Chapter Two: Beach

Genesis of Another American God

Off my whole family went, for the funeral. I did love my grandfather, in that family fealty way. I would have no other. Even though my clearest memory is of a spanking I received from him, I picked up a great deal in the margins of my slight relationship with the man. The biggest example is my love of Coke.

Every year the whole extended family, cousins and all, would go to a small four bedroom cottage for at least a weekend. We would fish, drive boats, play badminton, swim, and play fierce Scrabble games. The grown up males would drink dozens of beers. My grandfather switched off between beer and Coca-Cola, insisting its place as the best soft-drink in the world. I picked up that thinking. To this day, I refuse the humanity of anyone who doesn’t except this wisdom. They are aliens, bent on the destruction of society with their promotion of any alternative to the American drink.

We arrived in a brisk October. In the time I’d lived on the west coast, and a few years in Spain, I forgot the coldness of an Eastern fall. I pulled on a sweater that made me look like the most fashionable French boy. Blue, with a little white streak across the bottom.

My aunt put us up, and I learned my grandmother moved into a small house next door. The family raided the old homestead. We took what piqued our interests. I came across a few books on psychology, which I took because I always accept a free book that makes me look intelligent. I also took a tie, because it looked highbrow. As an artist, looking highbrow is almost a requirement if you want anyone to take your work seriously. I also found a brash, odd looking medallion, like a golden scallop. I pocketed it quickly.

For the most part, I got to hang around with my cousins, who are the sporting types. To put it succinctly, they are jocks. Well, the oldest is, and the second is following in those footsteps. The third is female, and not as interested in those things. And the second is interested in much more than simply sports: he plays violin and piano quite well.

Every time I found the chance, I used an instant messaging program to talk with the girl. It worked easily, as she woke early to get on the computer before school, and I used most of the days not at the funeral to laze around. One day I made the mistake, I guess one might term it, of asking my aunt whether I could use the computer.

“Why?”

“Well, because I want to talk with… with my girlfriend.” Saying the words put the thought firmly in my mind. I, the loser of all losers, with a girlfriend. My aunt is very sarcastic, and took this as a challenge to tease.

“Ooh, a girlfriend. Have any pictures?”

“N-not yet.”

“Well, send us some.” I nodded, and went on to the computer. I wrote a short email, lacing all my art and schoolboy poise into a traditionally bullshit romance letter.

 

“My dear Makayla,

I am thinking of you now. All through the flight butterflies bred in my stomach, excited and nauseous at the thought of finding love. I looked out and above the clouds I saw the moon. It looked full. And as we passed the night stars, I could not help but think that the moon is the same from where I will see it now, in New York, and where you see it in Oregon. We can look up and see the same orb in the sky.

Loves and Hugs,

Derrick.”

 

The next day I went to the funeral. My grandfather looked ever peaceful as he went to eternal slumber. The traditional style preacher droned on and on and spoke the required Psalm 23. I did not want to speak myself, but gave my mother a remembrance of the old man.

            We would spend every Fourth of July at that lake house. My grandfather spoke of the ice cream boat, a mystical ship on the lake that delivered ice cream. He also, when night approached, scared the little ones with the tale of the ghost boat, driven by no one and visible only as one red light. Then we would all sit back and watch the fireworks.

            The best part of the funeral, I think, came from my smaller male cousin. The violin player. He placed a small can of Coca-Cola in the coffin. I am sure my grandfather would appreciate the gesture.

            We spent the next day with my paternal grandmother, at her apartment. Since moving out of my father’s childhood home, it was a long journey into a very small city apartment. She lived in Elmira, that city of New York so endeared to Mark Twain and hated by those incarcerated at the jail. In the civil war, that jail was known as Hellmira. The conditions paralleled Andersonville, but since the North won the war, no one paid attention to the legitimate complaints of the inmates.

            We went home the day after, and I returned to normal life, though touched for a time by the worries of death. I wondered at the medallion I retrieved, and kept it a secret for as long as I could. That medallion, as far as I ken, is still in my position. It is probably hidden in one of the remote corners of my most unorganized living space.

