And it all falls down...

It had been a long while since Melinda had been home. She stayed away for as long as possible but there was something inside of her that told her she had to return. As she stood outside the large, old, wood-paneled French doors nostalgia finally struck. She had always felt as though she weren’t complete until today, until right now. A deep hole darkened the center of her core.
Melinda stood motionless for a while, mesmerized by the immensity of the frame that stood before her. She was not sure whether she had ever noticed just how overwhelmingly beautiful the façade of this building was. Her bundled red scarf suffocated her breath; she didn’t let it matter much. There she was – confronted with her past – what would she do? What was her next move? Long inhale. Her breath became more weighted and more significant as a flood of images passed through her mind. She watched them go by as she mustered all the energy and courage she had left in her- courage she had built up over the past little while that she had tucked away for safekeeping. Image after image zigzagging in front of her mind’s eye.
Contemplating whether this was a good idea or not, Melinda decided to think no longer. Here she was. She looked right and gazed beyond the narrow street before her. A gust of wind picked her hair up behind her- blowing with the wind for an instant she felt free. A tress blew across her face and brushed up against her lower lip. She licked her lips together; the taste of her own hair was therapeutically reminiscent. One, two- now or never. She was ready.
She placed her hand on the knob and felt the cold steel against her palm. She let it sit there for a moment before she removed it. She felt a shiver run through her veins. She wasn’t sure if it was the memories this handle evoked in her or if it was just her warm body shocked by the chill of the raw material. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and fished through her pockets to find her key.
It took her longer than necessary to find the chain- she was biding for time; she knew she always kept it on the inner wall of her purse. She was moving in slow motion. She was waiting for something to catch up to her, her memory perhaps. She held the single key in her right hand, feeling the contours of an old, but familiar shape. Rough and spiked on one side, flat and smooth on the other. The perfect combination of ridges and cuts- only this key would grant her entry through this portal. She gripped it in a consciously tightened fist. She stood staring at the door, nose to wood. Perhaps she was taking her time to make the moment last longer. Maybe. Probably not. She shook her shoulders, shaking off the thoughts that were suffocating her. And then she pierced the keyhole- she considered the possibility that this might be the one instance when she might be denied entry. She had always taken so much for granted. But the key slid in, turned clockwise, and unlocked the door in one swift motion. There is one key out there for every lock. And with the turn of that key, a past reopened. Poetic.
With the sound of a click, the giant door opened revealing the piazza that enjoined the three structures where her home once lay.
She stood aghast for a moment, contemplating the beauty of the sight before her. She had never realized just how unique it was: a classical edifice hidden behind a classical portico. Three tall apartment buildings with an open space at the heart of it all; connecting its residents with a common vestibule- connecting its residents in a shared memory; each story with the same beginning and end- taking shape in an entranceway.
When she originally left she thought to herself that she was leaving behind the rubble that forever qualified her life- she thought she could leave her life behind. But upon reentering this bright room, she couldn’t seem to remember what had ever made her want to leave this place.
As she walked in, she took notice of every stone, every tile and every single brick that had been laid however many years ago. A true throwback to traditional European architecture: a hidden treasure. So picturesque, so powerful, so peaceful. She noticed the details of the walls that stood facing one another in magnanimous and stylized proportion, framing the open roof, which was what made this structure even more rare and innovative. How had she never noticed? How could these details have slipped into the background? How could the pillars of this structure that now stand to support the foundation of her home have ever gone unnoticed? Worse, how could she not have been able to look past her own shadow to see the light that shone through the sunroof?
The sun lent its light to this space for several hours throughout the day due to the layout of the design. She remembered never having needed to leave this courtyard to find entertainment; she would play and play for hours every day. No wind, no rain, just sunlight. Whoever thought this up really thought it through. Not one decision was made at random; every choice deliberate, allowing the dwellers of these homes to enjoy the benefits of intuitive design and innovative thinking. She didn’t think her parents were aware of the beauty they invested in at the time when they originally moved in. She, on the other hand, was too young to understand the splendor that was being offered to her every time she walked in and out of those two large doors. She was too blind to see what was right in front of her. No. She could only see what was right in front of her.
She couldn’t see past herself to see what was around her. What was pleasant and beautiful to most, was horrifying and haunting to her.
In the many years that she had stayed away from this street, she never considered the home as a separate entity from the memories it housed. But now, as she opened the door to her past, she stood in awe of the beauty and serenity that continued to stand in the middle of such a busy and bustling city. She stood staggeringly still as the memories of her childhood poured into her mind- all the time spent in this piazza, playing, laughing, running, but ultimately, hiding.
She crossed the threshold and lugged her baggage over the step. She walked toward the middle of the space, the place that brought the three buildings together to face one another. She took notice, as if for the first time, of the benches that went along the south wall. Had she ever sat there before or had she simply used one of those benches as a secret hiding place? She whisked around and saw the many plants that were housed by her private getaway; so many green plants and colorful flowers. Who watered them? Did her neighbors care when she used to pluck the leaves off, discarding the petals that wilted and drifted to the floor keeping the branches to forge a barrier to keep monsters away? In the northeast corner, there was a statue. She remembered once when she was younger; she was playing tag… with herself. She was being chased, so she ran fervently in circles around the statue that stood before her here now. She remembered how it fell over when she got caught and was tagged “it.” It fell to the floor and shattered into a million little pieces. “GO AWAY!” she yelled and ran in circles looking for the culprit. She could still hear herself screaming, screaming, screaming. She was screaming then and still screaming now. Nobody heard her. Nobody had ever heard her. The statue still stood in its corner, but now it was super-glued back together and looked even more new than before. She moved toward the ivory stone and closed her eyes as she inhaled the scent of superglue. Toxic.
Memories seeping through her tightly enmeshed sieve. Just being back in this place allowed images to drown her thoughts. Don’t think, just feel. Don’t think, just feel. Maybe other people could do that, but I think. I think.
This place had seemingly escaped her memory. However, it is as though no time has passed between then and now- here she was, reliving the same scenes that had haunted once upon a time.
So consumed in the moment, Melinda had hardly noticed that she was being watched. Or was she? When she was younger she remembered there was a man that used to sit in the corner of his kitchen on the second floor. He would sit by the window and his eyes would peer through the curtain. He thought nobody could see him. Melinda used to look right back at him. Stare down. She couldn’t believe, eighteen years later and this man- still there. He looked the exact same, only he dyed his hair a strange shade of purple. Perhaps he was trying to turn back the clock and feign youth. He looked stupid. Melinda stared up at him as she typically did when she was younger- but this time, instead of competitively staring back, he shut the curtain.
She took a final look around and decidedly lifted the handle out of her luggage and dragged it to the stairwell.
Thinking back to all of those times she walked into her home, she remembered only her private doorway, off a long corridor, six floors up. Home was nothing if not a wing off this adjoined atrium. Where she stood now was not the front door to her house. This piazza was just another obstacle standing in the way of her front door: the front door behind which her real life was concealed. The closed door that kept her neighbors out and kept her locked up. As she made her way to the sixth floor she walked down the long hallway to door 6C. While she had been standing in that shared quadrangle beneath her she could only remember the creepy feeling that lurked over her youthful years. She thought she had escaped the dark puddle that stretched beneath her. But as she stood before her front door once again- the fear began to settle back into her chest. It tastes too much like home. She swallowed hard as the heat began to rise from her feet. She looked down and saw that she had never truly been able to shed the darkness.
“Hi mom,” Melinda said to her mother as she crossed the threshold. “I’m back.”
Melinda’s mother stood aghast; she hadn’t seen her daughter in years. Melinda looked back at her and saw what her mother could see:
Hide-and-go-seek is not a child’s game; it is a not a game at all. Not when you are hiding from yourself.

Still Birth

ONE
Storytelling
“I didn’t play a real role that night yet it was my life that came into this world stained by the blood of another. My life was produced by evil. Still, I can’t explain what happened because I don’t exactly know.
“I cannot remember the night as it happened. I was barely alive. I know that there is a string of emotions I should feel, but I also know that those feelings, should they exist wouldn’t belong to me. They would belong to what I think someone like me should feel. They would belong to an idea of me, but not me.
“I would rather not think about that night. I would rather not think about how I should feel about the whole episode. I wish that night never happened; I wish I didn’t exist.
I wish I could wash my hands of the whole thing, but I hate public washrooms.”

Bottle of water in hand; wristband in place. My sweatpants keep sliding down my waist. Annoying. I am running full speed down the main boulevard of my small town. I tie the waistband tighter for what I hope will be the last time. I am running as though I am running from something. I am running to sweat. Running to forget.
I woke up this morning, brushed my hair back into a ponytail, put my old grey jogging pants on and threw my sweatshirt over my head. I tie my shoelaces in a double knot and head for the door. Bottle of water in hand; wristband in place. I begin my run.
I don’t run to be distracted, nor do I run for sport. I run, because like I said, I want to forget. I am not trying to escape my mind. On the contrary, I want to collide with my memory. I want to conjure up the events of that night and face it head on. Contradictorily, I run to remember.
While running I find myself exceptionally alert. I tune into even the faintest sounds and I notice the smallest movements- a baby crying in a restaurant across the street, a shadow creeping up behind a terrace seat or a phone vibrating in a man’s shirt pocket. All of these diversions attract my attention but they never throw me off track. Literally. I follow the same path obsessively every morning. I am diligent in my schedule and route; I have the streetlight sequence stop-watched. I don’t wait at corners, jogging lightly in place. I never stand still. I run. I run for a full hour and a half.
I run thinking about the distance I would have to go in order to clear my conscious. I run thinking about the pace at which I would have to keep up in order to shed the guilt. I run, and while I do the sweat from my eyes drips to the pavement, leaving the dirt behind.

