Well, nothing new here, which is lie, and wrong, and not the truth, and not what I meant to say... nope... not at all.
But it's official, I'm running away to Europe. I'm just going. I don't know how, or what will happen... I just need to go, and dissapear forever from everything, in the best way.
Again, I lie. I know how. I'll just buy a one way ticket to England, convert the rest to pounds then Euros. But I can only guess what will happen.... nope, not even that. I can't guess... Heh heh. Exciting, though.
So, I have intensely huge amounts of everything to write... And Haemon's Belmar to continue. Part III will come whenever I sit down and write it... tonight... yes. Alright, I've just conviced myself to do it now. So... here it is:
Haemon's Belmar
Part III
Shades of the dark
and melody's crimson
Tonight?
Yes, tonight.
Is it right?
It’s right.
What if we’re caught?
Matter’s not...
Alright, then so be it.
Alright… I’ll see you soon.
But they were caught. The plan was simple: go to college, get on their own, so they could be alone and in love. And they did it, they made it to college, escaped from the fierce tease of an sense of closeness that was never close enough or far enough to make it seem worth the pain.
The unbearable desire to cease this wretched pulsing, stop battling against invisible jaders, raiding into the day with waters so raged and tepid, that the darkness of dreams was all the ease and bright release they could find… Just, to rest, to sleep, to lie down and cease this pain, together in a swirl of bodies so perfect—nothing more, nothing more than sleep… just to hold together in slothty embraces…
But they were caught.
Period 4: Exploratories. Horrible class, though not half as bad as English. The teacher often flirted with Mr. Edwards, the science teacher. He was tall and handsome and manly, and she was one of the ladies that melt and giggle and flirt shamelessly. She later took work leave, because she was pregnant, though she wasn’t married to Mr. Edwards. Nope… Instead, she was married to the middle school principle who screamed till his face was red and about as nice to look at as horse’s head that looked like a pig’s beaten dead carcass, Mr. Johnson, of the boy’s eighth grade year. In his seventh grade year, the principal was a kind old lady named Mrs. Spidlemier who was useless and afraid of the children, though still very kind. When she left the principal position, she disappeared into the scholastic woodwork for a bit, resurfacing at random times in both the middle and high school offices, doing whatever job they gave here. Mr. Johnson would later be fired, half way through the year, for looking at pornography in his office, brought in was a bellowing windbag with a friendly face and no business working in a middle school. He remained there, while the boy went on to the high school, whose principals were Mr. Leitner, who said “at the time” at the end of every sentence, and Dr. Galowitz, who was a doctor in no sense that anyone could figure out. While the boy was working up to 10th grade, the elementary school principal, Mr. Smith, a large black man who had dated and slept with every mother in the elementary school, had left his job, to work in a different district. There, he impregnated a child’s mother, and the hush it up, the districts shuffled him into the position of middle school principal, but not until after Dr. Galowitz announced he was retiring, and filled in for a year at the middle school as principal, while the bellowing windbag with the kind face became principal at the elementary to fill the gap that Mr. Smith had left, only perhaps with less motherdating. To fill Dr. Galowizt’s spot was Mr. Forester, a mountain of a man, who was about 6’ 5’’, two seventy five pounds, and a big silly teddybear, as the loudmouth Jill would announce to no one in the middle of class. Jill always said whatever she thought, usually before she thought it, and without any awareness of saying it until she’d already said something else, and by now, everyone knew there was no hope of shutting her up, so they tuned out using skills they finely tuned in middle school, like how to pretend to pay attention, and do busy work. No one had to worry about thinking, though, because there wasn’t anything being taught. By 12th grade, the boy can remember entering the first class he learned something in, and did not do any busywork for.
Actually, high school was worth most of the scholastic time; middle school, however, accomplished nothing, which was just as well, because who could pay attention while they were shooting up three feet, with a squeaky voice and armpit hair and pimples, and new interests in new creatures like girls, and the strange new lust for sex, which no one understood… but even so, the girls certainly began to wear less, and the boys certainly began to stare.
Mrs. Johnson never allowed that. She was edgy and irritable, who either was a heavenly amorian seraph, or something so far worth, it’s sacrilegious to take the time to figure a name for it, depending on what minute of the hour it was. And there was no telling when her moodswings would attack, so it was an uneasy, difficult class, filled with A pluses with bonus points and F minuses with a late penalty. Funny thing is, she defined late as any time that was not when it was due. So, turn it in early, and it’s counted late, because there was no real penalty called ‘early’ points. She never actually did that. But she was horrible, and inventing stories about what awful things she did in class was something to talk about in lunch when the tension of an adolescent prison eased for just a moment long enough to find the words to talk. After a bit, she disappeared. For her pregnancy, that is.
The boy just watched, as this Uncertain Parade marched about, and nothing was left to do but his head down, and dream and think and wish he were anywhere else. He thought often times about that beautiful little girl he dreamt about, when he was a beautiful little boy. There was a flood in his dream, and the boy picked up the little girl, felt her skin against his skin –for they were naked—and felt so perfectly happy and content. And then, the boy ran faster and faster, until he was flying, and they were in love. The girl’s name was Erin, and though she was older, she liked the little boy. From this, the boy learned that what he wanted more than anything else in the entire world was love, and –hold tight!— feel the rushing wind over their steamy car windows.
“Where were you?”
“At James’.”
“At 3 in the morning? This isn’t good, you’re in huge trouble.”
He ran out of the house, pushed the car out into the street, quietly tried to start the engine, as if that were possible to do quietly, then drove –not to James’— but to her house. And they met outside, and then ran into a fence that belonged to a house, which they would send money and a letter to later, apologizing. They first agreed on sending one hundred and fifty, but then decided that one hundred was better, before settling for fifty, which meant they sent twenty dollars over. But it was the thought that counted.
They kissed and held each other and loved, and forgot about the world that surrounded them, forever and ever and that night never really ended, the lovers just moved on, gave up waiting for the dawn.
Coming home, the boy was caught, but with no regrets. Time was coming rushing forward, the entire world about to shift, and nothing would stop it.
Endthought.
They had grown too fond of the stars,
To fear the night any longer.
