To Love/Hate the Spotlight

Strobe lights scorn the corneas.
Feeling my way through seizuring dark.
Steps stumble across disillusioned corpses,
rotting from the inside out.

He's here. He's so close.

Needles jab my flesh,
intoxicating the rage with his heroine.
Fits of mania echo through this heart attack.
Never so much blood
pulled through my veins.
The rush ripples time.
The sun rises.
It stings.
It sets. I loathe the cigarette burns sizzling in the sky.

Wrists lock against my spine.
I hiss.
Lacerations worthy to be noted in an autopsy.

"You've been playing rough without me," his God-riddled thunder softens and taunts.
This phantom sweeps me off my feet.
This was no accident.

The fall robs me a banshee's breath
until a spring-spiked mattress hooks my skin and traps me there.
It doesn't hurt. I'm shocked.

I taste blood.

The shadows in the strobes scramble and ignore.

"Poor Little Miss Harlequin Girl, so frightened of this cancer.
You've destroyed a pretty face,
massacred her only like Hannibal could,
and you got away with it and not by sucking one single dick.
Bravo!"

Applause flashes in bright red letters.

These victim eyes are wet and searching.

"Now you," he started, lying down next to Yours Truly,
"Are a girl after this Saint's heart."
His angel face is sharp and bruised. Baby blues streak a different shade of venom.

I want him but don't.
I need him but can't.
He's dead but lives.

Those lips are cold. His touch like ice.

"Oh why, oh why did I have to go and die?
Hell craves more than just one fallen angel.
Gray still matters on that alley wall.
Let's start. You're ready, so let the flames burn with sin."

My sight goes black.
Fire slithers and swallows through these eye sockets.
Blood boils in my throat.
Scorching. Rising. Drowning.

"L is for the way you-" Ice shreds my blindness. "Look at me...
O is for the only gun you need..."

He sings. His chords spew mutilated lyrics.
Poison swings in my lungs.

"Babe."

"V is very scary. Think of all the bodies.
And E is every soul you and I will carnivore."

An earthquake rumbles.

"Love is more than just a pain to you.
Love will be the tragic death of you-"

"Wake up."

It's black behind my eyelids, and I fear that it's true. I have gone blind. My shoulders jolt and shake at the hands of another. I'm breathing. Look closely. Let me be.

"Baby, I know you're awake. You're forcing your eyes closed." And that was true. The pain of my eyelids not being long enough to serve their purpose betrays me. Even if I wanted to move, every muscle whining under my skin would scream, "Fuck you!" I am paralyzed in last night's mistakes.

"Fine. If you don't want to do this the easy way..."

Alarm doesn't come as it should. My body, my mind are too tired to worry over his methods.

Those lips that kiss the pain away ghost over my closed, stubborn eyes. Chills creep down the back of my neck. It took all of my energy to roll over and avoid the opening pleasantries of an interrogation. His arm crept onto my waist and pulled my backside to the contours of his front. Okay, so trap me then.

"So... when are you going to tell me why you have a black eye? I don't abuse you while I'm unconscious, do I?"

Question Two was an obvious no, but I was torn on whether or not to answer the first. How do I explain that I hurtled over a fence and tackled a girl that said I wasn't good enough for The Original and too fat for Frank? That I -not really me- bashed and mutilated her face while I -not me- cackled like a maniac the entire time? So how do I go about divulging all that?

In my long pause, his fingers grazed the exposed skin my prego hoody revealed as it bunched up to my chest. He nuzzled into my hair and gave me a hug-like squeeze. Not the best thing for a wife to say, but I'm a tad thrown off by his patience. I'm thinking it's easier to save my confessions when he's in this hazy state. "If you tell me, I won't ask anymore questions about it."

That confuses me more, so I rolled back over and sacrificed my weary eyes to stare at him. I forgot the mornings were my favorite before the depression.

"... you're the one with two black eyes," I whispered through the blades of hair I left to hide my wounds. Sweat-smeared black raccooned his dark greens. I had the sudden urge to drag him outside and swoon over the sun's effect on them.

His natural pout curved. "Mine wash off. What do you have to say about yours?"

"I say ---- that mine are real and yours are fake... poser," I added, sort of as a finishing touch to launch a whole different discussion and move on from this.

"Don't try and distract me. Who'd you piss off that gave you such a half-ass bruise? Becky, did you run?"