TWO
Remember to Forget
“I have been trying to forget.
“Just as the opening image appears in my mind- I shut off. Darkness. I haven’t allowed the story to unfold since the night I lived it many moons ago. I see the beginning often; but, in a trance-like habit, the image behind my eyelids inevitably blurs and fades to black. I haven’t seen the story through to the end; I probably couldn’t if I tried. Either way, whether I could control it or not- I would stop at first glimpse.
“I remember for sure that I was born. I know that I was born because, lo and behold here I am. I was born and there unfolded the memory that defines my life’s suffering. My destined burden; damn that night.
“I want to understand what happened. I want to know why it had to be me that was picked to carry this weight. I want to know if there is anything I could have done differently to alter the course of my life. Did this fate choose me? If it did, is there a way for me to undo this destiny?
The bottom line: is there anything I could do to change the path my life has been set on? If I am better as a person, can I make things better? I know the answer to that.
“Shadow in the dark. Bright lights overhead. Loud screams; sounds of threatening desperation. I am trying to remember, but damn! I don’t. Just like that: BAM! My mind shuts off.
“I don’t try to escape; I know I can’t. I have run before- my body races at a speed that shouldn’t allow my thoughts to catch up with it, but it does. It always does. It runs. It runs fast enough to keep my memory at a far distance. But, not far enough I guess because it unrelentingly catches me time and again.
“I can’t remember the night as it happened nor can I remember my first telling of it. I can’t bank on the spoken version of my memory because I’ve never told it to anyone. I’ve never even told myself. Never. The words have never been heard aloud.
“I remember that it was night. It was night and I was there. Oh! Also, whatever it was that did happen that night has caused me to spend my entire existence trying to figure out why I am like this.”

I jump into the shower and let the water drip down my body. I do this until my entire body is wet. While this is happening I run my hands through my hair to hasten the process. I don’t want to rush it, but I like to be wet in the shower for the least amount of time as possible. Once I am wet, I stand there. I stand still, pouting my lips to keep from swallowing water. I reach for the soap and lather my legs first. Once I get to my arms I no longer need to hold onto the soap bar, I have enough foam in my hands to lather my upper body.
Shampoo. The bottle is empty. I try to squeeze out as much as possible but there is not even a drop left. I pull the shower curtain open and step out onto dry land. Cold, soaking wet and naked. I rummage through my bathroom drawers searching for a new bottle of shampoo. Dripping water onto my bathroom rug. My hair resting on my back drips drops of water leaving a puddle at my feet. I stop; take a moment. Breathe. Brrr.
I jump back into the shower.
Warm. Wet again. I clap some shampoo into the palm of my hand, rub my hands together and run my hands through my hair. As the water washes the bubbles from my head I keep my eyes closed tight. Soap burns the eyes. Water trickles down my back, I comb my hair and wave my head from side to side making sure there is no shampoo left anywhere, not even behind my ears. I look down. I breathe in through my nose and spit out the water that has managed to find its way into my mouth. The bath is practically filled knee high with soapy water. I look down and contemplate my options. I’m tired- I should sit. I can’t sit here, I should get out. The water is high; it has reached a level that would make for a good bath. But the water is not fresh. It is water that has rushed off my dirty body, pulling the dirt down with it and leaving it in the basin. I want to sit. I’m tired. This water is dirty. I shouldn’t sit. I sit.
I sit in the water that cleansed me.

THREE
Can I share my memories with you?
“The memories I am affected by are the ones I don’t choose to remember. Warranted or not, certain moments of my past continue to affect me.
“Moments I have lived have become a part of me. They are little pieces compiled to make up the whole of my being. I, like everyone else, am comprised of many experiences, moments, feelings… However, no one moment defines me more than another the way that that one night has afflicted my life. Without that night, who would I be? Who might I have become?
“It defines me; it is me. I tried to hide from it but it always finds me. There is nowhere to run it will always find me.
“I can’t be without it. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Would I start all over from the beginning and be unplagued, maybe even live a happy life? I am that night and that night is me. I can’t live without this memory- because I am my memory. I don’t know where to go from here; I have literally found myself going in circles.
“I can try to see what happened. But I have tried numerous times and I am exhausted. Quite literally, I am tired of trying to force my memory to conjure up the events of that night. Even if I did remember it, what then?

Note in hand I ran toward the Police Station. I ran not with rhythm and pace but rather with haste and speed. I ran with impatience. I wanted someone to read my confession. I wanted to turn myself in. Purse across my left shoulder; pulsing against my right hip with every stride. Fists held tight, elbows locked. I ran. I ran through streets that did not belong to my morning route. I ran with my eyes wide open. Alert, I ran. No obstacle, no matter how staggered would stand in my way. I was going to get there.
I pushed the door open. Stepped through it. Open. Walk. Breathe. Walk. Breathe. The door closed with tension behind me. My presence was unnoticeable. Nobody looked up at me in the forty-five seconds that I had been here. Standing. Breathing.
I needed a moment. I needed to catch my breath. Breathe. Breathing. Trying to breathe.
I walked toward a seated policeman’s bureau, knocked on his open door and let myself in.
I didn’t introduce myself. I walked up to his desk and dropped my note on the desk in front of him. My confession lay exposed in front of him.
“Hello,” I paused. I wasn’t sure if I was going to have the courage to go through with my confession, which is why I brought the note. But I was ready. I was ready to pay for what I had done. “I would like for you to arrest me. I have committed a crime and I have decided to be tried. Arrest me.”
I read a confused expression on the officer’s face as he read my note while glancing up at me. He looked at me and finally saw what I saw. A murderer. He looked at me and knew that I wasn’t joking. I was dead serious.
“Arrest me, officer. I didn’t know what I was doing at the time but I know now that it was wrong. I am guilty and I want to pay for my sin. Arrest me.”

FOUR
My mind plays tricks on me
“Somebody told me, a long time ago, I am not sure who, that forgetting is hard but remembering is even harder. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure what that meant up until now. It has been hard on me; the events of that night creep up on me in many distinct ways, in various aspects of my life. Emotionally I am afflicted; disturbed by the sinister character by which I came into this world. Mentally I am convicted: unsuccessfully attempting to find logic but constantly finding myself born guilty. Physically I am locked in a paralytic trance- perpetually being transported back to that moment but never able to understand it.
“I have been trying to forget the incident, but I have no control over my memory. So now I understand. What happened to me that night is impossible to forget, even though I cannot remember it?
“I will forever live with this daunting memory. With all the strength I have built and the determination I have conjured up, nothing has proved successful. I have decided to stop playing defense. I will no longer try to make the memory disappear; it won’t ever happen. The only way I could possibly forget is to confess my sins and pay for them.
“That is what I have been trying to do.”

The lights in here are bright and blinding. How long have I been sitting in this room? How long have I been here?
I turned myself in months ago but after much research and investigation the cops decided I didn’t commit any crime. They said that they realize that I had killed someone, but it wasn’t a criminal act. They put me in here because they said that my thoughts and memories are dangerous. I was a threat to myself. I was killing myself little by little every day; eating away at my mind with thoughts that were “maladaptive,” as they put it. I needed help. They said I needed help.
I don’t think my being here will help. I don’t think sitting in this holding cell will make it go away. I don’t think it will make things better.

FIVE
Can someone move the elephant? He is blocking the exit
“I tried to tell it once. I tried but not hard enough I guess. I tried to tell it, but you thought you already knew it. I tried once. I know I did. I tried but you wouldn’t listen. The story used to stand-alone. Isolated in my memory. Now the story coexists with the memory of attempted retelling.
“I tried to tell you.
“Now I see you and I know what you are thinking. You think you know me. I only just started talking but was halted- you thought you knew. You didn’t know. You don’t know. I am not everyone. Every story is different.
“Now I know I can’t tell you- I don’t trust my words in your mind. I’ll never speak. You skew my words and think all your talk and reason will make it better. You can’t make it go away. So, go away. I want you to leave. I want you to stop existing in my world. I don’t open my mouth when you are near. My mind goes dark when I see you. You didn’t believe me and that is why I am here and not there. You don’t trust that I know what I did. Well, I can’t trust you either.
“I want to leave. I want to leave, can you please move that elephant? He is blocking the exit.”

A Work in Progress

CHAPTER ONE
I had something to say, so there I sat thinking about how I could transform my thoughts into one coherent concept. I must have been sitting there for hours. An intolerable amount of ideas and images went floating through my mind, I thought that if I focused hard enough my eyes might be able to slow the confusion down and, maybe, just maybe I would be able to concoct one sound… one conceptual sound… one sound concept.
I have lived most of my life with this cloudiness fogging my vision. For the most part, I have tried not to let it get in the way of my living. Lately, however, one could conclude that my living has gotten in the way of this perfect storm. Maybe, if I let this cloud take control of my vision, I could lose sight. I say this with the utmost optimism. Allow me to explain. I have tried to grasp onto this cloud, break it down into matter and substance and get a chance to get to know it. I thought that if I were able to acquaint myself with the shadiness, I would be able to see through it or at the very least, learn to live amicably with it. Unfortunately, I must have gone wrong somewhere along the way.
I got a hold of the cloud. I did get to know it. I got to know all that makes it be and what it is. I now understand where it comes from, where it goes and how it gets there. The problem? I am the cloud. I now like having it in my life. It’s familiar, and it’s comfortable. I trust my feelings when I’m around it. I feel as though I am with a friend when I am among cloudiness. I hoped that with enough time and energy that I would eventually be able to get rid of the cloud, but for now it is my cloud. I think that if I extract the shade now and plunge into the vast open, bright sky, I will endanger the sense of security that the clouds bring me.
Who will I be if I am not the girl that walks around as a shadow under her own cloud? I am not sure who I am, but I am sure who I have become. But I do know that wherever I go a heavy cloud follows me. I guess that one could say that this “cloud” is: Me.
I have walked around in my shoes long enough to know the difference between comfort and pain. I think.
I know that when one thinks of clouds they are not inclined to feel happy. Rather, a cloud is one of the natural elements that inevitably invokes connotations of the opposite. What is a cloud? To humans, a cloud is an element that impregnates the sky and forecasts gloomy weather. When clouds fill the sky, people suspect rain. But it is not the nature of the cloud that people don’t like, it is what the cloud brings to them that people tend to dislike. However, it is only natural that the gallons of water weight that the cloud carries around would be one day shed. A cloud lugs a heavy burden around and I think it is only fair that this cloud should be granted a chance to be one day lifted and freed from the grey water with which it is forced to live.

