The Low[est] Blow

I convulse: my entire body shakes as yet another cough takes ahold of it.

Spots dance before my eyes, and when they clear I look down to see flecks of blood on my palm.

A week has passed since my 15^th birthday: a shade away from 5’11, I weigh in at 130 lbs. I haven’t eaten in almost a week.

I’m dying.

***

Christmas vacation: I’m 16 ½ and I’m no longer dying. After almost a year of therapy, I’m finally back to an ideal weight.

Muscle lines my body: If I look down I’ll see six-pack abs. My legs have changed too: in spite of skiing for six hours I still feel as though I could go for more.

In spite of that, I’m still self conscious, though not nearly self conscious enough to abstain from downing the entire plate of B.B.Q. wings sitting in front of me. As I polish off the last of them, my brother, sitting across from me in the Irish pub we’ve been frequenting for the last two days, mimes Jabba the Hutt.

I feel as though I’ve been hit over the head by a trash can lid: my ears ring and I have the awful sense that I’m falling.

A harmless joke, it has me crying alone in my hotel room minutes later.

The vacation, which had been perfect up until that point, has been marred.

I don’t relapse, though.

I guess therapy is good for something.

***

I’m almost 18, and I’m playing Pokemon on the couch to pass the time. I’ve just caught an Abra.

Footsteps sound from the direction of the washing machine, and a second later there comes the telltale click and rush of water that signals my brother has turned the wash on.

“My jeans!” I all but scream- I’m growing again, and I only have one pair of jeans that fit me, and those are all but falling off of me, even with a belt.

I haven’t washed them in a week, and I have a date in two hours.

I fly upstairs, grab them, and run down to throw them atop of Nate’s load.

“No.” he tells me as I go to toss them in.

Baffled, I explain my situation, certain that he’ll let me put them in.

“No.” he says again. He refuses to budge. I try to shove them in anyway, and he pushes me.

Seconds later and we’re having our first real fight- we’re evenly matched, for the most part, it would seem: we both spend equal time pressed up against the hard wood floors.

I manage to throw my jeans in, in the end, and the washing machine ( which I refer to as the dishwasher in my anxt ) locks itself.

The fact that he called me fat for not fitting into my jeans (which makes no sense at all) during our fight sinks in an instant later.

His words mean nothing to the rational part of me: I’m positive that I'm anything but fat. The emotional part of me ends up pressed against the wall, tears running down my face as all the bad feelings from the past flood throughout me.

How could my brother, who knows the living hell I went through two and a half years ago, say that to me? I wonder.

***

I’m no saint: I’ve thrown my fair share of low blows when in the heat of an argument as well.

Gross, ugly, short, sallow, chrons afflicted failure: I’ve been just as bad as him, if not more so, and so I can understand why he could say such a thing.

I also understand that, in spite of the occasional cat (and not so catty) fights, that he loves me just as much as I love him.

The Vibrant... (Hooray for my attempt at fantasy)

Chapter One:

We laugh in glee as the midnight waves we ride crash upon the black sands of the approaching shoreline. The numerous scents of the land are calling to us, and the promises of sweet flesh and power hang thick in the misty air.

It is almost enough to make some of us abandon the boy, whom we have followed throughout the night. We are drawn to him.

During the day, we oft imagine, the sparkling waters must be charming to look upon, but we cannot abide the harsh light of reality on our own, and so we flee, fading back to the abysmally dull realm of mist and shadow from which we escaped; the spirit realm, they call it.

Now, however, as is the case every night, the once noble waters have filled with the essence of Night herself. We dance upon the waves; we can abide the mortal world at times like these, when the iron fist of reality weakens and mortal minds dream, unconsciously calling us forth.

The boy, consumed with the concerns of one who has just began to cross the threshold into adulthood, stares broodingly over the railing of the slaver ship that he is bound to; the only place he has ever known as home, and his thoughts are akin to the turbulent waters beneath him as he asks himself a single question, over and over.

He does not know that we are here; that we listen and watch his every move, drawn to the sweet nectar of power that stirs within him…

He is deaf to our cries… for now.

***********************

“Why must we end their lives?”

The boy pounded his fist upon the worn railing of the ship, unable to come to grips with murder.

“What could anyone do to merit death?” he asked, as though the waves themselves would answer him.

His only reply was the soft hiss of sea-spray, and a splash of cool, salty water that made it over the railing, stinging his eyes. He could almost imagine that the sea was hissing his name, trying to speak to him.

“Jasper,” it seemed to say.

“They help people.” He whispered back fiercely, gripping the railing so hard that his knuckles shone white, despite the golden tan born of a lifetime on the sea.

The ship crested a wave with a creaking moan of protest, growing closer to land with every moment, and Jasper couldn’t help but think of what awaited him when they reached land.

Death, blood, and violence.

“And this time, I’m expected to be more than just an unwilling observer.”

