Bayne

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-31T20:41:00

2003-02-01T02:55:19Z

God, it's been awhile.

To tell the truth, I haven't had much to say. My life has gone by at the speed of a blink, and everything has changed. There is no more link to Con Tara and the Langers--Doctor Agglesby is very, very dead. The Langers are gone. The Gehlberg Machine is destroyed. Sol Freyne is in ruins. I believe that the swamps themselves have been drained as the Marsali searched for the last of the Langer forces. There is nothing left except for cute me... and, of course, the Dreamers. Always the Dreamers.

Bah. I'm going to go curl up and die now. Well. Not really.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-16T23:29:00

2003-01-17T05:29:37Z

I swear, I’m less than an arm’s length from leaping out the nearest window onto whatever conveniently located sharp weaponry might wait beneath. The past few days have been strange at best and downright depressing at worst, and I wonder what, if anything, waits for me afterwards. Makes me question the origin of that light at the end of the tunnel—that light that everyone says to look out for. “Could be worse,” they say. “You could be dead.” Well, that’s true, I suppose… I should be thankful for such favors, but I’m not.
So I’ve been thinking about Emma a lot lately, partially because Kate and Tali both seemed utterly set on one the belief that one of us was in love with the other. Kate thought I was in such mourning over her departure because I had things to say that I had never said; Talitha thought that she was leaving because she felt that she could never have me. It’s all bullshit, and I’m not sure why nobody understands this; if it had been a male, everyone would have just given me a pat on the back and said they were sorry, and could they buy me a drink? But because I dared to have a friendship with something with breasts, there must have been *something* there. To hell with that. Emma was not special to me because I felt a deep longing for ours souls to mingle in that pit of suffocation called love; Emma was special to me because I felt relaxed, unguarded around her. And yet everyone insists that… bah. I wish they would just keep their mouths shut. Anyway, I was also thinking about Emma because I remembered the distressed look on her face when I was considering leaving this shit town, and I remembered how strongly she reacted when I told her that I would stay. What gives her the right to leave and act like it shouldn’t matter to me when she could have a bloody temper tantrum? Hypocrite. Still… bah. She can be replaced, I suppose.
Doctor Agglesby is getting worse. I purchased a plush duck for her today. She likes ducks. I had to give her a sponge bath yesterday, which made me feel like plunging my hands into acid.
Plush duck naturally leads to doll, which leads to another strange thing that happened last night. Upon a foray into the Inn, it was brought to my attention that the Clover Girl had a doll that was coming to life and acting quite menacing. The Clover Girl and Talitha were cowering. I destroyed the doll quickly, but it had this horrible, horrible laugh, and it called me “Daddy” twice. Its head met an end beneath my heel. Christ, but it was the sort of living nightmare that inspires in me a shudder even now. Holding the writhing body of the thing as I tore its head off, I felt a black chill creep over my skin. Nothing is quite so terrifying as a doll… the Clover Girl herself looked rather terrified, and my attempts to sooth her didn’t go over very well. Little urchin ran off without so much as any thanks. Children are wretched little beasts, which reminds me, I have to drop off a package at the orphanage tomorrow.

Note: Drop off package at the orphanage tomorrow.

I’m very tired now. I haven’t slept since the moon was full, and it’s beginning to show; I can only recycle the flesh in my face and eyes so often before everything looks a bit grey.

If Liryn were here, I would read to her, let her fall asleep in my lap, and slumber beside her. I miss her now that her room is barren and empty more than I ever did before…

Memory: Liryn, Emma.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-12T23:10:00

2003-01-13T05:18:19Z

It will be a long road back to normal once everything clears up. I... feel empty and low. I'm going to bed.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-12T02:44:00

2003-01-12T08:44:26Z

Doctor Agglesby threw up blood out the window and onto the head of a furious dwarf. It was amusing until he put an axe through the door.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-12T00:02:00

2003-01-12T06:04:30Z

Would it be better to burn and fall into the shadows with Doctor Agglesby?
Would it be worse?
Doctor Agglesby has a pack of matches, and it would be very simple to set one to my chin. The burn would take a few seconds at most to sever the bonds and engulf me; it would be quick, and relatively painless. The horror would be having my soul rent by the Dreamers, but I wonder if now might not be a good time to face that. Agglesby is going to be in their hands soon enough, and between the two of us they might be distracted enough that our torment would be halved.

I CAN’T do something about it, Joan, you bitch. I resent the woman for reading my journal, and I told her as much; her response was the same as it always is. I am her creation, her project; every right I have is trumped by her whim. I may have no secrets, no thoughts that she cannot contradict, and hell on me if I do.

Emma’s leaving.

I treated her like shit all night, ignoring her and giving her nasty looks when I happened to catch her eye. No wonder she thinks I hate her. Jesus, is that the impression that I left her with? That I hate her? How fucked up AM I? What the fuck is wrong with me? Emma, the only person I trusted enough to press lips to, the only person that I felt completely and totally comfortable around—I HATE her? What did I do to her, and why couldn’t I see that I was doing it? What sort of shit am I?

Fuck Doctor Agglesby. I hope you read this, you pathetic, stupid bitch. I hope you read this, and here’s why: YOU’RE GOING TO DIE! IN LESS THAN A FUCKING MONTH, YOU WILL BE DEAD! I will give you a burial, I will give you rites, but it won’t matter because the Dreamers will be playing with you, tearing you limb from limb over and over again as they like.

I need Liryn here. Liryn would stroke my cheek and say, “Daddy, it’s okay.” Because it was okay. But it’s NOT FUCKING OKAY.

I need to find Emma. I need to find her. I want to give her a hug. But if I see her again, I’m going to cry. I need to find her, but I won’t, and I need to and I can’t bear to. I DID NOT NEED THIS RIGHT NOW.

