Gem Stoned
It started, as it always inevitably did, she would reminisce one day, with a dream.
She'd had frightening dreams, nightmares, even the infrequent night terrors as a child; when she slept on a new, untouched single mattress on a black old-fashioned frame that creaked with her weight, tucked into the smallest, cosiest nook of the attic. At first, she would feel utterly distraught even after she was wrapped in warm, welcoming arms, soft words of solace being whispered into her mussed hair.
"It was only a dream"
She was afraid, because the bed she had slept on for so long, the room that had forever been hers, her mother's arms, felt foreign. Like she was still dreaming, and that the fragmented horrors she had just seen would jump out of the closet; and devour her so utterly and completely.
Her alone.
The same flashes of black. Of forest green. Of a song, a silhouette, pain, then darkness.
It didn't last long: with subtle, gentle coaching from her parents, memories began to form in her impressionable young mind of running through the serene fields of Kansas until her mother called her in when the blushes of dusk became inked with black. Every day since she could walk, she would run through the wheat.
Free.
The dreams didn't last long, either. Faded away with her doubts and blank spaces that filled with familiarity and eventually, predictability. Her Popsicle, her Mom, and her. Distanced from the outside world, slowly taking life one step at a time.
And for many years, it stayed that way. Day in, day out, she new what was going to happen like she knew how to tinker with the turbine.
She grew older, life lost it's sheen.
A few short months after her sixteenth birthday, she would crave that sameness, that mind numbing routine she had grown to rely on; her stability.
o
Clearer.
Her mind, lax and stuffy with boredom, and stretched from locating any form of inspiration for her artistic outlets, was unwittingly primed for the mistakes that had been stored away, intent on haunting her.
Weeks past as blurry as her used palette, and it would happen over and over, as if she were stuck in a time loop. No words could calm, no bed, her parents, her friends, the couch, made the nightmare abate.
Even medication did nothing to stave off the visions that plagued her subconscious. Sleep, restful or otherwise, seemed to be the dream now. When the sun went down, terror clawed at her chest; pulled her eyelids closed with a finality to her peace.
She could already see the ceiling behind her lids moments before her exhaustion took over.
It was a soft, musky pink colour. As were the walls, which were lined with some kind of intricate embellishments, though it was so hard to see as she was so very tired. And she was ever so distracted by the warm body that laid close to her, the hand that stroked her head a cool porcelain; a chill that went straight to her eyes, pulling them down in perfect time with the end of a lullaby she adored.
A kiss to her right cheek, and she felt sleep fall over her.
Her senses were alert though, as the warmth left her side and footsteps that echoed love and grace fell away from her ears.
It was the precise, strict footsteps that came after, grew loud with purpose that made DG twist and sweat and scream in the odd, forgotten hours of the night.
She had long since found out that whoever said you could control your dreams was full of it.
Her mouth wouldn't open, her arms wouldn't raise, her eyelids so lovingly drawn down earlier now seemed to be attached to lead weights.
A rhyme, a poem she could not recite for the life of her during waking hours floated so naturally over her as she laid on her bed; for it was so comfortable and smelled so much of her it had to be.
The ditty drew to a definite close, clipped words seemed queer coming from such a young innocent voice. A voice that held the sophistication and manipulation she could barely fathom in the depths of her young mind.
A voice that tugged at heartstrings she didn't think could exist in such a frightful place.
Eyes snapped open as she felt freezing coils surge around her neck, gripping and scratching at her tender throat as if she were a life preserver, and this thing was on the verge of drowning.
A silhouette stood so close to her, a young girl much like herself. Or so she believed; she was impossible to make out through the dark mist that swirled like a tornado around her face.
The dream was coming to an end; for it always ended this way.
The... darkness that emanated from the stranger's hands quickly spread through her, attaching to every nerve within her youthful form, sucking any energy she had left after her carefree romp in the maze that day. It paralysed every muscle that twitched in a vain attempt to keep from dying.
And she was.
Dying.
All the pain and excruciating numbness culminated in her chest. Squeezing so tightly around her pulsing heart, a final wrestle valiantly fought but for nothing.
