June

My name is June.
I thought that if I was going to write in this notebook, I had better introduce myself. Though, truthfully, I'd rather not. It's not like a name matters, anyways. And this notebook is my least favorite color; yellow. I doubt I'll be able to write in a notebook that resembles the color of pee for very long. So it's not like my name matters.

But speaking of names, my name is June. I realize I have already pointed this out, and you might already be getting bored of me repeating things, but it's just wrong. My name, I mean. For one thing, I was born in November. But when I emerged into the world and screamed my first mortal cries, my father held me in his arms and called me June. My mother was stupidly in love with him, and agreed to it. And she's still in love with him, even though he left more than 18 years ago. Every time she calls me by my name, I can see the naive reminisce of love for my father. It's disgusting. That she still has a blind feelings for a man who betrayed her. That she sees that man when she looks at me. That the man left his mark on me, in the worst possible way, when he didn't even stick around. That my name is a show of who they wanted me to be, not who I was.

So I hate my name.
It's simply not me.

But enough of names. I take comfort in Shakespeare.

"A rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet."

Not that I am an avid reader of Shakespeare. Or Romeo and Juliet. I had to read it in ninth grade for English, and I simply couldn't stand Juliet at the end, when she discovers that Romeo died because of her plan to play dead. Instead of accepting the responsibility, she kills herself "for love". No, I don't read Shakespeare. I mean, I have never really experienced love either. I've tried my best to avoid it. If love is shoving off all your responsibilities, and killing yourself for someone that's already dead, I'd rather not experience it.

But unfortunately, I am not a rose. Nor do I smell sweet most of the time. So, if that quote has any reference to me, it might be a miracle. No, I am a rather dumpy, unpleasant girl, in personality and looks. This used to affect me the most in middle school, where I would tell my mother how ugly I was every evening. At the beginning, she would try her best to convince me of the opposite, as people do every time someone says one of their faults. But she soon got tired of me, and stopped saying anything. And I realized that it didn't matter to anyone but myself. And that it shouldn't matter to me, since I had decided not to go after men either way. I was only trying to satisfy my own craving for vanity. And after I realized that, I stopped saying anything, in an attempt to wield off my caring for it. It's mostly worked.

Geez, I sound like a soap opera.

Enough of that. I was writing in here for a reason, not just to complain about my life. Although, I am going to do that here, because it must be done. No one wants to hear it, not even me, but I suppose I'll have to suffer through it. Anyways, the reason? Right.

This morning I woke up at seven. Well, that in itself is unusual. Ever since I stopped going to school, I've taken to being awake during the night, and asleep during the day. Not that it's healthy. It's just more relaxing. No one's around.

So I woke up at seven. It was a cloudy morning, so it was still halfway dark. Normally, I would be dead tired, but for some reason I was wide awake. And quiet. I didn't move. I knew something important was going to happen, and I also knew that if I even twitched a muscle, it wouldn't. So I didn't move. I kept my eyes open, staring at the fishbowl by my bed. I have a goldfish in there named Cricket. And I was pondering on the past of this fish, when I felt something jump on my bed. I jumped up, startled, my covers in a mess, searching for the culprit. But nothing was there. Nothing. But I could still feel the unnatural weight on my bed. Nothing moved for a moment in eternity, and then I felt the weight shift and start walking towards me. The weight was nothing much, just about the weight of a cat or so. It walked right up to my leg, and I could feel it's wet nose and whiskers smelling my pajama pant. And then it was gone. The weight was, I mean. The room was quiet, and after a moment I relaxed, settling down out of bed, and engaging in my morning ritual. After ten minutes in the shower, I came back inside the room with a head full of turban, convinced that I was having some weird, sleep-deprived illusion. I casually dressed myself, and then walked up to the fishbowl, meaning to sprinkle some food in there.

And realized the fish was gone.

Anthony

Cats are a pain to take care of.
I have two cats; Giovanni and Campanella.
Well, had, since Campanella died last year.
I can't seem to get rid of him though.

When was the first time I noticed that I had a ghost cat still floating around? Hmm. I can't really put it right, but I think it was last April. Campanella is an orange tabby, while Giovanni is a blue tabby. I got them in a pair from some friend of a friend of my mothers. Don't remember her name. I don't even think I've ever seen the lady. I don't really care to either. My mother graciously accepted the animals, as the lady was moving away, but as soon as no one was looking she dumped them on me.

"You like cats, don't you?" she said on the phone after I called, discovering two holed boxes on my apartment room floor.

This is a fallacy. I don't like cats. However, nor do I viciously hate them. I simply didn't feel like taking care of two other biological members of the animal kingdom, when I can barely take care of myself. The only reason my mother thinks I like cats is because when I was seven, I had a period of where I would point out every cat on the street. They always stalked around, and when I was able to spot one, I felt a childish pride at my observation skills. If you could call them "skills". My feelings towards cats is more around indifference than like. However, even though I have told my mother this on several occasions, her maternal mind forgets and instantly goes back to that time when I pointed out every cat with my grimy index finger. Mothers do that.

