Write Me

A prologue

You're late.

Well, aren't YOU satisfied for making me wait half an hour after I come in five minutes late. 

Me?  Noticed your receptionist was gone, so I slipped in.  I hope you had fun doing her in the medicine closet.

Of course I didn't, you hole.  Obviously, I'm in a bad mood.

I am not.  I smiled just yesterday.  For about five seconds.

Comedy Central, what can I say?

I can tell stories, too.  Only difference is you make me pay you to laugh, but you never do.

Fine.  Fine.  You want to hear a story?  Here's your fucking story.

Once upon an adolescence, Fate decided I wasn't unhappy enough.

This one's different, moron.  (I was going to call you something else, but I held back.  Where's my blow-pop?)

FATE would have it that not only was my mother literally insane and an awful spender of my father's retirement/college funds, and my retired father forced to go back to work, but that also none of this would change for the better before I failed to recover my grasp on sophomore year magnet school academics in time for colleges to become enamored of my intelligence quotient.  No.  Oh no.  It just had to get worse.

I ever tell you about the times I almost died?  (No, not died.  That sounds too passive.)  Was almost killed.  There we go.

Well this was one of them.

(Put your fucking pen down, I'm not a walking screenplay.  I'M the writer here.)

Anyway, dad was working, of course, and mom and I were at home.  Well... some version of mom.  I never knew how many of her there were since most of the hers screamed Korean. 

As you tell me, I've suppressed most of these types of memories, so I don't quite clearly recall how it is she got riled up (though she never really had a valid reason), but it happened.  I'd been working on my computer (my "escape" as you call it).  When I went downstairs to check up on her, somehow she got her hands on my father's briefcase.  Started swinging it around.

There were dents in the walls.  And I became afraid.

Started swinging it at me.

I ran upstairs to my room.  Closed the door.  Locked the door.

She.  Was.  So.  Close.

She tried to get it in.  She didn't.

So she cut off the electricity.

And I stayed there, in the dark, with a pathetic sealife candle I'd bought from the high school's lame environment club.  Opening the blinds at that hour gave me more light still.

What do you do when you're scared for your life and you've got a church in your backyard?

Apparently, if you're Catholic, you pray.

So I did.

I PRAYED in my FUCKING hour of need.

Apparently, it doesn't really work.

I begged and cursed the church in my window each second that I lost time to my tears.  Each of the four hours I had to wait for my dad to come home.

And I studied for my test the next day by weak candlelight, listening to the symphony of her thrashings.

Do you know why I believe in fate?

That lock wasn't there when we moved in.  She put it in herself when she developed her paranoia.

My mother's fucking insanity is what saved me from her.

Her normal self doesn't even know.

I'm the only witness. 

I'm the only witness. 

Who's to say it wasn't my twisted imagination?

You ask me how I lost my faith. 

One small step for man.

So how's that for your suppressed memory, post-traumatic stress disorder, inability to trust theory?  Huh?  Shove THAT up your ass and see what your little notepad comes up with.

... Why aren't you laughing?

Don't you like it?

Oh don't look at me like that.  It's like someone ran over your toe.

"Cid?  Are you in here?"

".... Yes."

"Who are you talking to?"

"You're late, asshole.--"

"--Cid, I'm sorry.  But that gives you no right to call me an--"

"--See you next week."

"Cid, wait!"


"At least tell me one thing.  Anything.  That's on your mind..."

"Am I paying for this?"

"... Free of charge.  Next week too."

"I moved yesterday.  Out of my house."

"Oh? ... That must be nice."

"..... Yeah.  It is."