Junkyard Bridge.

She's in a long black coat tonight
Waiting for me in the downpour outside
She's singing "Baby come home" in a melody of tears
While the rhythm of the rain keeps time

Stress always manifests in me so violently, obviously, wracking my body from head to toe with uncontrollable tears and endless debilitating headaches and stony silence as I fight my way through another day of remembering to breathe and not cry when I catch a melody of a song that I like. Remembering the the little things building up are not the worst and maybe I don't have to fall apart over a flat tire or a broken nail.

But I do and it's like those little things, when you stack enough of them up are just as tall now as the big things and it doesn't seem to matter if the issue at hand is important enough, it's all painted with the same brush. It's all the same catastrophe and I keep trying to arrange things just perfectly in my deranged OCD way. Everything straight in a row, checked seven times because my memory shuts down first and leaves the rest of me to sort it out like throwing someone with no limbs into the sea and yelling at them to swim already.

That's what it's like.

It isn't pretty, it isn't film-worthy or book-worthy or fit for public consumption. It's like being in a coma and feeling everything when they've already decided you feel nothing and to just go ahead with no anesthetic. Rip out her heart. Rip out her mind. Rip out her soul.

The rest?

Keep it for spare parts.

Pseudoscifi.

Joel is aghast that I am turning down free, local, voluntary, familiar help as I forge ahead with his banishment.

Jasper is outraged that I nailed his boss again when that's all he ever wants in life, please and thank you.

Caleb is incensed that I still don't seem to need him.

Ben is busy.

Duncan is white-knuckling life and I want to help him so I stay away.

Lochlan is keeping his cards close and won't tell me what he's thinking about the whole job-offer thing in case someone gets ahold of me and I squawk before he's ready. It's happened. I'm a pushover and I'm gullible. I'm also horribly ticklish. It's a favor, leaving me out in the cold, trust me. I never could keep very many secrets. Once I'm full, I'm full.

PJ is tired, so I'm making dinner by myself though Dalton is about to jump right in here because again, I slipped and admitted I still have a very bad headache. If he can chop up some heads of broccoli we'll be in the clear I think.

Blue Monday? You're freaking right it's Blue Monday.

The good news is it's almost over.

The even better news? New winter tyres on Lochlan's truck because the ones he brought from the prairies were falling apart and unsafe. Not an expense that he needed right now so I put it on the black card. That will buy him some time, at least. He was so mad that I paid for them but also kind of glad for a little more time to cover the cost, I think.

It's like the whole point is half in rich dark shades of black and the other half is always in the red.

Whiskeyjacks. I've never seen one with my own eyes. I like birds, though. We have owls here and they are SO LOUD. It's awesome.

The Swedes have moved on, the house is semi-pulled back together (Ben and PJ are working on it) and I had breakfast with the devil this morning because he was lonely, he was angry and he wanted to negotiate*.

He also pulled rank over Sam, who is starting to get irritated at the lack of attention I pay to church and Sam actually sent Caleb a scathing message that I saw because Caleb's phone was sitting on the counter while he made cheese toast for my breakfast. He even did tea instead of coffee because eighteen days, you know. I'm doing great. I really want a cup now, but my poor fragile kidneys and my anxiety won't allow it.

Sam sent a scathing message to everyone, as I later found out, that they need to show up and make an effort if they want to live the best life possible. We support him fully as heathens, we do. He hates that. Jake did too.

Caleb sent back a scathing message and pulled rank over God too and I stopped wondering about his phone after that.

Lochlan is gearing up to announce that he's going to work for Batman, I think. He hasn't said much. When I ask he tells me he's thinking, and it's no longer as reassuring as it was when I was eleven and didn't know what it meant.

I might be sort of drunk right now too, I'm sorry. Dalton poured me a good one an hour ago and it is lighting up my insides and burning my expressions brightly into my face and making it hard to concentrate but he said I looked like I needed it after a long weekend and they are allowed to medicate me as they see fit. Some of them are until they cross lines, that is. But he cleared it with Lochlan first so I guess it's okay and I won't be up late tonight anyway and Matt is making spaghetti for dinner so I can just sort of slide out of the weekend on a melting ice cube and the memory of the hard hug Caleb gave me when I realized he really didn't want me to leave.

