Phoenix in the water, pt. 4

I don’t feel like writing at all. I have no idea of what comes next, but I guess it’s in times like these it’s important to force oneself. So here it goes, for better or for worse:

 

Sundays have always been holy. Even for this girl who was nicely curled in her bed, shielded from the winter that was slowly coming. “Hey.” Something poked her shoulder. “Hey, please, can you wake up?” A whisper so low it felt like a breeze. Forced out of her sleep way too early she turned to her murder victim. “Cat,” she sighted. The fact that Cat was in her room didn’t startle her. The sun was hours away, so it was certain that a knock on the door wouldn’t get any response. “What’s the matter?” she finally managed to get out, yawning. Cat had been crying, and she was about to start again. “Come here, tell me, what is it?” Noticing the exhaustion of her body as she joined sitting on the bed’s edge she added “Have you gotten any sleep tonight?” Head shaking, it was obvious she wasn’t ready to talk. “Can,” a muffled  word came out with a sob. “Can I sleep here tonight?” A question she wasn’t expecting. “Sure, yeah, go ahead. I’ll just…” And the mid-sentence was hanging there, because Cat was already asleep. What the hell?

When she woke again, the sun was shining bright through the windows. Stretching she noticed she was alone again. It was almost time for lunch! What? But the alarm, looking around for the phone, for it was not on her nightstand. She found it in her bed. Checking the alarm app, it surely was set at the right time, so it must have been turned off. Cat, you little- 
A quick shower would do. As the warm water sprayed down she woke up, bit by bit. When she reached for the shampoo it felt like the warm water speared her back. Turning her back away from the water she tried to look for a wound or something. What in the world? There was something there, but she couldn’t see it properly. With the water still running she went to the mirror and tried to get the fog away. There! At the base of her spine. When did I get a freaking tattoo?! She tried to touch it, but it hurt badly. It didn’t look like a regular tattoo, though? The spiraling and intertwining pattern was one thing, but it was in a golden color. It reminded her of something, she’d seen it quite recently… The pattern almost looked like a scar. Leaving a mark in her skin, deeper. She could feel it. Slightly more gentle she stroked the skin. She could actually feel in her fingers where the twirling lines went. It wasn’t huge, but covered quite a bit of her lower back. But most importantly, how the heck did it get there?! She most definitely hadn’t gone to a tattoo artist, she didn’t have that kind of money lying around! And it didn’t even look like it had just gotten there. But it had. “How?”
A failed shower later she found some baggy clothes that wouldn’t irritate her back and went for lunch. Ignoring the increasing pain in her back she was after all hungry. It wasn’t anything special and she couldn’t find Cat so she found a seat by herself. Finally getting some food in her stomach made the day a lot easier to handle. Now she could actually think. What really happened last night?

“Hey, Cat?” No response from the other side of the door. Another knock without any further luck and she went in. “Hi you,” a small whisper to the girl in bed. A grunt in respond. Her roommate must still be in the cafeteria, for it was just those two in the room. Cat was laying in bed, but sat up when she saw the food. Noticing the Cat’s look she quickly added, “I brought you some food, since you missed lunch.” “Thanks. Sorry for last night, that was pretty weird, right?” A joking smile quickly went across her mouth. “It sure was, what happened?” Grabbing a chair she was getting ready for a long story. “Oh, nothing special, just… things,” Cat said fleetingly. That really wasn’t a good answer, and she wasn’t going to let her get away with it. “Come on. You have to tell me something. You seriously woke me up in the middle of the night, something must have happened.” Cat stopped eating and studied her shoes. “It’s nothing, really. I overreacted, it doesn’t matter now. Thanks for the food.” And just like that she was dismissed. She could feel it, and she didn’t like it at all. Why couldn’t she tell her? In shock she rose up and went out. She clearly wasn’t welcome anymore. They were friends. Close friends, at least she thought so. She would understand, or try to. She wouldn’t lose her, but crushing her wasn’t the solution either. This was all too much. Once inside her own room she grabbed the newly borrowed book and fled into a new world. More problems, but not her own.

 

That’s all I could get in an hour. Lots of mysteries building up. Also, I haven’t forgotten the meeting with Josh. I was intending to blend it in the conversation with Cat, but I had too many loose ends. I don’t have the answers to the problems I’ve created, so bear with me, folks!

 

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The Stranger Within

Cover of "The Outsider (Penguin Modern Cl...

