Asterisms.

Caleb's scorched earth campaign continues and it appears I will go on until I'm staggering down the road missing limbs, fully lobotomized and amnesic, breathing borrowed air. No one understands this, no one can parse exactly at which point all attention turned to me and I became the possession, the doll they would fight over, pulling me apart in an effort to be victorious until my seams rip open, my guts spill all over the road and I am ruined, in pieces, empty and worth nothing.

I wasn't all that special at eight or nine, I didn't think. I was sort of average. I was willing and determined, I was flighty and dependent at the same time. They just had such an overwhelming need to save me, to control me, to stand in front and fight away all my demons for me and they've never let up for a single second of my life from that first night.

I want to ask how they can waste any more of their lives fighting for me, over me, on my behalf. Its been half our lives now, if we're lucky. It's been decades and nothing's changed save for the fact that the stakes are literally as high as they will ever get, as we fight through life and death and children and threats and lawsuits and custody battles and financial particulars and living arrangements and marriage arrangements and everything that goes along with everything else.

We've tried breaks. Absences. Forcible removals. Protection orders. Death. Life. Birth. We've tried making things work and we've tried adjusted collective living now too. We've tried lawlessness and we've had rules. We've had leaders and followers. We've watched the years tick past but nothing every changes except that I get older and less beautiful as each night passes into the next and still they fight on. It doesn't even matter if I'm HERE, they're still fighting over the memory of me, the idea of me, something.

I had to go around and request that each of my beloved friends delete the photo. Most tried to pretend they didn't really see it or it was no big deal. Some made really bad jokes to cover up their horror. Some gave me lectures. Some denied they ever got it until I chose to wait them out and they crumbled quickly. Some laughed and refused, saying I got what I deserved.

Some still threatened to put it up for the world to see until I pointed out that I don't care about the world at large, I care about the people who live here with me. The rest is just static, white noise, a constant roar of life passing by while we all remain locked in a ridiculous war and no one even knows why we're fighting anymore.

Sure we do, Bridget. We're fighting for you. 

Well, stop it. I never asked for this.

I changed my mind.

I've decided after a fitful night's sleep that I'm really not prepared to sign my mind back over to Joel. I'm not really sure that Joel isn't here to help make Sam redundant and marked for banishment. I don't trust them enough to believe them when they say no. Sam has always been a threat to Joel. I'm not sure the history there and it's none of my business. It was just far too easy for Joel to appear, herald a list of good boys and bad boys and then wait patiently for control to be give to him. Especially since he is Caleb's guest, not mine.

So yeah but no, I'm going to pass.

I also passed on an opportunity to wage words with the Devil himself, ignoring his messages, his invitations and apologies. Then his demands, his threats that turned to pleas so fast his desperation dripped down the walls and drowned me. I turned on my back to float, breathing shallowly, staring up at the sky, spreading out my arms and legs, floating in the deep water as it slowly filled the room. Now what? I ask Lochlan, who is teaching me to swim. I want to be done, the knot on my bathing suit digs into the sunburn on the back of my neck. I want to be done.

Wait for help, Loch says.

But I'm not nine anymore. I roll back over and swim for shore. It's just so far away.

When in this situation, you're supposed to wait for someone to rescue you. Loch insists.

How do they know I'm here? 

They just do. Don't worry about that part.

Should have built UNstables.

At the eleventh hour yesterday Joel formally declared his allegiance and called Caleb a psychopath.

To his face.

I closed my eyes. Didn't much want to see Joel's brain sucked out of his nose or his head squished like a ripe plum between Caleb's hands but Caleb chose not to engage. He'd lose. Joel was the one who gave me the labels I won't wear easily and is now the one who has convinced the others that I'm not responsible for the way I am or the way I act, even as I insist I'm an adult and stamp my feet. He taught us that it has nothing to do with being an adult, that I'm not in control, that I'm just doing what I need to do to ease the pain and I can't help it.

He blames them collectively for me.

He was harsh on everyone and so easy on me I stood there thinking he's about to make a play too and Jesus, no, not again.

But he saved his biggest criticism for me and told me I'm not doing what they made it so easy for me to do. Let them lead. Let them decide, steer, supervise and control. The ones who will protect and not exploit. He thinks he knows who those ones are and who are not. The list contained a couple surprises and one incredible disappointment.

And he asked Caleb to stop. Stop hurting me. Stop leading me down those roads. Stop torturing me. Stop making things worse.

Stop being evil and help, here.

And Caleb was so startled he agreed because Joel caught him by surprise. Because maybe Joel has ethics after all and maybe he knows what he's talking about and because he's the only person I know to make a mistake, learn from it and never do it again.