He spat over the edge of the boat, wishing that it were him and not the phlegm that was sinking beneath the waters, never to be seen again. That, he felt certain, was where he truly belonged.

If ever he had a reason for killing one of the Temple’s sorcerer-priests, it would be because members of their order could find a home beneath the waves, not because someone had ordered him to. Even then, jealousy wasn’t nearly enough to bring him to killing.

He pressed his forehead into the damp railing, feeling sick with dread at the thought of what lay before him, as well as what he had almost been forced into doing in the past. Already, he imagined, he could see their blood on his hands, as he betrayed their charity and murdered them.

“Damn you, Sebastian.” He cursed.

As though speaking the name aloud had conjured him, phantom hands roamed painfully across Jasper’s body, and he shuddered, gingerly reaching under his shirt and pants to feel the fresh bruises that marred his long, lean body.

The waves hissed again, and Jasper laughed bitterly.

Much as he might talk to the element that he loved most, he knew that there would be no answer from it. He spat into the waves once more and then turned, heading back into the bowels of the ship, back to where he was sure his cot still swung, out of rhythm with the motion of the rocking of boat.

He had just made it back to his private cabin when it happened.

Something blasted into him, through him, knocking him to the ground and impaling him with what felt like knives of fire. He tried to stand, to scream, to do anything, but he was paralyzed.

Please, he begged silently, praying to the sea-spirits that all sailors worshipped. Make it stop.

As suddenly as it had come over him, the agony vanished. In it’s place was a bone weary exhaustion, though only the memory of the pain remained.

“Thank you…” he whispered, just in case his prayer had been heard. A moment later he was gone, swallowed by the void.

Internet Love

More than a year has passed since the day that we met; one year, three months, and a week to be exact. But who’s counting? In truth, though, I’m surprised that we made it this far at all, given just how, and where, we met.

***
An hour into New Year’s Day, and I’m the only one still awake; maybe the combined excitement of fireworks, alcohol, and crazy neighbors proved too much for the others. At this point, though, the reason doesn’t matter so much as the end result: the house is silent, save for the crackle and snap of dying embers in the fireplace.

I feel as though I’m the only one awake in the entire world, and I wonder why I’m not asleep. I look down, and as if by magic my laptop has appeared on my lap. I wonder how it got there. I'm wondering a lot of things, tonight.

[Insert Chat Website Here] : I wonder upon a chat room. Normally, I wouldn't, but tonight is different and I hit enter. Next thing I know, I’m falling into a new world: one of older men, gross bodies, and hidden gems…

***
“How did you two meet?” my mom asks, looking over as she cuts into her ham and cheese omelet. Her curiosity is almost as palpable as the rich smells wafting over from my own omelet, a ham, cheese, pepper, tomato, and onion creation that I can’t wait to eat.

I put down my fork, and a nervous laugh escapes me.

“I don’t really want to lie to you,” I began earnestly, “and it’s really just too sketchy… so…” I smile, letting her know that as far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.

My mom shrugs, and then pops a bite of toast into her mouth. In a minute she seems to have forgotten the matter entirely, although you can never be certain with mothers. As for myself, I find myself falling into the dregs of my coffee, remembering…

***

Needsyou: the name stands out to me on the chat list for some reason, though it’s by no means the most exotic. Other names, the likes of which I imagine would shock even someone as indoctrinated as Pamela Anderson, fade away: Needsyou begs to be clicked on.

I click.

Up pops a tiny video box on my screen. My heart just about pops too: butterflies race through my stomach, and I bite my lip.

Needsyou is beautiful; and he looks to be my age. I message him. Moments later, he replies…

***

“We met on a webcam site.” I laugh.

She steps back, her eyes narrowing despite the grin stretched across her face. Her hair, dyed burgundy, seems to coil with a life of its own.

“Oh Ted,” she sighs, “he told me you two met in Tyson’s.”

I grin in return. The number of people I'd told that same lie to when they asked about “this Ted kid,” stretched beyond counting.

“Oops…”

***

An hour has passed since I messaged him, and I decide to give him my number- sleep, the traitor, has come upon me at the worst possible moment and I don't want this to be the last time we talk.

He texts me immediately.

I shut the computer down and stare at the screen, feeling strange. I’m not one for God, but I feel as though my fate has just been sealed, as though the stars above me have just solidified into an iron net of destiny.

I also feel a little corny at the thought, and laugh at myself. Time will tell whether or not this will go anywhere. I just happen to hope with all of my heart that it does.

***
One year, three months, and a week after meeting him, and vodka is coursing through my bloodstream, laced side by side with nicotine. New friends are laughing all around me and music is playing.

Best of all is Needsyou, who’s been given corporeal form after all this time: Ted is lying next to me on the couch, smiling.

We kiss.

“Be my boyfriend?” he murmurs.

I accept, and we kiss again.

March 7, 2010; after more than a year, we’re finally together.

It was worth the wait.