Marks of Fate

Her tattoo was expanding.
The girl watched her arm raptly, index finger tracing its minutely changing lines as it inked slowly across her skin in heavy strokes and light lines, sending spidery tendrils upwards.
This was it, finally, her purpose was to be revealed to her, and after all these years of waiting, hiding her bare skin from the judging eyes of the world, she felt light headed with excitement.
In a society where Fate decided your destiny, and your body worked against you to decide your future, she had always been an outcast, the one with no Fate Marks, nothing to work from, nothing to validate her existence: worthless.
And yet, here they were at last, and she held her breath in breathless anticipation. What was her purpose? What has eluded her all these years, made her the laughingstock of society?
The marks were strange, unlike any she had ever seen, and as they spread across her chest, curling from her now covered arm, anticipation soured, a feeling of disquiet soaking it like ice water.
She would never be accepted, would she? Her wild opprobrium had haunted her for so long, a bad taste that never left her mouth, she suddenly felt certain this Mark would be the death knell for her, and her fate as social pariah would be sealed.
Footsteps echoed outside the bathroom door she leaned upon and she held her breath, her heart slamming against her ribcage like a trapped bird against glass, and her throat tightened cruelly as she felt the knock that battered the outside.
“Hello?” A low voice inquired hesitantly , and she rose from her seat wringing her hands.
“Yes,” she hiccuped, voice thick. “I’m in here.”
There was silence for a long moment, and the girl held her breath.
“Margo?” The voice finally asked, and the girl rested her forehead against the smooth wood grain of the door.
“Please,” she answered, her voice breaking. “Please, Tara, just leave me be.”
There was another silence. “What is going on?” The other girl asked, concern lending an edge to her low voice.
Margo was disgusted by the tiny sob that hiccuped in her throat.
“My Mark…”
“Margo, let me in,” Tara demanded, desperate. “I can help you. If it’s a Criminal Mark, or something, I can pull some strings, I can-”
Margo slammed the door open. “Pull some strings?” She jerked the edge of her shirt down, revealing her now heavily tattooed chest. “How can you fix this?” Her fear was palpable, her hands shaking violently, and tears tracking wetly down her cheeks.
Tara’s eyes traced the tattoo gently.
“You know I am a graduated Officer who can recognize all current Fate Marks. And I know what you have.”
This was it, Margo knew it. The moment had come, and Tara would know. She would know how worthless Margo really was, and she would despise her.
“It’s the Mark of a Healer,” Tara told her softly. “One of the rarest Marks we have ever recorded. It looks different because…well, because you’re different. Special.
“You’re a Healer Margo.”


