand. I’m not jaded. I’m not immune. But death is freedom. I’ve unlocked my six closest friends, even if one was set free early; we are birds, and sometimes the bird reaches through the cage and plucks the key from the omnipresent hand of the oppressor.

Death has been tragic for some lately, though, and Kathleen Harvey’s parents are pressing the police about her suicide. A simple case of “my child would never kill themselves,” but Kathleen’s family may be prominent enough to get some work done. I’ll save the police some trouble. Once they find this, they can assure Kathleen’s parents they were right and that their child never committed suicide. They can take down that stupid memorial.

And Caleb wasn’t burned by a random vandal. And Francis didn’t die alone.

I’m sure whoever does manage to get a hold of this and read it and broadcast it will see this all in such a lack of light that it will distort everything I’d like to get across to humanity. They know fucking nothing. But here I am, on my death day, happier than I have been in my entire sixteen-year life. No longer does it matter that I am abnormal, or that Lewis won’t love me, or that God created me only to discover that this plain of existence is meant for escapism. Because I have won the race. God granted me that gift; the gift to win. I have indeed, because in two hours I will be getting scraped up off the pavement and each and every narrow mind will be painfully forced open with a meta-physical wrench.

And my soul will smile, and I will never go to into another fucking classroom or to play games at another fucking Fall Festival.

I never did wallow in my own problems in peace like Lewis. I take them out on myself, others, and then I do something about it. That’s what I am doing now. I have never been one to get hurt easily – emotionally, anyway. I simply can’t care the way that others do.

And yet it’s too much pain to be in for sixteen long, drawn out years, and I am happy to the point of ecstasy to get out of it. I cannot imagine seventy years of this. That’s just masochistic.

I will be glad to go wherever it is I am going. I think wherever it is will be full of people like me, if I'm not the first. People who will like me just fine, and laugh down at all the human sheep on this planet and laugh even harder when they blow themselves up.

Francis is waiting on me.

This world is wretched; I spent so much time being bandaged up by my grandmother that I barely had a chance to learn the skills she had to offer and to teach me before she died. My watercolors could’ve been so much better, and I could’ve learned more songs on the long-gone piano. The people of St. Christina were vicious to me, and to this day I am unsure why; I know I'm different, but I don't know how, and no one ever took the time to explain it to me. This is my suicide, but is it also their murder? My grandmother took care of me since I was an infant; she taught me to sit up straight, to cook, to pretend I was okay, she taught me to paint, and encouraged archery, dancing, and my writing.

Then she was gone; my mother never even existed to me once I left her body – she fed me for a few hours before I was taken under a lamp and she was hanging by the sheets. My father is unknown to me. The only boys that matter are the signers.

Lewis has been my closest ally throughout my life and will be my closest ally in ending it. My real family is Lewis, Joshua, Tommy, Miriam, Robin, and the now late Francis. They are more than friends to me. They're blood.

I will walk out of this apartment one last time and make it through town, taking my time. I’ll pass more memories than I could ever hope to count, and I think about the routes each of my friends will be walk. Joshua’s isn’t much different from my own although I anticipate him being the last to show up. If I’d allowed for it, I would walk down the levee for a way until I could see Francis’s house and whether they were still looking around.

But why bother now?

I’ve tried to feel anything about this – nerves, fear, butterflies. I don’t feel any of the things one may think would be natural to feel on such a day as this. But I’m happy I feel almost nothing but peaceful. When I leave the room and close the door, if everything comes back to me I will say goodbye to each thought as it crashes over me as waves do. And that’s what a thought without action is – a wave.

I’m not afraid of a fall. This entire sixteen years has been one steady fall from my beginning to my end, so what’s to fear now? Not death. Not hell. Not being alone; I won’t be alone. That’s been made certain of. Can I be certain that the others feel so calm? The only thing in life and in death to fear is the loss of control, but they’re under control. Aren’t they? I’m within my control. The moods of others can only be pulled by a string from afar – a text, a call, a poem posted passive-aggressively in haste to SocialBook. We know what hopelessness is, Dedicate our time to it, Hollowed out half-hearts, Show each other our scars, We know what hopelessness is, Dedicate our lives to dying, Hold each other crying, Hide each other's hearts, We know what hopelessness is, Dedicate our tongues to it, Singing ice songs to you, We hide what we do.

The time has come to go meet Lewis, Robin, Tommy, Joshua and Miriam at St. Christina High School. My last hope is that when we jump, Lewis holds my hand. I do not care who is on the other side, if anyone, but I want his hand to hold mine this once without it being with an intention to get me away from an oncoming fight. I bet if anyone is nervous, it’s him.

I’ll even go as far as to plead if it will get him on either side of me. It’s time to get it done.

Goodbye, world.

Erika

Chapter 8

October 7

I survived this horrible day that Erika spent months planning so passionately. I don't know what to think of it; now I'm wishing I had gone along with her, but I didn't. I should have met that ledge with her and a scream and been fucking done with it.

It has been a long day.

I showed up immediately before Erika and stood behind the pillar close to Joshua’s usual lunchtime hangout, out of sight. Miriam arrived at the same time and I watched her get out of the car at a distance with some football player, they kissed, and then they walked their separate ways. Miriam watched him walk across the parking lot for a long moment. For a moment I thought she’d follow him.

I turned my attention back to Erika who was observing the surroundings and the people who were bringing in things for the Fall Festival. Once she thought no one was looking, she made a b-line for the door to the stairwell only a few yards from where I was hiding.

I watched her, and followed her up the stairs.

My legs weren’t cooperating. One step, two. The door to the roof slammed shut. Nine steps, ten. What was I going to say? I made it to the top. The door. Staring back at me, black and cold. I pushed it open in defiance.

Erika turned and smiled at me once we were both on the roof and the door closed behind me. That's a lot of fucking stairs.

She was wearing a denim mini-skirt and her dark blue hoodie, covering a purple Hello-Kitty tank-top she wore frequently and often referred to as “lucky.” Her hair was sprayed with glitter she used last Halloween. I know she takes care of her appearance, but she suddenly cared about glittery hair on the day she planned to die? Part of the preparation rules involved looking our best… In my depression, I had barely changed shirts lately.

“How are you?” she asked.

I felt sick to my stomach from the situation but didn't want to give away the fact that no one else was going to arrive or that I wasn’t on board. I had spent all night rolling around in bed and getting up to vomit.

I needed to seem calm.

“I'm fine. You?” My voice was already quivering… But that should be normal even if I were about to jump.

“Best.”

It was 9:00 and no one else had shown up yet. Erika didn't look entirely too nervous. Then again, she never does anymore. Our silence was thick and threatening and even Erika seemingly couldn’t stand it.

“I am glad you showed up first, Lewis,” she said softly and pointed her ballet-shoe toe at me and I remembered, somewhere in my skull, that she told me after studying body language that you can tell if someone is interested in you by where their toes face.

Why was I even thinking about that? Now isn't the time to analyze our friendship. I smiled at her and she grinned and added in a low tone,

“But they better hurry the fuck up.”

I nodded. The sky was getting darker and darker as we stood together – as she waited for the others and I waited for some form of bravery.

“Erika…I want to tell you something…” I said slowly. She stopped her sky-gazing and looked at me, almost nervously.

“Yeah?” We were both standing by the stairwell leading to the roof, waiting. I felt the words coming on and finally I met Erika’s gaze and said quietly,

“I want to hold your hand.”

Erika looked away nervously and then to the edge, and back to me. Her mind was betraying her attempt to be calm as she looked at me, deeply afraid, and our fingers met, and our hands touched briefly. She felt cold and soft and weak.

Then, to my absolute horror, I heard someone coming up slowly. A teacher? Was any activity happening on the goddamn roof this year? Did word get out? Did one of the signers decide this was too much for me?

We pulled our hands back to our bodies.

It was goddamn Miriam.

“Why are you late, and where’s everyone else?” asked Erika, sounding intruded on - anxious.

Her eyes had changed. She was still looking at me but Miriam answered. I pulled nervously on my blue hoodie sleeves and felt my heart rate sky-rocket.

“I'm sorry, Mason woke up late and had to get ready for the Fall Festival. I don't know where they are...”

Miriam looked at me as I gave her the evil eye, and she shrugged tiredly.

Then she went on to stare at Erika in awe. Miriam, the minion. Erika was staring at me, her jade eyes too intense for my own comfort - much more than usual. She walked stiffly and hesitantly over to the edge and saw Robin, Tommy, and Joshua standing in the parking lot as people walked in all directions carrying bags of candy for prizes and decorations for various tables.

They saw her.

She cocked her head and beckoned them, and they lowered their heads or just averted their eyes. How could we tell what they were doing from so high up? I just know them so well now…Tommy gave a small wave. I looked at my own shadow against the gray concrete of the roof. Even my shadow feels small.

Then, she turned around to face me like a taunted demon.

“Why aren’t they up here?” she asked.

Her mouth was twisted to the side and she was gritting her teeth, visibly. I sighed. It was time. I tried to hide my trembling hands in my pockets but my shaky voice gave me away. Nervous fucking wreck.

“Look, Erika,” I walked closer to her.

“You’re fucking kidding, right?”

She was too close to the edge for my liking and her eyes were glimmering with either a cannibalistic rage or tears. Miriam was teetering as well.

“They're not going to jump.”

“Why? What the fuck, Lewis?” The tone in her voice became very intense and almost nasal. She took a few quick steps towards me.

“I told them... I told everyone not to jump.” I looked at Miriam. “Everyone agreed, including Francis, including your little slave, here. I'm only up here to get you. I'm up here for you.”

Her expression returned to blank.

“I’m going to kill you all,” she said very quietly.

It wasn't as if I didn't already think she'd like to pitch me over the edge...

“That’s fine, but please, let’s gets off here. Please. I want to talk to you someplace else. What if a teacher comes up? Everyone is going to know…we have to get out of here.”

“Fuck you. You’re a terrible traitor. So are they,” she pointed towards the rest of the pact signers in the parking lot. “Why didn't you tell me, Miriam?”

A few other teenagers were watching casually. But the pact signers…they were watching intently. They knew this could end very badly. I couldn’t really see their faces so well, being six stories up. I wondered what we looked like from their perspective. They probably had no fucking clue...

“I...uh...I wanted to...” Miriam stammered. “I didn’t know how.”

“With words, Miriam!”

“I don't want you to jump, Erika! There are ways to deal with problems without going to extreme measures.”

“Do you not understand that this is not a way to deal with my problems? I love this. We were made for this. I’m going to put an end to what I’m doing. Nobody else can. You had plenty of chances.”

What are you talking about?

“I know, Erika,” I lied. “But the things that led you to this...You have a chance…life…” Impending panic attack. “I know what you're hiding now.”

“You don’t understand what I… Fuck it, ok, I’m jumping. I cannot even rely on my supposed friends.”

Miriam smiled and took one of the fireworks from her pink bag. She lit it, pointed it in the air, and it exploded with a ton of bright colors. She gasped at the colors and looked at Erika for approval, but Erika was only looking at me.

“Know what I'm hiding? What? Friendship is a ridiculous concept.”

“No it's not! They're down there waiting for you to come down. I'm up here to tell you that...”

Erika took a step closer to the edge and I almost ran towards her as she turned around, but she screamed at the top of her lungs,

“You’re uninvited!”

This fireworks explosion caused nearly all the high school students -who would surely recognize us if they looked close - and some younger kids who had shown up already to come around to the side of the building where we were standing. I don't know why none of the teachers came up there –assholes- but they didn't. I heard thunder. What if they just think fireworks have been incorporated in the festivities?

I started to panic more; things got blurry. Every word I had rehearsed, every thought – it all slipped away. The kids below were looking at us, some as old as me, and some as young as four. Erika looked down at them, and some of them waved. I trembled more. Tommy, Joshua, and Robin were in the front row.

“Erika, please.”

“Lewis, I can’t make you do it,” she said. She sounded defeated. “I tried to help you. Don’t want it? Go to my room and on my desk, there’s a pink journal. Everything I cannot say is in it, including my records of this. Keep them for yourself alone or rid tangibility of it all if you like. Don't let yourself be known as an accessory. If you do that you’d be better off jumping.”

She looked at Miriam. I could tell Miriam was going to follow Erika in whatever choices she made, as usual, so I didn't think to bother trying to talk her out of it until this one moment.

“Miriam, you promised too. Everyone promised not to jump. You agreed, too…”

Erika sighed, looking at Miriam.

“You bother too much,” she said.

Miriam ignored me and continued to shoot off the second candle.

“Don't jump, and you can come with me to get it and we can talk about it.” I knew I sounded stupid; as if Erika was going to talk about anything with me after this, alive or not. “You're not alone. You're not as alone as you think you are.”

You're not as different as you think you are.

I had no clue what she was talking about, and my thoughts were racing so fast that I felt I may faint. The wind was picking up. The sky was gray and the air was cool like the day we were walking to my house for a suicide meeting.

I felt intermittent drops of rain from the sky every few seconds, and Erika stared at me, glittering from the rain and the actual glitter she applied, now looking like a real person with real feelings. Her placid exterior was gone, and she didn't look so poised. My heart dropped.

Then Erika made a decision and I was sent into shock. She took five running steps forward - to me - put both of her arms around my back, and kissed me. It wasn't a friendly kiss, either, if such a thing exists outside of me kissing her cheek the night before. It was real.

I felt myself freeze and every kind of emotion I never allowed myself to admit ran through my entire body and I forgot I was on top of our school with two suicidal friends. I wrapped my arms around her in return. This is the part of the friendship I was avoiding thinking about until you were safe.

Her lips were cold against mine and she wrapped both of her arms around my back and squeezed, pressing herself against me. My hands were tangled up in her hair.

I lost myself. I'm losing it.

Then it was over; she pulled away and stepped back.

“Bye,” she said.

She took Miriam's hand and turned around.

“Stop!” I tried to scream but it was only a whisper. Whatever strength I had, you just took.

I ran a few steps toward them before I began shutting down in fear. She turned around and looked at me, piercing me with her saddened, determined gaze. I heard thunder and I looked away for a split second, watching for the lightning I could nearly feel nearby. It struck.

Then I looked back, and they were both gone.

They jumped. All I could hear was a collective shrieking from below. I was scared to death to look over the edge and see what happened, so I didn't. I realized, upon trying to walk, that I had fallen to my knees and was shaking badly. I breathed halfway in and couldn't go further – I stood up anyway.

I went through the door and ran downstairs, the blue walls a blur, and heard the screaming of what was at least sixty disturbed St. Christina citizens. Adults pushed their way through the crowd towards the scene. I heard distant sirens.

I ran towards Robin, Tommy, and Joshua. I tried with all my strength not to look at the expected mess on the concrete fifteen feet in front of me. I may have been crying. I may have been screaming.

“Oh my God!” Tommy screamed repeatedly. “Oh my God, my God, oh my God.” He was hysterical. “You were supposed to stop them.”

He looks how I feel. Several people backed away from the concrete where they fell, and I saw faces of fear and nausea. Robin sighed repeatedly, trying to steady himself. I wanted to die.

My eyes followed Joshua as he ran towards the place where they landed. I saw blood. I mostly saw Miriam -eyes still open. I wasn’t expecting that much blood. And Joshua knelt next to the other girl, who I noticed through my fingers I held up over my eyes had somehow gotten at least three feet away from Miriam. He was speaking to her and cradled her head in his lap. Her body was limp.

There was no way I could keep watching him. He was cradling the dead body of the girl I was in love with. I lost her. She won.

Soon he was sent back to us as paramedics arrived and the students were forced away.

“She wouldn’t listen. She kissed me, dude,” I whispered. I felt like I was going to have a heart attack. “And jumped. What…don’t tell me…she’s – I can’t hear the words.”

“Of course, she did,” Joshua said. “She's loved you forever. Everyone knows.”

“Yeah? Well, no one fucking told me until it was too late.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling surreal. I could feel myself trembling between sob-attacks.

