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minervasoloMy livejournal has been dead for daos, but now my FList leaps into life?
Writing Soc still very much rules. All very bohemian. Read out... a fic I don't have up at SigKinks. Huh. It's a good story. Of course, I can't update it at the mo, and the style sheets don't work on FireFox so I need to redesign (or, hinthint, someone else might feel the need to redesign. I need a larger menu this time!). Heard more of Armitage Shanks and His Living Hair (found out now it is hair on his head, not hare as in mistaken for bunny).
Oh, and spekaing of bunny's...
We shall call him Ben the bunni, as he once signed a text like that. Tonight, he is stoned. Tonight, he has called me multiple times, having borrowed my number off my sister's phone. Tonight we had a rather odd conversation.
I find him very amusing. He's an ex, except, well, that seems like too important a term. Our relationship went thusly:
December 2001 (FotR first showing, might have been 2000) he asked me out via text
January 2002 he rang me. First time we'd talked since he asked me out. Told me he'd cheated on me with a girl 5 years younger than him (he's a year older than me). Told me he wanted me to meet his parnts, since we'd been 'going out' for over a month
january/febuary - our one and only date. We saw Shrek at the saturday morning cinema (you know, the showiongs usually reserved for weekend dads who can't think of anything else). That was it.
Valentine's day - I texted him, and got no reply. A mate sent a rather more abusive text we both found hilarious. Referencing the Bunni thing.
Tonight would be the first time I've talked to him since ^_^ He thought the last time we saw each other was FotR. He had no idea about the Vday text, after which I gave up on him entirely and told people about him so we could laugh togther. The other day he ended up having dinner with my mum and Chloe. Mum thought he fancied Chloe.
See subject for my reaction to pretty much every event listed so far.
‘Til Death Do Us Part
This is a dream. We can both acknowledge that, can’t we? After all, I am dead. You made sure of that. And there’s not a lot going on apart from me, here, talking to you. My body’s where you left it, well, where I left, so you can discount any supernatural means of communication. It’s just a dream, obviously. Although I suppose having the woman you murdered sitting calm as calm in your subconscious counts as a nightmare. You can call it guilt, if you want.
I know you don‘t feel bad. You never did. You were always one of those people who put the past behind them so quickly. You stopped caring about me years ago. No amount of false smiles and fake endearments could disguise that. No matter how often you brought me breakfast in bed, or took me out for dinner, or bought me necklaces and lingered as you put them around my neck, I knew. I might as well have married a statue for all the love you felt for me.
Was it really just for the money? Was that all there ever was to it? No, don’t answer. I don’t think I want to know.
You’ve blocked a lot of that night from your mind. Interesting, that… Shall I remind you? I think it’s worth going over. I don’t like to think of you pretending it never happened. What can I say? I’ve got a vengeful streak. If you’d put a bit of effort into our relationship you would have known that.
January. Cold, dark, beautiful. I never understood how you could hate this cottage. Perched on the edge of the loch, wonderful scenery, so austere, so isolated… You like people, you like being kept busy, so you don’t have to think. Of course, the isolation made it all so much easier. I think it was the only time you appreciated my choice in real estate.
I honestly can’t believe I trusted you. I just can’t believe it never occurred to me to doubt you. I knew you were cheating on me, with that secretary of yours. Oh, sorry, ‘personal assistant’. Really, could you be any more of a cliché? If I had ever written about a character like you, I’d be accused of making you too two-dimensional and, well, cliché. A stereotype. You married me for money and then had an affair with some barely legal blonde. She’s young enough to be your daughter!
Do you remember telling me that you’d already been out, that it was warm? Do you remember telling me that a moonlit boat ride was just what our marriage needed? So romantic, so beautiful. I thought you were coming round, I thought you finally understood what I saw in this place. You put your arm around my shoulders and led me out into the night, down the little wooden jetty and into that rowing boat you’ve been nagging me for years to get rid of. I thought it was picturesque, remember?
