They called us The Newlyweds.

I wore a white slip. My black hair in kinks and knots. My lips, ripe cherries. We always parked around back. We always left the car running. And I’d always go in first. He’d follow with the gun. We’d go in with an empty briefcase and we’d always leave with it full.

We checked in to separate rooms around noon. I had time to kill. I painted my nails and smoked one after the other until my room was cast in a dull fog. The smoke circled me, heavy. It was superstitious, but I never could leave until I’d had a sip of brandy and read his letter.

Penny,

Tonight we ride. Hold on tight.

All my love, T.

I tucked it in my stockings and made for the car. And just like always, he was there waiting. We parked in back. I pulled out my pill box and dry swallowed a blue one, then took the bump he had for me, giggling. He laid some out on the space between my thumb and my index finger for himself and then kissed me hard afterwards. His right hand slid between my thighs, and his left crawled up the small of my back, pulling me into him. My skin raised, hot and aching. And my hands grew too anxious and pulled through his hair. My mouth searched for his neck and my breath left in short gasps. And as my self control seeped out of me, he laughed low and pushed me slowly away.

“We celebrate after. You know that.”

I nodded, quick and small, straightened my hem, fixed my lipstick. I laid my forehead against his, my face still too hot and the skin between my legs wet. I breathed calm and deep. Kissed him light on the cheek. I took another bump and climbed out of the car. Maybe I’d taken too much but my breath was coming out in dizzy bursts, and the air felt too heavy around me. I turned before I rounded the corner to the building front and blew him one last kiss. He lifted his chin and smirked in acknowledgment, and I did my best to let the angst slip away.

My heels clicked and echoed against the marble floor. I waited my turn in line. I stood, a picture of patience on the outside. Just under the surface my emotions fussed about in restless fits. And as I came up on the wooden and gilt desk, he walked through the door. And everything melted away. He came up behind me and slid the suitcase across the counter, a flash of the gun sticking out just underneath. And he looked just like a ghost. Haunting and pale, in all black. Sunken eyes, slicked back hair, all wrapped in leather. And me with bloodied lips and my white slip, sitting in stark contrast to my skin. The straps of my dress barely touching my hollowed collar bones. You’d think that we should have worn masks. But people don’t pay attention to faces when there’s a gun around. People don’t watch your face when there’s a monster inside of you.

The girl behind the counter was all wide eyes. My voice calm and drawling like honey, “Sugar, I’m going to need you to go in back and fill that up for me.”

I winked and held one finger up to my lips. She sat, trembling in shock. “T? Help me out, baby?” I tipped my head against his chest, and he kissed the top.

He leaned forward and laid his hand across her shaking fingers. “Hey, now. You just still yourself. We just wanna get out of here as quick as possible. You feel me?” His words slid over her like thunder rolling. She took a deep breath, grabbed the suitcase from his hand, and headed to the back. She wasn’t gone long. When she returned she held her breath and handed the bag over to me. I nodded, handed it to T, and made for the door. Adrenaline was pumping through me hard. Between my quickened pulse and the harsh sunlight outside, my eyes couldn’t focus. I turned behind me to check that he was on my tail, but kept walking. Our eyes met, and something wasn’t right. I expected a wink. They were open and terror struck. And everything slowed. I made to spin around and see what nightmare lay behind me at the same moment that he reached to pull me out of the way. And his hand missed mine. And as my eyes came to rest on the scene in front of me, my sternum caught fire. In front of me were flashing lights. In front of me was a gathering of cars and men in uniform. In front of me there were a dozen guns trained on my face and his. And I looked down at my slip as the front blossomed wet and sticky. My breath stuck in my throat and my chest burned like inferno. And as I fell, it was his gun I saw staring straight at my center. And his eyes were empty and wet. And his mouth hung open. Despair etched across every feature. And my lungs refused to fill. And my insides kept pouring. And his eyes wept. And my baby shot me down.

I always give an example in my challenges...

She said her name was Sally

But that I could call her Sal

I told her “My name's Gary”

But said “You can call me Al”

I said, “Baby if you want to, you can call me Al.”

She didn’t get my humour

Saying I was kind of odd

But there’s nothing odd about me,

Though I sometimes think I’m God

I said, “Baby I don’t want you if you think I’m odd.”

So she walked off down the alley

And I said goodbye to Sal.

And then Alison came over

And said, “I could call you Al.”

I said, “Baby if you want to, you can call me Al.”