I kept my eyes on Joshua.

“Social cues, Lewis. Blatant ones.”

I held myself and shivered harder. Robin was doing the same thing and he and Tommy stood close to me; Joshua was the only one who was close to calm and even he was crying silently.

The Fall Festival was canceled today. Erika’s calamity was too much for fun activities to happen, and too many kids had gotten sick from the display. I'm surprised I didn't. Erika’s final wish had been to traumatize the town, and that she did. I didn't see them carry Erika and Miriam out, because I didn't want to. Because I assumed, like everyone else, except the ones brave enough to look longer than I did, that they were dead.

One of them is dead.

According to the word of the kids who had been watching intently -like Erika had wanted- when they were falling to the ground, they were in a hugging position, wrapped around each other. No one could tell for sure that they had jumped together, and no one could tell for sure that one didn’t drag the other down without permission. Miriam fell first. The most common account is that Miriam pulled Erika.

Erika landed on top of Miriam. Miriam died. Joshua did actually speak to Erika though she was barely conscious, and he said it was awful to be near Miriam – the sickest thing he had ever seen, by far, and he couldn’t erase the images from his memory. And Joshua told me that all Erika said when he’d held her on the concrete was “am I dying?”

Erika is now in the hospital and then off to the mental and behavioral ward. We try to be polite and just call it “the ward.”

Robin, Tommy, Joshua, and I went up to see her when she was in the emergency room. Erika was hooked to an IV which I only hoped was a painkiller for the broken ribs and fractured pelvis. She was having her wounds cleaned by a nurse and she looked at me. I was surprised they let all four of us in the room.

“Be sure,” she said quietly, “to get the journal. Hide yours.”

“I will. As soon as we leave.”

“I will not be out for about a month. Fucked up ribs. Pelvis is botched, also.”

“It’s going to be longer than a month, Erika,” said Robin bluntly.

We all looked at her with pity in our eyes and I knew she hated it. She looked like she always did, only with a few scrapes and bruises. I supposed it just reflects her ways more; the way she looked as a kid so many times when she would have her own panic attacks and tantrums from dealing with schoolyard assholes.

The way she was before she froze.

“Miriam didn’t make it,” Tommy muttered.

Erika blinked several times, her eyes darting around the room nervously.

“I know this,” she whispered. “I remember everything. The fall, Miriam dying so fast, looking at me - everything…”

Joshua had told me Erika didn’t fully lose consciousness after the fall and was trying to crawl away when he ran to her.

“I told the law that you were up there to help us. I told them she wanted to jump. Don’t mention the pact to anyone.”

“Thanks…Erika…” Tommy said. “I’m so sorry we didn’t go with you.”

We all knew that if word got out that we’d signed a suicide pact, we’d be blacklisted from any possible jobs or life.

“So the cops think that Miriam took you down with her?” Joshua asked. “Or what? It did look that way.”

“It was a blur,” she said slyly. I shivered. “But they only know about Miriam and I being suicidal. You’re in the clear. Keep it that way.”

Before we left, I let the guys go out first to give me a minute with Erika. I'm sure she didn't want me to be there, but I felt it was in order and even if it wasn't, I had to talk to her.

“You’re going to be okay,” I said. I put my hand over hers. She stared in front of her for a moment and then sighed. She was exhausted.

“No. I would have been if you had never betrayed me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I wanted to save you.”

“You did the opposite of that. I have nothing now and nowhere.”

I decided not to argue. I couldn’t think clearly and neither could she. I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. That's not going to cut it.

Then I kissed her on the lips.

“You’re wrong.”

Just for being on top of the building when the deed happened, I was questioned by policemen for a few moments. They caught me outside of the hospital when we were leaving.

“Excuse me sir, are you Lewis Ellington?” the cop asked. He was about my height and had steel blue eyes.

“Yeah. Yes sir.”

The guys stood back a few feet. I panicked and assumed Erika’s journal or the pact had been found. Was I an accomplice?

“You were on top of your school with Ms. Cohen and Ms. Lodge when the incident happened? Correct?” he spoke sharply.

“Yes sir.”

“How did you know your girlfriend was up there?”

“Well, she called me sometime this morning and seemed depressed and worried about Miriam and she’d talked about it… talked about feeling depressed lately. Then I followed her onto the roof.”

I was shivering and lying horribly. I’m apparently not a good accomplice.

“All right then. Any clue why Ms. Lodge was with her? Was she…prone to suicidal tendencies as well?”

“I…uh… yeah. She’s… Miriam was a cutter and obsessed with Erika and they’re…were…close. I guess that’s why this happened. Don’t know why she was with Erika…so early...”

“Well, thanks for your help Mr. Ellington. Ms. Cohen said you tried to help her and Ms. Lodge but that Ms. Lodge was pretty insistent… I’m sorry for your loss. Have a safe evening.”

He walked off. I turned to my friends and widened my eyes and could breathe. They looked as nervous as I felt. If the pact was found, we’d all end up in the ward.

Erika is letting Miriam take too much of the credit.

When I got home, I heard the news of Francis being found dead the day before and Tommy's parents having a wreck as well on the television. Things were finally being televised and I was way ahead of them. They were labeling everything to be “apparent suicides” except for the wreck as part of a “string of accidents” so Erika is likely in the clear as well.

Now they're investigating the string of deaths by checking how many people have stopped attending church in the past few months, as if that fucking matters, and interrogating the workers of the chemical plant down the way. I’m the only one who knows the truth. Because I got her diary.

I only hope that when she gets out of the hospital, we can be friends still. Maybe she can stop acting on her delusions - or whatever this spree was- and we can move away. I read everything she wrote in her diary, like she told me to, and I know now what I want, and I hope that after today she still wants the same things she was hiding. Minus death and other horrific shit. There must be something equally wrong with me for having feelings for someone who has killed people and thought they were doing the right thing, so I can’t judge Erika too harshly. If she told me long before, what if the pact never came to be?

Fuck “feelings.” I really love her. And have for a long time.

Tommy, Robin, and Joshua are sleeping here tonight; we're all too fucked up to be around anyone else - especially Tommy. He told me that he couldn’t even face Zach. Surely, he may have hated his parents but they were his parents, and he just found out about their deaths and about their funeral dates. Francis is dead and everyone is shocked. Disturbed. Sick. Terrified.

And even though Miriam was closest to Erika, we had all grown to be friends with her in the last few months. We don't want her to be dead. We still don't know exactly what was wrong with her, and I still don't know exactly what's wrong with Erika. No one will ever figure that out – not even the doctors.

But I’ll never get the image of Miriam’s bloody head out of my mind, or the image of Joshua’s desperate clambering to see if Erika was going to live.

Erika’s getting locked up in the ward after making sure none of us get in trouble, and her followers are lying on blankets in my bedroom floor wishing they'd jumped off the building with her. Maybe with these deaths, they're going to see that committing suicide is a serious fucking decision and that the world keeps moving after you've done it. Three suicides, one failed. A suspicious car wreck. A strange fire. A burned boy. The town will be full of murmurs and SocialBook posts and newspaper pieces about Miriam and Erika, but even Kathleen only got a few memorial posters in her honor.

Francis got nothing.

What was Erika hoping for? Whatever she’s getting, she won’t experience from where she is. But I’m fucking dreading it.

Erika may have lived, but my plan failed. I saved no one and we we’re left on the floor of my house. I failed her and I failed everyone else in a way she never would have.

The paper we signed wasn't in her diary. I didn’t find it in any of the other things I picked up; I’m gathering the rest tomorrow and keeping it here for when Erika is free again.

I hope she tore up that fucking pact.

Lewis

Surviving an Eating Disorder Relapse

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Thu, 24 Aug 2017 21:31:00 +0000

I've had an eating disorder for thirteen years, give or take. Sometimes I feel like it really began when I was 6 and had a workout routine and became ecstatic when a tummy virus made me lose weight. Either way, this is a long-haul issue for me and for many others. I've bounced between bulimia and anorexia my entire life, with weights ranging from clinically underweight all the way to "technically obese"right after giving birth.
I lost 90 pounds. I've been accused of gastric bypass because of the stretchmarks on my arms. The look on their faces when I tell them all it took was a little self control is priceless. If you're an adult and still battling an ED, many professionals won't take you seriously. ED's are like addictions - once you've got the addiction, that substance is forever a danger to you. The difference is, with eating disorders, we can't just avoid food, toilets, nausea, mirrors, and every corner of life that could possibly make us yearn for control.
Because that's what it's about. Control. Here is a realistic list of tips for surviving an Eating Disorder relapse.

1. You probably drink coffee. A lot of it. Add some soy milk or almond milk. Not for the calories, since they're actually fairly low in calories, but for the protein. You need your muscles.

2. If you like to fast, don't limit yourself to water only. Get some tea, make homemade juice or buy some you feel comfortable drinking. Get a blender and make fruit smoothies. You won't have to feel food digesting, your caloric intake will stay low, and you'll still get nutrients.

3. If you're prone to binging and purging, drink a lot of water while you eat. Chew. Don't make the process more damaging than it has to be.

4. Keep sports drinks and Pedialite in your house whether you're bulimic or not, but ESPECIALLY if you're bulimic. Drink some after a purge, and drink it if you take laxatives, which brings me to...

5. Choose laxatives wisely if you must take them. I know having food moving around in your body can be extremely uncomfortable during a relapse. Magnesium Citrate is a soda-like laxative beverage you can get at any pharmacy and it works within about 3 hours. It gets the job done, and it's not painful. I used to drink these in college like a normal person would drink a Dr. Pepper.

6. Chocolax and baby laxatives are good choices if you bounce between fasting/restricting and binging/purging. Your digestive system slows down and you're sitting there feeling putrid because the food isn't moving. Take a gentle laxative and get hydrated.

7. Drunkorexia- you know what I'm talking about - keep sports drinks with you at all times. When you're not getting drunk, you better be drinking fluids. Electrolytes. Water.

8. Be aware that lack of food will alter your mood and ability to make decisions. Take your time with big choices and avoid high-strung conversations that will make you snappy. You can come out of your relapse and be healthy again, but people will remember the things you said to them when you were starving.

9. Do your best to avoid weighing. Weighing inspires one to compete with themselves. If you have to do it, only do it once a week.

10. Try to let go of the need to control, and figure out what exactly in your life triggered the relapse and address it. The Eating Disorder may be active while you're putting the pieces together, but it will be easier to recover when you understand what caused it to come back to life.

Recovery is the goal, but relapse is always possible. Better to survive it than to pretend it doesn't happen.

Dizzy.

Pro-Ana and Fat Acceptance. The Difference is in the Jeans Size.

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Tue, 27 Jun 2017 02:29:00 +0000

In the last decade or more, the “pro-ana” and “pro-mia” communities of online forums came under fire for promoting a disorder. Anorexia and Bulimia are eating disorders, but many in the pro-ana community viewed it as an acceptance of their disorder and harnessing their manipulative behaviors in order to feel thin, to feel beautiful, and most of all, to feel in control. Rarely did I see anyone encouraging others to vomit or fast – although we did indeed have group fasts. Our goal was never for men to "learn to love" our bodies, unlike the cry of "sexism" when a man prefers not to sleep with overweight women. We know what we're doing. We did not shame each other for not being skinny, especially seeing as many of us with bulimia were NEVER skinny.

We traded tips on the safest way to manage a fast, on the safest way to purge a la water (by the way, rinse with baking soda and wait half an hour before brushing. It protects the enamel.)

We posted photos of our collarbones, and we posted “thinspo.” Thinspiration. Pictures for us to gaze upon of girls who were often either photshopped or, preferably, naturally skinny teens. Sometimes we would hit gold and find a collection of very underweight girls. They looked sick. We ached for that.

Thinspiration is like the unhealthy version of “Fitspo.” Thinspo is like the underweight version of “Body Positive Fat Acceptance.”

The difference is in the jeans size. The psychology is semantics; pro-ana becomes addicted to their control, and Pro-Fat Acceptance becomes addicted to food. We are empty and you are full.

Pro-Ana promotes water, exercise, and by all means, achieving the body we feel we were meant to have. A body we would be proud of, even if our eyes are sallow.

Fat-Acceptance promotes “indulge in that cake, ignore your doctor about that knee pain, be proud of your body as it jiggles each and every way." Fat-Acceptance hijacked the term “curvy” and applied it only to fat women. When I say fat, I am applying it to women (and men) who prefer to take back the term. I don’t mean it as a slur. So let me bring you into the world, if you will, of Fatspo.

Tess Holiday. She had made a career of being a lovely, but obese, pinup model. And at every turn she makes an effort to glorify being fat. She claims to be in top-notch health. I beg to differ.

"ME SO HEALTHY!"

One of the great appeals for me when I was heavily involved in pro-ana (and I am still working through my ana-mia mindset over a decade later) was that instead of a preachy recovery forum, we had a connection in knowing this disorder was hurting us. We felt at peace when someone else said “yeah, I threw up half a cookie today and then binged again anyway. And Purged.” Because some of us had done it as well. There was empathy when a girl wanted to fast for six days, made it to five and broke down and had a slice of pizza and got depressed. We didn’t say she failed. We wore red or purple bracelets to recognize each other in public. We were friends.

I imagine the Fat-Acceptance Movement - a bastardization of Body Positive – feels the same but they refuse to recognize than obesity is one of the leading causes of death in this country. They refuseto accept that Compulsive-Over-Eating-Disorder makes you just as ill as the anorectic. I want to protect my child from being one of the 60% and rising of obese individuals in this country. Loving your body at any moment is great but loving your body also means wanting to work towards what is best for it. Promoting “feeders” (guys who get off on over-feeding their fat women with tubes) is not body positive. Telling post-partum women not to lose the baby weight and to find a “fat positive doctor” is not body positive. Normalizing obesity is not body positive.

IT. IS. SUICIDE.

At least in Pro-Ana communities, we admit it.

the bath of disordered denial.

DIZZY

Isolation Nation: Contagious Disconnect

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Tue, 16 May 2017 22:26:00 +0000

Over the years I have written and talked about isolation quite a lot. Much of the basis for this very blog is my glorification of isolationism and my perceived "choice" to be socially isolated. I like being alone, I like to spend time alone, and I work best when I'm alone. There is nothing wrong with this... but realize that I have maintained my isolation since the beginning of this blog over five years ago. In that time, I have moved over a dozen times and moved to three different states. I went to college, dropped college, went back to college, joined a church, left a church, got work writing, got married, had a baby, ended a marriage, I've participated in art shows, I've gone to literary festivals, published a book, and even went to a few purely social events...and have come up at the end of this trip around the country with absolutely no in-person social network. There is a fine line between an active choice and a pathological behavior. I have more than crossed that line.

There are studies that show social disconnectedness is actually a death hastening phenomena akin to obesity and some addictions although, like many mental health and mortality studies, it's inconclusive as to how exactly isolation affects health so seriously. But when it's taken into account that serotonin and dopamine are what causes happiness and that oxytocin is an anti-depressant, it seems abundantly clear that we have to treat our brain and our mind for what they are - physical. We wouldn't like leave an open wound to fester. The mental reward system for some of us - myself included - counters the very basic human factor of being a social animal. We get less happiness from our interactions and we may experience excess cortisol when attempting social contact. That essentially means that the effort and fight-or-flight-or-freeze response is stronger than the happiness we experience when we have friends. Friendships are formed during frequent social contact and that's a lot of work. It just isn't worth it.

At least, that's what we tell ourselves. There are many reasons a person may self-isolate, ranging from depression to certain personality disorders to being on the autistic spectrum. I'm on the spectrum. Many of my online friends are on the spectrum or personality disordered and we often pride ourselves in how well we do without much social contact. But I take note of my own behavior and sometimes I wonder if they're pacing holes into the floor as they sink into their fantasy lives that provide just a sliver of oxytocin - I wonder if they've tricked themselves through maladaptive daydreaming. I wonder how functional we really are that our sensory processing doesn't allow for regular social contact. I wonder how apathetic we are when we make a friend-attempt a few times a year and it blows up in our faces. I think about the kind of people our isolation and loneliness attracts. And it just isn't a pretty picture.

