... anything to make me feel alive {{patrick}}

[clarissa lucille o'bryant]

*Sometimes I Get So Weird_

[/size]I EVEN FREAK MYSELF OUT[/center]

The last few days that had passed were a painful mix of a slow motion blur, accented with bits and pieces of almost fast forwarded images that stood out in painful and bright contrast to the grey times in between. She has suspected, even known to a certain extent, that her move back to Dublin would carry its own upheaval, its own turmoils, but she hadn't thought that the worst of it would be internal, or even worse, focused around a single incident, a single conversation, confrontation that had occurred with one person... especially a man, and of all of them that it could have been, that one.

She could not shake him, the frustration of her encounter with him, the dam that had broken and the torrent of thoughts that she had let loose upon him, and in the same thought, infuriated again by the rank avarice and lust that his thoughts had displayed with her as star. Certainly, it was not the first time that she had seen such a 'peep show', and every now and again had even conceded to make such a thing a reality. She had, in her last years in Belfast, had an on again, off again boyfriend of sorts, finding some comfort in being able to seek the company of another human being at all hours of the night, when she had found herself unable to sleep. But, like all of her friendships, it eventually had passed into the wayside, she once more unable to open up to him. But even he, even in the middle of their interludes, there had been some... decorum, maybe? His hunger, his lust and desires had been tempered with his affection, was the best way that she could think of to describe it...

She knew it was more than that, more than just Patrick Galloway's wants and desires that rankled the memory, it was her own behavior that bothered her just as much, that she had given in to her frustration, that she had let him bother her, let him push her buttons, even if they were not the ones he had wanted to push, or even if that had not been his intent. This, she had pointed out to herself, this is exactly why she had become antisocial, and withdrawn, specifically to avoid such encounters and instances.

She had retreated from the cafe, after the two had parted ways, the pulsing ache and pressure at the nape of her neck had not given way, though at the very least had not grown worse after she left, after she had retreated to the bed and breakfast, excusing herself as not feeling well and hiding out in her room, spending the majority of the afternoon sunk beneath the surface of the water in the claw foot tub in her adjoining bathroom. It had taken a half a dozen times of reassuring her mother that she was, in fact, fine, before Patricia had retreated back downstairs for the night, and even then Clarissa knew her mother was not quite assured.

She had pushed the flares of guilt aside, knowing that her mother would worry for any reason, whether or not it was justified; it had in fact been one of the reasons that she had left with her father when she was younger, even at the young age having grown tired of the constant questions, constant check ups and tests, already having hated the tang of metallic hospital air, the pinch of the needle against her skin, the thrum of the MRI as it swallowed her whole, the pulsing light in what should be darkness.

It was not her mother's fault, she knew that logically, having lost one child to the unknown and random, the rare and unusual, it was not that far a leap to assume that she would be paranoid about the other falling victim to something as well, but it made it no easier for the young girl to bear. It didn't help, now, of course, that the day of her brother's passing was encroaching, something that Clarissa had done her best not to think on. There was not a day that went by that she didn't miss him, that she didn't know that he was gone, that there was part of her that was empty, missing, that would never be filled again. She didn't need a date, carved in marble, to remind her.

The next day had found the air around the house just as oppressive to her, even the morning game of chess with Mr. Stephenson had done nothing to improve her mood, and by the time the afternoon had come around she had been hoping, looking for any excuse to flee the house. She had latched onto the fire festival with gusto, then, though admittedly it had not been her wisest choice ever, the sheer number of people present was enough to make her head ache in expectant sympathy. The shift had come, unexpectedly, and she still couldn't quite put a finger on the cause or the spike in energy that had washed her away with it, but by the time the night was done, she had found herself in the midst of those that writhed and leapt, beating drums and feet against the ground around the bonfire, giving herself to the energy, the rhythm, letting herself get lost in the crowd, in the spiced wine, and in the shadows and flickers of the fire.

She couldn't quite recall his name, the one who she had woken up entangled with, sometime that next morning, and she still hadn't been able to find one of her socks, or her tank top, by the time that she had managed to retrieve the rest of her clothes from the trail of discarded attire that had led from somewhere by the fire to the earthen cranny that they had served quite well for their own private celebration. And... she hoped, as she slipped back towards civilization, that he did not remember hers, and that she hadn't done, or said anything that she would regret, and that he would remember. She refused to let her thoughts follow the train of thought that rose, as she climbed the trellis to her second floor bedroom, sneaking inside before her mother had a chance to know she was gone, and once again off to the bathroom to stand beneath the scalding hot water, scrubbing twigs and leaves, sweat and dirt from her skin...

