"The button is gone, finished, kaput. Even your grandfather can't make
something from nothing."
Something From Nothing by Phoebe Gilman
*
"You don't get to tell me what to do ever again."- Lester Burnham
"This isn't life, it's just stuff. And it's become more important to you than living. Well, honey, that's just nuts." - Lester Burnham
"Jane Burnham: Are you scared?
Ricky Fitts: I don't get scared.
Jane Burnham: My parents will try to find me.
Ricky Fitts: Mine won't."
American Beauty
*
"Do you think you are the only one who feels anything?"- Katharine
"There is no God, but I hope someone watches over you." - Count László Almásy
"I just wanted you to know: I'm not missing you yet."- Almásy
"You will." - Katharine
The English Patient
*
"The things you own end up owning you."-Tyler Durden:
"Our fathers were our models for God. If they bailed, what does that tell you about God? You have to be prepared for the possibility that God does not like you."- Tyler Durden:
Fight Club
*
Maureen Cummings: Erik got injured today. And do you know the first thing I thought when I saw him go down?
Jim Gordon: What?
Maureen Cummings: "I wish that was me." So that made me think, you know, 'cause that's not a normal reaction. How much of what you liked about me was because I was a ballet dancer, and how much because I was me? Center Stage
*
~*~
I relish the past. Every time I walk down the cobblestone steps of Hogsmeade, I smell the sweet smell of fresh sourdough bread. It reminds me of the bread Mummy used to always make. I breathe in and out, and allow the smell to fill me completely.
The funny thing is, I've always hated Mummy's bread. It was never "that" great, it was rock hard, and it tasted like Hagrid's rock cakes. But yet, smelling that glorious smell I remember good times. When in actuality, Mummy's bread was sickening.
When I see young couples happily dancing about in the streets I think of Mummy and Daddy. When I was little they used to dance around the house in this utter stupor. Daddy would lead, but Mummy was never content to follow. He'd dip her, and twirl her around. She'd giggle. I never thought she had it in her.
Ironically, their relationship was not a "cliché" one. For starters, Daddy was always at the office and Mum was left at home with 'us.' The money was short, and it stressed him out to no end. He worked two jobs at the Ministry. For another, Daddy cheated on Mummy when I was in my sixth year. I've never heard such loud noise in my life. I've never heard two people so HORRIBLY in love yell at each other in a way that suggests otherwise. And yet, when I see the young couples I think of them: and I think of joy.
It never was that joyous.
When I see older brothers becoming stupidly protective about their younger sisters, I think of Ron. Ron and I were best friends for the longest time. He'd pull me around in the little red wagon and I'd squeal in delight. We'd climb trees together, scrape our knees, and eat toast with jelly on it. No one else liked toast and jelly in our family-except for Ron and I. And he loved it. So did I. We'd make mud pies, and dance together in the rain.
It was so far from the picturesque. For one, I forgot to mention how much Ron made me cry. How many times he'd go off with Fred and George and leave me alone playing with my dollhouse. How many times when I'd ask to share his cookie with him and he'd say, "Go get your bloody own," and go off on some adventure with Percy. The times that he'd yell at me, when all I wanted was his approval. I'd run up to my room and cry my eyes out into his pillow. That smelled just like his cologne, just like Ron did.
When I think of Hogwarts, I think of the wintry smell of fresh parchment and inky quills. I think of my friends, and our "secret sleepovers" how we'd talk on night and paint our nails hideous green. How we outwitted Snape, lied to Flitwick, and stole ingredients from Trelawny. And it always sounded great, because we were young little girls and we knew so very little. We'd bring mounds of donuts in there and eat till' it felt like we could eat no more. And then we'd keep eating. "He's so handsome," I'd say dreamily speaking of the 'late' Cedric Diggory. The girls' would giggle. We'd have pillow fights and yell and scream. We'd cry our eyes out remembering lost loves, and we'd cry till it felt like acid was dripping out of our eyelids. And then we'd cry some more. We stayed up all night; the next morning we'd have bags under our eyes.