The perks of being primarily fine and dandy without friends is that we are choosy about who we'll let into our lives. We may have high standards, be independent, introspective. We're likely very good at a few things that occupy our time. The downside of genuine desperate loneliness is that sometimes we may interact with people unworthy of our time just for relief. The downside is missed opportunities, of disabling inability to socialize even to work, and our deteriorating health. The downside - and it sounds like a contradiction - is that perceived loneliness is contagious. All it takes is for one person in a social circle to feel lonely and misplaced for the entire structure to be shaken and then you don't just feel lonely, you become isolated, and your cues will make others perceive themselves as lonely around you. One persons perception of loneliness creates a reality of loneliness for each party involved, even if only briefly.

I have no immediate plans to make friends. And in all honesty, I would not know how to begin. Is the isolation still a choice? Is this intentional, conscious, did I make myself the center of the universe? Or is this pathological self-defeating behavior that will, in the end, deteriorate my health and leave me with little more than a daydream on my death bed? Perhaps it is both. Perhaps it's not out of the question that we have fooled ourselves and we are not simply being introverts. I advocate alone-time as much as I advocate breathing. But maybe in this moment, if only once, I should encourage others like me to consider deeper connections in-person. It could save your life.

Dizzy.

We The Minorities - What To Do Now.

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Thu, 10 Nov 2016 17:48:00 +0000

On November 8^th, 2016, a reality television star was elected to be the president of my country by losing the popular vote and wining the electoral. I also turned twenty-five. The disgust I feel for the anti-intellectualism, fear-mongering bigots I always knew existed - but hoped were limited to places like my hometown- reached a new apex and will surpass every other memory I have of my birthday.

Never in my life have I related so much to Lion Kings “Scar” who was surrounded by idiots as I do right now. People like the geniuses from my hometown who think this man is fighting for the common “work-boot American who ain’t got no food stamps like them lazy damn liberals” are going to eventually face the music when they realize he’s only concerned about smooth-handed men in pricey leather work-loafers and Rolex. An overwhelming number of liberals are actually wealthy and employed, by the way, good ole boys.

Violence is already breaking out against minorities, and people like me who are disabled don’t know how much longer we’ll have healthcare. People like me who are Jewish are seeing swastikas on storefronts along with the new presidents’ name – and they aren’t being ironic. Muslims who were born and raised here are worried to worship freely. Legal Mexican immigrants (and anyone who looks like they MIGHT be Hispanic) are being verbally attacked where they work. I hope they spit in your food and drug your margarita.

Last summer, gays were granted the right to marry nation-wide, and they are afraid to lose that. Women are concerned about losing access to birth control and reproductive rights in general while someone who has been inappropriate with and about his own daughter heads straight for the White House. This week we found out that most of white America doesn't care about women, including other women.

I listen to a police scanner at night and can hear scanners from all over the country; if you’re horrified, you should be. But what do we do now? The first thing, is accept that he won and people who agree with his rhetoric are on a power-trip. Who you voted for no longer matters. Start giving to charities like planned parenthood, LGBT+ crisis centers, and environmental protection agencies. Also important is to stop the idealistic thinking that “we are all in this together.” No, we are not. We are divided for a reason. These aren’t just people who “say mean things,” these are people are happy for the fear of other Americans. These are white nationalists pretending to be republicans. Stop falling for one-liners. And for all the “I hope he’s a good president, wanting him to fail is like sinking a ship we’re all on” nonsense is making me lose even more respect for the common mind. If he fails his supporters, the ship doesn’t sink. He’s failed a lot, so there’s hope. But his rhetoric is to fail- and I mean destroy - America. Because it would be entertaining.

Know your rights, and defend them. Defend others. Get a camera - not just your phone - and photograph. Write this story. It's one we're writing together. If you’re disabled, be sure your concerns are known to your doctor. If you take medication, see if you can get several months of refills incase the worst happens and we lose our health care or incomes. If you are any minority – especially racial or religious – and you trust yourself with a gun, BUY ONE. And ammunition. Go to firing ranges. Not only to protect yourself, but because when the NRA sees large groups of minorities stocking up, the avid hateful rednecks might calm down and stop threatening us.

The time to educate the people who elected and are defending this man is over. Believe me. They refused to be educated over the last eight years that they rejected Obama – who turned Yes We Can into Yes We Did – and they are demanding our unwavering friendships and to “respect their opinions.” We are not casting opinions about whether Lady Gaga’s new album sucks or not (it doesn’t.) We are casting opinions about whether human beings deserve to be treated like human beings, even if they are Hispanic, Black, Muslim, Jewish, Disabled, Female, Gay, Trans, or any form of Queer. You don’t threaten to take the right to marry away from someone and then tell them to “respect your opinion.” What you do, if you’re going to hold such a backward opinion, is accept that you are not entitled to friendship and people are entitled to see you for what you are and distance themselves. You don’t put someone in a cage for looking different from you and then tell them to “grow up and respect different opinions.”

That’s not how it works.

And remember, patriotism is loyalty to real-estate; you do not have to stay in America. I married a Canadian so while that would be the easiest option for MY family, there is a whole world out there and yet again, fools seem to think planes and passports are things of fiction.

Be vigilant and stick together, but do not feel like a bigot is entitled to your friendship or support. They have spoken. And now it’s our turn; not in four years. If we went from gay marriage being legalized to electing a homophobe in a little over a year, the next election is too late. So, come out of your panic, and think clearly always.

Dizzy - horror author, affiliated with neither political party, Autistic Jewish mother.

It's a Game

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Wed, 26 Oct 2016 19:12:00 +0000

In my two-and-a-half years married and two and a half decades of observing interactions around me, I've taken notice that marriage begins with an illusion. For some of us it's a vague or even toxic concept of love, and for others it's a fabricated bliss that is the umbrella of adulthood. Every person has a concept of the people they interact with, and that concept is not always realistic.
My husband mentioned marriage very early into the relationship, and not just in response to my long-term goals of creating a family. He must have liked something about me. Something beyond the "*beautiful*, *smart*, and *funny*" lie of a description that men give all women regardless of how true it is (because many people are none of those things and happily wedded off.) There had to be something about me to prompt a guy in his late twenties, with virtually no prior long-term relationship experience, to begin referring to me as his fiancée several months into the relationship, a time which half was spent thousands of miles apart. My own motives were loud and clear: I wanted a family with a man who had a job, car, and high level of intelligence. Never had I dated for "fun" and I had several three-year-plus relationships in my past by age 21, when we met. He seemingly met all the requirements, plus he was working on a Masters degree and had traveled. I couldn't find a problem.

I can only speculate what he saw in me. His motives are rarely straightforward and rarely is he self-aware of them. But I can imagine that he thought being married to me would be more "*quirk*" and less "*jerk*." A common mistake is assuming that an eccentric person is live-in entertainment and whimsy, especially if they are on the autistic spectrum, and I am. Maybe he thought I wouldn't be changed by motherhood. Maybe he thought I was smart

, not realizing that our forms of intelligence are very different. *we* are very different. Maybe he thought I would complete him.

We don't like the same food or music, he is obsessed with sports and works in a social environment while I'm obsessed with serial killers and don't leave the house for days. I sell paintings for extra money, and he can't draw. He values tradition, I mock it. I seek to improve upon everything, which makes me sound like I'm being very critical, and he is highly sensitive to criticism (or even just lack of praise.) He isn't interested in anything I go on and on about and has not read any of my books, so he doesn't know anything about half of my life, yet I'm the kind of spouse that seeks understanding.
There is only one common interest we have, and that is our daughter. We agree on most aspects of parenting but, as usual, he's more conventional and I reject social norms. And I need to be heard out as to why. He is not big on listening to me.
He's a fun parent, I'm a bit stern. By now you probably realize he is day and I am night.
Our daughter is our common interest, but we do have another commonality, and that is that we write. But our topics, styles, and literally every aspect of what we write and why is entirely different. What we write about and the fact that we do share that aspect and ability is a fairly good representation of us as a couple.
"We both write, but one writes sports articles that are shared online for college sports fans to see immediately. The other one writes long horror trilogies for crime sleuths and sad people." And that is my husband and me.

In areas where one of us is clueless, the other is likely in the know. If we're both clueless, we're both resourceful. If we could communicate, we would probably be a great team.
In the wake of many fights, betrayal, and several separations, I'm trying to remember why he married me. It's not as if I don't have good qualities or that I hid the "bad" ones - the latter probably made me interesting until it made me difficult.
My "bad" qualities that have been brought up are character traits my husband openly says he hopes our daughter acquires. It's entirely subconscious and he has no response when I mention it. It seems the traits that make for an unhinged wife also make for a fun kid.
The things he saw that were good were real, as are the bad, but the bad blinds us if we let it. Just like the good did in the beginning.

How can we make this work? It's very simple. We can choose to look, listen, and be truthful. Without paying attention to what is happening with each other, walls and conflict inevitably arise. If we don't listen to each others words, we are directly showing that we don't care, so we have to shut to and listen and clarify. Lying is for enemies, not best friends. We wouldn't ignore our daughter if she felt badly. We shouldn't ignore our spouse, either.
It's more complicated than just being aware and honest, but that's the foundation. We weren't given good examples to follow for marriage, and that was out of our control, but what happens in *our* marriage is our choice. So far, the choices I have witnessed have been self-serving if not outright hateful. My marriage feels like a 90's RnB breakup song. I did not sign up for that. I want a sappy, poetic love song. And that's what I'm going to continue to seek - and I'm not going to beg for it.
I made mistakes. Plenty. But I was honest and real and raw and that was taken full advantage of by someone who I thought was my soul mate. And if he really is my soul mate, he needs to step up to that plate before the game is over.
As I sit in a pile of his laundry that I don't know for certain is clean or dirty, exhausted, feeling like an overdrawn bank account, I can't help but think he wants the game to end.

What You Didn't Understand About "The VVitch"

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Mon, 04 Apr 2016 23:05:00 +0000

I finally saw "The VVitch" in theaters yesterday and I thought it was fantastic. Many people did not. Many people have made claims that it "made no sense" and that it "wasn't scary." There are a lot of folkloric (the movie is called "A New England Folktale," people) bits that were indeed believed to be the truth of witches and witchcraft by Puritans. Witches and witchcraft do and always have existed and there's always a disturbing line between truth and fiction when it comes to witches, particularly traditional witches (non-Wiccan) and whether or not we choose to use shadows in our craft. Indeed, at the time, any woman could be deemed a witch for speaking out or having an opinion at all.

Thomasin is the central character, a teenaged Puritan girl who deeply wants to be loved by God and who has some resentment for her fathers pride casting them into the wilderness. Thomasin doesn't make her own decisions. She is not "the witch" that is causing so many bad things to quickly happen to the family because there is no singular "Witch" in the film, there are many, and they all work in tandem with Lucifer (not someone witches have ever actually revered but were and are still feared to) in hopes of freeing Thomasin from her Puritanical Hell. She does not begin the film as a witch and she loves her family.

The family infant Samuel was taken under Thomasin's watch during a simple peekaboo game. Anyone who saw the trailer knows this. What follows is actually very disturbing, and many movie-goers did not realize how disturbing his demise actually is. The witch that is shown during this part is older, and blood of an infant was thought to be used to keep witches young (and many women who were pretty or young looking for their age in the times of the film were accused of using baby blood and then burned as witches.) The woman on screen doesn't cut the infant for a little blood for a ritual; she's seen grinding something (him, but not many caught that) up for all of his blood, and probably fat. She is seen rubbing it across herself and what appears to be a staff in front of the Full Moon.

Why the staff? Well, the idea of witches flying on broomsticks didn't start with a cute beginning. Blood and fat of children and infants were thought to be used as lubricants for witches to vaginally take in certain hallucinogens via masturbating. "Flying high on a broom stick" has never been literal.

There are many familiars in this movie. A familiar spirit, to witches, is someone who helps them on their path and in their craft and is very real. The rabbit in this movie plays a huge role in the symbolism and actual demise of at least one character. Rabbits do and always have symbolized sex and fertility and the feminine, which are the qualities that scare the shit out of this Puritan family about Thomasin. Her younger brother, Caleb, specifically has issues not leering at Thomasin, and not because he is a pervert, but because he is repressed and around no other young but developed females. The rabbit leads the boy and father deep into the woods, where the father injures himself (a minor injury but hit to the ego) in an attempt to kill it for food. Caleb chases it once more when he and Thomasin are in the woods together, after hearing tales about the red apples his mother and sister desired from back home, and he meets his own desire - a young, beautiful witch who kisses him on the mouth, cursing him. Puritans believed desire and temptation were only harmful to those who were not purse of heart, leaving them open to curses such as these.

Thomasin's sexuality, and his, lead to his death after regurgitating the apple of the curse. From one side, it's because he was not pure of thought, Thomasin (and the mother) could not let go of the fanciful desires of England, which Caleb doesn't remember, leaving him open to the curse of a witch. From another side, the family desire to rid themselves of Thomasin and her scary sexuality leave them with another dead child.

The Raven doesn't seem to show up quite as much, but is another familiar, or better yet, an omen of death. The main role of the raven in this movie is that grief-stricken Katherine, the mother of the family, seems to hallucinate the return of her youngest and eldest son, but "Caleb" (dead from the curse after purging the apple) tells her not to tell father as the baby begins to cry. The mother did as mothers do, and take the baby to feed at her breast.

There is no baby. She's breastfeeding a raven or, better yet, the raven is pecking her nipple off, adding perversion to and destroying the very life-sustaining force the mother has. This familiar of death, and this omen, takes the very milk meant for the baby - a life force. If that isn't disturbing and foretelling, not much could ever be. Katherine's mind is officially gone, and in her grief and loss of faith, she's lost every ounce left of her mind.

The twins are the ones who really take Thomasin's joking threats to their full force by repeating what she had said, and there was very little such nonsense as "playing around" about witches (or anything else as joy was frowned upon) with Puritan families. While Caleb is writhing and then dies, the twins seemingly fake their own possessions, a probable Folie 'a Deaux, or shared madness by the intensity and fear surrounding their brothers supernatural death and Thomasin's backlash accusation of them being the witch in the woods. The father boar the three of them up with two goats and during the night, a woman (presumably one of the many witches of the movie) is seen eating the flesh of the two white goats much as Thomasin threatened to eat the flesh of the twins.

What really seemed to irk people is that they never see the twins die or know what happened to them. In the morning, the father sees the goats dead and only Thomasin left before his own demise, but where are they? Well, the ending of the movie should tell you it isn't a far cry from what happened to baby Samuel in the beginning. The blood and fat of children was used as part Thomasin's initiation into the coven, burned and used as lubrication to vaginally consume hallucinogenic drugs through masturbation. The witch who ate the gut of the goats took the twins.

I found this fairly obvious.

And finally, Black Phillip. Thomasin is finally in a position where she will make the first real decision in her life, and have agency over her own body and mind. She could stay at the farm and starve, she could try to make it back to the community alive to be tried for murder or witchcraft, and in the off chance she was not tried for such, she could be married off and reproduce, or she could wait for whatever is in the woods to kill her, also. But there was another option, a desperate one, and Thomasin goes to the black goat and only other survivor of the family and commons that he speak to her.

He does, and he offers her to "live deliciously, taste butter, wear a pretty dress, see the world." These offers are all over the place and rather seductive, because Black Phillip is Lucifer. The Christianized version of Lucifer is a man with goat horns, much like the god Pan, and many other pagan gods that came before Christianity. Pan particularly was fond of hedonism and living for the senses and worldly pleasures, orgies, etc. Things Thomasin has probably never even dreamed of, having started the movie as a faithful girl and, despite her faith losing everything and everyone around her as they used God as a way to demonize her. She signs, removes her shift, and off she goes to dance with the other witches. Black Phillip saw something in Thomasin from the beginning that he liked, and he got his way.

