Essence Left My Heart Tonight

Mood: incredibly sad and regretful.

Lip-syncing: Avenged Sevenfold -- I Won't See You Tonight (Part 1) and all things A7X

------

How did you feel when you found out about JFK? The Beetles? Princess Diana? Because to me, it's happening again.

Seize the day or die regretting the time you lost

It's empty and cold without you here

Too many people to ache over

Music has always held mysterious power. It can raise you up to the highest of heights, and bring you down lower than you've thought. And for some, it can save. One of my favourite bands, Avenged Sevenfold, have on more than one occasion, healed my hurts and sorrows. They've helped me raise my head, and get out of bed, even when all I wanted to do was sleep and never wake up.

But now, who will ease the pain from Jimmy Sullivan's death?

December 28, 2009 is now forever embedded in my mind. James Owen Sullivan was found dead in his home in Huntington Beach. Sullivan, better known as "Jimmy" or "The Rev", was the drummer for Avenged Sevenfold.

Was...that's going to take some getting use to...

Perhaps it is unreasonable, stupid even, to feel such a connection to a person I was not friends with in reality. Last night, in the midst of my shock and anguish, people laughed and informed me I shouldn't take things so personally. I've been told, more than once, that my obsession with A7X is unhealthy.

But that is the mark of an A7X fan: we are fanatics. You don't like A7X without knowing about how Johnny Christ is "short shit", how Matt married his childhood friend Valary Dibenedetto, how Syn Gates loves Marlboros, how Zacky got a great dane puppy. You can recall the exact moments of, "You can't spell bass without ass," "Ya don't play guitar with ya neck bro, ya play it with your bum bum," and "I seriously listen to Barbie Girl by Aqua way too much." You probably even remember the time Matt's dog ate the 'special brownies'. The humour and open attitude of Avenged truly makes us fans feel like part of the experience, part of the family. They welcome fans with open arms and a few beers (or maybe absinthe). They may not have known each and every one, but each and every fan feels loved and accepted by the band.

"Just a spoonful of Jimmy helps the whole world go down."

Police are saying that he died of "natural causes". But what's natural about a 28 year old passing away suddenly? Of course, I'm just waiting for the accusations of abuse and addiction to start. Yet any true A7X fan would point to Jimmy's past to argue against it. That Fiction tattoo down his chest? That's not just for show; his life sometimes read more like a novel than any books you can pick up.

Sorrow sank deep inside my blood

All the ones around me, I cared for and loved

It's just hard to comprehend how such a lively, humorous person could just be gone like that. "The Rev is out of his mind in the most wonderful way," said Valary Dibenedetto; and he was. Watch the youtube videos, the behind-the-scene DVDs, the interviews. Rapping about grapes, buckets and sex? Claiming steak tacos hibernate? Chasing "stallion ducks"? The Rev certainly earned himself quite the reputation. He truly did give off the impression of being crazy.

Yet there is a fine line between insanity and brilliance. And Jimmy Sullivan didn't just walk it; he danced, jumped and cartwheeled along that line. The things he wrote, the words he sang, the songs he played, are just a glimpse of the creativity and innovation hidden inside his mind.

A mind that is now forever lost.

Music has truly lost one of its greats. I don't even want to think about the future of the band, the stories I write, or anything along those lines. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the Rev, drumming, screaming, singing, laughing , silly Rev, is no longer with us. My heart goes out to not only fans, but his family, his ever-loving Leana, and of course, his best friends and band mates.

So here's to you, Jimmy Sullivan. You were the reason we never missed a beat. May your double bass and blast beats rock Heaven's gates as much as our hearts.

Rest in Peace, James Owen Sullivan.

February 9, 1981 - December 28, 2009

A Silent Prayer

Mood: tired, frustrated.
Hating: 6 and half / 7 major assignments finished.
Loving: that, at least for today, everyone remembers...
Lip-syncing: Toya Alexis -- Highway of Heroes (Never Had A Chance to Say Goodbye)

------

It's the military, not the reporter, who has given us the freedom of the press. It's the military, not the poet, who has given us the freedom of speech. It's the military, not the politicians that ensures our right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It's the military who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag.

I cannot even begin to imagine what our brave soldiers have endured. I do, however, understand what they fight for. And for that, I shall be eternally grateful.

The solider stood and faced God,
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
"No, Lord, I guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.

"I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And I've often been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

"But, I never took a penny
That wasn't mine to keep.
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills just got too steep.

"And I've never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

"I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.