            I looked out the window and composed poetic again.

 

            We are all touched

            By death in our time

            Flying o’er clouds

            Its promised escape

            The funeral drape

            Is something we look for

            But only after

            We find the love that matters

            To make us whole

            Only after

            We open the hearts door.

 

            It’s always the flying

            We feel we are dying

            But love can make us live

            Come with me baby

            Yes no or maybe

            Say that love you will give

 

            The clouds are forming

            Relentless warming

            You can see all the shapes within

            Inside and out

            We’re in love there’s no doubt

            I long to see you again

 

            Got to get back

            Where I belong

            Got to get to living

            Got to move along

            I’m afraid of death

            And that’s not wrong

            But I got to keep writing

            Words for this song

 

            We are all touched

            By death in our time

            Flying o’er clouds

            Its promised escape

            The funeral drape

            Is something we look for

            But only after

            We find the love that matters

            To make us whole

            Only after

            We open the hearts door.

 

            The clouds are forming

            Relentless warming

            You can see all the shapes within

            Inside and out

            We’re in love there’s no doubt

            I long to see you again

 

            I long to see you again

            I long to see you again

            Be with you again

            See you again

 

            We touched down and raced back to my adopted hometown (so hated) of Corvallis, Oregon. As soon as I returned to my high house in the hills, I went on the computer and emailed. I notified my new girlfriend of my homecoming. She wrote back.

 

“Dear Derrick,

            I am so excited you are back. We simply must go out this Saturday. I have been waiting all week long for your return. I nearly drove Careen and Matthew crazy. Careens boyfriend is being pushed out in favor of your friend. I nearly drove everyone crazy, as I said, bragging and waiting for your return, complaining nearly every hour. I am so glad. Let us go out Saturday—where do you want to meet?

Love,

Makayla.”

 

            I replied quickly, suggesting Dairy Queen. She told me to call her the next day, and provided me with her phone number. I said I found it rather intimidating. I’m phone phobic, and hate using that version of communication. I’m much more written word based, and I can hardly even express my feelings in anything but the literary mode. She demanded I call her, so I sighed and did as she said.

            I biked down to Dairy Queen around one o’clock. I asked my best friend, an African American named Godfrey. Descendant of a Sudanese prince and a white woman, he is the perfect example of that old racial stereotype, the tragic mulatto. Like Hendrix before him, he took up the guitar. I’d pushed him towards it, as a drummer needing someone to jam with.

            He biked up right after me, and we walked into the fast food building. I found myself immediately mobbed by that Goth girl. She remembered me.

            “You’re that vibrating sheep guy.”

            “Uh, yes. So you were there that day?”

            “Yeah.”

            And the relationship really kicked in then. We let Godfrey make his way back to his house. Matthew showed up as well, and hit it off with Careen. I wondered about her boyfriend, but she didn’t seem to care. Makayla and I nodded to each other, noticing the sparks flying between the two.

 

*     *     *

 

            After the short date, and conversations about life liberty and the incredible impossibility of the American dream, we went back to her house, ostensibly to watch a movie. On the way home, we met up with Makayla’s little sister, a brat if ever one existed.

            “This is my little sister, Sadie.” Everyone bubbled along, flowing in and out of five or seven conversations at once. “Have you ever seen the movie, uh, Lady Hawke?”

            I confessed I hadn’t. So, we all decided—or rather Makayla decided we all wanted to watch the movie.

            “I have to go home soon,” said Careen.

            “Why?”

            “Because, her mother’s a Nazi.”

            “Yeah, she really is. We’re very German.”

            “Oh, I see.” I didn’t but I played along. I looked down to see the black boots that would constantly torment me through two years.

            “Those are very nice.”

            “What? Oh, the boots. I got them in Europe. They’re my favorite.”

            “You look good in them, I mean cute.” Both Makayla and I blushed, rose colored cheeks and all that shit. Carren went back to talk with Matthew, and Godfrey led the way, on his bike. I walked my as well, and it felt heavy it my hands pushing it up a long half-highway of a main cross-street. We went near an elementary school, and turned at a three cornered red light. Down a side street, and just as the walk seemed forever (the metal heavy in my hands) we arrived.