Tucked under my pillow, my stiffened fist ached from the phantom strike of bone cracking against flesh. The exhilaration of claws frantically tearing at my neck; The splatter of foreign rubies defying gravity with every hit; The horrid cackle burned into my larynx; The helpless whimper held behind the eyes of a rabid beast ran through me like a heat wave. My hoody turned against me: It suffocated for the threads held the misery of last night and Cat-Eye's blood.

I wish I had run away.

I tugged it off, letting slip the reason her handiwork was impaired, because I was the one pissed off and not that I let her throw a couple punches out of pity.

"You what?" Billie Joe gasped behind my turned away face as I dropped the strait jacket to the floor and pulled the covers over my lack of a bra. Being this dressed down, why did I venture outside at all?

"Tell me everything," he demanded. More shocked than disappointed. "How'd it start? Did you win? When'd it end? Where were you?" He scooted closer and rambled on like a gossip girl. It. Was. Terrifying.

"Hey, I thought no more questions. Can't we just lay here?"

"Awww..." he cooed, holding me closer and making sure no fold of blanket came between us. "Did someone lose?"

My head perked up at this. "I didn't lose. I think I did good for my first fight. Okay, now can we drop the subject?"

"Fine," he huffed.

Blocking my sense of smell -because I'm sure we're both fairly ripe- I tucked my face into the perfect place where his neck curves to his shoulder. His warm flesh pressed against me from head to toe. I can relax with no pressure whatso-

"Can I at least know why?" he murmured quietly into knots of my hair. With no choice but to surface, our foreheads touched and our noses grazed. The warped truth would only ruin what I want for today.

"She was jealous that I have you and she doesn't."

"Oh..." His eyebrows raised, much like the days when students gave him out there answers. Does he know I lied when truly I want is for it to be in all honesty? His tongue clicked against my gums and recoiled for a grin. "Well, I am quite a catch."

"Yes, you are." I placed a light kiss on his nose. Nice: I already started the day out by lying to the person I trust the most. "... you're too good for me," my voice border-lined a sad note.

"Psh," he remarked and rolled his eyes. "When are you going to get it? You're stuck with me."

The bus jolted. Instinctively my hands death gripped on whatever surface, nails digging.

"Ow, ow, ow-" Wincing, Billie Joe pinched my wrist and eased my daggers off his chest. "Y'know you're not a cat. That fucking hurts."

"Sorry." A kiss on the crescent indentations on his inked skin. "That's how I was taught to fix 'boo boos.'"

"Your mother."

I cocked my head, confused. "No, TV."

"Yep, that's comforting."

"Are we moving?" My awareness shifted into the motion of progression.

"Yeah, we're heading to -what's it called- Hoboken."

"Where the hell is that?"

"No fucking clue. I know it's still in Jersey."

When I rested my head onto his chest, I focused hard on not closing my eyes for too long. The last thing on my wish list is R.E.M. My pointer finger mindlessly traced the curves and lines of the strange symbol above his heart that he still won't tell me what it means. His chest slowly rose and fell. My touch engaged goosebumps. "Do you know when we get there?"

His strokes down my back paused. "I haven't gotten up yet. Do you want me to go ask?" His abs sunk for a sit up.

"No, stay." His heart pumped at the consistency this hapless brain of mine starved for. I held onto him tighter and not so explicitly forced him back down. Thank Bog, he surrendered.

"I guess we get there when we get there." And you have no idea how much that works for me.

*

The bathroom: My four by five cubicle of paradise. I didn't appreciate it as much as I should have yesterday. Maybe it was because I was already alone on the bus, and I know that won't be a regular occurrence. I love how it's so compact. It's claustrophobia's wicked cousin. A shower, a toilet, a sink. That's it. That's what the manufacturers decided those three appliances are what anyone could possibly need for travel. Everyone forgets the automatic benefit: The Privacy. From birth to the day I die the bathroom will forever be a safe haven. It's not as important as of now, because who or what do I have to hide from?

Exactly.

I despise blow drying my hair and flat ironing it immediately after. Burns my fingertips, and I think I don't like that. After washing off the make up, the controversial "Black Eye" wasn't more than an off-center kiss of ink. Eye shadow would fix that up in a jiffy. Maybe just for the hell of it I'll do a decent Cat-Eyes today. The scratches? If anyone asks I'll blame it on sex. Who would argue with that?