"If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected nor had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand."

There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the solider waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets;
You've done your time in hell."

To those who have sacrificed their lives, to those who survived, and to those who are serving...

Thank you.

I'm Crashing Down

Mood: weird.
Hating: well, this will be explained in a little bit.
Loving: the beautiful weather. Sure, I miss the humid, smoggy air for summer, but something is to be said about the brisk atmosphere of early fall...
Lip-Syncing: David Cook -- Avalanche

------

Writers don't make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It's terrible. But then again, we don't work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck's book across the room because we secretly wonder if God noticed our evil jealousy; or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch face down and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid he is going to dry up all our words because we envied some stupid man's stupid words. And for this, as I said before, we are paid about a dollar.

We are worth so much more.

I hate not having money though. I hate not being able to go to a movie or out for coffee. I hate that feeling at the ATM machine when, after getting some cash, the little receipt spits out; the one with the number on it. The telling number, the ever low number that translates into how many days I have left to feel comfortable. The ATM, to me, often feels like a slot machine. I walk up to it hoping to get lucky.

I feel like a complete loser when I don't have money. That's the real problem. I feel invalidated, as if the gods have not approved my existence, as if my allowance has been cut off because I disappointed my parents. It's ridiculous, the hold that finances can have.

We are worth the money we make. Isn't that the mentality that the society has instilled in us? Maybe this is just a North American thing; maybe people outside of Canada don't think about it. I don't know. But I think about it. I think I am worth what I earn.

Which makes me worth one dollar.

There's another issue though. I am irresponsible with money, if you want to know the truth. I don't have the money to buy big things -- thank God -- so I buy small things. I like new things too much. I like the way they smell, the way they feel. Just the other week, I went out to buy a belt. I needed a belt to go with the new dress that I bought. I got the dress to go with the brand-new pair of gladiator high heels that I had purchased. Therefore, I needed a new belt.

Thing is, I didn't really need the belt. I'm sure if I went in my closet, and searched for just 15 minutes, I probably would have been able to locate that box where my belts were stored. Then it'd just be a matter of picking and choosing. The same idea applies to the dress. But I had seen those shoes just a few days prior. I stood there looking at them, having come across them by accident, and I realized just how very much I needed them. And they were on sale! It was a sign. So I bought them.

Later on, as I was discussing my most recent purchase(s) with Johnny, a friend of mine, he asked if those shoes had really been necessary. I replied that yes, they were. I could wear them to the upcoming wedding we were attending. He then asked if I had an outfit to go with them. I realized that I needed an outfit to go with the shoes.

And the story continues in the same fashion. I only say all this to show that I have a problem with buying things I really don't need. I saw this documentary once about the brain that says habits are formed when the "pleasure centre" of the brain lights up as we do a certain behaviour. The documentary mentioned that some people's pleasure centres light up when they buy things. I wondered if my pleasure centre did that.

My best friend, Robbie, constantly tells me how terrible I am with the little money I have. I remember a conversation, in the recent past, where I mentioned that I was interested in buying a blouse (we don't get the opportunity to talk often, but sometimes he just wants to chat about mundane things; says it distracts from the exhausting routine of the military). I proceeded to describe the shirt, and told him I thought it was a good investment. I would be going for some job interviews soon, and it'd be useful to have. He just sort of sat there.

"Robbie, are you there?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"What?"

"Are you serious Kris? Are you going to waste perfectly good money on more clothes?"

"Well...uh..."

"Well, uh, that'd be a pretty dumb thing to do when there are children starving in India!"

I hate it when Robbie does this. Honestly, it can be so annoying. It's happened so often, that the little voice in my head -- you know, the one most people call a conscience -- has adopted the deep timbre and slight francophone accents of Robbie's voice.

Robbie's right about spending money though. He is right about pretty much everything. I've learned this the hard way. Maybe it's something in the water at that military base. He once challenged me to stop buying lunch. He said, if I were to save that twenty dollars a week I spent, and instead gave it to Northwest Medical Teams or Amnesty International, I would be saving lives. Literally. But that stupid pleasure centre goes off in my brain, and it feels like there is nothing I can do about it. I told Robbie about the pleasure centre, and how I needed to buy that shirt to make the pleasure centre light up again. He just took the phone away from his ear and beat it against his chair.

The thing about new things is, you feel new when you buy them. You feel as though you are somebody different. We are our possessions, you know. There are people who get addicted to buying new stuff. Things. Piles and piles of things. But the new things quickly become old things. We need new things to replace the old things.