It was as if the cold detached hand of Death himself had reached down her throat, determined to extricate her still beating heart through the same passage.
Crushed.
With a suddenness, it yanked itself away as if burned.
When it had withdrawn fully, blackness was all that was left.
And thus, like clockwork, she woke.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, red and hot with with life and feeling, as she clawed and scraped at her neck as if the darkness still lingered around there; waiting and willing her to forget before finishing her off.
Too much. Too long.
DG had more bags under eyes than an airport terminal.
Her parents had spent hundreds of dollars that they didn't have on medicines and therapists that failed to crack the mystery that was her mind.
Her bedding had to be replaced from the manic thrashing and tearing she couldn't control after her untimely, routine demise by the intangible creature. The sheer amount of sweat she experienced during it ruined a number of otherwise perfect mattresses.
She couldn't go on doing this to her family, let alone herself. Her work, her education and health were suffering to an extreme degree.
Nothing worked. Nothing fit.
o
The first time she had marijuana, it had been the most freeing thing she had felt in months.
DG's town in Kansas was a traditional, old school place. Everyone new everyone, and had an eye on the goings on with the youth; for it would be a travesty to the community facade should one of their own stray into the unknown.
Holding vast ingenuity, desperation, and a place in the local art class, she didn't have to wait long before the plastic pouch was slipped into her hand for a fee. It was surprisingly easy; even with Elmer Gulch watching her like the hawk he thought he was.
The danger only built her confidence as she rode, nonchalant as though all the world had floated away; nothing in this town, this world, nothing, could be worse than what her mind had in store for her.
Her loving parents would never suspect her. She didn't know whether to feel good or bad about that.
For a number of hours, all she did was pace around her bed, stare at it, where it sat innocuously; her little packet of illegal and dangerous drugs.
Never in all her years had she believed she would consider breaking the law to such an extent. Speeding fines and the occasional scuffle were one thing.
This was different.
She almost threw it away.
Almost.
Until the moon rose, the air cooled and her bed creaked as if knowing how abused it was going to be. How insane it's occupant had become. How damaged they both were.
Again.
In her panic and frustration, she fumbled and fought and failed with the paper as she tried to roll her first joint, her mind barely keeping up with her hands.
Breathing, stopping, and starting over.
Successful on her second try, she was a fast learner after all, and she had it between her lips, lighted and smoking as the clock on her desk signalled 10pm.
Everything came together and vanished at the same time; it all made sense, yet meant nothing at all.
If the darkness from her dreams had been Death, than the white, warm, and all encompassing light she could see running through her every limb and emanating from every pore must have been an angel, cleansing her of the toxic terror that ran through her veins.
She hadn't felt this joyous since she was a child; but the memory was so vague and far away she wondered if she ever felt good in her life.
She felt good now.
Time became a foreign concept as she lay on her worn, fresh bed. An insignificant blip in the universe, but free to bathe in it's wonders and delights.
DG didn't know whether she was up or down.
She slept.
Woozy upon waking, eyes bloodshot and heavy. Her sheets were ruffled, but clean. She had clean sheets.
She would vehemently deny being excited over such an inane fact if ever asked.
o
It continued for a good few years. The smoking. And the secrecy.
Wide, isolated fields became the perfect place for her to travel to another world that existed for the sole purpose of making DG stop existing. Just enough for sleep; enough for Fear to realise she was a lost cause and disappear into the faded colours of her hallucinatory happiness.
The ground became marked, flattened and eventually dead from her frequently laying there in a stupor. A small patch just right of her father's thrown together scarecrow.
It was a companion. Silent, unmoving and stable. She could relate on two of those counts.
Upon 'waking', she would grip it's black, flapping arms and hoist her body, heavily weighted with the chemicals settling in her bones, and haphazardly venture back to the little cottage in the outskirts of Kansas.
Every night.
She made sure, perfected the art, of getting back home before her parents would notice too much. A few close calls taught her she needed to.
Eventually, it had to end.
o
She wasn't going to kid herself. She knew it would be hard to stop.
And it was.
The dream had stopped months ago, but she kept smoking. She told herself it was just to be sure. She wouldn't admit she was addicted. That would mean that, once again, she had her control wrenched away from her.
