Jill Lockhart’s Neighborhood

The downpour was merciless, unapologetic. It covered the earth in a constant sheet of rain, leaving the alley way road oil-slick (as black as the hair of a man standing nearby) and everything else sopping wet. The wind was sharp and crisp, sending wave upon wave of cold air rushing against the fierce hollows of the man's cheeks. He hadn't sleep, hadn't rested, in days and it was painfully evident. A bell rang solemnly through the air some distance away, alerting the town of the midnight hour. It reminded one of a funeral, the end of something. There was a girl a few steps behind the man, screaming in a shrill, horrible voice -- but in his frenzy, he could not tell whether the girl was actually screaming or whether it was the horrendous roar of the winter wind, instead. It didn't matter either way.
 
"Zay! Don't! Please-please-please, God, please don't! He doesn't know anything, baby! I swear he doesn't!" She was screaming and watching with horrified, wide eyes, begging and pleading with her lover to stop the violence. To let the man he had a hold of go. Isaiah didn't listen. Every few moments, he was sending a cracking blow against the side of the other man's face.
 
"Lexi, shut the fuck up!" Blind rage, it had its possession over Isaiah. White-hot behind the eyes, a throb of blood through the veins. It hurt. It all fucking hurt. "I can't think straight with you fucking yapping! Shut the fuck up!" His yell was terrifying. Loud and thunderous, it seemed to fill all those empty spaces left in one's soul. It could be felt in the body, in the blood. That's how angry he was, how bad he was hurting.
 
Upon closer inspection, one could see Isaiah held a man against the brick wall of an abandoned building. The man was a bit shorter than Isaiah, with blond hair that was plastered to his forehead and curled around his ears from the rain. Any evidence of blood (for surely there were lots of it) was being washed away by the heavy fall of rain. All of it, all the evidence, being swept away by the winter storm. "Where is she, Terrance?" Strained, Isaiah's voice, his eyes wide and blank, and his teeth -- God, his teeth -- were clenched together so tightly you'd think they'd crack any second.
 
"I-I-I don't know, Isaiah, swear I don't! I told ya, I don't work for him no more. I don't know what they do behind closed doors no more, Isaiah, c'mon, it's me!" The man was trembling. He'd never in his life seen his friend so angry, so filled with hate. It scared him. But what scared him even more was the sharp sound of a switchblade, the cold feel of metal pressed against his throat. Terrance was so scared, in fact, that he pissed his pants -- yet another thing the rain hid and swept away. "C-calm down, calm right the fuck down now. I don't know where he took her, Isaiah! All I know is that one minute he needed to talk to her and the next she was go--" He trailed off, words garbled, as Isaiah pressed the knife harder against Terrance's throat.
 
Wrong answer.
 
"What do you mean 'he needed to talk to her'? You never fucking told me that before!" Isaiah was losing it. He sent another crashing blow to the side of Terrance's face, bloodied and bruised, and began pacing. He was grunting in frustration, dragging his fingernails so painfully against his scalp that the others could almost hear it. He kicked at cardboard boxes, tin trash cans, anything within his reach.
 
And Lexi, God, Lexi kept screaming and screaming. Isaiah couldn't tell whether or not she was crying -- tears and rain look just alike, you know -- and he didn't care at that point. He just wanted her to shut up. He didn't want to hear her anymore. He turned to Lexi, his stare deadly and determined.
 
She immediately started rambling, voice cracking. "Baby? You don't look like yourself. Let's go home. Please, let's go home. Terrance doesn't know anything, he would have told you. You know he would have. I want her back just as badly as you do, I promise you, but there's nothing we can do right no--"
 
The sound that came next was almost more terrible than that of the switchblade. A sharp slap to the face, and the sound of it echoed -- no, it bounced -- off the rain-wet walls on either side of them. Lexi stopped talking, stopped breathing, and for a moment, she looked stunned. Her lower lip quivered as she stared at Isaiah in disbelief.
 
And then, lowly: "I said shut the fuck up." Isaiah didn't even acknowledge the red print against Lexi's cheek.
 
"Now, look here, Isaiah. That ain't necessary, yanno?" Now that Isaiah didn't have Terrance against the wall anymore, the blond-haired man felt brave. "Let's all just go have some drinks and talk it out, yeah? I'm sure Emmaline will come turn up, Isaiah. They always do. Hell, she ain't been gone that long anyway. Just a few weeks. Maybe she ran off with somebody?"
 
Terrance was pale white and scared, but he still had the audacity to try to sneak up on the other man.
 
Isaiah was caught off guard -- it wasn't my fault -- by Terrance's sudden movements. One moment, he felt an excruciating pain at the side of his jaw (Terrance had managed to find a brick while Isaiah was dealing with Lexi, and had attempted to knock Isaiah out with it), and the next he felt the sticky-hot trickle of blood on his hand.
 