And not only does she join and dance with the various witches, she levitates with them, and her face changes into a smile - a highly sexual one as her twin siblings provide fuel for their fire and a means for their levitation or their "high."

Her siblings blood and fat with hallucinogenic drugs inserted into the vagina while she has some form of an orgasm in the air because this was her most freeing, and arguably safest option in order to stay alive - and no one found this movie terrifying?

Dizzy

Why I Hate Disability Inspiration Porn

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Tue, 01 Mar 2016 21:50:00 +0000

Inspiration porn - you know, disabled person does something mundane correctly or almost correctly, non disabled person was nice enough to notice and not be an ass about it. I run into a lot of it because I have Aspergers. Ah yes, a guy with Asperger's who also dances to cope with it was *given* a job - not even interviewed like a normal person - because his friend wanted to make his dream of being a barista come true. I've got something to say to people who love these types of "feel-good" stories so much but I'll keep it ~~brief.~~

Okay, cool, lucky guy, nice friend, I hope he's handling the bent-for-him-specifically-demands of that job. I'm actually happy for him. He gets to stim on the job, it's what he's known for, and he even went on Ellen. If I was magically hired as a barista I would be spilling coffee everywhere and taking forever at the register trying to understand numbers, pissing off customers, and giving them the wrong thing thanks to mild face-blindness. And my dancing would be frowned upon. Apparently you can perform poorly on the job as long as you have a kind manager friend who gets you on Ellen so you can talk about how you were handed a job, which is something the average person can get without much thought. "Look how kind I am."

That's not how things generally play out when you have a disability, and here we are talking about Asperger's, and try to get a job. Many of us don't have a friend who manages a Starbucks. Many of us don't have in-person friends at all. Those who do work tend to be constantly berated by bosses for not thinking or acting quite as expected. I got in trouble because it took me too long to read numbers on a cash register or on a card working at Hot Topic. I got in trouble for not "following directions" that were never clearly given to begin with. I got in trouble for not folding in even lines. The manager never stopped scolding me to "yell enthusiastically at the customers" but when I pointed out it scared the customers away, I was told to do it anyway. I talked to the customers too much, not enough, was given the least hours of anyone... That was before my diagnosis and one day I left work, went on vacation and never returned.

I've heard people complain about disabled employees in the store (in the case I'm thinking, a deaf woman) saying "disabled people shouldn't be allowed to work because it interrupts customer service." Yes, really. Often the same type of people who want to cut SSI benefits. We show up to inquire about jobs. If we don't hold eye contact long enough, if we do anything socially off-putting and we usually do - it's over. We aren't handed jobs with no interview and if we get hired and it's not in a field we are suited to, we mess up. A lot. So stop acting like one guy being handed a job - he's not an idiot, he could have been interviewed - is so sweet and inspirational because he has Asperger's. He isn't an invalid. A lot of people have Asperger's and lately I've noticed no one is getting their I'm-a-good-person-kicks by giving me a job. What's with that?

If you think one person with Asperger's getting a job is Ellen-worthy and worth sharing thousands of times, maybe we need to examine why it's unique for someone with Asperger's to be ab;e to work and stim.

Dizzy

Your Aspie Murder Doesn't Matter Unless You're Trans

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Thu, 11 Feb 2016 17:26:00 +0000

One week ago a human being with Asperger's Syndrome was murdered by police after calling for help because this person was suicidal. This person went viral a while back for having a meltdown on video showing their service dog comforting them and stopping the head-hitting that often accompanies any Autistic-Spectrum Meltdown. After learning about this sad news, I made a video which can be viewed on my youtube channel under the name DizzyDollie7. In this video, I refer to this Aspie as a woman, a she, a her, as the person was presented on much social media, the earliest news articles about the police-related death, and in the initial viral video. I did not know that Danielle Jacobs had decided to go by the name Kayden Clark and was a trans man. I was, you know, a little more concerned with discussing the unneeded, unwarranted murder of a fellow Aspie who had called for help. This pissed some people off and now the murder isn't about an Aspie having a meltdown, calling for help, and being shot in the stomach - it's about how sad it is we lost a trans man.

Even though the murder is directly related to Clark's Asperger's Syndrome, and the law enforcement in apparently HIS town was familiar with him and the severity of his condition, news articles began pouring in about "Trans Man with Autism Shot By Police," and "Trans Man Murdered While Suicidal" and very little was actually said about the persons Asperger's Syndrome or the fact this person was murdered due to poor police training rather than the after thought of "oh yeah, this is the person from the video with the meltdown and the dog we all shared." Clark's life and death didn't matter a whole hell of a lot when all that was known was that the victim "had Asperger's and the police fired, killing them." Must have been a crazy loner psycho, so who cares? But once people realized this was a trans man? WHAT a tragedy it became.
requires quite a bit of contortion

If I had known that Clark was no longer going by Danielle at the time of death, would my video have included the "proper pronouns?" Yes. I am supportive of trans people and have friends in the trans community. But I made this video before the news BECAME that a trans person was shot and killed while calling for help rather than that a person with Asperger's having a meltdown was murdered because of the symptoms of their Asperger's Syndrome. So instead of listening to my words about why this was wrong, what needs to be done, and that we need answers and better police training, people jumped on me and "had to cover their ears because I didn't use the proper pronouns." Really? A human being, an Aspie, was killed for being an Aspie and we're going to make it about the fact he was a trans man? And I'm the shit head for using, unknowingly, the birth gender rather than the preferred pronouns?

Apparently our neurological, developmental (dis)abilities are meaningless to society, which is a huge point I make in the video. If we don't advocate for ourselves, no one will, and we will keep getting dragged to the trenches by people like Autism Speaks, people who say we don't "look Autistic," workplace bullies, and untrained law enforcement. Hate to break to to you but once you're dead, you're dead and no longer really have a gender. Those bits rot off pretty quick. Why does one marginalized group matter more than the other? One of which is a neuro-scientifically recognized syndrome, and one of which is defined by gender pronouns and while still discriminated against, irrelevant to the cause of this murder?

NT bandwagon alert. No one gave a damn about trans people when I was 12 and questioning my own mental gender because I couldn't relate to other girls. I did. But it's 2016 and remember, Aspies, if you get murdered, it doesn't matter unless you're trans.

view my terribly offensive video here

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpnfku4qpws

Disabling All Over The Place - Asperger's

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Thu, 04 Feb 2016 04:05:00 +0000

I have remained active in the Asperger's/Autism and mental illness community since only a few months before I received my official diagnosis less than a year after Asperger's became suspected. At that time, I completed almost three semesters of college with nothing to show for it except angry family and a doctoral thesis that has - four years later, now - yet to see the light of day. I thought with every ounce of my existence that my intelligence was enough to get me through college and eventually to a doctorate in psychology. I was, of course, very, very wrong, and getting my official Asperger's and ADHD plus discalculia diagnosis gained me no help in college. To this day I have something like 12 credits. When I received my diagnosis, I was also given the score of my very long IQ test, which only further made me think my intelligence was going to save me. I continued making videos on Asperger's, psychopathy, and psychology in general under the youtube name of DizzyDollie7, where others confirmed (though unneeded) that I am intelligent and would one day make a great psychologist.

My videos grew a small following and I began this blog - most of my videos were highly impersonal and most have since been bought where they are displayed on ownshrink.com, as are most of the entries on my blog. I was told I come off as a bit dry and sciency, but that's how my mind works, and that's how I preferred to write; if any future patients did research on me, they would only find out that I was always, indeed, good at what I do. I rarely even spoke about my published novel "Euthanasia" or the two sequels I had completed by age 19. Even after a year-long break from the college world, I remained confident that I writing was a side project and by age 24 I would be working under a psychologist while I furthered my education. I wrote articles while I was pregnant, diligently, after bombing out of college yet again. Only after being taken off that job and giving birth to my daughter did I begin to realize that writing and art (I paint and I draw) might actually be my best bet for survival thanks to the bureaucrats who allow education to be more about participation in silly games than about actual ability and intelligence. College had somehow become a competition to make friends with others and join clubs all while underneath bright fluorescent lighting while annoying young human beings yammer and yammer about things that make absolutely no sense.

After all, I had panic attacks in the classrooms and followed directions so literally that I often had to call professors of any online class I took to ask them what the hell they actually wanted. College simply was no more. And now I had a baby and she became my top priority. I took care of her, and while she slept, I wrote my fourth novel and painted paintings which I began to sell.I also continued therapy, which I had been in for over a year, and my online presence became decidedly more personal. I stopped watching my language, and I got a little bit more candid, though it admittedly feels like acting at times. I was back on the anxiety medication that I had been on before my pregnancy, and was having a horrific time with the idea of being the least bit social outside of my tiny family and occasional interactions at the store (and of course, my internet friends.) Basically, whoever I could deal with and could deal with my newly emerging and openly gregarious hatred for the mere idea of human connection, while also somehow seeking it out.

My doctor finally talked me into, by gently explaining to me that the exact reason college had not yet worked for me were the reasons getting a job would be absolutely reckless for everyone involved, especially with a new baby, that I am indeed disabled. A neuroscientist had deemed it so far before I called it quits with college, quietly smirking at my friends with Master's degrees who were equally unemployed (including, for a while, my very neurotypical husband who watches me disable all over the place daily.) I filed for disability, they pulled my records, and a few months later I was one of those people who gets money for being unable to work. Disabled. Or as some like to call it, "lazy bad person who leeches off the tax money of hardworking people who are actually funding more war than they are funding my existence." Honestly, you'd be supporting me more if you bought a book than by paying your godforsaken taxes.

Note I say I had to be talked into applying for disability, despite how obviously disabled I am once you're in my daily life. That means there was a sense of shame involved. Trying to make a living off of books and art was like trying to climb out of a well, and I'm still trying, because like most people with a disability, I don't actually like being disabled. People ask me what I do, and I tell them - I write, I paint, I research, and I raise my child. Seeing as their parents did not take the time to raise them correctly, the proceed to prod about my income. No, writing isn't enough to live on. I'm not famous yet. No, disability isn't enough to live on. Everyone comes out of the woodwork with "My friends aunts cousin's fishes owner has Asperger's and he got a job at Burger King," and I have to remind them that not everyone is disabled by their Asperger's and that I'm certain that guy doesn't want to blow his brains out when he gets home everyday.

And then there's the "you're so smart." Yes. I know. And I fully believe my intelligence is tied directly to my disability. You have google, I'm sure you can quickly find out that if I have Asperger's, I am a socially inept, rigid, anxious nerd who cannot handle noise or lights or people and my brain might be shaped like a colorful puzzle piece. I often feel like I need an assistant just to drive me around because I cannot deal with interstates and then I might get more done out there in the big world. But that isn't happening because disability services won't provide me with an assistant - I asked. (Kidding, maybe.). I can't do math but I'm about 97% sure that my intelligence has gotten me into more trouble than it has actually improved upon my life. So, I've become more open about my interests from my own perspective rather than simply that of a textbook, and, save a slew of swearwords...the perspectives are almost exactly the same. And my disability and I are okay with that.

Dizzy

The Childhood of Tobias Thibideaux

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Fri, 06 Nov 2015 19:26:00 +0000

Toby sighed quietly as they drove away from the house that would be no more. The chain on the floor where he was kept for punishment would be swept away when the house was demolished.

Gripping Candice's hand tightly after she asked to go for coffee once at the Fer a Chevel hotel, he remembered his mothers words clearly, though their sting had faded and escaped through the last breaths of many young women.

“I told you to get inside,” her sharp drawl grew stronger as she grew angrier. “I told you to get in out that yard twenty minutes ago, Tobias!”

“Sorry, I caught...I was catching lightning...b-b-b.”

“I don't give a rats ass what you were doing. Your father told you to stop bringing in them jars of lightnin' bugs and letting them out all over the house,” she screeched as she neared closer to Toby, the same height as he was although he was only ten. Her curly, dark auburn hair was pulled into a tight bun.

“I didn't br-bring any in,” he defended, noticing his sister's eyeliner and tear-stained face as she leaned against the doorway where he had stood with Candice when they met with Adam.

“Get on the floor,” their mother said. “Get on the floor now, Tobias!”

Toby remembered dropping to his knees as he watched helplessly as Maybelle doubled over, crying.

“He's a kid, mom!” she cried as their mother took the chain attached to the counters side and wrapped it around Toby's neck, only loose enough so that he could breathe. “Why can't you leave him alone!”

“Go to your room before your father gets home,” she snapped, pulling a dog-bowl and water bowl from the cabinet as Toby stared at his sister from the ground. “He can't act right and you can' control that devil's tongue of yours.”

Their mother placed the bowls in the corner by the counter, one filled with water from the sink and one empty.

“You might can eat once everyone else is done,” she snapped at Toby. “You'd do right to make yourself at home in the kitchen. Filthy little animal.”

His mother pulled two newspapers from a lower cabinet; this was routine, and Maybelle and Toby knew it. The papers were placed by the food and water bowls, since the chain only allowed for him to crawl halfway across the kitchen – not quite in reach of the dining table.

He dare not stand.

“Mom, I don't – I d-d-don't want to spend the night down here,” he said.

“Shut your mouth!” she hollered as her foot hit his chin with one swift movement, and his teeth chopped into his tongue. Blood began to pour down his chin from his mouth so he crawled over to the newspaper, terrified of making a mess. “Dogs aren't going to talk in this house, by God.”

“Mom, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Maybelle sobbed. “He's a kid, he's not a dog. Leave him the fuck alone!”

In a house where swearing was forbidden by the children, Maybelle often had a problem controlling her mouth; she was punished with three hard slaps to the face. Toby kept his eyes downward at the blood as it pooled around on the newspaper.

“Get in your room, now, you possessed little girl! Get up the stairs!”

Maybelle let out a screech as she turned, giving Toby one last, helpless glance as she stomped up the stairs with the kind of rage only an angry fifteen-year old girl could emit.

Toby stayed on his knees and waited for the bleeding to stop, hoping his father was too tired for the belt once he got home. He curled up on the cold floor and listened as Maybelle threw things around her room, terrorized by the routine of their lives as Adam sat comfortably in his room watching television.

The house disappeared in the review mirror and the next day, it would be knocked to the ground. Though not a superstitious man, Toby thought that perhaps it would be best for nothing to ever be built there again. Candice was there with him and what needed to be done was done; Maybelle was gone, and he had been given an upgrade.

Though her wings were folded behind her back, and she was unaware of them as she glanced down at the missed texts on her phone, but they were waiting open the moment that he needed her.

“Coffee is a good idea,” he confirmed as downtown Pierreville came into view., and Candice smiled.

This has been an excerpt from Killing Butterflies, a novel by River Endsley

HFA and the College-try: Ambition with no Degree

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Wed, 04 Nov 2015 19:46:00 +0000

I didn't know I was on the Autistic Spectrum until I was twenty years old and in the middle of my second college-attempt after running away to NYC. It was a beautiful campus and the professors weren't idiots; they even had some respect and admiration for how well I wrote and how much knowledge I had despite failing at community college in Louisiana, when I had no idea what was causing my near meltdown-panic attacks when going to class, or what was troubling me socially. My ambitions included being a graduate by age twenty-three. I wanted to work in the field of criminal psychology - my specialized interest. Ideally I would become a prison psychologist or a criminal research psychologist.

I am now almost twenty-four and have either 12 or 16 credits, most of which are in English. I have not been back to college since I was twenty-two; I'm not working for the FBI and have no credentials other than published psychological articles. I am not a particularly lazy person, and particularly was not when it came to college.