ACT TWO
Ivory’s bedroom
Ivory is sitting up in bed, tissue box on one side and telephone on the other. She is sitting in contemplation, staring blankly ahead. Her look is wearied and tired. It is mid-morning and it seems as though she has not left her bed yet. She reaches over to her night table and takes a glass of water into her hand. She holds it. This slight movement has cost her energy. She resumes staring. She takes a sip of water and replaces the glass. Her eyes well up with tears, she brushes them away before they have a chance to stream. The phone rings. She hears it, reaches for it, looks at the call display. She answers the phone.

She: Hello? (she whispers)
Vivian: Hey darling, it’s mom. How are you?
She: I’m fine. (trying not to give away that she has been crying, breathes) How are you?
Vivian: I’m good, thank you (singing). So, what’s doing? Wanna grab lunch? (Aside: “Just tell them to fax it directly to me then, OK?)
She: Hmm, (pause) no thanks. I’m really busy today. I have a meeting in like five minutes that I am just getting ready for and then I was going to meet Luc for lunch (rushes through this last part so as to stray the focus away from the lies she is telling).
Maybe tomorrow though? We could go to Francesco’s?
Vivian: Mmmm. OK! Sounds good to meet, baby. You sure everything is fine? You sound kind of down. (Aside: “yeah, get those files back to me as soon as possible Billy”)
She: Yeah, yeah. I’m good. I am just in a bit of a rush. I love you, mom. I gotta go. Muah! (kissing sound)
Vivian: I love you baby. Speak to you later. Have fun.

Ivory hangs up and replaces the phone back beside her.
She uncovers herself and gets out of bed slowly. She makes her way to the back of the stage to look in her mirror. She wipes her eyes again, pulls her hair back. As her hands make their way down her neck, they follow alongside her body; she pulls at her shirt so as to give it some length. She stares at her reflection.
She reaches over to her music player and presses play. Music fills the room. She walks away from the counter that houses the speakers and mopes her way to the middle of the room. She sways slowly from side to side; she brings her right leg out in front of her while her right foot is brought to a point tracing a circle along the floor. She repeats this movement with precision yet fails to convey meaning in her dance. She dances, unconvincingly. Her last turn brings her to a halt as she begins to cry again. This time her cries are loud as her body convulses. She attempts to hold it in, making her stomach convulse more. Finally she lets the cries fill the room as she cups her face. She lets herself fall to the floor where she continues to weep. Her legs are beside her and her hands are in front of her. She fidgets with her fingers as she calms herself out of crying. She breathes. She breathes heavily for a few moments and then she collapses forward. Lights turn off.

CHAPTER THREE
I remember it being purple. A lavender, light purple. It didn’t have any shape in particular. It was pleasant; pleasant as all hell. I remember I wanted to tell my purple story; I wanted to say the words, or just have someone force them out of me. I don’t think there is a way to tell this story, because it isn’t words. It isn’t a beginning, middle and an end. It’s my life; it is who I am. I want to be who I am without telling my story. But, who am I without it?
I start telling my story. I build it up. I know in my mind that it will be a story that speaks to many; most of all it will speak to me. I set the groundwork, the framework, the legwork, the footwork… I can’t get past the beginning. I can’t put the words down. I can’t say them out loud. Plague. Silence. I keep finding different ways of telling the beginning.
Something takes me over. I can’t remove myself from the thoughts in my head. I can’t concentrate; I lose focus and my mind clutters. I breathe. I don’t want to tell anyone. I don’t want to tell myself. Then, why do I feel like I can’t keep it inside anymore?
My mind flies off somewhere. I’ve been here before. Frozen. I look around and the clouds part. I don’t need words; I need help. I know where I am. I don’t have to find my way, the way finds me: I cry.

CHAPTER FOUR
Everyday I talk. I have friends. I speak. We share. My friends know me. They take the time it takes. They get to know me. They try to understand me. They try to feel what it would be like to be me; to live my life. They listen to me. They feed me advice. I am both who I am and who they want me to be. I lie. I hide. I cover up. I pretend. I act. I deny. My friends believe that I allow them to know me intimately. They trust me. Naively, they believe that I have granted them some all-access pass to my life. The truth is, they know what I let them know. I control their version of me. They won’t ever know me. I won’t let them. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to be possibly misunderstood, so I make it simple: I leave out all the important parts.
I don’t feel very well.

ACT FIVE
Living Room
She sits on her couch in the far left corner of her living room. Her shoes are off and they are sitting next to her on the floor. The lights are dim and there is a shadow in the doorway. The distance is great between them, but even a whisper could be heard. The silence is heavy.

Lucas: I love you. (He whispered this statement with gentle sincerity)
She: (She doesn’t look up from the hands. She replies firmly, without so much as a hint of doubt in her voice). Don’t say that.
Lucas: Ivory, I love you.
She: Lucas, (turning her head away), don’t say that. Don’t do this. (She begins to cry).

Lucas walks at a slow pace to be closer to Ivory. He doesn’t walk right up to her, but instead walks to the other end of the couch and stops. They are face to face.

Lucas: What do you want me to say? What do you want to hear? I love you Ivory, I love who you are. I love everything about you. I love you. (The last ‘I love you’ sounds angry.)
She: (smirks) You don’t love everything about me Lucas. You love everything about yourself when you are around me (pause). It’s not that that is a bad thing. I mean, I am OK with that. But, it isn’t love Lucas. Call it what was it is, but it isn’t love.
Lucas: Why do you say that Ivory? Every time. Every fucking ti- (pause). You know what, forget it, there is no use getting angry. (Silence.) You frustrate me, you know that? I am trying to get closer to you, to connect with you. I love you and not because I love myself. That is the fucking stupidest thing I have ever heard (pause). I don’t get you Vee. That is why I love you. You fascinate me. Who you are intrigues me. I catch you staring at me some times. Your eyes are locked in a trance. You seem as though you are staring into me, or something. You become blank. I wonder, I always wonder. I wonder how you can block everything out and become so involved in whatever is going on in your head. It seems almost delusional. I don’t know anybody else who can do that. You always ask me why I love you, but the real question is how could I not? I don’t know why you’re still with me.
She: Lucas, you are such a mystery to me. You intrigue me. I love being with you. I love- (pause) trust me Lucas. I love you.
Lucas: (exhales) I just, (pause) I don’t understand how you can be with me, be so close to me, laugh with me, cry with me and tell me you love who I am. I don’t know how all of this is said and done one day and the next day you can’t even be near me. You’re so distant. No matter how much I love you, you won’t ever believe me. You don’t love yourself. (pause) This is so frustrating.
You have been acting so strangely lately. I don’t understand why you invite me over if when I get here, you sit on your couch the entire time. You barely look up at me. You barely acknowledge that I am here, that I exist. (Getting angry) I don’t feel like you want me around anymore. You are just going through the motions. I wish that you would be honest with me.
She: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I do want you around Luc. I’m sorry. (crying)
Lucas: I can’t deal with this. I’m sorry.

He puts on his sunglasses and walks towards the door. He reaches the door and stands there a moment. He turns around despairingly.

Lucas: (sigh) Ivory, I love you (irritated). You might not believe me or you might not want to believe me, but I do love you. Knowing you has made me see that I am able to love. You are the only way I know to love. (pause) I don’t know. (pause)
Vee, I have felt all the feelings under the sun in my lifetime, but I have only felt one love. You make me something I could never be. You look at me and see something that I can’t. Yeah, maybe I love who I am around you, but why is that a bad thing?

She exhales a tiny breath from her nose. Maybe she exhales a tiny sarcastic laugh as well. She puts her feet up on the couch and hugs her knees. She rests her head on her knees. Nothing of what Lucas has said was what she wanted to hear. She didn’t know what she waned to hear, but it wasn’t that. Lucas puts his hands in his pockets and walks to the couch. He sits down. She makes room for him beside her, but doesn’t look up. She is crying, only a little.

Lucas: If you don’t love me, Ivory, I need to know. If you don’t want to be with me anymore, tell me. But you can’t keep acting like this, it isn’t fair.
She: Lucas? (She looks up.) Maybe I never told you this before, but maybe you’re right. I don’t think I love you. I think… I don’t want to love you. (Pause.) I know I have been pushing you away lately and that I have been distant. It isn’t that I didn’t think you would notice. I just didn’t think that- well, actually, I didn’t think you would care. Sometimes I feel like you’re so caught up in your own world that you don’t even notice me. I keep telling myself that I need to put things in perspective (pause). The way you love me… the way you show me you love me is a lot for you. It is huge. This minute amount of attention you give me is a drastic amount in comparison to the bits you give anybody else. I should appreciate that. But, what if that isn’t enough for me? What if this is the most you can give and that won’t ever be enough for me? (long pause)

They stare at each other. He holds his head between his hands. She continues to look at him until he lifts his head and catches her eyes once again.

I just don’t think that we can keep doing this. We are fighting too often. You aren’t happy with who I am lately and to tell you the truth- well, to tell you the truth who I am lately is who I really am. You love who I was when we first started dating. I am not that person anymore. I don’t know who I am – but I know that who ever it is… you don’t love her. Trust me. I don’t.

They are looking at each other. She is crying and looks completely lost in her own world. She is staring off. Her thoughts are everywhere and she has let herself go entirely. She opened a floodgate and now she is drowning. Lucas has no know-how on how to help her. He probably doesn’t know how lost and confused she really feels. He probably doesn’t know that she needs saving. He is looking at her, confused. He wears a trying expression. His eyes are lost. Her eyes are sad. He is sad. He knows this is the end and he doesn’t know how to stop this inevitable downward spiral. She puts her hand to his cheek. He touches her face. Her face is wet. Her tears have soaked her t-shirt almost entirely. She looks at him, he stares at her.

She: I love you Lucas. I really do. I love you so much.

They kiss. Lucas’ arm that he has been leaning on starts to go numb. He is forced to pull back in an attempt to readjust.

She: I love you. (Still crying.)
Lucas: I love you too.

They sit in silence. She is thinking. Her head is spinning. She can’t concentrate. She is confused. Lucas gazes into her eyes. He loves her. He wipes her tears from her face.

She: Can we not talk about this anymore? I can’t explain what is happening to me. I don’t understand what I am going through. I know that whatever it is that I am going through I want you by my side. I want you to hold my hand and love me forever. Let’s forget about this. Please. I am sorry. I love you so much. (long pause)
I know I have a hard time dealing with my problems, (desperately) but I don’t want my problems to prove to be the reason why we can’t be together.

