Stream of Consciousness
I hate three hours. It’s a class period at my school that only meets once a week, so it’s technically two sessions in one, so it meets for a total of three hours. Why did I have to sign up for a 5:30 PM — 8:15 PM block? It’s fall semester so it gets pitch dark at like 4:30 in November. I’m trying to get the hell out of here — it’s 8:16 and my ass is at the edge of the seat, one headphone already in. The teacher finally shuts up, volume up. I walk faster than anyone else down this hall because I had work and three classes today and forgot to eat lunch. I can’t believe I’m a senior in college. I can’t even remember to feed myself! My house is only a ten-minute walk from campus, so I’ll get to eat soon. I might as well walk home on Maple Street tonight since my class is in the Robert R. Jamieson Mathematics Center. Walking home at night after class is a nice interlude between campus life and home life — I like to take the time to prioritize assignments and listen to Elton John. I smack the handicap button to open the door, but wind up pushing the door open as well. I hope I didn’t break the freakin’ door — I probably look like a dick for using the button in the first place. I guess I don’t know how to properly dress myself either. It’s December in the north, so thin tights and a dress probably wasn’t the smartest choice when you know you have to walk home at night. It’s because I had work today, so I had to dress halfway decent. Sweatpants. I can’t wait to rip these tights and dress off to put on some comfy sweatpants. Both headphones in, volume all the way up. It took me this long to pick a song — all the way from class to the end of Maple Street and about to cross over to Bayview Street. Why does it take me this long to pick a song?
Goodbye Norma Jean
Though I never knew you at all
You had the grace to hold yourself
While those around you crawled
I never ordered my cap and grown for graduation, and the deadline for picking your size has already passed. I’m such a fuck up. I’ll email the Registrar’s office when I get home.
They crawled out of the woodwork
And they whispered into your brain
They set you on the treadmill
And they made you change your name
I wanna dye my hair black — I’d never do it. My mom would literally have an aneurism. My best friend Sadie says I shouldn’t either. I can hear her. Sadie’s voice: You have red hair and blue eyes. You’re rare. Less than 2% of the population.
Candle in the wind is fucking right — it’s windy in the North. The strong gusts of wind sprinkled with ice like shavings nip the skin on my face. Ow. Can you get frost bite from a ten-minute walk from campus in Nowhere, Maine? Probably.
Never knowing who to cling to
When the rain set in
And I would have –
CRACK. No more music. Was that my skull? Pain. My eyes are open but all I see is black. Something hit me in the head. Each hit shakes my vision. Someone’s covering my mouth. HELP! Am I choking? Fingers pushing fabric in my mouth, past my tongue, grazing my throat. Can’t scream. Gagging. I’m being lifted up. Kicking at the legs of the person that is attached to the fingers and arms grabbing around me. HELP! I can’t scream. Kicking, kicking. I’m being kidnapped. Ringing. My head hurts. I can’t get away — he’s really taking me away. He’s really bringing me to a Black 1990 Honda Accord. RCH 9 — fuck I can’t see the rest of the license plate because I am going into the trunk. Thrown in. Face crushed on the spotty felt lining. On my stomach. This is the second time I have broken my nose. Trying to flip over. When did he restrain my arms? I am losing time. Jaycee Dugard. Elizabeth Smart. The girls kept in a house for eleven years. What happened to them? My music is gone = my phone is gone. Furiously kick the trunk lid. Kick it open. Make noise. Someone will hear me. The car stops violently, like a reaction. A reaction to my kicking. Door slams as trunk opens, and his face says murder. Sadie will talk about me on Dateline and call me a candle in the wind.