Suicide Girl

January

Homecoming

My summer job--my parents' hope,
My nightmare
Crashes suddenly to an end.

I'd found the 4th of July fireworks,
Borrowed a box, hidden under my bunk, until...

Later, when Herr Kampwarden was showering
A rather unexpected treat
And only a quick trip to the infirmary required.

My "friends" were weak,
No thumbscrews needed
To eke my name from smug lips

But I had accomplices, though none were named.
Not out of loyalty,
As much as disinterest.

Only four weeks left, no great loss
Office staff rather frightened of me
(or at least that one who kept crossing herself
every time I was nearby)
So they offered to pay out my summer
If I'd go quietly.

Trying not to giggle, I concede,
And even manage to look a little downcast
When they pay for the cab to take me to the train.

I left a home invaded by my mother's horrid sister
But I know she will be gone,
And my domain returned.

Then, awkwardness, when I turn up
Unexpected, at home and hearth.

I drag my gear in, and they cluck as I explain:
"That nasty camp manager... he kept...
...Looking at me"
Then, a meaningful pause, as I pretend to struggle
To hold back some tears.

They are doubtful, I sense,
So I drop my cheque on the table
Full pay for my early dismissal
Implies my tormentor's guilt.

"I should go up there and give him what for!"
My father blusters.
I smile to myself at his bravado
A man who put up with wet papers for weeks
Rather than confront the newsboy
Who tossed them in the birdbath.

My mother chimes in--full of support.
I glance at the clock--just about right
She's two drinks into her day.

There's no mystery there:
Two drinks--always agreeable
Four drinks--combative
Six drinks--maudlin
Eight...
Well, I'm always downtown by then.

Then the awkwardness returns
"About your room, dear...
It's sort of... occupied."

How can this be?
I've watched the calendar at camp,
Knowing full well, I couldn't be banished
Before Auntie had left my abode.
Besides, I'd have heard her canine rat
Were she still nearby.

"What?" I look at each of them slowly
They should know better.

"Her name is Sun; she's from Korea..."
I'm already halfway up the stairs,
As my mother blathers something
About her only staying a couple weeks.

How could they? My room--
Tarred with their epithets:
"The Pit" "The Dungeon"
and my personal favorite:
"That girl's own little corner of Hell".

What misplaced foreign girl could stand
A room like that?

I fling open the door--she's not there
But I see on the walls--K-pop posters over my Lovecraft,
And agony beyond all measure--
Hello Kitty!

I hear the bathroom door--I turn,
She's wearing the robe I've shunned since Christmas
And toweling dry her hair.

She sees me, a pause, and then a twinkle
In the deepest brown eyes I've ever seen.

"Oh, you are home"
A charming accent lilts the obvious
"I love your room, do you like my little... touches?"
She brushes by and steps into the room,
I glance again, and notice something else

One Hello Kitty is impaled on a gargoyle's talon
Another vomits blood,
While a third lies decapitated,
Its lifeless eyes frozen in fear.

I look slowly back at her; she smiles.

This summer just got a whole lot better.

Coloring My World

The rumors of
My anticipated romance
Were greatly exaggerated.

I went from smitten
To potential smiter
In less than a week.

Seems our little friend from halfway round the globe
Plays mind games just as well
As local variants of her type--
The ones who adopt an orientation
When the camera flashes
And later claim they were "out of it"
After that half a belini.

Makes me wonder once more
If picking teams is premature just yet.

She spent the last week of her visit
Sleeping in the basement
Where my friends, the spiders
Wreaked my vicarious vengeance.

I needed to make a statement
And, after ensuring the safety of the tape of my parental's agreement
That camp would earn my right
To unfettered access to dermal coloration
I head to a nearby tattoo salon.

While the parentals had agreed weeks ago
I prefer my fake I.D.
To throwing my plans
Into their sea of doubts.

The tattoo place is busy,
So I wait.
All the good magazines--
(Dark, alternative, troubling)
Are taken.

I am left with the comic section
From the local paper.

I glance through them with disdain;
Marmaduke--no wonder the scribbles
Look like they were done by a crackhead
Desperate for a fix.
My hand might shake a bit too
With guilt for taking money for that crap.

Then there's "Peanuts"
Ancient memories from when I watched
Holiday shows that weren't created by Tim Burton.
How is it that Charles Schultz's signature
Still appears on new entries?
Forget Tupac--here's the man
Who cheated death.

