End

I should just start out all my posts with an apology. I am far too lenient with the regularity of my posts. So, Sorry.

Also, for those friends of mine who are wondering when reclusive became my middle name, I direct you to a pain-in-the-arse teacher who, during the school year, never allowed me a moment to do art or read. Thus, summer leaves me with a lot of creative ideas and plans and probably annoyed friends.

The last few weeks have been rather eventful. Music Camp was a lot of work but worth it. I totally improved and met new interesting people. My audition was last Monday. I freaked out, but was okay, once I started playing.

My siblings and I went to our friends farm to Par-tay, with our friends and we had a really lovely time. We all ate fudge and swam and tried to write music and it was a lot of fun.

My sims had twins. Which leaves me with a dilemma. I've also started playing Dracula: Origins. (It's a good game, if you like adventure, puzzles, romance, vague instructions, and vampires)

So.

The fall is coming. I got my big white envelope in the mail, announcing that prep day was coming up. I really wish I didn't have to go. Can't we all just show up on the first day of school and sort things out then? Or better yet, don't show up at all? I kind of understand the neccesity for seventh graders but, by the time your in ninth grade (Like me) you know the drill. Get to class on time, never wear hats (By the way, what's up with that? We are in the 21st century. I love hats, and unless one is wearing flamingo on the crown of their head I honestly don't see the "Distraction", but whatever), and make sure you turn in your homework. On. Time. I don't want to go back yet. It makes me really sad.

I went and saw the Dark Knight. The Joker, was obviously amazing and kind of reminded me of V, which is a very good thing in my books. I thought it was fast-paced and interesting and powerful. All the makings of a very good movie. It did seem to have a bit of the middle movie/video game effect (Two towers, Prince of Persia:Warrior Within) but all in all, a pretty good movie.

Part of the reason I haven't written in so long was because of the following story. I've wanted to post it forever and haven't really gotten down to editing it (I still really haven't). But, now. Finally here it is. Be wary. See you guys.