"No, I don't," I said, reminding her once again that I was not seven years old.

"Oh," she said, reminded, "Well, I only need you to take care of them for a little while until I find a new job. It won't be hard, you know. Feed them, water them, and they'll be fine."

"They aren't plants."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Negative. Anyways, it'll be good for you."

"Animals that don't bathe?"

"Having company! In that tiny room you never seem to poke your head out of! Quit making this difficult for me! You know I have a hard enough time with the office already, help me out a little! It's not like you have a real job, either! And they're just cats! You don't have to be so uncooperative all the time! Why do you always have to say I'm a bad mother?!"

a beep on the other side told me that she had hung up.

"...I didn't," I said to the yellow plastered wall.

There seems to be a rule in the human psych that when you and your parents argue, the victory immediately goes to the parent. This seems to be true even when you yourself counterattack with logic, and or, reasoning. Sometimes, even when you yourself have thought that you have won a certain battle, it turns out simply to be a prelude to your defeat in the war. Anyone who has the idea of a family as a cuddly group of people who unconditionally love each other are mistaken. A family is another world, where each member is a single nation. There may be treaties, there may be good relations for the sake of economy, however underneath it all is a secret war for power and position. The younger and smaller a country is, the less power it has to reject the larger, older ones. There is quiet blood shed at every turn; when a sibling takes your seat at the dining room table, when someone lies to another, when your mother laughs at something you were serious about, when your father ignores you. It's simply that, sometimes the war becomes uncovered, and the bloodshed is on display for all to see. When this happens, World War can, and easily, ensue. The flag is risen for all of the nations to fight against another. And believe me, they will fight. They enjoy it.

At least. That is what I think.

So when my mother hung up on the phone, I never called her back to argue on the subject again. I had already lost the battle. And I also realized that if I fought anymore, all I would do was lose again. Two years later, my mother had her job changed, but she had forgotten all about taking the cats back. I didn't remind her. I knew how she would react. There would be another battle, I would lose, and it would have to be added to my long list of failures that's written itself in my head. There was no point to reminding her.

Besides. I don't hate cats.

Anyways, Campanella died when he was only about six years old. It was rather sudden, but I noticed one day that he hadn't come inside to eat his meal. I found his rag-tag body lying on it's side in the yard when I went outside to check. I sighed, went back inside to fetch an old shoebox from the closet I had kept, stuffed his limp body inside it, and buried him under the red plum tree outside my window. Giovanni was bummed out for about two days, then puckered up and went back to normal. He's a rather chubby cat, who likes human-based attention, and staying indoors. He likes to sit on my lap when I'm working on my website. The website brings in my only income, which is not very much, but it pays the rent, and I don't have to even take a step outside. Campanella had (has) a completely different personality than Giovanni. He spent almost all his time outdoors, doing whatever knows what, and only came in for food and water. Sometimes....I wonder...is it strange to feel jealous of a cat?

Dead, no less. 

Doorbell

January 2, 2014
Wednesday

Dear Diary,
It's been about 4 months since the car crash. My leg is still wrapped in this blue cast that itches like crazy. Today I had a cold, so I stayed home while the family went to visit the relatives in the valley. I've not been doing much all day except sniffing and sniveling with this stupid faucet nose. There's a skyscraper tower of tissues on the computer desk, where I've been watching this stupid show for the past 3 hours. Ugh, what was it called? I forget. Anyways, it was dumb. 

I've told mom about it before, but she says its impossible. I haven't been able to remember much before the car crash, but I could swear I saw something when I was still half-conscious lying on the asphalt. It was tall and black, and it was staring at me, though I couldn't see its face. I don't know why I say 'it', because it was obviously someone, but it just didn't give me the feeling that this person was someone to call a person. I'd forgotten about it til' now, because of everything that's happened. But I started remembering these past 2 weeks, because I keep having this same dream. The 'thing' or whoever, is outside the door of our house while I'm in my bed sleeping, waiting and waiting for me. It never does anything; it just waits for me. I don't know why that scares me so much.
I haven't been sleeping well lately.

I...think I just saw something. I'm a little freaked out, while writing this. I hate being home alone.

Oh, the doorbell rang. I wonder if they're home with groceries or something. I'll go get it.

They Feed on Life

Ah, I would like to tell this.
last night I woke up in the middle of the night to a dull sensation of pain in my left arm. In the dark I peered over my blankets to see what appeared to be a rotund white monster gnawing on my flesh. For some reason I wasn't scared at all, and I heard the gnawing sounds coming out of the corner of it's mouth. I remained indifferent to the whole thing. When I woke up in the morning the monster had gone, and I had difficulty lifting my arm which had gone numb throughout the night. I was dully surprised to notice that there were no bite marks or flesh wounds at all. I knew for a fact that it hadn't been a dream, but for some reason I wasn't scared at all, nor did I care. It felt like I was under water, and I was caught in the apathetic part of mind.