Yet, I forgot to mention that Hogwarts was not exactly a safe haven. My seventh year all of my friends (mentioned above) bailed on me, making new "popular" friends and leaving me alone. I remember, distinctively (although I'd rather not) the warm summery day when I dropped my Spells textbook. I bent down to the ground to pick it up, and they kicked it farther out of my reach. I screamed, they screamed harder. I hit, they hit harder. I cried, they cried harder.
Seeing all the young girls' and young boys' together, holding his hands, in this entirely lovely way I can't help but think about Him. And how he'd call me "Cinnamon" and he wouldn't really even go on about that. He just called me "Cinnamon" because he noted, upon his first visit to the burrow that it smelled strongly of cinnamon. I suppose it does, if you go around sniffing about quite a bit. What he was "famous" for though was kissing me on my nose. I've always loathed my nose. It's rather small, and goes a tad up at the end. Almost like an elf nose. But when he kissed it, I started to like it a bit more. It's still ugly. When he'd fix me a ham sandwich at his flat, with all the ham sticking out, I'd say: "It looks...delicious" and it wasn't. It didn't even look it. As I put my head upon his shoulder, I thought about what life meant. And what life would mean without him. And I came to the conclusion that it would mean nothing. His black velvety (they felt so soft!) cloaks used to always billow around him, and on a cold night, when we were looking at the stars he'd cover both of us with it. It was warm-or rather-he was warm.
He used to always pick the croutons out of his salad.
I met him back when I was a child, just fifteen, my whole bloody life ahead of me. My eyes used to be so starry back then. My feet were so not firmly planted into the ground. My hair was crazed and always in a braid. I was the future, I was the new tomorrow, I was Britain's finest, I was Daddy's little girl and Mummy's little angel. It didn't matter if I skipped to class. It didn't matter if I got caught shoveling pancakes into my mouth. It didn't matter if I was an incredibly stupid, naïve, child. He was himself. He was a blond, sneering, rich kid. And I wouldn't have had it any other way. Just the way he WALKED was with this stuck-up-ness that very few could possibly present. The Slytherin badge firmly embossed on his black robes.
And I loved him. I can't even really put a finger on it. His soul was practically ancient. He was perfect, in every physical way. And yet, I saw flaws. I've always been good at that. His tie was always mussed up. It was always askew which suggested he had just gotten back from snogging Parkinson in a broom closet. Pity the fool. And I always yearned to just fix his tie, because it got awfully annoying staring at that. Daddy taught me how to tie a tie when I was seven.
As soon as the git managed to ask me out (by that time I was seventeen, he was eighteen, blokes are very slow on 'getting the hint') his tie was still askew. On our first date, some quaint spaghetti place out near the countryside in Hogsmeade. I leaned over and gingerly fixed the tie.
"You didn't do it right," he muttered under his breath untying it once again.
"But, but-" I began, taking a bite of garlic bread, "you've got to be kidding me."
"Believe me, Cinnamon, Lucius taught me how to tie them the 'aristocrat' way, I just don't feel like it." He said, taking a sip of iced water.
"My daddy taught me!" I cried in indignation.
"Well, I guess he's been tying ties wrong his whole life! Ha! No wonder your brothers' ties are always tied in this knotty sort of way. It looks like they threw a tie on just for their Mother," he told me harshly peering onto my rich mocha coloured eyes.
Tears poured out of my eyes, leaving mascara to run down my eyes and onto my perfectly rose coloured cheeks, "Daddy taught me."
"For Heaven's sake," he said his tone one closer to sympathy, "you're seventeen and you still refer to him as Daddy?"
I nodded, tears sloshing into my soda. "Don't make fun of me," I whined, he pulled my hair back away from my face.
"Listen, Cin, I would never ever hurt your feelings on purpose, you remember that, kay?" His voice hardened a little bit, but he leaned over (across the salad, with no more croutons left in it, thank you very much) and dabbed my eyes delicately with his white cloth napkin.
"I know," I said my voice raising an octave or two, "you would never hurt me. I trust you too much."
"I know you do Cin," he grinned, "hey, tell me darling, any croutons left in that salad?"
I giggled.
It wasn't always so easy, it wasn't always so cliché. There were times, more than one that I remember. And they weren't very pretty.
