It's been a crazy couple of nights and well... what have I told people? My stuff comes best to me when I'm fucked up, but this is more self-induced than other induced. I really don't know.

These last few chapters, I know, have done little to move this story along. I know where it will go; it's getting there that is the best part. Don't worry. Besides, Feb 10 is still an age away.

Thanks to A, W, and D who have listened to my ramblings this past week. Merci...

So it is written...

Chapter 9 / Would You Forgive Me Love?

The middle of midnight crashed and burned as Jude walked into the bathroom she'd avoided and ran past all day. She flipped the light switch, squinting her eyes at the invasion of light. It all seemed the same, towels still folded and menacing cast iron tub tucked into a corner. Always a corner... A blending of tumbled marble, slate, and limestone all stood so familiar as to remind her of a faraway island with threats and crazy French spoken between suds and monsters. An old, sea-worn trunk full of regalia of antiquity and a foreboding black spot on the edge of the counter. Poor Island, so full of unclaimed treasure.

She watched her feet as she went to the middle of the room. Black, teal, silver. Black, teal, silver. The colored numbering did nothing for the riverbank she saw her life lay along so corrupted. The colors did nothing for the thin branch she stood upon, forced to question why she'd jounced the limb. No casts or missed sets this year; no quagmires where saltwater met fresh; she was alone with her mental calisthenics, preparing for a war she'd only get out of due to Section 8.

Protect your defective from the ravages, dear generals.

She walked to the little hiding place for all of his linens, opening the door to rummage through the fabrics bringing a sense of 80-proof déjà vu. She brought her prize to her face triumphantly, catapulted to a time that seemed to fade into oblivion if she turned her head too quickly. It felt silkier this time around, softer to touch and to contemplate. Still a tortuous tourmaline, it was quieter this time in its begging.

The drips from the chrome faucet matched her heartbeat in accompaniment, slow the tempo and up the bass. She found herself pressed against the back of his shower, fingers running along the hardware with a detective's precision. She knelt, the old time rock hard pressure against the base of her neck. She knelt, leaning over the fabric and praying that her weeping would be her baptismal blessing. Confrontation was always at the River Jordan.

Morning was a long time coming, an outsider to her own reality. She watched the Plexiglas encasement, curious as to what could crack the poor excuse for protection. The glass menagerie, with its fiddlers and puppeteers feeding upon the discarded oyster shells, looked at the alter for which the prized pearl lay in all of it gloriousness, blue eyes and all.

Would you forgive me, love, if I cried in your shower?

Her sobs deepened, bouncing and vibrating on the mirror's reflection. They hung in the air like stale cigarette smoke after a long night of soul searching and in-depth discussions with oneself. She was face to face with the angry recurrence, always in the bath when time was called.

She cried for herself and the self-pity that wanted to take over in times like these. She hugged herself for her lovely friends and their seemingly intrinsic love for each other. She pounded her fists for her parents, blinded by the same love and left alone once the first fires turned to a barely smoldering pile of ash. She twisted the edges of the sheet for Tommy, knowing what he'd seen and how he couldn't bring himself to get rid of what nearly got rid of her. She scraped her nails along the bottom of the stall for Tommy, apologetic that he wanted to love someone like her.

It was the old wooden roller coaster that loomed in the foreshadowed distance, too high for high and too low for low, coming and going and flipping as it pleased. The emotion was hardly verbalized anymore; no more the days of Nessie in the steaming lochs that cleansed her skin and soul. She walked to the base of Aftermath, taking in and on the exorcism.

Mission failed though complete.

Such a short expanse, she felt farther removed from the paralleled universe where she was supposed to be but knew it was still a place to get to. Set backs and throwbacks, she was setting the score straight. She was no longer 0 for naught but rather 1 to nil. This was her one up and new beginning.

He'd laid out the rules in an impromptu way, simplicity in its finest performance. No running, no hiding, he would help her through all that ailed her. She smiled for him in his perfected role in the saviour complex. She would no longer run. She was never running out again. She couldn't go forever being the creep for she wanted the perfected soul.

Jude pulled herself from the floor and its Jupiter gravity, turning off the lights and turning to slink along the hallway to his room. She turned the knob of his door gently, sobered by the brassy click of the dead giveaway. She blindly side stepped the night illuminated dresser and held onto the tall bed poster for a sense of stability. She slid in among the ripples of his cotton sheets and musical breathing. She tenderly touched the rise and fall of his chest, counting quietly his heart arrhythmias.

Forgive me, love, for the salt in your bed.

She resigned in her retirement, submitted to morning being something for the long time coming. She would try to control the jouncing and paranoid searches for a meaning to the spots. She would tackle the outsiders and wouldn't forever lay dying. It was only fair of her to try.