inspired by the hush sound song "eileen"

A young woman moves through the house- restless, she walks faster through the bare white hallways, her feet cold on the polished wooden floor. Pictures hang on every wall. She can’t look at them. The kitchen window is open, and she runs to it. Long white curtains flow around her like water, embracing her. She touches them as they brush her, silently pleading for something more. But they flit away as the breeze dies. She leans out the window for several minutes, searching for something. The moon is bright and full, and it washes her yard in silver. But nothing moves except the clouds. She closes the window, smoothes the curtains, and walks back to bed. The next night she is down by the lake, looking out from a pile of rocks on the shore. She hugs her jacket around her- the night air is cold. But then she sees a flash of silver under the surface, and her eyes grow huge. She dives in after it, losing her jacket to the pull of the water, swimming frantically after a slight glow that darts ahead and back and turns…but it’s nothing, just a fish, and it darts away. She drags her feet back to shore, and shivers uncontrollably at the wheel as she drives home. The bed mocks her, calling softly, promising rest but only giving memories. One more night of visions, of that golden field, dancing about with an angel. The child had been beautiful. Her eyes were so deep blue they seemed black, and her hair was the same light straw honey color as her mother’s, but curled. She laughed as the woman swung her around, they ran through the wheat to the picnic basket, food all laid out on the blanket, her husband sitting on the edge, smiling at them. Then the woman carries her child to bed, singing. The girl grips her nightgown, begging to stay up a little longer. The woman frowns. This is unusual- Eileen usually goes to sleep without a sound- the child is always so content, but tonight she is unhappy. She sings to the girl, comforting her, and brushes her hair back, bends down to kiss her. “We’ll see you in the morning, Eileen…” As the woman’s lips brush the child’s skin, she dissolves, breaking up beneath her, and the woman jerks awake in bed once again, the morning sunlight shining down and making the room, her bed, her eyelashes, and the empty crib all golden once again.

art?

so there's this online particle simulator I've been messing about on, and basically I create something I like and then I screenprint it. As the title implies, I dunno if this counts as art, but I like it. So here's some of my screenshots:

tree-cave


Drown


Microcosm/macrocosm


whose fault


The end result, or, What I could make out of this


Take the heat


Dissolve, or, It would really be nice if you/I could stop hurting me like this


My eyes are bleeding, or, variations 1


No-name, or, variations 2


Despair, or, variations 3


Please don't take those pictures down


The forest, or, Faces


We're burning


Stars


Abstract


Mistakes, or Sand dunes


Nebulous one


The beginning of all things


Leaving


Bubbles, or, I guess that's going to have to be enough, or, My hair out your window


Uh-oh


We saw it coming, or, Oblivion, or, Maybe it's better that way?

