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 ^{(it's beta!)}

The phone rang. Once. Twice. It was that awkward pause between rings that made my stomach twist. I was going to go insane if I didn't get out of this empty house.

"Hello?" her voice was crisp even on the faulty line.

"Walk?" I didn't need an introduction, that single word would give away my identity and my intentions. She laughed, and told me to meet her at the bridge.

It was unseasonably warm for early March, but I was enjoying it. She wasn't at the bridge that crossed Cedar Brook. The street that it was a part of was one of the busiest in town, and the grammar schools were just getting out so today was no different. The cars rushed by, some honking, which caused me to turn my head and nearly trip over the sidewalk sometimes. We met at the end of the street, and continued walking back towards her house.

"Where to?" she asked.

"Cemetary?" I suggested, it had been ages since we had gone. Not that we knew anyone buried in the town's cemetary. It was just a comfort zone for the two of us. A place where we could talk freely. And as my mother would put, as she had whenever we told her that's where we'd be, "at least no one is going to harass you there."

We started our normal rounds, picking up flowers and flags that had been strewn about and forgotton. I paused by one worn headstone, pink imitation-silk rose in hand, and spoke to what was probably nothing at this point. "They left you flowers that would never rot, because they never planned on coming back." I stuck the wire stem of the flower into the ground, so it wouldn't fly away.

This is what Amanda and I did when we went for our walks. Of course our boyfriends protested. "Why can't you guys hang out in the park like normal people?" or "Isn't that a bit morbid?" being our favorite arguements. You would think they would know better.

Using my pocket-knife, we cut away the grass that consumed the flat, sinking headstones of the World War II and Vietnam veterans. My knife was an inch longer than the legal limit, but we joked with the men and women buried here. "You won't tell, will you?" we'd ask. We were only half-kidding around when we spoke to these people.

We had only found one flag this time around, and we stuck it into the ground at the corner of a veteran, Richard something, who had probably been moved, or decayed enough that they just put someone else in right over him. Later, I'd swear I'd hear him thank me. But I can never be sure who thanked us after our trips. Just that it happened.

We checked my phone. The numbers barely showed in the sun, but we were able to read 4:38 on the screen. Closing time.

We exited the way we came in. As we walked out of those gates, The Calm took over. The Calm was just that peaceful feeling that settled inside us when we'd leave. They knew we'd be back, and we knew we'd miss them.

She wants to be saved.

But saved from what? What could possibly be wrong in the life of a middle-class, sixteen-year-old, white girl from the suburbs? She'd given up on religion before she had even reached middle school, so that can come off of our little list.

Maybe she wants to be saved from the dark. She never liked the dark. Shadows like to play tricks on her eyes, move and form faces that always seemed anguished and screaming. The darkness in the hearts of others that make this world so unsafe.

Maybe she wants to be saved from today's trends. Consuming and warping those around her at a rate that's mind-boggling. True, you can't judge a book by it's cover, but does it say something about a book when it changes its cover almost once a week?

Maybe she wants to be saved from her family. Picking her apart until she's so self-concious she's afraid to leave her own home. There's never anything right with her, it seems. Her hair shouldn't be that color, it's inappropriate for a lady to have purple hair. Her face seems to have broken out again, has she tried the new product that's out? She's gaining a bit of weight, she's to thin, she's out of shape. Will they ever look past her physical appearance.

She wants to be saved from herself.

The voices that seem to follow her in certain areas, or visit her after her walks. The screaming, anguished faces in the woodgrain and rugs and walls. The worst-possible-scenario outlook on life that's caused her not to see life past tomorrow, where she's certain she will die. The way her thought-process consists of one-liners and song lyrics, lines that never seem to get written. Her mind is too loud and busy and confusing, but too quiet for her to hear what's going on inside. She's never had the best of hearing.

She wants to be saved from her mind.

"You're exactly where you should be at sixteen."

Your words made me cringe a bit. One, I'll be seventeen in less than three weeks. And two, if this is how all sixteen year olds feel, I pity each and every other one.

You finish your advice... rant... whatever it is, and I read it. I read it again. That's the benifit of talking online, I can re-read everything. The letters seem harsher, shaper, more angular. I try to ignore that and pay attention to the actual meaning behind the words than the letters that make them.