Garfield makes me angry.
How stupid do they think we are?
The same half dozen cartoons
For a couple of decades.

Then there's Dilbert.
More an industry than a comic
Must be true to life
Since my father weeps a little,
When he reads it over breakfast.

Then it's my turn.
I get Dmitri--lucky, since I know
His work is always good.

He sits me down, pauses a little
Over my I.D., then smiles
I pass muster.

He pulls out some books and sheets of designs,
But I shake my head,
And offer a sheet--my own design.

It's simple really:
A wound on my wrist,
"Down the street, not across the road"
As the saying goes.

Emerging from the cut, a head
A bleeding "Hello Kitty"
Then just to the right, an arm, extended
Wearing a uniform, gestapo, perhaps
But Golden Arches,
Where the swastika should be.

The arm has a pistol, pointed
Finger tightened on the trigger,
About to end the kitty's pathetic life.

He looks thoughtfully at my creation,
Then shakes his head and sighs.
"No--can't do it."
What? He can't be serious.

"Here's the thing:
First of all, I think your I.D.'s fake.
Not something that I usually lose much sleep over, though.
Then there's the design--
Looks like something done in anger quickly,
Then regretted for years."

He looks briefly into my eyes,
And recognizes in a moment
He is right.

"Plus there's something else;
That's a lot of ink, and not enough canvas
On those little wrists of yours."

"I don't have an eating disorder."
I've blurted that out so many times
It's become a reflex.

"I never said you did."
"Oh, so I'm just too skinny, is that it?"

He pauses, then smiles
"Just for this much art--
Otherwise, I'd say you're pretty much perfect."
Then he winks,
And hands me back my design.

I take it back, and find it tough
To look at him for a moment.
Like I said before
Maybe it's premature to pick teams.

As I turn to leave, his voice pulls me back
"Hey--wait a sec.
Who did the art on that design?"
I quietly claim it as my own
Still contemplating my shoelaces.

"It's good--really good."
Then as I look at him, he gestures broadly,
Sweeping his hand across the room.

"You think you could do this?
Would you like to learn?"
I pause, confounded for a moment
By this sudden turn of fate.
Then I nod manically.

"Good--come back tomorrow and sign some papers,
And bring a parent if you can--we'll need your real I.D.
It will only pay minimum wage while you're training,
And you'll have to clean up and answer phones as well."

I visualize my parents' reaction,
But I'm not concerned
When I really want something
There are always ways to bend them to my will.

I manage a smile, a quiet "thanks"
And turn to leave.

"One more thing--about your tatoo
We'll get you something soon--don't worry.
And you'll love it, I promise."

I think I will. I really think I will.

Discovered

She found me on her hallway safari
Not hard--my plumage isn't subtle
More caution than camouflage.

Hi... her voice trails off.
I see the camera round her neck
The rest not hard to guess.

I was wondering, uhm, if you've ever modeled?
I let the question hang an awkward moment.
Depends what you call modeling
Then I turn and walk away.
She doesn't follow.

I think little of it, until later
A note folded, dropped inside my locker
A web address scrawled on a scrap of paper
and underneath, "A sample of my work".

My curiosity wins out;
I visit the library computers,
But such sites are deemed beyond the pale
By our educational censorati.

Once home I see her "work"
Something called "model mayhem"
--a trifle tame for my taste,
which runs more to tattoed, pierced and pale.

Her page is like the rest,
A couple dozen pics of classmates, friends
All mimicking the poses
Taped in the lockers of adolescent boys.

She spots me in a corner two days later,
Barricaded behind my sketchbook
Where she is an unwitting model

So... did you like my pics?
I shrug and keep on drawing
I, uhm, I'd really love to shoot you
I direct a withering glance her way
The feeling is quite mutual

After a few moments I realize she hasn't left
So against my better judgement, I ask:
Why would you want me to model for you?

She looks uncomfortable--do I detect a blush?
You're kind of... exotic.
I contemplate violence for a moment,
Then slowly shake my head and mutter
I don't do freak show, thanks.

No, I mean you're, uh, interesting
And Gerry said I needed to push the envelope...

In spite of myself, I find I want to know
Who's Gerry?

Just a photographer, she explains.
A real one.

I laugh out loud. I'd seen his 'profile'
Just like the rest of them.
Creepy 28 year old guys,
Living in their mother's basements
Playing on the dreams
of misguided children.

Have you met 'Gerry'? I ask her.
She admits she hasn't--no surprise.
Seems Gerry has suggested
They might work together sometime,
When she brings him a suitable muse.