(*He wants Joel to stay. I say Joel goes. It's a Irish standoff and dammit, he's not going to win.)

Totally tea.

The Swedish band rats didn't stay here last night. Our landlord doesn't permit it, or so he pointed out in a text that woke me up because I had one whole beer (well, almost a whole one) and then was so sleepy by eleven I got very snappy and so I sent myself to bed. Ben was still going strong because Ben is weird like that. Sometimes I think he could stay up for weeks without blinking even. He didn't have a beer though. Beer is heavy. He had tea and water all day. The rest (except Sam) drank flats and flats of beer. PJ was fuzzy and slowly joyful. It was adorable. Duncan did well to not drink. I watched him. Probably too closely but I worry about him even though he stuck to tea for the whole evening in spite of being repeatedly offered drinks until Ben said some of the house is teetotal and then the offers stopped short. Done and done.

Today they were back right after breakfast but thankfully they've moved downstairs to pull out a serious jam session with a mind to record.

I didn't join them, I don't want to sing with a cold or have any more beer (ever) and besides, I had a standing date with Caleb and Henry to go shoe-shopping. Henry's now in 11.5s for sneakers and if he keeps growing I worry we might have to put a lift kit on the roof just in case he grows so tall his head pokes through the flashing and the shingles too. Then he'll get rained on and get leaves in his eyes and make a mess besides and kids named Jack will come along and try to follow him into the clouds via a shortcut in a beanstalk that grows nearby.

Can't have that. I'll keep him inside.

But I can't have that either.

So on he grows.

Death n' roll, it's called (love that).

Two or three times a year Ben's friends show up and take over the whole point for a day or a weekend and then they vanish again. This is one of those days. They eat everything. They make me laugh. They tease him incessantly and they bring presents in the form of things like the best, newest stereos with plugs that don't fit North American outlets (I have that covered though), vintage guitars (!!) and entire crates full of merchandise.

Fun fact: Men's medium fits no one. Ever.

Also fun fact: Who the fuck fits a ladies XS junior? Ruth is a 00 size and she can't even squeeze into those shirts. I'm sure she could when she was 2. I'm being punked, right?

Final fun fact: I haven't fallen asleep yet. Score!

They played some music together between conversations on the porch (It's metal! You can't play metal quietly) and our uptight, homophobic neighbors across the cove called the cops within minutes, who came down to check things out but of course they can do nothing because I know the noise bylaw and it doesn't kick in until long after dark but because we're actually nice people (if you try to get to know us) we took it inside.

Because we're not that nice we opened all the windows.

Everyone looked the same as always, just slightly older. They asked me who did this to me, who cut my hair and made me look like a boy? I was quickly defended with a few comments about how I probably did it to look taller. Consensus is it's had the opposite effect and I look smaller. Then a chorus of awwws let me off the hook and they moved on to teasing Lochlan for almost burning himself down from the inside out last fall, something Ben had told them about over Christmas when they spoke of coming for a visit. They brought Lochlan a giant antique copper fire extinguisher. I don't think it works but he loves it anyway.

By eleven this morning it was too loud and too crazy even for me and they switched gears, opting to rendezvous for an early traditional Benjamin-lunch which is when eight of them go and bring back twenty pizzas (sometimes the numbers vary slightly but they must always be even). And then I'll make actual-lunch because the pizza won't be enough. I have a headache from laughing, Caleb is afraid to leave his house and I got to hear Ben mimic a Swedish accent which was so terribly done he should be publicly shamed. We were laughing too hard to film him, however, so my proof has gone to the same place his dignity wound up.

It's just nice to see him so happy.

Be right with you.

