Patchwork.

I'm so tired today I feel slow and drugged, I probably am drugged, it would be one way to keep me in the big bed upstairs and not out on the chilled bricks leading to the boathouse. Lochlan isn't mad, he just keeps his undercurrent of frustration with him at all times, a steady drone that hurts my ears if I pay too much attention to it.

(I don't know, Jesus. Sometimes I think I should just sell out and show you my fucking Outfit of the Day or talk about mindfulness or paint swatches or cooking for the week for a large family but no, I won't. That isn't what this is.)

I told him I loved him until my face hurt and my lips were blue from the effort and the cold and the drone finally quieted down to a dull hum.

He ran his fingers across my cheek and smiled today and suggested we stay in and watch television. I have heard rumors that season 4 of American Horror Story visits the circus and my heart did a double flip-flop of excitement but since it is unconfirmed I will happily continue on with Asylum (season 2). Love this show, it's all strangeness and horror and inexplicably and over-the-top ridiculousness.

Just like you, he says.

Yeah, just like me.

(For the record the outfit was old jeans and a new Lucky Brand Triumph motocycles tee. Not worthy of a blog post but I've seen those OOTD blog posts and some of them aren't putting any more effort into it than I did, just so you know.)

(PS: Duncan joined AA. Not sure what that means yet. I'll talk to him tonight. Apparently he's been nothing but a lit arsehole since he got off the plane. Which is not good for him because he is the sweetest, most laid-back man you will ever meet. Maybe we really do take turns falling apart.)

(PSS: Henry and Caleb have an amazingly bad case of strep. Which is so horrible. Both are on penicillin and aspirins and cold cloths and juice around the clock and I want to cry at this point, really I do. It's been a while since Henry was this sick and PJ is keeping care of the devil because I'm not allowed.)

The bond between the hopeful and the damned.

Heavy hung the canopy of blue
Shade my eyes and I can see you

I swim into consciousness slowly, molasses underwater, heavy lids and limbs. Lochlan is whispering over my head, his arms shaking to accentuate the words as he holds me tightly against him. I don't think I can breathe and I have no idea what he's talking about for a long time until I realize he is trying to make Ben understand that enabling my whims or Ben's proclivities will do nothing but harm us all. Ben is oblivious to the strain in Lochlan's voice and thinks the whole thing is amazing, amusing and wicked. I keep my eyes closed and listen and try to remember to tell Ben not to rip the bandages from Lochlan's never-healing fears constantly by permitting me open access to the Devil. It's not as if Ben requires Caleb, Ben just likes to watch. Lochlan is more than capable of taking up that mantle without any help whatsoever and so therein rests the argument. Why can't you just stay home? Loch's voice breaks and I wake up enough to die again.

My God. What have we become?

Finally Ben whispers an apology back and says he puts me first. Loch reminds him that you don't do that with a child, someone prone to poor decision making in the first place. He uses Ben himself as an example with substances and then he keeps going, recalling how often I would ask him for cotton candy for dinner on the midway and precisely how often he would acquiesce.

Which was never.

Not even once because Loch is of such incredible strength of character. Persistence and integrity are his middle names. Stubbornness his cross to bear. He wants so badly to change both past and present I think sometimes he firmly believes if he is loving enough and true enough that it will magically happen.

We don't know that sort of magic though. Our magic consists of cheap tricks and illusion, turned on the street with pockets picked inside out and cards marked to within an inch of our lives.

Ben leaves, because he is trying to put his head back together and still goes to near-constant meetings and the counselling too. And then he swims because he says it feels good. 

So if I am not first, that makes me second. The procurement of the prize is the prize and not the prize itself. It's the journey, not the destination. I am the destination. They are already here, still marveling at the route they've taken and not the view that lies before them. Ben will continue to give me whatever I want and Lochlan will insist that I get none of it.

I should tell him it's not important, that I don't love Caleb the same way, that I can be fine without Diabhal but then I know better and besides, I'm so tired and Loch is so warm so I repeat the only thing I have said for hours now. I'm sorry. I slur it in my sleep, eyes still closed and he looks down at me and holds me tighter, telling me it's not my fault, that I am suggestible, that Caleb is evil and Ben is weak. I get annoyed then and tell him I am weak and evil and the rest of them, wait, the rest of YOU are suggestible and he just stares at me wearily for a very long time and tells me I just need more sleep. That tomorrow we can go out for breakfast and have a walk down by the water and I will be okay.