It couldn't happen again.
The decision came when on one of her trips to replenish her supply of freedom, she saw one of her fellow 'students of the fine arts', otherwise known as 'stoners', had a little too much, went a little too far, got in a little too deep. He ended up in the emergency ward of the hospital. Bruised and bleeding. Thrashing and screaming and sweating from a fantasy gone sour.
It was at that point DG realised if she continued down this road she would come full circle.
End up being what she had been running from.
o
She put her body through hell. It screamed for more. Begged and pleaded. Cried and burned so much she was sure her skin had fallen off long ago and the elements now beat down on her exposed muscles.
It eventually stopped.
Slowly.
In as many days that had been lost in the hazes of warmth and expanding white nothing; that many days were lost in agonising, ripping pain as her body fought to bring back that feeling.
In time, once her mind had finished having throes and tantrums and the chemical had let go of her, she locked the part of herself that broke and lead her to this pain, away.
Her fear, her vulnerability. Any hint of weakness or fault. After all, it was these very emotions that had brought her to the same end no matter what she did to try please them.
The gaps they left had to be filled; she couldn't leave the gaping holes in her heart there.
Sarcasm. Apathy. Disinterest.
They were already prevalent in her personality, being the 'pistol' she was. They were guarded, defensive, safe. The perfect replacements for her less favourable feelings. So she had them in spades.
Compounded by the resentment that drugs had shaped who she was now.
She locked them away as well. The marijuana satchels, the fragile papers, even the lighter that first sealed her entrapment with the substance.
She couldn't very well throw it into the garbage can, or sneak out in the darkest hours of the morning without raising suspicion.
A small box full with speeding fines she never intended on paying, all given by Officer Gulch at various hours of day, weeks, months years, is where it was stashed.
Her mother and father knew what lay in it, and while they disapproved of her flippant attitude to authority, they had no intention on pushing her into her responsibilities, nor of invading her privacy.
Therefore would never venture into it. So that made it the safest place in the house.
And there it would stay.
Forgotten.
o
Return.
The house was musty to say the least. After being torn apart by a tornado with little to no repairs, DG was unsurprised to see furry rodents eating out of the open refrigerator, before scurrying back into the torn cracks and crevices of the walls.
This was what had become of her childhood. Well, one of them anyway.
It was clear that at some point in time, people had been through here; not too long after the natural disaster struck, she was sure.
She didn't spend days on the road with Wyatt Cain and not pick up a few tracking tips.
It had completely escaped her thoughts as to what the citizens of her old home would ever think had occurred in the house on the edge of the sun soaked land. She supposed they had phoned some kind of assistance and investigative help; not necessarily for their benefit, more out of pure curiosity and soon-to-be gossip.
With the quiet nature of this place, a mystery disappearance of an entire family was like mothers milk for the townsfolk. No matter who had to pay.
DG was also less than shocked to discover a portion of her family's expensive possessions miraculously vanished as if by ghosts. She could care less now.
She was a princess after all.
A princess with a purpose.
The whole trip down memory lane, which she could now navigate with confidence, was for a very very important reason indeed.
The Emerald. The thimble sized stone that had both ended and begun her life in so many ways she dared not reminisce or attempt any mathematical logic on it lest she lose her mind.
The Queen, her mother, her protector, and her quest, had made an informed decision that the Emerald should be shattered, scattered and banished from the kingdom it had been on the verge of destroying. Her mother's words; she now blamed the Emerald for all the tragedies and horrors of the O.Z. and it's people, as Azkadelia had beaten herself up inside so much she could not bear to see another of her lovely daughters 'die'.
And so it was said: the Emerald had contained a most petulant and foul witch of annuals past that had been drawn to her daughters pure and powerful magic. It was not her fault. And so it would be destroyed and spread across the farthest and most treacherous lands possible.
A fabrication that pleased both sides of the court.
And thus DG was tasked, once again by the matriarch of Outer Zone, to assist in royal matters; by taking a number of shards to the Otherside, and spreading them amongst the wheat fields she once thrived in.
And she did.
o
Together.
