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Eyes Cast Downward- Memoir Excerpt

Originally hand written in July 2015 Late Spring of 2014.  Just Months before liver failure Our eyes are nearly always cast dow...

Thursday, February 4, 2016

The Squat is on Fire - Second draft.

- If you see an asterisk next to a sentence or a word you do not understand or that you would like to know more about, see the bottom of the post for a glossary and other annotations I have created for this purpose. - 

~ Please keep in mind all names are changed in memoir excerpts and these are events as only I am able to recall them. ~


 Waking again with the same familiar formidable feeling, I shrink back at the intrusive sunlight coming in from behind me. I sit up and reach for my backpack. I dig through all the works* I have in the front pocket.  I find a rig* that appears to be the best bet*. I grab my bags from my bra. I keep them wrapped tightly in the cellophane from cigarette packs to keep moisture out. 
 I fix up my shot. I have decent light in the mornings. I needed that light to find my testy veins. 
They liked to duck and dodge.
 (Smart little fuckers.)
 I think I used the vein on my wrist then. 

This was before I had to resort to Maverick hitting my neck. 
I got straight, just as I did every day since my habit had formed, not high, just straight.  
Then I heard him begin to whine about not having a wake up, again.  
Just an average morning on the basement floor. 
Our private suite of the abandoned warehouse that Maverick and I were squatting.

It is almost impossible for me to know exact dates for events that took place during the time I was on the streets. Which was from the early Spring of 2009 to January of 2015. 
When you are out there, time only matters if it means that money is coming. 
Whether it is the coming of the holiday season, rush hour, the lunch break kick downs* or the monthly government assistance we abuse by cashing in food stamps at the L- spot.
Time truly does equal money in the junk world.

I happen to know for sure that this occurred sometime in the Spring of 2011.*
So as I said, Maverick told me he was sick. He may pretending to be, as he did often, merely to get more inebriated than he already was. He said he was so sick that he couldn’t even spange* up enough money to get well.  At this point we had been together almost two years, so I had heard this innumerable times. Although I felt he was without dignity altogether was contemptuous of him already. I went on to and hustle up an extra twenty bucks for his measly habit*. This was in addition to the two bundles* of dope* that I did just to maintain my habit each day and feel normal. 
Which typically consisted of three to four shots a day. 
It all depended on how good the shit was, what it was cut* with and how long the legs* were. 

I rarely got high, perhaps a moment of peace.
 I walked in a shroud of apathy that only became thinner and thinner between injections. 
All the while the pressing need to replenish my body’s invading life force, commanded me to move.
 As much as I would like to say this was the last time I helped him in some thankless manner, it would be a lie. This was still relatively early on in this relationship and I still believed he loved me at this point. I also felt that if I was indeed sick and needed help, I hoped the same kindness would be shown to me. That never ended up happening though.
 I simply never put myself in that situation. I never had to ask a fellow junkie* for help.
 I was taught early on in the game that your habit is as big as your wallet.
 I lived my life by the junk* code then. 
Always making sure my habit was taken care of. 
It wasn’t only my first priority.

 It was the only one I had then.

It turned out to be a troublesome day. The two connects* we had been going to were both out and needed to re up*. So, we had to go through a middleman.
This particular middleman was a friend of mine. I knew him longer then I had known Maverick. 
This young man's name was Danny. 
Danny is no longer alive today.  
He was alive then, he was always a friend to me and always up for anything. 
 In addition to helping Maverick, it is common practice to break off something to whoever gets the connection, so I had to give him a bag or two as well.
Once we were somewhere in Brooklyn waiting to hear back from Danny’s connect,
 Maverick began vomiting on the platform’s tracks.
He was leaning on a pillar, too weak to support his own weight.
 I suppose I must have loved him. 
I saw him suffering and I felt compassion and empathy. 
I stroked his back and told him to breathe, and told him that he would be well soon. 
We were going to be well soon...
 “Soon” is never soon enough when you’re dope sick.

