Therapy

The wind cut right through his thin flannel shirt, and chilled his whole body. It wasn't so much the cold anymore that bothered him, since he was accustomed to being numb, but the holes in his shoes. His toes peeked out, and were stung with cold when he walked through the snow. He looked around him at the towering mountains, the trickling runoff, the deep red sunset... they were the only things he would ever really own. He peered down at his shoes again and thought about how nice it would be when spring came.

The dark of the car was illuminated by the spark thrown from the butane lighter, and skewed images danced for a moment across its passengers' faces. A faint crinkle could be heard as he sucked on the pipe and the weed burned. His lungs were full, his chest protruding, and for a moment he wasn't sure if it was the drug or his fucked up head that distorted his flickering friends. And, exhale.
 "Load another one man".
He watched the lighter turn the the greens to ash; inhale, exhale then fade away.

It's been a year today, but he could still remember when he'd gotten that phone call. His mom had been so upset, he could barely stand hearing her struggle to put it in words, to make it real. He could only imagine how she'd felt, losing the love of her life, bu he missed him too. He should have gone back, gone to see him before it was too late. 
Regret now, that's all that was left. Memories and Regret.

You let me just lay there; on my side, curled up and exposed, facing you. Your strong arms were sprawled out, your wing span the size of the tiny bed. The way you were positioned protected me; one arm wrapped over me and the other gently stroking my back, comforting. You made me feel precious that night, and treated me like I was fragile. I remember pressing my forehead against your bare chest, seeping in the heat of your skin. We didn't move, didn't speak, and lay like that for hours. You never asked me for a thing, you just knew I needed that time, that silence and your body next to mine. 

I miss you, dammit. 

 For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things to  come, nor height, nor depth, nor other creatures, shall be able to separate us from the love of God 

(Romans 8:37-39).

^ That's bullshit. He doesn't love me.

 I used to be able to walk, and run, and hike. I remember biking, and climbing mountains, and making love to beautiful women. I could swim or sleep standing up if I had wanted to. Why did He take it all away from me? That's not love, and now I have nothing. 

The sun shone in through slits in the blinds, warming my bare skin-- wait. What the hell? Whose room is this? 

I sat up. 

And.... okay, I'm not wearing any clothes. And neither is he. Fuck. At least he has nice abs...

Where is my dress? I could only find one heel. I need to get out of here. Clothes back on, I slipped out the door and breathed a sigh of relief when it was shut behind me. 

I adjusted my bra and tried to find the way outta this place. What happened last night? 

Hope those abs were worth it...

He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept without waking up crying. He was haunted by that same scene every single night in his dreams. The memory tortured him, gave him no way out. He lay down, closed his eyes, and there he would be, trapped in that little room, the sound of the gunshot echoing through his mind. Sometimes he'd wake up there, but sometimes he'd swim through a river of her blood and her screams would get louder, and she'd call to him for help, and there'd be so much blood he couldn't even find her and eventually he'd give up and just drown, right there, cause if she was dead, he wanted to be, too.

He held her down, the sweaty palms of his hands almost breaking her wrists- his fingers curled and locked around her arm. His eyes never left hers as he slid his hand, disgustingly slow, to where it would teach her a lesson. Her body tensed in pain, and she closed her eyes as tight as she could, trying desperately to escape. 

The windows in the sterile, washed out van framed the house as it slid away from the curb. A single tear spilled from each eye and rolled down his face, catching at the tip of his nose. This is the last time. The last time he'd see the house that he grew so angry in, last time he'd be reminded of the "home" that harbored more fear than family. He would never spend another night under that roof, or feel the sting brought on by his fathers lips draining the bottle. He would no longer remember the existence of South 7th Street.
And as they drove, he didn't look back.

He would've gone anywhere; he just wanted to get out. As he stocked the shelves, can after can, he thought about how to vanish. He heard the little bells ding as he pulled the grocery door open and stepped out onto the concrete. He pulled the beaten pack of Marlboro's from his pocket and lit one up. A suppressed cough escaped his lips- he sighed. The little bells jingled again as he stepped back inside. 

Perspective

http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2011/06/child-brides/sinclair-photography

     Every little girl dreams of her wedding day. The beautiful dress, the love and laughter in the air, the man of her dreams standing at the alter waiting for her to walk down the aisle... Unfortunately for some, the sickening truth forces it's way for a much different reality.
     When I was five years old, I very much doubt getting married was something I was considering, or could even begin to understand. Hell, there are millions of adults who still don't understand how to navigate a marriage. Reading National Geographic's photo essay on Child Brides definitely made me think. I realized how grateful I am to be able to make choices for myself, and for the freedom to love whom I please. The arrangement of photos, which all are focused on different stories of girls in different stages of their marriages, shed an interesting light on the concept of child brides. It first introduces the idea using a photo that shocks it's audience, much like an 'attention-getter' when writing, and is accompanied by the next series of photos that go on to expand it's viewers horizons on the topic. The photographer could have been efficient if she had simply wanted to just display what a child bride was, but she seemed to want to tell more of a story than that. The rest of her photos rise up and give off an almost triumphant feeling- we meet girls that have successfully resisted being brought into the child bride culture and those that are receiving an education as well. To me, it's not suppose to be a saddening essay, but one of resilience.
      One of the captions attached to a photo of two Yemeni brides stated that "...girls see marriage as saving themselves from the control of their families". Is there freedom in engagement? Is trading one hostility for another really a salvage at all? It's hard to look at this essay and not be shocked and appalled. I think as Americans, we sometimes forget that there are millions of other people out there who don't think and don't act how we do. I suppose we can never really know or understand the experiences of others, since such vast differences divide our cultures. However, the more we try to see; whether it be through text, or photography or any other outlet for understanding, the better.

Life As I'm Seein' It

National Geographic

 Alright, in the spirit of the game, here are some sick pictures I found that I had to share. You know, just so that when I put up my own work it can really be dampened by their mastery. Check it: