It’s Gonna Be A Great Show (5)

Journal: 5/10

Adam visited this morning, checking on the work. He stood there in his purple silk tie, glad-handing the cleaning crew and lecturing them about safety. He knows damned well the “accidents” are nothing of the sort. Ruthless shit.

Emily doesn’t like him. I think he scares her. She conveyed her displeasure by blowing dust all over his three hundred dollar shoes. He told me to have the windows fixed and left in a storm of indignation.

A small, frowny face appeared in the dust and was quickly blown away.

“He shouldn’t come here. They want him to stay.”

It's Gonna Be A Great Show! (4)

Tim Spelling, lead guitar for Broken Mind, stands in the day room watching the cleaning crew. His hair is a riot of short white and purple spikes. He idly fingers a small silver charm hanging from his belt. It’s a bible. He turns brown, almond shaped eyes to me.

“In Japan, we could never do this. Bad karma or feng shui, some shit like that. Thank you.”

He hands me a bouquet of flowers wrapped in white tissue paper, kisses my cheek, and heads out.

Several petals fall from a single red rose. Emily.

The others don’t like him…he knows.

It's Gonna Be A Great Show (3)

It's Gonna Be A Great Show (3)


Journal: 5/02

*headdesk*

The irony is killing me. Had to hire group of 20-somethings to clean the day room and stage. Insult to injury, they consider themselves a paranormal investigative team on the side. Adam will kill me if he finds out I traded daytime only investigations for a break on the bill.

Yesterday, a small pot of grease got knocked off the stage, and a ladder “mysteriously” got shoved off the wall it was leaning against. Cliff, the groups “tech guy” was near the ladder. Idiot child was beside himself with excitement. Lucky it was only Emily. She’s harmless.

It's Gonna Be A Great Show (2)

It's Gonna Be A Great Show (2)

Eric Romanov. Lead singer of Broken Mind. Kid looks like a goddamned gypsy Viking. He’s young, beautiful, and utterly sanguine about their cd and the concert. He bounces around my office in the small gatehouse, thanking me.

He’s brought copies of the cd, simply titled Iron. The first single is Quiet Scandal. He kisses my cheek and bounds out the door. Seconds later the tiny rubber duck on my desk begins to move in small circles.

Emily is the only one who can get as far as the gatehouse. She was seven when they killed her.

“…like him. He’s pretty.”

It's Gonna Be A Great Show

It's Gonna Be A Great Show

“Adam, you can’t let those idiots play a concert here just because they named themselves Broken Mind. The townies don’t call it that for nothing. There have been more than thirty cases in the last decade of people disappearing, committing violent crimes, or going bugfuck insane after breaking into this place."

“Shake it off, Meela. You’re the care taker. Get it ready.”

I started to reply, but he’d hung up.

I looked at the stage, imagining the five young men playing there, as soft whispers began echoing through deserted hallways and rooms.

The patients were spreading the news.

“They’re coming…”

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One slice of one day...today.

10:20 AM

And I’m just sitting here with my brain revving in blank little circles.  Just fighting anxiety nausea and despair and fear of the maybes.  There are so many.  Last night I tried to be hopeful, tried to sleep hopefully, thinking that I might wake up without this horrible thing that happens to me every day.  This thing that makes me want to hide in fear, further sabotaging myself.  Goddess help me, please. 

I watch people come and go in on chat, and no one reaches out to me most of the time.  It scares me.  I’m alone.  I wish I could revel in the isolation.  I wish I could become bitterly motivated by it. I’ve done that before.  I can’t find that now.  I’m so tired. My body aches.  It’s depression.  I fucking hate myself for having to admit it, again.  Always again.  Always. And is this doing me any good. Finally writing out what’s happening.  Forcing myself brutally, to write it, wanting to scream with every word, knowing no one would hear me anyway, because I’ve been screaming for months.  For a while I tried to make myself heard.  Tried so hard.  The people I reached out to, the ones I was supposed to reach out to, wouldn’t hear me.  Wouldn’t listen. 

Now finally it’s almost over, but I’m terrified I can’t even force myself to keep paddling until I get to the end, until this last thing either works or doesn’t.  I’m terrified of losing today’s battle not to give up, this moment’s battle, this second’s battle.  I don’t want to die, but I wish I was dead.  Is that a conundrum?  Does the fact that I’m wondering whether or not it is mean I’m OK, or not?  

Sorry, No More Curtain Calls.

November 6, 2013

I put the fan back in the window this morning.  It’s 60 degrees outside, and beautifully sunny.  There’s a soft scent of winter in the warm air nonetheless.  It reminds me that the dark and quiet is approaching and I hope to rest soon.

I’ve spent too much time looking for the provenance of my existence, trying to figure out why I’m a monster.  It doesn’t matter.  I think I have the answer now-the way of fixing it.

At the Winter solstice, I’ll make an end of it…again.

Please, God.  Don’t let me come back this time?