Mute, rape scene

I could feel my heart beating in all my veins as I stood in front of the house at a quarter to three in the morning. The sky was at its darkest. The velvet shade of black-blue lay over the top of tiny, bright pebbles that were scattered across the sky. It seemed as though my mind had been stirred around and around until it swirled and melded into the night. My thoughts were vague and confused, trailing off before they had started like faces in a column of smoke. The ones I did keep were all of her. She never trusted me, not from the beginning. Even when I first saw her, a lovely child of six, with soft black curls and strange dark eyes, every piece of her held mistrust. I was angry. What had I done to earn it? What I wanted to see…her dark eyes large and sweet and earnest, the way she looked at her mother, or her brother. All I wanted was her trust, whispered the first me. Wanted….said the second. Now what do you want? A third argued; No, it said, you wanted more. I twisted away from the poison words, seeking inside me like living things to find what hurt the most. I had to stop them; I crouched and dug at my ears, trying in vain to stop what was already inside. She knew what you wanted…she always knew…I crouched and fought with the shadows in my head. When I straightened up several minutes later, ten bloody crescents added their number to the hundreds of identical scars that already marked my flesh. When I stood up, I was ready. There was no more thought in my mind, I had blanked it out with a strong white light. All I was, was the movement that carried me. It swung me up onto the pilings of the low roof from the trellis that climbed the side of the house. It pushed me smoothly into a crouch and crawled me up the roof to the ledge below her window. My fingers gripped the edge.
I woke up silently, the same way I lived my days. There was nothing in the room except the ghost of fear. He wrapped himself around me in his familiar place, cutting off my air once again. I couldn’t move. The room was silent and empty, sitting like a painting in front of my wondering eyes. The moonlight filtered down through the curtains and lit up the room with a murky blue light that shifted and changed as if the whole scene was underwater. The room seemed surreal, suddenly growing from the flat falsity of the painting to a full, overwhelming tide. Everything seemed both radically real and unreal. I felt glued to my bed, weighed down by sleep and fear.
My continuing motion felt strange, as if it was the only real part of me, and if I were ever to stop, I would cease to exist, blown apart on the winds of an angry universe. I pulled myself into the room and crouched on the sill, blocking the moonlight from her face. She stirred as my shadow fell across her, and suddenly the world turns. I see the scene from her bed. His darkness crowds the window with muscle. The moon sheens off of his skin and turn his edges silver…he swings down onto the floor quietly and crouches, a pile of dark muck on a clean floor, mud with glinting eyes. He scurries under her bed…As soon as my eyes broke from her face I was myself again, lying splayed face-up on the carpet, silently breathing, my chest rising and falling quickly, my face warm with the excitement of the break-in. I waited.
Slowly, a more rational piece of me surfaced from sleep. It was nothing. The small noises I had heard were nothing to be afraid of, just a mouse under the floorboards, an old house creaking in the wind. I sat up. The room said nothing, unresponsive to my act of defiance. Fear hung just above me, poised like a tsunami wave. I challenged it, moving the covers from my legs and swinging them towards the edge of the bed. Water broke over me, heavy with sweat and fast-moving lungs. I couldn’t get enough air. The fear spun me around in an inexorable current of hysteria as my feet traveled to the carpet and I stood up. In a hideous moment of disbelief and knowledge a rough, strong hand shot out from under the bed and took my ankle in an iron grip. The column of muscle attached pulled me off my feet and onto the floor.
I saw the foot, dainty as a doll’s, as it touched onto the carpet. I saw the bed rise with the lifting of her weight. I saw the moment where she could not get away. I pulled her legs out from under her in one motion. It was remarkable how silent her struggle was. We both knew she was voiceless, but even the way she moved was laced with quiet. She hit the floor with a muffled thump which seemed too small, even for such a slight body. I pulled her legs in toward me, my strength catching at the resistance of her hands clutching the bedframe. I felt her fingernails bend and break, scraping across the wooden board, leaving bloody scrapemarks I could almost see. She had gone to sleep in the dress, and exhaustion was painted on her tiny features as she struggled with me. Her mouth was a hard line, pressed together with effort. Her fear no longer showed, though it was brilliant the moment her face left the light. It shone with a light of its own, white and innocent, her large black eyes crowded with helplessness. But the light went out when she saw my face, once again, just like all the other times over the past eight years. It made me angry, how she shut down when she saw me, how the knowledge showed in her face. She knew the moment she woke what would happen. She knew I was there. I ripped at her dress cruelly, twisting the dark netting into her skin, which unrolled like a bolt of white silk where the blackness parted. The fear blazed again in her eyes and she fought me more strongly than I had thought possible. Desperation flew about her head like a cloud of flies, buzzing loudly. I could hear it. She was weakening. After all, she was a girl of twelve, and I was seventeen, nearly grown. And I was strong. Bonds of muscle moved with me, covering every weakness with a rippled tide. I was immersed once again in long hours of painful labor, the work that brought them there. Years of it. All for her.It had been so long since I had seen her last… my thoughts were an abstract picture above my head as my body pinned her down. I let them trail on. It hadn’t really been that long at all, spoke another piece of me, just a few weeks, but it felt like forever. My family said that I hadn’t been feeling well, and they kept us apart…It was difficult to take off my jeans while holding her down. They stuck and pulled at my thighs, and I thought briefly that I should have thought, should have worn something else. Frustration clouded my mind, closing in as quickly as a hurricane. She was still fighting. Why? Some part of me wondered, she knows she can’t do anything, why not accept my love? I pushed her down hard, anger getting the better of me again. Her mouth opened and closed quickly, like a marionette on strings, noiseless. For the first time I noticed the tears on her face. They were the only things that betrayed weeping- her face showed no softness. I didn’t know why- I felt soft for her. I tried to kiss her, but she bit me, hard, drawing blood from my lips. I laughed. “Rough is how I like it,” I remember telling one of my girlfriends, after she punched me, accidentally, during sex. I was remembering that night as I ground down upon the sobbing girl. I hadn’t heard her make a sound in two years, but she squeaked as I broke her, a tiny whistling of air as I pried her mouth open and stuck my tongue down her throat and blood stained the tip of my penis. It was wonderful, a singing chorus of pure ecstasy, and then it was over, and I felt finally, utterly satisfied.