That he had been in so many ways the exact opposite... young, and vibrant, his hair a pale golden color, long and silky, brushing against his shoulder blades, tangled in her fingers as they melted against each other, into each other, his skin hot and damp with sweat, sun kissed bronze, his eyes gleaming and brilliant blue-green, his features betraying his youth, perhaps a year, two, older than her... No, she refused to follow that train of thought, stifling it beneath the splash of the water, the echo of it against the tub, against the plastic shower curtain, the feel of it small drops of bliss against bright pink skin.

She had managed, at long last, to sleep through the better part of that day, finally slipping into an empty, thankfully peaceful sleep, leaving her feeling something more like herself, and even refreshed. She had found the bed and breakfast as close to abandoned as it ever got when she awoke that afternoon, finding that no guests had been scheduled for the next few days, leaving just her, and her mother, and Mr. Stephenson and his daughter who were, put together, fairly self-sufficient, and she had set about to take advantage of that.

She had made popcorn and hot chocolate, where that particular combination had started she wasn't sure, but it was habit by now, and tugged her mother into the living room, and the two had spent the majority of that night in front of the television set, watching some of their combined favorites, including of course the original Phantom of the Opera, and My Man Godfrey, Camille, and the Littlest Rebel. The hour had stretched late, as the two of them curled up and snuggled like when Clarissa had been a little girl, each of them pointedly ignoring the time glaring in neon green on the clock of the dvd player, each of them occasionally drifting in and out of sleep but neither of them making an effort to try and pull themselves off to bed. Neither of them wanted to sleep, knowing that if they did, they would have to wake up and face what tomorrow was.

What today was, technically, by now. The morning had come, with or without their permission, the light of the morning invading on where the two had fallen asleep on the couch, and they had finally been forced to open their eyes, though still neither of them moved for... a half hour, hour, as they laid there beneath the blankets.

At long last, they had parted ways, each of them not speaking, not out of any particular reasoning other than the fact that they both suspected that if they tried to right then, that there would be nothing but tears. Patricia had made breakfast, and Clarissa had made an effort, but could really only pick at the breakfast which would have been far too much for her on a normal day; fried eggs and toast, bacon and white and black pudding, fried tomato and mushrooms, it was apparent that her mother didn't know how to cook for less than a small army anymore.

Clarissa couldn't taste much of the breakfast, though whether that's because it wasn't cooked properly or because she simply didn't have the willpower to taste, she couldn't tell, she was just as distracted by her mother's thoughts as she was her own. It was always awkward, living memories through someone else's perspective when she had her own versions of the story, and she really had no more desire to know anything else of the drawn out hospital stays, the tests, the withering away of her brother than she already knew, and the funeral had to her been mostly only a blur, and to pick her way through it again was not something that she had wanted to have to deal with today.

When she had finally managed words, managed something, she had begged a departure, brushing a kiss against her mother's cheek before she had disappeared once again. She was a coward, she knew, if she had any courage in her at all she would sit, she would bear it, she would be there to offer comfort to her mother to make up for all the years that her mother had dealt with this day on her own, but she couldn't. Not yet, not now. Maybe next year. Or the year after.

She wasn't sure, where she had wandered to, or even how long she had been gone, or when the weak sunlight had turned to a storm, when it had begun to rain and how long she had been soaked to the skin. She didn't know, even, how she had found her way here, to the graveyard, or even how she had known where it was, the last time she had been here she had been so little, only six, or how she had known which one was his, where he was in the maze of tombstones and weeds, gravel and dirt, mud and shadows.

Was she crying? She couldn't tell; her skin skin chilled by the rain, roughened by the wind, careless as to whether the moisture on her cheeks was rain, or tears, as she sat, lay, curled against the headstone, her fingertips trailing over the carved letters again and again until they seemed like they were raw, ragged.

Jamison Douglas O'Bryant
February 14th, 1997 - September 17th, 2003
Beloved Son and Brother
Gone But Not Forgotten

Was this what it came down to? Eight words, was that all that a life constituted, in the end?

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status: complete | word count: 2053 | outfit | lyrics: anything but ordinary by avril lavigne | tagged: patrick!
I'd rather be ANYTHING BUT ORDINARY please

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