Author's note: Darcy's POV will play a large part in this episode, in the form of these journal entries. (Experimentation, experimentation.) Also, the rating will be upped to R because the language is getting filthy, and it deals with mature themes like drug use.
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From the Diaries of Darcy Milne (alternatively known as the 'prostitution of the soul through print')
Entry 1
I don't know what day it is today. I don't even know what the time is. I'm guessing that it's morning or afternoon because I can see a small sliver of light through a crack in the boards. I'm also getting a 'morning vibe', which means I'm cranky, irritable and completely unproductive at the moment. I always trust in the circadian rhythms.
I remember when Dr. Eisenbaum would tell me to keep a journal as part of my therapy back at the funny farm. All of us had to sit down and write what we did for the day, and express our emotions and all of that crap. They told us that all emotions stem from combinations of either Mad, Sad, Glad or Afraid.
It sort of simplified everything and made it that much more presentable. Then you had to draw a little face at the end with either the mouth curved into a smile, downcurved to express melancholia, or the brows knit together and slanted to indicate anger. I don't remember what face characterized 'Afraid', since I hardly ever drew that.
I guess it's easier to believe that there are primary emotions rather than indulge in the complexity of it all. I wonder what potent combination of all four constitutes the feeling you get when you're jonesing for your meds or when you lose all autonomy, and the mobility of certain limbs. I'm pretty damn sure there is no way you can account for those feelings with Mad, Sad, Glad and Afraid.
However, one thing I am Glad about is that my bastard of a kidnapper gave me a pen and paper today. I have been Mad enough to contemplate gouging his eyes out with this bic and I am sure that it will make him very Sad if I do that. (Mwhhahahahaha!) I am also Afraid that if I poke his eyes out, he will probably seek some retribution in the form of bodily harm, smelly socks or no bathroom breaks, which will make me Sad. Oh, to hell with writing like this.
I'm thinking about tearing this paper into little notes that I can use as SOS signals. Maybe to slip under the door or out the window where some passerby can pick them up. Maybe I can even pin the notes on myself, in case the bastard ever takes me out. It will read 'Help, I have been kidnapped by this here fella in the black leather. Please call the cops and have them bust his sorry ass.'
I'm going to start writing them now…
* * *
Entry 2
Brilliant plan of writing SOS notes foiled by semi-incompetent captor. It seems that in my enthusiasm for putting the plan into action yesterday I was a bit overzealous about spreading the notes around. One of them happened to lodge its way into the peroxide-laden locks of heathen hellspawn though god only knows what infernal device made that possible. (I mean, it's not as if I put it in his tub of Dep.)
After much impassioned head-bobbing during the airing of some stupid soap, the note fluttered like confetti and ended up floating on the surface of whatever he was guzzling at the moment.
There was a lot of shouting and threats and hand-wringing and pacing. I don't think that he took too kindly to being depicted as a 'leather-clad child molesting sodomite', but then I had to embellish his grievances in the notes. Who can blame me for having creative license? I was pretty desperate at the time. It's not as if anybody else got to read it.
He ranted on and on about how he was helping me and how it was an imposition on HIS life and how I should be grateful that he was doing this out of the kindness of his heart and that's when I pretty much lost it and did some screaming of my own.
Where does that prick get off on thinking that I should be grateful for this? He force-feeds me animal carcasses when he knows I'm a vegan. He purposely waits until his insipid show is over before taking me on a bathroom break, just as my bladder is about to burst. He ignores me all the time- doesn't even bother acknowledging my existence. When he does talk to me it's always condescending and as if I'm some sort of dog who just shat on the carpet. Can he blame me for wanting to get out? I had a life. It wasn't particularly good, but it was a life all the same. He can't just abduct me and force me to play along with his stupid little game of pretend where he's the noble one saving a damsel in distress. That asshole IS my distress. And he shouldn't take that self-righteous tone because whatever it is he's doing to me, he's getting paid for it. I'm not stupid. I saw the money.
I gave him a piece of my mind, and it pissed him off even more. I could have sworn that for a second… I don't know if this a symptom of anti-depressant withdrawal, but his face sort of morphed into this… I can't really describe it. It reminded me of an acid-trip I had back in high school, when my friends and I would try to morph our faces into something demonic by concentrating really hard and playing with the light and shadows. It was sort of bumpy and ridged, but it was only for a split second.
Anyway, it's not as if this is the first time I've gotten LSD flashbacks. But still, it's been a while since I dropped anything other than prescription pills. And the funny thing was, he noticed it too. I guess he must have seen the look on my face or something, because this stunned expression came over his face and he just stalked out of the room.
