Plucking Cupid's Bow

Emu

2010-01-31T23:08:00.001-08:00

I awoke today in full makeup.

Deathly red, my throat is dry. My refrigerator stands empty, glowing white on the inside with nothing to sustain itself or me. The Baron has abandoned me now for more time than should be proper.

But here I wait, like the Irish peasant girl I was always raised to be. My hand held out. Begging. Waiting. For a British Lord to gift me with a subsistence existence. Nothing more. Nothing more deserved.

The Toad and The Guidance…I mean, Barry and Melvin…their voices are louder now or maybe my starved ears are disinclined to filter their urgings. They say feed. They say I am what hunts not what is hunted. They are making more sense than usual. This concerns me.

Other voices, whispers really, have returned. Shadows move of their own accord—speak to me when I pass, and follow me with their eyes. Eyes, everywhere eyes follow me. They know I am starving.

I am accustomed to hunger. Grew up hungry. Know all too well the pain of trying to sleep on an empty stomach. This is different. This is like the box. The hunger is not restricted to my stomach, but roams free through me, surging just under the surface of my skin like dusty bugs walking through the creaking corridors of my veins.

Emu! Barry and Melvin have been urging me. On the docks. Without guard. Held by customs. Emu…

Emilia's Letter

2010-01-18T01:36:00.000-08:00

My dearest Emilia has been such an ardent writer in her correspondence, and, while I’ve not reciprocated in the volume she has sent me, I must wonder after the fact that my last letter to her has still gone unanswered. The monster living in my mailbox seems almost penitent for his previous attempts to eat my hand, somehow must suspect my trips to gaze into the empty mailbox forebode some tragedy. Emilia’s last letter to me, the one I responded to last week, might offer a clue…

I cannot believe, dear Cami, my letters outnumber yours by a three to one ratio; sometimes the time between my letters seems short and the time between yours can seem long, but surely we have found a better balance than you say. Let us forgive the discrepancy, and we shall fancy ourselves of a normal relationship between a fortune teller and a poet; those unions, my dear Cami, by which two women might find friendship, even over such a distance, is a blessedness to be ours in its own time.

In regards to your queries of the absent memories of a loved one, whose name you say you cannot recall, I too have experienced a near identical situation in recent months, no doubt inspired by your inquiry. The name of my forgotten love escapes me, as does yours; I have reason to believe there is evidence available in some form of my own former life, which might alleviate the strain of memory. I have been warned away from such endeavors, as I am sure you have, dearest Cami, but the obsession of my waking thoughts, sparked by your own situation, I must confess, anguish me and demand answer.

Bumble Bee has been most vocal in his refusal to aide me in this matter, which, as he is often my only connection to the outside world, leaves me with little recourse in the matter. In truth, I know not where to begin without his creative musings. Tell me, have your companions, Barry and Melvin, offered much assistance in your own investigations?

Now, farewell, Cami, for you are owed twice more response from me before I again read your lovely hand.

Emilia~~

She mentioned a forgotten love. I honestly have no idea what she means by this. My mind, without fuel has begun to wobble in the last few nights, and with it my already faulty memory has sprung even more leaks. The Baron, who is to see to these things, has been preoccupied with some matter with the other powdered wigs. As someone used to say to me, “the Irish are always to wait with open hand for an Englishman to drop a paltry wage in, and then expected to grovel in thanks for the opportunity to starve another day.” Did someone say that to me, or did I just make it up? If Emilia’s letter is to be believed, and I had a vague remembrance of a lost love, then it would mean at one point I must have been loved. How grand!

Portraits

2010-01-11T01:33:00.000-08:00

Neither Barry, nor Melvin thinks I have much in the way of artistic ability, and sadly I must concur. I got the general likeness of them both; however, they pointed out that I failed to capture Melvin’s natural cuddliness and Barry’s overwhelming intelligence. I’ve never thought Melvin particularly cuddly, what with all the spikes. I do admit the portrait I of Barry captures no specific level of intellect. Does this constitute a failure, or simply a first attempt with limited potential?

Barry I’ve known the longest, although he insists I know nothing about him, that we aren’t friends, and that I’m still not calling him by his proper name. I didn’t always call him Barry. When I was a child, I called him something less pedestrian, although he liked the moniker even less. I can’t recall what it was and he refuses to remind me…

Melvin I met only after the dark times or perhaps during— I can’t be certain as that entire area of my past bathes in road tar and jumps like angry crickets. She also insists I know nothing about her, yet she doesn’t insist we aren’t friends. Apparently, Melvin also is not her proper name. She’s told me her name, repeatedly, clearly, but, regardless, when I try to say it, only Melvin comes out. I used to call her something animalistic, before we’d been properly introduced; like Barry, she didn’t care for the nickname and I can’t recall what it was.

