ThornKat
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Registered: 04-2004
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Only for Herself (13)
Only for Herself
13 for certain mental disorders that some might find disturbing
*
I can’t capture who she was with words, and neither can I with paints. I’ve tried both, and they are simply different manners of imitation, but nothing near the real girl. She radiated talent, brilliance, depth through her pores in a way that made me think of sunlight peeking through clouds. Why would I not want to bask in that light? How could I not? Even though the moon’s light is a mere reflection of the sun, Luna has not escaped worship.
She was Megan. The title didn’t fit at all, I don’t think, and yet the word now embodies her whenever I hear it.
Meg’s words would weave a spell around my mind. There’s nothing else I could even compare it to, really. I was floating when I read the things that she wrote; I fell and I rose according to what her words would have me do. It was lighting of the Gods, sent down to Earth so that we may be enlightened. Tears had already made their path down to my mouth and neck when I finished, and the thing is that I never felt myself crying. Her power came from her mind and through the pen, straight onto the paper where it nearly dissolved me.
I remember the day she first realized I was living. I showed her a paragraph, a very short paragraph, but one that I thought she might like. I’d been watching her forever before then; I knew what she liked. Her face must have switched expressions at least once per letter, a movie of emotion in her eyes, her mouth, her cheeks. Sometimes I feel as though she was taunting the world with her face, silently screaming, “I feel! I can feel! Look what you’re missing!” And I did. I looked at what I was missing.
I grabbed on and would not let go. I had it after that. I had HER. Suddenly, or maybe not so suddenly, the words ‘best’ and ‘friend’ were so much more alluring than ‘boy’ and ‘friend’.
Best.
Friend.
A thing I had never had before.
We would lie in the dark after spending hours writing a single poem, close our eyes and whisper things that one cannot dare to say during daylight, loudly, because of what it would sound like. Megan’s voice sounded like rain and wind, things with power beyond mere mortals, when she murmured things to me.
“They’re all anesthetized by now, the world. You aren’t. I’m not. We’re above…”
I believed it.
Every time I saw her, and every time I had to leave her presence, I made a wish to whatever deity cared that they would meld our minds together, mesh our auras so I would never have to be without my Goddess of a friend.
Time passed, though. She was still radiant, but she was also harsh. I wondered if there might be a pain associated with a meshing of auras. Megan became ugliness, also. She became sick, or rather, she showed how sick she had always been. Some nights, she would bang on my door only to yell at me about a critique I had made when she showed me the latest writings. The yelling would give way to tears. The tears would give way to talk, and that’s what we would do all night long. Talk. Talk about how ugly she felt. Talk about why she couldn’t eat, or why she had cut her upper arm on purpose the other day.
It hurts to remember these things.
After a time…I was sick, too. I stopped eating. I started cutting. I was Meg, and Meg was Meg. Our minds, I guess, were melded. It wasn’t a good thing. It wasn’t happiness, and it wasn’t bliss. It was a special kind of hell reserved only for those who build it themselves.
Where I looked and found no strength, Meg found an idea. It made her glow again, at least temporarily. It made her the Meg I had wished to be, before I knew who Megan really was. Her idea was this: That I was not good enough. “We’re above,” she had said, but what she really meant was, “I’M above.” I was like hair or dead skin; Pretty for a while, but then you must get rid of it. That’s ALL I was.
Meg could feel; oh she could feel!
But only for herself.
She was not special enough for ‘best’ or ‘friend.’
*
Oh yes...I love critiques. I really do. Be harsh with me because that's what makes me happy. I don't mean that I love flames, but I certainly don't mind a nice loud, "I don't like this!" when followed by a reason why.
Thanks.
Last edited by ThornKat, 4/20/2004, 4:32 pm
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