LW&W (12.26.04)
I don't know what else to say about this night. I found a special place in my head, I guess, to hide out in. I think there is more to say, because the night went on for more time, but I can't find it. I remember more cards, and some magazines that he dragged out from under his bed. They showed stuff like on the cards, only bigger, much bigger, more pictures pictures pictures of people doing really dirty-looking stuff to each other. Stuff that looks like it hurts. Stuff that I wonder if Roger is drunk or high or stupid or if I am when he says that this is stuff that feels relaly good. Look at the people's faces, I want to say. How can you think they are feeling good? But he is wanting to let me in on someting, a secret of grown-up-ness. And I am not doing my part to not get it with him, so I am pretending. Every nod of my head or look at another picture or at him, my stomach lining, it rots more. It is completely black now, all of my insides are. They are black and hard and smog-infested and evil and sickening and I am ruined because there is really something wrong with me and this night is proving it. This night, I did not expect, but it is telling me the truth about me. All those things people have thought and said about me before, and I thought they were so wrong or lying or mean, now I can see that they saw in my what I did not, and tonight all is revealed. Tonight, I am sitting here on Roger's bed, on my aunt Sue and Roger's bed, and spread around me are porno magazines--gross, way beyond porno magazines, because my dad has Playboys, and these are totally not anything like those; there is no beige in these magazines, just dark and shadows and horrible faces and gross skin in gross places--they are around me on this bed and Roger is sitting across from me (don't even ask about the status of the robe anymore, it is a joke from crazyland) and looking at them all and showing me stuff and pointing stuff out and talking about it, just like he did with the cards. And I know that no normal kid would ever be sitting here doing this. Anybody knows that, and here I am. I do wonder, though, why God made me like this. Because it is not what I would have picked for myself. I hate this. It does not feel like me, but here I am, so maybe I am crazy. how can I not feel like the very me that I am?
"See this one, Am? They're fucking in the butt. That can feel really good."
I just wish I was home, even though I hate Nick, and I also wish that I had not brough Patches with me tonight. Patches is my favorite stuffed animals, even all the other ones know that and are okay with it. We've been together since kindergarten, and he goes everywhere with me if it is for overnight. But I wish he was not here during this. It is not right. I wish he was home safe in my own bed, and I wish I was there with him. I wish we had the reading light on and I was lying on my stomach on the cold sheets, the ones with little flowers, and I wish I had my red comforter over me and that I was reading a Nancy Drew book under the reading light and Patches was lying next to me with his head out of the covers like he likes. I wish that was how it was right now, even if it meant that Nick was hating me from downstairs and I was stuck up in my room and stuff. I wish I wish I wish.
I did not know people did it in the butt. That is so gross, even grosser than the regular kind of doing, and I wasn't even sure how I thought about that one yet. To be honest, I didn't really know how that stuff worked so much. Part of me doesn't really believe him, but there are these pictures, so I guess actual people really did do this for the pictures. But how can Sue like this stuff? I can't picture it, and I don't want to. How do I get out of this room?
"I'm getting pretty tired." There, I said it. Even though it is early and I would never be tired this soon. Still, I said it.
"Oh, come on, Am. You don't have to go to sleep yet. I won't tell your ma." He is reaching to the ashtray thing behind him. I never should have said anything. I am so stupid. I keep making it worse. "Here, just take one more little puff of this and you'll feel better."
He is handing me the smoking joint or whatever.
"No, that's okay." I am wearing my pajamas and sitting in a rock-like mound by my aunt Sue's pillow. The door between the bedroom and the hallway is behind Roger. He is sort of sprawled on the foot of the bed, and the magazines started between us, but they are all over now. Just the lamp by the side of the bed is on. It is red and wavy in here, mostly shadows.
"Just one." He puts it right up to my mouth. "If you're still tired after this, you can go to sleep."
His fingers smell like musty smoke and I do not want to inhale, but what can I do. He even said I can go to sleep after this one, and I will not worry about hurting his feelings, because he is the one that said it.