I have a day job though. Well, I did. I use to work in a coffee shop. Then I played a couple of gigs with my minimal guitar skills. Then I sang with a band. Then I served tables at a restaurant. I only recently quit because I'll be starting school next week. Whenever someone would ask what I wanted to do, I thought I had an answer.

"Well, I want to be a writer," I'd say with a grin.

"Oh, that's lovely. What kind of writer?"

"Well..."

It's not that I have a preference of any sort. Fiction, non-fiction; essays, reports, short stories, plays; I enjoy them all. I tend to work with an idea, instead of a style. If an idea would play out better in a play, I'll write a play. If an expose would be better in a humorous coloumn, then that's what I'll do. I mean, I am going into school for writing. I just paid (well, the RESP my parents set up when I was born just paid) a deposit for tuition; trust me, I'm going to university. All that money is telling me I'm going to university.

But sometimes I wonder whether or not I truly am lazy. You know, legitimately, one-of-the-deadly-sins/sloth lazy. When you are a writer (or aspire to be one), you feel lazy even when you are working. Who gets paid to sit around in a coffee shop all day and type into a computer? But I do work, I kept telling myself. I showed up at the coffee shop/restaurant/studio/bar every shift, and in the evenings I would do to the coffee shop/bedroom/living room and write. I worked. I wrote. I drove myself crazy writing.

The thing is, I'm writing without a contract. So I'm not really writing for money; I'm writing in hopes of money. And when you are writing without a contract, you feel as though everything you say is completely worthless (technically, it is, until you get a contract).

You can write all day and still not feel like you have done anything.A person needs to do some work, needs to get his hands dirty and calloused. He (or she, as the case may be) needs to hammer his thumb every one in awhile. He needs to get tired at the end of the day. Not just mind-tired; body-tired too.

I'm not feeling body tired. Not lately. I've just been exhausted mentally. Yet I sit awake, at 3.00am, at 4.00am, at 5.00am, staring at my laptop screen. Too tired to write anymore, but not tired enough to go to bed. And now that I have no day-job, I just sit in front of my laptop and type again. I type and I type and I type. I'ved typed so much that I can't type anymore. I can't. I put so much effort into what I write that I've got nothing left now. So not only am I not physically tired, I don't have any money either. Except I can't validate myself with my regular passion and emotions speech, the one that says those things don't matter, since I'm doing what I love, because...I don't know anymore.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to write. I don't even know what to feel anymore. I'm so exhausted, so run-down, that I don't feel like a person anymore.

I'm in a bad place. And I'm not sure how to get out. What can a discouraged student do? Have I made the right choice?

Is being a writer really worth it?

I Have the Right to Die How I Wanna...

Mood: tired.
Hating: homework and insomnia.
Loving: pudding.
Lip-syncing: Avenged Sevenfold -- Brompton Cocktail

------

Life changes fast. You can miss it if you blink. Sixty seconds is a minute. Sixty minutes is an hour. Twenty four hours extends from day to night to day again. There are three hundred and sixty five days in a year.

That’s eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours that I can’t think straight. In my life, I try to approach every day like a milestone. But every new day is just a closer day to the end. You never know when it’s going to happen. All you’re planning, all you’re worrying, all gone in a second, a minute, an hour, a day.



I lie in bed at 2.00am. The clock ticks by, making normal seconds stretch on forever. I can’t sleep most nights, so I stare out the window and watch the moonlight flood into the room. I'm fascinated by the way it pools at the foot of my bed, caressing the sheets and the pile of laundry there. I don’t really know why, but when I close my eyes at night, I picture every aspect of my life. And I can’t deal with my dreams, or even my reality.

Sometimes I feel like screaming.

I feel like screaming so loud, that everyone should hear my pain. Should hear how I need help. I reach for an extended hand, but grasp nothing.

Sometimes I feel like screaming.

I feel like screaming so loud, that it's silent. The silence is overpowering, suffocating. I gasp for substance, for air; for anything. But once again there's nothing.

Sometimes I just feel like nothing.

I See What's Going Down...