You know what? I saw Kitty tonight, and I was disgusted with myself. She’s a walking cliché. I was so pitiful for accepting that slut. What the fuck was I thinking? But I don’t mind her at all.

Why the fuck didn’t I talk to Emma about everything when I had the chance? She said she wouldn’t understand most of it, and I believe her, but nobody else knows and I have to tell someone because the only person I can talk to is Doctor Agglesby and she already knows and I’m so fucking lonely because of that. Nobody listens, nobody cares, and it’s my own damn fucking stupid damn fault because I’m such a miserable ass to everybody for no good fucking reason except that I feel I’ve earned the goddamn right, and why? WHY? What the fuck did it ever get me? My first friend here says I’m dead to her, my second is leaving, both think I hate them, why? WHY? BECAUSE OF ME! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?

Doctor Agglesby took down everything in Liryn’s room today. I almost killed her, I swear I did, I beat her until she was bleeding from her eye, and then I got on my knees and begged her forgiveness. She spent an hour with a knife punishing me. Why the fuck couldn’t I even stand up for my little girl’s memory? Why am I bound to that bitch, that stupid bitch that I love and hate, why do I have to do what she says? Because she made me, that’s why. But what does that matter? Can’t God’s children disdain Him? Why can’t I kill her? Why? Why is her word sacred when she is NOT the deity that she seems? WHY?

Random spilled whiskey on my head, and now I have a hideous red and purple and brown burn on my side, though I suppose it’s better than the mangy look I was sporting when I left the Inn for the first time. It’s so ugly, but I have nowhere to store it. If I put it inside, I could not seal off the nerves and survive. I want it to hurt, but I’m afraid to feel it. Why can’t somebody share this with me?

I gave Emma a stupid, meaningless little glass cube I made out of a mug in the Inn. It was the best I could do. I didn’t know what else to do. I expect it will end up in a drawer somewhere, gathering dust, if she doesn’t discard it completely; she thinks I hate her, and why shouldn’t she? Did I ever make it clear to her that, on the nights when I saw her, I felt like a normal person with normal friends, a normal life, not this terrible solitude and these fucking problems and this hideous excuse for an existence? NO! I DID NOT! I CALLED HER A SLUT AND A WHORE AND TOLD HER WHAT TO DO AND ACTED LIKE SHE WAS MY FUCKING PROPERTY AND NOW SHE WILL NEVER EVER KNOW AND IT’S MY FUCKING FAULT! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?

The matches are sitting in the den on top of the radio, which is playing some fucking song about someone who is three times a lady, and it would be so simple. I wouldn’t even be missed—it’s true. The only person who might notice my absence would be Kate, and only because she would lose her nemesis. Starr wouldn’t care, Emma wouldn’t be around to care, and I have nobody else. I have nobody else—I have nobody. And I have nobody to blame except my stupid self.

Doctor Agglesby is asleep. I shouldn’t whimper like I am.

I am in a situation of my own making. Everything that is wrong with me is my fault.
--Liryn: If I had gone back for her, I would have saved her or been dead.
--Agglesby: I cannot bring myself to do what I know I have to do.
--Starr: I alienated her with cruelty that she never deserved. No wonder she lashed out with my daughter’s name.
--Emma: She thinks I hate her because I never told her otherwise. If I had, would she have stayed?
--The Dreamers: When I sleep for the last time, I will be in their dreams, and it is because I was too much of a coward to die when it was my time.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I won’t burn. I won’t. I can’t. My hands would shake the flames from the matches. I will sit here and watch out the window and hope something interesting happens, and maybe sing along to whatever comes on the radio--right now it is playing a favorite of mine, a song called "Tiny Dancer"--, and tomorrow will be a different day.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-11T14:28:00

2003-01-11T20:28:30Z

Nothing is fair, Bayne. Quit whining and do something about your life.

--Joan

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-10T23:25:00

2003-01-11T05:25:47Z

I’ve never quite felt so confused as I do right now. My apartment smells like medicine, pungent and sharp, the sort of smell that you can taste. It’s bitter. Coats the tongue, makes your mouth feel full. I’m close to exhausted—last night was spent talking, not sleeping, and today was spent tending to the dying woman lying on a cot in the den. She showed me the lumps all over her body, hateful little gatherings of rampant cells that are eating away at her from the inside. It was humbling—death, slow but certain death, wrapped around someone that I have always thought of as an invincible monolith.

She looks like hell—her hair, once the color of embers, has last its luster and life, reduced to a frizzy, brittle mess atop her head. The cold gleam that used to inhabit her eyes—pure confidence or arrogance, admirable either way for its strength—has been replaced by an emptiness that I believe was spawned by great fear. They’re always wide behind her glasses. Her lips have a pinched look to them, and they frequently crack, chapped and bleeding. Still, she does nothing. Her body is withered, wasted, unnaturally thin, no longer the strong frame that I remembered. She walks with little shuffling steps, skittish, looking this way and that, terrified of every shadow and motion seen only from the corner of her eye. I can’t say I blame her. The Dreamers five lurk mostly in the mind, but that never stopped them from manifesting before, and they may come to collect her at any time.

They’ve done the rest of their work, after all. Curse those long-limbed freaks, those pitiful bastards, for calling them from their wakefulness. Curse the Langers and their plans, their stupid, stupid plans. How could they have expected to control the Dreamers? What unbelievable arrogance—or perhaps pathetic desperation—made them believe they could put a leash on something like that? Didn’t they comprehend the warnings, see the signs sent to them by the other sleepers? I wonder sometimes how diseased their minds had become at the end. Why throw away everything—success, the future, their own lives—to clean up a mess that could have been handled with a few assassins carrying matches? So a few of their slaves escaped—what did they think would happen? That we would go running to the Perlisians, or maybe organize and strike back? The Perlisians would have killed us for what we did to Sol Freyne, and we were no army, merely a few scattered survivors. It should have ended—now it will be erased, everything erased, by the claws of five demons that they sicced on themselves.