Miss Pip



The Adventures of Sleek Hansen





“My name is Sleek Hansen, and I am.. Violent.”
The men and women around me looked confused. One person murmured “Okaaay.” Several others looked strangely sympathetic. The leader of the circle looked at me intently as he had with everyone. I could almost see weariness there. He spoke calmly and efficiently.
“Violent in what way, Miss Hansen? Physically or in a looser sense?” A woman to his right nodded emphatically, inviting me to go on, wiping her already flowing mascara with her hand and sniffing in a dramatic sigh. Ready to pounce on my story, to involve herself in it. She had been crying off and on throughout the hour now. She had volunteered her story first, basked in the glory of it, and then spent the rest of the time interrupting the other speakers with cries of
“Oh I know exactly how you feel” or “My husband would have beat me for a trick like that” or “You are so lucky to have a supportive family!” Her story was the most tragic of all. But, of course, that was all it was. A story.
“Physically.” I said, very nearly wincing at the way the words sounded. Admittance is the first step towards recovery.
“So you hurt people physically. What people, Miss Hansen?”
“Just-Anyone. Male, female. Younger, Older. Strangers mostly, but there has been no real pattern.”
“I see” I heard the evident doubt in his voice. He was humoring me. I am skinny thing, tall, but seemingly weak. Not someone who could kill full grown men. Someone who could abuse children, perhaps. From the beginning he did not believe me. Silly man.
“How many times have these incidents happened, Miss Hansen?”
I hadn’t really counted. But I knew the “incidents” were many. I shaved down the number.
“Only a few times. Three or four.”
“Do these people ever provoke you, Miss Hansen?”
“No. It is a random impulse.” I said and he sighed. He had heard this before, maybe. It was a rare occurrence in a woman, but I was merely a curiosity to him. To him there was nothing truly unique about my story.
“Such things sometimes happen when one is under the influence, Miss Hansen. Alcohol, when taken in large doses, clouds one’s judgment, as I’m sure you know. But in this program, we take precautions so that you no longer have to reach such levels of intoxication.” He sounded dismissive.
I frowned. This is where it got things got tricky, awkward.
“Well, actually, I don’t hurt people when I’m under the influence.”
“Oh.” He hesitates for a moment “Well, then is it before or after you drink, that you become violent, Miss Hansen?”
“I actually- I actually don’t drink..” I admitted. There was another pause from the man, then:
“You don’t need to be afraid of telling us about your addiction, Miss Hansen. You are safe here. No one is going to get you in trouble.”
“Addiction isn’t my trouble..I’m just violent. And I know that’s not what you really treat here, but I’m kind of at the end of my rope and you guys were open and close by. Surely you know someone who could help me?”
“When you say addiction is not your trouble, does that mean that you think you can control your drinking problem?”
“I said, I don’t drink. But I hurt people. Please. You’ve got to know someone who can help me.”
“You don’t drink at all, or you don’t have a drinking problem?” He was still hung up on his job. His little mind was trying to find if I was lying, and he was confused. He watched me, infuriating. I could see his mind working: This is not what she is supposed to be saying.. He made me suddenly angry. He wasn’t going to help me. He was caught up in himself, and his precious protocol.
“Please. I need help. You must know someone”
“We have many people who are willing to help you shake your addiction, Miss Hansen. The first step is admittance.”
I felt fury prickle underneath my skin, covering me in gooseflesh.
I stood, envisioning crossing the room to his chair, launching my fist into his throat and feeling the warm blood spurting into my face. I could almost feel my fingers finding his severed windpipe and crawling up, up, splitting the fragile tubing of his trachea as I went. My fingers, tunneling through the gore and coming out though his mouth. The stunned face of the weeping lady and her companions. I was comforted by the thought. But standing there, again in reality, I resisted.
“I don’t think this is a good fit for me.” I picked up my coat from behind me and walked to the door, apprehensive as I passed the leader. It would be so easy. He stirred, wanting to stop me.
“If you ever want any help, Miss Hansen-“
The door closed before he finished his sentence.

I was walking home, hands deep in my pockets, my mouth spinning off curses, when I heard it. I will never forget that scream for the rest of my life. It was a little girl scream. But I could tell it was a man. Admittedly, a very desperate man, but a man none-the-less. I was in the bad part of town. There were few people about, and those who were out were either too scared to intervene or found the screaming commonplace and not worth their time. I turned at the end of the seven eleven and bent forward, looking for the struggle of the screamer. There were some dumpsters, some overflowing and others ominously empty. The commotion was coming from behind the farthest one from me. Something was being banged repeatedly into the dumpster’s side and I ran to it, feeling ridiculously like a vigilante. The attacker was not particularly big. But he was fit.
I could not say the same for his victim.
He was a sorry little thing. Black hair. Maybe brown, but it looked black from all the dirt and grease. His skinny little frame was masked with layers of sweat pants and smelly sweaters. Neither seemed to notice me. Then the larger man hefted the obvious hobo onto his shoulders and dropped him onto the ground. The slight man’s back fell onto the concrete and his head banged against the pavement.
And then Felix Loper’s eyes opened, and my already screwed up life broke a little more.
I looked up from the injured man and my eyes met his attackers. There was no fear there. Of course not. Best fix that.
In a few quick steps my hands were around his waist. I was aware of his muscle. His fragile bones. I squeezed and heard agony echo from his lips. I twisted and felt his spine break. His thick, strong arms flailed crazily. He was screaming and his arms were confusing me. So I ripped them off. He was dead a few moments later, but I held onto his still, even as he slumped onto my shoulders. I was scared by the homeless man’s eyes, and the feeling they sent shivering through my being. I didn’t want to see those eyes again. But then again, I did.
With every molecule of my body, I did. I was confused, battling with myself. Wondering if I should kill the whelp, this man who was making me wonder. Making me doubt. The seconds ticked by. I let the corpse fall to the ground. And then I turned around to see what the man with the eyes made of me, and I of him.
But Felix Loper, to my acute distress, was gone.