The rest of us aren't as bright. I was (am still) fully prepared to admit I put myself there. I go to Caleb willingly. I goad and tease him into these situations and then I find myself in over my head. He is deep water and I'm the ever-weakening swimmer. He's the shark and I'm the oblivious surfer. He's the predator, I'll be the prey for the rest of my fucking life. So whatever he's promised to do to help, it's most likely a lie, and for the next several meals I'll be using the unbreakable dishes and feeding the boys in shifts, because even though Joel promised to do a little crisis counseling on the fly with Loch and Ben and Caleb together, well, I don't buy his insistence that my brain exists as if it was indeed born yesterday. I don't think it's fair to be excused for the things I do but I don't exactly do them on purpose either. I don't know what it is. Joel says he knows, and that's the important part.

I somehow gave control of my head back to him. I don't know if that's any smarter but at this point it doesn't seem any dumber.

(If electrocution didn't kill me, the abject humiliation will.)

In the picture I look as if I'm already dead. Stark naked, tangled in quilts, tied up quite neatly, hands behind my back, ribbon looped around my neck so my hands are almost between my shoulder blades. I am facedown. I am waiting for him to come back.

He must have taken that photo as he returned to the room with a fresh drink.

He sent it to everyone on the point.

The more I fight
The more I work
The more I dig into the dirt
To be fed up
To be let down
To somehow turn it all around

But then fate knocks me to my knees
And sets new heights beyond my reach
Below the earth
Below concrete
The whole world shackled to my feet

Caleb is playing songs I adore on a loop. He's in jeans and a waffleknit tee with a beer in hand. Hasn't shaved. Invited me down to the boat for pizza and music. I went and we hung out in chairs until it got very cold and then we went into the saloon and he turned on the fireplace before switching us from beer to brandy.

Yup. Let's mix alcohol at eight-five pounds. He's a hundred and eight-five pounds. He won't even notice but I defer and tell him to have mine, that I'd rather switch to water.

He looks irritated. Your invisible babysitters are starting to piss me off. 

It's my choice to drink or not. 

If there were no recourse for you, you'd be shitfaced and in my bed by now. Instead you're on your best behavior. And that's bullshit. You're either free to do what you want, or you're not. Which is it?

I'm fine with keeping you company occasionally. This has nothing to do with anything else or anyone in particular. I'm here because I want to be here. I take the glass and drink the brandy. It burns.

What would you like to do?

(Don't ask me that, Jesus. No one ever learns.)

He smiles.

At four in the morning I'm in the waffleknit tee and nothing else, sitting on the floor in a blanket eating toast with cheese. He smiles wider still, hair messed up, barechested and fucking brutally magnificent, drinking yet another brandy, and I adjust my arm where he's bitten the inside of my elbow so it doesn't hurt so much and he tells me I'm so beautiful it's criminal. He tells me if I fought less he wouldn't have to tie me down, wouldn't have to bite right through, wouldn't have to be so harsh, so strong, but that smile tells me different. Then the smile disappears and he says he'll make it up to me and he says,

I love you. 

I shake my head and finish my toast.  He passes me his drink and I finish it. Fuck it. We've passed the point of no return. I know this place like the back of my hand. Or at least I did. There are teeth marks there too now. It looks so alien and new.

***

I find my things and return to the house as the sun comes up. Ben sits quietly at the island staring into a long-finished cup of tea. He doesn't say a word as I walk right past him, not until I take the first step upstairs and he says,

You shouldn't be there without me. He can't deal with this.

I don't reply, I just head up the steps. Loch is sitting on the edge of the still-made bed. No one has slept. He looks up at me, dark rings under his eyes.

 If this is payback then, Peanut, you win. I don't know what to do but just stop. Stop going there. 

I show him my arm, I know. 

You know but you never learn. How do I teach you this part? He frowns at my arm, inspecting it. His blood rolls in a slow boil, I feel it through his skin when he touches me.

You can't. 

I have to or we're not going to make it. I won't survive this. You definitely won't survive this.

We have to. 

What if we don't? 

Then everything just stops. That's what death is.

No regret?

Oh, so much regret, Locket. 

Then change this. Do something different.

I don't know how.

I did everything all wrong with you and I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Bridget for all of this. 

Don't say that. You're perfect. 

I wish I was. If I was I'd know a way to stop this. If I was so perfect we wouldn't be in this fucking mess for life, now, would we?

Conversations with Ben.

I walk into the kitchen just as Ben, PJ, Danny and Duncan are bringing in...grocery bags?

I look at PJ. I didn't give you the list yet.

PJ laughs. This is for dinner tonight. Ben wants to make it special for the fourth. 

(Ben is American. I'm sorry it's true.)

What did you get? 

Ben says we're going to barbecue and he pulls out some ribs from the first bag. Ben is supposed to be watching his diet because his cholesterol is creeping up. His liver is usually angry. Basically all of his things, well, he treats them poorly. I coddle the parts I can, but you know. It's tough. Or maybe I should say it's hard. LOL

Ah! Ribs, yum! I say.

