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fellowshippers2005-12-05 07:58 pm
geniusartist.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-12-05 07:58 pm
Journal Keeping (4)
Title: Journal Keeping (4)
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: EW/DM
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: I feel very obligated to let readers know that I will be touching upon sensitive issues in future parts. Nothing graphic. But be warned if you continue with the story.
Summary: Elijah's therapist instructs him to keep a journal. Nightmares, train rides, a forgotten traumatic event and one Dominic Monaghan are the subjects of his entries.
8.29.04
Degrees in crime denote the seriousness of the offense.
Murder in the first degree, or Murder 1, for instance, is supposed to be worse than murder in the second degree. (Or Murder 2.) And then there’s manslaughter which, from what little I know through watching Law and Order and reading John Grisham novels, still means murder -- lowercase -- but not quite as bad as Murder -- capitalized. You still killed someone so off to jail you go. Or is it prison? I’ve never really understood the difference. I just know prison is worse and no one there wants to be someone-named-Frankie’s bitch. So, like a hit and run. But not like you meant to hit. Then it’d be Murder ‘cause it was intentional.
So then, would there be, like, selfslaughter or attempted selfslaughter? Oh, well no, that wouldn’t make sense would it? ‘Cause if it was attempted selfslaughter it would mean I intended to hurt myself and failed somehow.
Well, anyway.
Selfslaughter: reckless endangerment to self that does not quite rise to the level of intent to die. Punishable by hospitalization, consisting first of having plastic tube forced down throat to esophagus to stomach to vacuum toxic contents and everything I ate that night and the day before, and then being forcibly (practically) made to drink disgusting black liquid by amazon Russian nurse Hilda to absorb any residual poisons from stupid codeine pills. Sentence may also include lengthened hospital stay, discretion as to whether stay will or won’t be voluntary entirely in hands of white-coated Ivy League pedigrees who talk in big medical vocabulary, but have really cold hands.
I shared a room with bipolar Jimmy, some famous producer’s kid. At least once a week, Jimmy managed to escape the semi-daily administration of medication to keep him, er, balanced. The day after I was placed with him happened to be that day of that week. In the morning he was sulking, and I knew immediately something was wrong. But I can’t help being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Got a growl at “hello” and by lunchtime, he was in full manic mode, yelling like a psycho hyena on bad crack because I mistakenly turned up the volume on the loaner boombox several notches to drown out his steady mumbling of “mutherfuckerstupidshitgoddamnbitch”. I know I should’ve just left the room. Just like I knew better when I first started taking multiple doses of those stupid pills. Needless to say, when they offered me Prozac, I gladly accepted. Panic attack. That’s what they listed as the explanation on my medical chart.
I’m sitting on a ridge in the Canyon.
Fuck, it’s hot.
As advised on the tourist’s website, I started my hike around 8 a.m. and found somewhere shady to camp out until the sun eases up a bit. Much later this afternoon, it’ll be. There’s a stream where I’m sitting. Some patches of dried grass, bare trees. When I look up and around, all I see are massive walls of carved rock against clear, blue skies.
I feel tiny.
But not insignificant.
When Dom and I came here -- it was part of our cross-country gig -- he decided it was a good time to teach me yoga. Let’s begin with the Mountain Pose. Namaste. And then, because my flexibility skills led him to believe I was prepared for more advanced moves, he led me through a series of poses leading ultimately to the Sun Salutation. At the Downward Dog, ass in the air, arms shaking and about to fold under me, I managed to squeak out, Dude, how do you keep a straight face doing this? Dom ignored the wisecrack and instructed me to pause. Then he set about adjusting...me. He was in the midst of “aligning” my hips when a motley crew of tourists happened by, as if on cue. I’m certain their sudden silence was not due to reverance for or awe of the Canyon’s immensity.
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: EW/DM
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: I feel very obligated to let readers know that I will be touching upon sensitive issues in future parts. Nothing graphic. But be warned if you continue with the story.
Summary: Elijah's therapist instructs him to keep a journal. Nightmares, train rides, a forgotten traumatic event and one Dominic Monaghan are the subjects of his entries.
8.29.04
Degrees in crime denote the seriousness of the offense.
Murder in the first degree, or Murder 1, for instance, is supposed to be worse than murder in the second degree. (Or Murder 2.) And then there’s manslaughter which, from what little I know through watching Law and Order and reading John Grisham novels, still means murder -- lowercase -- but not quite as bad as Murder -- capitalized. You still killed someone so off to jail you go. Or is it prison? I’ve never really understood the difference. I just know prison is worse and no one there wants to be someone-named-Frankie’s bitch. So, like a hit and run. But not like you meant to hit. Then it’d be Murder ‘cause it was intentional.
So then, would there be, like, selfslaughter or attempted selfslaughter? Oh, well no, that wouldn’t make sense would it? ‘Cause if it was attempted selfslaughter it would mean I intended to hurt myself and failed somehow.
Well, anyway.
Selfslaughter: reckless endangerment to self that does not quite rise to the level of intent to die. Punishable by hospitalization, consisting first of having plastic tube forced down throat to esophagus to stomach to vacuum toxic contents and everything I ate that night and the day before, and then being forcibly (practically) made to drink disgusting black liquid by amazon Russian nurse Hilda to absorb any residual poisons from stupid codeine pills. Sentence may also include lengthened hospital stay, discretion as to whether stay will or won’t be voluntary entirely in hands of white-coated Ivy League pedigrees who talk in big medical vocabulary, but have really cold hands.
I shared a room with bipolar Jimmy, some famous producer’s kid. At least once a week, Jimmy managed to escape the semi-daily administration of medication to keep him, er, balanced. The day after I was placed with him happened to be that day of that week. In the morning he was sulking, and I knew immediately something was wrong. But I can’t help being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Got a growl at “hello” and by lunchtime, he was in full manic mode, yelling like a psycho hyena on bad crack because I mistakenly turned up the volume on the loaner boombox several notches to drown out his steady mumbling of “mutherfuckerstupidshitgoddamnbitch”. I know I should’ve just left the room. Just like I knew better when I first started taking multiple doses of those stupid pills. Needless to say, when they offered me Prozac, I gladly accepted. Panic attack. That’s what they listed as the explanation on my medical chart.
I’m sitting on a ridge in the Canyon.
Fuck, it’s hot.
As advised on the tourist’s website, I started my hike around 8 a.m. and found somewhere shady to camp out until the sun eases up a bit. Much later this afternoon, it’ll be. There’s a stream where I’m sitting. Some patches of dried grass, bare trees. When I look up and around, all I see are massive walls of carved rock against clear, blue skies.
I feel tiny.
But not insignificant.
When Dom and I came here -- it was part of our cross-country gig -- he decided it was a good time to teach me yoga. Let’s begin with the Mountain Pose. Namaste. And then, because my flexibility skills led him to believe I was prepared for more advanced moves, he led me through a series of poses leading ultimately to the Sun Salutation. At the Downward Dog, ass in the air, arms shaking and about to fold under me, I managed to squeak out, Dude, how do you keep a straight face doing this? Dom ignored the wisecrack and instructed me to pause. Then he set about adjusting...me. He was in the midst of “aligning” my hips when a motley crew of tourists happened by, as if on cue. I’m certain their sudden silence was not due to reverance for or awe of the Canyon’s immensity.
no subject