It wasn’t cold, not really. I mean, this is Scotland, and it is midwinter. Of course it was nippy. But still, for the time of year, it wasn’t bad. You were wearing the coat I bought you last Christmas. Nice touch, though I see you’ve thrown it away now. We shared that champagne, and we ate caviar and white chocolate. I’ve watched you try and convince her that the combination is delicious. Good luck on that one.
It was good champagne. As I lay dying, I wondered if you had drugged it, but we both know what my tolerance is like on an empty stomach. Of course, you could afford the best, or would be able to soon.
Did you watch the weather forecast? Did you know the lake would freeze? Or was that just dumb luck? The only kind of luck you’ve ever had. I thought you were perfect. You were always there, you held me, you comforted me, you were my best friend for so many years. When my father died, you didn’t even ask about the inheritance. I told you, idiot me, I told you he had repented and I had the money. I told you I was rich. You smiled and told me about your latest money making scheme. We were both going to be independently wealthy, you assured me.
You encouraged me to write. I wonder how many stories you read for me, during those dim years. Tell me honestly, did you enjoy that? I wouldn’t have asked if I thought you didn’t, but you always seemed so keen. When that first acceptance letter came through, you were the one to hold the party, remember? The same champagne as the night you proposed, and the night you killed me. Would it have killed you to introduce a little variety every now and then?
I noticed, you know, that you weren’t drinking. But then, you never were one for bubbly. Pity. I should have mentioned it, made you get at least a little tipsy, but retrospect’s a bitch like that. And then, oh then, you said, and I can remember your precise words: “What would you say to a little skinny dipping?”
And I said yes.
In winter.
In Scotland.
You know, I think you did drug the alcohol. No matter how far gone I am I generally have a better sense of self-preservation than that.
How could you do it? Not kill me, you’re a bastard like that. How could you make love to me in the loch while she waited inside, while you planned my death, while I thought that maybe, just maybe, we had a chance? That’s cruel on an entirely different level.
I have to hand it to you, it was well planned. I’m not a good swimmer, we both sleep walk, I get drunk so easily, and the weather was just the crowning glory. I wanted to divorce. Why couldn’t we have just divorced? If I’d known you were going to go quite so far to get the money I’d have given it to you. My career was finally taking off, I could support myself. All I wanted was that one cottage by the loch and something to write with. All you wanted was to be kept in the manner to which you had become accustomed and to sleep with teenage girls. I didn’t want to die. Would you?
You don’t know what it’s like, you couldn’t imagine how painful and frightening it is, dying like that. What do you suppose happened? I drowned? No, I didn’t drown. Not what you think of as drowning, anyway. I’m not a strong swimmer, but the loch was calm and I managed to stay upright. You, of course, you could swim like an Olympic athlete. Back to the boat, and then row, row, row your boat gently back to shore. And me, screaming for you to come back, panicking in the icy water, begging and pleading and offering you everything just to come and get me. I wouldn’t tell a soul, I’d give you the house and the money and the divorce, I’d never bother you again, I’d be your willing slave…
You didn’t come back. I had to keep swimming to keep warm, but it’s indescribable, the way the cold sneaks up on you. Things go numb, things tingle, your bones hurt, you feel tired, your head hurts, your lungs hurt, the energy just goes. But I kept swimming. Did you freak out when you saw how close to the shore I got? Probably not. After all, if I had sleepwalked into the loch, how would I have managed to get so far out, with my poor swimming skills?
I swim better underwater. It was a risk, but by the time I saw the jetty it was one I was willing to take. I felt like some mythical creature, naked and wet, some mermaid or siren. So under I went, writhing and kicking and sinuous, slipping through the water so much faster. There’s a power associated with it, a goddess’s power. I felt immortal, despite the fact I knew I was dying. Just a few more metres, and I’d be free.
The sun was coming up, did you know that? When I came up for air and met a solid wall, the sun was coming up. Through the clouded ice I saw the grey light of dawn. I saw you walk out to the jetty, though you didn’t see me, I saw you put your arm around her and tell her it was done. And I screamed.
