I hope you all had a lovely and fattening Thanksgiving yesterday! And if you don't celebrate Thanksgiving, I still hope you had a marvelous Thursday and that you're having an even more celebratory Friday (or whatever day of the week you read this chapter on)!
Times like these, I'll just float around and gaze at the little humans hurrying in their cars. They all look so worried, it brings a smirk to my lips. Silly, moronic humans.
Another winged creature flies up to me, breaking a cloud, scaring a flock of pigeons. "Honey, what are you doing up here?" It's voice couldn't possibly hint to the creature's gender. Spidery and willowy were the closest words that could guess to its features. I knew it and it knew me, we were quite familiar, it and I.
I replied, "Roku, there is nothing to fear up here. Unlike down there, here I can be free. Why do you stay down there, even when you know of its troubles?" I glanced at him, my eyes grazing it's rough exterior.
It chuckled, a sound that grated against your ears and forced you to blink. "What can I say, everything gets boring up here. Down there, with those pesky humans, everything is new and dramatic. Even freedom wears down to boredom, Honey Charter. Just remember that." With a final wave, Roku dove and hit the world with enough force to give life to rocks.
A flicker of movement. "Honey? Oh my god! Please don't die on me, Honey, you're my best friend! Oh, I'm so, so, so sorry!" Griselda wailed into my chest. This made it hard to breath but I was still weak that I couldn't push her off.
What happened? I thought this just as the indistinct smell of cooked crab wafted to me. It was masked by fresh air (the kind you can buy at Wal-Mart), cherry pie, and peppermint. Though all the scents in the room were strong and somewhat ill-made (except for the pie, that was exquisite) I felt the remaining blood drain from my face.
Griselda shrieked at slapped her hand across the air in front of my face with jumpstarted force. "Ah? Get more of the peppermint, John, hurry!" Have you ever had peppermint sticks thrown into your nostrils? Well, it hurts. Badly. Something in the chemical makeup of the sugary/spicy treat makes your nose burn until you are forced to forget that you're allergic to crab and snap your eyes open.
I shrieked at threw myself upwards. John, the unfortunate waiter who had brought the sin (the crab), gave a yelp of his own – though he couldn't compare to mine, we were on completely different ranges – and flew backward as Grizz' arms flailed helplessly.
Ripping the sticks out of my nose, I inhaled the mixed smells heavily. My lungs couldn't get enough of the contaminated air.
Ten minutes later, John was back to serving normal people, Griselda was flipping through a Christmas catalog, and I was wandering aimlessly across dreamland. Complete exhaustion washed over my somewhat frail body, everything except my chair/bed/resting place appeared twisted and blurry.
Griselda spoke nonchalantly, "You never told me you were allergic to crab."
I nodded sleepily, "S'well that cannot be helped –" After that, everything was a haze. Griselda slipped off into her own world, the world outside faded to indigo, then to navy, then to black. Pitch-black. Stars as bright as L shone throughout the sky, illuminating the darkness and giving a hopeless girl something to believe in.
*** The Next Morning: Practically everything was back to normal. Notice how I say practically.
Griselda asked, "What do you want for Christmas?" Her eager eyes always bring out the truth in me, another weakness that I have.
I replied dully, "Um, well I suppose I'd want to go to Los Angeles." Nonchalance was never my strong point in lying so Griselda had to jump on it like a rabid animal.
"What's in Los Angeles, Honey? Hmmm?" She had become a slinky creature, curling around the arm of my chair, poking me. I cursed myself for telling the truth. The truth never worked with me, we were never the best of partners.
I gulped. "W-ell, that is for me to know and for you to forget about. Just leave it alone, okay? Let's get with the holiday cheer that I've heard of. Also, I want a brown leather bomber jacket, like the ones that silly Americans wear. They're really cool, huh?" With that, I shut off the conversation. I couldn't let her find out about what was in Los Angeles, no, it's more like who was in Los Angeles that made shivers pay a visit to my spine and sent worms to eat at my stomach.