Checking my eye paint, I swept my hair over a shoulder and wrapped the towel (I greatly overlooked) around my shame. I already had my outfit picked out for today: Red skinnys and a white wife beater. It's simple and happy looking; That's my theme. Ignore yesterday and start living as this is the opportunity of a lifetime. It is after all, isn't it?

"Give me a second, Babe." Cool air smacked and shuddered upon exiting the bathroom and didn't stop till I was surrounded by bunks and scrambling into my pants.

From the muffled explanation Billie shouted through the bathroom door, we arrived ahead of schedule so in translation we get to run around town. Funzies. Everyone was too hungry to wait for a girl, so all except Billie hung back. That's a given, I think.

"Hey, can you see my bra through this?" I asked, walking out and consumed in adjusting the top.

"I don't see it."

"Are you sure--- Frank!" I shrieked, jumping back and snatching a throw pillow to shield me. "What are you doing here?!"

"I'm supposed to be!" He shrieked in return. Jumpy on his feet -bracing himself- he was just as freaked out as I was.

"Where's Billie?!"

"At a meeting! He asked me to wait for you!"

"Why you?!"

"Can we stop yelling?!"

"Okay!" My volume dropped. "Okay..." Blood rushed up to my cheeks as did his. Frank's cringing body relaxed, but his apprehension was unrelenting.

"I was up last. He asked me if I could walk you to where the guys are... if that's alright?"

The theme is happy. Last night I socially crippled one of their fans. No more living like a sensitive puss. Frank's the second best to go with. Mike would have just grilled me more. I tossed the pillow and threw on a smile. "Yeah, of course it's alright. You startled me is all."

His tight lips curled. "Then shall we?"

Minutes later we were trekking down a road and protecting our eyes from the sun.

"We need sunglasses." Frank chuckled in the shadow of his hand.

My jaw fell open. "I was just about to say that."

"Oo-" he chimed and took my hand. "Come on."

My footing forsake all grace tripping off the curb and running across the street to a hole-in the-wall thrift shop. I would have missed it otherwise. Eh, shows how observant I am. We dove inside. My sunny side up fried corneas impaired me to the point I was an epileptic bat.

"Good mornin'."

"You too." Frank led the way as I recovered my sight. He held onto my hand as he also suffered from the blindness. I gave it a few seconds and -boom- twenty/twenty. Never before had I been in a thrifty-like store. I'm more of a brand name mall kind of a girl. Aisles, organized apparel, identicals in stock. This place... it's astounding. All around me was a spectrum maze: Overcrowded racks, roller skates topped off with a bowler hat and leaning against a beaded purse, and the like. It aroused the inner slob in me with a credit card. I had to touch everything in sight.

"En garde!"

"Wha?" Having noticed Frank disappeared, I turned in all directions until I stopped with a cane pointed at my face. Frank snickered before tossing me a frilly umbrella. Once my upturned nose reacted to such a lame weapon, I was jumping to the side to avoid a rubber-capped jab in the shoulder.

"Frank, I don't think we're supposed to play around in here."

His cane lowered. "Why?"

"1) I don't think that dude at the register would appreciate it, and 2) We're adults. We have to act our age."

The cane shifted in his hand, and he leaned onto its support. He cocked his head like I was speaking in tongues. "But... where's the fun in that?"

"I- ... I don't know." With Billie I do have fun, but there's really no such thing as "Carefree." I'm a wife, a shitty mother, and an evil stepmother. I'm going to be nineteen, but in Billie years I'm thirty two.

"Well," Frank started with a sigh, "Maybe it's for the best you forfeit: Try and save yourself from the humiliation of an excruciating defeat."

"Excuse me? Do you honestly think you could beat me in a sword fight? If anything, I'm saving you from the embarrassment."

"I was fencing with a spaghetti strainer over my face while you were still in diapers."

"Pshaw, I grew up on old school Zorro. You wouldn't have a chance, Spaghetti Boy."

"Prove it." He crouched and settled into fighting mode. I stood with fantastic posture and a well-composed smirk, thinking: What harm could come from refusing to act my age?

"Swing." My back bent. I felt the breeze of a side-swipe. It was a kick ass Matrix moment. Hey I'm young and moderately flexible again! The head rush was dizzying though.

"So when does a 'B' being craved into my ass start?"

My response came in the form of an aggressive offense. I'm too competitive even when I act like I'm not. We heckled; We brandished the possessions someone once loved; and we murmured the French words to this sport like we knew perfectly well what we were doing.
There was only that and, of course, laughter.