After receiving my diagnosis in NYC, I began to understand why - despite my lack of social anxiety - I had panic attacks when walking into class or even trying to find my class. CSI has the largest campus in the CUNY system, and my community college was one giant non-academically challenging florescent light. I had sensory overload and had to run from the classroom if I made it inside. The behavior wasn't new; I had frequent meltdowns and shutdowns in school before college but my sullen or rowdy behavior was interpreted differently. I can't filter the lights and sounds around me, nor the smells. It can be pure, unadulterated hell for clear thinking, even if I look like a fully functioning adult at first.

I did drop out, finally, as my ability to handle sensory processing and the confusion of being in a room of people - much less work with them - dropped through the floor. I sought help for my disability - Asperger's, ADHD, and Math Disorder (not to mention general Panic Disorder.) I received odd looks and administrators shrugged and told me I looked normal. Autistic students in NYC received more help but I left soon after my diagnosis was final; they had special pen and paper and were allowed to choose their seating. In Louisiana, they gave zero fucks. I resorted to recording lectures and even managed to record one professor insulting me for my inability to make eye contact or work well wit other students.

And then I'd had enough.

I had been writing since age 15 and it proved to be a serious passion for me as I published my first book of three at age nineteen. The topics I write about are the same topics I wished to work in after gaining a college degree; serial killers, murder, delusional mental illness, and suicidology.
I wrote articles online professionally and began video-blogging to attract the kind of people I wanted to work with once I got the ever-evasive degree. While I make no money doing this, it does fulfill a large portion of my Asperger's-driven obsessiveness.
I began making pen-pals in prison, and I am now working on my fourth and - in my opinion - best and most disturbing, personally progressive novel yet. Meanwhile, I see people getting pure shit published through major publishing houses as I search clumsily for agents and self-publish while shamelessly self-promoting my work on social media. These people are publishing fanfiction of their own work and people are buying it.
It is confusing and bewildering and frustrating, but I will one day be a major author. I managed to write and re-write my fourth novel while becoming a new mother. I understand plot. I understand character development. Other than painting, writing may become my entire source of income one day. And as I watch many with Masters degrees struggle to find work and make ends meet, I'm okay with that.

Writing is easy but understanding submissions guidelines makes me want to jump off a bridge.

I am not giving up working in the field of criminology and I am not against the idea of returning to college if I find a way to fund it after bombing so many times because of my supposed "high functioning" Autism. But for now I may have to use my ambition and passion in other ways in the field; no one needs a degree to collect data, to write, and to advocate for better mental health treatment. My passion can be part of every day life because I look at the abnormal psychological symptoms of everyone, everything, and I observe and report. I have internet and I can take pictures; with or without a degree, with high intelligence, that gives me power. I am not where I intended to be when I began my journey into criminal psychology and writing, but I may end up somewhere even better. So, thanks, rulers of academia, for not doing your jobs properly.

I don't need a piece of paper to prove I'm not a failure.

Dizzy

Human Connection and Freedom of Self - Are You Worth The Time?

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Thu, 29 Oct 2015 18:40:00 +0000

Many a therapist, including one I greatly respect, have told me in all my Aspergian glory that I need friends. I need people. We are social animals - this is fact. But let me explain to you why, despite my reaching out, I cannot fucking do it, despite a very slight human urge for a social life; it would be nice to have people I share secrets with that I do not only know online. I have a constellation of people that I love and who know more about my than the people who know me face to face.
They're blinded to me. They want to bind me to what they believe I am supposed to be. Online, with my friends, I am free, and so are they. That's how we found each other; my youtube (dizzydollie7) dedicated entirely to what I am outside and inside this body; my mind, thoughts, obsessions, and desires for others like me. Forums for those with similar issues.
We exchange thoughts and it is a constellation of support that I never have had in real life. It's much less alone than sitting around people who see a mask I didn't even create. In words, I find freedom, and I believe they do too, even if it takes some of my friends a long time to free themselves.

I put myself out there, as I was told to do in order to develop a real-life social network outside of "husband and baby." As wonderful as a family is, we are busy, we are separate, and we are not the same at all. So, I say, hey - want to come chill and help me with the baby after my surgery?
And a motherfucker agrees and then does not show up nor does she text to say she is not going to show up.
I invite whoever to come watch some movies with me on Halloween with my baby and have some drinks. No takers. Get invited to a party- and despite the fact I'm healing from surgery with no help, I say okay. BUT OH NO SHE CAN'T DRIVE HERSELF TO THE PARTY? WHY?
Well, because I can't drive on highways yet. I want to learn. I'm a small town girl. I used the bus in NYC. Even that was sensory hell. It is dangerous. You are concerned I don't have a car yet you're unwilling to swing by and pick me up. Okay. I am staying home and you won't be blessed with my goddamn presence.

My birthday is November 8th, and I would not mind company at a bar or for someone to go with me to somewhere new. I'm actually pretty fun. I am adventurous. But I have a hard time getting around in a big city like Austin.. I have a few friends from a dinner group who I would spend time with but who are rightfully busy am I. If I am going to have Asperger's and "lack empathy" could I not also have a lazy amygdala and not be quite riddled with anxiety? Not social anxiety - the kind that shows up whenever it wants and throws images through my brain, awake or asleep. Trying to explain why I need to run into a quiet space - hopefully not a bathroom - looks dramatic when I female does it. But I love my own company and I will gladly go to a bar alone, but what would my old therapist say?
I have some great friends who are sending me a present, and I'll have some beer, and I'll have a new tattoo to mark the end of my self abuse. I'll be happy. Online, but alone.

I am the most tolerant intolerant person I have met. Everyone, as of late, seems to think "opinions" are something they are entitled to when they are indeed "facts" that they refuse to accept. This is horrid to me. There are so many things we don't know about the human mind. There are so many things we don't know about the way human beings connect to one another, especially if they are on the spectrum. When I say "the spectrum" I mean the Autistic Spectrum. And oh golly gee do we attract some of the most enigmatic Psychopaths. And they, too, are on their own Spectrum. But I would rather deal with a rational, intelligent human being with low empathy than a person who walks into a room and feels everyone's emotions and then makes their decisions based on those emotions. Especially if in involves treating me like shit. I don't need your empathy as much as I need your cognitive desire to understand and accept what I am.

Don't try and teach me "normal."

I say what I think if you ask. This often leads to projected emotions onto what is a blank canvas. You asked, you were told. You put the information out there, I respond. If you cannot handle a response, keep your thoughts to yourself. It is exhausting. Friends worthy of my time - friends worthy of my mind, who do not think all of life is highschool theatrics. Until then, I remain a human and inherently social, but I'll do it from afar until their comes a friend or friends who accept the entirety of who I am.
Because I have. And I'm fabulous. And others are too.

Mental Health System Fails Men and Families

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Tue, 27 Oct 2015 17:08:00 +0000

The mental health situation in America is a disaster. Disaster. I usually go on about how women are constantly diagnosed Borderline when they indeed have Asperger's but that's not what I'm on about today.

Let's talk about mental healthcare for men. Men can go undiagnosed and be losing their shit for years before anyone notices often, by the time you talk one into seeing a doctor instead of blaming everyone around them, their condition is way more severe than if they were diagnosed early on. Families suffer, jobs suffer, and because men often refuse the fuck out of treatment, they get swept under the "narcissist/psychopathic abuser" rug. Apparently none of these people have dealt with a narcissist and don't know what they are doing.

And yes, you can have a mental illness that contributes to abuse, though your words and behavior are forever your own choice.

Emergency services are a joke. Commit yourself to a ward for 5+ days and lose your job - real great idea - and that's only if you can afford insurance that covers mental health. "No you and your family can suffer for three more weeks because we can't make room for you, fuck you, psychotic piece of shit."

Let's talk about men and emotion regulation traditionally raises men aren't taught what the hell emotions are and the one coping skill they are taught is to suck it up. So no one thinks to diagnose them with Borderline. Manipulative and can't keep your emotions or identity stable for shit? Oh you must just be depressed. Maybe you're just bipolar. Must be anxiety. No way it could be Borderline. That's a woman thing. Like tampons.

Victims of the awful mental health system in the US extend far beyond the mentally ill themselves when it comes to explosive, personality-altering disorders. And the resources for families subjected to the untreated behavior are non-existent. Either "leave and he an independent woman despite the fact you are a house wife," or "be supportive praise Jesus and things will be fine. Take it up the ass."

You think the divorce rate is all about cheating? No. You think the unemployment rate, the amount of people on welfare is all about "laziness?" It's about a lot more than that. Mental healthcare has to change. This system is killing people.

Tower of Anxiety

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Sat, 11 Apr 2015 08:19:00 +0000

I have always had an anxiety disorder. I had it as a child in the form of separation anxiety and I will just say, I did not really outgrow that. As much as I often utter "God, I hate people..." I am not sure I've given "people" as a whole a fair shot. As someone who is a recluse right now, and has been for some time, I wasn't always, even if it was my inclination. And as far as "people" are concerned, I have only maintained a social life in the area I currently live in. Many of the people I ran into, and speak to now, from other areas (you know...mostly not the south) were sweeties.

Sometimes, even interesting ones. But I always leave, and I always put them behind me.

I did not make any effort to become friends with them or to stay in contact. These sweeter people have never been able to read me easily, and I am sure to some extent, I make them uncomfortable, almost as if my own discomfort is radiating outward. I am under mental healthcare (outpatient) and over the past 10 years I've received contradictory diagnosis from different doctors, but anxiety can be a part of all of them, and a more recent "goal" for me is to socialize more. Go out, and just be in public doing a healthy activity (meaning don't try to socialize at bars,) and eventually, I am apparently bound to meet friends I could mesh with. Who also happen to be *gasp* healthy!

Doesn't healthy mean "normal" though? Normal makes me anxious.

This is supposed to keep me away from the kinds of "friends" I attract. The ones who stalk me, the ones who steal my identity and obsess over me in the wrong way, the ones who tell me to change everything about myself. I consistently end up around people who want me to smile more than I feel necessary, beg for eye contact, nonstop point out my body language, ask me why I am not expressing this or that emotion, and then flip all the shit they ever shat when I DO express some. Anyone who wants to me for much more than company.

Making friends isn't a top priority for me, but if I do make some, they have to be friends with *me* not with a *project* they would like to make of me. Want someone awkward to listen to all your problems and stare blankly? Here I am, bitches. I'll paint you something about sadness, while I'm at it.

Experiencing life, in a pleasant way, is a top priority for me, which can indeed be done mostly alone. Anxiety and panic attacks make this hard. My anxiety takes many forms - usually, it's just generalized anxiety - not directed at anything inparticular until something presents itself. I experience fight-or-flight syndrome several times a day, sometimes from a thought crossing my mind, sometimes because I'm making an effort to go into a world that is completely confusing for me in sensory, social, emotional, practical, functional ways.

Sometimes, I get to my destination, and I go back home. I don't go in. Sometimes I go in and I have an unpleasant experience, such as quite obviously not being able to count change or the bright lights making me want to smash things. There are a lot of everyday things that are outlandishly complicated to me. People are not very understanding of these things in a town where no one can read to understand anyone but themselves.

And my anxiety screams "Told you so." And I whisper, "It was still an adventure. It's still exposure. I'm still functioning mostly."

Since I have been through all of my life events with anxiety from probably toddler-hood up through school, deaths, marriage, and now into motherhood. I have learned many ways of coping, from dissociation and self-destructive behaviors, to medication when it's unbearable, to art, music, writing, dancing, exercise...and anxiety self-help checklist, I've tried it.

One of the best ways for me to experience some relief from anxiety is to be alone and to turn my headphones up loud on my playlist, and balter around the house, up and down the stairs, all over the place, while also sporadically working on either writing or art. While this is happening, I disassociate off into a very severe, chronic daydream that I've maintained for a long long time.

Nervous energy out through the dancing, positive in through the music, process and express through the art and the writing. Praying to live the daydream.

Dealing with an anxiety disorder is like being in an ongoing fight with an extremely overbearing, codependent parent who keeps you locked away. For every positive I have, the anxiety will highlight a negative. For every negative I embrace as a part of me, anxiety reminds me that it will get me into more trouble. Then anxiety reminds me of all the things I don't understand, all the bad social interactions and the ones likely to happen, the possibility of a car wreck in the name of overcoming the panic.

Some days are way harder than others. Some days I have to wait to accomplish certain tasks. But I try to remember that all of the good things that have happened in my life, happened when I win out over the anxiety. So I won't stop fighting.

Dizzy

Chemical Imbalances You Probably Don't Have

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Mon, 18 Aug 2014 02:21:00 +0000

Mental illness and chemical imbalances have become a bit trendy, as have their titles being used as ways to explain relatively normal behavior. It wouldn't be a big deal if it were not for the fact that self-diagnosis is dangerous and stupid when it comes to chemical imbalance, and those who REALLY have chemical imbalances do not use it as an excuse for every annoying trait they have.

ADHD/ADD. You probably don't have either of these. I was officially diagnosed with ADHD several times, specifically "inattentive type." Most adults with ADHD have issues completing tasks like a normal human being; despite the fact that many of us are neat freaks "on the inside" or love organization, when I have a music video playing in my head it can be hard to even see the task in front of me. Completing it and then moving on to another task is very rare. We are more likely to do several tasks at once, completing maybe two of them eventually, forgetting another two even existed, and then a new task begins and who the fuck knows what could happen. With the help of sticky notes, timers, white boards, and cute little organizers, I can kind of function like an adult. But when while having a particularly "ADHD day" any and all carefully acquired social skills get lost in translation between all the fun little things my brain is doing. Although ADHD can make you jittery, stop walking around claiming ADHD because you had too much coffee or sugar. ADHD does not make you squeal or make you particularly loud, and it certainly is not a fun, fabulous thing to have.

Bipolar. Bipolar Disorder is not the same thing as being moody. Professionals over-diagnose this in teenagers and in adults because people have fucking moods. Sorry, but being moody is a personality trait of certain temperaments and can even be *gasp* the result of actual environmental circumstances. If something good happens and you're happy, and an hour later something bad happens and you're sad, that is not a "mood swing due to Bipolar." That is not being a robot. People with Bipolar have periods of mania where they may not even be really "happy" but they have energy and euphoria and destroy their lives by over-spending, or they talk so much they know they should stop but can't, or they stay up for days and lose track of time and get into shit they normally would not. They have depressive stages that are so severe they can't function. They have mixed episodes, and sometimes their moods combine in a special little way that causes them to have psychosis. You having your period is not you being Bipolar. You screaming at your boyfriend and being dramatic at a party is not Bipolar, that's just you being an asshole.

OCD. Actual OCD is an anxiety issue where a person has repeated thoughts and/or behaviors to keep their anxiety in check (although participating in the thoughts and behaviors makes it worse.) Intrusive thoughts can be horrifying. Someone may be so afraid of their house being broken into that they lock the door repeatedly or they keep having intrusive thoughts of their child being hurt so they repeated phrases to themselves or even avoid letting their child leave their site. People with OCD may avoid cars because of their thoughts.They have horrible anxiety that causes irrational rituals to try and keep it under control. OCD is not being a very organized, anal retentive person. Being OCD does not mean you need to sit in the same spot everytime you're at the movies because you're an entitled prick.

Panic Attacks. People don't claim this one as much as the others or over-use it as much but people still seem to love calling every ounce of anxiety a "panic attack." Panicking is not necessarily a panic attack. Regular anxiety about meeting new people is not a panic attack. Panic attacks often come out of NOWHERE and if they are linked to a specific thing, they can often happen when just thinking about it. It isn't just an increased heart rate. You are probably not having a panic attack because someone you like texted you. You're probably just nervous. If you did, however, feel like you were having an out-of-body-experience and your vision went blurry and you thought you were dying of a heart attack, maybe you did.

Depression. Being depressed chronically is not the same thing as being sad. Even being sad for a long period of time is not the same thing as having chemically-induced depression. If your life circumstances are causing you to be depressed, and the depression would go away if your life was different, that is not the same thing as having a chemical imbalance that makes you feel like a pile of shit no matter what is going on. This does not mean that the medication they give you cannot help you function until circumstances change, but taking on the attitude that you have no control over your happiness is fucking unhealthy. And please do not say you are "suffering from depression" because your friend bailed on you an hour ago. Just no.