Lucas stares into the eyes of the woman he loves. He stares into his sleeping beauty’s eyes and wishes he could just kiss her and make her come out of this comatose state she has been in for the past while. He wishes he could be her knight in shining armor but that is an impossible dream. He can’t save her. He can’t bring her back to life. Admittedly, he doesn’t see her as the person she used to be- he only sees her problems when he looks at her.

Lucas: Maybe you need time, Vee. Figure out what is wrong and how you can deal with it. Make it right and then maybe we can fix us.
She: I don’t want time Lucas (crying). I just want to not feel like this anymore. I want to be happy again. I want to be a normal person in a normal relationship. I hate this. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. (crying)
I know I can trust you and rely on you and… I have given my whole heart to you. I love you. (pause). I know you would never hurt me. I know that you love me so much and you would never hurt me. But it hurts… (crying) it hurts so much.
Lucas: I’m here Vee. I’m here. Don’t worry (holds her close). Cry.

Her eyes are waterfalls. She can’t stop crying. Eventually, she breathes and begins to settle down. Silence continues to fill the room. Her back begins to hunch over and she places her head on her lap. She cries softly. This time Lucas knows she is no longer crying about the plague that chokes her- she is crying for help.
He will never leave her but he knows he won’t ever be with her either. She is alone. No matter how close they get, she is alone. She will always remain in solitude. They can’t deny the distance between them. After a long wait, he leans over, puts his arms around her and hugs her tightly. She hasn’t looked up at Lucas, but she has accepted the comforting embrace. She cries and continues to cry for a while. She finally wipes the tears from her eyes and dries her hands on her pants. She sways her hair from her face in a sweeping motion and with all of her courage and strength. Lucas reaches over to the stereo and hits play. They sit and listen; she rests her head on his shoulder and resumes weeping. The lights fade out.

CHAPTER SIX
Nothing feels natural lately. Everything I do has this horrible sense of strangeness, an undertone of a strong foreign nature. I see right in front of me and I see that I recognize the houses, the grass, the cars, and the cloud-stained windows.
I blink. Recognition fails me. Everything takes an uncanny shape; it all looks so familiar but different. Strange. Is this ridiculous? I don’t think I am the only one that feels this way.
I am stuck in the past.
There once lived a little girl. She had long golden brown hair. She wore it all the way down her back. She took the form of a very petite, young girl. She was eight. She enjoyed dancing outside of her tower, all around her front yard in a pretty lilac dress that her grandmother bought for her. She would let tresses of her hair fall over her face, which she kept hidden. She would twirl. She would twirl and twirl and twirl. Perpetual motion. No break. Don’t slow down. Never stopping. She wouldn’t sit on the lawn and watch the others play catch. She wouldn’t skip rope. She wouldn’t bike around the park nor would she eat ice cream. She twirled. I remember how she always had her arms out, extended at her sides. It looked as though her arms weren’t a part of her. She exercised such great control over her body.
I sat watching from my windowsill, overlooking the front yard. I sat and watched that little girl for hours. I was envious of her. I wished that I could twirl and just let the world go away. I wished I could hold my dress out to my sides and let my hair down… Instead, I sat and watched. I sat and watched and thought about the person that she would grow up to be. I sat and watched and thought about how maybe she wouldn’t grow up to be who she is supposed to be.
I wished she wouldn’t feel the feelings I feel.
She was a butterfly. She should have made me feel happy. She should have stirred a bright white feeling inside of me. But instead I saw purple.
I felt her purity, her innocence, but I couldn’t find the feeling one needs in order to identify. She kept turning and turning with a smile on her face and a glow of happiness beaming out of her. I turned too. I turned and turned inside, everything was wrong. It wasn’t working. I’m doing it wrong. It is all backwards. She is inside out. I’m upside down.
I opened my eyes.
Am I going crazy? Shouldn’t I be able to control the images in my head? The more aware of myself I become, the more absent I am. I am disconnected from the outside in. I get confused and I lose concentration. It all seems like maybe if I close tight enough it could all go away. That doesn’t happen. I know that. Is it an out of body experience? I see myself, I hear myself, but I don’t feel myself. She isn’t who I am.
Real time. If only I could be brought back… way back.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Ivory. Her name is Ivory. There she is again. Behind my closed eyes she appears again. I wish I could speak to her. I wish I could warn her. If only she knew what she was growing up to become. One day she will get there. One day she will know. She won’t have a choice.
She will become this person… this person who is forced to run to the tower and try to sleep her life away; this person that subdues her thoughts by drowning them out with blaring music; this person who walks around sullen and wishes she had a second chance. I know it’s impossible for me to help her. Nobody can help her, not even if they tried. Maybe they should try.
Nothing I do, in the moment I am doing it has any meaning. I didn’t know that the moments I lived would amount to this. I didn’t know that what was happening would eventually make sense. I didn’t know that I wouldn’t be able to let go. I didn’t know that twirling is actually a health condition. I don’t know how it happened, but I won’t spend my life asking questions. I do need to know how can I leave this behind and find new meaning?
Twirling and twirling. Such ease. It seems as though she won’t ever stop. Is it possible that she could fall? She can’t fall. If she did, someone would catch her. She twirls. Smiling. Her head back, she turns, letting her dress lift as it turns with her. These are the happiest days of her life. Only she doesn’t know it. These are the moments she will hope to get back, so maybe she should hold on. A cloudy future awaits her. Right now she doesn’t need to understand that this is the last time she will feel free.
She twirls. I watch her twirl. Faster and faster, she continues to twirl. A twirl that means so much: liberation, youth, innocence.
Side step. Break in the continuum; she loses balance.
Stumble. She had such control over her body. Her connection to twirling seems to have been lost.
Her body betrays her and for the first time, she stops twirling.
She falls.
Nobody is there to catch her.
I won’t tell her. She will know soon enough. She won’t know. She won’t know what is happening. She won’t know that it is wrong. She won’t know until it is too late. The feeling will have settled so deep inside of her that she won’t be able to escape the vortex of pain that her condition predicts. She doesn’t need to know now. She shouldn’t ever know. She can’t control what happens to her. She can’t even control herself anymore.

ACT EIGHT
A restaurant
Vivian, Ivory’s mother, sits in a not-so-busy restaurant. She is at a table at the top left corner of the stage, talking on her phone. Two salads are on the table, one in front of her, half-eaten, and the other untouched in front of an empty chair. Ivory walks toward the table from the back of the restaurant. She fixes her shirt so that it falls neatly over her jeans. She keeps both hands clenched to the bottom of the tee until she makes her way back to the table. She pulls out her seat, pushes a piece of hair back behind her ear and sits down.

She: There was no toilet paper. Lucky I had a tissue in my jeans. Mmm, the salads got here. That always happens. Someone goes to the bathroom and the food arrives.
Vivian: (gives her the sign for “one more second”) Yup, mm-hm. OK Billy. Yup, Ok, so we will talk later (She hangs up) I started without you. I hope you don’t mind.
She: Not at all. Anyhow, like I was saying, I am sorry about yesterday. I was just so caught up with schoolwork and all that, that I really couldn’t make it.
Vivian: This is fine, don’t worry about it. I was busy at work anyway, so who cares? We made it here today, right?

Ivory can’t tell if her mother is being sincere of patronizing. She is trying to get a sense for it but she can’t call her mom’s bluff. She leaves it alone.

Vivian: Mmmm, this is delicious. I love it here. What did you order again?
She: (picking at her food) Um (squinting her eyes pensively), I got the chef’s salad. I don’t like all that fancy stuff, Gorgonzola cheese, arugula. I don’t know- it’s too much flavour for me.

Ivory treads lightly with the conversation. She lets her mom lead and tries to stay engaged without giving away her current emotional state. She overcompensates by getting way into topics that should just be passing comments.

Vivian: Have you seen what’s his name this week? Oh- what’s his name (thinking of the name, snapping her fingers) your psychologist. What’s his name?
She: Dr. Tyler (knowingly). I see him once a week. I’m going in a few days (uneasy about sharing this information so nonchalantly).
Vivian: (taking a fork-full of food) And? How is it going? Do you talk about me? (mockingly)
She: No mom (irritated).
Vivian: That’s it, that’s all? No more info for me? How is it going? (pushing for more).
She: It’s fine. I find him a little annoying. I don’t know. (pause) It seems as though he should be smart, what with his PhD and all, but I don’t know. I’m not convinced. He’s a little too preoccupied with his coffee and his corduroy pants if you ask me (imitating a haughty type). Whatever, I just sit there. I barely talk and when I begin to talk about anything he just changes the subject. It’s like- how can you make any progress, or have a breakthrough when you are constantly being cut off or interrupted or-? I like going there because it seems as though it is time for me to reflect about me. Right? Like, me time. But, I feel like I could maybe do without him (short laugh at the “not-so-bad” idea).

Ivory notices that her mom is paying more attention to her phone than to her. At this precise moment, toward the last line of Ivory’s speech about Dr. Tyler, Vivian begins to rummage through her purse for a pen.

She: Mom? Are you even listening? (annoyed)
Vivian: (still searching frantically for a pen) Yes, yes sweetie. I’m just- I don’t want to forget- oh! Here it is. I don’t want to forget to call Roberta about the plans for this weekend. She wanted to go out to the cottage and I don’t know if I really feel up to it. Anyhow, I don’t want to forget, (writing on a napkin)¬ “call Bobby about this weekend, period.” There. Sorry honey. So, you were saying- Dr. Tyler, breakthrough, corduroy… (motioning etc… rolling her hands)
She: Whatever, it’s not important, it’s just- I don’t think he is the best fit. It’s fine.

