The Chapel

She walked through the doorway, a smile lingering on her her lips.
"You're late."  His calm voice echoed through the empty house.
She stepped into the kitchen, gently folding her hands in front of her.  She felt the soft fabric of her dress and inhaled the smell of the forest.
"At least I showered."  She replied playfully.
The man walked into the light.  His jet black hair was greased back, and even though he was wearing a suit, she could see the dirt stains on his hands.  They watched each other for a moment before he rose his hand slowly, and closed the space between them.
In a fluid motion he brushed a stray curl away from her face, "You look lovely, Vi."
Her smile only widened, "Are you ready, Jackson?"
He didn't reply quickly, instead he stepped back and took her in.
Vi's smile began to falter, but before she could begin to doubt herself he grabbed her hands.
"I've been ready for a long time."
In the quiet house, they held still.
Jackson led her to the door, and they walked down to their small town car.  He waited for her to get comfortable in her seat before he shut the door and moved to the driver's seat.
The drive was quite.  Comfortable.  Vi watched the trees soar past them as they made their way to the building.  She tried to count how many trees they passed, but lost count almost right away.
They didn't turn on the radio, but instead listened to one another's heart beat.
It felt like a moment, but it took them half an hour to get there.
He pulled up and they sat there.  Comfortable.
He then turned to her and leaned to kiss her cheek.  He paused to inhale her perfume.  It was a mix of lilacs and fresh, light air.
As he pulled away he muttered, "I'll see you soon, darling."
Jackson exited the car, only to stop to pull her door open to let her out.  But she waited in the car for several moments until the man was inside the white marble building.
Vi squeezed her fingers, and let her right forefinger linger on the small, thin band that wrapped around her left ring-finger.
She smoothed out her dress and stood out, into the wind.
Vi pulled her little purse out in front of her, and pulled out a small, compact mirror.  She rose it to her face and began fixing minor make-up mistakes.  She smoothed out her kohl eye-liner, re-applied her deep red lipstick, and pinched her cheeks for a rush of red.  Then she fixed any dark stray hairs by tucking them back against her head into the already made bun.
Then she walked into the hauntingly beautiful building, and saw the man with dark slicked back hair standing at the very end of the aisle, staring at her with a slim, silent smile.
By the time she took a step forward she understood.
She was never late.

Dancing Girl

Her thin blond hair was twisted into a limp ponytail as she shimmied around the bar counter with obvious bags under her eyes.  Her bony frame made her look sunken, but her head was raised high with a flirtatious smile pasted on her lips.  The music was sultry, aiding in the dancers on stage.  Men lined the sides, tossing generous amounts of money onto the stage and into the women's suits.  The woman with the long ponytail leaned against the bar casually, with her sparkly blue lingerie twinkling with the dimmed pink lights as they spun.  She was given several drinks by different men, but she only took the one with a cap still on it.  It was cool against her throat, and she held it against her pale skin so her sweat could subside.  Her smile then faltered slightly.  Just for a moment.
     She knew what was coming.
     She gracefully placed the chilled beer back onto the counter, and just as she shimmied around the bar, she twisted into the bathroom.  As she closed the door, she checked to make sure no one was in the bathroom so she could lock the door.  She then walked over to the bathroom mirror, staring at her now yellow skin due to the cheap lighting.  The lights flickered every so often due to the expense of the stage, and the lighting in the bathroom didn't make anyone look the least bit attractive.
     As she studied herself in the mirror, she felt bile rise in her throat as to what she was wearing.  The blue bikini like outfit had many long fringes on it, making it look almost cow girl like.  She bared her teeth as she leaned into her made-up face.  Thick foundation and bright blue eyeshadow made her look more like a doll than a human.  And the bones that showed disgusted her.  A few wrinkles creased by her eyes and mouth, showing signs that she was ageing.  That also disgusted her.  In a few years, men wouldn't want her.  And if they didn't want her, then she couldn't feed her son.
     Who was going to be disgusted by her.
     And then, what she was waiting for came.  The tears.  The sudden feeling of sadness that crept up on her at the oddest of times.  She stood by the sink crying silently for a long time.  Until someone knocked on the door to wake her up.  She dabbed her eyes as she stared confidently in the mirror, and adjusting her bra, she twirled out of the bathroom back onto the stage.
    It didn't bother her, the attention she got.  What bothered her was who was giving her attention.  She could blatantly see pudgy men staring intently, and it gave her chills to know that when they go home they'd be jerking while thinking of her.  That bothered her.  It wasn't difficult to find a man willing to sleep with her for money after her shows.  It was hard to leave their place with a sense of dignity.  It was hard coming home in a wreck of an apartment to her son.  Who was old enough to know what she was doing by now.  To tell his friends she's a whore.  A slut.  A hooker.  But he didn't know that she was doing it for him.  So he could live.  Even if it meant to sacrifice her own life.
    And so she danced on the stage, accepting the coos and caws given from the men.  And none of them would see her cry when it felt like everything inside of her was being torn apart.  Because this was her life.  And even if she wasn't living, her son was.  