Cover of The Outsider (Penguin Modern Classics)

(This is the same assignment as my previous post, but this is for English A1. The book which this text is based on is The Stranger by Albert Camus. I chose to write a descriptive passage from the perspective of Raymond. The first passage is a scene, were Raymond tells Meursault about his problem with his unfaithful lover, written in with the thoughts of Raymond himself. The second passage is stream of consciousness during Meursault’s execution.)

Passage One:

I just met Meursault in the stairs again. He is an interesting fella, walking around in this little town, silent and mysterious. I have to actually really drag his attention to me to make myself look interesting enough. He is a really smart guy too. That’s why I asked him in for some sausage and wine at my place. I needed his brain for a little favor. He wouldn’t mind.

My hand started to hurt again. As I wrapped it with some bandage I found, he asked what I’d done to it. “I’d been in a fight with some guy who was trying to start trouble,” I tried to say casually. Somehow, he was quite good at leading the conversation the right way. I told him the story of the guy who got his lesson, and tried to slip in some hints toward him, saying I needed his help about something. I don’t even know why I try. These social codes weren’t his strongest point. It had to be asked straight out. Not that he would mind, he never cared for those sorts of things. As I finished my story I continued to the real thing. “As a matter of fact, Meursault, I could actually need your advice on this whole business. You know, because you’re a man, and you know about things, you could help me out! And then we’d be pals, of course.” I assumed he was at least a little normal, not too much of a freak. He had gotten Marie but she wasn’t a beauty queen. I had stopped talking a while ago, but it was still silent. I asked if he actually wanted to be pals. He seemed to be thinking. That was a good sign. He was considering it. “It is fine with me,” he said shortly after. I had him.

The only matter now was how to make him do it correctly. Meursault isn’t the man to question too much, just enough to get the little picture he needed. I liked that about him. Nothing complicated. He followed directions, but wasn’t easy to guide. Other people would have fled when I started talking about how I punished my cheating woman. Meursault, on the other hand, listened until I was finished. Nervous and soar after all the talking, I asked for his opinion on the whole thing. He said something that told me he wasn’t very interested. I had to keep this going. He couldn’t tell if she was cheating on me, or what to do, but did agree that she needed to be punished. Good, now that I had made him come to that conclusion it was simple to ask him. I told him about my brilliant idea and the complications with it. I needed his mind quickly. I couldn’t in a million years write the way that would punish her enough. He was silent after I requested the favor. “Would there be any problems if you did it right now?” I asked, and got a short “no” in reply. He wrote quickly, with nice handwriting. To check that it was OK, he read it out loud for me. He looked at me for a long while. It got very awkward, and I realized he was done. He had to read it again. I was still gone, but I was sure it worked. He wouldn’t have tried to fool me anyway. I told him good night, sure that we were pals.

Passage Two:

Meursault had killed that Arab. That’s odd. I thought he was rational. Maybe he’s faulty. The trial failed him. He shouldn’t have shot that Arab. He’s in prison now. I wonder how it’s like in there. Maybe he’ll like it. It can’t be much difference. He wouldn’t care either. He never cares. He shouldn’t have shot that Arab. He’s odd. Did he enjoy it? Maybe he is that type of man, a born killer. But why would he care? Nothing pisses him off. I’ve never seen him angry. Did the Arab make him angry? He shouldn’t have killed him. Meursault’s going to die. The trial failed him. Execution in public, of all things. He looks odd up there. I can barely see him. He doesn’t mind being up there. Why was he with that Arab? Right, that thing. He shouldn’t have killed him. Everyone’s shouting, I can’t hear what the man is saying. Meursault found me. He looks odd up there. Like he doesn’t fit in. He doesn’t mind thought. Why is he looking at me that way? He doesn’t belong. The other man stopped talking. Something’s going to happen. Right, the execution. Meursault wouldn’t mind. It’s not like he wanted to live. Well, it’s not like he tried to die. Or maybe that’s why he killed that Arab? He was looking for someone to kill. I was his pal, though. He couldn’t kill me. What’s that sound? Oh, the blade wasn’t sharp enough. Too bad. He’s dead now, isn’t he? It’s just hanging there, slowly ripping off. He was a good man. He cared. I’m sure he had his reasons for killing that Arab. It probably was for the best. He looked at me as the head fell into the basket. He looked odd up there. Without a head. Everyone else has got heads. He doesn’t belong. I’m sure he’s somewhere nice. I was a good man, Meursault.

Galskap i Brev

(As I am currently doing the IB Diploma I have to write a creative piece. This is what I write for Norwegian A1.
The text is based on the novel Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë. It is a letter from the madwoman in the attic at Thornfield Hall, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, to a fictional character I have named Maurita. She is a close friend of Bertha, which is why she can write to her about the following.) 