He can't troll the playgrounds for prey,
But she can bait and lure them to his den.

I suggest I'd love to play the game,
And allow one test shot--my instructions then are clear
I tell her go ahead--arrange the shoot.

As expected, Gerry's more than willing
To do the shoot--for free!
His largesse knows no bounds.

It's not surprising when he then insists
We skip a day of school to visit him
No doubt his mother works a daytime job

I'd looked at more than just her photo site--
I found her Deviantart, and read her blog
Its seems my newfound friend has daddy issues,
An angry, large controlling kind of man.

I craft the letter on a school computer,
Filled with some innuendo, then sign the name
Of the one who plans to make us prey.

I hide across the street--make sure she's gone,
Then tape the note where daddy's sure to see
When coming home from work down at the precinct.

She didn't come to school again--too bad
I had some drawings I had thought to share,
But apparently her education's relocated,
To St. Teresa's Boarding School for Girls.

I checked out Gerry's web site the next week,
It now points to his latest Craiglist ad,
I see he wants to buy a blender cheap,
Seems he won't need solid food for quite some time.

Satan's Little Helper

'Twas two weeks before Xmas
And I made the mistake
Of choosing the mall
As a shortcut to take.

I'd forgotten the crush,
The stench of the crowd
And the holiday music
Played annoyingly loud.

Still, I must carry on,
Now the decision is made
'Nought to fear in these shops
Why should I be afraid?

Sure I'm thinner, I'm darker,
More nocturnal than most
But I'd chill with Jack Skellington
Or Scrooge's chain-rattlin' ghost.

I'm two-thirds of the way
Through the holiday madness
When a sight fills my heart
With some holiday gladness.

She was just a year older,
When I, a troubled sophomore,
Was sent by well-meaning others
Through the peer counseling door.

She attempted to "reach me"
Her advice was unheeded,
'Til one day she discovered
'Twas just friendship I needed.

Things then gradually got better,
And I thought she was great,
We'd share hopes and our dreams
On our weekly lunch date.

Still it felt like a dagger
When a boy she might mention,
See, she thought we were friends,
But I had other intentions.

Sadly my mentor was
Taken from me,
By repercussions arising
From unplanned pregnancy.

I suggested she end it--
"Go see Planned Parenthood",
But her Catholic parents,
Thought that wasn't so good.

So without one goodbye
Due to all of this drama
My friend suddenly vanished
To go live with her Grandma.

Now two years have passed,
Since she was torn from my side,
But here she's running toward me,
And she's clutching her side.

"Oh hi--it's Dythandra..."
She gasps out a name,
That others dismissed
As a silly girl's game.

I nod, she continues;
"Long time no see,"
I ask her what's wrong
But she suddenly flees.

I follow behind her
To the washroom--she's quick
There she spends the next minutes
Being violently sick.

While I'm trying to help her
I think to myself
Why is this poor sickly girl
Dressed up like an elf?

"Can you help me?" she moans
When the spasms have expired,
"If I go home on a Saturday,
I think I'll be fired."

She goes on to explain
'Bout her gainful employ
Taking photos of Santa
With young girls and young boys.

Had it been anyone else,
I'd have rejected the plea
But one look in those eyes
Simply mesmerized me.

I was troubled to remember
How I missed the warning
When two years before,
She'd get sick every morning.

And as if she could read,
My thoughts as they grew,
She looked up and assured me
"It's only the flu."

Then as if in a dream,
And in spite of myself
I was suddenly clad
In the garb of an elf.

The kids were excited,
Loud, rambunctious, elated
While St. Nick just sat there,
In a job that he hated.

"What should I ask for?"
So many they wonder,
And with the worst of intentions
I deliberately blunder.

"Try asking your father
To come straight home from work,
When he lives at the bar,
It just proves he's a jerk.

Or tell mommy to buy you
A new bike instead,
Of treatments that botox
The lines on her head.

Better yet, ditch this place
With its sentiments fake,
And spend holiday cash
Where a difference you'll make.

Some nice cosy blankets
Would surely be pleasing
For the folks who on cold
Downtown streets are found freezing.

Or send a donation
To those folks who try
To give the impoverished
A safe water supply."

Alarmed at my sentiments,
As I burst her kid's bubble,
One mom fetches the manager
To come give me trouble.

"Hey, you're the not the one
Where's the regular elf?"
Clearly he'd never hire
One so strange as myself.