What if Sue came home right now and I am in her bed, sitting on her bed, anyway, but in her room? And it is dark and Roger is in here and all the dirty magazines. Would Sue be like Roger and tell me how good all the stuff in the pictures feels? Am I a freak or a prude or something like that because I do not want to be really hearing this stuff? Maybe I am just a big baby. Maybe there is something wrong for me for my age and a normal person would be glad that they were treating me as a grown-up and telling me stuff on that level and all that. What if Grandpa knew I was sitting in here the dark like this? Or the kind of dark, anyway. I am so embarassed to be me that I can't believe this is my life. God, if you were still there, which I know you're not now, I would have so many questions for you.
The pot does make me feel better on one level. It makes me forget big chunks of time, and right now, that is a relief. But then time comes running at me from behind and slams me up to the back of my head in a big momentum chunk, and that is worse than anything. Then I know where I'm at.
"See this one, Am? They're fucking in the butt. That can feel really good."
I just wish I was home, even though I hate Nick, and I also wish that I had not brough Patches with me tonight. Patches is my favorite stuffed animals, even all the other ones know that and are okay with it. We've been together since kindergarten, and he goes everywhere with me if it is for overnight. But I wish he was not here during this. It is not right. I wish he was home safe in my own bed, and I wish I was there with him. I wish we had the reading light on and I was lying on my stomach on the cold sheets, the ones with little flowers, and I wish I had my red comforter over me and that I was reading a Nancy Drew book under the reading light and Patches was lying next to me with his head out of the covers like he likes. I wish that was how it was right now, even if it meant that Nick was hating me from downstairs and I was stuck up in my room and stuff. I wish I wish I wish.
I did not know people did it in the butt. That is so gross, even grosser than the regular kind of doing, and I wasn't even sure how I thought about that one yet. To be honest, I didn't really know how that stuff worked so much. Part of me doesn't really believe him, but there are these pictures, so I guess actual people really did do this for the pictures. But how can Sue like this stuff? I can't picture it, and I don't want to. How do I get out of this room?
"I'm getting pretty tired." There, I said it. Even though it is early and I would never be tired this soon. Still, I said it.
"Oh, come on, Am. You don't have to go to sleep yet. I won't tell your ma." He is reaching to the ashtray thing behind him. I never should have said anything. I am so stupid. I keep making it worse. "Here, just take one more little puff of this and you'll feel better."
He is handing me the smoking joint or whatever.
"No, that's okay." I am wearing my pajamas and sitting in a rock-like mound by my aunt Sue's pillow. The door between the bedroom and the hallway is behind Roger. He is sort of sprawled on the foot of the bed, and the magazines started between us, but they are all over now. Just the lamp by the side of the bed is on. It is red and wavy in here, mostly shadows.
"Just one." He puts it right up to my mouth. "If you're still tired after this, you can go to sleep."
His fingers smell like musty smoke and I do not want to inhale, but what can I do. He even said I can go to sleep after this one, and I will not worry about hurting his feelings, because he is the one that said it.
What if Sue came home right now and I am in her bed, sitting on her bed, anyway, but in her room? And it is dark and Roger is in here and all the dirty magazines. Would Sue be like Roger and tell me how good all the stuff in the pictures feels? Am I a freak or a prude or something like that because I do not want to be really hearing this stuff? Maybe I am just a big baby. Maybe there is something wrong for me for my age and a normal person would be glad that they were treating me as a grown-up and telling me stuff on that level and all that. What if Grandpa knew I was sitting in here the dark like this? Or the kind of dark, anyway. I am so embarassed to be me that I can't believe this is my life. God, if you were still there, which I know you're not now, I would have so many questions for you.
The pot does make me feel better on one level. It makes me forget big chunks of time, and right now, that is a relief. But then time comes running at me from behind and slams me up to the back of my head in a big momentum chunk, and that is worse than anything. Then I know where I'm at.
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