Ivory reaches for her glass of water and begins to sip. She appears to be disappointment with her mother’s lack of interest. She can’t decide if her mother is sincerely concerned or just uses her daughter’s life as a topic for conversation so as to fill the otherwise empty and silent lunch table.
Vivian: How is Lucas? (she looks up at Ivory)
She: Good (curtly).
Vivian: Do you still see him? (fishing)
She: Ya (her face can’t hide that she is disturbed by this inane question).
Vivian: (defensive) I’m just asking. I haven’t seen him in a while. I only see him when you bring him around, so- a mother can ask, right?
She: Well, what is he supposed to do? Come hang out at the house without me? Obviously he is only gonna come around with me (teasingly, but subtly annoyed). We have been fine. I mean, we fight a little bit more now than usual, but I think that is because he travelling so much for work now so we never get to see each other. I really think that once he starts up his office here and stops moving around so much, and also when I finish school we could spend more time together and everything will go back to normal. Just the other day, we were out for a walk and we had already spent the whole morning together and then when I thought our day was over, he told me that he can’t ever get enough of me. So, then we went for lunch and then we rented a movie, and, anyhow we spent the whole weekend inseparably.
Vivian: (barely paying attention, checking her phone) Anyhow, so he is good?
She: Ya, he’s great actually. He is coming over later. We are probably going to watch a movie or something… Well, maybe we will stop by the house later on then. I’ll probably finish early, so- (gauging her mom’s reaction)
Vivian: Sounds good to me (aloof). Sure. I’ll be home. (continues eating).

The lunch goes on silently for a brief moment. Vivian’s phone rings. She glances over to her phone to check who is calling, grabs it and answers the call. She motions that she will be one minute to Ivory and walks away from the table.
Ivory picks at her food, eating slowly. Vivian returns.

Vivian: Sorry, that was the office. They can’t do anything without me. (picks up her fork) What were we saying- oh yeah! A movie. So, which one are you going to?
She: We haven’t really decided. Anything really, I mean I don’t care. I tend to like anything, so it really doesn’t matter. I heard “Say It Ain’t true” is good. Maybe we will see that. I forget the actor’s name that plays the lead. Anyhow, it’s about this guy that travels back to his homeland to be reunited with his family after a long war and he sees that nothing has changed at all. His old life has not been affected at all, it’s as though nothing had gone on, yet his life has been so tremendously changed that he is in deep conflict with everyone. It’s supposed to be emotionally gripping (she says mockingly), or something like that.

Vivian, not listening, continues to eat. She utters in agreement, in the “mm-hmm” fashion every once and a while. She looks straight-ahead at Ivory and looks as though she is about to respond, maybe even with some inspiring words.

Vivian: Shit! I forgot to tell Jackie not to send out the order. Shit! (concentrating). One sec- OK, sweetie? I just need to call the office again (seemingly annoyed to be taken away from lunch with her daughter).
She: It’s fine mom. You know what? We are done anyway. Go back to work and I will call you later if Lucas and I decide to come by.
Vivian: Sorry, sorry (flustered). Sorry sweetie. I just have a lot on my mind and – Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. I’m glad Lucas isn’t travelling anymore, (smiles) that means he has more time for my baby (proudly).

Ivory looks confused, she was sure she hadn’t misspoken about Lucas’ travels. They get up from the table. Vivian walks over to grab Ivory for a hug, but first grips her hands on her shoulders. She holds her at arm’s length away from her.

Vivian: I know you are Miss. Independent. But, just so you know, if you ever need something or if you aren’t feeling well and you need to talk, I am always here for you. OK sweetheart? I love you and I am a great listener and really, who better to talk to than your own mother? I know you since forever, I raised you so, a mother always knows. Say the word and I am there (holds Ivory for a hug)
She: Thanks mom. Thanks for lunch.
Vivian: I love you.
She: Me too.

They both walk toward the door ready to leave. Vivian turns to Ivory in a bit of a dazed frenzy.

Vivian: Oh Vee! I almost forgot. Here is the money for the doctor (after rummaging through her purse she holds out her wallet and finds two one hundred dollar bills and hands them to Ivory). Don’t forget to ask for the tax receipt, all right?
She: Sure. Thanks mom (folds the bills and places them in her purse pocket). K, bye. I love you.
Vivian: Bye sweetie.

They both walk for the door. Lights fade out.

ENTRY NINE
Leafing through the diary that sits beside my nightstand I come across a poem I wrote over a decade ago. Should I read it? Do I want to reminisce? A stroll down memory lane for most is a walk in the park; it is a war in my mind.
Power Struggle
There is a war in my mind
I know I can’t win
Why did I release the lion that threatens to devour me?
The battle is not over
It won’t ever be won
I have been exposed to the plague that shackles my lungs
If wounds past are not tended to they will bleed into the future
Shake me and tell me of a cure
Make me believe that I have not been contaminated
Get the noise out of my head
Take my sight and rob me of my memories
Disconnect the pain from my breath because the suffocation alone is killing me
Let me scream the sufferings that hold me hostage
Or let me drown and see the end
The plague impedes me from walking away
“Liberate my soul!”
A struggle that is symptomatic of a contagious disease
Grant me peace of mind
Give me the freedom to begin again
I shouldn’t have read this.

ACT TEN
Psychologist’s Office
She is sitting in the waiting room, reading. Her shoes are off. She pulls her knees up to her chest. The door opens, the doctor calls her in.

She: Hi.
Dr. Tyler: Hello (nodding his head in understanding). How are you today?
She: Good. How are you? (She takes her jacket off and sits down).
Dr. Tyler: Good, good.

The silence is thick. The opening dialogue is the same every time. She sits with her head lowered and her legs next to her on the big black leather couch.

Dr. Tyler: How has your week been? I know that when we spoke last you were a little confused about your next step in life. Have you given that any thought at all this week? What’s on your mind?
She: No, it’s ok. I’m ok. (She wants to talk. She wants to say more, but she isn’t the type of person who speaks willingly, she needs to be asked the right question. She won’t speak unprompted).
Dr. Tyler: Ok (after a long swig of coffee from the mug he is balancing on his arm chair). Is there anything in particular that you would like to talk about today?
She: Nope. (She sits quietly, still not looking up. Tears start to roll down her cheeks. She reaches for a tissue. Short silence.)
Dr. Tyler: How are things at home, with your family and friends? (His forehead wrinkles. There is not one flat surface on his whole face.)

The silence is unbreakable. She reaches for another tissue. Dr. Tyler continues to lightly tap the mug he is holding. She begins to become irritated with Dr. Tyler’s effortless attempt to get her to talk. He is waiting for him to say something that she can bite on.

She: I went out last night. I didn’t want to, but my friends came by and made me go. It was fun, I guess.
Dr. Tyler: I see, do you often do that? Do you often not do what you want to in an attempt to get others to pay attention to you? Let me explain myself. You said just now that you didn’t want to go out, but then your friends came over and forced you to. You had a good time right? So, do you just need a little persuading or were you looking for attention?
She: (unimpressed) Um, it’s more along the lines of- I have been doing a lot of work lately and haven’t seen my friends, so on their way out they came by and scooped me. I hadn’t intended to go out, so that’s what I meant by made me go.

Silence fills the room. She shifts positions. She can’t seem to get comfortable. She pulls her knees up to her chest and hugs her legs. She continues to look down. She begins to fidget with her fingernails. In an attempt to perform a self-manicure, she rips off dead skin surrounding her cuticles.

Dr. Tyler: Ok, let’s move away from that.
(Moving away from the topic because it is hollow in matter? Smart.)
What is good in your life right now? What makes you happy?
She: (trying not to show her irritation with his meaningless efforts to get her to open up, she tries not to wrinkle her face with annoyance or condescension. That would be a rude giveaway) I don’t know. I am sorry. You do know… I mean I was wondering how you feel about… (She scratches her head and looks down)
Dr. Tyler: Is there something on your mind?
She: Therapy kind of seems contradictory to me. I mean unless I plan on going on some crazy intensive, where there is no concept of time, where there is no ambiguity between who I am in here and who I am out there, then I think therapy is just useless. I mean it just seems so arbitrary. There is a tremendous disconnect between reality, or the truth for that matter, and the patient’s personal perception. I could lie. I could say whatever I want. I could just have such a screwed up perception of the real world that I am… (She cuts herself off). And, what if at like 11:28 I start having a break through, or, a breakdown, or I just simply break, what happens? We just stop. We stop. I walk out of here opened and wounded, totally incapable of continuing my day, and you just go fill up your cup of coffee and see the next “patient.” It seems largely hypocritical, no?
Dr. Tyler: I think you’re right. There is a “glitch” let’s say, in the system. (He gestures air-quotes with his fingers.) Would you like me to look into intensive therapy for you? Or, maybe we could book longer sessions. Is that something you would like? I have some patients who come in and book two-hour sessions. They feel more comfortable knowing that time is not an issue. If you would like, next time we schedule an appointment, we could block off two hours and, you don’t have to be obligated to stay the whole time, but you could be more relaxed knowing that it is available.
She: (impatiently) Ok. I mean- I don’t know. No thanks. (She fixes her hair, pulling a piece back behind her ear.)
Dr. Tyler: Fine, Ivory. We don’t have to do anything now. How about we think about it some more at the end of the hour (pause). Now, you were saying you that people walk in to my office and just sit down and begin to pour their heart out- and this concept is lost on you, right?
She: Well, yeah. Do people really come in here and spill their guts? Do they just walk in, sit down, you ask ‘what do you want to talk about today?’ and they actually answer- “yeah, well, I’ve been having this…” and so on? Do people do that? Am I the only one that struggles with the whole formula? Nobody else expresses this same concern about the harsh treatment of therapy? Or, is it just me? I mean, I think I even have a problem with being referred to as a patient.
Dr. Tyler: Why is that?
She: I feel more like a client.

She stares at him. She re-centers herself and looks down defeated. She begins to cry.

Dr. Tyler: Can I tell you what I think? I think that when you asked me whether people come in here and actually benefit from therapy, you want to know how. You want to know how they do it. Not in the sense of how do they submit themselves to these conditions, but actually how- like you want an instruction manual so that maybe you can benefit too. Some people do seek therapy in order to begin healing. Some people are ready and some people need a push. That’s what I am here for. And, I will be here for as long as you need. Maybe you don’t feel comfortable talking to me yet, do you talk to any of your friends? Does it maybe have nothing to do with comfort and these are all excuses for you to keep it all to yourself? Are you ready to heal Ivory?
She: Is it all right if I use the washroom (she motions to get up and points to the door). I’m sorry, I just had a lot of water on the way over here.
Dr. Tyler: Of course, sure. Let me just get you the key (reaches over behind him for the key that sits on his desk). You know where it is, right?
She: Yes, thank you. I’ll be right back (she gets up and pulls her shirt down, walks for the door)

Ivory leaves the office and enters a hallway. She leans back against the wall and slowly lets her body fall toward the floor. She sits on the floor with her knees up to her chest. She fishes her right hand through her sweater pocket. She checks her phone. She wipes the screen and looks at it. She replaces it in her sweater. She breathes purposefully and meditatively. Her eyes drop down as she cups her face and wails. She makes a moaning sound, almost like a grumble. She is visibly frustrated with herself. She wishes she could make progress but refuses to cooperate.