Mood: incredibly lazy.
Hating: that I have no motivation to work on any of the 101 things I have to finish in the imminent future. Ah, the art of procrastination...I do believe I am most creative when I'm avoiding other work.
Loving: the beautiful snow that's falling tonight.
Lip-syncing: Red Jumpsuit Apparatus -- Face Down

------

Once Again

“I...I...” She couldn't figure out why, but the words couldn’t get past her lips. She had the perfect ones, but they just wouldn't come out. It didn’t matter. She knew that he would never listen. She should have known better. He growled low in his throat, before throwing the book in his hands at the lamp beside the living room couch, watching with satisfaction as it crashed to the ground and shattered across the hardwood floor, taking small chunks out of the smooth wood with its now jagged edges. She jumped, frightened by the aggression. He snarled at her then, and she quickly raised her eyes to meet his stormy glare.

“What?” He asked lowly, sending shivers of horror down her spine. She bit her lip, refusing to evoke his anger anymore. He smirked before striding over to her and slamming her into the adjacent wall. He grasped a handful of her long hair before sneering into her face.

“What? You have anything to say, you ungrateful little bitch?” He pulled, bringing her quivering face in closer. She dug her teeth into her lip even further. “What the fuck was running through that shit-filled head of yours? You thought what? If you tell that cunt, he’ll come running to the rescue? That jackass is an excuse for a man,” he raved at her, tightening his grip in her hair and yanking at her scalp.

“He’s not a-a...c-c...that. He’s th-the neighbour, and he j-just wanted to know-”

“It’s our life. What we do is none of his business,” he cut her off. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop the tears that were forming as his hold in her hair increased.

“It’s just that...well, he s-said he heard some sc-screaming from last night and he saw the-the...on my ch-cheek, and I couldn’t j-just lie to him, s-so...” she managed to get out before he seized just below her jaw and raised her higher. The foot height difference between the two didn’t seem to faze him as he drew her up to his level. She struggled not to choke, knowing it would only lead to more punishment.

“You couldn’t just lie to him?” He asked quietly. His low voice scared her more than the screaming had. She began to thrash about, violently trying to breathe. His fingers clenched, digging painfully into her throat. Tears ran down unbidden as her vision swam. He watched her for a moment, before snorting in disgust and releasing her. She slid down the wall, desperately gasping for air while running her hands along her neck, feeling the fingerprints beginning to swell already. At least her cheek and neck would have matching bruises. She glanced up through the mess of her long eyelashes to see him standing there, looming over her. Her breath caught in her throat, terrified of what was to come.

He took a deep breath, clenching his fist, before he closed his eyes and turned around, heading towards the door. She froze. No, he couldn’t walk away from her. Neither of them had ever walked away before. If he left, she would have no one. No one at all. She had always been abandoned by everyone else, until he came. Now he was there. Always there. She wanted him there. He had been angry with her before, but the mistakes were hers. He just had to show her what was right and wrong. She needed him to show her. She watched as he got closer and closer to the door. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. She jumped up then, dashing over, trying desperately to catch him before she was left alone. She grasped his arm to calm him down, but he let out a roar of outrage and swung around, punching her hard in the mouth. She collapsed to the ground cradling her jaw, staring up at him in surprise and unmasked fear. She scooted backwards until her back was propped up against the couch. There was no way to really tell at first glance, but her jaw seemed to be broken, rapidly swelling behind her tiny hands. He smiled evilly before reached down to grab the nearest object: a construction work boot. He often left his pair lying around the door when he got home, exhausted after a long day. Normally she would straighten up silently, having already prepared dinner, but her little trip to the hospital had ruined their routine. His face hardened as he thought about the neighbour taking her for medical attention. She had just let him touch her, like some commonplace whore. But she was his. No one else should ever even look at her. His grip tightened. Her eyes grew wide as she caught sight of what was in his hand, while he just smiled back and strolled up casually to her. He could see how she was shaking violently now, but no emotions except joy crossed his mind. She would never do anything like that again. He gestured for her to stand up, waiting impatiently while she achingly rose to her feet.

Raising his other hand, he watched as she cowered in front of him, before reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out his cigarettes and lighter. Carefully placing the unlit stick in his mouth, he stroked her face lovingly, watching her exhale of relief as she closed her eyes before hearing the snick of the lighter near her nose. Her eyes snapped back open and revealed more fear as he lit the cigarette between his lips, smoke swiveling up into the air of their house. Before she could draw in another breath, he slammed the heel of his boot into the other side of her face, her cries of pain giving him more and more pleasure.