Seventeen days with no breath at all
You fall off a ledge and your world dissolves
And no one listens to the sounds you make
and no one listens to you when you say
Save me from pain

For whatever reason my narcolepsy came back with a vengeance this morning and Benjamin bore the brunt of it as I kept completely checking out, my chin hitting my chest and my eyes flying open so many times I lost count before I scowled and fell asleep again. I didn't even ever feel it coming on. Usually I feel so overwhelmingly sleepy but today I just keep waking up.

Maybe it's dangerous and foolhardy to give up coffee.

Maybe I'm just dangerous. I just know I've always been this way whether I get nine hours of sleep or three. Same with the black circles under my eyes. They're always there. Genetics fucked me over bad. Bailey is perfect with her curly golden hair and tall willowy figure, perfect black eyelashes but no black circles, flawless hearing and normal alert levels.

I believe I may have been abandoned with her family by leprechauns passing through the village.

No, seriously.

It would explain the wanderlust and the love of potatoes and cake, you know.

And whiskey.

Shhhh.

I mean Zzzzzzz.

The reluctant survivalist, the insane surprise.

So this is my once upon at time
So this is my star-crossed wasteland

I cut my hand pretty badly on the mandoline. I wasn't even using it. I was moving it, fumbled and instinctively caught it. By the blade. I've never seen that much blood at once that wasn't period-related and it was hypnotic, seductive. It was incredibly bright and tepid and slow-growing, absorbing its surroundings like the shadow of the mountains when the sun dances from east to west.

It was properly bandaged four times before it stopped bleeding and before PJ would relax and crack a smile again. Then I washed some dishes and got dressing number five. Then six and they sent Dalton out for more first aid supplies and Sam took over the dishes. Odd how you can't seem to find steristrips in Canada in spite of the fact that everyone seems to carry them but is always magically out. We bring them back by the case from America. I'm going to sell them on the underground, I think (notes potential source of income for the future).

Because in the future my hand is healed but I'm left with a wicked white scar you can only see when I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the bleak whitewashed sunrise, to shield my heart from damage and my soul from theft. I can't see a thing but I feel everything. It feels uncertain and dangerous and yet hopeful, that if you just keep on walking, single-file, quiet as mice, that eventually you come into full sun and things will turn lush and green and certain once more. That people like Joel who claim to be helpful yet only cause more problems are memories that have faded to the point of unreadability and that the pain has too. That only the happiest recollections that make your heart skip and your eyes sting are there to greet that day.

And no blood.

No blood spilled. No blood shed. No blood drawn. No blood painted until it turns black against the white wall and when I step back I see a picture of me.

Don't you dare fuck with Bridget and her friends, both real and imaginary.

They say you've been living up the street
Well, I'm sorry boy, yes indeed
Back from the war and down by the creek
Well, a 'sorry' ain't what you need
Heard you've been trying to tell the truth
But I think I've about had it with you

The high point of the morning was when Ben started threatening to use me as ammunition against Duncan, who refused to budge. He was sitting on the big couch in front of the fireplace reading and Ben asked him three times for help moving a huge armoire before promising to throw me at him.

Duncan shook his head and said, I'm not catching her. 

You will. 

Nope. 

Oh..you will! And Ben picked me up and tossed me squarely at Duncan. At the last second I screamed and Duncan threw his arms out and missed and I managed to nail both his Adam's apple and his balls in one amazingly uncoordinated but reasonably soft fall.

I was horrified but they all laughed at Duncan, who could not speak or stand up for several minutes. They're too rough sometimes still. You think they're going to outgrow it as they mature but apparently that never happens. The maturity part, I mean.

The low point of the morning was when I gave Joel his notice. Ninety days to find someplace else to be. Ninety days to stop psychoanalyzing me on the run, ninety days to break the habit. Ninety days because the rental market is hard here. Ninety days because I might change my mind. Ninety days because I'll change it back, come hell or high water.

Oh wait, we have both here. Out he goes.

Ninety days to fight with Caleb who does not want me to dismantle the safeguards he put into place for me just because I got my feelings hurt when I was called out for talking to the garage walls again. What a hypocrite he is too.