Unsure and uncoordinated footsteps skidded and scuffled behind her; following her closely like a child in a doctors office for the first time: curious and afraid.
Glitch had the responsibility of accompanying DG to the Otherside. He was more than happy to; since the emancipation of the O.Z., life had been a series of re-building and re-organising regions and economies and positions within and outside the castle.
Glitch, for he still was Glitch, was currently a square peg trying to fit into a round hole; it was very tight fit. Alchemists first were busy testing if the Emerald could be reassembled once broken.
It was a success.
But then they moved onto other 'more pressing' tests and experiments, and Glitch was once again abandoned. Left behind for more interesting and appealing matters.
At the behest of DG, the Queen gave him little odd-jobs and delegations that were not important or special, but kept the stable part of his half-brain occupied while her youngest child's other travel companions advised and planned and schemed on the future of their country.
All the work he was given resulted in his full-time position as 'Garden Guard'; a grand title for tedious labour that involved chasing and scaring away any miscreants that thought it wise to trespass into the royal plots of flora that stretched out like a hand sewn silken quilt. Flapping around his arms and raising his voice to remove any stains or tarnishes.
His limbs and his odd appearance were his only redeeming qualities.
In the present, he seemed to blend into the dusty, shredded wood and furniture of number 39. A piece of the world she would forever hold inside her.
Somewhere.
o
Her room had barely changed at all.
Not counting the paper, linens and her hundreds of sketches that were strewn about the place as though the low pressure system that had struck so many weeks earlier had in turn caused a freak storm within the four walls of her bedroom, and decided to use the items within as the torrential rain rather than tax itself to that extent.
Glitch was far too interested, far too amused with her premonition-like images that only now fit to make up the jigsaw of her pasts and future. Every few minutes an amazed smile and impressed æ»´uhwould sound from the nook where she once slept.
It was disconcerting for her former lives to be so well meshed in this very moment.
And so very odd that a man who is not who he is supposed to be was sitting on her bed that was never hers to begin with looking at pictures of a home she never knew she had.
It was almost fate that of all the rubble and mess that surrounded her failed to hide her untouched little box of old fines. In the very centre of the chaos; it was an artistic ploy.
With it, another familiarity.
She could not place what was in that tiny box. Filed away in her mind that had been sorted into it's correct place.
She approached with slight trepidation towards it; though why she was so hesitant, she didn't know.
Only once she had discarded the lid did her concerns wash away.
How long it had been indeed.
The memory of times lost in hazes of calm, flowing space made DG smile with a little bitterness at how stupid she was to have let her life nose dive and crash so horrendously.
Though if she had matured and moved beyond that, she could not answer with any conviction.
"What're those?"
Startled at the presence that had crept up behind her unbidden, she toppled onto her behind from the haunches she was precariously balanced on. Wooden planks creaking as Glitch obliged to delicately pick one of the joints out of it's confines and examine it with an almost humorous air of seriousness.
He was no longer a serious man.
"A joint"
"Joint?"
"Yep"
"Looks like a cigarette. Smells off though..."
A premonition would have been appreciated by DG now.
Glitch was unpredictable at the best of times, but she never thought to supervise him here. They were alone, and she was far to amused by the countless fines and tickets she had dodged ever having to pay and answer for. She could just picture Officer Gulch's smug face turned red with anger that he had lost.
She had won.
DG could only guess at what her features would have twisted and shifted into as she heard the mechanical clicking of the old, rusted gas lighter, which she was to late to realise was not in the box any more.
Another click, a deep breath in, a lengthy exhalation.
Smoke.
A pause, promptly followed by the unmistakable sound of another body hitting the floor with a solid and resounding 'thump'.
He lay in a heap on the floor, another messy piece of art with his coat splayed and twisted about him like a peacock's tail; minus the vibrant hues.
DG had the sense to attend to her fallen friend. He seemed far too struck by the first puff for her liking, not to mention the unnaturally large dilation of his pupils which held a shine akin to the golden crops outside her window. He wasn't opening his mouth to breathe, only tiny wisps of translucent grey escaped the corners of his sealed lips.
Odd, considering the vigour with which he talked on a daily basis.
o
Mistake.