The Hobbit-Battle of the Five Armies: A Rant


To say that I was looking forward to The ‘Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies’ would have been the most laughable understatement of three centuries, possibly only eclipsed by George Armstrong Custer’s “I think we can take ’em.”
Armed with my equally laughably expensive ticket, I settled in for, what i was sure, would be the best two and a half hours of my existence, certainly only eclipsed by my first eager reading of The Hobbit novel itself all those years ago. To quote the late, great Thorin Oakenshield here, never have I been so wrong in all my life.
To be fair to Peter Jackson and the film itself, I never should have expected the book, and in hindsight, my preconceptions were why I left the theater at 1:36 A.M. with the distinct desire to sob violently. (Not that I didn’t do that within those venerated halls, but that subject is for later.) While in light of this conciliatory spirit I would also like to communicate how outstanding some of the acting was. Richard Armitage brilliantly surpassed his already stellar portrayal of Thorin in the first two films by light years, bringing the character to full fruition, exploring the darkness of Thorin, and his eventual redemption with such beautiful finesse undoubtedly from which my fangirl’s heart will probably never recover. Martin Freeman, as usual, delivered a perfect performance, bringing all the charm and pathos to Bilbo’s character that we fell in love with on paper. In point of fact, there was not one substandard performance from any of the cast, indeed, on that subject I can find no fault.
And thus, with the congratulations out of the way, I shall continue.
To say that the entire film was rubbish is unjust to say the least, indeed, it had many excellent qualities that did justice to the book, but several elements in its material were unsatisfying to the point of horrifying, soul-crushing disappointment trailing after many a fan like bathroom tissue stuck to the underside of an unfortunate shoe.
Or maybe that was just me.
The substandard attempts at a love triangle between the beloved characters Legolas, Kili, and the contrived character of Tauriel remain wearisome at best, and though I have no objections to a strong female character being injected into an otherwise male dominated story, I left BOTFA feeling cheated out of the strong female character we were introduced to in the the Desolation of Smaug, as Tauriel became one dimensional and cliche, embodying a painful list of tropes that left us flabbergasted as to whether this was the same character we had grown to like, and, some of us, admire as well, qualities ruined by a heavy-handed script that may have Tolkien turning over in his grave. Understand, I have nothing against the actors in this film, not least Evangeline Lilly, a talented actress that I have a huge amount of respect for. This is not a hate fest, simply trying to process my grief over several atrocities that I just cannot seem to get past.
Which brings me to my next problem: The breaking of the line of Durin. WTF?! I mean, really, what even happened with that? Fili legitimately became the LOTR evolution of Adam, with the exception that we are now the ones being tortured in hell with the brutal cheapness that was his death. And to top it off with flourish nothing was said about him afterward. Was he not the heir to the throne after Thorin? Shouldn’t he have, at the very least, gotten as much screen time as his brother Kili, who’s only bid to fame was his excruciatingly forbidden love for the aforementioned Tauriel? (Don’t get me wrong, I adore Aiden Turner, and his acting ability is near unimpeachable in my eyes. Just so we’re all clear) Alas, no, poor Fili joins the forgotten-never-quite-forgotten Adam, who is probably as equally indignant as we are. You know, if he was conscious of pop culture independent of the Cage. And Kili’s death can only be described as preposterous, the stuff straight out of teen romance, as maladroit and tepid as any I have had the dubious pleasure of seeing.
Conversely, Thorin’s death was perfect. As odd a comment as I recognize that to be, let me be quite clear. Richard Armitage was brilliant. (As I have already stated) and aside from the fact that he died apart from his beloved nephews, a fact which still rankles at me like an uncomfortably scratchy sweater, he invoked such of a feeling of grief and loss that I am still getting goose pimples. Perfection.
Okay, I’m done ranting, raving and feeling indecorously toward The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies. I loved it, I hated it, and above all I am supremely thankful for my time in the cinematic ‘verse of Middle Earth, which will always be my home.

The Waiting Game

God, I wish you would come to your senses and abandon me already, she thought as she wallowed in her own pain and general bleakness. He was so mature, so aware of himself and his own surroundings, and she pressed her face against the glass of his soul, marveling at it, her own worthlessness welling within her chest like a heavy cancer, eating her from the inside out. Whenever he looked upon her, she felt the squirming, uncomfortable insect movement under her skin, certain that he would see, that he would look upon her and gasp as the veil was stripped from his eyes, recoiling from her as the darkness lifted and he saw her the way she saw herself…….
She felt like an imposter, a monster wearing a mask he obviously liked, hoping beyond hope the mask would hold and he would never see the woman beneath, that broken slattern of fractured humanity that hung just beneath the surface.
Thusly, the waiting game continued for her, a delicious torture, a fatalistic fantasy that haunted her nightmares and destroyed her mind.