Then he just keeps going.

Steaks!

Chicken!

Bratwurst.

Lamb.

Shrimp.

Lobster.

What the fuck, Ben. Burgers, too?

And also pork chops. 

Wow! Did you leave any meat in the store?

No. Because...because freedom, Bridget. Today I'm free to eat all the meat. All of it. And you can't stop me.

(This is this, minus the rose-colored sea glass.)

Strung out and washed up, my tank top hangs off my bony shoulders as I buy two cokes to give us some sugar energy, bridging the gap between the two evening shows and when we can get to the pub and split a whiskey poured over a slow dance. We haven't loved each other the right way for years, we're just mutual parasites trying to suck the nostalgia from each other, reliving the innocent days of lights and excitement, that weird bubbly half-choked feeling that rises in your throat just before the floor drops out from under you on one of the screamer rides.

Fucking tattooed freaks, the man behind the counter mutters as I count out change. I nod and smile. Recognition. But he has already scooped my dirty American dimes off the counter and turned away. The Freak show is a nineties washed-up reflection of the glory days, a victim of its own success. People are too horrified to come now, they don't wish their curiosities to be turned transparent. We make them so uncomfortable.

I resolve never to be like them. The Averages, the Rubes.

I pass one of the midgets. Simon? I think. We don't use real names here. He makes me feel huge even though he's almost as tall as I am. He nods and begins to deal his charm on me. We're fairly new so we've kept to ourselves thus far. I'm alone more than ever as Loch continues to work around the clock making bank and when he's not working he's high until he's low and asleep. We're hanging by a thread.

I hear you used to be the wire walker on the Steadmann outfit a few years back. What are you doing slumming with us?

I was underage. We were driven out. 

Cut your losses then?

Yes. 

Did you adapt to the fire show? How did that come about?

We always did it on the side. Some shows are slow to settle up so we busked and did some underground stuff that didn't work out. I like the fire though. 

Can't forget about it if you're still here. 

I know it. 

Your... friend. He worries about you.

Not anymore he doesn't. 

Don't bet any money on that color, Doll. He does. He just can't get out of his own way to do anything about it right this minute. So you watch yourself. This is no place for a girl like you. 

He went inside the tent and I walked back to the room. Loch is still sleeping. He doesn't even know I left. I put the lukewarm cokes on top of the broken television and lock myself in the bathroom. The shower is only marginally warmer than the drinks but I stand there forever staring at chipped tiles and trying to be brave. I came this far, the least I can do is play the game one more time.

Pyrophilia.

I am awake
I am alive

I woke up this morning freezing cold, alone in the big bed upstairs with the windows thrown wide, the clouds grey in the morning sky and Ben's big Grado (shameless plug, don't worry this isn't a sponsored post but I would whore for those people if they gave me my own pair) headphones on my head. Transmissions played in a loop and I lay there for another three listens-through before I even opened my eyes.

Antigravity. Telescope. Seriously. Halo.

(You can stream it here.)

I could think of very few better ways to wake up, and you would know what those are as well as I do but instead I get to adore the second outer spaced-themed album by a band I love in a single season. How lucky am I?

When I was a little kid there were still nine planets in our solar system. Lochlan taught me their names patiently. I later wrote those names on a test for Grade 3 when asked to list the ten provinces and Lochlan laughed when I told him the teacher called my parents and jokingly said I was a real space cadet in class. He told me I should pay attention and it became our first fight, at eight years old and thirteen respectively. He was already in Junior High and told me things are important.

I stamped my foot and indignantly yelled back that I do pay attention to the important things. I pay attention to him.

Pluto was declassified as a planet in 2006 and I figure that's right around when everything started to go wrong but Loch just shakes his head and says no, that it was the beginning of events that led us to now where things are finally beginning to go right.

But then Caleb sends me a message and it cuts the music out long enough to play my ringtone and I look and it's a threat of sexual violence if I don't take down any entry on this page that references his sex life where it excludes myself.

Somehow the Devil has forgotten that to me, being told I'm going to be set on fire and then fucked to death isn't anything more than foreplay these days. He needs to try harder.

Oh, I fucking KNEW IT. Caleb never slept with Luke. The whole thing was a big misunderstanding left standing, as it were, to cover something else.

I don't know why I'm telling you. I guess I like it when I'm smart enough not to be duped by the Devil. It doesn't happen much but when it does I like to mark the occasion.

Princess projectile.

This morning out back midway through coffee and banana bread, Lochlan asks me about the tides. I point out high is just now but maybe we can go down to the beach after lunch.

Then he says while staring at his phone,

Oh! There's an update. Want me to do yours too?

I hand my phone over and not three seconds later Ben hauls me up over his shoulder and goes running for the cliff where he yells Fore! and throws me into outer space but instead of landing among the stars I land among the starfish. Godammit.

I need to learn.