So what do I have on my hands? A dying scientist who will be given to the Dreamers upon passing from this world and a lot of old memories. Nothing more. Agglesby herself confirmed what I had supposed last night, telling me that I was uniquely alone, that although I could mask myself as human and smile and fit in (little does she know), I am NOT. I am most certainly not human, most certainly not the same as the people with which I mingle, most certainly a freak, unlike them, a collection of dead skin with a mind that works in completely different ways than theirs. The loneliness that I had recently shed has hit me again, suffocating in the darkness of Liryn’s room.

Liryn…

There is nothing—nothing—that I would not give to be able to hold my little girl again. She was hope incarnate, different than us in that she was not condemned from birth, radiant, alive, beautiful. She used to, when she would slip out of bed before I or Derralees, leap between us with a laugh, stirring the sheets and mattress and drawing us from sleep. I would grumble and D would pretend to spank her, but she knew as well as we did that our mornings were made by the smile on her face. The sunlight used to filter through the thin curtains in our kitchen, and when it was dusty, as it often was, you could see the individual beams; that fascinated her. She liked to paint, loved making streaks of blues and reds with her fingertips and then smearing the rest on me. There was nothing profound about the childish art that she made, but I saw in it so much. I once heard some pathetic lover in the Inn proclaim that his lady made him feel as if there was hope for him, no matter what he had done or who he had been before; that’s how Liryn was to me. A piece of me that redeemed me just by her existence. I want one moment with her, a split second to see her laugh at a juggler, or watch a mouse scurry through the road, or throw her arms around me and say that she loved me, like she often did when she knew that she was going to be in trouble. Derralees used to say that it was lucky she was not a jealous woman, because there was no way anything could ever compete with Liryn in my eyes, and it’s true. Even now, it’s true. But I never went back for her.

Paused for a few minutes, here. Tears and such.

So I keep this room, a shrine to my daughter, in perfect condition. The walls are papered with paintings she created, and a replica of the small red bed that she slept in sits in the corner. She liked alligators—they were abundant in Con Tara—and so I’ve gathered for her numerous dolls and figurines that decorate the desk in here. I keep a candle beside her bed, never lit but always there.

Doctor Agglesby said I needed to get over her, that she wasn’t coming back and that my reluctance to let go of her memory was disturbing.

We talked of many things, but mostly of the fear, of trying to come to terms with the fact that, when we die, we will be turned over to the merciless claws of the Dreamers for as long as they wish to sleep. I have many, many years with which to prepare myself; Joan Agglesby has a matter of weeks to face the fact that she is in line for torment and then oblivion. It is possible that the Dreamers decide to awaken before my time, but I do not dare hope.

No matter. I will take care of Agglesby until her time. I owe her my life in part (along with Doctor Everett), so I owe her that much.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-08T23:47:00

2003-01-09T06:00:05Z

Why? Why, why, why does that woman get to me so much?

It's Kate I'm talking about, of course, and she managed to slaughter what was looking to be a week-long afterglow not once, but twice. The first time, she just wouldn't talk to me, supposedly because I was being bossy. I believe I've earned that right. The second time, I was trying to make friendly, civil conversation and she bit my head off. Christ, the nerve of the woman. Nobody irritates me like Kate does, and yet I don't dislike her. I respect her a bit, maybe even like her just a little. Bah.

No Kitty tonight. I'm looking around at this ruined apartment, and the memories are nice. Wonder when we'll do it again? I feel good. But once you get past the pleasant buzz, I feel the same as I did yesterday afternoon. Bah.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-08T00:01:00

2003-01-08T06:58:50Z

Ha.
Ha. Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ha ha ha HA!

That's the sound of me cackling, except that I can't really do it because Kitty passed out on the floor in the bedroom, and if I wake her up she'll probably be ravenous again and, really, I'm too exhausted to handle that right now. I didn't sleep last night, and I'll probably crash head-first into slumber the instant I put the pencil down, but I have to get it all out right now.

Whew... I needed that. I really did. I feel so loose, relaxed, content. Sex--real sex, not the mechanical fucking that whores provide, which serves only to deliver an orgasm--soothes me like nothing else. It's not that I get emotional or any of that crap, because I don't; sex is still just sex. But sex, good sex (and this was most definitely good sex), it makes everything else, all the static and nastiness of the world, fade into this gentle roar that's more pleasing than annoying. I feel... good. Really good. I could dance.

We actually had to stop four or five times because the neighbors were knocking on the door. Apparently we made noise, which doesn't surprise me considering that the apartment is all but destroyed. I have a feeling I'll be dealing with a very angry landlady tomorrow, and I DON'T FUCKING CARE! HA! My only concern is that the damage we did could get me evicted. It's that bad. We...

Ruined almost all of my furniture. It's splinters, torn fabric, stuffing, and springs, and nothing more. A beautiful sight.
Broke the mirror in the bathroom and the faucet in the tub, plus knocked a few tiles off of the wall there.
Tore up the carpet in several places.
Shattered the wall I'd previously damaged.
Broke the hinges on the door to the bedroom.
Put dents in the wall in several places.
Broke the desk that I usually write on in half (I'm lying on the floor, still naked, my back against the wall, and writing this by the light of the only lamp left intact).
In fact, just about the only place we didn't touch was Liryn's room.

I think she may have broken a rib, and I must have pulled the hell out of her tail. Bruises, cuts, too, all that. I fared better, of course, and I'm not particularly worried about her; she's a shifter, she heals fast. Mm. Christ, I haven't been assaulted like that since the Dreamers came here. Hell, I'm not sure even they were that violent. I got clawed, bitten, pummeled, yanked, slashed, slammed, and jabbed, and didn't mind a bit. Whew. I am in SUCH a good mood right now. Worn out, tired, but in such a good mood.