A good day for black.

Burn down my house
And make something happen
Stab me in the heart
And make something stop
Because I am so distracted
I am slightly shocked
By how things can keep going
Like a dead man's clock

Jacob is pacing in the darkness, feeling his knuckles with the pads of his fingers from his other hand. From it distance he appears to be wringing his hands, from close up you can see he's rubbing out the soreness from his fingers from where his hands have been clenched into fists. There is as much salt in his hair as sunshine now and I can't tear my eyes away from him even as my heart beats so hard it's making me blink involuntarily.

He looks older, and stronger and more tangible than ever today. My tactile dream, my dead preacher, my love. He used to love lying in the dark at night as I told him stories from the show. He would laugh and say, but how did you feel? and I would answer so easily. Throw-up-excitement, dread, exhaustion, bursting happiness, contentment, endless hunger. He would frown or smile depending on my answer and work on his knuckles in the dark, rubbing them, cracking them. I wasn't sure if he was arthritic for he never complained, or nervous for he never admitted or maybe it was just one of those things, one of those endless unconscionable habits one picks up and then can't seem to put down anywhere later.

Jacob smiles when he sees me. You look good today, Princess, he tells me because he was used to this. All black from head to toe. Hundred-button boots, delicately cabled tights, black wrap dress in a pretty drape, tied so tightly and the whole thing covered with a long black sweater with buttons so small I'm the only one who can fasten them and the elbows are three-patches deep now.

Liar liar Preacher Boy. I say it softly, with a smile. It's an old inside joke, for he used to tell me I was beautiful when I was red-faced and in full ugly-cry, my eyes turned bright blue, lips quivering, nose running for the hills, fingers clenched til they drew blood. He would say that and I would laugh. I would laugh so hard. Incredulous and say he was a liar but the Preacher Boy disclaimer brought appreciation and affection for his efforts, just as my black clothing brings the night around with me, like a shadow. Like a shroud.

The more he talks the more I think he's real. Ghosts can't feel things. They can't be concerned or worried. They can't show emotion or be held to earth with negative energy so I'm not going to do this to him or to myself foremost. Today I must protect myself, standing behind the shadow of my presence, standing in the glint of silver and gold. Just standing here.

Because I don't know where to go next.

Winter of eight.

We are fire
Burning brightly
You and I

I had the lighter in my hand, standing perched on the driftwood log at the top of the snowy dunes. My tongue is sticking out of the corner of my mouth and my fingernails are blackened underneath and all around the edges but I told him I wanted to light the fire tonight. He gave me one lesson in how to light the lighter and then he went about finding fallen wood.

But I'm not strong enough to hold the flame. I keep getting it to light but then my fingers slip off the button so fast. I'm so frustrated but so determined.

How's it going, Fidget?

Almost got it! Bring tons of wood! It's going to be the biggest fire of the year thanks to me. He laughs and I jump off the log and sit down. I try to roll the wheel against the log like I've seen him do but all I get from that are sparks. I bang the lighter repeatedly and grunt my displeasure at not being able to do this. I wipe my hands on my skirt and tuck my hair behind my ears. One more chance. My coat has black sooty flinty fingerprints all over them, my face too, streaks in my hair that would take five washes to come out.

He comes back with the last armload and dumps them on the pile and looks at the balled up paper I am holding. No luck? 

Almost. I have sparks. I'm almost there!

You have sparks because you're soon to be a flame, and someday you're going to grow into a roaring fire but for now you just show a hint of your light, protected from the wind and rain. Someday a little rain won't make you sizzle and a little wind won't blow you out, someday you'll be the most powerful thing in the world. But for today you will only show as a tiny spark so I can find you. He takes the lighter and with a practiced, easy motion conjures a full flame that he holds up to the paper and then tucks the paper under the edge of the bonfire. Soon I'm warm and sleepy and I don't care at all that I'm not at full-flame yet. Someday I will be.I think it will be when I'm as old as he is. Around fourteen. I can wait.