Anyway, there are people with chemical imbalances who have every reason to claim them. Do not take away from the meaning or importance of the terms by claiming you have a serious condition to excuse a momentary behavioral oddity or mood.

Super Unique and Special In Every Way - Personality Disordered Idiocy

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Sat, 09 Aug 2014 03:53:00 +0000

I have not updated in a very long time; I have been preoccupied. I was writing professionally for a site, which now has most of my old blog posts and a lot of newer content. I also got married and am almost 9 months pregnant. I will be giving birth to a baby girl in just a few weeks. Life has changed a lot, and I cannot wait to not be pregnant anymore and to continue with this new phase.

If you are familiar with my usual content, you know I study personality disorders, especially those in the more dangerous category. In the last 9 months, I have continued to study and write about such, but I have certainly become disenchanted with the individuals themselves. I talk to many. I now understand one reason therapists are not allowed to be "friends" with their patients. When I announced the pregnancy, peoples true colors began to really shine through (as does everyones when there are issues of birth, weddings, death etc) and those with Personality Disorders were no different. Reactions ranged from being annoyed and hateful that I wouldn't be able to donate as much time to them, to asking me why I wasn't going to get an abortion, to concerns about the fact that I wouldn't be thin anymore (and I'm not - I'm huge, but its temporary and it's none of anyones business.) It was a bit frazzling. Most assumed that I was also personality deficit in some way - unable to really be a parent or handle pregnancy. Some of them outright attacked me, or if I expressed annoyance with certain things (like being asked why I didn't get an abortion) the attitude was that I was the one with a personality hangup - not them.

I quickly realized (not that I did not know already) that many Personality Disordered individuals find themselves EXTREMELY FUCKING INTERESTING, especially if they are Cluster B or have paranoid tendencies. They can talk about each tiny detail of their emotional or mental landscape for hours - do not dare try to talk about yourself or they will tell you they are not interested or they will be accusational, projecting their own traits onto you until you just shut up so they can return to talking about themselves. And if you even begin to think about telling them "This is Narcissism, you don't really seem to be the cold calculating Psychopath you claim to be" or "You aren't all that different from a self-absorbed teenager" they will say you are certainly attacking them and that you are crazy and personality deficient. I believe that people in general self-project a lot, but those with Personality Disorders do so immensely. I'm not sure they can help it - many of them cannot fathom that, although they are Super Unique And Special in Every Way, others do not experience the world as they do. Not everyone has Narcissism, Sadistic, or Avoidant tinted glasses on. You cannot be Super Unique And Special In Every Way and also know what everyone's motives are.

I do not intend to stop studying Personality Disorders, although this will certainly take a backseat to other things in my life (being a wife and mother and whatnot.) But I am not enchanted with those who have the disorders. Everyone - no matter how healthy - has characteristics of one or more Personality Disorders, and these tend to come out under stress - but having a diagnosis (or self diagnosis) does not make you special. Do you want a cookie for your behavioral pattern issues? Do you realize that you can't even plead insanity with a Personality Disorder? That's right, motherfucker, you are in control of your behavior. Of course, I do know that, depending on the disorder, there is a lot of grief to be had as far as anxiety, depression, isolation, and that many people with the disorders do not like that they have them. But there are those who turn it into their identity, and the ones who do that have no idea what the world, or other people, are actually like. Sometimes after a conversation, I'm just totally bewildered by some of the things I'm told and asked. Trying to explain empathy (not that I have a lot) or trying to explain emotions to someone who cannot really feel them is like trying to explain color to someone who sees black and white. Sorry sir but getting offended is not going to make me "admit" that I don't know how to socialize or how to relate to others. I refuse to let such people make me question my own sanity - and trust me, people, if anyone can make you question your own reality, it's people who are out of touch with it.

Euthanasia .ch1-4.

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Mon, 02 Sep 2013 19:52:00 +0000

I am posting the first 4 chapters of my novel, for free. It is published, but I'm more concerned with people reading it than I am with making tons of money. Not that tons of money wouldn't be great.

I began writing Euthanasia when I was 15, and finished it when I was 18. Since then, it has been published, edited, re-published, and I can't seem to ever stop adding to it.

Euthanasia is a psychological drama/thriller surrounding 7 suicide pact signers, mainly Erika and Lewis, the writers of the journals that create the novel.

Erika is the creator of the Pact. Empathy is foreign to her, and she lacks communication skills and social skills almost entirely other than playing the part of someone people go to for advice and consolation. Despite her strangeness, she manages to get six people to sign her Pact by pinpointing their weaknesses.

Lewis is Erika's best friend and romantic interest. He has PTSD and a temper issue. He goes out of his way to protect Erika, but his conscience is constantly at war with this due to her anti-social behaviors. He is an extremely funny person although this goes unnoticed by Erika.

Chapter1

October 1

Today I have officially succeeded in persuading the seventh friend to sign the Pact. I will record what happens from now, October 1, 2007, and when the Pact and all of its meticulous plans go into action. Afterwards, I will not need to write about it. Everyone will know, when they find this, who they were fucking with. And who is haunting them. If I were to ever have been invisible as I so often have wished I was, this would be my grand appearance as a being of existence; the time will come where they will see me. See through me and my glasses of a pinkish shade. One may call it seeing red. My entries will be interlaced with those of my closest, dearest friend, Lewis, exchanging every other day, as arranged, to create a more diverse record of what happens throughout the longevity of the Pact and also to give me more time for reflection and action. We have it all planned out perfectly. All of us here at the Pact are in awe of the perpetual and planned release.

The final person to sign the Pact was, as I partially entertained, Lewis. He seemed a bit shocked when I spoke to him of it in the middle of mathematics class; he had been nearly drooling in boredom when I saw the cuts on his arm. I had been waiting for such a sign from him. He seemed even more taken indignant when I actually let him read the Pact. I simply can not deal with the ever-present eye-rolling he presents me with upon each new idea. He calls me scandalous. I am only slightly taken aback by his reaction; you would think, after being my sometimes reluctant best friend for thirteen years, that he would expect something as such from me. He must have forgotten the countless hours we have spent planning our perfect and nearly-theatrical suicides. I have always been, in his words, “a bit off.” If being a bit off includes being more intelligent, more aware, although outwardly isolated, I suppose I got the sharper and more efficient end of the stick; I can play the part of a bit off. He has generally been more down to Earth in the eyes of the rest of humanity, and even stable in the days before he was thirteen. He is definitely a depressed and secretly morose individual, although I highly doubt it is any form of chemical imbalance. He has good reasons to be down if there is such an actual reason for any fucking emotion; everyone does, as it so seems in these days of excessive worry and over-diagnostics of various emotional disturbances and personality “disorders,” and over-medication leading to dependence on mere poison to make it through a simple day in a world of fragility and opium. Alas, the idea of a Pact probably did not appeal to him at first because it involved other people being “injured” as well. Zero flair for anything grandiose. It would always bother him. Lewis has the burden of a strong conscience. What a sin it is to him to involve the “innocent” in such a supposed charade as I have planned. In class, though, he could not question me nor inquire too much without others hearing. He has that kind of voice, one that carries distances beyond what he would so prefer if he were aware. Luckily, mine does not carry even though I try. Nosey and vile young females were already watching us and dissecting me from head to toe, although I do not worry myself with such obvious displays of jealousy. Why is it so that high school girls so incredibly gravity-ridden? They should hope this is not their prime. If I were the betting type, however, I would say it is so, especially in Seitseville. I have seen the women working in the gas stations and the diners and I know each of these sheep has to have some brand of future.

“Are you seriously getting people to sign a Pact? Can you please explain the point? No…I am going to pretend I didn’t see this and you can just... rip it up. Rip it up now.” Lewis looked at me through his bangs with sarcastic disbelief, as if I had just burped incredibly loud. Then he looked up at me with captivating gray eyes, and I forced myself to not glance away. That would show weakness and he simply had to sign the Pact. It would be for the best that my cheeks avoid changing colors, because Lewis should never, ever know that I have any feelings for him. Even so, I would ignore elementary questioning as always.

“Yes. And you have no place to look at me as immoral, the way you are, considering those gashes are more intravenous than anything I have ever done,” I replied. “Hurting yourself is, by default, the same thing as hurting others. Only your way includes a lie by omission. I bet it would hurt your poor, already grief-stricken mothers’ feelings, if she knew.” After giving me a “don’t go there,” look, he continued to gaze at the piece of paper, deep in thought. I watched him. Several long, relatively deep cuts, obviously done with a razor, were on his right arm, covered by nothing considering he was socially careless enough to roll his sleeves up. Such a dumb blonde! I assume he used one of those box cutters he leaves all scattered about his room when no one is coming over, other than me. The cuts were vertical, fresh, so I assumed he had committed the attempt on the night before. He had tried it many tedious times – I had usually tried to stop him. I have spent, in my days, countless hours rationalizing with him that he should not act upon his impulses, upon his inability to see a light which he so desires, at the end of the so-called tunnel of his shattered life. Seeing as how my own beliefs about life and our destiny over it differ from my lectures toward him -my cradling - I sometimes confuse myself when he becomes suicidal. I can die, our friends can die, we all die, but not Lewis. And not until I say so. Deep down I know he is too much a coward to actually press hard enough. If you want to die by a hand of which is your own, you will. This time he had not told me, which bothered me as much as the fact that he tried it at all. Most successful attempts leave no note. What is the sort of friend who leaves me behind?

“Yeah, but this is me. I'm not going and talking people who are depressed, which we all know are depressed, into signing up for death. I keep my issues to myself.”

“No you do not; your sleeve is rolled up, asshole. I am only offering these miserable people a way out of their everlasting pain. I am like Gandhi.”

“You are so far from being Gandhi...” Lewis rolled his eyes at me. “Kevorkian, maybe.” I had been waiting for it... “Erika... are you serious about all of this?” He sighed and lost his attempt at confidence or arrogance, which he often would try to use against me. His body language shifted nervously, looking around to be sure no one was paying close attention.

“Completely.” After several moments of looking at the Pact, and then back at me, and back again as a cat watching windshield wipers, disarraying his now jaw-length dark blonde hair, as he does so often when nervous or tested, he nodded yes.

“I don’t want to be here anymore…I'll sign it. Efficient a way as any, I guess.” I handed him a pen. It was the same pen I and the others used. It is important that the Pact looks professional, so when they find it, this whole deal will not look like a fucking idiot led the other idiots to the water and drowned them. They will know in finality that I am a genius, not simply a dreamer.

“That is what I thought. You will thank me in the end…Thank you, Lewis...” I was hugging myself tightly, freezing inside somehow. I could feel myself shuddering. This had happened a lot lately. I read that it is part of the grieving cycle; however, I do not believe I am grief stricken in nearly a strong a fashion as one of the human species should be. I feel sad a bit, but I have never been as shiny-happy as I had been since the friends I chose began signing the Pact. I believe it is my inability to access much food, as has become an issue since the passing of my grandmother, which is making me cold as it is worsening my anemia. I have adjusted to the floating feeling and am growing rather fond of it.

“Are you okay?”

“I am fine. Just freezing.”

“How? You look like an Eskimo today.”

“Thanks. That is a racial slur, mind you. Their preference is the term “Inuit.”

“I meant you have on a lot of clothing, smart ass. Suddenly worried about slurs and shit...”

“Oh, I know. I have hardly an ounce of skin pigment.” He smiled. I wore a short denim skirt with black thigh-high socks and a black and navy-blue, hooded sweatshirt with a pink camisole underneath. This is how I usually dress when the temperature changes, while the other girls still wear flip-flops and show their scar-less arms. Lewis looked at me curiously. I read his signature on the Pact. It was beneath everyone else', of course, because it took me so long to work up to asking him to sign it. He is the most intelligent of the people who signed it, besides myself, and he has a habit of challenging me and my ideas. But he really did not today. Depression will do that to even the most assertive, the most intelligent. Depression has become a trend, which is probably why talking the others into signing this was so easy. I am not quite done getting their minds in the right place, but trend followers are sheep any way I look at it. I am not jaded, I’m just illuminated.

So now that the Pact is completed, I have seven names. Erika Cohen, Miriam Lodge, Tommy Smith, Francis Jacques, Robin Cross, Joshua Bellmen, and Lewis Ellington. My name and his lock in the other five securely.

I have seven people. Lewis was my main fixation, as far as signing this masterpiece. He has to come with me. We have done everything together. He is my best friend. He will be forever. I notice way too much about him; I always have. Like how he went from being a lanky, skinny guy when we were younger into what he is now; tall, thin and slightly muscular, tan… He has a strong jaw that makes him look like a little military guy if it weren't for his preference for longer hair. His nose curves upward and his face is lightly freckled. The people who can look beyond his temper, anxiousness and melancholy, which can sometimes be alarmingly apparent, always love him. What he is now appeals to quite a few people, which is certainly not okay with me. No way, no how.

Kathleen Harvey is definitely on my hit list before we act upon our plans. I cannot stand her. I see her every day in the hall or at lunch, talking to some jock moron, in her high heels and cheer leading ribbon, giving me dirty, bitchy, disgusting looks. I have said nothing to this girl in over three years, and I definitely think it is time for her to give looks to someone else (or to a coffin lid, in my preference), and stop telling people that I am a sociopath and necrophiliac, simply based on an isolated incident when I was fourteen in which I was caught after sneaking inside the morgue to acquire certain things that of which are pointless to disclose, seeing as it all went awry. No one of my caliber and shade of mind wants to be known as anything in a small town. At this point, I have nothing at all to lose and therefore I do not care. She may care once I take one of those ribbons and wrap them around her under-sized esophagus and strangle her to death. Then who will she look at?

My old ballet school, which I pass frequently on walks, has been crossing my mind a bit as well. That place in flames would be a masterpiece.

As I sit here at my desk by candle light, since I have no utilities, tonight I smile every time I read the seven signatures at the bottom of the Pact. They all have different styles of writing, with one common goal of dying on the date I chose so carefully and for whatever reasons. I wrote the Pact, I chose the date, and I chose how it is going to be played out. I chose it all. And no one is going to challenge me, because they are not mentally strong enough to do so. Oddly enough, I feel mentally stronger, surer, and safer than I ever have before in my relatively short life. It is enlightening to know that you are going to die. Really, actually, going to die. Everyone knows they will die, sometime in the intangibly distant future. After they are old and gray, after they have kids, after they live. They know, but they are not aware. But in the moment that they feel all the blood draining away from that freak accident falling out of the boat, when the motor hits them, or they feel themselves falling, and the air exploding into their lungs, with the ground flying up towards them faster than they can fall towards it, they come to face the reality that they are going to die. Meet their Maker. I made it simpler for these seven people I care about so very much. It is was simple as signing off your soul to the devil. I imagine that is what Lewis thinks he did.

At lunch, when he and I were standing alone together, he asked me why I even wrote the Pact. He needed to know what prompted me.

“You know well what it is like to feel the most excruciating pain you have ever been succumbed to, and it not be at all physical. You know what it is like to see scissors and instead of remembering “shitty art from kindergarten” or some stupid shit, you think of how much you want to slide the blades down your wrist. Hard. End it all. You know what I am talking about.” I gazed at him, feigning something I was not actually feeling but demonstrating mechanically.

“I know,” he sighed. “But why this?” Why this, why this. It is always why with him.

“If I am going to go out, I do not want to go out alone.”