I wish he wasn't so delusional but I nod anyway because what do you have if you don't have hope? I'm not going to be the one to drown his optimism. It's hanging by a thread as it is.

Lochlan.

The words fall apart first, letters dropping everywhere, some haphazardly listing against each other, some teetering on the brink of obsolescence and finally he presses his forehead against mine in silence. He didn't believe me when I told him I was unhurt, choosing instead to rip everything off me, lifting up my arms, turning me this way and that, sharing in my expression of hot angry tears because he doesn't understand this and he never ever will.

His relief though. I feel it washing over me, forcing the evil away. I watch it run in gritty grey rivulets across my skin, soaking into the ground. He conjures flames to burn the rest away, his heat autoclaving my soul, or the reasonable facsimile I still carry, fusing the pieces of my heart together just a little more securely.

I'm sorry, I venture when the last of the fire smothers itself, having nothing left to burn.

And he laughs. No, you're not. That's the hardest part. He pulls me in against his heart and my heart speeds up to match.

Pop and scratch (category 5).

I knew it wasn't what he said it was but I played along.

I don't protest all that much. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not actually strong or stubborn. Mostly I'm submissive, willing and easy to control. I was never under the impression that it was a bad thing to be that way. It made their lives easier, from Lochlan right down through the line to Ben. The only time it fails is when they think they are controlling my emotions too. Those aren't something that can be shaped with orders, plans and schemes. Those just strike like natural disasters, without warning, so unpredictable and devastating that they have categories for severity and damage. Just like tornadoes, hurricanes and earthquakes.

So there we go across the driveway just before midnight, ostensibly for a late snack and a chance to get some family business out of the way before the week actually begins. It's a short week with a school holiday and some much-needed time off for Lochlan and the past day and a half my arm isn't hurting much at all. I'm game for a jump on the week.

I'm loathe to say no to Caleb too, as that's all I've done lately and he's tried and failed to find a way to make things up to me from afar.

Oh, and Ben is a big old perverted enabler who all but disappeared the moment we walked in, saying he wanted to borrow some vinyl. Jazz masters and classical. Ben might eat the records but Caleb is a casual listener, not some collector of rare editions or anything like that. I hear strains of Glenn Miller coming from the tiny den and I smile because it sounds pretty and jazz is like some incredibly sophisticated other life to me sometimes.

Like Caleb is.

Only it's fleeting. I feel his arms close around me and I press into him. I will blink and be back home later. I feel his lips against my jaw and I fight to clear my mind. I shudder as he exhales into my shoulder and he promises not to bite me so I know this one will be allowed to slip past. I pause, and I know I'm evil too but it's black and warm washing over me, pulling me down, drowning me from the ground up, a rushing torrent of malevolence and corruption that doesn't scare me at all when it should and scares me to pieces when it shouldn't.

That makes it hard.

Hard is the theme of the evening though. He barely pauses to unbutton his shirt, choosing to engage in a mostly-dressed frantic strong-armed indulgence of me and I surrender to that. I surrender mostly to Cole's memory because I still miss him even as I hate him and I still love them both dearly even though these days my busted heart is full. I never meant to apologize for the part of my brain I don't try to control and I wouldn't change a thing save for Lochlan's torrid resentment of the entire arrangement.

But Lochlan doesn't control this world, because this is compartmentalized away from the rest of everything. In this world I'm not a child, I'm a equal and a whore and a submissive and a slave.

A slave with a master who pretends he is nothing of the kind, even as he orders me to the door. The big white door where he prefers me to stand, my back pressed against the chilled wood, arms raised above my head, up on my toes, eyes closed, nose up, shoulders back, mouth open to taste his fingertips as he traces my lips and tongue, eyelashes and earlobes.

When my toes leave the floor and the white lights begin to flash behind my eyelids I start to look for the way back because the path to get here is dark and confusing and difficult to follow back. I call out in the dark for Ben and he responds only his voice is thick and dangerous. I shift and call out for Loch instead but he never answers because he isn't there and then the roaring orders of the Devil begin, the frustration and rage replacing the soft encouragement from before. His time is almost up and he hates that. The record is finished and he hates that too, listening the bump of the needle at the end of the spiral groove.