She: Ugh!
Her face crumples and her hands make fists. She looks up at the ceiling. Her shoulders reach her ears as she breathes once again to calm herself down. She allows her head to fall back against the wall as she closes her eyes. She whispers to herself “I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready.”
She places her hands on the floor beside her to assist her in standing. She fixes her hair behind her ear and pulls her sweater down. She walks back into the office. Meanwhile, Dr. Tyler has been sitting patiently and pleasantly in his chair, legs crossed, one hand on his coffee mug and the other on his lap. He makes minor adjustments, but mainly he sits there with, what seems to be nothing on his mind.

She: Sorry. (Pause.) I have a question (tryingly). What are you supposed to do if- (pause, she shrugs her shoulders shyly), if I want to talk, and I’m ready to talk but I just don’t know what to say? It’s not that I don’t know where to start it’s just that I really don’t know what to say.
Dr. Tyler: That’s an interesting question. Well, if you are honestly ready to start, there are a number of things we could talk about openly in this safe space and hopefully, one thing will lead to another and we can pinpoint the trouble.
She: OK (she says both unconvinced and sarcastic).

She thinks about why she even chooses to continue seeing this doctor. Maybe it isn’t psychology she has a problem with, maybe its Dr. Tyler. Silence.
She looks around the office. Armchair: left corner. Big couch: across from armchair. Coffee table: with candies on it. Fake. Big window. Dark room. Room: dark, window: big. Why is the room dark if the window is so big? Books, lots of books.
One book catches her attention:” Self-Masturbation”. She checks the clock: 3:33.

Dr. Tyler: (breaking the deafening silence) Let’s move away from all of this, shall we? (Clasps his hands together and tightens his lips). Have you read any interesting books lately?

She has a menaced and “are-you-fucking-serious?” look on her face. A bit of time passes and begins to cry. She looks down. Cries. Reaches for a tissue and cries some more.
Silence.

Dr. Tyler: Well, (claps his hands together) shall we set another appointment for next week? Have you given extending our sessions more thought?
She: Sure. I mean. I don’t know (uncomfortable).
Dr. Tyler: Hmm, OK, well, I can keep your Monday at 2:30 open, but I will call you on Friday to confirm how long I should block off. How does that sound?
She: Okay (still uncomfortable. She wishes he would just look at her and decide that she needed more attention instead of allowing her to make the decision herself. She wants the help but won’t ask for it).
Dr. Tyler: Ivory? Is everything all right? (concerned) You have mentioned before that, (pause) maybe therapy isn’t for you. Are you sure that this is a course of treatment you would like to continue?
She: (disappointed that he has misread her once again, however, she hides her true feelings and feigns agreement) I don’t know (shrugs her shoulders).
Dr. Tyler: Listen, when I call you at the end of the week you will have had all week to think about this. We could go either way: longer sessions or no sessions at all. It is completely up to you. Like you said Ivory, if you want me to be able to help you then you need to be willing to cooperate and trust me. If you are not ready yet, or if I am not perhaps the right fit, then you can go ahead and let me know when we speak. All right?
She: OK. Thanks (shyly).

She opens her wallet and grabs two one-hundred dollar bills and places them on the table between them.
Dr. Tyler gets up and waits for her to get ready. She stands up, puts on her coat and throws her purse on her shoulder. She walks quietly towards the door.

She: Thank you.
Dr. Tyler: Yeah (with a sigh and an understanding face). I’ll speak to you next week.
She: (smiles) Bye.
Dr. Tyler: Bye-bye then (winking and smiling)

She walks toward the main door. Puts her shoes on and walks toward the elevator. Lights fade out.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
I decided to take a vacation. I needed a vacation. Maybe new sun would help me see clearly.
My mom said that if I went far away I might be able to get some perspective and stop being clouded by the clutter that builds inside of me. That’s the problem with my mom. She thinks the clutter is the disease. I know it is just a symptom.
Even if the clouds were to part, my thoughts would still be plagued; I can’t ever escape that. As long as I am who I am, I will feel contaminated. What I don’t need is to go far away. What I need is to be right here, but no longer be me.
I wish my pain were related to some physical, tangible, diagnostic disease. Then I would be able to give it a name. Then I would be able to understand it, learn about it, know what I am asking help for… deal with it.
I want to un-blur the blur. I want to untangle the mangled memories. I live in such a vivid past; maybe it won’t be as hard as I think.
I’m scared. I’m really fucking scared. Words. I need to use words. I need to use words to figure this out and deal with it. Let me think… Why am I scared?
Why am I scared?
I can’t control the fact that the past takes over my life, my feelings, my thoughts… I don’t control the memory. It controls me. The memory contaminates my head and swallows me whole. Not a moment is lived unaccompanied by this memory. I suppress it. I pretend it doesn’t exist. I cry it away. This is me. This is who I am. This is who I have let myself become. I am the girl that relives her past and brings it to life with every thought. I hate this person. No wonder I am scared.
I need to let go of the fear that has become my home. I need to conjure up the memories and make them appear. I need to face them. I need to confront them, but this time, this next and last time, I will control what happens to me; I will rewrite the ending. Will I find the words?
I won’t live in the past any longer. I need to reconcile and move on. Can I do that? I need to find a way to unlock the memories that keep me stuck in this moment.
I need to stop closing my eyes.
I need to stop trying to climb to the top of the tower.
I need to properly tend to my wounds so that they won’t bleed into the future.
This is going to take a while.


CHAPTER TWELVE
Ivory turned twelve. She didn’t have a party. Actually, she did have a party. I watched the party. I know she had one. I also know that she wasn’t there. Ten friends were there, all bearing gifts. She smiled because she knew she should. She is learning how to go through the motions of life but never feel the emotions; she is learning how to make people believe that she is like them. I can feel it. Now, I can start to see myself in her a little more. Now I can identify. The act begins.
I wish I could be there, to caress her, to tell her everything would be ok. I wish that it were possible for me to be there to tell her that one day… one day it wouldn’t hurt this bad. But, I can’t do that. I can’t lie to myself.
I want her to have a childhood. I want her to have a teenage life. I want her to be regular. I want her to experience everything everyone else will. She won’t. Instead, she will feel scared. This is when the fear started; this is when it all began. The experience was lived. That part was… easy. Too innocent, or shall I say naive, to know what was going on. But now, now she knows. Now she is beginning to understand. Now she is starting to feel whatever it is that is manifesting inside of her. She can’t identify it, but she is starting to feel an overwhelming amount of sadness. Now she knows something is wrong. She knows that her life could have been different. She understands that her life has been robbed from her and that she has been invaded. She understands a little too much. Now she is all grown up and only twelve years old. Alone. Well, not alone, she has her cloud. Damned cloud.
I want to hug her. I want to go there and hug her. If I could, I wouldn’t let go… I would hug her until she let it all out. Just cry. Cry. I would tell her to talk: “Talk while it still makes sense. Talk while the words still haven’t consumed you. Talk now and let it out before it contaminates you.”
I don’t think she would have listened. Eventually, the words will swallow her whole until utter confusion clots her mind and turns everything senseless rendering her speechless. She will grow up to be me. I read her words and I share her thoughts, but they get lost in the voyage of time and I muddle them up. For some reason, time hasn’t stopped us from sharing the memory.


ACT THIRTEEN
Ivory’s Apartment
Ivory is sitting on her bed, knees propped up to her chest, half covered by the blanket. She is holding a laptop in front of her and she is typing away. She takes a breath, sighs and looks away from the screen. Her breath is heard and one could visibly notice her shoulders mounting up toward her ears. Her head collapses to her left shoulder as tears begin to tread down her cheeks. She lays the computer down beside her and closes the screen. She burrows her way into her blanket and hides her face away from the world. She wails. Her tormented cries fill the room. She becomes self-conscious of her cries and uses what seems to be a habitual breathing technique to calm her down. She tears the blanket away from her body and resurfaces. She sits up again and stares straight ahead into the emptiness.
The door unlocks and Ivory wipes the remaining tears from her face.

She: Abi?
Abigail: Hey Vee!
She: In here (she mutters under her breath, holding back more tears).

Abigail closes the front door behind her, takes her shoes off and sets her purse on the chair near the entrance. She walks toward Ivory’s room, peeks in before entering and then lets herself in. She walks to the bed and sits down next to Ivory. They share a moment of quiet, wordless communication. As the moment wades off, Ivory picks up where she left off and begins to cry again.
Abigail: Shh. Shh. It’s OK. Cry. (She is caressing Vee’s back, gazing at her softly).

She is heaving and breathing erratically. She is crying as though she were alone. Her body is curled up and her back faces Abigail. She is caressing her and by the looks of it, they have been here before.

She: I’m sorry (wiping her face. She reaches for a tissue). You can go if you want to. You didn’t have to come. You don’t have to stay. (She sits up, leans her back against her headboard.)
Abigail: Don’t be silly. I am not going anywhere. Talk to me. What is going on?
She: Nothing (Tears stream down her face). Nothing.
Abigail: We both know it’s not nothing. Just talk to me, tell me what happened.
She: No. It’s nothing. I don’t even know why I am crying like this. I’m OK.

She clenches the tissue tight in her fist. She props her knees up and holds them to her body. She wraps her arms around them and looks down. A few seconds pass and she begins to cry uncontrollably again. She is breathing heavy as her body convulses. Abigail stares at her dejectedly, caressing her arm; she is searching for the words that will prompt Ivory to start speaking.

Abigail: Listen, Vee. Look at me (touches her face gently, trying to get Ivory to look her in the eye). You will feel better if you speak. Start anywhere. Just say something. It isn’t healthy for you to keep it all inside like this, you know that? (pause) Shhh. Stop crying (hands her a tissue). Vee, I want you to know that no matter what it is I won’t judge you, I won’t laugh. I just want to be there for you. It hurts me to see you like this and quite honestly, I am concerned.