 Once Danny left, Maverick and I got straight* inside the first bathroom that would let us in. I had my wake up separated and ready for the morning, as was my ritual then. Maverick had stolen from me many times before so I learned to hide it and alternate where I’d stash it. On this night I had hidden the five bags, my wake up, inside the one-inch wide pocket, behind my front pocket of my jeans.
I accomplished what I had set out to do, and then some. 
All I wanted to do was get on the Brooklyn-bound L train and go ‘home’ to the Warehouse.
There were several of us squatting in that abandoned warehouse within five large floors. 
Some rode the rails*, crust punk squatters but most were N.Y.C street kids*. 
Also known as home bums* fixtures of N.Y.C. 
The  Dirty Kids.  
 As one of my friends calls it, a "Door Nail".
- That’s my team. -

Despite the numbing effects of heroin, I was drained physically and emotionally. 
Hustling wasn’t easy for me, I always made sure I had what I needed, that doesn't mean it is easy. 
I managed to make it look as casual as a civilian swiping a metro card at the turnstile. For me, my hustle was just another way my unfortunate knack for disassociation came in handy. I looked right through civilians without them noticing the vacancy. I had to, in order get the job done as gracefully as I could. My mouth moved as I spoke lies convincingly. My hand went out with the palm up and the cash fell right in. Then into my pocket, then the dealer’s wallet. 
Then through the epidermis barrier. Forcing and fishing through muscle tissue into my arm, neck, wrist, ankle, foot, wherever I had to. Anywhere veins were to be found I discovered them and destroyed them with no thought of later consequences. 
By the time I had squeezed through the upturned corner of back gate of the property, on my way towards the entrance we all used I wanted to check the hell out. 

I wanted to fuck, to express my love him. often these were hand in hand acts I couldn't differentiate.  
To fuck until neither of us could think. 
I loved the way we fucked, he had a way with a G-spot. 
I was insatiable. 
He always made me cum, usually more than once.
 He would never allow himself to orgasm before me. 
Some nights, down in that basement, candles lit around the bed we shared, (which consisted of stacked Sheetrock with a ground scored* mattress on top) I would usually cum two or three times. 

There was a running joke in the warehouse then, “What’s that noise yo?"
 "OH, that’s just Maverick and Mary fucking again.” 
Laughter would commence. It would be said nonchalantly and matter of fact, but it was humorous to them, slightly embarrassing for me and I could detect conceit in Maverick.
As If he were the sole reason for such uproarious copulation. 

I do think some were envious of our sex life and I know that many of the males were baffled by it.
Those were the best fucks I ever shared with him possibly because of the privacy.

I digress within all this remembrance.

After sex, he kissed me, played with my hair and told me how beautiful I was... 

He swore he would never steal from me again. He put particular emphasis on how grateful he was for what I had done for him that day. He told me just how much he loves me after I offered him two of bags from my own wake up so that he wouldn’t wake up in the same position again tomorrow.  

Post-orgasm,  after a proper amount of time, Maverick walks away. 
I’d assumed, if anything, to take a piss in the Gallon jug we have in the far corner. 
I start rummaging through my backpack for my pack of cigarettes and lit one up and put one on the side for him.

See,  Right here... It should have been clear to me then.
 That he wanted someone to take care of his habit for him. 
I wish I saw his warped idea of his role in our relationship.
 A kind of codependent junkie Oedipus complex. 
Maverick was a boy child in an adult man's body. 
Who I dare say, was even more of a coward then I was. 
That was something I just could not allow myself to see. I simply could not handle it. 
I chose to see what I was able to and blinded myself to a great many things. 
All to protect whatever sense of safety I had imagined was there.  whenever I had moments of clarity such as that,
 I did have them often but they were so fleeting.
 I would immediately set out to silence thoughts and emotions. 
Numb and go, cop* and go. Wake up, to tune out. Guzzle down the booze till you pass out. 
Swallow the brave pill or push the plunger down! 
On and on we went. That’s what I did. That’s what he did. 
That is what everyone I surrounded myself with did. 
All of us were but looming shadows of our lost and former selves. 
Now in one big, abandoned, concrete warehouse in the middle of Brooklyn.