Mute *in progress*

When I met her I thought that she was the most singularly silent person I had ever seen. She personified the word in every movement, in every strand of hair. She shone, but so quietly that it was almost impossible to see her if you weren’t looking. She was so beautiful that you could not believe you had overlooked her once you noticed. It wasn’t until much later that I realized how much she had to say, and how incredibly important it was that she be heard.
When I was first introduced to her it was with the whisper of mute in my head, and she knew right away. The moment she saw me, I saw disappointment unfold within and about her like a familiar flower. I was immediately taken aback by the fall of soft hair and the sweet features of the girl. I had expected to be on a date with a freak, a retard, and here was a lovely woman with the largest and most expressive eyes I had ever seen on a human being. But they weren’t directed at me; the girl looked at her mother once, with a gaze that communicated nothing but appreciation and love. Then she turned away and walked with me down the firefly-lit streets of our quiet little town. The wind was warm, and the stars were just beginning to show through the fading light. I walked beside her silently, both attracted to her and unsure of how to treat her. I didn’t know how to talk to her- she was so self-contained, so comfortable in her own silence. She did not look at me, but walked watching the light fade from the trees and sky around us, as the night opened up its softly lit mouth and swallowed us both.
I coughed awkwardly. She turned and looked at me, like she might be trying to figure me out or something.
“I, um, I was wondering…uh,” I said, trying to start some kind of conversation. “uh, so, do you go to Trenson Prep? ‘Cause, yanno, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at Northend High…”
She signed quickly, hands moving so fast I could hardly make out the words.
“I go to Northend...it was almost Trenson, but we couldn’t afford the tuition.” I felt horribly awkward. My family had never had money problems… plus, it’s odd to be the only one speaking in a two-way conversation. I suddenly felt like I was talking too loud.
“Oh…uh, yeah, Trenson’s pretty steep…but you got in? That’s a really good school…” I trailed off, again. Why couldn’t I think of anything to say? She shrugged and turned away. I felt discouraged. Was that all she was going to say? What did I have to do to get this girl to talk?
“Uhm…so you’re a sophomore then?” I said, too quickly.
“yes,” she signed, “I’m In your math and English classes.”
“Oh…sorry, I guess I never saw you.”
“I sit in the back.” She said.



Storyline:
Cancer of vocal chords when young, had to be surgically removed, totally lost power of speech. Was around….six to ten? Young enough to still be very innocent, old enough to remember and understand the loss. Man, perhaps uncle or mother’s boyfriend, or maybe even her boyfriend, is still in love with her after she breaks it off and bent on revenge. Already had some mental issues (modeled after colin) he is further twisted by the breakup. Eventually finds and rapes her/almost succeeds in rape? (She is in her bedroom, sleeping fitfully. This is narrated in his perspective. (“crept through the curtains, quick as the cold wind, slowly exploring the room where you sleep, the stare of your portrait, the passing of your scent, left me no choice but to stay…I will dissolve into the dark beneath your bed, my hands will wait for a taste of your skin…” she hears a sound and sits up sudden, wide-eyed and voiceless in the dark. She sits there silently, staring into the empty room for several minutes. Finally, a foot slips slowly, shakily out of the covers. She touches down to the ground softly as a feather, fear crawling on her spine, and a hand reaches from under her bed and pulls her to the floor. Screams echo in her wide-open eyes as she claws at the bedframe. She is pulled underneath in one smooth motion, her broken nails leaving streaks of blood on the wood.) After that is when she becomes so silent. Her lack of ability to scream for help traumatized her deeply and convinced her that her only refuge is in being unnoticed. Goes on blind date with narrator roughly 7-10 years after the (almost?) rape. This is one in a series her mother has set up, trying to get her to be more social, so she can have a semblance of normal life. Narrator falls in love with girl, and she likes him but does not love him. Eventually, they learn that the man who raped her is out of prison and is after her, narrator is forced to pack her up and secretly move her out of the country, perhaps Mexico or Brazil or something. They live in this remote location for a while. He is convinced they are safe but she is not, always fearful, which strains their relationship. Eventually, the rapist finds them and shows up with a big knife, narrator dies to save her, and she kills the rapist herself after she realizes that she is in love with the narrator as he dies. Story ends with her hope for the future.

On the narrator: (Allen)
He does have significant faults: very fixated on her from the beginning, much like the earlier man, which leads to her mistrust of him. (see “out through the curtain” for his feelings when she won’t see him for a while—this is because she realizes how he thinks of her. He is somewhat overdramatic, and is at the same time extremely sure of himself and very doubtful of his worth. Low self-esteem, but also a great confidence that he is right.

On the main character: (Lira)
She is mainly very self-sacrificing. Also low self-esteem, but expressed in a more conventional way, through extreme withdrawal from society. She does everything in her power to stay unnoticed. Her main fault is that despite the fact that she tries to put others first, she has very little empathy as a result of being an only child and withdrawing from society. She is terribly bad at seeing things from another person’s point of view, so although she tries to be kind, she often does the wrong thing. Irony-named for musical instrument but can’t make a sound. Not sure about her own soul- good or evil? Sees the good in others, they shine like a light, but she doesn’t see it in herself.

On the rapist: (Kaleb)

Rain

Rain in the morning;
draw shadows on my walls,
and fingers down my window.
Fill the world with your greying mist,
and bring ghosts to my doorstep,
and wraiths to my windows,
and spirits from my walls.
In the muted light of your passing,
show me the quiet tragedy
of this world.
Wash away my sins, and the dust from my journey.
Wash away the good and the bad,
the cruelty and the kindness,
the indecision, the unhappiness, and the doubt.
Wash away my heavy thoughts, and my world.
Leave me clean and alone, deep in your soul,
with nothing but the sound
of rain in the morning.

Sacrifice

The worst part is, I didn’t even care about him. Not even after. Even after this boy made the word sacrifice mean more than it ever has to anyone in the world. I never understood the true meaning of anything, until he came along. I guess that now, looking back, he changed my life. How could he not have? What happened between us, so strange, so powerful, and yet in a way it did not include me. He was the one who felt all of these insanely powerful things, and I never even loved him. I disdained to even speak to him, and it seems to me that I have been the cruelest person in the world, and yet I would not change what I have done. I suppose now, I should tell you the whole story, from the beginning, of what happened between me and Edgar Allen Poe.
My name is Annabelle Lee. We were both young, we met in such a small, normal way, and looking back, after all that has happened, it seems so ridiculous to have met this boy who would be such a catalyst in my life simply at a party. I was bored, glancing around the room restlessly. My eyes landed for a brief second on a skinny, unremarkable young boy, with black hair and black, soulful eyes. He looked back at me as though he had been struck dumb and deaf and blind at birth, and now for the first time in fourteen years, he could speak and see and hear. He walked over to me, as if in a dream.
The very first wrong I committed, happens here. I looked away disdainfully, disgustedly. Pride has always been my sin of choice. He came up to me and I instantly acted bored and annoyed.
“What do you want?” I said, impatiently, “You’re making a fool out of both of us.”
He looked at me, stricken beyond my capabilities to describe.
“I don’t know why,” he said carefully, “I don’t know how, but I am in love with you.”
I laughed. It is sickening in retrospect, but that is what I did, I laughed, sharp and mocking.
“Don’t be an idiot.” I said pityingly. “There’s no such thing as love.”
He looked at me once, solemnly. He seemed to be steeling himself for something. I think in that moment he knew what his fate would be and he accepted it. He didn’t try to steer himself off of that careening deadly path. He knew where it would end.
He followed me like a dog. He would tag along after me everywhere he could possibly be allowed. He never declared his love again, but he would do my bidding exactly.
One instance of this obedience stands out for me. I remember that he had always been a very kind soul. He would stop to untangle a dog from a leash it had wound around itself. He would sit with the beggars and help them forage and beg for food. He helped up those who would fall. I hated his kindness. It seemed as if he was rubbing his goodness in my face. I knew I could never be good like that. Once, he stopped to untangle a bird that was caught in a tangle of fishing wire along the beach. He stooped down to help it, and I turned, angrily.
“Stop.” I commanded. He stopped as if he could not disobey. He looked down at his hands, and spoke softly.
“I think he is hurt.”
I saw what I could do, right that moment to cause him as much pain as I needed.
“Then end it.” I said, coldly. He looked at me, stricken. Disbelieving. He reached toward the bird, slowly. I wanted to see him become a monstrosity. Just like me. I wanted him to be a sinner like me. He went to snap its’ neck.
“No,” I said, the triumph clear in my voice. “Make it suffer. Slowly. Pull on the wires instead.”
He looked as though he was about to cry. He pulled on the tangle of netting, slowly. The bird was already so ensnared it could do no more than struggle feebly. I saw him choke out a sob as its’ wing broke under the pressure. You could see the pain in its eyes. You could see it knew it was doomed. I rejoiced in the look on his face. He was trying to bury his empathy for the creature. I saw his eyes go dull as the wires sliced through the bird’s wing, broke off its leg, and finally snapped the little creature’s neck. He stood up slowly and placed the broken creature in my hands.

The Garden

The front gate was ornate, steel wrought and plated with extravagant designs of gold leaf. The tall stone gateposts each held a stone flowerpot overflowing with bloated, sick-red blooms. Fat tendrils curled sinuously about each pillar. A girl stood curiously by the gate. The old mansion that had once looked over the vast gardens had now been swallowed by them. They had pulled down the house piece by piece, wrenching and ripping, dismembering the once-proud building until it was no more than a crumbled ruin. The girl considered the gate, with almost comical seriousness. After a few moments of silent contemplation, she walked up to the gate, and unhesitatingly slipped through the bars.
They say you choose your own fate;
And that is what the girl has done. There are still skinny cobbled paths through the gardens, overhung by crooked trees. She takes the one that winds its way between thick holly bushes, heavy with their ruby berries, their sleeping berries. Their fragrant branches brush past her, hoping to tempt her with the poisonous fruit. But she is not hungry, and she walks on past the gripping spiked leaves.