Dropping the boot with the an echoing thud, he smiled as he took another breath of nicotine. She gave him a confused look, her back still pressed against the couch. He took a quick drag, before grabbing her right wrist in a vice-like grip. He smirked and pressed the cigarette to her arm, watching in satisfaction as her face contorted in horror as she tried to hold back her screams. After a few seconds, the stench of burning flesh and sulphur sickened him and he released her. He glanced down at the black ashes sitting on her bare arm as the tears poured down her face. Staring at the new set of marks on her, she didn’t notice him drop the cancer stick and reach for her face. She let out a whimper as he clenched her swollen jaw. Pulling her up to meet his lips roughly, he silenced her cries of pain. When he pulled away, her face was torn between conflicting emotions. Running a hand through her sweaty and now tangled locks, he let a genuine smile flicker across his face before sliding his hand down to pull her back to him. Kissing her passionately, he left her breathless as he tugged her body closer. Letting her lips go, he lowered his mouth to her neck, watching as he raised goosebumps along her skin. Faintly brushing his lips across the sensitive spot behind her ear, he whispered a faint, “I love you.” Hearing her sharp intake of breath, he smirked before stepping back and making his way up the wooden staircase. She crumpled to the ground then, her battered body shaking with broken sobs of confusion and torment once again.

------

A pebble in the water makes a ripple effect
Every action in this world will bear a consequence
If you wade around forever you will surely down
I see what's going down...
Do you feel like a man when you push her around?
Do you feel better now, as she falls to the ground?
Well, I'll tell you my friend
One day this world's gonna end
As your lies crumble down...

I Found Myself Listening...

Mood: confused, tired.
Hating: that I got nothing done today.
Loving: the amazingness known as chocolate.
Lip-syncing: Missy Higgins -- Where I Stood

------

Ah, the art of procrastination. I haven't written anything in quite awhile, mostly because I can't. I'm stuck. And yes, it sucks.

Despite the idea of the new year being a "blank canvas" and a "fresh start", I find myself despising the present. Call me ungrateful, but I really wish I was somewhere else right now. With the rush of work, bills, exams and university applications, I feel as though I have no time for myself. Thing is, I know that I'm not using my time to its fullest potential, so really I have no right to be complaining.

But is it so wrong it complain every once in awhile? I know that we're suppose to be optimistic, and love everything that we are given, yet I'm hard pressed to do this during an incredibly stressful time of year.

I like to think I'm a fairly happy person, with friends, family, a job and pretty much a well-rounded life. I like to laugh, dance like no one's watching, and all that jazz.

But aren't we all entitled to our rough days?

Is it really so wrong for me to want to, for once, wallow in self-pity? I'd like to dig out my bleak outlook mask and wear it for just for a little while.

You know, I really should be studying, or writing for my university applications. Yet here I sit, my thoughts straying to relationships and love again. It may have been brought on by reading a few of my friends' blogs (feel free to check out our joint blog: http://www.thethreemes.blogspot.com/), but I've caught myself contemplating my choices. With so many of my friends in long-term, fulfilling relationships, I sometimes feel like the odd one out. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about them, or feeling resentment towards them just because they've found someone special to share this part of life with. In fact, I'm thrilled. There are three or four weddings lined up for the upcoming summer.

I don't regret a lot of my choices. Life is shaped by choices, and you can't live your life forever looking back. But aren't I entitled to miss someone? Aren't I entitled to perhaps want something back? It's not that I don't appreciate those in my life now. I love them, for they are who they are, and they love me despite all they know. And I follow their advice, ignoring the little fluttering in my stomach at his name, ignoring the pain of seeing him, ignoring the bubbles of doubt creeping into me. I'm better off, right? I can't wallow in self-pity and loneliness, I can't wear that type of mask. That would be wrong.

But is it really so wrong for me to want him back?

------

Where I Stood by Missy Higgins

I don't know what I've done
Or if I like what I've begun
But something told me to run
And honey you know me it's all or none

There were sounds in my head
Little voices whispering
That I should go and this should end
Oh and I found myself listening

'Cause I dont know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cause she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood

See, I thought love was black and white
That it was wrong or it was right
But you ain't leaving without a fight
And I think I am just as torn inside

'Cause I dont know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cause she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood

And I won't be far from where you are if ever you should call
You meant more to me than anyone I ever loved at all
But you taught me how to trust myself and so I say to you
This is what I have to do

'Cause I dont know who I am, who I am without you
All I know is that I should
And I don't know if I could stand another hand upon you
All I know is that I should
'Cause she will love you more than I could
She who dares to stand where I stood
Oh, she who dares to stand where I stood

Close Encounters

Mood: tired; wanting to sing and randomly dance around...
Hating: that I'm procrastinating so badly even though I've got a hundred and one things to do...but writing stories is much more entertaining than working on ISUs
Loving: food, and the fact that class is almost over!
Lip-syncing: nothing; listening to the beeping of a stupid malfunctioning printer...I do, however, have Bon Jovi's Living On A Prayer stuck in my head...