I placed his cigarette down and glance over to where I have put my wake up. 
I had taken it out of my pants pocket out of fear it might get lost in the blankets.
I see that it isn’t where I had left it. 
 My heart started pounding.
I think “No! No, no. Not again. No Fucking way.” as I sit up abruptly and pick up one of the candles. I carefully examine every square inch of the Sheetrock, which served as our nightstand.
I search my bags. I looked in my Jeans pocket again. I thought perhaps I was mistaken. 
Perhaps I hadn’t taken it out and put it behind me so I could give my body to him, no.
It wasn’t there Of course, it wasn’t. 
Now only a rush of ferocious emotions. 
Shock, fury, and betrayal but beneath that; fear. 

I try my best not to sound too angry. He is like a dog that way. "Come here boy, come on!" then, after you put their nose near the piss or shit, you express your displeasure.
 I had hoped he hadn't shot it yet. 
Maybe, just maybe, there may be a chance I could stop him before he does something he surely will regret. 
No answer, only the echo of my own voice. 
I put down the candle,  pull my tee shirt over my body. 
I pick the candle back up and I locate his boots and stuff my bare feet into them.  
I begin to squint into the dark where I saw him walk over to Where we keep that piss gallon, by the window.
 I already have bad eyesight. 
I take a candle with me and carefully but quickly stomp towards the corner. 
I am hardly breathing, my eyes are wide open and my adrenaline is climbing.
I see him and his back is to me. I call out his name, once, twice, he doesn’t respond. 
I walk around to face him. 
I see his eyes are slits, pupils pinned to the back of skull and knees buckling beneath him. 
I try to breathe.
 “Why didn’t you answer me? 
 I called you like five times…"

 “ I can’t find my wake up.
 Will you please help me look for it?” 
A mumble; “Oh shit yo’… For real?” 
He attempts to open his eyes and they seem to assess my expression. 
I suppose he must have seen how artificial my gentle tone was by the look on my face.

“Yeah, um, just give me a second babe.”
He always me called me 'babe' when he was doing something shrewd odeceitfulul. I hated that... 
Babe.I knew what he had done. 
then with a pseudo curiosity, 
“What were you doing back here?” 
He sways on his feet while fighting to keep his eyelids open. 
“Oh, I uh, had to take a shit, that’s all babe” 
He reaches out to stroke my back and I recoil.
 "What did you do Maverick!"
“Whatha’ fuck is your problem yo?”

Okay. Fair enough, what is MY problem? Let us ponder this a moment.
Ladies and gentlemen he had to take a shit.  An opiate addict had to take a shit. *
A shit that left him so euphoric and empty he can hardly stand up. 
Let alone keep his eyes open or formulate coherent sentences. 
My wake up must be over there somewhere where I undoubtedly have misplaced it. 
Yes, of course! Because I can be so careless with my sole need, my sustenance, my everything!
Now he is going to help me find it! 
Everything is perfectly fine...
Fury takes me.

I smack him across the face as hard as I could. 
He hardly flinches and mumbles something like “Crazy bitch.”
He makes his way towards the stairwell and up then begins to walk up them. 

This began to make me panic even further for a couple of reasons. 
I did not have any allies inside the warehouse. 
Most of the people in the squat did not know me very well, if at all. 
I relied on Maverick in that regard. Though I did not need a squat to stay in.
I had survived two winters including a blizzard on the street by myself already. 
Maverick wanted me to stay there with him and I liked it just fine. 
No cop's. A good amount of privacy. 
I kept to myself when I was there and when I wasn’t, I was out hustling*. 
I didn’t exactly consider making 'friends' with other street kids or anyone for that matter. 
Heroin took precedence in nearly every aspect of my life at that point. 
I never was much of a social scene kind of girl anyway. 
At this moment I wished I had been less icy towards them (in time I did).

