. 05.02.14 drug doll .

I can no longer remember what I look like. Some days, I am pale with skin the color of pasty wallpaper and eyes as blue as a dingy bar’s neon lights.  Other days, I am flushed with red cheeks and glowing eyes of amber and beer bottles, and a ballerina’s step. One thing is for sure though, I am a walking drugstore. That is what I remember the most. That, and his smile.

Let me start over.

I am a walking drugstore. My bodily fluids have become chemicals people are starting to get addicted to. From my blood, to my sweat and tears, they sample me in the most undignified ways. They keep me around like a pet or livestock to be milked. I am a living doll, built with no other purpose but to be tied to a heater in the pharmacy’s back room and fill vials and needles when people come in for their fix.

I am a living doll, and I was slowly breaking.

At first it was no big deal. I’m not human, at least not entirely. I felt no pain when they first started taking samples. It started with simple blood transfusions. Patients and clients alike would inject my blood into their arms and streams, or shoot them up like cocaine. But the addiction progressively became worse, and people started to want more and more.

They would shoot up the chemicals in a variety of places. Beneath their toenails, their sclera, the veins on the underside of their tongue. One night a customer came in and needed a needle through his eyeball, though no one needed to tell him that both his eyes were as bloodshot as beets. They, my handlers, decided that they would use the same fluids from my eyeballs for this valued customer. And for the first time in my inanimated life, I felt afraid.

I suffered the surgery.

When it was done, I was kept in a secluded room to ‘heal’ or replenish what I’d lost in the darkness. This dark room was a tiny thing at the farther most back of the hellish clinic, right next to the back door. My room, of course, was locked. There was however a tiny window in my door where my handlers would slide open to check on me.

One night, while I was still recuperating in the darkness, I heard the little window slide. It was however not my handler, but a face I’d never seen before. He was not a regular either. In fact, he looked rather lost. He needed only seconds to process that I was in fact a prisoner he had found by coincidence and made it his mission to free me. I stared absent-mindedly as he tried the lock but bolted out of there the moment he opened the heavy door, and I took my hand in his the whole time I ran.

We were out in the wild streets, running and running till our legs felt like they could give out. Running till we felt like no more shadows were looming over our heads, or breathing down our necks. And then, in that part of unchartered city, it began to pour. Having found some shelter, the man –my rescuer– seemed upset at the rate things were turning out. He apologized about the fact that we were caught up in this wet mess and now that we were lost without a plan. He looked pained, as if he had failed before we had even begun anything.

I said nothing as I hugged him, pulling his drenched body close to mine. I hug him with my pasty wallpaper arms, as my cracked lips kiss him then and there. In a voice that didn’t even sound like my own, I said unto him that I would rather be here in this mess with him than back at that merciless sty.

I pull away and look up at him, burning the image of his smile into my memory. And it was that very night I found that I had fallen for his taste.

Oh my God it has been forever since my last update on this blog and I am so so sorry. Things have been busy ever since I graduated this February. Things have been topsy turvy, and I’ve just been all over the place trying to reorganize my life and be a productive member of society. That said, I haven’t been keeping note of my Dreams as of late and that kinda makes me sad. Even though I’m using this new app on my phone called Dreamboard, which makes it easier for me to document them the moment I wake up. The fact of it is, I just haven’t been remembering them as of late. And the ones I do remember aren’t eventful enough for me to write about. Anyways! Here’s a new Dream to add to the journal! If you’ve stuck around since the beginning of this blog, I’d just like to say thank you so much for your patience and I hope you still enjoy my content~

. poor Harriet .

  Harriet is a 17-year-old girl with chestnut eyes and frizzy dark brown hair. Harriet is a disturbed 17-year-old girl. Her eyes are always blood-shot and her chestnut color has dulled with tears. Her wavy locks have become more of a frantic mess. Her eyes are sunken from restless sleep, and she’s been tired of the world for the longest time. Her skin is pale from hiding from the sun. She rarely goes out anymore. She lives with her uncle and aunt. But her father lives with her.

  Every morning she has to wake up to the sound of his voice; his sharp, snarky remarks about everything she is and everything she isn’t. When she brushes her hair, he is there in the mirror, speaking to her in his cold, condescending tone. He would tell her not to bother with her looks when she’s not even worth looking at. She would fight him at first, with silence, not knowing what to say. But deep down, her heart was breaking. When she cries, he just brushes it off and leaves in a huff.

  Every morning she has breakfast with her aunt and uncle, at the round dining table with the quaint white-red chequered cloth. And every morning her father sits between her and her relatives and continues the verbal abuse, while drinking coffee as black and bitter as he was. After attempting a few nibbles of her toast and scrambled eggs, Harriet doesn’t dare eat another bite at the constant nit-picking of her father. She just sits at the table, head down low, and silently tears trickle down her freckled cheeks. Her aunt and uncle look at her pitifully and say nothing.

  This morning, her aunt and uncle were taking her out for a drive. Her aunt sits with her in the back, and her father sits in the front passenger seat. The whole time her uncle drove, her father just could not stop barking at her; calling her names and belittling her every being. She cringed every time his voice rose. Even as her aunt held her, she was trembling from the fear and anxiety and the tears.

  Finally Harriet snaps. And she screams.

  She screams with all her might, staring into his heartless eyes in the rear-view mirror. She screams, “I don’t need you anymore! You’re nothing to me! Why can’t you just leave – me – alone??!!” Her aunt struggles to keep her calm and her uncle focuses on the road, not wanting to hear this. Her father, however, smiles. And slowly his figure disappears from existence, like mist. He is gone and the passenger seat is left empty. But his sadistic smile burns into Harriet’s mind.

  Her aunt and uncle are taking her to a hospital. Hopefully she will have some peace there.

  Harriet is a 17-year-old girl with chestnut eyes and frizzy dark brown hair, and exhausted hopes and worn out dreams. Harriet is a disturbed 17-year-old girl. Her father died 2 years ago so she lives with her uncle and aunt. But her father lives with her. Forever inside her. And he’s not going to go away.

Poor Harriet. The whole Dream played out like a movie so I tried narrating it as it was. If you still don’t quite understand what’s going on here, basically it’s about a teenage girl who has been abused by her father for the longest time. Probably ever since she was a child. I’m not sure whether it was sexual abuse or just physical, verbal & emotional abuse, but it was traumatic nonetheless. She suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, in the sense that she began hallucinating about her father, since he died 2 years back. Even though he was gone, his memories still lived within and tormented her.