            We met my new girlfriend’s mother in the front yard. I am still not quite sure what task that old woman, a bit heavyset, thought required moving dirt from one side of the yard to the other. A small dog ran out and started yipping at everyone. It jumped up and down, overexcited for its age, and charged all over like a bull at the most offensive clash of red ever.

            “His name is Billy. From the character in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. He’s a puppy.”

            “You know, I haven’t seen that in a while,” said Godfrey.

            “Great, let’s watch that. Oh, hi mummy. This is Derrick. And his friend, uh, Godfrey.”

            “That’s right.”

            “It’s nice to meet you all. And this must be… Matthew?”

            “Yeh, that’s me.”

            “Well, come on in. Are you staying for dinner?”

            “No,” said Godfrey, “I should probably go soon, I got to get home before it’s dark.” Careen and Matthew made similar comments. But we all trooped inside and watched that awful so-bad-it’s-good comedy. Afterwards, everyone left—leaving Makayla and me alone with her family.

            “Wanna see my room,” she asked, in a conspiratorial tone.

            “Sure, uh, why not.”

            She showed me the messiest room I ever saw. My next girlfriend showed a remarkable parallel. Maybe I have an incredible attraction for those who thrive in messes. Comparatively, I’m a fucking file cabinet. Piles of paper, letters from random boys on the internet, horse paraphernalia (like a drug addicts), romance novels, and clothes are only the short list of everything in the room. No bed, but a mattress on the ground, and a huge body pillow. We went back to movie watching afterwards. Lady Hawke.

            We held hands. The touch of a female, finally against my skin raised me into the high heavens. Awash is the term. I felt awash in the love, the connection between us. The ocean moving and rolling so many feet under like the best scuba adventures of Jacques Cousteau.

            I needed to use the restroom. I found it, littered with the evidence of a three girl household. Hair curlers and panties dripping in the shower. I thought about taking the underwear, fighting a strong fetish in myself. The fear of reprisal won out. I used the toilet, and left quickly.

            On my way back to the movie room—for they had no cable—the little sister ambushed me.

            “Hey, Derrick!”

            “Woa, you scared me.”

            “Ha ha. Are you reliable?”

            “I think so.”

            “Have you ever had a girlfriend before?”

            “Uh, no.”

            “Can you put one eyebrow up, like Spock?”

            “Why are you asking these questions.”

            “I just wanna know—“

            Fortunately, before the conversation turned anywhere else awkward, Makayla came in.

            “Leave him alone.” She grabbed at my hands and pulled me down onto the small red couch. “C’mon you, let’s go watch the movie.”

            She popped it in, and I recognized the composer.

            “Alan Parsons did the soundtrack?” This amused me through the whole movie. Fantasy with prog rock soundtrack is one of the best worst ideas I ever witnessed. Fortunately, the simple story held my attention, and I happily snuck my arm around the girl’s body. It sufficed for a while. We moved forward, and on Halloween I dressed as “a vampire prince.”

            Members of the jury, I enter into evidence my own admission I am a loser.

 

            The night of spirits

            And the doubts began

            She didn’t want just me

            As her man

            She didn’t want just me

            It wasn’t her plan

           

            The night of spirits

            We’re out having fun

            It’s the coldest ever

            Watch my breath run

 

            We are trick or treating

            Although I’m thinking old

            I thought I’d done this too long

            But now I’m out again in the cold

 

            Look at all the loot we grab

            Look at all the sweets

            Let’s go back to the house, dears,

            Have cocoa

            And conversations

            Watch a movie

            To make this night complete

 

            The night of spirits

            And the doubts began

            She didn’t want just me

            As her man

            She didn’t want just me

            It wasn’t her plan

           

*     *     *

 

            The leaves turned, and finally fell. I began to feel the darkness of the approaching December, the depression and night demons that stand at my peripheral vision—only bought off by Columbine kid drugs. (Fluvoximine.)