Times when I would be shoved against the shiny green wall in the Slytherin commons, and he'd savagely say: "I'm not in the mood to hear any of your whining." I'd cringe in terror as he shook me one more time, and my eyes would plead him to just go back to bed so I could run to the Gryffindor dorms.
And then, I could cry into the pillow, smelling his cologne on me, just like I used to do with Ron. I thought Ron not sharing his cookie with me was heartbreaking, well, it was nothing compared to seeing the love of your bloody life shaking you so hard your head hurt with unimaginable pain.
It was nothing compared to loving this guy so much you'd give up your very opportunity of living for him. It was nothing compared to not getting one of Mum's chocolate chip cookies. It was nothing compared to watching your tower of dreams and fairytales collapsing to the ground, and melting into a pile of dust. It was nothing compared to watching everything your Daddy say about the guy "respecting you" go throw itself off the cliff. It was nothing compared to know that you were worthy of so much more, and not have the motivation to go after it. It was nothing compared to wanting him. And not getting him.
My lip would bleed crimson blood after he shoved me into the wicker chair. The blood would drop onto my white blouse, and it hurt, but it didn't hurt more than wondering how someone who loved me could do this to me. So I didn't wonder too much.
And to think that you told me you'd never hurt me. And to think that you were supposed to love me, even when the world didn't. And to think that you had the qualities of an abusive boyfriend. And yet, I was so sick, that I would stay with you, you made me that sick.
You infiltrated my brain. You made me dependent on you. You made me wish every second I wasn't with you that I was. You made me those pretty machete flowers, and put them into an empty coffee can. You made my heart ache. You made me dig my own grave.
And yet, did I not have free will? Did I not have freedom of choice?
But that's over now. For all I care, you can go throw yourself off the tallest mountain in Britain. And I would not shed one tear.
You could go die.
You could go marry Parkinson and have four beautiful children, that should have been mine, and you can live happily ever after for all I care. At least one of us would get the ever after we always dreamed for.
You can rot.
You can live with your tie all messed up and your salad bowls empty of croutons. You can live without me; the question is can I live without you?
Your carcass can be sent to ravaging wolves. And I would laugh.
And then I would relish in the past some more.
~*~
Something From Nothing by Phoebe Gilman
*
"You don't get to tell me what to do ever again."- Lester Burnham
"This isn't life, it's just stuff. And it's become more important to you than living. Well, honey, that's just nuts." - Lester Burnham
"Jane Burnham: Are you scared?
Ricky Fitts: I don't get scared.
Jane Burnham: My parents will try to find me.
Ricky Fitts: Mine won't."
American Beauty
*
"Do you think you are the only one who feels anything?"- Katharine
"There is no God, but I hope someone watches over you." - Count László Almásy
"I just wanted you to know: I'm not missing you yet."- Almásy
"You will." - Katharine
The English Patient
*
"The things you own end up owning you."-Tyler Durden:
"Our fathers were our models for God. If they bailed, what does that tell you about God? You have to be prepared for the possibility that God does not like you."- Tyler Durden:
Fight Club
*
Maureen Cummings: Erik got injured today. And do you know the first thing I thought when I saw him go down?
Jim Gordon: What?
Maureen Cummings: "I wish that was me." So that made me think, you know, 'cause that's not a normal reaction. How much of what you liked about me was because I was a ballet dancer, and how much because I was me? Center Stage
*
~*~
I relish the past. Every time I walk down the cobblestone steps of Hogsmeade, I smell the sweet smell of fresh sourdough bread. It reminds me of the bread Mummy used to always make. I breathe in and out, and allow the smell to fill me completely.
The funny thing is, I've always hated Mummy's bread. It was never "that" great, it was rock hard, and it tasted like Hagrid's rock cakes. But yet, smelling that glorious smell I remember good times. When in actuality, Mummy's bread was sickening.
When I see young couples happily dancing about in the streets I think of Mummy and Daddy. When I was little they used to dance around the house in this utter stupor. Daddy would lead, but Mummy was never content to follow. He'd dip her, and twirl her around. She'd giggle. I never thought she had it in her.