At this point all I know is that he has taken what I needed. 
What was mine and more than he even required! In addition to all I had done for him on this day. 
I knew I was utterly fucked. I was afraid at first, then only enraged. 
I knew I had to leave immediately. 
I had to go and hustle up more money so I wouldn’t be sick in the morning all over again. 
I got dressed in my own clothes and put my backpack on.
My thoughts were repetitive and loud. They came in and ran me through and through.
 A volcanic flood took me down and it sounded something like this:

“How could he? Who the FUCK would do something like this? Fuck, fuck, fuck! What am I going to do? I need to leave. Leave now, while there is still money to be made. Now, I have to go now. I need money. I can always tell ---- what he did, she will give me a front, she knows how he is, what he I like, she will believe me… I will have to pay her back. No, no, fuck it. I will leave right now and make the money while I am still well. FUCK!!! I cannot fucking believe he did this to me! I am such a fucking idiot. How could I have believed him? What kind of fucking idiot stays with a guy that would do that even just once to her?! This idiot. I am that girl. Oh my fucking god! I am that girl!!!
 I am a goddamn doormat he wipes his feet upon.
 How could I let this happen? 
How did I become this?! That’s what he must think. 
I stayed with him and now he thinks he can treat me this way. 
NO. NO. NO. NO. NO!!”
All these thoughts, this madness while pacing and packing up my belongings along the way. 
I am about to leave until I saw our bed. I turn back around and look at the bed we shared together. The bed we shared on which many lies were told to me. 
The bed where I had just given myself to him again, in more ways than one.
 In more ways then I had intended to give any man ever in all of my life!
All I felt was rage and panic much more rage. 
I picked up one of the candles and put the tiny flickering flame against the sleeping bag.
 I wanted to burn everything I had known of him to ash
Sure... but madness to act upon. 
I suppose that I was indeed quite mad.
Before I could blink twice, the entirety of our blankets and sleeping bag were engulfed in a flame. 
I didn’t think it would grow so fast. 

I had never set anything on fire before this, except things like a letter or a picture. 
This was huge!
 My adrenaline was blazing as well. 

I was not done yet. 

I ran over and grabbed the nearly full gallon of piss and poured every drop inside of his pack.
 Then I threw it with all my strength against the wall. 
I then snatched up his carelessly discarded needle I spotted, a visual aid for the betrayal, and I stabbed, repeatedly, his stupid “GOD BLESS ANYTHING HELPS ” cardboard sign.
 Then I left the needle sticking straight up in the center of his sign, still boiling over with fury. 
I wanted to stab him, cut him up. Dump the piss in his crooked nosed mother fucking face! 
Burn him alive! Anything at all to make him suffer the way I was suffering. 
The only thing that stopped me was remembering that he has hit me before.
 So he will surely do it again.*

The room was beginning to fill with smoke. 
On my way out, I had a brief moment of coherent thought.
 When I reached the stairwell, which was next to the exit. I called up as loud as I could “FIRE!” 
I only heard a few mumbles. 
I could only make out “What the fuck is her problem?” 
So I called out again, “FIRE!” louder this time and it was met with “Shut the fuck up bitch.”
I lifted my eyebrows, dumbfounded. What fucking asshole's. "Well. Okay then!" 
I shrugged my backpack over my shoulder and stomped out the door.
 Smoke billowing in the wake of my rage. 