One of these things was never like the others.

My house was so loud in the wee hours of the night that I've hardly slept. I didn't even try to stay up, because I was dropping off with alarming focus during Bad Movie Night as it was, thanks to Solomon Kane, the most incredibly interestingly-written movie I've ever seen make it that far. Like a low-rent Van Helsing, it was.

Caleb chuckled every time my chin dropped and Lochlan rolled his eyes and pulled me further away from the Devil and closer to himself. Ben was upstairs with Sam, playing guitar, doing a little field triage, a casual meeting for two because sometimes Ben feels really damn shaky and gets some extra help and then he returns to me until the next tough spot. 

When the Olympic gold-medal game third period was over the roar from the living room made me give up on sleep entirely and venture downstairs for the replays and medal presentations and now the only thing I've managed to do all damned morning is fold one load of t-shirts and spoil Fight Club for myself, something I've managed to avoid for the better part of the past fifteen years or so, because I read one of those '15 things you didn't know about Hollywood's Biggest Blockbusters' or some such nonsense.

We never finished watching that movie, Cole and I, because it was difficult and uncomfortable and so I saved the ending. I was going to save it forever because everyone always told us we should finish it but we didn't and it's too late but now I know and he never will. It's still fucking stupid but it's closure of a sort I wasn't even looking for. I'll take what I can get anyway, for an albatross is an albatross, after all.

This is how I win.

Caleb ordered me to appear before him to inspect whatever change he had heard rumblings of and I dutifully obeyed, though this time I'm pretty sure he knew that PJ was standing on the other side of the kitchen door with his hand on the lever. Some days are like that.

I stepped out into the heavy wet snowfall in unzipped Docs and a long black sweater with my leggings making my legs little splindly black toothpicks and figured Caleb would harp on my outfit first but no. He knew damn well I have red hair now because I bet a million dollars and change that Loch told him two days ago.

What have you done. It's not a question, therefore I provide no answer. Your hair was such a beautiful color. 

Like Jacob's. 

No, like Bridget's. What is this, some effort to align yourself with Pyro for all the world to see? A cheap parlor trick if I ever saw one. 

No, it was an effort to do something radical before the white takes over. I don't know if you've noticed but I'm getting old. 

You will never get old in my eyes. 

Always twelve, huh?

No, Princess. Always twenty-three and rolling around in money in Vegas, smiling and drinking champagne with me. Always turning every head in the room when you entered. Always concentrating, learning everything you could about mutual funds and capital gains in order to keep up. Always refusing to abandon my brother because you wanted to believe in him so badly. Where's the spitfire who does things her own way and stays stubborn? 

She died when Cole died and Jake flew. I roll my eyes. This is not news.

No, she was silenced, choked off by the past she isn't allowed to forget because her fairweather boyfriend is so inadequate at helping her move on with her life. 

What life? I have no life. 

Exactly what I mean.

But you have to admit, I make a stunning redhead. 

Yes, surprisingly enough I am completely taken aback at how incredible your eyes look now.

A penny (for your thoughts).

Skyped with Druncan (I did not give him the nickname but it fits) tonight for a long confusing time before I realized how lit he was. He was all filth and bullshit from the minute he saw me until I pushed away from the table and left his view, frustrated. Loch took over with his soothing Scottish lilt that he uses when he's really mad but using it as a Teaching Moment. Duncan got all sorts of made-up curses hurled his way and then was told to pick himself up and pull himself together so sweetly I almost wished I was the one in trouble.

But I'm not because I dyed my hair red and made a last minute save.

Or rather, Daniel dyed my hair for me because the appalling nature of the gold and silver was beginning to tip more toward silver in the sunlight but milky-dishwater under harsh fluorescents and I stood in front of a mirror in a Target store for twenty minutes yesterday imploring the boys to look at me and tell me how they let me out of the house looking like this.


For the record, they all deferred nicely and insisted they don't notice it at all because their wee little minds still see Bridget at the tender age of eight forever and ever but I still went sprinting back down the centre of the store to buy a box of something or other and Daniel did the dirty work and now I look human at least but still like a total stranger in the mirror as always. In order to look like myself I need the torn-out braids and the enlarged sugar-pupils and the lips stained pink with cotton candy and total glorious fear written all over my face from riding the octopus one too many times.