I apologize in advance for the quality, or lack thereof. I asked Melvin to smile, and I believe she is. I asked Barry not to make lewd gestures at me, and he decided to anyway, so I drew him with a flower in his hand…he didn’t care for that.

I think, if my talent with this black crayon improves, I will send a drawing to Emilia, who still hasn’t written me in awhile…

Interview With the Baron

2010-01-04T21:56:00.000-08:00

The Baron’s line of question, was, as usual, based around the mysterious figure known as “The King.” I only say he is mysterious because I have never met him and the Baron has only questions about him. I couldn’t say for sure if King is his title or surname, although I think it would be frightfully odd if it turned out to be the latter, what with the use of ‘the’ going in front of it all the time. Premonition glimpses and visions, which are not uncommon, nor unwelcome in most contexts simply do not occur when the Baron asks me questions. I thought it might be in his phrasing, but when I broached this tonight, he sputtered with rage; English rage sputtering really isn’t as charming as they might have you believe. My greeting card script of cryptic lies forced me to answer with prognostications like: “It is your 40th birthday, nephew, you’re over the hill, and we’re all sorry you’re under the weather.” I couldn’t say what about this tickled the Baron’s fancy, but he seemed quite pleased with it, asked me to repeat it while he wrote it down, and then dismissed me for the night so he could decipher it for use.

His mistreatment of Cobb has slackened recently. I’ve never had a manservant, so I couldn’t say what is or is not proper etiquette; however, I do vaguely remember being close to someone who had a stable master at one point, and he always seemed more than cordial with the help. He certainly never forced the stable master to pummel himself with a baseball bat—one of the Baron’s favored punishments for Cobb. Tonight he simply had a belt tied tight around his mouth, forcing his usually monotone voice to garble. I would have told him to remove it temporarily, but he so frequently asks to see my breasts when given an inch of latitude that I decided against it.

My situation, being so like Cobb’s in many respects, has created an odd kinship with the Mindless, which is what the Baron calls him. A charming old man he is not, but I wouldn’t go as far as to say he is mindless, and even if he were, he is only such because the Baron made him so. I would not call us friends; we are more mutual sufferers of abuse from a similar taskmaster. Baseball bats might be the Baron’s favored course of discipline for Cobb—for me he prefers barbwire. At least Cobb gets to keep his clothing intact.

I’ve decided I need a project for myself, above and beyond the hobby of suicide. Emilia says nothing liberates the soul like writing, although my fist for the craft is little more than jumbled squiggly lines. Madness can have its drawbacks after all, and a nutter I will always be. Thus have I decided to try my hand at drawing my two demon cohorts, Barry and Melvin, to see what likeness I can make of them. I feel the project has merit, as I am the only one who seems to be able to see them, shouldn’t I try to show others, meaning Emilia, what odd form friendship has taken for me?

Drawings to follow.

50,000 Suicides

2010-01-04T00:40:00.000-08:00

Tonight marks my 50,000th attempt to kill myself. The number comes from Barry and Melvin. Despite Melvin’s suspect math skills and Barry’s shoddy bookkeeping, I am forced to accept their estimate as I have no number of my own to counter with. The attempt to be labeled 50,000 was unremarkable, another routine leap of faith from what I believe was a Holiday Inn. I was not made aware of the number until after plucking myself from the top of the parking structure.

When you have attempted suicide as often as I have repetition and routine becomes the rule. Time loses meaning, if it ever had meaning. And I am left to wonder why I even began this endeavor in the first place. Degrees of success are unimportant—all failure carries the same stigma, in the same way there is no such thing as being “a little bit pregnant.” Not that I would know about that regardless of what Barry and Melvin say about my suspect virginity.

I feel like this occasion warrants some sort of celebration. A milestone like 50,000 does not come along every night. Barry and Melvin, who do not like being called Barry and Melvin, insist nothing in my life is even worthy of the word milestone. A quiet celebration, just for me, perhaps with the talking sugar-water machine, wouldn’t be out of the question, if questions are allowed. Keeping something to myself, for myself, is a new concept for me, but a welcome one.

The shorter days and longer nights are a blessed wealth of time. The cold off the Atlantic has left much of the city in lovely shades of winter, although the cold is of little concern to the likes of me…and no, freezing to death has met with no success. Tomorrow night, which I believe is one step closer to a birthday, will be without attempt number 50,001. Cobb should be by to take me to the Baron. I read cards in the 7-Eleven after tonight’s efforts to gather a meager, but hopefully useful script to feed to the Baron’s snakelike line of questioning.

No word from Emilia since her last care package with the fishnet nylons and poetry…