She realised too late that her simple movement of leaning over him, of placing her fingers near his widened eyes to assess his state of mind was not the best idea she had ever had.
A rush of shocked breath finally emitted from Glitch's mouth at the cool hand that touched his face and intruded upon his complete lack of thought.
Now he had the faintest idea what it would feel like should he ever lose the remaining half of his mind.
It was like being in the tornado once again; her face lost in the swirling fog that seeped into her very skin, and snuck past her better judgement to revisit it's old haunting grounds. She could vaguely make out what some would call a 'charming smile' from the lump at her feet before the sensations stomped and trampled back with a force and intensity that caused her to sway unsteadily.
She needed to stop crouching down on the floor; it was proving quite hazardous.
And confusing, for as DG steadied herself against the crooked frame of her single, sheet-less bed, the smoke followed her, blocking her view; placing it's origin between her lips via a hand that was not her own.
All she could do was breathe.
Hand it back with a gentile grace she had been forced to learn back in the marbled walls of the castle.
And with modest glee, brought on by the cigarette she was sure, promptly and accept it back again when his hand sought to locate where it should go.
Time had definitely stopped; the clock didn't change no matter how many times DG stared and willed to, or Glitch crumpling the vast piles of paper and throwing them in it's general vicinity.
o
Paint.
Another belonging of DG's had survived the natural disaster brought down on the house. Her most important outlet for self expression, and the keys that guided her on her path home.
Being in the state they were in, how they ended up being slathered and looking for all the world like a rainbow had lost it's way whilst looking for the storm that had passed through and now was lying in various shapes and mixtures on the only two living creatures within miles.
An experienced artiste with the lightest of touches, DG had the most beautific and fantastical sceneries forming in her heavy head; spending so much time traversing the conflicting environmental extremes of the OZ had more than fed her imagination and muse, heading towards pure gluttony soon after.
What her brush managed to get onto Glitch's face, however, was slightly less impressive.
Smiley faces, vines with what could be interpreted as flowers and leaves, though with her sloppy brushwork guided by dried and burning leaves that melted any coherent criticism that she would usually apply to her works.
There were a few rosy hearts brightly contrasting his pale cheeks and auburn hair.
She carefully drew the bristles across his forehead, dark purple waves and bumps behind it as the picture of a brain made itself apparent.
Glitch was not as soft a touch, nor as concerned with the conventions of traditional methods and tools of the artisan.
Fingers fumbled with graceless joy as DG became striped and smeared and smudged as they dragged and poked anywhere they saw fit to; anywhere his doped cranium tracked an embarrassing lack of vibrancy. Some layers of paint were considerably thicker than necessary; many glitches causing them to be repeatedly redone and re-traced with a not quite there concentration.
Hair, jackets, arms, legs, and most noticeably faces were not bereft of every colour under the suns.
DG was quite taken with the idea of writing words that Glitch often lost within the organised chaos of his mind on his arms, shirts, and any wide space she could get her paint-coated fingertips on.
'Sunseeder', 'Ambrose', and her mother's name were just a few of the illegible scribbles she had recalled him forgetting.
It was a most confounding experience.
Glitch, for all his faults and inconsistencies, was unexpectedly adept at decoding her scrawl with an ease and smile never did falter; even with flaming orange and icy blue creeping sluggishly down, down, down his beaming features, his neck, and undoubtedly beneath his shirts, staining the material and skin with bleary minded playing in the form of pigmented liquids.
For how long this infantile behaviour carried on, no-one in the house could say, as they weren't saying much at all.
"Why did you write that?'
His focus was directed most emphatically towards his palm, blackened with two letters; his playmates namesake.
DG struggled, and fought with the oncoming exhaustion that she knew all too well; to look past the technicolour strands of what she recalled as being her hair, past the now rapidly clown-looking man sitting knee-to-knee across from her, a mimicking position that neither had thought to change from to combat the cramps they would no doubt feel later.
He looked to her, than his hand, then again to her in what felt like an insufferably contrived slowness.
I would never forget that"
o
Ok, done!
A note: I wrote this after a most interesting conversation I had on an LJ comm. Thought I would write this to explain the seeming randomness of this idea.