Her heart sank like blood spinning dizzily in a cup of water, spiraling and whirling like a dervish, pain like razors in her chest. She was drowning again, her lungs filling with despair, heavy as she sucked it in fatalistically. She was dead, there was no changing that simple fact. Like a body devoid of soul, she lingered, a corpse with a steady pulse, blood still thick and warm in her veins.
The sun against her skin was like a cruel reminder of the life she wanted, the life she could just feel as she stretched her fingers out, desperate to feel something, anything but this great and terrible numbness crystallizing upon her cold skin. And sometimes, oh god, sometimes she would succeed. Those moments of fire, sweat upon her skin, when she screamed his name, all would fade out into that dark gray shadow, and thing she tried to cling to, the thing that slipped from her grasping fingers like a bird’s wretched struggles for freedom.
Sedation coalesced in her blood, and her muffled screams weakened. Sometimes she didn’t even want to struggle. she wanted to lay back into this ocean’s cool grasp, wet fingers thrusting into her mouth until this cold heart of hers stopped its fluttered struggles against its cage of bone forever.
This broken girl, her scars ugly and puckered across her psyche, never asks for help. Perhaps a screaming cry for a hand to pull her from her misery like some saving grace from perdition and she would attain that elusive thing that always fell to this hopelessness that threatened to destroy her.
But no. She knew in her heart that she would never ask for help. She wasn’t worth it, and having the audacity to ask seemed like a joke, some mockery of healing that she sneered painfully at the thought. She wasn’t even worth a moment of consideration, and the surety that the people around her felt the same as she kept her quiet, suffering silently, jaw clenched. Resentment of her friends taking from her, using her, was soon lost in the knowledge that this…..this was the only thing she could do that was worthy….heal others, take on their pain, appear in the night to stitch their wounds and bathe their fevered brow, only to vanish when they had no need of her; a ghost.
Oh, how she longed for it, the painless dark of death’s embrace, and oh how she fought the desire, rich in her blood, that promise upon her breath. Yet here she stayed. For them. And always, in the back of her mind, did she resent them for forcing her to turn away from the fondest wish of her soul, they would never know how much.
And always…..
The Demons prey upon her weakness, here, in the dark, comfortable in their certainty that one day she will succumb to their seductions, a kiss of warmth as her life blood beads against waxy skin.


It is like a sickly sweet cancer, this desire I feel for you. It pulses and throbs, a maelstrom of sweat and heat and flame, a conflagration that sets us ablaze within this crippling black hole, trapping common sense and logic in a cage. I shouldn’t feel this…not for you. It was never meant to be like this, I was never supposed to want you next to me, your steady breaths like life’s blood, your warmth something like comfort.
Yet, even now, it is not all blood and fire and gasping from diseased lungs, diseased with the thought of love that can never be allowed to mature and grow from this shattered, desolate soil. It is shared touches, cool skin against warm, those lingering eyes that glance over flaws and imperfections with tender desire. I almost hate you for it. For that softness in your eyes, the way you touch my skin, soft, like a kiss, when you think I’m asleep.
I believe this is what madness feels like. That, or just simple lust……..
I can live with lust.

My Sad, Pathetic Sob Story.

There are many points in your life that help define who you are. How you were raised, certain occurrences and events that shape your outlook on people, and how you view yourself, your goals, and your perception. But oftentimes these events are negative, and deleterious to the way you process all the other little events that shape you as a human being, vitiating your perception of people and places with an overarching repulsiveness that can never be scrubbed from your psyche. And often, it isn’t other people or your surrounding stimuli that gets covered in this reeking vomit of hate, often, it is directed at yourself.
I have chronic migraines. Not so bad, right? Well, when every day is punctuated with a pounding, flesh colored film that never seems to cease, day in, day out, affecting the way you read, process information, follow directions. All you can think about is the the relentless pounding against your skull, the cruel stabs of pain that lance through you like a hot knife…..
Which leads me into my next subject…..depression. Most of you, my sweet followers, know I’m depressed. It isn’t altogether difficult to figure out, after all, most of my posts are emo-worthy descriptions of blood and drowning, but in all fairness, this is how I have felt for a good long while, now. And it is only degenerating further and further into this black hole of absolute despair I find myself in.
I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried immersing myself into activities, exercising, doing things I used to love doing, but nothing helps. And the more I try and hide all of these feelings, all this hopelessness, all this helpless rage, the more I spiral out of control. And how can I talk about this?? How can I tell someone that I think about cutting myself with every knife they hand me to cut the evening’s dinner? How can I show them all t he suicide notes I have written to them??
I fear them. I fear myself. And ever , there is this dark abyss, warm and inviting, whispering for me to just end it, end all of this pointless suffering. Because, I don’t want to commit suicide to end the pain. I want this wreck of humanity that I have become to simply vanish, like it never existed. I. Want. To. Die. More than anything in this entire world, I want to fade, like a ghost into the shadows…………and one day, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, I’m going to do it.