It was April 27th of this year when I knew I had cancer.
I didn't go to the doctor, or feel a lump or anything.  But the day was just so... different.  Lethargic.  Painful to think.  As though my body couldn't focus on anything except the creeping agony that I couldn't feel yet.
And all I remember doing that day was blinking.
How every time I closed my eyes, it felt as though a lifetime surged through me, creating, well...me.
I didn't go to the doctor right away.
I scanned my body, did all the feeling tests.  Which was weird, because I had never felt my body so much before.  It was like disturbing sacred land. I was trying to comprehend why I was suddenly so panicked when no one in my family had cancer.
There was no reason to be frightened.
"I'm overreacting."
Was what I kept saying every time I didn't feel a lump.
"There's nothing wrong."
Was what I tried saying when I forced myself to breathe.

I never found anything.

But the doctors I went to did.

They found it in my ovaries.

They told me I wouldn't have blood-related kids.

They told me they were sorry.

They told me about the surgeries.

About the Chemo.

About the pain.

About the life altering chaos I was about to go through.

And when they walked out of the door, they muttered to each other, "She's barely twenty.  Her loss must be difficult."

And all I thought was how dare they.
How dare they try to even comprehend the thought of being unable to carry something that was going to mean the world to them.  Because that new life would be my world.
But in a moment, it was gone.
And I had never, ever in my entire life feel so ripped off.
So angry.
So betrayed.

I didn't pray that night.

I showered.

And cried.

And tumbled into my unkempt bed.

And I slept.

Chemo was expensive.  I was in college, far away from family.  They were supportive, sad.
But I felt anger.
Resentment to them.
Because they pitied me.
I felt like kicked dog on the side of an abandoned road.
And I wanted to scream at them.
That they didn't understand.

But they asked me what made me go seek help.  I told them I didn't feel right.

"Was it a lump?"  They would ask.

"Did it hurt when you weren't menstruating?"  They would prod.

"Did something show you something was wrong?"  They would pick.

And I gave them the same answer.

I felt different.

 I went for a check up.

I got the news.

I wanted to die.

Not from Cancer.  But that fucking thing can go kiss my ass.  It should be easy as it's kissed my ovaries. 

I wanted to die in a different way.  By a car accident, heart attack, falling asleep and never waking up.

But now I'm going to die. 

I caught it a while ago,  so they can only slow the cancer.  Not stop it.  

"Three years max."  The doctors said mournfully.  As though I had already died.

I felt dead inside, so I guess that's the same thing.

I stopped doing things I enjoyed. 

I used to ride my bike by the ocean every day.  Twice. 

I didn't have the strength to anymore.

I used to photograph people at their happiest.

I threw my camera against my bedroom wall.

I tore shelves down in my room. 

I stabbed scissors into the wall.

I never went more than one day without crying.

I always cried until I fell asleep.

That was what I was like for  a year. 

It felt excruciating.

I lost my hair.  I used to wear a wig because I felt embarrassed, but I stopped and started wearing a toque. 

I missed my hair a lot.  It wasn't very long, I was always called a lesbian for having a pixie cut.

But I loved it. 

It was a subtle mouse brown that somehow managed to make me look like a rock star every day without doing anything to it. 

I didn't have to shave my legs or anything anymore though. 
That didn't suck. 
It sucked because it reminded me that I was dying.
And my insides were screwed.