            I began to suspect something between Firth and Makayla. She would go off with him, quite unaccountably, when I asked to visit her.

            “I’m sorry,” she would say, “I can’t. I’m going bowling.”

            “What if I want to go bowling?”

            “Oh, you wouldn’t like it.”

            “How do you know that?”

            “You’d just get moody.”

            So the breakdown began. It climaxed around late November, when my two remaining grandparents visited. I really wanted to spend time with Makayla, but found myself forced to go all over the coast. That’s not so bad, since I love the raging of a winter sea and the always incoming storms rolling over the Oregon coast. The clashing waters against the rocks are like armies dying at every order.

            It all looked okay. But when I got home, I signed on to the instant messaging program. I’d asked Makayla to talk with me when I got back from the coast. I felt rather sick that day. I feel sick most days; I just act tough to cover it all up. I try to seem like the strong man instead of the little crying girl I am. Good thing I have the medication to make me stop crying at every little thing. 

            I got home. She wasn’t online. Of course, I blew this out of proportion. I was sitting, clutching myself, thinking she hated me and was off fucking every little boy who had a pig to poke it in. (Despite the fact that she told me quite clearly she intended to stay a virgin until her sixteenth birthday at least. That plan didn’t last long.)

            I should mention that in the happy weeks up until this turning point, she confided her secrets in me, and I began to confide in her. She told me that her uncle molested her as a child. She recalled it clearly and through tears, with a wavering voice. I held her close into me, and breathed reassurances down her neck and into her ear. In return, I eventually told of my deepest shame: cross-dressing. Stemming, probably from early comment by my mother and aunt to the effect that all their boys would suit their whims and joys better as girls, and the allowance made in dress up to wear old pantyhose, I always longed for the more feminine styles of dresses. They seemed—they still seem so much better, lighter, fashionable, and more fun than the business-casual to which men are relegated. 

            So I liked to think we knew each other. Why she blew me off I didn’t know. Tears streamed down my face. I’d forgotten my pills. It’s hard to remember when you’re losing yourself staring out into the waves from some high dune on the beach. I’d spent most of the day composing a new iteration of an earlier project called Beach.

            I still intend to finish Beach, really a rip-off of Quadrophenia. It’s got a simple, juvenile plot, driven hopefully by excellent music. It’s the story of Benjamin Galloway, a man who is kicked out of his house by his common law wife. He’d just left his job, you see. It didn’t seem to go anywhere for him. He spent the day looking out at the ocean, and drinking. The wife comes back, and thrashes him, throws him out. He’s forgotten his keys, you see, so he needs to get back into the house. He breaks in, and the wife calls the cops. Feeds them a bullshit story about him abusing her, and they lock him up without a really fair trial. He gets abused, raped in jail. (I intended for Godfrey to write this portion, as he identified heavily with John Entwistle. I wanted to get a Tommy thing going there. My friend the bassist writing the dark stuff.) Finally he gets out of the joint. And there’s nothing—so he goes to the only place he’s ever thought really well, the beach. And he’s sitting out there on this dune. He thinks he should drown, but there’s something in him, God or Destiny or something, that makes him move. He looks up this California beach, points north, and starts to walk. He keeps walking. Soon it becomes a media sensation. (I came up with the idea half a year before I ever watched Forrest Gump.) He tells the media to piss off, and tries to talk as little as possible. But he meets this girl. Some people have been walking with him, off and on. But this girl keeps walking, won’t give up. Her name is Sally. Soon they fall in love, and consummate the relationship. They pass through Oregon, and get into Washington. Ben is happy now. But not for long. You see, in the night it got really cold. It didn’t do much to Ben, who’d been suffering all throughout his walk, but Sally freezes up. She’s dead. Ben considers stopping, having a proper funeral. Sally’s spirit urges him to finish his walk. He does—he’s at this cliff of a place, the end of all the United States beaches he could walk. He looks back on his life, and realizes that he must jump off the cliff, because it will complete the journey. His walk is done, he’s done. It’s time to move into the next world. He records a suicide tape, and leaves it for the police to find. But it’s all okay, because it’s a transcendental moment, and he joins up with Sally in a loving afterlife.

 

            There are people in the ocean

            Haven’t you seen them?

            Calling down the water

            Blood and Eucharistic pain

            Waves lapping into rain

            You’ll never be the same

            Can’t go back again

 

            Tell your boss to shove it

            Life is going now

            See it rush beyond you

            You gotta catch up and how

 

            Take this job and shove it

            I don’t want to be a square

            I need more growth than cubicles

            I want to become aware

 

            Back home

            And you’re early

            Good thing the wife’s away

            At her job—

            Your’s you just left

            What can you think to say?

 

            Back home so early

            Grab another bottle round

            Sitting on the front porch

            Hearing the ocean sound

 

            You go down

            You go down

            You go down to the beach

            It’s within your reach

            People on the sands

            Don’t make no demands

            And you’re at peace

            Waves lapping at the beach

 

            Back home

            And you’re early

            Good thing the wife’s away

            At her job—

            Your’s you just left

            What can you think to say?

 

            She’s hitting you thrashing you

            Watch how she’s lashing you

            Abusing you now

 

            She’s hitting you thrashing you

            Watch how she’s lashing you

            Abusing you now

 

            You got to move away

            You got to get away

            You got to got to

            You gotta run away

 

            She’s hitting you thrashing you

            Watch how she’s lashing you

            Abusing you now

 

            Get out of that house

            This is no spouse

            The monster is in you

            But it’s in her too

            That you see is true

            Get out of that house

 

            I forgot my keys

            Go back in now,

            Goddamn,

            I’ll catch the disease

            Burst back in

            To my own house

            Shouldn’t be a sin

            I find the keys

            I hear a shout

            “Police, freeze.”

 

            Breaking into my own house

            The monster I thought was a spouse

            Lies of me

            Dies to me

            She takes it and kicks me out

 

            Now I’m in jail

            At least I can read

            I try to stay quiet

            But I’m some assholes needs

 

            And I don’t think

            There’s any hope

            Every day

            Hey hey hey

            It becomes “you dropped the soap”

 

            And I don’t think

            There’s any hope

            Every day

            Hey hey hey

            It becomes “you dropped the soap”

 

            So now I’m back on the beach

            Look for what’s in my reach

            I stare out and hear the sound

            Of a thousand people who drowned

 

            I should join them

            The warm me so

            I gotta join them

            I gotta go

 

            Now I’m looking out

            Right into the sea

            I’ve got nothing

            Nowhere to be

 

            I hear the ghosts

            Of men long drowned

            I should join them

            Calling me with their sounds

 

            I should join them

            The warm me so

            I gotta join them

            I gotta go

 

            But something, something moves me on

            Something, something makes me strong

            Something, something telling me

            I got to run like a band with a song

 

            Something, something is moving me

            Something, something along the sea

            Something, something picks up my feet

            Run down this beach like an endless street

 

            I keep moving

            I keep moving

            I keep flying on

 

            Flowing over sand

            Nothing I have planned

            Just gotta keep walking on

 

            Ye gods

I can’t stop

            Although I try

            Gotta keep moving

            I can’t let myself die

 

            I keep moving

            I keep moving

            I keep flying on

            Something, something moving me

            I’m running like a band with a new hit song

 

            So the media came

            To Benjamin’s game

            They kept him moving on

            Incredible walking wonder

            Watch he doth thunder

            He’s now our little pawn

 

            Watch what we tell you

            Feel that too

            Watch what we

            What we

            What we tell you too

 

            Watch what we tell you

            Feel that too

            Watch what we

            What we

            What we tell you too

 

            The incredible walking man

            Get the story while you can

            A bonus goes to you

            If you can get an interview

 

            “Mr Galloway, I’m from the news,

            Why are you walking?”

            “I got the blues.”

 

            “My name is James Gunn

            From Channel Six.”

            “You won’t get me to say much

            ‘til you learn new tricks.”