We were perfect together. It was like we were this unstoppable act of nature's fury, only with orgasms. We have to do this again. A lot. She's just gorgeous... that body. Fit well on me. I think I've found a new hobby.

Makes me think of the first time I had sex. The Langers were passing me from woman to woman, trying to find someone I would be able to breed with. I went through seven before they finally paired me with Derralees. The first was this black-haired, chubby member of the First Run, something of a failure that they'd been trying to find a purpose for. I had been only vaguely schooled in how to have sex, the Langers basically having told me "stick this in that hole and move back and forth." So I did, while they watched, but my body didn't know how to have an orgasm yet. After half an hour, they intervened, stimulating me with a machine that did the job. Needless to say, Gharia--that was the chubby woman's name--never got pregnant. She was destroyed a week later for being unable to shape her body correctly. Anyway, it was awkward, slow, and she was disinterested, but despite that I had no idea about how to get my body to have an orgasm, I was enthralled. When they paired me with D, it was magic, but... it was never like it just was with Kitty. Derralees was slower, more relaxed, not quite what could be called lovemaking, but not fucking, either. We took the time to flirt a bit, be happy with what we could in the face of what we were, all that. We appreciated each other. Wasn't love, but it was a peculiar sort of happiness, contentment. I miss her.

Anyway, so I had lots of sex with D, then... everything happened, and I came here. The prostitutes here, like the rest of the women, are quite beautiful, well-built and often bordering on sexy beneath their layers of makeup. But it was just mindless fucking. Nothing to it beyond that. I had the chance to sleep with Ayesha, and I had the chance to sleep with Starr, but the latter wanted a kiss and the former was just too pathetic. Kitty didn't ask for a kiss--I appreciated that. Lips were used, just not that way.

And now this, my first bout of sex in Rhydin that didn't cost me money, and it blew away everything else. The feel of fiery little furrows torn into my back, the sharp pain of teeth on my shoulders, all that mixed with the heights of pleasure... I liked it.

Okay, I'm done. My eyes are about to drop shut. I'm debating whether to fall asleep next to Kitty, on the floor--I always was a cuddler, and shut up--or drag myself into bed. Update again tomorrow, assuming the journal isn't an accidental casualty of morning sex.

Goodnight.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-07T22:25:00

2003-01-08T04:31:23Z

HA! I never knew it would be this easy! Or this fun, really. I'm invigorated.

I'm naked and I'm panting and, thank Jesus, I feel so much better now. Kitty... holy hell, the woman's an absolute monster. My loveseat's knocked over, the cushions torn open, probably beyond repair; the holes that I recently patched up in my wall were still weak enough that we pretty much punched out the whole wall slamming into it; a few of the dishes I keep are shattered on the floor. We never made it to the bed. Not yet, anyway.

Just on a little break here while Kitty's recovering. It's better than I imagined. This is the greatest experience of my entire life. If I bled, I'd be SO bloody right now. HA!

She's such a wildcat. She ripped my suit off--literally, it's all torn and shredded, and I'm fine with that--and from there it was just this whirlwind. I haven't ever had sex like this, violent and fast and fierce and, wow. I think we'll try the tub next, though I doubt the shower curtain will survive.

She's up again. Time to go. Write more later.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-05T23:18:00

2003-01-06T04:17:31Z

God, but Kitty's hot. She gave me this picture of her doing some... infiltration at a strip club, and while I'm normally slightly uncomfortable with photographs, I feel completely at ease with this delightful image. I really should sleep with this woman. I think I'll go masturbate for an hour or two.

Oh, almost forgot, Kate was back, and she was acting normal. Bizarre bitch.

Now I'll go masturbate.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-05T02:00:00

2003-01-05T06:58:27Z

Bayne two, annoying female frienemies zero.

Yes, I’ve managed to alienate another one, trimming the fat, culling the weak, thinning the herd. First Starr, who decided to cut me out of her will because I had the gall, the absolute gall, to try and get laid. Now, with all of the skill of a Langer boneweaver making a wedding dress from departed shrews, I have sent Kate, unstable and erratic, packing. And thank God—the last thing I need in my already undesirable life is another slightly insane female who can’t decide whether she hates me or wants me.

On a momentary tangent, I find that interesting and more than a little amusing, that tendency of all of my females that I encounter to alternate between lusting after my admittedly wonderful body and then, a day later, wanting to tear it open with scythes. Seriously, let’s take stock of them all…
Ayesha—She loved me, she hated me. It was beautiful fucking with her mind, because she was already so fragile that a simple shove could send her over the edge. I witnessed it several times. Never caused it, but it’s fun to think that I could have.
Starr—Could have banged her like a gong if I’d wanted to do so. All it would have taken was one little kiss, just so that she “wouldn’t feel like she was just meat” to me, or something like that. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that means she was needy and lonely and hollow and overdramatic, but… oh, wait. I DO know better.
Emma—Emma doesn’t really hate me, but we’ve been over the whole sex thing. She wants me.
Soralie—God, she’d love nothing more than to hop on the totem pole. I’m repulsed. But she’s so hot for me. Fortunately, I haven’t seen the bitch in a good while.
Agglesby—I’m partially her creation, so she’d better like me just a little. The disdain she shows is a façade. She’s fascinated, intrigued, a little scared. Thinks I’m an enigma. I think that’s wonderful.
Tali—She sits there all day and watches me. Then she pretends she knows me. I think I smell lust.
Kate…

Ah, Kate. You stupid slut. After my attempts to wrest from her the story of the bruises covering her body—nasty things that make me happy that I am what I am—she inquired about her bag. I said I’d left it somewhere else. Then she all but threw herself on me, giving hints in her expressions and speech that she had a fire burning between her thighs. Lines she spoke during this phase included “You’d look better with your clothes off” and something about sexual tension. Finally, as she was to storm out and ruin the world, I said, in my usual sarcastic but brilliant manner, that I loved her. The hag exploded, turning on me and screaming and generally making a ruckus that I didn’t appreciate. Said something about that not being something to joke about, yadda, yadda, yadda. I didn’t much care, but I was a little creeped out by the intensity of her reaction. She seemed on the verge of violence. Not that I was worried—I’ve been shot, stabbed, pushed off of a cliff, drowned, etc, everything but burned—but I was a bit disturbed. Anyway, she basically hinted that we would no longer be talking, and so on. Whatever.