My heart hammered, that was enough for me. Out of the building, through the yard. 
I crawled out from underneath the back gate. I walked quickly with thoughts racing.
 I remember I kept looking back. A combination of fear and bewilderment at my own actions and his.
I didn’t even get back to the L train station before my conscious weighed on me so heavily that I turned back. Just to check on them, to make sure everyone was safe and that the fire didn’t spread somehow. Before I had lit our bed on fire I had a rational thought about the building being entirely concrete. It was also totally ventilated, having many large holes in the shape of squares and rectangles for the windows that were never built. I logically understood that concrete wouldn’t burn. All the same I knew what I did was dangerous and would scare them. 
What if they didn't hear me say "Fire". “What if I was wrong?” I thought, 
“That fire grew so quickly!”  I couldn’t just leave them, so I returned.*

As I was nearing the back gate, which was our entrance, I had that peculiar feeling of being in danger. I had no ability to differentiate that feeling from all the other emotions I was ravaged by, so I continued. I crawled beneath the gate, back inside the yard and continued walking in the direction of the back door. I could make out the figures of bodies of the other squatters. 
Perhaps seven or eight of them were all standing outside of the building. 
I could hear them yelling. I kept walking towards them anyway. 
I wanted to ask, “Is everyone alright?” I wanted to explain what had happened and why. 
I did not get the opportunity, no such thing occurred. 
I was about halfway through the yard when I heard his voice. 
His vile betraying voice above all the others. Maverick said; “There she is right there.” 
As if someone were just finding a missing a sock or something equally inane. 
I was shocked breathless. Hearing his voice say that was a boulder thrown at my chest. 
Everything went silent. I could hear my own heart pounding.  
I did not stop my pace, I kept nearing. One foot in front of the other, I told myself. 
I held my head up and looked them in the eye. Maverick was not among them. 
The coward had fled and left me to the wolves. They began to spread out.
 I did not know half of them at all, and they certainly didn’t seem too keen on knowing me.
I noticed too late that they had formed a circle around me.

I hear all sorts of uproarious clamor, hateful words flung in my direction. I heard some clearly: “Housie* cunt”, “Crazy bitch”.  An idea of justice for a crime they didn’t know the details of: “Boot stomp* this bitch!” and “She’s just Maverick’s fuckin’ slut!” and more. I didn’t have time to be heard. Every time I opened my mouth I was told to shut the fuck up, shouted and cursed at.  
A weathered girl with a permanent grimace, Ann stood in front and yelled 
“Do you know what happened to my friends in New Orleans last year you stupid fucking bitch?”* 
She yanked my hair and knocked me with her fist on the side of my head. 
I was shoved by a few of them in different directions. Then everything went dark. 
Someone behind me had pulled a sleeping bag over my head and knocked me to the ground.
“NO! What the fuck? Hey fucking stop!! Stop! Get this the fuck off of me. What the fuck are you doing! Stop it!” I curl into my self as I feel boots thrust onto my body from every direction. 
I get the wind knocked out of me as one makes direct contact to my rib cage.
 I cannot see anything so I am defenseless. I cannot move. 

The sleeping bag has covered my arms and I could just barely move my legs. 
All I can hear is my own pleas and screams.
 Some muffled sounds of kicks and stomps through the thin barrier. 
The last thing I heard was my own shrill voice as I screamed as loud as I could,
 “You’re going to fuckin’ KILL ME!” Enunciating every syllable as clearly as I could. 
I was not under the influence of any chemical other then the adrenaline that my body was naturally producing. It was imperative to me that I was understood. This had to stop. 
I had never endured such violence. They pulled the blanket off of me and I looked up at them.
They were hovering above me so angry. 
I saw one boy’s nostrils flare and his chest rise and fall.
I was the scapegoat for every street kid and squatter in that warehouse. 

All the misguided, harbored hatred and rage within them fell upon my back this night.
 I had been Boot Stomped. I scrambled to my feet and dared a glance back as I said, 
“This is a misunderstanding, I didn’t even mean to…”
“Get the fuck out of here before we really give you something to scream about!!” 
I walked away, not ran but walked. 
I was not crying and I still find that odd.
I got on the L train bound for Manhattan. I sat with my backpack clenched to my chest, feeling confused and humiliated. Yet, beneath that was a seemingly inappropriate sense of triumph. 
I now know that this was part of my initiation process of being one of the streets.  This was the one of the first acts of violence I endured personally that taught me, that we, street kids, we of the street. 
We exist outside of law and that I had to abandon all past codes and concepts of law entirely if I was going to make it.