But I went to the doctor almost every day for two and a half years.

At this point, I was on edge daily. 
Not angry, just anxious.

Like, I knew I was going to die any day now.

But I didn't.

In three years I was still alive.

And I felt so much hope well inside of me that I thought I was going to burst.

I think I did burst actually.

In tears.

The doctors didn't know what to say. 

I still didn't have any hair, but I strutted with my bald head high. 

I felt amazing.

I even fell in love.

He was amazing.

He knew what I was going through, but stayed with me. 

He wanted us to get married, have children--
Which he knew we would have to adopt.

But he didn't care.

We were in love.

We travelled all around Europe.

We moved to Paris. 

I became fluent in french.

We had an apartment.

We walked down the river ways.

We were in a book.









But, my book ended five years after I had been diagnosed with Cancer. 

I was twenty four when I died holding my husband's hand.

I was twenty four when I had so much cancer in me, that I could have killed twenty other people.

I was twenty four when my little girl had to kiss her mother goodbye. 

I was twenty four when my life ended.

In the Shadows

I was traveling somewhere.
My mother, step father and I.
And people.
About ten other people.
And we came across what seemed like a campsite.
With what seemed like a temple.
It felt very... Egyptian. 
As everyone set up to stay the night, I felt oddly cast out.
As though I was being punished.
So I stayed near this temple.
Until everyone was falling asleep.
They didn't tell me to sleep on the steps leading down to that sandstone entrance.
But I did.
Because I was being punished.
They didn't tell me that if I woke up, and the dark, damp entrance enticed me; not to go in.
But I did.
Because I was being curious.
I hazed out of sleep, the slick ebony doorway lurching in my thoughts.
But I only took a few steps in.
Because a sudden tear of horror ripped through my body.
Ripped through my sight.
Because I thought I saw a woman.
I thought I saw her eyes.
But I didn't think anything of it, other than I had to get out.
So I did.
Two steps.
Then I fell back asleep.
Now, I woke up again.
Hazy and tired. 
Wondering,
'Now, why isn't it day yet?  It's pitch as the sea on a cloudy eve, oh why isn't it day?'
And that doorway called for me.
Screamed for me.
So I went back in.
And this time, oh this time I saw more of a shadow.
More of a figure.
More of her eyes.
I only saw her for a moment, but I saw her.
Her willowy, sickly figure.
Her black thin, sticky hair over her face.
And her ivory eyes staring hollowly at me.
And I had to get out.
Panic swept over me as I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't breathe.
Oh, I couldn't breathe.
I stumbled backwards, out of the doorway.
Why?
Why did I go back in?
I knew something was wrong?
Why?
Why?
WHY.
As I was out, catching my breath, my mother came over.
And she didn't ask what was wrong.
Somehow, she knew.
She knew everything.
But she wasn't there, so how could she know?
And then her face grew terrified.
Her eyes as wide as saucers.
Staring at me with such an intense fear that I grew scared of her.
And then I spoke with choked speech.
"I saw her, and I don't want to see her anymore.  Not ever again."
I was crying.
I heard myself sobbing.
But her eyes stayed open as she shook.
She shook.
And she talked in a hushed voice.
"She told me that that isn't the last time you will see her.  You will see her again."
And then her name rang through my head.
Solid and clear.
Roberta Koskov.
That woman was Roberta Koskov.

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Hey guys, so this is partially a story, partially poetry and mostly from my dream (or nightmare I should say) from last night.  I woke up so scared that I couldn't move for a few minutes.  I was afraid if I rolled over I would see this woman that I dreamed of.
This entire concept was odd to me, mostly because my mother spoke to her, and I didn't.
But to be fair I was running from it.
But I have had many recent nightmares about ghosts where my mother can talk to them and I can't.  And that she can see them and I can't.  It's getting disturbing as it keeps progressing.
Another very disturbing concept in this dream was that I was told her entire name. Which I have never had.  I've only had one other name spoken to me in a dream, and that was only their first name.
Anyways, this dream definitely shook me up, and I was hoping writing it down would help get it out of my mind.
So, *poof* be gone, nightmare.

-E