Kjære Maurita,

Jeg skriver til deg i tillit om at disse ord vil forbli mellom oss to alene. Du har vært min gode venninne i mange år, og jeg drister meg til å si at du kjenner meg meget godt. Ta derfor disse ord i betraktning og tenk på dem vel før du skriver tilbake. Min lit til deg er stor og jeg stoler på at dine ord vil hjelpe meg videre i denne vanskelige situasjonen. Jeg beklager for en slik måte å skrive på, men jeg må ta mine foranstaltninger. Det mine neste ord kommer til å ytre, omhandler en sak av ytterst ømfintlighet.

Du husker muligens min kjære mor, Antoinetta, eller hørt snakk som omhandler hennes nåværende natur? Du er muligens ikke overrasket når jeg forteller at min mor ikke befinner seg hos sin døende søster, slik vi har forsøkt å fremstille det. Jeg har hørt ryktene i gatene, det er merkverdig hvordan folks fantasi spinner for å lage en mer spennende versjon. Disse eldre damene som ikke lenger har sine unge sønner å ta vare på, har vel ikke noe bedre å ta seg til. Du får beklage min uforskammethet, men i så mange år har jeg villet utrykke meg om denne sak. Jeg håper du forstår at jeg aldri ville ført deg bak lyset om jeg absolutt ikke hadde noe annet valg. Kjære venninne, du må tro meg når jeg skriver disse ord, så inderlig jeg hadde lyst til å skrive til deg før denne stund, men jeg har blitt forbudt av min velvitende fader. Hvert forsøk har blitt oppdaget og straffet med sterkere midler for hver gang. Temperamentet hans har blitt verre og jeg turte ikke lenger å fortsette disse forsøk. Jeg antar at du har gjettet at dette ikke er en vanlig situasjon, og du har meget rett. Slik det har seg nå føler jeg en plikt til å skrive til deg. Du får beklage min hast, det er mye å fortelle.

Tilbake til min barmhjertige mor. For flere år siden hadde sinnet forlatt henne og hun var ikke til å kjenne igjen. Plutselige angrep anslo synlig uten grunn. Alle gjenstander i hvert rom hun befant seg i ble et våpen i hennes hender. Vi fryktet for våre liv. Det var grusomt, Maurita. Kvinnen som banket i veggene var ikke lenger min kjære mor, og vi fant ingen midler for å bringe henne tilbake. Det gikk måneder før min elskverdige far til slutt stoppet å gå opp til rommet og snakke med henne. Det var intet håp for å hente tilbake sinnet hennes. I løpet av denne tid hadde naboene våres begynt å lytte og spionere på oss. Sannheten om kjære Antoinetta kunne ikke slippe utenfor vårt hus. Av den grunn fant vi det nødvendig å sende henne av gårde. Forklaringen vi satte ut var ikke helt uten sannhet. Fars hustru er hos sin søster, men ingen av dem er døende. Tiden etter hennes avreise var meget rolig i handling, men det var demoner i luften. Du må tro meg når jeg sier dette, Maurita, jeg har tenkt på den tid før kvinnens sinn forlot henne. Stillheten her har gitt meg mye tid til å tenke og jeg er sikker i min sak. Det hele startet med en liten vane min mor hadde lagt til seg. Hun knøt knuter. Hver filt, hver tråd og hver løse snor ble knyttet med utallige knuter. Senere stoppet hun, og byttet over til noe annet. Middagene ble senere enn vanlig, og en ettermiddag hvor jeg studerte henne, la jeg merke til at hun brukte meget lang tid på kuttingen av grønnsakene. Hun studerte knivene, Maurita. Gåsehuden fikk meg ut av kjøkkenet raskt, men jeg glemmer det aldri. Det eskalerte, og endte, som du nå vet, i at hun ikke er gjenkjennbar. Jeg ber deg å ikke miste troen på meg når du leser mine neste ord. Jeg har nylig funnet en stor interesse i kniver. Knutene har jeg alltid holdt på meg, min mor ble irritert hver gang hun så det, det var slik jeg oppdaget at hun også hadde begynt. Hun hadde sluttet å klage. Tilbake til temaet, kniver er fantastiske. Det er noe ved deres skarphet som kutter en i synet bare ved å studere det. Glansen av en velpolert kniv er uvurderlig, Maurita! Nei, hør på meg selv! Vær så snill, å tro meg kjæreste venninne. Jeg tør ikke tenke på hvordan jeg utvikler meg. Redselen øker for hver dag. Far aner lite håp for meg. Kun noen få måneder til det ikke lenger er jeg som vandrer i denne kroppen. Du kan si jeg er meget heldig som oppdaget det så tidlig. Min gode far mener å ha kommet med en løsning. Det er visst en rik omreisende i området, en viss Mr. Rochester fra England. Han er meget ung, og far snakker så lovende om et ekteskap. Tror du han vil akseptere meg? Jeg er klar over hva resten av landsbyen vil ha det til, at jeg er Jamaicas vakreste, men han har vel sett mange nydelig kvinner gjennom sine reiser.