Ironically, their relationship was not a "cliché" one. For starters, Daddy was always at the office and Mum was left at home with 'us.' The money was short, and it stressed him out to no end. He worked two jobs at the Ministry. For another, Daddy cheated on Mummy when I was in my sixth year. I've never heard such loud noise in my life. I've never heard two people so HORRIBLY in love yell at each other in a way that suggests otherwise. And yet, when I see the young couples I think of them: and I think of joy.
It never was that joyous.
When I see older brothers becoming stupidly protective about their younger sisters, I think of Ron. Ron and I were best friends for the longest time. He'd pull me around in the little red wagon and I'd squeal in delight. We'd climb trees together, scrape our knees, and eat toast with jelly on it. No one else liked toast and jelly in our family-except for Ron and I. And he loved it. So did I. We'd make mud pies, and dance together in the rain.
It was so far from the picturesque. For one, I forgot to mention how much Ron made me cry. How many times he'd go off with Fred and George and leave me alone playing with my dollhouse. How many times when I'd ask to share his cookie with him and he'd say, "Go get your bloody own," and go off on some adventure with Percy. The times that he'd yell at me, when all I wanted was his approval. I'd run up to my room and cry my eyes out into his pillow. That smelled just like his cologne, just like Ron did.
When I think of Hogwarts, I think of the wintry smell of fresh parchment and inky quills. I think of my friends, and our "secret sleepovers" how we'd talk on night and paint our nails hideous green. How we outwitted Snape, lied to Flitwick, and stole ingredients from Trelawny. And it always sounded great, because we were young little girls and we knew so very little. We'd bring mounds of donuts in there and eat till' it felt like we could eat no more. And then we'd keep eating. "He's so handsome," I'd say dreamily speaking of the 'late' Cedric Diggory. The girls' would giggle. We'd have pillow fights and yell and scream. We'd cry our eyes out remembering lost loves, and we'd cry till it felt like acid was dripping out of our eyelids. And then we'd cry some more. We stayed up all night; the next morning we'd have bags under our eyes.
Yet, I forgot to mention that Hogwarts was not exactly a safe haven. My seventh year all of my friends (mentioned above) bailed on me, making new "popular" friends and leaving me alone. I remember, distinctively (although I'd rather not) the warm summery day when I dropped my Spells textbook. I bent down to the ground to pick it up, and they kicked it farther out of my reach. I screamed, they screamed harder. I hit, they hit harder. I cried, they cried harder.
Seeing all the young girls' and young boys' together, holding his hands, in this entirely lovely way I can't help but think about Him. And how he'd call me "Cinnamon" and he wouldn't really even go on about that. He just called me "Cinnamon" because he noted, upon his first visit to the burrow that it smelled strongly of cinnamon. I suppose it does, if you go around sniffing about quite a bit. What he was "famous" for though was kissing me on my nose. I've always loathed my nose. It's rather small, and goes a tad up at the end. Almost like an elf nose. But when he kissed it, I started to like it a bit more. It's still ugly. When he'd fix me a ham sandwich at his flat, with all the ham sticking out, I'd say: "It looks...delicious" and it wasn't. It didn't even look it. As I put my head upon his shoulder, I thought about what life meant. And what life would mean without him. And I came to the conclusion that it would mean nothing. His black velvety (they felt so soft!) cloaks used to always billow around him, and on a cold night, when we were looking at the stars he'd cover both of us with it. It was warm-or rather-he was warm.
He used to always pick the croutons out of his salad.
I met him back when I was a child, just fifteen, my whole bloody life ahead of me. My eyes used to be so starry back then. My feet were so not firmly planted into the ground. My hair was crazed and always in a braid. I was the future, I was the new tomorrow, I was Britain's finest, I was Daddy's little girl and Mummy's little angel. It didn't matter if I skipped to class. It didn't matter if I got caught shoveling pancakes into my mouth. It didn't matter if I was an incredibly stupid, naïve, child. He was himself. He was a blond, sneering, rich kid. And I wouldn't have had it any other way. Just the way he WALKED was with this stuck-up-ness that very few could possibly present. The Slytherin badge firmly embossed on his black robes.