On his own hand. A sudden flash of lightening, illuminating the sky with a blinding white light, made the scene seem so much more surreal, so hard to take in.
 
He'd stabbed Terrance in the stomach, but God, God, it wasn't my fault, not my fault, and he took a step back. Lexi was screaming again, running to Terrance to check his wound. As if on cue, a loud crack of thunder vibrated through the air, synchronizing precisely, eerily so, with Terrance's fall.
 
"Oh my God, Zay, did you kill him?! Did you?! I have to call an ambulance! I have to--"
 
But Isaiah didn't remember what happened next. He was twitching too violently, and then everything went black.    

[MIA with flu this week, and somehow this flu and I have got to move to a new apartment this weekend. ugh, so stressed! i may be scarce until the weekend is out, but you know how to reach me in the meanwhile. thanks for patience!]

obliterate

The sky has opened up a torrent, and the mad-scrawled black line of an alchemist is inside a phone booth streaked with rain, like a powerline fallen, spitting electric charge.

so you cannot ask forgiveness

1 comment

Milla is learning. Mother of God.

Empress, reversed

Then today, I came by Shannon's house like I said I would. The witch who cursed her isn't interested in letting go. In fact, had I to guess it, I'd say she wants to take Me on. It's pretty interesting, actually; We've never been called that name before, but I'm fairly sure it refers to Us.

I wonder if this is what the reversed Empress means in the spread. I had interpreted it as Lamia's dominant position on the tree following the Sun path -- I'd assumed by finding my that baby's body gravesite I could turn the card upright again. A reversed Major in the spread is never something to avoid addressing, I've learned. That was part of my amending things with Marius, with that "party invitation," of course. If he buys into my grand reformation (with Milla playing her part), and if he's drinking, I can ask him to call Naomi. He can tell her the family needs it. Ha.

But then, what is this creature? The gypsy women that taught me cards also taught me not to underestimate the old witches. Interesting, interesting.

I told Shannon to get out of the house (who's Cole again?). And when she did, I cut my hand and spilt my blood there. It was better than writing Our name. So she'll know how to find Us; so that We can tell her the things she thinks are hers are not, anymore. 

lamia

--

back into those things you wish to undo
the crown for your tomb 
not a day goes by or the nights for you
then dance in the rain
cause them towns all will miss your face
when we'll toast for the pain 
then we'll taste of the halo of shame

and if you'll pass that number

waiting for the summer
so that you can not rest 

curious perfection
its haunting life lessons

so that you cannot rest

[-- woods, 'the number' (download, it's spooky!)]

I can't help but feel as if I'm not doing this right.

I'm on the beach in my yoga pants and my John Lennon "Love is Real" tee shirt, and my fingers are buried in the sand like I'm this hermit crab trying to burrow in to hide, and this has to be the worst period that I have ever had in my entire life. The doctor at the ER said that I needed to wear pads instead of tampons to avoid the risk of an infection, and today, I have been changing them every two and a half, three hours which is better than yesterday but I still feel as if I'm anchored to this horrible, bloody, gross thing collecting up against me. It smells like death.

A death is happening in me. A death is occurring in my body right now while I stare out over the ocean, while the wind winds through the palms and Beatle plays with our volleyball in the shallows. A death is happening in me and it's not me, but it's as if I'm sharing it with the baby; like I don't have a choice.

I am a funeral pyre—this twenty-two year old body, this moment—and there is nothing I can do. There is nothing I can do except sit here and cradle the baby inside a body that has the audacity to be otherwise healthy, and put my hand over my stomach through a mild cramp or two as they come as if to say, "It's okay, baby, it's okay," even if the doctors said it wouldn't be in pain, not to cry, there there now.

I didn't even like being pregnant. It would not be a lie to say that an underlying part of me, a big one, was relieved by how things ended up (and that makes it worse when I'm having a bad moment and I can't help but cry a little.) The last thing in the world I want to do is complain, but—

A death is happening in me.

That's all.

Vega

Marius Vega almost doesn't answer when he sees it's his cousin Brande on the caller ID. He lets it ring nine times -- once for every baseless, manipulative purpose for which the man could possibly be calling; once for each uncomfortable silence they've endured as blood bretheren, once for every poison tincture the black sheep has injected into the family tree.

Brande

Vega

Marius Vega almost doesn't answer when he sees it's his cousin Brande on the caller ID. He lets it ring nine times -- once for every baseless, manipulative purpose for which the man could possibly be calling; once for each uncomfortable silence they've endured as blood bretheren, once for every poison tincture the black sheep has injected into the family tree.

Brande