 

            Keep him moving on

            Incredible walking wonder

            Watch he doth thunder

            He’s now our little pawn

            Then the media left

            Ben continued to drift

 

            On and on and on

            He drifted on and on and on

            On and on and on

            Drifted on and on and… on

 

            I am bitterly walking on

            I will walk till I am done

            And suddenly like Venus from the sea

            Up form the sands pops she

 

            This girl she won’t go away

            No matter what I say

            I try to loose her every day

            But she just won’t go away

 

            I think I might love her

            In my mind I discover

            A little soft spot

            She makes me heart hot

 

            It’s night we’re alone

            The sea raging on

No one is here

The press is all gone

 

I love you girl

I love you boy

Let’s make it our pact

 

I love you girl

I love you boy

Ever is the fact

 

Should I stop walking

No no no

Should I stop walking

On you must go

 

You started out

You must go on

Keep running running running

Like that band with a new hit song

 

Yes, Sally, yes,

Thank you and god bless,

I will walk on and on

Be done ere long

And we will love and kiss

 

Should I stop walking

No no no

Should I stop walking

On I must go

 

Nights is falling

            The stars are loving

            We coze together

            We doze together

           

            Night is overhead

            And we are wellfed

            Snuggled so tight

            Kept near throughout the night

 

            She’s dead

            She’s dead

            Sally is dead

            Died in the night

           

            She’s dead

            She’s dead

            Sally is dead

            The cold came on so tight

 

Should I stop walking

No no no

Should I stop walking

On you must go

 

            For Sally

            On I must go

            For Sally

            I can’t stop no

            For Sally

            I must finish my task

            For Sally

            It’s what she would ask

 

            There are people in the ocean

            Haven’t you seen them?

            Calling down the water

            Blood and Eucharistic pain

            Waves lapping into rain

            You’ll never be the same

            Can’t go back again

 

            Where am I

            How have I lived?

            What do I want?

            What do I give?

 

            Am I so far

            Do I follow this star

            I see it twinkling

            It gives me an inkling

            As it’s etched above

            A gift from my lost love

Oooh Sally.

 

Here I am at the end of the beach

A large cliff now is what I reach

All I’ve learned all I can teach

You got to jump in the end

You’ve got to jump my friend

 

            On and on and on

            He drifted on and on and on

            On and on and on

            Drifted on and on and… on

 

Gotta jump for the water

Jump for the air

Jump to the heavens

Angels are there

 

Gotta jump for the water

Jump for the shore

Jump to live on

Immortal forevermore

 

You gotta die

Go down the cliff

You might cry

The wind starts to lift

 

Singing, you

Gotta jump for the water

Jump for the air

Jump to the heavens

Angels are there

 

Gotta jump for the water

Jump for the shore

Jump to live on

Immortal forevermore

 

They found the suicide note

One last story they wrote

Then the press moved on

Like a shadow—then gone.

 

            Watch what we tell you

            Feel that too

            Watch what we

            What we

            What we tell you too

 

            You go down

            You go down

            You go down to the beach

            It’s within your reach

            People on the sands

            Don’t make no demands

            And you’re at peace

            Waves lapping at the beach

 

            There are people in the ocean

            Haven’t you seen them?

            Calling down the water

            Blood and Eucharistic pain

            Waves lapping into rain

            You’ll never be the same

            Can’t go back again

 

Calling out to the water

Children of the sun

Calling out to the sea

All they want is fun

 

Sometimes you want to drown

Let your body down

Depths well below ground

You can never be found

 

There are people in the ocean

            Haven’t you seen them?

            Calling down the water

            Blood and Eucharistic pain

            Waves lapping into rain

            You’ll never be the same

            Can’t go back again

 

And we’re moving on

And he’s meeting angels

And everything is open

Everything is open again

He’s ascending

His mind is mending

It’s unbending

The gift if worth the pain

 

Ascending, ascending

He’s with Sally above

His mind’s unbending

Spreading the earth with love

 

We’re talking of

We search for love

We move above

We have the love

Yeah

We’re talking of

We search for love

We move above

We have the love

 

Makayla, who’d promised me to talk, decided to take our time apart as an excuse to go to a punk show with Firth. This seemed to confirm my suspicion. I felt so angry. I wrote a blog post about it. I realized much later how much of a drama queen it made me look.  It basically said I didn’t consider Firth a friend anymore. I regretted that afterwards, and made it right. I can get bitter and very vengeful when I’m angry. I always feel like I should smash things up. I usually take it out by banging on the drums, going into a Keith Moon like solo, kicking everything over.

She signed on quickly, and I demanded her whereabouts. She gave them to me hesitantly, and promised that we would still go to the planned theatre show tomorrow. Then she wrote those most terrible words to anyone blindly in love with no real reason to speak of.

<<We need to talk. I’ll sign on when I get home.>>

I kept crying, kept holding myself. I tore out my hair. I paced around back and forth and through the household making everyone crazy. I flicked my radio on and off. I stubbed my tow walking back and forth to the bathroom just for the tissues. I thought about what the girl let me do in the short time.

We’d played—experimented. She pushed my hand up into her crotch, and let me taste the sweet juices. She writhed as I probed her deeply, pushing in and out and in over and over. She placed her hand around my penis, pumping up and down and like every man I finished well before she ever did. I enjoyed pleasuring her more, anyways. It felt much better to see the smile on her face in the pastures of pleasure than to simply shoot seed.

The first thought in my mind involved this sex-play. Male that I am, I mostly did not want to lose this. Not only that, but I wanted a love to last forever, feeling it must go on and on. My heart told me this, and I believed it completely. Part of human growth is learning you must never trust yourself in matters of love.

I heard the annoying ding that signified her online presence.

<<Hello!??>> I rushed to the computer, and typed. I scratched my back, having taken my shirt off well before afraid of chewing the collar off in nervousness. I waited five minutes before I got a response.

<<I think we should… break up.>>

I screamed no, inwards. Didn’t want to wake anyone up. The tears fell down my face again, like blades cutting worry lines. I felt the demons. They played on my back, in my neck, in my head and tearing all hope and peace and love apart. The evil calmness of the sea as the great storm rages in and destroys the waterfront.

<<Can we talk about it.>>

<<On Sunday. Before we go to the play.>>

<<Okay.>>

<<I have to get to bed…>>

<<Please stay—>>

<<No, I need to get some sleep. I’m tired.>>

<<Oh. Okay. … I love you. … I love you…>>

<<Night.>>

She signed off, and I fell into my bed. I fantasized taking the girl on a bed, and forcing my way into her.  In the dream I wore pink satin panties and a black teddy. Dream dungeon deprivation. I forced my tongue into her, I took her completely.

I woke of from the troubled dreams hating myself. I spent most of the day feeling sorry for my wretched state, still playing the drama queen. I also completed homework, mainly reading on American history. I’ve never enjoyed American history much, preferring either European or Art history instead. I am the only one I can name, at least, with any large knowledge of Salvador Dali, the Dadaists, or the place of Hitler in the dream arts.

The next day came, and we made up again. Drama is ever so high when you place importance on the minutest details. We cried over everything, hugging and kissing in my bedroom. We snuggled. She told me she would stick by me for a while.

The demons started their work upon me. Like little gremlins on the back, they are ever present. Spiritualists might call them the shadow-people if I described them. Little voices and people-shapes in the corners that are fleeting. These are the demons. The biggest one, the jealousy that plagues me is always present. It looks like the apples I saw moved around by ants in Spain. Like a beast made of these things, half-rabbit, half bloody apple. Ants crawl all over, and from the Jealousy demon onto me. The sadness demon is a vulture keeping watch as well, poking into my shoulder and drilling out its juices. I nearly jumped in the schools little creek and let myself drown one day when Jealousy and Sadness worked together to paranoid my mind. Fortunately Makayla dragged me back, sat me down and asked me to talk about it.

I helped her out of her cutting crutch, and she took it as her duty to stop my mind from destroying itself. I never did tell her of the demons. It’s the kind of thing to scare the entire world away.