“But Miriam isn't particularly depressed. She just wants to... be you. Or be with you.” This is true. She idolizes me and has for two years. She is quite the stupid one. If I told her I do not wear underwear, which I generally do, she would go commando to school for the rest of her pathetic life. When she invited me to sleep over, she kissed me out of mental – and otherwise - frustration. I honestly almost like it, that someone idolizes me, because quite frankly, I am not appreciated as much as I should be by the people I know. I am not good enough by my own standards because I am somewhat visible. I am seen as crazy enough though. Definitely out of my fucking mind, thanks to Kathleen making everything a much larger deal than it really was, and they never hesitate to point it out. They tell me not to forget to take my pills. But I am not on medication; I would only over-dose on it if the mood struck me as such and presented itself in a logical fashion but no one knows this. Besides, I am not schizophrenic or depressed. I am not manic-depressive. I am completely sane. I do not need pills for supposed insanity. I do need pills to make me sleep, for a long time. Forever, even. I just do not want to wake up and beating my head into a wall until this becomes a reality is too much trouble.

“Well, this will be one more thing to make her like me. She has already dyed her hair a bit blacker and bought everything I own right down to the thong. If you are pathetic enough to do all of that, you should die anyway.” I have a habit of completely bashing Miriam while talking to Lewis but Miriam and I are actually quite close in terms of what I allow, or perhaps, am capable of.

“You are cold and heartless, you know?” I nodded.

“This is the only way to die and live together forever.”

I am unaware as to why those words, in Lewis’s voice, stuck in my head. Cold and heartless. I wondered what the term actually meant. How does one go about being warm and full of heart? Maybe he is right. I believe I already knew it, but had not really heard it. Not from someone I care about. I cannot remember feeling any other way than this way I feel now. I cannot remember what it is like to love anyone else. Else. And I will leave it at that. Miriam tried to tell him; she tried to destroy me. Lewis refused to believe her idiocy. Lewis can be naive until the day we die. And then the world will perhaps know many of my intimate feelings, but he never will. He will never know that I often wish to just wrap myself around him and kiss him finally.

Tomorrow, everyone that signed the Pact is meeting up to discuss details and these are details so that our fame is strapped in tight. Everyone needs to know exactly what to do to make this work perfectly. This is not going to be any average cluster suicide. Everyone is going to know about this. In one week.

Erika.

Chapter2

October 2

Now that it's my turn to write, I'm not exactly sure of what exactly I'm supposed to be writing. I hate writing and Erika knows it. Erika only told me to write what I felt about this day, and what happened, so I will, I guess. Whoever is reading this shit, bear with me.

Erika is a murderer. I think it’s evident enough to say for sure now. I always knew she had it in her to kill someone, and that she has put an assholes in the hospital with her violent and often warranted antics, but I never thought she would sink to the so mind-fucked level to actually murder. And she did today.

Kathleen Harvey is dead. Kathleen was a shitty excuse for a person, and I hated her almost as much as Erika, but it doesn't make the fact that she's dead any less disturbing, especially since my best friend is coldly responsible for the entire incident.

I'm not sure where Erika got a hold of it, although she’s possessed it before, but she used cyanide to poison Kathleen. I don’t know if she broke into one of the chemical plants a few miles away from her apartment in our town of Seitseville or not. I don’t even know if that place has cyanide. She's always been very resourceful in a weird way and I also know she's made dangerous things on her own in the past. I never know what might happen. When we were a little younger she even told me she knew how to make the shit out of fruit seeds, and did. She told me she stopped and dumped it out. It was a simple plan, really. Erika basically poured a portion of the contents of a tiny jar into Kathleen's water bottle which she stole out of her cheerleading locker at lunch, and locked it back up so she'd drink it during sixth period. Getting into the locker room would be easy because she could just slip in with another class if anyone was watching. Don’t know how Erika didn’t get poisoned just touching the cyanide but I’m going to take a wild guess and say she used gloves and some sort of dust mask, but I don’t really know. Maybe she wrapped her scarf around her mouth. I can only go by what I see on television. She isn’t always careful… I guess Kathleen left her locker open, or else Erika picked her lock which is very possible as well. Erika thinks she is an invisible demon wondering around our school and I’m worried she won’t even make it to what she keeps calling her “Special Day.”

Anyhow, on the track during sixth period, Kathleen fell down screaming her lungs out. I could hear her screaming from the sixth floor, since our window was open and facing the track. I have never heard anyone scream so loudly or with such intensity in my fucking life. Then, we heard the frightened screams of other girls as they crowded around Kathleen, unaware of what was going on. And then, suddenly, the harsh, forced screaming stopped, and she was dead.

I knew what happened because Erika told me at lunch that day, after showing up ten minutes late at our usual meeting spot, what she had done.

“Where were you?” I asked. She had a sinister smile on her overly pale face, so naturally I was bracing myself. Same old song and dance, or so I thought. A plan, a lie, a dream, a new riddle. I had a small panic attack and my hands wouldn’t stop sweating. Pretty commonplace.

“You know Kathleen Harvey?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. Who doesn't?”

“She will meet her last friend today,” she said. She was checking her makeup in a small hand mirror. She appeared to be a black and white photograph. Her skin is really pale and her hair long, straight and black, framing her heart-shaped face. She makes sure to keep her widows-peak covered with long, side-swept bangs. Her lips are just as white as her skin which can make her look constantly ill; she compulsively puts some red lip gloss over them. I am so happy I’m not a girl. The only color on her person is her bright green eyes, making ice cold contact with mine. It makes it difficult to talk when she stares so intensely for so long; at least, it has that affect on me. She does it often without noticing. It's basically natural for her to glare if she's going to bother making eye contact with you in the first place.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, taking a step closer and leaning in close to my ear to whisper, “I put cyanide in her sports water bottle. No one will ever know it was me, until they read our records, in six days. So keep your mouth shut tight.” I heard her words but I couldn't quite bring myself to comprehend them. If I couldn’t get my stomach to stop doing circus tricks, I’m not sure what I’d have done.

“You're... trying to kill Kathleen? Why?” The words felt awkward leaving my mouth. So many things could go wrong with this…

“I have got a hit list and that will be one less to hit. Did you think I would leave without getting revenge?” She was right. Erika is the type to get revenge, in the way that if you call her ugly she will be sure your face gets burned so you will be uglier. This is what she considers to be fair vengeance, justice, and Karma. For some reason, I’m more upset about the fact that Erika will be dead soon than the fact that she has a hit list. She kind of deserves a hit list in this fucking town.

“You've lost your shit, Erika,” I said anyway.

“Just be sure to stay quiet. You are not the smartest crayon in the box so it is not as if you would know who to alert. Our police force in this nothing town? Please,” she scoffed. “Unless you plan on taking me down right now, there is nothing you can do to stop me.” She looked up at me, the evil suddenly gone from her demeanor, and smiled. She looked entirely innocent, like she was just here with her best friend, discussing everything in the world like we used to, if our discussions ever were so normal…. I felt my heart drop a notch. Were we ever like the others?

Fortunately, Erika’s right about the Seitseville police force being nothing but straight shit. The cotton farmer shot some supposed trespasser and they just took his word for it that he trespassed even though the whole damn town knows that farmer already had an issue with that guy for sleeping with his daughter a few months before and getting caught like fucking morons. I could go on and on about how ridiculous the law is in these parts but that isn’t the point of this record. I don’t actually know what the point is.

All of the commotion and bullshit that the cheerleader-death caused didn't faze Erika at all. She’s letting her mask slip a little. No one knows yet except Erika and me. She thinks it’s dumb to tell the others because they may report her and ruin the plans. But there was no guilt in her eyes today. She just walked down the street to my house, leading me and the other five behind her. It was very overcast, I noticed, casting a scary gray shadow on everything. The leaves were falling, and I wondered what I would be doing on Halloween until I remembered, with a deep sigh, I’d be dead and everyone would be dressed as me. I watched Erika in front of me, walking like she was on an important mission, and I guess, for her, she was. Then I wondered what we looked like; five guys and Miriam following Erika in what was almost a single-file line. Were we marching? No one was saying much of anything, except for Tommy, who can’t shut up without a whole roll of duct-tape. My mind drifted in and out of my control as we swirled in our now tangible suicidal reality. We arrived at my small, white house in a quaint (to put it nicely) neighborhood where I have lived my whole life. The first time I met Erika, I was five and she was three; I caught her in my backyard watching me through the window. I walked her down the street to her house where her grandmother was looking frantically for her. Erika’s eyes were large, her speech as developed as mine, and her intentions were of an innocent place inside of her. We’ve been friends ever since.

Erika stepped aside and waited for me to open the door. Once we were all in the living room, sitting down, Erika opened her black and tan purse and pulled out the pact.

“Okay, everyone,” she said. We all looked at her, some more intently than others (Miriam looked like she had found her Prince Charming) and waited for her to tell us what to do. I'm used to her telling me what to do, but I am one of the few people in her little web of followers who will actually challenge her. I think she likes it, underneath the arrogance and all. The two of us are very different but we’ve always been very close. We don’t even share many hobbies. That might be because my main hobby seems to be keeping hers under control.

“I need to let all of you know now what preparations need to be made for October 7th,” she said. She sounded very formal, which isn’t so out of character, but she's usually so much more comfortable with me. Long time, no suicide meeting.

“Preparations?” I asked.

“Prepare to die? How much detail could there really be? Splat!” Robin smiled. He is a slightly chubby and very dark colored guy. I think he’s Hispanic which isn’t common in Seitseville. He used to be on the power-lifting team and could easily kick anyone’s ass if he wanted but he’s pretty passive. He rarely talks anymore, but in middle school he was the biggest class clown the Seitseville world had ever seen. He even flooded the entire boys' bathroom and let several fish go after writing his name on the mirror along with “You're welcome!” in red marker. We were friends at one point, but after a while he stopped coming to school barely at all and when he did, he never talked. I'm not sure exactly what his deal is but I know it must be pretty bad. We re-united as friends over the summer, particularly at the pond-party Erika was the center of. Come to think of it, the people in the room with me were all there and only they were there. Joshua was sitting beside Robin; he’s been mine and Erika’s friend since childhood. He’s redheaded, pale, and rebellious, but he looks like he should still be in middle-school. He’s a guitarist and a good one at that, but I’ve always wondered how he functioned with how high he usually is since we’ve been teenagers. I think he was high at the meeting; maybe he was just nodding off like everyone else. Must be a symptom of depression, because Erika is anything but boring when she talks about suicide. Beside Joshua was Francis, a somehow tan and yet naturally white-haired guy who is a year older than me, making him the oldest person in the room. He was asleep. I don’t get along with Francis much, but he doesn’t say anything much to anyone who is actually in the room. Beside Francis was Miriam, the girl who is obsessed with Erika. That’s what she’s known for, even though she used to dislike Erika along with her little group which included Kathleen. She tries to look like Erika, which is very hard to do because Erika is so distinctive and her body language very unique. Tommy was beside Miriam, the only energetic signer other than Erika, wearing the rainbow bracelets he had been wearing for several months; being gay is frowned on in this backwards town, and he’s been beat up both at home and at school for being openly gay. He’s got straightened brown hair and his skin is way clearer than any teenager I’ve ever seen. He’s fifteen – the youngest of the signers with Erika being the next youngest at sixteen. Did she have this planned when she gathered us together at the pond?

“Yes,” Erika said, obviously annoyed at Robin’s attempt at humor. “October 7th is on a Monday. In the morning, before school starts, we need to get onto the roof of the school, the top of the sixth floor. I know the way up there, so worry not about that, but there are various things that need to be brought that day.”

“Like what?” I asked. Everyone else looked entranced and almost excited. Erika has a way of talking about this multiple suicide thing as if it’s going to be a party. I even felt myself looking forward to it until I gave myself a mental slap and remembered what it is we are going to do. I could have slept on the train tracks by now.

“Fireworks.” Everyone but me suddenly had their mouths open or twisted awkwardly, with looks of curious confusion in their eyes. Maybe it will be a party.“I wish for no one to worry about our final day; there is a place where we can all be together.”

It turns out, Erika plans to set off fireworks on the morning of October 7th while we are all on the roof. This is to get the attention of everyone to come to the front of the building (where the concrete is, of course, to fall on) and once it is nearly time for class to start, we’ll jump. We're to jump holding hands, she said, so that no one “chickens out” by seeing someone else splattered on the ground when it's their turn. She told us the method preferred for falling; not to jump off of the building, but to lean head-first and dive into the ground. This is all pretty well thought out; research, of course, had been done. I know I’d chicken out if I saw a splattered person below me. And she has her claws in everyone. I never thought it would be so easy to talk people into suicide. Someone less demented and as smart as she is would probably be making millions off of a brand new religion rather than killing friends off with a mini-cult. I really don’t think anyone will back out. She's told them all that life is truly to be punished by God and that this world is a level of Hell, and that we are all “smarter than the masses because we realized that we can get out of the punishment by ending the life.” We could win out over God and be rewarded with an after-life royalty position. Win the race that the masses don't know they're in. Being depressed and desperate, they fell for it, or at least let it rationalize their thoughts. I did too, so what can I say? I can't disprove what she's saying.

I hope she's having fun playing demi-god.

Lewis

Chapter3

October 3

All seems well. No one has backed out of the Pact, or attempted to do so. I am quite pleasantly surprised. Francis seems rather impatient with the duration of the Pact, and he told me he thinks that October 7th is too far away. He and Lewis both think it is pointless to draw this whole thing out. I told him to shut up and sit down, basically, because October 7th is when we are going to do it, and I do not care if he does not like it. He has a history of trying to off himself... He has attempted it at least twelve times since I have known him. He will succeed this time. I promise.

I am sure the events of yesterday have already been recorded by Lewis, although tinged with whatever twisted albeit feminine emotion he has about it all. In short, I did the world a favor. The lot that is too stupid to get themselves out of this place will at least have one less self-absorbed anorexic bitch to deal with. Perhaps I did her a favor as well. When she hit that concrete screaming, I possessed her.

Today was much less interesting. Tommy, Miriam, and I met up after dark and stole fireworks from a nearby firework stand that, for some reason, stays open year-round. I believe they have a drug trade going on. We stole thirteen bottle rockets. That should be enough to get every ones attention. Tommy, being more feminine and attracted to those of the male gender than both Miriam and myself put together, managed to actually sneak all of the fireworks into his own room without his horribly abusive and irresponsible parents catching him and ripping him to shreds. This is fortunate for them, for now, because Tommy is and will be the very last child they abuse. The very last.

Miriam does annoy me, but I am going to remain nice and gentle so she does not try to back out of the Pact. And I say “try” with good reason. No one will back out under my watch. If they try, they die, by my hand instead of their own. No one will fuck this up for me, I swear to everything I have ever known. And it is rather alarming how much one can know in their life in such a nothing town. But Lewis alarms me. He knows me too well, and knows what it is I am doing and maybe even why. Today we were on the phone for two hours and said almost nothing.

“Why do you want everyone to see you kill yourself?” he asked. I hate these sorts of condescending questions he asks. He implies things. Such as that I am crying attention. There is only so much crying one can do when they are no longer breathing.

“Maybe when they see it, they will realize what assholes they are. And maybe follow suit in a fashion.”

“You're hoping to drive them to suicide?”

“Now that is just wishful thinking. We may disturb the lot to death.” After a long, awkward silence, I sighed. He responded with,

“Are you out to get the whole world?” I thought about this. In a way I suppose I really am, at least in thought. I know that as a human, I will never destroy the whole world on my own. The only way I could do that was to learn nuclear science, which I could not efficiently do before October 7th. And even then, I want humans dead, not animals. Animals are the only innocent things left. I do believe that even the trees are bastards.

“Yes. But that would require me becoming a doctor and having an international Euthanasia hospital like that one in Switzerland.” I have a pen-pal whose father works at Dignitas.

“World Domination by euthanasia – that's something to make a movie about. Straight to DVD.”