Oh, and in a clean t-shirt because Loch insisted on it.  *rolls eyes*.

For the record, he LOVES my hair. It's lighter than his by miles thanks to the February aspect of things and all the time indoors this winter thus far. And it makes my eyes explode in a sea of green. I would love to keep it but my hair always makes up it's own damn mind and begins the easy fade back into silver and gold despite protests, always. Even when it was blue. Or green. Or pink. Two weeks tops and it will look like it always looks. That's why I don't bother with it very often.

I feel tired still today but the pain is sort of easing up again. I'm still dividing my time between a couch or a bathtub mostly and I refuse to apologize for either. I think I have mono again or total mental exhaustion. The vapors, maybe. Something. PJ's death-plague cold. Schuyler's ennui. Sam's overwrought concern.

(No, wait. I don't have that, that's his albatross, not mine.)

In any case, I have two days left to enjoy my couch because after that the Olympics will be over for another four years in which I will be closer to Lochlan's age now than I will be to my own and that will be strange. Ruth will be eighteen and Henry sixteen by then and by then my hair will probably be completely white and I'll have had my precious lombotomy that will make me not care so much about all the stupid little things that I worry about but will never be able to change like the color of my hair or the condition of my outfit in the middle of a Midway in July or the amount that Duncan drinks when he's lonely.

Pumpkin.

Once I realized I couldn't think anymore, let alone type, the tequila party for one ended as quickly as it began. I'm a lightweight and an easy drunk and a bit of stick in the mud too so instead of dulling the pain any way possible they humored me with my new plan which isn't new at all, it's from two weeks ago. I'll lie on the bricks in the driveway and someone can drive over my arm until it parts ways with the remainder of my body. I can be the one-armed princess. It's not like I'm a good swimmer or able to wrap both arms completely around any of the huge men in this house for a hug so I won't miss it at all. I'll sweeten the pot and throw my useless ears in on offer as well.

When my blood ran red again Lochlan made some tea and toast and I resumed speaking (and typing) English, which was perfect timing because Ben came home and wasn't thrilled that I was still in pain nor was he thrilled with the others' attempts to fix it with alcohol. I don't think that's what it started out as but I don't think I'll be doing it again any time soon either.

!aw shit

Matt and Lochl are plying me withetequila today because it distracts me from the hurty part of my arm that keeps getting joltde and bumped to the point where I'm biting my tongue repeatedly just to avoid seeing the guys with the looks of soul-crushing pity that they sometimes throw me that make mefeel paper-thin and ruinous and..drunkent

Tequila is a special treat reserved only for random Wednesdays in Febryarywe no more than once a decaed, Wish me luckt!

A saw, a pair of scissors and a very loud cheer from me.

I don't want you to police my need to keep certain things the way they-

I wish you would let the past remain there and come forward with me-

We both started talking at the same time and then stopped. This is an impasse for sure but not one we can't bury in routine. He smiled kind of shyly and I reached out for him with both hands. 

I'm a jerk. I don't mean to seem like he is more important than you because he isn't but that doesn't mean his things aren't incredibly important to me. Can you accept that?

Maybe. I don't mean to seem like I'm trying to rush you through, I just don't want you to hurt anymore, Bridgie, there's been so much. I want you to be happy, don't you see?

So we stand nodding at each other with flooded eyes and hearts that won't start and pain drawn with needles on our arms, words meant to soothe and to ignite. I trace the tattoos on Lochlan's arm and ask him if he'll make some lunch with me but he smiles wider and asks me if I would rather he take me to...

I'm thinking some restaurant will be suggested but no, do I want to go get my cast off? (The hospital called while I was being difficult, apparently.)

Is the sky blue? HELL YES. 

Off we go. And after an inexplicably long wait in what seemed to be an empty department I am free (!) to take a completely-submerged-save-for-my-nose piping-hot bubblebath without my arm sticking up out of the water like a limby periscope. 

Which I am off to do right now because it hurts like I've been hugging a cinderblock since Christmas and my poor little arm looks like a bendy straw.