|posted on 25-Aug-2002 1:10:53 AM by PhoenixFlamez|
|Title: It's Always the Quiet Ones|
Disclaimer: Wacky Liz is mine and that jerko called Max Evans is not going to lay one finger on her.
Summary: Aliens are still aliens and humans are still humans. There was no shooting and Liz and her family don’t live in Roswell. Something bad happened to the Parker family and now Liz has to suffer and cope with it.
Author's Note: Please do tell me what you think of this. Not sure if I'm going to continue it so speak up if you like it.
Credit: Inspired by Incognito's "Spin" and "Core", plus that one night of not a wink of sleep.
Dear Journal, Entry #293
Life is unfair.
I can replace “unfair” with many other words. Hard, difficult, tough, stupid, dumb, cruel, mean. Take your pick. Which one is to your liking? People say that you’ll only think that because you haven’t experienced “the fullness” of life yet. Well, here’s what I think of them. They probably haven’t been through half of what happened to me. I won’t go into details. Spare the shit you know?
I had a normal childhood. A perfect one you could say. I had a mommy and a daddy. They both loved each other then. They would play with me, make time for me, read me bedtime stories, and give me pet names like Lizzy Bear or Sweet Pea. I had friends too. They would come to my house and we would play with my dollies and have imaginary tea parties. Sometimes my mommy would come in with these really good smelling cookies and cups of milk. They’re really good. They made my tummy full and they tasted so yummy. My mouth waters even now.
But that’s in the past; it’s all over now. There would no longer be any bedtime stories or name-calling, no more tea parties, no more cookies and milk, no more love.
Do you want to know why?
Mommy got into a car accident one day, a big one. We thought after that everything would be normal. That everything would go back to the way things were. But we were stupid to think that. We should’ve known better.
She wasn’t the same ever since that accident; no one was. In hindsight, I could tell you every little detail that would’ve let up to know. But no details for you just yet, no more shit talking until later.
I love my daddy. I love the name that married my mommy. The father that tucked me in bed and sang me lullabies and taught me these ridiculous jokes that my mommy forbid us to say. But now he’s a bad mean man.
He left us. He left mommy and me. I thought he would come back but he never did. I use to sit by the window and watch for his car. I thought maybe I had done something wrong. I also use to think that maybe if I could contact him somehow, he would come back and then I would tell him how sorry I am, for something I don’t even know I did. Oh well. I just wanted my daddy back. I miss him. My heart ached whenever I see mommy crying.
That’s a lie. My heart ached because he left and didn’t take me with him. He left me. ME. His Lizzy Bear. His Sweet Pea. His Liz.
I can go on forever but I won’t. All those anger and hate and love and whatever those emotions are called are gone now. I’m just Liz Parker, the girl who was left behind by her daddy. I was only 9 years old then. I didn’t know much. I still don’t.
Now I’m 14 years old. Whoopee! That means I’m going to be sixteen soon, in two more years. I’d get to drive. I’m going to have the best time of my life.
That’s another lie.
I died when my mommy left for work that day. I never saw her ever again. Never. The woman who I live with isn’t my mommy. My mommy’s gone and so is my daddy. They left me here all alone.
Bitter much you say. Very much indeed so. I’m nodding vigorously, can’t you tell?
I’m tired now. It’s nighttime. Something bad is going to happen. My head hurts; I think it’s from the stress relief that comes along with spilling all those pent up emotions. Oh well. There’s too much on my mind. I’m going to bed now.
[ edited 3 time(s), last at 17-Oct-2002 10:52:47 PM ]
|posted on 25-Aug-2002 12:27:51 PM by PhoenixFlamez|
|Thanks for the feedback. I''m still trying to decide where I wanna lead this into.|
Fallen Angel, I''m not the author of "Can''t stop loving you" and "blood codes". Sorry.
|posted on 15-Sep-2002 7:19:08 PM by PhoenixFlamez|
Dear Journal, Entry #300
Happy Birthday to me, one more year passes and I’m growing older by the second. Can you see my white hair? No? Well that’s because I hide them well.
No party for me; there hasn’t been one since the past few years. Insert bitter laughter here. I don’t’ have many friends as you can probably already tell. The only few people that has befriended me in this sorry piece of shit called lifetime has either moved away and dropped off the face of the earth or is currently buried under the nice, rich soil.
Who needs friends anyway? All they do is take up time and puts an emotional strain on you. But even as I say this, mutter this to myself, I know it isn’t true. My heart thinks differently.
I desperately want to make friends, but they only see me as the “reject.” The one who has a weirdo mother and a father who ran off with another slut. The insane offspring who has tainted the surname Parker.
They can all go fuck a tree for all I care.
“Poor Liz,” they always say when I’m around, walking down the halls in my dirty ragged clothing.
“Bitch,” they always say when they think I’m not listening.
They think I’m deaf to the world, never to hear what they say behind my back.
I have no safe haven in this world. The only time I can be at real peace is in my dreams. They’re nice and make me feel safe but in the end, it’s only but a dream; a dream that tempts me to surrender into eternal rest.
How poetic of me.
Mom’s acting strange again, not like she doesn’t everyday, but today’s different. How different? Whenever she looks at me, chills runs up and down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stands up.
Maybe it’s the new perfume she’s wear?
Blah. Who am I kidding? Surely, not myself.
The last time I said something bad was going to happen, Kit died, committed suicide to be more specific. What can I say? You don’t pick friends; they pick you.
Possibly this time will be different. Maybe I’ll get run over by a speeding car or gunned down on the streets when rival gangs dish it out.
I looked back at my last few entries and realize I’ve been writing about death for pages and pages. Why don’t I just act on it instead of complaining about it?
I can’t bear to leave my mother. Even if she’s as crazy as everyone says, she’s my other companion left in this hellhole.