I got off the train as soon as it left the underground tunnel at First Avenue and Fourteenth St. 
My feet carried me south to Saint Marks Place. I knew all the sleep spots in that area, and I felt confident I would run into someone that would let me crash with them*.
I found the platonic kind in Scott. Someone that had a very long history with Maverick, they went to private school together when they were very young. That is one thing many civilians do not assume. That the same guy with tattoos all over his face hitting a crack pipe inside a sleeping bag, could come from a loving family with an obscene amount of money. Aside from the obvious drug problem they shared the fact that they both had that kind of upbringing was the end of their similarities. 
There he was, smoking crack at one my old sleep spots. The one east of ‘Search and Destroy’ on the south side of St. Mark’s. Next door to that Egg Cream spot on the corner of Second Avenue. 
Hidden beneath an awning and behind a short fence, out of the sight of cops and most pedestrians. 
Scott asked me Where Maverick was. He asked what happened and I told him everything, including what I had done, why, and what I endured as punishment. He listened and shook his head in between hits and said I could sleep next to him and Lana. Poor Lana... his sweet and gentle pit-bull. 
When I woke up the next day and the day after, I checked my body for bruises. 
I never developed one scratch or bruise from that encounter. I found that to be very odd as well.
I wish I could tell you that boot stomping was the only repercussion for my pyrotechnics but it wasn’t. For a few month’s I had to constantly be on the lookout. 
In Particular for Ann, she went on to throw piss on me twice and attempted to smash my skull with her skateboard. Maverick blocked the board with his arm, gripped it and wrestled it away. That was one of the few times in our five year relationship he defended me physically. I think, or would like to think, that he did feel remorse. Not for stealing my wake up but for allowing me to be persecuted so harshly and for so long.  All the while knowing what he had done to me, that I never intended to burn anything other than our bed. That I wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t stolen from me and hurt me to the point of such lunacy.
As I mentioned earlier, this violence was the first of many more to come. 
I gained a new understanding of the way thing's are handled on the street. 
My personality began to change. 
An initiation process.... and this was still fairly early on in my life on the street. 
Four more years to corrupt my soul my harden my frailty. 

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

 Mary Catherine’s N.Y.C Street Terms Glossary

 *Works-Noun/Plural- Multiple hypodermic needles.
* Rig- Noun- A hypodermic needle.
 *Spange – Verb- A play on the words  “Spare any change?”- A specific hustle, sometimes called panhandling by civilians or the N.Y.P.D and Judicial System.
*Ground Score- Noun- Something useful we come across on the sidewalk or street and we keep for our own.
* Kick Down-Noun- Something that was freely given to us.
 * Bundle – Noun- Ten bags of Heroin.
* Dope- Noun- (a term for many drugs in different cultures)- in the L.E.S and most of N.Y.C  it’s another word we use for heroin.
*Wake Up- Noun- The first injection of heroin of the day; alleviates minor withdrawal symptoms and enables the addict to function.
* Habit- Noun- the amount of heroin your body is accustomed to and demands.
*Legs- Noun- term used to describe the length of the effect of the heroin used.
* Cut – Noun- Unknown substance that is mixed into the heroin powder usually by the lower level dealers, often for them to make more of a profit. Usually it is harmless fillers such as Benadryl, vitamins, etc. (not always harmless).
*Junk- Noun- another word for heroin.
*Junkie-Noun- A habitual heroin user, an addict.
*Connect- Noun- A connection to obtaining heroin- typically a heroin dealer. 

*Cop- Verb- The act of buying heroin in this case, but it can be used for any drug.