You know what I miss? The Community. Hundreds of us living in Con Tara, our homes meager but serviceable. When the Langers were busy, we socialized, sometimes even celebrated, though we never really knew what we were celebrating. They let us have a holiday—the Chasing Day, when we all gathered paint and ran around tagging each other with it, with hiding strictly forbidden. Whoever wasn’t tagged at sunset was allowed to ride, accompanied by Langer guards, through the ruins of Sol Freyne or, before that, the fields of Hanna, where we heard the siren snakes cry to the moon. I miss the simple things about it. There was no drama, no worries about love, no buzzing cloud of idiots filling our gathering places. Everyone was tolerable. Liryn danced for Langer soldiers once, to entertain them. One was polite enough to trade her a stick of candy for the ribbon in her hair, and another touched her head. Though the others sneered, that one’s gesture made her year.

If I’m not careful, I’m about to lose myself in memory. There is no Community anymore. There’s my window, caked with ice and nearly obscured by snow, and the dirty streets. There are the apartments of others stacked into a big brick box that I call home. Rhydin is interesting, but it isn’t the same. People here are stupid, shortsighted, dramatic, unable or unwilling to see the truths about things that they’d rather be blind to. Damn irritating.

I heard a song on the radio that touched my heart.

I want to lay you on a bed of roses
For tonight, I sleep on a bed on nails
I want to be just as close as the Holy Ghost is
And lay you down on bed of roses.

Beautiful. I believe it was by Bonjobee.

bayneeverett @ 2003-01-02T01:53:00

2003-01-02T06:50:36Z

Very, very interesting night. The first in awhile--nice to have a break in the monotony of this crap of a life.

As of late, my lust had moved from Emma to Kitty to nobody, since I hadn't seen either of them in ages, but tonight I finally had the pleasure of again seeing Emma in the Inn. She and I exchanged gifts, and that went wonderfully. The Heltirian Knot was received better than I had expected; she didn't know what to make of it at first, I believe, but when I explained it to her, she lit up. Nice to finally be appreciated. I wonder what she'll think of the pendant inside--it's genuine Sol Freyne platinum, shaped into a split sun and moon. The sun is benevolent, kind, all that; the moon is grinning like a fox, with slanted eyes. It's symbolic, but I don't feel like going into what it symbolizes. Anyway, in return, Emma gave me a doll of a slightly obese boy with a hat on. When his hand is squeezed, the boy utters obscenities and foul language. I haven't seen anything that glorious since my last visit to the suicide cliffs at the edge of town. I have decided to name this plush child Xelin, the Langer letter for X. I'm going to put him in Liryn's room, beside her teddy bears.

However, as lovely as my new son is, it was Emma's other gift that set things in motion. I was thisfuckingclose to bedding her--we were on our way out the fucking door. Now, I must admit that her seriousness regarding the matter took me by surprise, and I had a moment in which I debated internally whether I should take her up on it or not. Obviously, the factors in favor of screwing her were convincing; I haven't been laid in months and I'm quite attracted to her. However, I have pondered before whether something like this would affect our friendship. Under pressure, I decided it wasn't, though that may have just been wishful thinking. Anyway, point was, I was primed to be waist-deep in Emma, when...

Starr, apparently, was not happy with the way things were going, and so she naturally felt the urge to stick her nose where it wasn't wanted and object, though she did it in that maddening "Do what you like, who cares, waste your time, see if I give a damn" way. Things spiraled from there, but the important thing is that, needless to say, there will be no sex for Bayne tonight. However... that isn't what really infuriates me. What really, truly, deeply makes me angry is that none of it was her concern. As Emma put it, she wasn't asked to join in, and whatever happened between us did not affect Starr in any way. It was NOT her place to interfere. It's always that way--if Starr doesn't like something, it doesn't happen. Starr this, Starr that, the world has to revolve around Starr, she always has to be happy or else the world suffers. Just because she doesn't like something doesn't mean that she's right. Everyone bends over backwards to accomodate her, to make sure that she's not happy, because otherwise she'll go cry over it and everyone will feel bad. Am I the only one that sees her for the drama queen that she is? She's deeply in love, she has friends, she has money, she has magnificent powers, she's a major player in the Inn scene... why can't she be satisfied with that, with her life? I spit on Starr Cassidy. If, after spending a week ignoring me despite my attempts at being friendly, she wants to pretend I exist again when something that she doesn't like is happening, I spit on Starr Cassidy. She claims that I'm dead to her now--fine. I don't believe it, but fine. Maybe she'll stop sticking her nose where it isn't wanted. Jesus Christ.

Lady in red
Is dancing with me

Soothing music. I do feel a bit better, but not much. I'd rather be getting laid right now.

Memory: Liryn, Derralees.

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-20T01:20:00

2002-12-20T06:34:04Z

It's a humorous coincidence that I heard the following song immediately after coming home last night:

I just need your extra time and your
Dananananana--KISS

Kitty, the feline that I mentioned briefly earlier in this journal, apparently was affronted by my accusations that her interest in me was nothing more than simple mockery. To prove her interest, she took it upon herself to place upon my lips a wet, sloppy, and shockingly deep kiss. I should not have to explain to you what happened or why it happened. Suffice it to say that, had she not taken refuge in the rafters, she would likely be lacking a tail and ears at the moment. My soul feels intact--I don't believe that she knew what she was doing, that much I will say--but the fact that she would have the gall to do such a thing in the first place absolutely astounds me.