I can never leave her; she needs me.
|posted on 13-Oct-2002 10:14:46 PM by PhoenixFlamez|
|Just a little bump so I can find this thread easy when I come back with the next part.|
Thanks for the feedbacks everyone.
|posted on 14-Oct-2002 1:37:44 PM by PhoenixFlamez|
Dear Journal, Entry #307
Last night I had a terrible dream. It’s neither a nightmare nor a fantasy; it was something in between. Over the years pass father’s disappearance, I’ve managed to forget all about it; to erase detach myself from my memories of the father that I once loved.
In the dream, we were still a family. It was summer; the air was warm, bordering from the familiar hotness when the sun shone fiercely above. We were crowded in a booth; a café or diner, I couldn’t tell. All around were green streamers, balloons, banners, and signs. Pamphlets of various tourist attractions around the states were spread on the table. They were arguing over where to go for our yearly summer vacation.
“Nancy! We went to Disneyland three times already, Liz is getting sick of it.”
“Jeffrey, how do you know that? For all you know, our Lizzie is loving every one second of it.”
“And why would you think she would be willing to go for the fourth time?”
“And why would you think she wouldn’t be willing to go for the fourth time?”
I watch them fondly; taking notice of the loving smiles that graced their faces. Mother use to mimic father and if she was brave enough to endure his revenge later on, mother would even dress up as him; top to bottom. The first time she did this, father was coming home from work and when he walked through the door and saw mother sitting in his favorite sitting reading the newspaper dressed exactly like him, why he had the funniest look on his face! Father repaid mother with a round of good old family pillow fight in their bedroom.
The dream ended abruptly. I despised it for bringing up those long forgotten buried thoughts of father, yet a small part of me wished the dream hadn’t stopped so suddenly. A small part of me wanted to live in the dream instead of waking up, ever.
Mother has grown increasingly hard to… manage. She spends most the day staring at the stove. Don’t ask me why, I have no idea. Many times a week I would catch her staring blankly at a lit candle. What’s with her fascination with them?
Is she truly as crazy as everyone wants me to believe? I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know whom to trust anymore. I sometimes feel like I’ve lost an identity only to gain another one, switching and changing beneath my skin. I itch to get rid of it.
I was Elizabeth Anne Parker, daughter of Jeffrey Parker and Nancy Parker. But, now, who am I?
These unless questions badgers my mind constantly. It’s tiring and nonetheless pathetic, if not overwhelmingly time consuming. I just wish that one day, just one day, I’ll get a sign; a sign of the purpose of my life. So cliché and… unoriginal. I need a sign! Can you hear me God? I need a sign! Although I don’t believe in God… anyway, back to the shouting. I need a sign dammit! Can’t anybody hear me?
|posted on 17-Oct-2002 10:55:13 PM by PhoenixFlamez|
A black hole. An endless whirlpool of dark swirls. There’s no direction, no wind draft, no indication of what’s up or down. I hear sounds, quick snatches of voices.
“BP… eight… fall… scan… tissue…”
Flying through the black hole at a rapid speed, non-existing wind whistling into my ears. My body’s turning, spinning, tumbling.
“CT… PET… X…”
Convulsing, shaking, trembling, yet still there was no pain.
“More… pump… blood… trauma… suction…”
The “seizure” stops and I give a sigh of relief. I now have a chance for questions. Mentally, I pull out a notepad and a pencil. First off, where am I? Second, how did I get here? Third, what is here? Fourth, what happened? Fifth, is anyone out there? I pause and wait for any answers. Nothing, not even one cricket. I heave out another deep sigh; this is going to take awhile.
“When… she… wake…”
“Should… now… anesthetics… hour…”
“… rush… Jack!”
“I… Lind… but… police…”
I’m beginning to become aware the pain. It spreads from my wrist to my arm. The pain starts out as needle pricks, then to bruises and cuts, and then to a form of numbness where my body is aware of every nerve it has. I suddenly have to gasp for air, my throat closing as an invisible hand crushes my windpipe. My heart beats frantically, demanding for more oxygen and blood flow.
“… doc… crash… must… inject…”
A door glowed in the background and as it inches open, a burst of bright white light explodes from it. As it fades, a woman in a white gown bathed in white light is floating in front of me. What’s with the white? To think she’s an angel… oh shit, am I dead? Her face comes into view and I step back in shock.
“Mom…” I whisper. My eyes must be big as saucers, I think to myself dryly. “Is it really you?”
She nods and smiles at me, acknowledging my comment. The smile she wore was one I had not seen for many years. It was a smile fitted for motherly love. Tears welled up in my eyes and I threw myself at her, hugging her. Pulling back, I ask her if she was here to take me to heaven. Mother shook her head sadly and gently kissed me on the forehead. She hadn’t done that for more than five years; I miss it so much. More tears flow down my cheeks and I discreetly as possible wiped them away.
“I’m afraid not Elizabeth, you have a bright future ahead of you. It’s not your time yet,” she told me, brushing stray locks away from my face.
“But I want to be with you! I… I miss you mother,” I confess. There was nothing else for me to live for, why can’t I go to the great beyond with my mother?
“Oh Elizabeth,” she sighed, a frown forming on her lips. “Your time will come, it’s just not now; you’re too young.” She kissed me on the cheek and drew back. “You have to go back Lizzie. You have to.”
With those words said, she turned around and walked back into the door, her dress trailing behind her.
“Mom!” I cry, chasing after her. Reaching out with my hand, I grabbed the doorknob and wrenched it open in hopes of finding my mother. Instead, the door had transformed into a vortex and sucked me in.
“Doctor, she’s waking up!”
|posted on 26-Oct-2002 6:46:51 PM by PhoenixFlamez|