 *Squat – Noun- an abandoned building that street kids and/or traveling kids use as    a home base sometimes it legal but typically hidden.
*Ride Rails- Verb and Noun- Kids that hop freight train across country, traveling all over the U.S. Ride Rails sometimes they refer themselves as hobo's or dirty train kid's*
*Straight- Adjective- “I need to get straight, I got straight already” – a heroin addict’s way of saying ”well” or “better”, no longer in withdrawal.
* Housie- Noun- someone with the luxuries of being in a house/indoors, or someone who still carries themselves as if they did.
 * Boot Stomp- Verb- a form punishment and humiliation within social circles that make their own laws, this includes being thrown to the ground then kicked and literally stomped upon, typically with boots.
* Street Kids/Dirty kids- Synonymous Nouns- a general catch all term used to describe anyone within the general age range of 15- 35 that lives on the streets, in squats, and participates in the lifestyle.
 * Hustle or Hustling*-Verb- Making money, in whatever way that may be, there are several ways we can and we do make money, so keep it coming!

*Other Annotations*

*A best bet when referring to a hypodermic needle- is usually the cleanest or newest; one that still has legible numbers on it and doesn’t have blood coagulated inside. 

*When Maverick said he was "taking a shit"- Opiate addicts suffer from constipation. It is common knowledge. It slows the body's function down in many ways. 

*The girl I mentioned with a permanent grimace, a year or two later apologized in the most authentic way we of the street are capable.  While we were on a train platform on our way to cop in Brooklyn, she told me she hadn’t known what Maverick had done. She also explained that several squatters in New Orleans just a few months before the warehouse incident, had died in a squat fire (under very different circumstances). I had no idea what the hell this chic was talking about then. I was not a traveling kid. N.Y.C was my one and only stop. I never wanted to live anywhere else and have never felt more at home anywhere else. I still do, despite it all, maybe even more so because of it.

* On the damage of the fire- No one was hurt. Not one person or dog. Nothing burned except the blankets and whatever we had on the Sheetrock. 
People were scared because of the smoke and acted accordingly.

 *On Street sleeping arrangements- It happens all the time, a total platonic sleeping arrangement. Sometimes it will become sexual. Sometimes the male will just feel that protective instinct and hold me. When sex or any sex act occurs, it is either a blossoming street romance or an inebriated brief screw. A cohabitation hazard that they will deny happened or will wish it hadn’t.

     *On the physical abuse; This was the first time I  subconsciously accepted the role as the abused, though I did not see it then. Maverick was and still is the only man that has physically abused me.
 He did so intermittently until the unofficial end of our relationship in November 2014.

* This is how I know the approximate date of the events.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

The Scent of Crushed Violets- Memoir/Dreamscape

My eyes are closed. All I see is the spin of our loop.
 I feel rapid eye movement behind my lids as I repeat the call. 
This is how I know she hears me. 
I am standing like a pillar with my chin nearly touching my clavicle.

My shoulders are back and locked firmly in place.
My arms are directly in front of me.
They slice across my abdomen forming an X shape.
My hands are beginning to warm the cold metal of the two Glocks that I have firmly griped.
They sit unfastened, loaded with a full magazine, more than enough rounds than we will require.
They rest within custom holster's above my hips. 
We are nearly there...
My breathing has become in sync with what my mind is weaving and my R.E.M.

"May I be ready. We are ready.
 Let them come. We are one.
May I be ready. We are ready.
 Let them come. We are one.
Come to us now. 
Come now. Come now. Come now..."

I lift my head slowly with eyes still closed. My senses have sharpened. 
The atmosphere has shifted. Unsettled and rearranged.
 I know they are near. 
I breathe in her power and it fills my lungs with warmth. 
My lips are pulled upwards by her strings. 
I breathe out with a slow whisper
 "Thank you..." 

I open my eyes and see them immediately only about eight yards away.
Micah and Max appear simultaneously in opposite corners of the dimly lit refectory.
I count five paces as I walk towards them.