It would be interesting if someone managed kill the world off by assisted suicide or talking people into suicide. I do not understand the debate on euthanasia – if someone wishes to catch the bus, someone else should be able to give help get a ticket without being punished. In fact, they should be rewarded greatly. It takes much understanding of the world and human nature to see that life is not meant to be lived – it is meant to escape. That is all humans do. They spend their time immersed in hobbies to escape the world. The whole point of television is to escape life, as well as reading, talking, and everything else people waste their time with. They spend so much time, which they ironically consider “precious”, working at petty, comfortable jobs so they can afford houses and food and things that keep them from experiencing life. Life is being curled up in painful hunger, naked, dripping blood while the world smiles down on you in everything but kindness. As said by Freud, “Life is impoverished; it loses its interest, when the highest stake in the game of living, life itself, cannot be risked.” I argue that life is all but impoverished. The highest risk indeed is the living of life itself and the irritabilities that come along with it. Life was never an interest of which to lose; I never chose to be born, but alas, I was as was everyone else using petty means to escape such the “gift” they label life. I know the truth. People let time do all the work for them and in return, experience much more pain than they should have to. I have found the permanent, quick escape route. Time kills slowly and I am not a child of patience.

“I guess I'm going to sleep. I almost passed out today,” he said after another period of silence on the phone. I hate getting off of the phone with him. It makes me awkward. I squirm, even.

“Alright.”

“I guess I'll see you tomorrow?”

“I guess.”

“Okay then.

“Okay...”

“Bye.” I hung up without saying bye, as usual. I hate saying bye to him so much. Even when I was ten, and I thought he was going to move away, I avoided him for the whole week that I thought he would be leaving so I did not have to say bye. I could never do it. And with my plans going into action, never will I have to.

I have come a long way since I wrote the Pact. I wrote the Pact a month before I actually started recruiting people into signing it, mainly because I was bored. I am always bored. And it was so easy to pinpoint the people who needed me most. Maybe it is because I have been suicidal in a sense for much of my life and I know all of the signs, although my reasons are very different from everyone else’s. Maybe it is because they are obvious. Of course, I do know them well enough to know without even watching them. Misery does indeed love company. Lewis, Joshua, and Tommy have been my friends for years. I started talking to Francis and Robin in high school but I did not talk to them in person…only online. Even when I asked them to sign the Pact, it was online. I knew Francis would do it, and Robin had told me he was thinking about hanging himself soon. I told them about it online and that night we met up so they could physically sign the Pact and I noticed how eager Francis seemed. Brave (stupid) on my part - they could have reported me. Miriam was an obvious choice. She barely read the Pact before signing it. I talked to her at her house one night while sleeping over. She was wearing an identical outfit to the one I had worn the day before, except hers was from an expensive designer store. I do not understand why, or what celebrity she has mistaken me for, but this has been her way for about two years. She dyed her auburn hair dark brown and I could see her roots. I pointed this out so I could see her grow self-conscious, which is a trait of hers. Cruel, maybe, but fun all the same.

“Miriam?” I asked. I was lying beside her on her bed.

“Hmm?”

“I have this Pact that my friends and I have all signed. It is very important to read it carefully though. Make no decision hastily.” I handed it to her from inside my hoodie pocket. She read it, quickly, and looked at me.

“So you're all killing yourselves? I didn’t know that many people were depressed…”

“Yes. Kind of like how you tried to in the bathroom last year. Only, this will work.”

“How did you know about that?” She looked away, nervous. I smiled.

“I was in the last stall that is always locked, eating Tic-Tacs and skipping classes.” This is something I commonly could be found doing.

“That is so weird, Tic-Tacs are my favorite food!” The stupid bitch actually thinks I like to eat them. They function as my diet pills.

Nevertheless, she signed the Pact. It was the oddest thing. She did not even seem shocked. She did not seem human. Although I know she is. I have seen her cry.

Regardless, I am having issues with Lewis. I have things I wish to say to him, both positive and negative, that I cannot. I will write it eventually, before Dead Day, but he will never get to read it. Honestly, I have no option. If I say certain things, he may back completely out of the Pact. And then, I will have to kill him, which is not something I am so sure I have in me, I am ashamed to admit. So some things will remain secret. To him, at least. He is the person I trust the most and the one I trust the least. He seems quite sketchy.

I really, honestly hope tomorrow is more interesting. These are my final days. They will not be dull.

Erika

Chapter4

October 4

I woke up this morning after a horrible dream and came to the really stressful conclusion that I have to save the world.

This had to be one of the most disturbing dreams I've ever had, and I have had horrible dreams every night since I was thirteen and saw my dad blow his fucking brains out. To say a dream is scary to me is really saying something. This dream totally took the cake. No matter how I try to explain it to get the same effect, it won't happen. The dream had an emotion.

A Leader, fragile and wrapped in a short black blanket of sorts, with a black and white bunny-masque on similar to something I've seen at Mardi Gras, stood on top of a cliff to the side of a mile long line of distressed and zombie-like people. They were gray. Everyone was bleeding from various parts of their bodies; their wrists, their legs, their eyes. I was in this line, but I didn't feel as though I was one of these zombies, and I stepped out of the line to see what the Leader was doing.

The Leader was taking the hand of a young boy, probably twelve, and as zombie-like as the rest, and whispered something to him. He looked up at the Leader and nodded, and looked back down. I remember the look of relief in the boys’ eyes like they were my own. He took three steps forward and dropped off of the cliff, to my horror. I tried to scream out, but no sound escaped. The next person stepped forward. The Leader once again took their hand and whispered to them. This person, though, looked at the Leader and took a step backward. This resulted in the Leader shoving the person over the edge. Everything was so red.

I stepped forward to the Leader, out of the line, and he turned his head towards me. He extended one extremely pale arm towards me from under the blanket, to take my hand. I shook my head. He cocked his head. The Leader grabbed both of my hands and held them for a long moment, tilting his head further as if to question me, and tried to pitch me over the edge. I got close enough to the edge to see that there was no bottom to hit, and I could still see the last person he pitched over still falling. I was somehow stronger than the Leader, and wrestled him to the ground. I still could not speak. I noticed, behind me, the people were voluntarily dropping off the cliff, smiling, eyes closed, synchronized. The Leader noticed this as well and laughed. This is when I felt the most shocked, and looked back down at the Leader and the masque was gone.

It was, low and behold, Erika. Her eyes were sparkling unlike her bunch of suicidal zombies, and her smile was broad and friendly. Behind me I heard people laughing as they jumped off of the cliff to their forever-fall. I wondered if I should kill her, to save the rest, but I just couldn’t.

Then, I woke up. And threw up. All I could think about at school today was the dream, and how Erika was leading all of these people in real life into suicide. Including me. I feel super ridiculous for wanting to back out so quickly after signing the pact, but isn’t it with good reason? I know I'm depressed and in pain, and I've attempted suicide before. I've wanted to die. I wanted to die when I signed the pact, and I fully intended to follow through with it. But when you realize your days are almost over, really over, you see everything differently. You notice all of the people you never talked to and wonder what they might have to say. You notice how rain really feels. You feel that you're alive, and that you won't be forever. You don't want to go away yet. You're not the most happy you could be, but you see the possibility of change and the possibility to live. You've signed your soul over to the devil, though, and so have five other innocent people. You remember how the devil was before she fell entirely into the darkness which is young adulthood, where she really began to sparkle, and you miss her.

I finally made it to my math class with Erika, however much I dreaded it. When I arrived, she was sitting cross legged in her seat which was directly behind mine, staring intently at the doorway. Waiting for me like a viper. I sat down in front of her and turned around to her, but I avoided eye contact. I felt so guilty for so many reasons.

“How are you today?” I asked. She looked up at me.

“Fine. Yourself?”

“Bored. Anything planned for after school?” I knew I sounded fake. I'm a horrible actor. I can’t hide from someone with laser-vision.

“Food. That is all.”

“Oh, okay. What kind?” She looked at me oddly.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked. This was a startling statement for some reason. Why did she care?

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all? Not a big blank white space? No one?”

“Nothing really. Just... math.”

“…Okay.”

“What are you thinking about?” I asked her.

“You.” She was looking directly at me, her face blank. I hesitated. My heart had moved into my throat somehow and threatened to leave my body entirely.

“Why?”

“I am talking to you.” She always has this magnificent way of making me and everyone else she comes in contact with feel so fucking stupid that you cannot even think of anything to say. She is like a disease that sucks all of the energy and power out of you so that you are crippled into emotional and intellectual obedience. It is not always even the things she says, but the way she says it. She has developed such a god-complex that I don’t have a clue of what to do with her; I never realized how out of hand she was. Fucking narcissist. I found myself cross-armed and with a sulking demeanor.

I waited for her in our usual place at lunch and she didn't show up. After ten minutes, Miriam, Tommy, Robin, Francis and Joshua showed up, wanting to know where she was. Although none of them ever hang out with us at lunch, they always seem to be stalking, watching. Watching Erika, at least. Short live the Queen.

“She is at school isn't she?” Tommy asked. “I saw her last night.”

“She's here,” I answered. “She was in fourth hour.” I remembered what happened the last time she showed up late for lunch and felt sick. Hopefully she wasn't up to something of that nature again.

“I'm glad you're all here,” I said. “I need to talk to all of you outside of school, without Erika being there.”

“Why?” Robin asked.

“It's about the pact. None of you understand and I can’t get into it here. Just… trust me on this. Meet me at my house after school; you all know where it is.” They all nodded and they looked oddly more awake than usual. I wondered how many of them knew the severity of their situation and how many of them signed the pact just because suicide is “cool” right now. I wondered how many of them felt suicidal impulsively, and Erika ambushed them with a pact and a pen, lying in wait like a snake in the fucking grass.

No one saw Erika for the rest of the school day. I was worried for both her and the rest of the world, or at least Seitseville. She is being so secretive lately, which is weird because of how close we are. Or were. I know she senses my hesitance. Everyone met me at my house, like planned, so I could attempt something I wasn't even sure of. I had been planning my words all day but I couldn’t predict everyone elses' potential reactions. Everyone sat on the floor like they had done when Erika was there before.

“You do know you can sit on the furniture?” I said. No one moved. They just looked at each other awkwardly. I noticed Francis had large gashes on his arms much like the ones I have. Once he realized they were visible, he pulled his sleeve back down. Fresh cuts are often itchy, easily irritated by sleeves.

“Okay, people,” I said nervously. I ran my hand through my hair, taking note of the chocolate milk stain on my shirt as I lowered my gaze. If I wanted to win them over, I had to be confident. I am no good at this kind of thing. I had to try, though. I had nothing to lose. “Is everyone here still intending to go through with the pact?” There was complete silence. Everyone looked extremely nervous and glanced around. I remained patient although I was afraid Erika would prance into the room at any moment and destroy my chance to wake these zombies up.

“It's okay, you know. I'm not Erika. I don't want to go through with it.” At this, several people looked up at me with complete desperation visible in their eyes.

“We have to do it,” Tommy said. “We signed a pact. Erika is counting on us.” At this, I wondered how in the world Erika brainwashed these people. How can one sixteen year old talk six people into ending their lives? Were they really just that weak? Was I? Am I? A dream is what talked me out of it, anyway.

“Listen to me,” I said loudly, growing frustrated. “These are your lives we’re talking about. There’s no un-doing suicide. The pact is a piece of god damned paper. Erika is out of her god damned mind. Has she fed all of you this horse-shit that life is a game meant to escape? Have any of you not fallen for her trap? Have any of you looked around at the world? If there is one thing Erika is afraid of, it's being alone. She’s a sixteen year old with imaginary friends. Erika wants to die, but not alone. That's what we are for! We are tools. This is her logic, this is her way of getting exactly what she wants…” I felt the words come out faster than I could think. Miriam was crying. Tommy looked shocked and hurt, and Robin eyeballed Francis. Francis still looked as tired as ever. His white hair looked like it was glowing.

“Erika wouldn't do that,” Tommy said.

“Erika is doing that. You've known her almost as long as me, Tommy. You know she's wacko nowadays. She…she isn’t stable. Three years ago this would not be happening. She has talked herself into believing all of this garbage you all seem to believe, too. We all need help. Not from Erika.” Erika relatively was stable but I had to make her sound wacky to the laymen… no one really knows what a sociopath is. Not even me, but it’s a word a lot of people who don’t like Erika tend to throw around.

“I didn't sign because I fell for her tactics,” Robin said. “I signed because I want to die. This just seems to be a cooler and more effective way to do it, instead of alone in my room. It will be more important.”

“It doesn't matter how fucking cool your death is when you're dead.” I was getting so frustrated with these people. I could tell it was sinking in with Tommy. And maybe Robin, too.

“So you propose we do what?” Robin asked. I sighed. I wasn't sure.

During this meeting, everyone came to the agreement not to jump. I'm to be the only one to go up on the roof with Erika to attempt talking her out of it. Everyone else is to be down at the bottom with the rest of the crowd. I don't think that she'll do it, if she's alone in it. She may even put off killing herself to kill me and the rest of the pact signers. I hope dearly that no one changes their minds, and that Erika comes to her senses. I'm not going to mention any of it before October 7th because I know if I do, she'll try to kill everyone. She's not in her right mind anymore, if she ever was. She’s fucking malignant. I'm just happy that I talked them out of it even though it did turn into a debate of sorts... Maybe things will be alright in a few days. Or close to alright.

I saw on the news that a nearby ballet school, where Erika took ballet as a child (and was bullied brutally) burned down today. There were three fatalities and seven serious injuries. I don't know but I just feel that Erika has something to do with it. Two of the people who died went to our school. Police are crawling everywhere. They concluded it was an electrical fire, and I’m concluding that we have the laziest, poorest cops around. And Erika is getting kind of careless since she thinks she’s dying in a few days anyhow.

I just hope that no one jumps. No one. Including Erika.

Lewis

You Won't Like Me When I'm Psychoanalyzed...

noreply@blogger.com (Dizzy) — Tue, 27 Aug 2013 19:47:00 +0000

I went to get the feedback from my psychological test results this morning. I took these same tests three years ago and we compared the results. I was not allowed to actually get a copy of the results because it might "freak me out too much." But thanks to my memory, I know what most of it said as it was read to me.

As you probably know, my official diagnosis is Aspergers Syndrome, but Aspergers itself doesn't present itself with a way of medicating and/or giving therapy to help with symptoms. Since all human beings display symptoms of Personality Disorders, using that method to see what I lean towards was the best option since I do have issue.

If I were to be diagnosed with a Personality Disorder, it would be, without a doubt, Schizotypal Personality Disorder. This is what the tests [MMPI and another] concluded. This is at the same level it was when I was 14 and 18 - now I'm 21 - it's just my personality. I have had periods of functioning very well and functioning poorly since it was discovered that I fit into this category. So that isn't the issue at all.

I will go through each PD and say what has happened since almost 4 years ago. My highest scores are in the "eccentric" cluster, the first one.

Paranoid - went up. My score in this area is rather high. This is probably due to the things that have actually happened to me in my life. My outlook on life is a bit paranoid, which makes me on guard and with good cause.

Schizoid - went up. I am much more detached from people than I was before, and not because of any avoidant features, just because I have literally turned my feelings off.

Schizotypal - Same as ever, very high score, it's just my personality.

Anti Social - went up. This goes along with having to watch my back, just like in the paranoia, but on the offense and the fact that I value objectivity which can blur "right and wrong."

Borderline - went down. I don't feel intensely enough to have this PD be very strong but some of my actual behaviors are in this category.

Histrionic - went down and it was already low.

Narcissistic - went up and with good reason. I'm fucking fabulous.

Avoidant - went down in exchange for the Schizoid level going up.

Dependent - was already so low it couldn't go lower.

Obsessive Compulsive Personality (perfectionism, not to be confused with OCD) - went up a little. I have perfectionist tendencies that have gotten moreso with age.

Anyway, nothing I'm shocked by. There's also a spot for "Sadism" which has stayed the same - I'm not sure if it's high or low but I'm pretty sure it's neither.

Basically, I'm an eccentric person who has an odd outlook on the world and prefers to spend time alone and keep people at a distance, and God help you if you cross me because I'm too fabulous for that bullshit and quit talking about me behind my back.

LOL

Needless to say... everyone is a little off their rocker.

Dizzy