The shadows creep eerily on the walls and gather silently in the corners, while on the carpet a foreign figure sprawls in the glow emanating from the darkening moon. There's been another murder, another death to add to the thousands who have died, never to go on, never to be known. There's been another bombing, there's been another rape, there's been another indictment of a priest. There's been another drug bust, right behind where you live. There's been a fatal shooting a couple of blocks away.

 Red and white lights swirl, casting longer shadows to reflect in another frightened child's eyes, to reflect the fear they feel when they see the loud, raging mechanisms raging past them. The child's pure eyes that have not seen the brutality of life. The child's eyes that have not seen the ugliness of human nature, or the cruelty of the human mind, or how crude people are subject to be. People gather as the ambulances races time to perhaps, save an already damned life? And one more crime that never gets reported, because there's no one to arrest.

Who killed innocence? We did.

Years ago, a young beauty was called to her mother and father. She was told that her marriage had just been negotiated. She would be married. Her life, her lovely youth, her careless childhood, her sisters and friends whom she loved so dearly were now dead to her. Isolated. Gone. Only to live in the deepest of her memories, because for her future, husband, she must give up everything. And that, she did.

The boy, just a young man really stood there, wiry, hair dark as midnight and eyes a color of deep chocolate nervously. No, he would not be forced to give up anything. Now, he'd just have a maid to do everything for him, alias: his future wife. Why? Because this was Indian custom. People of India, ladies for the most part were slaves to their husbands. Because that was the way it was.

The young maiden left, with her rich, dark curls and expectant liquid eyes, with flecks of amber reflected by the sun. Her hands, smooth and unaffected by the work she daily did gripped at a small white parcel. A gift, for the future her parents choose.

The wedding was full of happiness. But parting never was or will be. The girl stared at her mother and father with full, pleading eyes. They kissed her, gave her their blessing. But no, she'd never be allowed home. Because home was where her husband was. And where her husband was, she was.

The morning after the wedding, they packed up what little meager belongings they did own. Onward to America, his father had said. Start a new life, be happy, it'll be hard. But it is the promise land. It is where my grandchildren will prosper, his father said. But did he know what misery he had wished on them? Did he know how much pain there was ahead?

[What nourishes me is my fatal destruction..]

Words. They nourish me. The crumble me. Words are so powerful yet so fragile. Trying to craft words perfectly is like walking on eggshells. Words hold so much influence, yet they can be hateful, bruising, scarring things. Words are so beautiful, yet so ugly.

They can destroy you.

But then again, they can glorify you.

The distant ebb of voices increasing teased at his ears. No amount of music could have made it stop. Heart pounding in his ears, he slammed his door to storm away. Eyes averted, hands jammed deep in his pockets, his dark hair curtained his pale face. He walked to his old, familiar haunt -- the ocean. Legs dangling over the fence he sat on, he listened to music as the waves swept over the weather beaten, sea-weed covered rocks. Anger rebounded inside of him like torrents of sheets of rain. His tongue darted out to wet dried lips. Gaze darting about, he turned to see he was alone. Heart thudding, he slowly walked forward where the rocks were set. The wind whipped his hair around, covering cold, slate gray eyes. The hollows under his eyes seemed to be more defined.

Inhaling sharply, he stood up. Tearing his headphones off, he jumped into frigid cold water that seemed to be interminable. The intensity of the freezing liquid numbed him before the shock met him, coursing thoroughly throughout his body. Body numbing after what seemed like dark eternies, he gave way to a darkness never experienced before.

It was like floating up through water, sounds muffled yet curiously magnified, vision reduced to vague blurred shapes. He couldn't seem to move, although he was curiously unalarmed by this. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but all he could see was whiteness above his head. His eyes drifted closed again.

He might have slept, or not. Different planes of awareness floated through his body.

The next time awareness floated back, although he still couldn't move, and couldn't see much except the same, interminable white blur, he could hear distinctly the hiss and whir of a respirator, the monotonous beep of a heart monitor. This is a hospital, he thought hesitantly. What am I doing in a hospital? This was strange. He swallowed nervously.

Or rather, tried to. Something was stuck in his throat. He went to raise his hands, to pull whatever it was out of his mouth so would be able to breathe, but his movements were flogged down by what seemed like thousand pound weights. He couldn't move, couldn't lift his arms up. Panic began to nip at the edges of his lethargy, and he struggled against it. Somewhere above his head, the beeping noise sped up. Quick footsteps, then muffled voices near the foot of the bed - bed? - and a face swam into his vision. The woman was tall and thin, obviously bleached hair pulled back from her narrow, artifically tanned face. She examined something above his head dispassionately. He watched her with wide eyes, fighting the ever-growing panic. The woman looked down, into his eyes and smiled soothingly, the lines around her thin mouth deepening. "It's all right," she said. "You've got a tracheotomy tube in your throat, and that's why you can't talk. You've had a bad few days, but you'll be okay now."

What? he thought vaguely, unable to focus on her words any longer. It felt like there was something he should remember, something important, but he couldn't grasp hold of it. He teased at the gaps in his memory. A faint image blurred in his mind. He painfully tried to clear it out. It vanished, leaving only the dull buzz in his head. While he tried, the woman moved out of his line of vision, and with a faint hiss, the world faded again into a deep, hollow darkness. The low, continued beep of one of the many machines was the only sound that boomed into the defeaning silence that buzzed and crackled through the white washed room.

 Around the corner 
 I have a friend, 
 In this great city
 that has no end,
 Yet the days go by
 and weeks rush on,
 And before I know
 it, 
 a year is gone.
 And I never see my
 old friends face,
 For life is a swift
 and terrible race,
 He knows I like him
 just as well,
 As in the days when
 I rang his bell.
 And he rang mine if,
 we were younger then,
 And now we are busy,
 tired men.
 Tired of playing a
 foolish game,
 Tired of trying to
 make a name.
 "Tomorrow" I say! "I
 will call on Jim"
 "Just to show that
 I'm thinking of him."
 But tomorrow comes
 and tomorrow goes,
 And distance between  
 us grows and grows.
 Around the corner!
 yet miles away, 
 "Here's a telegram  sir"
 "Jim died today."
 And that's what we
 get and deserve in the end.
 Around the corner, a
 vanished friend.

-Writer Unknown

I've lost so many friends with my anger. With my impatience. With my need to be loud.

Thats why I must be more reserved -- more quiet.

Thats how I used to be. I don't know what happened to me these last two years. I was the quiet girl.

I want to be forgotten. I want to be transluctent. I want to be a relic.