I stop and wait to see their next move.
Max takes only a few steps towards me until he see's Micah. 
He slouches, defeated. 
Then he leans against a wall and puts his hand in his pocket. 
A simple spectator, an observer of life, as per usual.
While Micah continues toward me from the right corner with long and quick stride.
I lift both guns from my waist with sharp, precise movement.
My elbows extended for a moment, upwards, then straight in front of me.
The gun I pulled from my left side is aimed directly at Micah.
The other is pointing in the direction I last saw Max .
 I call her in. I breathe her in.

I match his pace .
He is only a few feet away now.
 I pull the slide back with the bottom of my left hand.
 Then slide my arm back, aimed once again in left corner pointing at Max.
I see past the oceanic gray of Micah's eyes. 
I now am able to see straight to the center of him.
He lunges toward me and spits out,
 "I never fucking loved you and I don't owe you shit."
I extend my arm and aim at his chest.
He snarls and jerks his chin upward. 
Never stepping out of the pseudo confident persona, not even in the spirit realm.
I only feel a touch of pity. 
She seems to have dominated my emotions.
"No. You certainly did not love her. You were a mistake." 
I pull back on the trigger and keep my finger pressed until I feel it reset. 
"This debt is paid."

I do not need a second bullet. 
 His form moves back as if pushed by something far more powerful than a bullet.
 A dark billowing of thick black smoke and shadow leak from the wound. 
Where blood would have been on a human.
His form jolts backward with a force that is far more powerful than any mortal's toy.
I lower my weapon in my right hand.
 I keep the second weapon my left hand still pointed in Max's direction.
I watch as this strange darkness begins to pour out in wispy rivulets.
In less then a minute he has disappeared entirely.

I see movement from the left I already know that it is Max.
I shift my torso and neck and observe with detachment as he slowly shuffles toward me. 

His expression is that of a smug fool.
He thinks things are different because the other male has disappeared.
A lowly dejection as always, even in this realm.
He is holding what appears to be a small gold ring in one of his hands.
 The other hand is still in his pocket.
I watch him carefully as I unload the magazine and place it back at my left side.
I could shoot him with the glock in my left hand but there is no reason to. 
He is moving so slowly that I have the time to make the swap. 
I have more accuracy with my right hand.
He is closer then I would like when he says,
"Will you marry me?"
 I look again at his hands without altering my aim and it just is as I suspected.
The ring was a ploy.
 He pull's his other hand out of his pocket for the first time.
 He reveals a pair of manacles.  
I pull the slide back with my now free left hand.
She speak's again and I allow her complete control.

"This is not a true marriage. She was never a wife to you. 
This creature I speak for belongs to no man."

The words come out of my mouth as if being pulled from somewhere deep within me. 
They feel foreign on my tongue.
He makes a desperate leap toward me.
I pull back on the trigger and his arms swing out forming a cross.
He drops the ring, it coils and slithers away.
The manacles he was holding begin to lengthen and coil around him.
This is different than the first revenant. 
She seems to be taking her time.
He is shaking violently inside one long chain, still in a crucifix position. 
My human eye's see that he is terrified and I wonder what we appear as in spirit form.

She opens my mouth. 
Words are tugging on my vocal chords.
"You have done things that all Gods within all realms have no redemption for. 
This, Maxwell Jackson is only the beginning of your eternal vision."
I watch him as he convulses, his mouth is ajar and black slides down his chin.
The Ground cracks beneath him. 
Chains are uprooted and they wrap around his ankles and work up his legs.
He is pulled down in one violent tug.
One loud blast, then the refectory seals itself back to it's original state.
I open my hand, the Glock hits the ground.
 I hear the clatter, then only silence.
A strong scent of violets is in the air.
I close my eye's and I breathe.  
I hear her.
-The are within the vacuum now, where they will come to understand their errors-
I feel peace.
-Are you ready to see your's?-
I speak with my own voice and answer.
"I trust that you will show me."
-Peace. Warmth. Golden.-
I let a tear fall .
"Thank you."

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen