outer-jessie's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- a little sci fi for you So...okay. I'll write the stupid other thing I was going to write yesterday. No promises and no alarms and no surprises. Whatever. I was lying in bed the other night, wishing Rob was there with me. I had just watched an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond (why do I do that to myself?) where Raymond was trying to sleep without Debra's limbs thrown all over him. And I wondered if Rob felt smothered and smooshed by me when I curl up with him. I wondered what he would say was the one place where I could hold him while he slept (and when we're huddled together one of us has our back to the other, so stop with your filthy mental shenanigans). And then I thought that I feel smothered and smooshed by him sometimes, so where would I say was the one place he could hold me. I decided on my hip... I remember thinking one time about why I like to hold him while we're sleeping. Ridiculously, it's because if someone tried to take him away, I'd have a fighting chance of being able to hold onto him. I chose my hip for the same reason: it's a place where you could easily go from resting your hand to holding on for dear life. I imagined Rob holding me around the waist as someone tries to tear me away. Naturally, the "someone" was aliens, because who else would try to steal you from your bed in the middle of the night? I wondered if Rob would hold on to me if I was being beamed up. I wondered what I would say if he asked me the same question. I would be honest, because I believe in being honest and I believe that if I'm honest, Rob will tell me the truth even when he doesn't want to. I would say, "realistically, I think I'd let go, but that's because realistically I wouldn't have time to think about it. If right now, after we'd discussed it, it happened, I know that I'd hold onto you, because I've thought about how I would feel if I let you go, and how I would feel being safe in my room, not knowing where you were, what was happening to you, if you were alive, and if you'd ever come back..." And that is the background for this poppycock not-really-a-story story that spawned from all those thoughts from the other night. "He's gone," said one of them, scorn in his silver eyes. "Where is he?" I cried, holding the face of my love, looking into his eyes, scouring his emptiness. "Gone," they said as they turned away. I crept up into his lap, pressed myself against his shell and against the cold steel restraints that held it to this chair. The eyes never blinked. They never moved. They never looked. The hands remained at his side even as I clasped what was his neck, pressed my face to what was his cheek, stroked what was his hair. "He's not here," I said to no one......"WHERE IS HE," I screamed. "Now," called a faint, unattached voice. It was plunged into my ribs, whatever it was; my blood rose up hot around it and what was his hand. He dropped it; the hand fell back to his side, red. I looked up into the eyes of my sometimes lover, now my killer, as my own eyes darkened. The heat of my blood was unbearable; even more so, the cold of the steel. Stolen. So, yeah. If you know what part of that I snagged from Shakespeare, you win the I Studied Hamlet in High School Award. You might even be able to spot it just because of how foreign it looks. If so, you win the I Notice Archaic Word Structure Award. But remember: it's not a contest, because there are no prizes. I'm tired now. I forgot how much writing strains the brain. Ha! Just goes to show you how much effort I don't put in these entries. 2:30 p.m. - 2001-11-29 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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