Ivory has still not looked up. She continues to shake and cry hysterically. She tries to compose herself by breathing deeply.

Abigail: Shhh. Breathe. (Breathing in time with Ivory, trying to calm her down).

Ivory tries to compose herself but in her failed attempt, she simply throws herself into a locking embrace with Abigail. Abigail engages in the embrace, however she pulls back slightly and tries to get Ivory to get a grip.

Abigail: Ivory. Shhh. Ivory. Stop. Stop crying (pulls a piece of Ivory’s hair behind her ear). Enough. Talk. Talk to me. It’s me, Vee.
She: I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk, (pause) I don’t even know what to say. I don’t know why I am crying. Sorry.
Abigail: Ok, well, Vee, I hate to break it to you, but you have been crying for over an hour, and not to bring up the obvious, but you have been crying like this for weeks. You walk around like your world has collapsed. I am not sure what is going on, but whatever it is, I wish you would just trust me. Tell me what it is. I don’t promise to make it better, but I do promise not to let you go through it alone.
She: I trust you Abi. That’s not it at all. I would tell you if I knew what was going on. You know I would. I don’t know what has come over me. I can’t stop crying. Everything that happens in my life lately is just- I don’t know, it’s like there is a gray filter that is cast over me. I’m walking in my own shadow and I don’t know why. I feel like complete and utter shit. That’s the truth. I’m sorry to do this to you.
Abigail: Would you stop apologizing? I love you and I am here for you… whatever it is.
She: Thanks. I know. (pause) Could we just change the subject?
Abigail: OK. What else is going on then?

They both giggle uncomfortably. The mood is lifted.

Abigail: Could I just say something? I mean, I don’t know what this is about or what is going on in your life. You never say anything and I am worried about you. You’re like, (hesitant) lifeless lately. You normally have so much energy- the life of the party and lately it just seems as though you are melting away. You are fading into the background. You don’t leave your house, you don’t talk to anyone- do you even see Lucas? What’s going on with him? Are things fine on that front?
She: I don’t know. We are fine, I guess. That’s not really the problem.
Abigail: Then what is? Vee? Vee? Look at me. Would you do me a favor? If you aren’t going to talk to me, then promise me you will talk to someone, be it Lucas or maybe your mom? Maybe, (pause) have you, (pause) considered speaking to a doctor?
She: I’m fine, really. Can we change the subject please?
Abigail: At least tell me you are still dancing. That could really help. It could be like, your emotional outlet. Artists work well in this type of condition, no?
She: OK Abi, (irritated) enough. I am tired I think I am going to get to bed.
Abigail: OK (offended, she is trying her hardest, from all angles, but Ivory is impossible to crack).

They get off the bed and Ivory leads her to the door. Abigail begins to put her shoes on and reaches for her sweater. They are standing in the doorway, while Ivory blows her nose.

Abigail: I am sorry I said that. I was trying to make light of the situation. I just don’t know how to act or what to say when you get like this.
She: I am happy you are here for me, that is enough.

They hug. Abigail reaches for the door and lets herself out. Ivory locks up behind her and walks toward her bed. She falls heavily onto it and she begins to wail. She cries for about thirty seconds. Lights fade off.


ENTRY FOURTEEN
Unable to sleep at night, I hear Ivory muttering these words aloud:
“How many tears have I wasted?
How many tears have I shed?
How many tears can make a river?
How many rivers make a bed?
How many? How many? How many voices does a choir make?
How many times have I cried for no reason?
How many times do I have to live?
How many times do I drown and stop breathing?
How much more do I have to give?
How many? How many? How many more nights will I sing with despair?”
I close my eyes. I hear her thoughts: ‘I hate you.’ She reaches for her journal and I witness her writing these words down for the first time. I watch her get up and turn off the lights in a vain attempt to fall asleep.
Unable to fall asleep, Ivory opens her eyes and looks into the darkness that fills the room.
Crying, I hear her recite the following out loud:
“Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.
Every night, I make this wish.
The same wish I wished last night, I wish tonight.
I wish this wish and I will wish with all my might, that one day this wish would come true.
Tonight I wish the wish I wish. The wish I wish will be wished only once.
I wish only tonight, I wish only now. I wish I didn’t have to keep wishing, but for right now I must wish with all my might.
The wish I am now wishing is a wish I hold dear. Keep my wish safe, hold my wish tight.
I wish my wish, dear star, would come true. I wish up to heaven that you wish so too.
I will not wish my wish again so listen close, listen closely to my wish tonight.
Grant my wish I wish, grant this wish so that I won’t wish again.
Tonight I shall sleep. Tomorrow I shall smile.
Forever I shall forget, this wish I had to wish.
Make my wish come true star bright. Make my wish come true tonight.
Grant my wish so that I will wish no longer.
If you cannot grant this wish I wish tonight, if you cannot grant this wish I wish with all my might, I will still believe in the power in sight.
Starlight, star bright, make my wish come true, but if that you can’t do, I will still believe and I will forever fight. I wish, I wish, I wish tonight, I wish, I wish, I wish to one night sleep tight.
Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight.
I wish I could, I wish I would, never have to wish at night.”

I heard her. I’ve said those words. I leaned over to my nightstand and opened the door. I fumbled through the stacks and stacks of diaries that I have kept over the years; and there it is. Black with a white background. A big pink flower drawn on the front cover; my first diary. I flip through to find the page where I transcribed this wish. I recited this wish every night before I went to bed…. It never came true.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It’s Sunday. I can’t stop thinking. My thoughts are empty but that doesn’t mean I am not thinking. It’s blue this time. A deep, dark, royal blue. Not purple anymore. Just blue. It was blue, and it had silver lining. A coherent thought. A collected image. Ah! I did it. Mission accomplished. That was fairly simple. I close my eyes again. This time I try to look a little deeper. A tube. A dark tube. It has no ending. I am going deep into my mind. Heavy breathing. It’s hot. It is getting really hot. My eyes are rolling. My hands are shaking. I am, in one lucid moment, successfully unscrambling the scattered words that float through my mind- images, thoughts, words, feelings: I am controlling them; I am producing them.
I am sitting in a coffee shop attempting to get in touch with myself. A sort of meditation if you will. I intend to exercise my brain until I can finally say that I can control what goes on inside of it. I will control what I see, and how I see it. I want to be lucid. It can be done. But right now, all I see is a short blonde pregnant woman. She is pushing a stroller across the street. She isn’t looking where she is going. I am watching out for her. It’s a busy street, but she will be ok. It’s a girl.
The baby she is carrying inside of her is a little girl. I can see her now. Eight pounds six ounces. A beautiful, smiling girl. She is going to make everyone so happy. Her grandparents wanted a little girl. Her brother wants a sister. Her family will be so happy. She will be so happy…
Her mother is a good mother. She will love her. Everyone will love her. Love will always find her. It isn’t love she needs.
The baby she is carrying is a girl. I don’t know how I know. I just do.
Poor little girl. She is going to grow up to twirl.

ACT SIXTEEN
Ivory’s bedroom
Ivory sprawled out across her bed, heaving; fully immersed in crying. She slowly tucks her knees into her chest and fits herself tightly into fetal position. She continues to cry, but her cries begin to simmer. She reaches for her computer, turns it on and starts typing. She grabs a tissue to wipe her face; she blows her nose and resumes typing. Typing for merely a few moments, she abruptly closes the screen, as though she couldn’t concentrate on the trite she was working on, and pushes it to the end of her bed. She folds the blanket over and steps out of bed. She walks over to the mirror where she stares at her face. She is pale from having cried all day. Her eyes are puffy and she is in a disheveled state.
She plays music. She walks away from the stereo and makes her way to the center of her room- she begins dancing. A slow and classical point of her toes, tracing its way in circles along the floorboard. She lifts for a degage and repeats on the other side. Her hands lift in front of her and she opens the right arm to the side, leaving the left one in place. Her head falls to her neck softly and with control she stands on point and readies herself for a turn. She dances like this for about three counts of eight when the phone rings. She doesn’t quite let her dance be broken by the sound of her phone- mostly because she is locked in a trance- it is broken after about four rings. She looks around for her phone and walks over to it. She answers the call and lowers the music.

She: Hello?
Dr. Tyler: Hi, may I speak with Ivory please?
She: This is Ivory. Dr. Tyler? (recognizes his voice)
Dr. Tyler: Yes, hello Ivory. I am calling to speak to you about Monday’s appointment. How have you been, by the way?
She: I’m fine. Um, so Monday… (she says with trepidation)
Dr. Tyler: Yes, how do you feel about Monday? Should we say two hours?

She is about to answer him with an “OK,” however he cuts her response time short and quickly continues.

Dr. Tyler: Or, like I mentioned, are you unwilling to continue with our work? I in no way would want to force more therapy onto you, so I want you to know that I am offering more time simply as an option but stopping our work is an option as well if you would like.
She: Um, (confused, doesn’t know how to approach the situation. She would like to tell him she wants to go for the two-hour augmentation, but instead she opts for quitting). I’ve been fine lately. I think, maybe, I’m, um, I think- I don’t need to come in anymore, really (playing with her lips nervously, she shrugs her shoulders).
Dr. Tyler: All right, if that is the course of action you would like to take, I can’t force you to continue on with me. You do know what is best. Listen, if you need a number to any other doctor, or if you simply want to chat with me- you know where to call. Don’t be shy now. All right?
She: Thank you (shyly).
Dr. Tyler: All righty then, Ivory (a smile is obviously conveyed through his speech even though we can’t see his face over the phone). Have a nice day and be in touch!
She: OK, thanks Dr. Tyler.

Ivory hangs up the phone and holds it in her hands for a moment. She is considering the conversation she just had. Her head begins to nod off; she bites the insides of her cheeks anxiously. The breath through her nose gets louder and more erratic as tears fill her eyes once again. She throws her hand over her face and her shoulders hover over her body, she cries. She keeps her eyes closed and after only a brief, but deep cry, she calms herself into a rhythmic breath. She stands still letting the low music that continued playing throughout to soothe her. She sways slowly. Her eyes still shut; she lifts her arms over her head and allows them to fall down to her side as her upper body swings down to fold at the hips. Her legs tight in place she repeats this swinging movement. She breathes loudly and methodically as she repeats this movement again one more time. The phone rings again. On an upward swing she allows her hands to rest on her head, as she takes in one last breath, opens her eyes and walks over to where she had placed the phone. She looks at the call trace and answers the phone.