He didn't take my pen or my paper, so I guess that's a good thing. It's not much, but it's still a source of some comfort. And you can't have too many of those.
TBC
* * * * * * * * * *
From the Diaries of Darcy Milne (alternatively known as the 'prostitution of the soul through print')
Entry 1
I don't know what day it is today. I don't even know what the time is. I'm guessing that it's morning or afternoon because I can see a small sliver of light through a crack in the boards. I'm also getting a 'morning vibe', which means I'm cranky, irritable and completely unproductive at the moment. I always trust in the circadian rhythms.
I remember when Dr. Eisenbaum would tell me to keep a journal as part of my therapy back at the funny farm. All of us had to sit down and write what we did for the day, and express our emotions and all of that crap. They told us that all emotions stem from combinations of either Mad, Sad, Glad or Afraid.
It sort of simplified everything and made it that much more presentable. Then you had to draw a little face at the end with either the mouth curved into a smile, downcurved to express melancholia, or the brows knit together and slanted to indicate anger. I don't remember what face characterized 'Afraid', since I hardly ever drew that.
I guess it's easier to believe that there are primary emotions rather than indulge in the complexity of it all. I wonder what potent combination of all four constitutes the feeling you get when you're jonesing for your meds or when you lose all autonomy, and the mobility of certain limbs. I'm pretty damn sure there is no way you can account for those feelings with Mad, Sad, Glad and Afraid.
However, one thing I am Glad about is that my bastard of a kidnapper gave me a pen and paper today. I have been Mad enough to contemplate gouging his eyes out with this bic and I am sure that it will make him very Sad if I do that. (Mwhhahahahaha!) I am also Afraid that if I poke his eyes out, he will probably seek some retribution in the form of bodily harm, smelly socks or no bathroom breaks, which will make me Sad. Oh, to hell with writing like this.
I'm thinking about tearing this paper into little notes that I can use as SOS signals. Maybe to slip under the door or out the window where some passerby can pick them up. Maybe I can even pin the notes on myself, in case the bastard ever takes me out. It will read 'Help, I have been kidnapped by this here fella in the black leather. Please call the cops and have them bust his sorry ass.'
I'm going to start writing them now…
* * *
Entry 2
Brilliant plan of writing SOS notes foiled by semi-incompetent captor. It seems that in my enthusiasm for putting the plan into action yesterday I was a bit overzealous about spreading the notes around. One of them happened to lodge its way into the peroxide-laden locks of heathen hellspawn though god only knows what infernal device made that possible. (I mean, it's not as if I put it in his tub of Dep.)
After much impassioned head-bobbing during the airing of some stupid soap, the note fluttered like confetti and ended up floating on the surface of whatever he was guzzling at the moment.
There was a lot of shouting and threats and hand-wringing and pacing. I don't think that he took too kindly to being depicted as a 'leather-clad child molesting sodomite', but then I had to embellish his grievances in the notes. Who can blame me for having creative license? I was pretty desperate at the time. It's not as if anybody else got to read it.
He ranted on and on about how he was helping me and how it was an imposition on HIS life and how I should be grateful that he was doing this out of the kindness of his heart and that's when I pretty much lost it and did some screaming of my own.
Where does that prick get off on thinking that I should be grateful for this? He force-feeds me animal carcasses when he knows I'm a vegan. He purposely waits until his insipid show is over before taking me on a bathroom break, just as my bladder is about to burst. He ignores me all the time- doesn't even bother acknowledging my existence. When he does talk to me it's always condescending and as if I'm some sort of dog who just shat on the carpet. Can he blame me for wanting to get out? I had a life. It wasn't particularly good, but it was a life all the same. He can't just abduct me and force me to play along with his stupid little game of pretend where he's the noble one saving a damsel in distress. That asshole IS my distress. And he shouldn't take that self-righteous tone because whatever it is he's doing to me, he's getting paid for it. I'm not stupid. I saw the money.
I gave him a piece of my mind, and it pissed him off even more. I could have sworn that for a second… I don't know if this a symptom of anti-depressant withdrawal, but his face sort of morphed into this… I can't really describe it. It reminded me of an acid-trip I had back in high school, when my friends and I would try to morph our faces into something demonic by concentrating really hard and playing with the light and shadows. It was sort of bumpy and ridged, but it was only for a split second.
Anyway, it's not as if this is the first time I've gotten LSD flashbacks. But still, it's been a while since I dropped anything other than prescription pills. And the funny thing was, he noticed it too. I guess he must have seen the look on my face or something, because this stunned expression came over his face and he just stalked out of the room.
He didn't take my pen or my paper, so I guess that's a good thing. It's not much, but it's still a source of some comfort. And you can't have too many of those.
TBC