So we spent the night together

And she smelt like L’Oreal

When we parted in the morning

Without any rationale

I said, “Baby if you want to you can call me, Al.”

She said, “You can call me Al.”

Standing on a corner in Winslow Arizona I saw you standing there like a Greek God. The wind was blowing through your auburn hair, your ivory skin was sprinkled with golden flecks and your eyes were pale blue. I stood there staring at you from afar with my mouth wide open. I was mesmerized by your modelesque looks and for me it was love at first sight. As you stood there talking to the lucky ones around you I wanted to know your name and where you were from. I wanted to know every single thing about you. I was about to politely interrupt you and your tribe. But my juicy mouth wouldn’t open. Instead I was as frozen as a Dairy Queen twist. And my ruby red lips shivered. Everyone around me wore Bermuda shorts, tanks tops, and Bahama style shirts. Yet I could do nothing more than chatter my porcelain capped teeth together as I shivered in response to my nerves, making my body and mind, cold and numb. My slinky yellow sundress felt like ice against my damp skin. I tried to inch forward towards you but felt as if I was caught in quick sand. I took one step in your direction in my blue suede Manolo stilettos but tripped on a deep crack on the hot Arizona asphalt. You had your back turned away from me and thank God not one person saw my disastrous fall. I did it as classy as possible just in case someone did actually see me. My mom had always taught me to fall with dignity and to do it it proud. I managed to pull it off as elegantly as possible. But the blood oozing out of my left knee hurt with immense pain. And I felt faint and wobbled back towards my previous destination with a bruised ego and crimson cheeks. I wished you had actually seen me and then you might have come to my rescue like a knight in shining armour. But you didn’t. And for the rest of my entire life I’ve been left with an etched memory of your chiseled jaw line, poetic blue eyes and statuesque stance. Your face is forever a memory lapsed into a scar on my knee and a prisoner in my brain and my lonely heart. You will always be the one that was so close yet so far away. And I will never know your name.

Why?

Am I worth it?

Am I that important?

So important that THE DARLING of Heaven has to be crucified for my sake?

Abba!!!

Your Darling is died for me!

Me a worthless scum.

A passive life on earth...

But still for me,

You let Your Darling, Your most precious One to die in my place...

Who am I to say NO to you?

I am YOURS....

#WorthyIsTheLamb

#Hillsong

Another sad-eyed Lady.

He left them all so cold,

Business like,

In his hasty, reckless youth.

Retreating down the road,

But it couldn’t be helped,

He thought then,

Things could not stay as they were,

No anchors did he seek,

So don’t think twice.

Then he came once more,

along the old country fair,

Just there, where the winds beat,

That north country dame,

cried for him, in those salad days,

Turned bile.

Now it is his turn to cry,

Upon the beaten earth.

He remembers her,

But she fails to recall,

Though the tremor in her heart,

Rang once like an anvil,

For him.

Her long hair,

fallen from chemo,

Her coat , a passing present,

Of whose, she cares not,

Not that it warms her nowadays,

Even in summer.

Sad-eyed lady,

He cries, regrets of a thousand years,

Of rites performed,

With no sincerity,

She cares not for Arabian drums,

It is too late for that,

The parched lips,

Of the country fair,

Remember no farewell words,

No blaming either,

But regret and disappointed tears.

Wise man tell that a stone,

Cast into the well,

Can not be retrived,

By the smartest of men,

Her eyes are wells,

Her love an irretrievable stone,

Though he is too wise now.

He walked down the country fair,

Back , returning to the cruise,

Burning in bitter shame,

For the first time he did so.

And he knows,

The troubadour,

That despite his immortal songs,

She did not remember.

Would you trust me when you're jumping from the heights?

-in the name of love

She purposely pushed

All the time, pushing

Expecting more

Always rushing

Harder and faster

She lived to feel the thrill

And it finally came

To the day she wanted to kill

Why i did these things

I'll never know

I expect it was due

To all the love she showed

She was addicted to adrenaline

Never was more enough

And people often feared her

This is why she pushed

She was my wild flower

Her petals blew on the winds

Hot and passionate hour upon hour

She was the devil. My angel without wings

And now I sit in hell

Nobody will understand

That I suffer the consequences happily

For the blood that's on my hands

I took a different turn with the lyrics from the song.