The next night was much the same. As were the nights for the next month. Each morning I woke up with my arm numb, but looking much the same; with no marks or blood. For some reason, I never cared that each morning it would take longer and longer to get the feeling back in my arm again. I never told anyone about this experience, and never felt the drive to. My life was the same outside of this strange experience every night, although my friends often commented that I never said much and joked about how it felt a little unnerving to be around me.

Two months after this continued happening, they stopped hanging out with me, and even went out of their way to avoid me.

At the time it was winter, and my arm had come to the point that the numbness wouldn't go away until late in the afternoon. A scarce group of students had begun bullying me; kicking and dragging my body across the cement behind a small storage building near the school when the hours were out. They hated me immensely because I never screamed out, nor gave any grimaces to pain. They wanted me to scream at any cost, and at one point desperately set my hair on fire. But I couldn't even react to that, and one of the girls got scared and put it out by dumping a pail of gutter water over me. The truth is, I couldn't feel any of the pain. It didn't hurt. When they were kicking me, the numbness spread over my entire body to the point that it felt like it was someone else's. Through my apathetic mind a slow, dull fear began to spread, pushing it's way from my subconscious to conscious.

A few nights ago I woke up to the gnashing sounds of the monster as it was sitting on my bed. My entire arm was in its mouth, and it was sucking on it like a lollipop.  I noticed it was a lot larger than before. At the time when I first saw it, it had been the size of a beach ball. But now it was the size of a small boulder, and I could see the flesh of its loose skin hanging over the side of my bed. It noticed me looking at it, and it stared back with its large yellow eyes, smiling with its pointy teeth encircling my arm. I fainted back into sleep. I dreamed I was drowning in a cold ocean in the middle of nowhere.

I'm scared. I'm really scared. Because I know what it's doing now. Please someone help me. I started spitting up blood yesterday, and I can hardly move any of my limbs. My mother put me in the hospital, and they all say I'll get better. But I know I won't. I won't. Because it's coming again tonight, and it won't stop until it's eaten all of me. I'm scared, I'm really scared.

Please someone kill me already.

Fireworks

Fireworks
by whatever
to the music of HANA-BI

Human-made
by Pyromaniacs.
For the brief moment
I am alight
I am loved,
I am watched,
I am the world.

I don't realize my own existence,
for I am of the non-living.
In the explosion,
I am lost.
as I soar through the blackness,
I extend my invisible hand to the stars.

They have patterned the flower beforehand,
therefore I am nothing.
But may I alter my shape through all my will,
could I feel any gratification
by what they don't notice?

And therefore, I shoot
with the song of all humanity.
In this brief life like a falling star,
to show your eyes my colors.

For the moment I am loved,
I beam, I shine, I cry
to be defined in seconds,
to disappear to smoke.

Withering in the season,
autumn turns flowers to dust.
Allowing one blossoming hope,
for my sparks
to fall in your hands.

career

Dear Death,

Thank you for giving me my career.

-red riding hood

Skeleton Graveyard

Dear Death,
I met your friend.
It was late at night, and I decided to pass through the graveyard. There was this rumor at my school where this kid had thought he had seen some kind of 'creature' walking through there. I wanted to check it out and see if it was real. I had never really believed in the supernatural.
Now that I think about it, my cat and some of the dogs in the neighborhood had been missing.

I shoved open the creaky wooden gate and slipped inside, keeping my eyes peeled. At first, I saw nothing. But as everything quieted down to just my breathing, I saw another being sitting on a nearby gravestone, chewing something. As I got closer, I smelled something rancid like rotting meat. I got suddenly scared, so I started to back away, but my foot crunched on a twig. The skeleton looked up at me from his meal. I felt paralyzed as he hobbled his way over to me and placed a cold, wet, bloody bone hand on my cheek. That was the first time I had met my best friend.

I snuck out every night to see him in the graveyards. He could never leave the graveyards, and he enjoyed my company. We had so many conversations, about my family, my life, and the things I wanted to be. He never talked about himself, but I would notice sometimes when I was talking about my family, that he would get a sad look his eyes. Well, not that he had much of eyes, but you could tell by the way of his head posture how he felt. I talked to him out loud, but he communicated through actions. I had once brought a note pad, thinking he could write on it, but when I handed it to him, his hands, like they had bone arthritis, would not do the things he wanted. So we remained this way. It was a happy time.

It was only three days ago, while I was sitting in my boring math class, that I realized I loved him.
I'm going to tell him tonight.

........
See, over there! He's waiting for me!
What's that shiny thing he's holding?

 ........


Why am I in a concrete box?