Everyone has to make one fatal mistake, and that was mine. My lungs filled up with water, full of stabbing slivers, and no matter how hard I clawed at the ice, I was too tired and cold to break through even that meagre layer. I didn’t get a chance to claw long, and it didn’t even occur to me to swim back and find the edge. I don’t think I even knew my own name by that point.
Let me show you the spot again. The ice hasn’t melted yet, has it? The police came that morning and studied it, and you told them I sleep walked, and you told them I wasn’t a strong swimmer, and you cried. Crocodile tears, you wept. And I was there, blue and bloated beneath the ice, nails bloody and torn, naked body almost translucent. And the ice above me was scratched and scarred. Look at it. It still is, isn’t it?
Am I still there? Is that my corpse, nibbled and mangled by underwater creatures? So I am, so it is. Ice too thick to sail through. Ice too thin to walk on. I’ll be there until it thaws. Clawed and scratched and there just there, is a tiny gap where I actually broke through, but it was too late then. Bubbles under the ice, my final breaths trapped with me. No wonder she wants to get out of here as soon as possible.
Why, you’re crying! Real tears, too. Not grief, no, you mourned my passing before you even began plotting it, but fear. Why are you so scared, precious? It’s just a nightmare. You’ll wake up and she’ll be there to comfort you and tell you it’s just this place that’s making you dream about me, that you’ll leave as soon as the investigation is over and my awful, awful corpse is gone.
Though really, you shouldn’t have brought her. Amateur mistake. I suppose you had no choice but to ‘return to the scene of the crime’, but things would have been better if you left her in London. As soon as they worked out you were having an affair they realised you had a motive to murder me. And I know something you don’t: they found the empty champagne bottle yesterday, and I split some in the boat. Now they’re getting really suspicious.
But you don’t have to worry about that sort of thing.
She would be right, you know, it is just a nightmare. But had you forgotten? You sleepwalk too.
Read to be bitter, nagging (apparantly!) and having just a bit too much fun towards the end. Again, bwahahaha.
Writing Soc still very much rules. All very bohemian. Read out... a fic I don't have up at SigKinks. Huh. It's a good story. Of course, I can't update it at the mo, and the style sheets don't work on FireFox so I need to redesign (or, hinthint, someone else might feel the need to redesign. I need a larger menu this time!). Heard more of Armitage Shanks and His Living Hair (found out now it is hair on his head, not hare as in mistaken for bunny).
Oh, and spekaing of bunny's...
We shall call him Ben the bunni, as he once signed a text like that. Tonight, he is stoned. Tonight, he has called me multiple times, having borrowed my number off my sister's phone. Tonight we had a rather odd conversation.
I find him very amusing. He's an ex, except, well, that seems like too important a term. Our relationship went thusly:
December 2001 (FotR first showing, might have been 2000) he asked me out via text
January 2002 he rang me. First time we'd talked since he asked me out. Told me he'd cheated on me with a girl 5 years younger than him (he's a year older than me). Told me he wanted me to meet his parnts, since we'd been 'going out' for over a month
january/febuary - our one and only date. We saw Shrek at the saturday morning cinema (you know, the showiongs usually reserved for weekend dads who can't think of anything else). That was it.
Valentine's day - I texted him, and got no reply. A mate sent a rather more abusive text we both found hilarious. Referencing the Bunni thing.
Tonight would be the first time I've talked to him since ^_^ He thought the last time we saw each other was FotR. He had no idea about the Vday text, after which I gave up on him entirely and told people about him so we could laugh togther. The other day he ended up having dinner with my mum and Chloe. Mum thought he fancied Chloe.
See subject for my reaction to pretty much every event listed so far.
‘Til Death Do Us Part
This is a dream. We can both acknowledge that, can’t we? After all, I am dead. You made sure of that. And there’s not a lot going on apart from me, here, talking to you. My body’s where you left it, well, where I left, so you can discount any supernatural means of communication. It’s just a dream, obviously. Although I suppose having the woman you murdered sitting calm as calm in your subconscious counts as a nightmare. You can call it guilt, if you want.