She later apologized, and I made her feel suitably shitlike before mentioning that I might accept it, given time and further groveling. Apparently, I interest her greatly with my attitude and personality; I say she's bloody insane, but whatever floats her proverbial boat. Besides, it's not the worst thing in the world; she's not exactly hard on the eyes, and she has a tail. So if I can forget the violated feeling of the kiss, it's not outside the realm of possibility that I might boff her anyway. Nothing beyond that, of course. Tail or not, she's not much more than a classic Rhydinian slab of meat, from what I can tell.

I'd actually forgotten how lips felt pressed against mine. I haven't spared a kiss for anyone since D, and as horrific as the experience of being kissed by someone barely above the level of stranger was, I miss it, I think. Not saying that I enjoyed the experience--I didn't. It was beyond uncomfortable and degrading. I didn't enjoy it. I did, however, miss the time when I had.

Nothing more to report, aside from that I need to get everyone's gifts out to them soon.

Memory: Liryn, D's kisses, Con Tara winters

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-18T20:03:00

2002-12-19T01:01:52Z

The following, I present for consideration as the greatest of pains: To have seen astonishing things, to have wandered through places unique in all planes, to have known secrets that were meant only for divine ears—and to not be able to discuss or share these things with anyone.

My mother and father, the Gehlberg Machine, pumps out thick smoke that darkens the sky above acres of swampland. Everything beneath the reach of the cloud is dead—trees, animals, even (obviously) us. Decay makes the air toxic and slightly brownish. When mixed with swamp gases, there often arise in the area beneath the cloud visions of horrors and flashes of colors. There is a long, loud conveyer belt that stretches out of the range of the cloud; it is here that the bodies of the fallen are loaded and sent to be ground up and reformed into manshifters. The steel of the Gehlberg Machine is black with silver gashes here and there; it is hot to the touch and constantly bends and nears breaking due to the stress of the processes taking place within. It is a magnificent and horrific sight, and nobody knows it but me.

There is a place in the northern hills of Elderspire that I call Crystal Peak. During our campaign against the people of Sol Freyne, Elderspire fell beneath us with ease, but we lingered there to flood their mines and salt their fields. I and a few of the others went to look for human survivors, and instead I—breaking off from the group--found Crystal Peak. Billions of stars congregate in the sky above Crystal Peak—more so than anywhere else that I have seen. More of the sky is light than darkness. It is the closest I have seen to true beauty in anything except my daughter’s smile, and nobody has set foot there but me.

So, yes, it is frustrating to be forced to bottle these things inside. I want to share my view on the world, my stories, everything that I have known and enjoyed during my tenure as a sentient member of the world’s populace. I am thoroughly annoyed.

And somebody named Kathwren—I believe it’s the hogass Kate, unfortunately—left a package on my doorstep containing a fishtank in the shape of a bed. Funny. I cooked the goldfish and ate them.

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-15T01:55:00

2002-12-15T06:56:59Z

I've been hiding away from the world for a little while now, and I may continue. Duct tape covers my windows--fortunate that I can see in the darkness--and I haven't been answering my door when that hideous old hag from upstairs has come to deliver her weekly shipment of cookies (Christ. Why doesn't she just get the point when I call her a decrepit bitch?). I have the radio to keep me company, so I'm not entirely alone; I've become somewhat fond of the voice of a woman named Sendee Lopper, whose songs have been rotated with pleasant regularity. Still, quality time with my radio wasn't the purpose of my little retreat; I simply have to sort myself out before I can show my face to the real world again. Decide who I am, and whether I like that enough to go with it or change myself once again. I always greeted those suffering through these phases with a sneer, and I now find myself a whiny, shallow little shit. Beautiful.

I simply must find the path back to the time when I didn't care.

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-12T22:59:00

2002-12-13T03:58:10Z

I may be in a bit of trouble with the landlord. I just spent an hour chasing a cockroach with a claw hammer, and I punctured the wall numerous times before finally killing the thing. Much of the wall in my den is ripped and torn, and I also cracked a window that, upon skidding, I ran into. Lucky I didn't fall, I suppose. Stupid insect. If they evict me, I'll claim pest control first and, if that fails, try the orphanage. God knows they owe me.

I should throw this hammer at the carolers singing outside my cracked window. It's not even the week of Christmas yet and already these twits are hard at work spreading cheer. What was it that the rich man said? Humbug? Humbug.

On a related note, I picked up the gifts that I'd ordered for Starr and her fuckmate of a fiance--for the former, a clockwork drake that acts as windchime, watchdog, or decision-maker (it says "yes" or "no" when asked a question in this froggy little voice that I find oddly endearing). I don't know why, but it made sense. For Beck, a tie. I know what I'm going to get Emma, now, as well--a Heltirian Knot. The idea is that you give the knotcrafter a small, valuable object (that I have yet to determine; I have an idea, though) and they wrap it in small, twisted pieces of jade that form a cage that can only be unlocked by removing the pieces in the correct sequence. More pieces are then added on until a jade knot the size of the average human head is created. It's a puzzle, but usually what's inside is worth the effort, and in this case I'll make sure that it is. I'm not particularly sure that it's her "type" of gift at all--in fact, I'm more sure that it isn't than hopeful that it is--but it's something that nobody else will get her, something memorable, and that's what I'm aiming for.

I'm bored. I should get out and do something, but...

I should get my wall fixed first, I suppose.

Memory: Liryn.

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-12T01:11:00

2002-12-12T07:30:08Z

Much has been made clear. Consider me enlightened and corrected. My conversation with Starr set me straight on many things, not the least of which is that I should, at some point, let my friends know who they are and why they're my friends. I'm actually somewhat ashamed of myself for what I wrote about Emma earlier; I was looking for a way to blame anyone but myself for a perceived weakness, I suppose.