I'm quiet. I need time to reflect, to think. I take too long, and you're gone. I needed that, though. I needed your "tough love" or whatever you wanted to call it. However, I'm alternating between relief and silently crying.

I'm a product of my environment, a Hollywood centered, romanticized, narcissistic environment. Still, even after everything you've said, I just want you to hug me and tell me it'll get better when I get older.

My personal inventory consists of seventeen years of self-loathing, two and a half years of lonliness, and four years of pretentiousness. Also a touch of curiosity. Okay, so it's more than a touch.

I imagine myself with a screwdriver in hand, trying to pick apart your mind. Your body. What makes you tick? What happens if I poke this? What happens if I hit this nerve? Why are you such a private person? I'm looking for an emotional scar, something broken to serve as an explination.

I'm trying too hard again, and you catch me. You take my tools away. I've found nothing. And it infuriates me, and I'm manic.

So now I take a step back and I stare at this child with the screwdriver, and I hate her. I hate how she needs to constantly and consistantly ruin every personal connection I've ever made with her incessant need to take everything apart and see how it works. This girl with the screwdriver has ruined my life.

Then I feel guilty. I shouldn't blame this little girl for my problems. They're all my fault. I'm perfectly capapble of taking responsibility for my actions. However, I take another step back and I see a girl tearing herself to pieces. She's said the wrong thing, she's made the wrong move, she feels like she'll never be able to stand back up.

I stare at her and it saddens me, you catch me there too. You tell me to stop beating myself up over it, it's getting annoying. And I blame myself, and I'm depressed.

Pretentious. It's funny you used that word to describe how I act. I read a quote once, "There is nothing individual about me, I am a collection of everyone I've ever known." I picked that quote up, and put it in my inventory. I can honestly say I don't know where this one came from though. Pretentious, the word sounds pretty. Maybe I adopted it as my own one day, and let it become part of me.

Some nights, I forget where I'm going as I write.... Like, right now.

We sat on the roof of his house. I smiled when he gave me his jacket, I love his jacket. The mixture of leather, his cologne and cigarettes enveloped me. Familiar scents that made me feel comfortable and at ease. They warmed me more than the actual jacket did on this cold night.

The stars flecked the sky. Pinholes of light in the dark that distracted us every now and then as we talked. We laughed and talked like we had done all night. But now we were whispering and laughing in hushed tones, even though there wasn't a soul around to disturb. We spoke of many things this chilly, October night. School, the weather, plans. We spoke of girls and boys and sex and drugs. We spoke of history, religion and philosophy. We finally settled with the realization that everything is meaningless.

We stayed sitting on the roof of his house until color started paining itself into the sky. This was about the time that I rested my head on his shoulder, and nodded off. The smells of the night mixing with the smells of the jacket. He would probably make fun of me when I woke up, but for now, I slept. Not caring about anything. Nothing mattered, after all.

One of us fell that night, maybe even both of us; fell to our deaths. But where did we fall? We either fell off the roof or we fell in love. Neither particularly safe situations.

Painting. It's something I haven't done on my own time in far too long. Walking through the craft store today reminded me of that. So, today I decided to break out my acrylics. And really, why start painting something new, when you have a four-foot-tall, half-finished painting of you and your ex-boyfriend sitting in your closet?

Upon locating said painting, I realize I am only penciled in, so it's more like a half-finished painting of him. So I break out my black paint, and start filling in the gap where I should be. Long, angry brushstrokes. A touch of green to keep the black from browning out when it gets transparent.

I should have just burned the fucking canvas. Some pictures just aren't worth saving. Paint. Paint. Wet brush. Paint. Paint. What would the onomatopoeia for painting be? Paint. Paint. Smile when you realize you're painting in time with the music. Wet brush. Change colors. Red. Yellow. Different red. First red. Yellow. More yellow. Different yellow.

It's funny when you start by painting yourself out of your own canvas, leaving yourself with some flames and a face you hoped to never look at again. So water down some black paint. Paint him out, too.

Let's burn our photographs.

White lettering doesn't go well over wet black paint the first four or five times. So get frustrated. Remember why you stopped painting in the first place and go back to your reds and yellows. Try your letters again.

Significant others are a waste of fucking canvas.