Det er her jeg trenger hjelp av dem, kjære Maurita. Det er ikke riktig. Slik en fin mann burde ikke ende opp med en kropp uten sinn. Tenk om jeg ender opp lik min mor, jeg kommer til å drepe noen! Jeg kan ikke ha det i hodet, vite at jeg er farlig for andre. Vær så snill, min vakreste venninne, jeg ber av dem, hva har du for råd? Kan jeg tillate at den omreisende blir lurt slik i stry? Burde jeg bli hos ham? Jeg orker ikke tenke på det min kropp kan gjøre når sinnet mitt har forlatt meg! Maurita, svar raskt! Tiden renner ut og jeg er redd.

Din kjæreste venninne,

Bertha Antoinetta Mason.

Consider this

Everyone goes through different fases at any time, some less pleasurable than others. Seeing someone struggle with their situation creates desperation to fix it. As much as the people around would like, there is little we can do. It is in the mind of the troubled that the change has to occur. People might change, they may never. Their development, or lack of such, should never stop you from doing or becoming anything. I therefore ask you, read these words of wisdom with awareness. They might appeal to your own situation, or those close to you. I said that there is little we can do. That might be true, but showing that you see, and how it troubles you may open up their eyes to realize that other care about them. It is a wonder how knowing that you mean something, even the tiniest bit, can make you feel significant again.


Children of Divorce

There are many of us, the children born in a divorce. Some might call us lucky; we never had to go through the dividing of a once whole family. We wouldn’t have to wonder what we did wrong, what we said, or what we could have done to make it all work. Don’t mind us, we do only have to live through a life where we’ve never had a whole family. Never had a moment of everything being at its proper place. The dream will never be complete.
We have it better because when someone asks for your dad, you don’t know who to refer to. What a benefit we have, knowing all transportation systems between the parents’ houses by heart. How fortunate we are, being born with the features they hate about each other. We are their constant nightmare, reminding them of their former love, their past. They cannot escape us. We are the reminder they never wished for. Do not mind us, the kids who will never know who they are because their personality traits are despised by both sides. We cannot grow as we have no ground to stand on. Where do we come from; who do we belong to? These are questions that haunt us on the midst of the day. We have no place to escape, no one to turn to.
Ask a one of us to define Good and Evil. We will answer vaguely as we know that those who intentionally hurt other people are evil, but we don’t want to think of our parents as evil. There are no right or wrong, yet there are always two sides of a story, hard to separate from the truth. Excuses are vivid, we live among people who want to protect us, but drag us further down the rabbit hole.

Don’t mind us, we do only have to live through a life where we’ve never had a whole family.


Source: http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvas8uoZp71r6qljho1_500.jpg

The Hardest Part

The most frustrating part of writing is when you have an inspirational moment or thought, you can’t sit down and write, but when you do the thought is gone. It’s not like it actually is gone, forgotten, the spirit of writing it out has left me. I hate it above all. Everyone has writer’s block from time to time, but that’s only the first layer of Dante’s fearful hell. Losing the spike of inspiration is the eighth and unofficial layer as it is so horrific that no one dares to acknowledge it.

In my previous post I intended on writing so much more. My mind had drawn a beautiful story of how friendship saves life, brings back the identity, and how little is put into its true value. Everyone’s focus surrounds the idea of a perfect friendship; knowing each other so well that there only needs to be screamed “Vatican Cameos!” and the friend would understand. The desire for the endless trust is great, yet it takes more than just a couple of common interests for one to open up.
It’s the moment when you are there for someone while their heart is broken, when the tears are streaming endlessly and you can hear the sorrow in the cramped voice. The moment when you find the tissue instead of another person that can help, when you stay for however long it takes, regardless of how uncomfortable the position is. That is when your friendship begins.

Sometimes this is all I need. To ramble about my thoughts. My ideas are clustered at all times, I think too much, too little, am unfocused and wander off.  Nevertheless, my work is not finished. This is not my final thought. It’s a beginning, and a good one too.