Starr says that I have no chance--I disagree. I'm sure that, if I set myself to it, I would be able to persevere and have my way. I can be most persuasive when I want to be. That said, I won't try, partially because of reasons mentioned earlier in this journal but primarily because she doesn't WANT to be tamed. I will respect that. I'm glad to have her as a friend.

I'm especially glad that this irritating but fortunately brief episode in the life of Bayne is over.

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-11T15:02:00

2002-12-11T21:32:41Z

Had a night to reflect on things, and the conclusion that I've drawn is that I'm not good at reflecting on things. I went in circles in my head and came up with two thoroughly unpleasant solutions, neither of which I will follow through on for fear of the consequences. Typical. This is not what I need, and not what anybody needs, really. I wonder how it got this far. I sincerely hope that I'm misinterpreting my feelings--it's been known to happen before. I hope this because if I'm not, I may have to cut off a rare friend or leave altogether, and I really don't want to do either. Bah. I need to regress a bit--this "nice" crap is ruining my life. I deal with this and then no more. I used to be reviled. Where the hell did that go? What the hell happened to me?

It infuriates me to look at myself, now that I think about it. I'm hugging and smiling and joking, and why? The vain hope that one of these people might somehow do something to make me a better person, or to make my life more tolerable? Bullshit. Nobody here can do anything for me. I have no use for these people. I should chew them up and spit them out, as I used to, instead of getting googly-eyed over some stupid bitch that did this to me. What a fucking friend. A real friend wouldn't have done this, wouldn't have made me the pathetic parody that I am today. To hell with her. I've wasted too much time, goodwill, and ink on her, and this is what I get in return? What a fucking bitch. How fucking typical of these Rhydinian bitches. All of this over a silly slut that abused my friendship and trust to shape me into this pitiful piece of shit. What the hell happened to me?

I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore, I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

Fitting shit. This--this crap, this shell of what I was--ends as soon as I figure out what I want.

Oh, hell, I know what I went... all I want is a life-changing experience. This may be it. I'm not sure.

Memory: Liryn, myself back before I was this... nevermind.

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-11T14:58:00

2002-12-11T20:59:20Z

Fortunately, I have a plan.

That is in response to the humiliation that I received when I confronted Emma about the "feelings" that she had for me. I don't enjoy looking stupid, and I especially don't enjoy looking stupid in front of people that matter, and I frankly am infuriated that I was misled and forced into this.

Fortunately, I have a plan.

Give me the beach boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll
And drift away

Some reflections on certain people…

Kate-Christ, but I can't stand the woman. Unflappable and irritating and generally an annoyance.

Kitty-My first time meeting this hellcat. Meow. We may...

Jesus.

The futility of trying to write this right now cannot be underestimated. I must rest my head and think on some things, because I have had an epiphany. Excuse if this handwriting isn't quite as good as it usually is; I'm writing with my head on the desk. Bah. Bah. Bah. This is not good. I must overcome. I must beat the hell out of this… this schoolboy crush and… Christ. Why now? Maybe I should leave. I need to talk to someone. Jesus rim job.

Unfortunately, I do not have a plan. Fuck.

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-10T16:48:00

2002-12-10T22:59:10Z

I never get any goddamn fucking worthless shit-ass mail. Excuse the profanity, it's just beginning to irritate me. My mailbox is dusty and empty and I'm sick and tired of that smug smirk the boy at the desk wears when I come to check every day. I'm on the verge of cutting his lips off with a straight razor.

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-10T00:07:00

2002-12-10T07:26:37Z

Last night a little danger... came dancing to my grave...
Last night a little angel... came pumping on the floor
She said, "Oh Bayne baby, I got a license for love"
And if it inspires... RAIN HELL FROM ABOVE!!

I bought a battery-powered radio today. It took some serious tuning and positioning, but I picked up a station that I'm almost positive is from Emma's world. It's called KMFX and though I couldn't make out the city name, it started with an N, and frankly, I'm enjoying the tunes wafting from the speaker, even if it is garbled and full of static.

Buddy, you're a young man, whore man, charming in the tree
Gonna take all the wall someday
You got blood on your face, you big disgrace
Waving yeast batter all over the place

These peoples' lyrics are bizarre and perplexing, yet strangely fascinating. I'll have to find out what they speak of.

Anyway. Disgusting night in the Inn last night in many respects. Though I finally rid myself of two gnats--the pipe-smoking pissant that antagonized me for two nights, and the irritating bitch that nagged at me yadda-yadda-yadda--things weren't entirely pleasant. Though the pissant left easily enough, the bitch--Kate--made a big dramatic show of guilt tripping and being sad, as if suddenly I'd develop a conscience. Stupid whore should have known better. Anyway, that wasn't the worst part. First, Starr and Beck played with my head, Beck in particular, insisting that Emma wanted me, all that. They ganged up on me about that. Bah. Bastards, all of them. There will never be anything between Emma and I simply because, A) If things went badly--and they would; I don't see a relationship that half-depends on me lasting--I would lose a good friend, B) She's always off working or something, so I hardly ever get to see her enough for things to progress, C) I'm still somewhat coping with her looseness, D) I really do like her, and, most importantly, E) I wouldn't want to draw her into myself. She's happy. Keep it that way and everyone will be fine. Bah. I think I need to have a talk with her next time I see her to straighten things out. If Beck was lying, wonderful, may his penis catch on a rusty nail and whatnot. If not, I need to set Emma straight. I am bothered immensely by the insinuation, which is why I'm spending so much time on it, and I don't even know why. I just hate relationship talk, I suppose. Irritating shit.

But the WORST PART OF IT ALL... Christ. Beck and Starr approached me, surrounded me, and, in an assault that I could not have seen coming or effectively prevented, kissed me at once on the cheeks.

Allow me to go on a tangent for a moment.

The soul lives not in the heart, but in the area just above the stomach and below the lungs--where you feel emotion well up, where the spreading warmth of affection begins, where fear stikes cold before branching into the limbs and head. That is where the soul can be found. A direct path to the soul is the mouth--it's why tone has such a strong effect, enraging and enlivening and endearing depending on how it might be used. It can also travel to the eyes this way. Movement to the other parts of the body is difficult and slow, but possible; I won't go into that. The point is, simply touching lips to another person exposes one's soul and puts one in great, great peril. One person could tear the other's soul free and claim complete dominion over them, taking their soul to add to theirs and extend their lifetime by centuries. A soulless bastard is a pitiful, pitiful sight. Kisses--strong, real, direct, mouth-to-mouth kisses--are and should be utterly sacred things shared between lovers and soul mates. Kisses on the cheek are not quite as severe, but still have a dark cloud hanging over them. Trust is the key--if I do not trust someone, I am extremely uncomfortable with them essentially baring their soul to me for the harvesting. I do not seek power or even a potential position of power. Thus it is with extreme seriousness that I regard this incident, and I will not soon forget it.

And I guess that's why they call it the blues.

State of my home:
My bed--glass, and I'm sick of it. I want a round water bed with red silk sheets, giant fluffy pillows, and a round canopy. And fish inside the water. Catfish, maybe.
My walls--Some of the new paper that I'd pasted down has fallen as of late, revealing this yellow, horrible old wallpaper. If I stare at it for too long, I swear I'll go mad. Horrible.
My bathroom--Since I haven't had guests in forever, the toilet has not been used in ages. I need to drain the water in the tub and clean the giant cockroach corpse that's nearly a part of the wall by now.
My den--I had to rid myself of much of the furniture here, not that it will be missed. I still have the couch and one of the chairs, and Liryn's art hangs on the walls, but the table and love seat are gone.

What I WANT is a comfortable but opulent house, perhaps something in the style of a ranch, small but... um... cozy. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a den, a real kitchen instead of the cubicle in my apartment, and a lawn. Something, in other words, horribly domestic. But inside, I want gilded furniture, walls trimmed with the glowing bones of Henlai, the aforementioned bed, shimmering satin bathrobes to wear every morning and night, a collection of fashions to cater to my mood, a small fountain... brilliant things, beautiful things. I want these things, and I am not ashamed to admit it. I am simple and yet crave more. Go me, I suppose. Crown King Bayne--better yet, keep the crown.

Joseph stalling Melinkov, naserana coffee ah, rock a fellow, cap a neller, commonest block... broy con, walk around, tusk and ninny, daggone, din-din, food falls, rock around the clock... I'm stined, James'dean, Brooklyns got a winning team, Davey Crockett, Peter pans, Elvis Presley, dizzy lamb... Bah--go, Boo the best, Allen Bama cruel shev, Princess grace, saving face, trouble who's the soo wez?

Memory: Liryn... I don't remember who else.

It's a joke.

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-08T00:56:00

2002-12-08T07:05:58Z

Had an encounter in the Inn tonight. Was doing my usual routine with the woman tending bar when Joe Prig shoved his nose in my business. Within five minutes, he swore he knew everything about me. I kindly retaliated and, in the process, believe I may have won an ally among the tending staff in Faye, or Random, or whatever she likes to be called. After she was done calling us both testosterone-driven idiots, she took my side. Ha. That's a first. I'm the bloody master.

So, nothing else to report. Bored. Bored, bored, bored.

Memory: Liryn.

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-06T00:20:00

2002-12-06T06:38:34Z

Sleep eludes me. Late-night ramblings, now, incoherent thoughts spawned from a mind that craves rest; whether they have a point or not is neither important nor particularly... whatever. Like I said, it's late.

Rambling One:
I've been looking into other places to go, and still am plagued by uncertainty. Rista provides nothing beyond the chance to join a militia--familiar enough, but you know what familiarity breeds. Nothing else even looks pleasant. Albinass is filthy and Del Lunas is a tourist trap. Maybe I should just move to a different side of Rhydin. I don't know. Things might be brighter on the north side. Or maybe I shouldn't move at all. Only one advantage to staying, really, but I'll have to talk to her a bit more before making the decision anyway. I don't want to leave, but I feel empty to the point of despair, and there has to be something or someone out in the world beyond. I keep hope.

Rambling Two:
There's a cold breeze that comes in through the corner of my bedroom, so I've been sleeping on the couch. Would be a lot more comfortable with someone else there. Curse my cuddling tendencies. I'm just the sort of person that feels better about sleeping when somebody else is there--whether beside me or not, doesn't matter. Somebody could just be in the same room knitting and I would be more at ease. Perhaps I should indulge in a whore again--no. Can't do that. Not after so much work.

Rambling Three:
Obligatory Emma section--it absolutely disturbs me to look at how much space I've wasted on the slut. I believe I've pushed her past Starr to the position of "best friend," which is nice; I've done this mainly because she doesn't threaten to kill me and Starr does. That said, Emma's been a godsend to the point where the only real reason I'm considering staying is for her friendship--see Rambling One. I see less of her than I would like, but I'm sure she's busy fucking choirboys or something, so I can't fault her. I like her wardrobe.

Rambling Four:
I mean well. I really do. Most of the time. So why, then, am I endlessly threatened, persecuted, and hated for trying to help people? If I think that Beck is dangerous for Starr, why am I despised for voicing that? For trying to protect her? Perhaps I go about things the wrong way, but I've always thought that tough love was the best path. So fuck everyone if they don't like it. I do try.

I'm going back to bed. Need sleep. God, I hope I dream.

Memory: SLEEP

bayneeverett @ 2002-12-03T23:34:00

2002-12-04T05:35:29Z

Nobody appreciates anything anymore.
Nobody appreciates anything.

I fucking hate it. I go out of my way to try and help someone, and what do I get in return? Fucking death threats. Why am I still considering staying, again?