Shine by Julie Douglas

Shine

    Sometimes I like to leave the needle in my arm longer than necessary. The reflected light a beacon of hope. My salvation. There was a time when the mere thought of such an action would have caused me unbearable anxiety. Now, it's a curiosity like my passive face looking back at me from this hideously truthful, toothpaste-splattered mirror. My glow dissipating. I have not sunk so low. I lead a productive, though unconventional life. I've always made it to my gigs, I love my family, and so on.
    I'm not sure what time it is. It's light outside and I hear people moving about. Cursing myself for losing my watch again, I pick up the phone and dial the front desk. The nice woman tells me it is 5pm. I don't have to be anywhere for a while. Good. It really is true that all hotel rooms look the same, but each town has it's own charms. And neuroses. I peek through the curtains and see the incessant gloom that is winter in the Midwest. Buildings breathing steam. Lights peering dimly from behind frosted, incandescent glass. Signs of life.

Brilliant passage of truth
Lead me far from this eternal farce
Coherence is lost

In the forest of my heart

    My arms hurt. At least I can pull off long sleeves gracefully in this weather. It's funny-I had a dream before I started doing this to myself. "Little girl afraid of the big, bad needle," a seedy, reedy black man was saying to me as he tied and squirted and smacked and plunged. Yellow dog eyes rolling back in his head. Some of the golden liquid had landed on my hand. "Go ahead. Have a little taste." Timidly, then enthusiastically, I did so. The glow a hissing serpent gliding silently, purposely through the lonely corridors of my being. And warmth. Such incredible warmth. And when I woke up I was scared.
    Fear is a strange thing sometimes. The great motivator. The great deceiver. You fear that which intrigues you the most. I remember my virgin veins, aroused and eager as they were lovingly tied off and caressed. So many to choose from then. "Relax baby." Ryne with his soft eyes and confident touch. I hardly felt a thing. Then: pounding heart and panicked whimper as all control was surrendered: help me. Every pore dilated and weeping. Tender hands stroking my hair. Safe. Safe from them all.
    Ryne. (Rhymes with shine). Where did he go, my sublime? Oh, he left me for a socially acceptable anesthetic: the Church. Of course, now I'm nothing but fodder for his flock; a radiant example of depravity strewn to the self-righteous masses. And they gobble up every last morsel and shake their woolly sheep heads in disapproval.
    Choke on me. That's it. Gag it all down. Soon there'll be no more. Soon there'll be-

Tears no more
Those glass slippers dangling in erotic scorn

    A bath will help. I don't want to go out there yet. Don't want to see their frigid concern. The running water soothes me as I notice myself, a faded pastel portrait, gazing back serenely from the depths of this wretched mirror. Yes, I am really alive. Around my neck the antique locket's inscription: For Meredith, who shines so bright. A gift from my supportive and bewildered family. The irony. If only they knew.
    It's not their fault, yet they would shoulder the blame. The family closets harbor no boogeymen. This despair is my own doing; the result of a foolish experiment in-

Love not my soul
For it is dubious
Search not my heart
For it is shadowed
Just sing with me

    The crowd will be intense tonight. Furiously enthusiastic as if in defiance of the harsh, bitter weather. A welcome change from the beige and preoccupied audiences of the Southwest. It's different in the north. Surly and aggressive. They go through a lot to get to the show. And they've been counting the days.
    People come to hear my music and, if I may be so delusional, my words. I used to think I had something to say. Now it seems I could be up here extolling the virtues of stale corn flakes, and they would all still think I was remarkably profound. Perhaps even more so.

Entombed in this pearly grave
I am precious, I am not yours to interpret
Not yours to categorize, organize, analyze, institutionalize
And-

    I am not profound. They don't really listen. I am merely the latest novelty. For some, a topic of conversation over cafe mochas and frosted biscottis. For others, background accompaniment to getting mercilessly fucked up. There's nothing like the moment when you look out there and realize they don't get anything you're trying to say, and yet they really, truly think that they do. Seeing faces that, when it mattered, shot you down and laughed about it. And now it's your turn to gloat. But instead of gratification it's sickening reality that hits. It's too late. Don't want your love now. And then feeling guilty. It's not their fault. They want so much to understand. They want to be inside my head. They want to be me. And I begin to wonder if I even understand what I'm singing.

Kill me kill me kill me
Set me free
From your endless scrutiny

    Morbid, self-indulgent thoughts cascade across my mind as I lie here submerged and cozy. Reality obscured by ripples in this: my coffin of make-believe. The water grows uncomfortably tepid, but still I put off my return to the air. Izzy, my manager, and the others will be here soon. Distantly we all go through the motions. They have given up trying to rouse me from my isolation. They no longer feel that I will be saved. None of them will look at me directly. They plan their escape. Bide their time. Saying nothing because they all know that, in spite of my sullen seclusion, I still kick ass.
    I paint rosebud lips on my listless mouth. Butterfly lashes on my perpetually watery eyes. Long lost little lady. Angel hair and ragged nails. Hard to imagine a powerful performance from such an image. Sometimes it's still hard to believe that I have a strong following.
    Once, I was out there among the lonely and misguided masses wanting to be led. Wanting to be relieved of the responsibility of giving the hurt a voice: tell us what we feel because we don't have the guts to dig for it ourselves. My only difference is that the pain was always on the surface demanding to be acknowledged. There was simply no other choice but to express it. But really, I am such a coward. And yet they call me courageous in my passionate intensity. "Elegantly brutal in her relentless search for meaning in an inconsistent universe," said one insightful critic. The only review I ever saved.

I've caught the bouquet that I never sought
I only ever wanted to

Not be bought

    It was there all along. That which I was looking so desperately for. The purpose of it all. Sadness in everything. Illuminated in a tiny, hollow, sharp piece of metal. I will not be getting help. It's not meant to be that way. It wouldn't be the same if I cleaned up and did the inner child-reclaiming thing and became lukewarm. To me that's a death not worth enduring. Instead, I will let everything run its course. Progressively, I will get worse and worse until the inevitable accident. No shotguns, razorblades, or good-bye notes from me. Just negligence. And destiny.
    I hear them knocking at my door. Time to go out there. Not ready to face them, but I will because soon it will be all over. And I can hear what people will say already. Some will call me a loser and others a tragedy. And they will both be right. But for now I will go out there and hold my head up. I have seen my end and it's exquisitely mine.
Shine.

About the author:
Originally from Northern Michigan, Julie Douglas now lives in French New Caledonia with her husband and 2 house rabbits. She has written one novel, BLUE, which has not yet been published, and is working on her second. Her short fiction is coming soon to Insolent Rudder.