-------

The car cruised along the empty roads, galloping along the stretch of concrete until it slowed to crunch upon the dirt of the unmarked roads ahead. Though it was nearing dark– it already being close to five– the sun shone its last few, cold, rays of light to illuminate the journey ahead. They drew her in. The fields on either side were empty save for the few grazing animals here and there, but she could see nobody other than herself, and, more importantly, she could see no other traffic up ahead. The road was free, free for her to drive as fast as she liked, for as long as she liked. Fiona's hand flexed on the steering wheel, her grip lingering on the handbrake as she brought the car to bite, feeling the engine lift as she raised her foot. This was the careful stage, careful to push the car just enough to gain speed, but not enough for it to roll down the hill and spoil all the fun of feeling it move rapidly underneath her. As she released the brake the car rolled foreword, slowly at first but quicker as she pushed the gas down, foot getting nearer to the floor, sixty kilometres per hour showed up on the display behind her hands. The blues, browns and greens around her started to morph into shapeless colours. Just a little bit faster. Her foot continued to apply pressure, closer to the floor.
Shift to third.
Eighty kilometres.
Shift to forth.
Ninety kilometres.
Shift to fifth.
She was nearing a hundred and ten; taking turns rapidly as the country road soared past. The CD from the radio blasted a guilty pleasure, with the voice of Bon Jovi screaming about living on a prayer. Fiona was living on a prayer right now, speeding down these roads like a bat out of hell and not even turning the radio down a little to hear of any oncoming traffic. Where was the joy in driving a car fast, but safely? If you were going to become a speed demon, you embraced the exhilaration that came from knowing, that with just one second, you could end your whole life. Blood coursed through her veins, pushed by the sheer adrenaline she was experiencing. She took the corner too quickly and for a moment the tires skidded on the dirt path and her stomach dropped. But just as quickly as quickly as the panic had settled into her, the tires evened out and both fears were gone. She was cruising smoothly once again.
Trees flew by, no longer being individual solid forms but becoming a blur of green and brown outside her windows, then disappearing to become dots in the side mirror. The road panned out before her, markings rapidly moving under the car, the wheels skimming over the rough ground, the colour of the car becoming crisp in the sunlight. This was what they made cars for. This car wasn't just functional, it was her baby, and it was her pride and joy. It got her from zero to sixty in less time than it took to even boil a damn kettle. She could even wind down the window to have the breeze whip through her hair, feel the freedom the road provided sliding along her skin. Her head bumped along to the next song on the CD, filling the car, vibrating through it as the bass shook the speaker in the back. For a brief moment she closed her eyes, letting her concentration hone in on the whir of the road below her. She was glad to have left the city behind, to leave the fumes, the noise, the shouts and the cries back in that circus of a town. The country roads were deserted, empty except for the animals in the field. They were back roads, marked only by the noise she made, like her own private part of the world. All her own to do what she liked.
Her hands gripped the wheel tighter. Her heart thundered in her chest, echoing in her ears despite her voice chanting along to the lyrics pouring from the speakers.
The roads were long and winding and as she rounded a wide bend she became faintly aware of another sound. It was coming along the narrow road, loud and obnoxious, not like her silent car. She caught sight of it as she rounded the bend, big yellow, machinery pushed together. A tractor? It glimmered in the gaps in the hedges and she slammed down hard on the brakes as it came into view, going slow but not slow enough for her have braked any sooner. The driver stared wide eyed, yanking the steering wheel and plowing into the hedges, while Fiona's car skidded to a stop, her front bumper going straight into a fence of bushes, the tractor barely cleared the front of the car.
The man in the tractor started to rave first, ranting and raving about kids driving too fast down the lanes, along with, "Haven't you seen the signs?!" His face had gone red and while Fiona felt slightly embarrassment she did nothing more than reverse carefully back up into the bushes and pray it was enough room for the tractor to drive by. The guy gave up shouting and set his gas before driving close into the bushes to clear the gap. Fiona sat in her car and once he was past let a small smile play onto her face. The smile turned into a grin, and after the grin she broke out into giggles. She was still giggling even as she set back off and decided to head home.

Fiona liked driving fast, but she was growing fond of close encounters too.



Dedicated to Fi, whom I miss very much <3