I know you don‘t feel bad. You never did. You were always one of those people who put the past behind them so quickly. You stopped caring about me years ago. No amount of false smiles and fake endearments could disguise that. No matter how often you brought me breakfast in bed, or took me out for dinner, or bought me necklaces and lingered as you put them around my neck, I knew. I might as well have married a statue for all the love you felt for me.
Was it really just for the money? Was that all there ever was to it? No, don’t answer. I don’t think I want to know.
You’ve blocked a lot of that night from your mind. Interesting, that… Shall I remind you? I think it’s worth going over. I don’t like to think of you pretending it never happened. What can I say? I’ve got a vengeful streak. If you’d put a bit of effort into our relationship you would have known that.
January. Cold, dark, beautiful. I never understood how you could hate this cottage. Perched on the edge of the loch, wonderful scenery, so austere, so isolated… You like people, you like being kept busy, so you don’t have to think. Of course, the isolation made it all so much easier. I think it was the only time you appreciated my choice in real estate.
I honestly can’t believe I trusted you. I just can’t believe it never occurred to me to doubt you. I knew you were cheating on me, with that secretary of yours. Oh, sorry, ‘personal assistant’. Really, could you be any more of a cliché? If I had ever written about a character like you, I’d be accused of making you too two-dimensional and, well, cliché. A stereotype. You married me for money and then had an affair with some barely legal blonde. She’s young enough to be your daughter!
Do you remember telling me that you’d already been out, that it was warm? Do you remember telling me that a moonlit boat ride was just what our marriage needed? So romantic, so beautiful. I thought you were coming round, I thought you finally understood what I saw in this place. You put your arm around my shoulders and led me out into the night, down the little wooden jetty and into that rowing boat you’ve been nagging me for years to get rid of. I thought it was picturesque, remember?
It wasn’t cold, not really. I mean, this is Scotland, and it is midwinter. Of course it was nippy. But still, for the time of year, it wasn’t bad. You were wearing the coat I bought you last Christmas. Nice touch, though I see you’ve thrown it away now. We shared that champagne, and we ate caviar and white chocolate. I’ve watched you try and convince her that the combination is delicious. Good luck on that one.
It was good champagne. As I lay dying, I wondered if you had drugged it, but we both know what my tolerance is like on an empty stomach. Of course, you could afford the best, or would be able to soon.
Did you watch the weather forecast? Did you know the lake would freeze? Or was that just dumb luck? The only kind of luck you’ve ever had. I thought you were perfect. You were always there, you held me, you comforted me, you were my best friend for so many years. When my father died, you didn’t even ask about the inheritance. I told you, idiot me, I told you he had repented and I had the money. I told you I was rich. You smiled and told me about your latest money making scheme. We were both going to be independently wealthy, you assured me.
You encouraged me to write. I wonder how many stories you read for me, during those dim years. Tell me honestly, did you enjoy that? I wouldn’t have asked if I thought you didn’t, but you always seemed so keen. When that first acceptance letter came through, you were the one to hold the party, remember? The same champagne as the night you proposed, and the night you killed me. Would it have killed you to introduce a little variety every now and then?
I noticed, you know, that you weren’t drinking. But then, you never were one for bubbly. Pity. I should have mentioned it, made you get at least a little tipsy, but retrospect’s a bitch like that. And then, oh then, you said, and I can remember your precise words: “What would you say to a little skinny dipping?”
And I said yes.
In winter.
In Scotland.
You know, I think you did drug the alcohol. No matter how far gone I am I generally have a better sense of self-preservation than that.
How could you do it? Not kill me, you’re a bastard like that. How could you make love to me in the loch while she waited inside, while you planned my death, while I thought that maybe, just maybe, we had a chance? That’s cruel on an entirely different level.