BB. Gosh, even his name could send me into giddy fits of happiness and fascination. We were headed to Chicago on that train. Illinois was so, so far away from him and yet: it would only take a plane ride and a taxi to get there. If only Griselda hadn't been with me. . . Well, let's just say I wouldn't have spent my Christmas with happy-go-lucky Grizz and John if I could have left.
If. If. My life is filled with ifs. Am I going to life till tomorrow? Will I be gunned down or will I drown? Shall it be death by poison or death by heart attack? If I make it till tomorrow, I'll love more, try to forget the past. That is my mantra. But of course, things (life) don't work out that way. Yes, I lie to myself daily.
Just then: I felt the urge to plug in my ancient headphones (a sentimental memory that I lug around) and play some Flyleaf. It was the strangest and most urgent impulse that I had had in a while so I hurried to do so. The moment I had them over my ears and had my midnight-black-painted fingernail pressing the button, I knew the subconscious itch was right, oh so right.
One of the greatest types of music to listen to when you're angry is metal. It clangs inside your head, making your decisions before you even think of them. Flyleaf only reinstitutes that basic fact by a thousand times over.
Music engulfed me. "I'm so sick! I'm so sick! If you want more of this. . . We can push out, sell out, die out! . . Infected with where I live, let me live, empty please of their selfish tricks!" Skipping lyrics every now and again, I became the guitar, the base, the drums, I lived and breathed metallic air.
I really had forgotten how great it could feel to listen to that old music, I became the nine-year-old that hid in her room listening to Toybox, Alexander Rybak, Flyleaf, Akon, and The Lonely Island. Being that little girl again hurt my chest like a brick wall decided that we had too much time apart and thrust itself onto my front. A.K.A.: It hurt like hell.
With the ache came the wit. Remember the first few chapters? Yeah, I think I – Well, "Don't Trust Me" was like my theme song. Except that I wasn't screwing an actress who had a boyfriend with a lot of beef. More like, trust me with your life and only receive regret in the process; however, now I had a friend and a career and a love interest. Though many readers might think that the Wammy boys are somewhat of a love interest debacle, they really aren't. "Just friends" doesn't really count for crap here (yeah, sorry, got to keep it K+, I know it sucks) so I guess that "More-like-the-brotherly-neighbor-type-that-gets-on-your-nerves-but-you-like-them-and-trust-them" fits best.
Everything has changed so much from that very first line that started it all. So long ago that I can't even remember how I ended up on this train, in America, a friend by my side, a man awaiting the chance to call me (that's the prettier way of saying it), and with a whole whopper list of goals to accomplish. Wait, no, I lied. I do know. Without my parent's deaths, I wouldn't have been like this. Can I say that I'm glad that they died so I could do more good for the world? Can I finally move on?
Answer is: There is no possible way for me to let go of what happened. It plagues my mind, my body, and my soul. I can't say that I'm glad for all this pain and heartbreak and anxiety that Death has caused me, nor can I say that I've moved on. A deprived-of-hate me?, there is no such fate for me. I can't even see myself smiling without a care in the world, not chasing anything, not desperately wishing for something. It's just not a conceivable outcome. How can I put it into words? Oh, I know how. It's like if Sebastian suddenly fell for Grell and they had little ginger-butler babies (don't worry if you don't get it XD) or if the moon abruptly spiraled out of control and collided with the planet Pluto (I am a firm believer that Pluto is still a planet and always will be). Yeah, it's that freaky.
ANNOUNCEMENT TIME: IF YOU REALLY LIKE THE WAMMY'S HONEY, WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE APART OF IT? I'M THINKING OF MAKING A LITTLE WEBISODE SERIES OF THE STORY AND NEED PEOPLE. IF YOU COSPLAY DEATH NOTE OR THINK YOU'D MAKE AN AWESOME GRIZZ, HONEY, HAROLD, OR WHOEVER: GO TO YOUTUBE, TYPE IN "THE WAMMY'S HONEY AUDITION ALERT" AND WATCH THE VIDEO. IT SHOULD BE UPLOADED ON THE FIFTH OF DECEMBER! CHECK IT OUT, MY PEEPS!