And I loved him. I can't even really put a finger on it. His soul was practically ancient. He was perfect, in every physical way. And yet, I saw flaws. I've always been good at that. His tie was always mussed up. It was always askew which suggested he had just gotten back from snogging Parkinson in a broom closet. Pity the fool. And I always yearned to just fix his tie, because it got awfully annoying staring at that. Daddy taught me how to tie a tie when I was seven.
As soon as the git managed to ask me out (by that time I was seventeen, he was eighteen, blokes are very slow on 'getting the hint') his tie was still askew. On our first date, some quaint spaghetti place out near the countryside in Hogsmeade. I leaned over and gingerly fixed the tie.
"You didn't do it right," he muttered under his breath untying it once again.
"But, but-" I began, taking a bite of garlic bread, "you've got to be kidding me."
"Believe me, Cinnamon, Lucius taught me how to tie them the 'aristocrat' way, I just don't feel like it." He said, taking a sip of iced water.
"My daddy taught me!" I cried in indignation.
"Well, I guess he's been tying ties wrong his whole life! Ha! No wonder your brothers' ties are always tied in this knotty sort of way. It looks like they threw a tie on just for their Mother," he told me harshly peering onto my rich mocha coloured eyes.
Tears poured out of my eyes, leaving mascara to run down my eyes and onto my perfectly rose coloured cheeks, "Daddy taught me."
"For Heaven's sake," he said his tone one closer to sympathy, "you're seventeen and you still refer to him as Daddy?"
I nodded, tears sloshing into my soda. "Don't make fun of me," I whined, he pulled my hair back away from my face.
"Listen, Cin, I would never ever hurt your feelings on purpose, you remember that, kay?" His voice hardened a little bit, but he leaned over (across the salad, with no more croutons left in it, thank you very much) and dabbed my eyes delicately with his white cloth napkin.
"I know," I said my voice raising an octave or two, "you would never hurt me. I trust you too much."
"I know you do Cin," he grinned, "hey, tell me darling, any croutons left in that salad?"
I giggled.
It wasn't always so easy, it wasn't always so cliché. There were times, more than one that I remember. And they weren't very pretty.
Times when I would be shoved against the shiny green wall in the Slytherin commons, and he'd savagely say: "I'm not in the mood to hear any of your whining." I'd cringe in terror as he shook me one more time, and my eyes would plead him to just go back to bed so I could run to the Gryffindor dorms.
And then, I could cry into the pillow, smelling his cologne on me, just like I used to do with Ron. I thought Ron not sharing his cookie with me was heartbreaking, well, it was nothing compared to seeing the love of your bloody life shaking you so hard your head hurt with unimaginable pain.
It was nothing compared to loving this guy so much you'd give up your very opportunity of living for him. It was nothing compared to not getting one of Mum's chocolate chip cookies. It was nothing compared to watching your tower of dreams and fairytales collapsing to the ground, and melting into a pile of dust. It was nothing compared to watching everything your Daddy say about the guy "respecting you" go throw itself off the cliff. It was nothing compared to know that you were worthy of so much more, and not have the motivation to go after it. It was nothing compared to wanting him. And not getting him.
My lip would bleed crimson blood after he shoved me into the wicker chair. The blood would drop onto my white blouse, and it hurt, but it didn't hurt more than wondering how someone who loved me could do this to me. So I didn't wonder too much.
And to think that you told me you'd never hurt me. And to think that you were supposed to love me, even when the world didn't. And to think that you had the qualities of an abusive boyfriend. And yet, I was so sick, that I would stay with you, you made me that sick.
You infiltrated my brain. You made me dependent on you. You made me wish every second I wasn't with you that I was. You made me those pretty machete flowers, and put them into an empty coffee can. You made my heart ache. You made me dig my own grave.
And yet, did I not have free will? Did I not have freedom of choice?
But that's over now. For all I care, you can go throw yourself off the tallest mountain in Britain. And I would not shed one tear.
You could go die.
You could go marry Parkinson and have four beautiful children, that should have been mine, and you can live happily ever after for all I care. At least one of us would get the ever after we always dreamed for.
You can rot.
You can live with your tie all messed up and your salad bowls empty of croutons. You can live without me; the question is can I live without you?
Your carcass can be sent to ravaging wolves. And I would laugh.
And then I would relish in the past some more.
~*~