I have to hand it to you, it was well planned. I’m not a good swimmer, we both sleep walk, I get drunk so easily, and the weather was just the crowning glory. I wanted to divorce. Why couldn’t we have just divorced? If I’d known you were going to go quite so far to get the money I’d have given it to you. My career was finally taking off, I could support myself. All I wanted was that one cottage by the loch and something to write with. All you wanted was to be kept in the manner to which you had become accustomed and to sleep with teenage girls. I didn’t want to die. Would you?
You don’t know what it’s like, you couldn’t imagine how painful and frightening it is, dying like that. What do you suppose happened? I drowned? No, I didn’t drown. Not what you think of as drowning, anyway. I’m not a strong swimmer, but the loch was calm and I managed to stay upright. You, of course, you could swim like an Olympic athlete. Back to the boat, and then row, row, row your boat gently back to shore. And me, screaming for you to come back, panicking in the icy water, begging and pleading and offering you everything just to come and get me. I wouldn’t tell a soul, I’d give you the house and the money and the divorce, I’d never bother you again, I’d be your willing slave…
You didn’t come back. I had to keep swimming to keep warm, but it’s indescribable, the way the cold sneaks up on you. Things go numb, things tingle, your bones hurt, you feel tired, your head hurts, your lungs hurt, the energy just goes. But I kept swimming. Did you freak out when you saw how close to the shore I got? Probably not. After all, if I had sleepwalked into the loch, how would I have managed to get so far out, with my poor swimming skills?
I swim better underwater. It was a risk, but by the time I saw the jetty it was one I was willing to take. I felt like some mythical creature, naked and wet, some mermaid or siren. So under I went, writhing and kicking and sinuous, slipping through the water so much faster. There’s a power associated with it, a goddess’s power. I felt immortal, despite the fact I knew I was dying. Just a few more metres, and I’d be free.
The sun was coming up, did you know that? When I came up for air and met a solid wall, the sun was coming up. Through the clouded ice I saw the grey light of dawn. I saw you walk out to the jetty, though you didn’t see me, I saw you put your arm around her and tell her it was done. And I screamed.
Everyone has to make one fatal mistake, and that was mine. My lungs filled up with water, full of stabbing slivers, and no matter how hard I clawed at the ice, I was too tired and cold to break through even that meagre layer. I didn’t get a chance to claw long, and it didn’t even occur to me to swim back and find the edge. I don’t think I even knew my own name by that point.
Let me show you the spot again. The ice hasn’t melted yet, has it? The police came that morning and studied it, and you told them I sleep walked, and you told them I wasn’t a strong swimmer, and you cried. Crocodile tears, you wept. And I was there, blue and bloated beneath the ice, nails bloody and torn, naked body almost translucent. And the ice above me was scratched and scarred. Look at it. It still is, isn’t it?
Am I still there? Is that my corpse, nibbled and mangled by underwater creatures? So I am, so it is. Ice too thick to sail through. Ice too thin to walk on. I’ll be there until it thaws. Clawed and scratched and there just there, is a tiny gap where I actually broke through, but it was too late then. Bubbles under the ice, my final breaths trapped with me. No wonder she wants to get out of here as soon as possible.
Why, you’re crying! Real tears, too. Not grief, no, you mourned my passing before you even began plotting it, but fear. Why are you so scared, precious? It’s just a nightmare. You’ll wake up and she’ll be there to comfort you and tell you it’s just this place that’s making you dream about me, that you’ll leave as soon as the investigation is over and my awful, awful corpse is gone.
Though really, you shouldn’t have brought her. Amateur mistake. I suppose you had no choice but to ‘return to the scene of the crime’, but things would have been better if you left her in London. As soon as they worked out you were having an affair they realised you had a motive to murder me. And I know something you don’t: they found the empty champagne bottle yesterday, and I split some in the boat. Now they’re getting really suspicious.
But you don’t have to worry about that sort of thing.
She would be right, you know, it is just a nightmare. But had you forgotten? You sleepwalk too.
Read to be bitter, nagging (apparantly!) and having just a bit too much fun towards the end. Again, bwahahaha.
