(no subject)

[amelialourdes]

I of course should be doing my Philosophy homework but since I want Philosophy to shove it, I'm not doing it right now.

I spent most of the afternoon packing. You know, in my entire life I've moved 9 or 10 times and I don't EVER remember having this much trouble packing my shit. It's not possible that I've acquired a lot of things in the past year. That's just not possible. I used to live in a four bedroom house for Christ's sake and packing up a room and a closet is difficult?! It's really not.

I have to pack up my computer sometime tomorrow night, grrr. I hate doing that most of all because Internet connection will be unavailable to me for a couple of days at least. So, during that time I WILL think of questions that I promised the people who wanted to be interviewed. I have not forgotten!

My friend Erica (who's going to be a famous animator one day) grew me drew the cutest Piglet!

Soooo cute! She did that during English because English is just so. very. interesting ... not really.

Again, while packing - lookie what I found.

Yes, Scary Stories: To Tell in the Dark! Actually the one with the greyish image is the story "The Ghost in the Mirror". And obviously the skull was cut out to make the icon.

Also, I posted this picture of Fab in QaFfans community but my journal deserves it as well.

Fabulous is at the bottom. I love the guy.

So much to be said but ... back to homework. Oh, one more thing. I have an unfinished gapfiller that I'm posting here just because I want to see how it reads. I know it's crappy but, meh.

"... and eat some fucking chicken soup," I rush past him and finish what I was doing before he came in.

I glance up quickly and see him struggle to make his way to bed, grabbing on to one of the panels as he climbs each step. I follow closely behind, careful not to spill the soup.

He settles down into my side of the bed, a pained expression on his face. All that yelling must've taken a lot out of him. I momentarily push those thoughts aside to concentrate on the task at hand.

I place the bowl on the bedside table. He begins to reach over for it when I tell him to wait. I lean over him to grab a pillow, placing it on his lap. I take the bowl and hand it to him while he positions himself to sit up straight. He takes the spoon in his right hand and I take it upon myself to hold the bowl, even though it's more than slightly warm.

I endure the physical pain because I can't even begin to imagine how that must feel for him. Although, emotionally, I want to jam that spoon down his throat.

I know why he threw me out. I didn't need Michael to tell me. I was, no ... AM just so fucking pissed off. How can he think that I'll leave him? How can he think that any physical imperfection will have an effect on my feelings for him? No, I know that it's more than that for him. He's not stupid. But the fucker actually thought it through.

In our silence these are my thoughts. With each new question I grow more and more frustrated. The tension rises to my right hand and it begins to shake.

I immediately release the bowl and begin to massage my hand, stretching my fingers.

I look up at him and the moment our eyes meet I know he knows what's happening to my hand. A look of remorse from him follows. "You know, I didn't think ..."

"Damn fucking right you didn't," I interrupt.

That shut him up. He looks back down at the bowl and begrudgingly takes small spoonfuls into his mouth. When it looks like he can't eat anymore I bring the bowl to the sink, rinse it out, taking my time. I look up and see he hasn't moved from his spot. I can't tell whether or not his eyes are closed.

Part of me wants him to be asleep so I don't have to deal with him. Another part wants him to stay awake so I can yell at him some more.

I lean over to get a good look through the bedroom panels. He's awake and staring directly at me.

I wipe my hands and slowly walk back to the bedroom, choosing the spot at his feet to sit down.

We play a staring game with one another, waiting to see who's going to speak first.

"Finish what you were going to say," I tell him.

That's the time his eyes leave mine. He holds his hands in his lap, looking down at them.

I will give him all the time in the world if he needs it. Just as long as he gives me some truth because I need to hear it.

"I didn't want you here," he admits.

"Go on."

"I really did think that -" he pauses. I know he can't admit to being in a relationship, at least, out loud. I guess I could help him along.

"That'd I'd leave you," he nods. "Brian ..." I don't even know where to go with this, it's so absurd. "Part of you knows that I would never do that. I suggest you listen to it. How many times have you tried to kick me out of your life? And I'm still fucking here!" I hear myself yelling again. I take in a deep breath and slowly release it. He's now looking at me. "You don't take the word 'love' lightly and guess what? Neither do I. So when I tell you I love you I'm not fucking around."

"I know," he speaks. "I didn't have brain cancer my mental capacity is still above the norm." I'm going to let that one slide.

Another bout of silence between us.

"Ask me to stay." I knew that he'll never ask me on his own. I need to demand it, knowing also that that's what he wants too. We went wrong with this a couple of years ago. I'm not about to fuck it up now.

"Bri, I can sit here all night if I -"

"Stay."

That was quick. "Stay," he repeats, softly and more quietly this time, never disconnecting his gaze from mine.

I give him a small smile, knowing that I got what I wanted and so did he.

Yeah, I tried writing an ending for that but it never seems to come out the way I want it. Maybe once I stop worrying about homework I'll be able to finish it. Meh.