She: Hi mom (gaily, yet feigningly).
Vivian: Darling (singing). How are you today?
She: I’m good! What’s up?
Vivian: Ugh! I’m trying to get this damn speakerphone to work, but I just don’t- ugh! (static takes over the conversation)

Ivory looks annoyingly to her phone and stands still waiting for her mom to figure out how to use her cell phone.

She: Mom? Mom! Mom, I’m kind of busy can I call you ba-

The phone hangs up. Ivory looks at her phone and sees that they were cut off, or of course, her mother’s fidgeting cost them the call. A few seconds later the phone rings again.

She: Mom? Hi, I was just saying, I’m kind of busy, is it all right if I-
Vivian: Sorry sweetie, it’s my phone, I just don’t know how to use all of the buttons yet, you know? Anyway, I’m just gonna use it the old-fashion way. So what’s up today? (hadn’t heard a word about Ivory saying she was busy).
She: Nothing (irritated). I said before, I have a couple of things to do and I am just in the middle of something.
Vivian: Oh! Well, I don’t want to bother you, but will you be coming around today? I am leaving on a business thing and I wanted to see you before I go.
She: I have school all day and an exam I need to study for. I don’t know. I’m actually just writing an essay right now, so- (looking around, looking for more lies to tell).
Vivian: (not listening) ugh! I have another call. How do I-? (grunt, moan) How do I, oh there-
Vivian’s voice disappears as she clearly figured out how to answer call waiting. Ivory tiredly takes a couple steps and falls onto her bed. She puts her hand to her forehead, annoyed that her mother has placed her involuntarily on hold. Vivian returns, and Ivory sits up.

Vivian: Sorry, sweetie. It was my assistant (sigh). So much to do. So wanna grab lunch? What are you doing all day?
She: I have work to do. I’m studying (extremely annoyed at her mother’s inability to pay attention)
Vivian: What are you studying for? You’re still taking class?
She: Yes (in an “are-you-serious” tone). Mom, I have so much to do, can we speak after?
Vivian: Sure. Let me know when you are ready for a break. I am in your area. I could come scoop you right away if you want. A girl’s gotta eat! Call me OK, sweetie?
She: OK mom (trying to get off the phone).
Vivian: Love you! (kissing sound)
She: Bye.

Ivory hangs up the phone. Let’s her head fall back and she rolls it from side to side. She pulls both hands together behind her and reaches for a good stretch. She breathes standing still. She brings her hands to her eyes, exasperatedly wipes them and continues rubbing them. She sits back on her bed and props her chin up with her fisted hand. She sits in contemplation. Her eyes are staring and her thoughts are scattered. After a moment, her body slumps down and she falls to the floor. She begins to cry once again. This time, she doesn’t try to stop herself. She cries and cries and cries. She has no plans to stop. The music fills the room, gradually getting louder and fading the sound of her wails out of the room. The lights turn off.


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My stories never make sense to me. I think ‘maybe if I write this down it will help. I will be able to put things in order.’ Make an outline and follow time; just let my story unfold naturally, chronologically. That won’t happen. The only way for my story to be told is if I allow it to tell itself. That won’t happen either. I need to find a way to tell it. I’m in charge. Just write your story. This is a problem: I am not trying to tell a story. I am attempting to rewrite my life; edit my life.
Ivory woke up one morning and with one swift motion, she jumped out of bed and got dressed. She ran down the stairs and kissed her mom good morning, waved to her mom and smiled at her brother. “Good morning!” Today was a good morning. Today she was going to smile and the world would smile back.
She didn’t feel better today than she did any other day, but she found a great way of pretending. Last night, while sitting by her bed, lamp on, reading Shakespeare’s As You Like It. She reads: “All the world’s a stage. And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts…” She immediately reached over into her night table and took out her journal; she transcribed the words, repeating them to herself aloud: “All the world’s a stage. And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts…”
Today was going to be the first day of her new life. The world is a stage, the world is a stage, the world is a stage. Ivory thought: ‘If the world is a stage then all I have to do is act.’
I know that the reason she would start acting is because if she can’t make the pain go away, she would have to pretend as though it never existed. The first step is laid down: a future of buried memories.
My story is starting to come together. I think we all know where it begins.

THE END

Dreaming in Love Coloured Kisses

PART ONE
Love doesn’t live here
His mouth touched mine. I felt his lips: soft, wet, pulsating against mine. His breath sent shivers down my neck as his tongue glided effortlessly up toward my bottom lip. Our eyes, closed. My breath was long and hard- I lifted my arm and wrapped it around his neck as the palm of my hand found its place hugging his nape. Panting heavily, we opened our mouths and felt each other’s emanating heat.
He kissed my mouth. His breath: hot. He made my body quiver. My head dropped back as his tongue traced its way along the contours of my body. He kissed me, and as he did so my body convulsed. Arched, trembling and sweltering, my body felt the radiation that seeped from his touch. I danced with him as his tongue outlined every inch of my skin. My body moved with his in synchronization impossible to feign. He possessed me. He possessed me with a pulsing heat that made my body soak.
I opened my eyes and saw him staring back at me. His gaze locked me into his power as our connection lifted us up, up, up and away. My heart burnt open as my dream fleshed out.
My eyes bled.

His love for me is marked by a tumultuous intensity surpassed only by my dream. If it were shared by us both it would consume our lives and thrust us into a world that would exist only for us; a world that would exist a thousand feet above the clouds. He wanted to take me there, but I don’t feel his love in my heart. I don’t feel this love he describes. I share my life with a love that lives behind my eyes; a love that will never cease, a love that I choose and a love that can’t die. I share my love with a man who exists only to me and solely for me.

The man in my life died that morning. The cause: love. As I opened my eyes the sound of rain consumed me. He lay there. He had stopped breathing.
I allowed myself to slip back into a gentle daze. I closed my eyes and was immediately devoured- he was waiting for me as he always is. Our love was unconditional. I wish to never wake. My life here is eternal; our love persists everlastingly. I want to remain in this mundane state so as to live in my mind, that is where my true love reigns.
Every morning when dawn breaks my eyes well up with the tears that make my heart cry.
Why must I wake when I have chosen my destiny?

PART TWO
Dreams don’t lie
The morning poured its way into our room lending itself to the corner of the bed, now bright and sunlit. My hand lay spread open across his chest. It left a print upon his heart. I awoke stiffed-neck; I had lain propped in his nook, resting my ear to listen to the beat that pulsed through us both. I opened my eyes and looked up at my lover. He lay there, resting and quiet, still asleep. As I stretched my body with a gentle morning sigh, my lips parted and leaned over to kiss his mouth. I drew my left arm out from under the blanket and set it softly to join the other on his chest. I lifted my body to spread across his. Clasped at the hand, I interlaced my fingers and made a groove where my chin fit so I would be face to face with my lover. Eyes open, I gazed into the world we created. Without awakening, he held up his right arm and slid his fingers up along mine. When he traced his way to my shoulder he allowed his fingers to move drawing the figure eight along the centre of my back. He caressed my bare skin with desire and persuasion. As his touch turned passionate, the heat in my body arose. My pores tingled and slowly began to emit that smell that he cannot resist. My head threw back. His arms contouring the shape of my body, he placed my body under his and he kissed my neck. He traced his lips smoothly behind my ear, exhaling ever so slightly as he made it to the small spot under my earlobe. His touch grew increasingly passionate as his hands uncontrollably lifted up me from the small of my back. He propelled me into the air and tucked our bodies away under the blanket. His breath expedited to a ravaging pace. He no longer fancied flirtatious tickling. He no longer wanted to play a game of coquettish arousal. It was time. He wanted me. He wanted all of me. He wanted to feel me. He needed to feel me. He had to feel me feel him as though I belonged to him. He slipped himself inside of me.
I slept undisturbed that night. I drifted through a quiet sleep and floated up, up, up and away into the kingdom of dreams. I met him there. That is where it all began, in a land of wonderment and marvel. We met and with one simple touch we fell in love.
As the morning light poured its way into my bedroom that morning, I awoke. I awoke from a far away place that left my body wet and overheated. I awoke ever so gently and as I swept away the tears that formed in the corner of my eyes I swept away the tears that broke my dream.

I have only dreamt of love- only existing in my oneiric world. The love that is expelled into the united few has not touched my waking life. Behind closed eyes I felt those gripping hands that forced my body to surrender to a power that possessed me entirely. Unbeknownst to my conscious state, I met him only in my sleep, and so it went that I dreamed to never wake.
A romanticized love, a sensation of magnanimous proportion, a feeling not attainable in the waking world. He existed only to me. He existed solely for me. But he existed in another world.
I set a stage for us where love can’t die; a stage that lives only to harness our love. The music created from the pulse of our hearts and the depth of our breath plays perpetually as a soundtrack to our unending lovemaking. Eternity is the only measure of time in which our love bloomed and so it would be that it would never wither. Forever is a measure the waking world cannot offer.
I slipped into my warm bed and lay my head on my pillow. I meditated into a state of heightened slumber. As I drifted off, I saw him, waiting for me to return. He reached out for me. We locked in an embrace; our bodies held each other tightly. Bound by tenderness, our bodies melded together disregarding the corporeal we were elevated toward the ethereal. His touch kept me breathing. The sensation kept me alive.
I tilted my head as I stared at his face, my body positioned in reflection of his. I listened to our heart’s beat; I felt our breath’s heat.
He lay next to me as the morning rain hit my windowpane. I opened my eyes and there he was. Next to me. A perilous feeling resounded and shattered our dreamlike connection- it violently raced through me as I lost the ability to touch his body. My fingers swept slowly across his navel but this time I did not feel the energy that forever qualified our inseparability. Instead, I could only feel his physical body at the tips of each one of my fingers. I felt his skin brushing against my hand with every stroke. I felt the cold that divided us.
The beat of my heart syncopated; I braved to look into his eyes, but my gaze was not met. He was not the man of my dreams he was just the love of my life.

I inhaled my last waking breath, I have chosen my fate.