Just give me a little bit. A little something to know that there is still a rose that blooms between us. Our avoidance is wiltering it, and I can't watch it fade anymore. My every waking moment these days has been me providing sunshine, and water to an already dying symbol of love, and it's tasking...I'm running out of supplies. So do this for me, just this one thing:

Act Like You Love Me

Act Like You Love Me so I can go on.

For the sake of my sanity, fake it for me. Until I know that there is no hope for us.

"Under the waves and the earth of an age, lie a thousand old northerners' graves. Deep in the night when the moon's glowing bright, they come rising up into the night."

Back in the older days, when the earth wasn't quite so lonely and filled with life, there were a people. This was before the Iroquoi came there, before any other people. They were known as the Enhita People, the ones of the moon, for they revelled in moonlight.

The Enhita lived in what is now the Great Lakes, and though they left behind no mark upon the earth, they did so upon the orenda, the magical force present in everyone and everything. They knew how to tap its power, and how to connect to it, and for that, they were successful.

Although the Enhita knew the ways of the orenda, they could not use it to change fate. They were successful to a point. Their shamans could decipher the future, but they could not change it.

Like any people, the Enhita were mortal. The shamans predicted that there would be a great flood, one that the Enhita would not survive. It would fill the basins where they lived with water, creating vast and deep lakes.

The shamans decided not to tell the people, for that would be an attempt to change their fate, and that was a great rule they were unable to break. So the floods came, and the Enhita were buried in water and sediment.

But their spirits remained.

Their mortal forms were trapped within the depths of the lake, but their spirits survived. Connected to the orenda, they could rise above the water, and continue their revelling in the moonlight, when there was nothing in the sky but stars and the moon.

Note: The song is "The Ghost On the Shore" by Lord Huron.

I think that pain is a fiction. It’s a farce created by the powerful to make the powerless understand that they are worthless, helpless, and beneath them. It’s as fake as my smile and as undeniably real as anything else in this world.

I think it’s useless to pretend I don’t feel it.

They caught me some time ago. I say ‘some time’ because I truly could not differentiate the last minute from the last hour or the last day. Everything has blurred together so perfectly that the red of my anger and passion, the green of my envy, the blue of my tears, the purple of my uniform’s torn insignia, and the crimson of my blood have blurred into black on a worthless pain-ting pallet. (See what I did there?) I think time is a fiction in a torture cell.

I also think I am going insane.

“Round seven, my darling.” The beast says, his voice no longer grating on my ears, but as soft as a mother’s lullaby now that I’m used to the grating of my own screams. This creature has been with me since time became a fantasy, and in all the minutes, hours, or days of our companionship, I have not detecting a single strand of human DNA within his body. But then again, can an insane person detect what is and what is not human?

I think it doesn’t matter.

“Seven?” I whisper, inserting fake bits of strength and snark into my voice. They look like pepper on eggs and sprinkles on chocolate cupcakes. “I can only recall one. Or maybe—you’re too weak for me to notice.”

“Don’t worry.” The beast coos, flicking my cheek and walking his grimy fingers up onto my forehead. He traces a shape there, skating over blood and dried sweat. A letter? A cross? I can’t be sure without a mirror to read it for myself. “You’ll feel this one.”

I think if I looked in a mirror I would throw up.

When the man stops again, I try to count seconds. There’s one, then two, then...six? Or is it four? Words dance through my brain and I think that language might be a fiction as well. A fairy story told by mothers—mothers like this beast when they tuck children into bed at night. When they pull up the covers and blow out the lamp and close the door and tell story after story until dawn says it’s time to burn the midnight oil.

I think I am insane. I think time is a fiction and language goes hand in hand with its fanatical improvisation. I think I no longer believe in reality, except for the pain that is undeniably real. I think I believe in nothing at all, except the beast who believes I won’t survive Round Eight.

My mind is a mess, with things like chocolate and mothers and lamps floating in circles, singing lullabies that never end and lullabies that definitely don’t belong in sleeping. There is something like a drum keeping time with a pounding on my skull. I try to count the beats but the words turn into letters that fly away and form lyrics on top of my thoughts.

I think that I am insane. I believe in nothing at all. And a lyric floats out of the jumble that is my messy, fanatical brain. I read the words again and again, deciding whether the language is a fantasy—or a fiction, or a farce that is a fairy tale before bed.

I think the words are as real as this pain. And I think—maybe, I think—I should remember them. I whisper them to myself just in case I am insane and might forget. My voice sounds worse than the beast when I tell myself,

“Don’t Stop Believin’”