"Leave that poor girl alone,"
A deep voice suddenly rumbles,
Santa stands up and a child
From his knee gently tumbles.

"Stay out of this Jack,"
He dismisses St. Nick,
His target is chosen
And he'll finish me quick.

"No I won't," Santa says
With a gleam in his eye,
"If you get rid of her,
Then I'm saying goodbye.

I've sat here quite meekly
And watched you destroy,
The true meaning of Christmas,
To sell a few toys."

The manager's ready
To shout at this Claus,
When he's stopped by the sound
Of bystanders' applause.

"Nevermind." Then he's gone
Santa gives me high five,
And goes back to his place
Now more strangely alive.

I'm thankful, though his good will
Might sorely be tested,
If he remembered last year
I nearly had him arrested.

I feel I've been weak,
And it's rather annoying
That I've given voice to thoughts
That I usually find cloying

Just don't get used to the change
That you've seen in myself,
It just must be that I'm dressed
Like a stupid store elf.

Or perhaps that a girl
Whom I once had been stalking
Just happened to be
In the mall I was walking.

My next poem won't be pathetic
It's just holiday timing,
I despise sentiment
And I really hate rhyming.

For Those Who Follow

I'd just as soon not bother,
As they pass the papers out.

There's a template, you see--
No more than 500 characters,
"Including spaces", we are warned.

I've met maybe a dozen "characters"
Among the denizens of this cesspool of bland conformity.

I am torn--I could just pass it by,
But knowing who is charged with creating the yearbook,
I fear allowing their spoof to be attached
To my picture forever.

Graviora manent
No doubt they'd look it up
And be disappointed
I wasn't threatening mayhem to all.

"Remember, this is your legacy"
A tight-lipped sponsor warns.
No doubt tired of the witticisms
Of nearly-men who think "American Pie" great cinema.

My legacy.
I doubt it.

It I have such, then it may be
A host of websites blocked by the school server.

Perhaps the less than legal herbs
Which poke through soil of the courtyard garden
When spring arrives.

There are always those few pieces of art
Which made the bulletin board,
Until the powers that be
Recognized their own faces
In the grimaces of the gargoyles.

Still, I may leave a darker mark,
There are five months left to go...

In Pursuit of Filthy Lucre

Your dad's bonus didn't come through
And money's going to be a little... tight.

I'd always thought myself above such...
Mundane concerns.

I'd sneered at their attempts to bribe me,
To change my wardrobe or my hair.
Blackmail's more my thing--they cave so easily.

This was different, though--they were... embarassed.
Twas not a total surprise--they'd been hinting for a while.

When I was your age, I had a job.

With that kind of early start,
You'd think you'd be further ahead

Money doesn't grow on trees, you know

Maybe not, but I've got some friends
Who grow it on smaller plants

When the cash flow ends, I get creative.
Mommy dearest's empties
Bring me enough cash
To keep black nail polish in supply.

Still, it's not enough
For even my meagre expenses
So I finally deign
To scan the "Help Wanted".

It's lucky--call it that if you must--
That the job market is such
That demand makes employers
Look past my fashion sense.

I try telemarketing first.
They don't see me; I don't see them.
Win-win for all.

That one lasts two weeks.
Seems that my prospective customers
Found my unsolicited pitches for carpet cleaning
A little sarcastic.

I feign surprise when my pimply supervisor
Confronts me about my claim that
"We suck more than any company in town".
We clean carpets--of course we suck
Or at least, I'd guess you do.

No resume construction there.

My next opportunity--the perfume counter
At the entrance to the deparment store.

Apparently some poor manager misread my look
As young, hip, "trendy'.
I suppose misanthropy does make the disdained
Try a little harder.

I was to wear the outfit--black skirt, white blouse
And the--I shudder--pastel apron.
Then spray samples on prospective customers
Who happened by.

They were no fun--"Ask permission" they warn.
I tried that
But too many glanced in my eyes,
Then, instincts trained from avoiding predators,
Through eons of evolution,
Warn them away.

Mothers clutch children,
One complains I'm spraying "witch water"
Another simply screams.

That dismissal was more fun.
They wouldn't look me in the eyes,
But I got two weeks severance.

Still, that money won't last forever,
And I've underground music and comics to buy.

Perhaps it's time to visit my friends at the tattoo parlour
And see if my fake ID
And love of skulls
Can start me down a real career path.

Plus how can the parentals complain?
Think of all the money
My staff discount will save...

My Loyal Listeners

Anyone can do it, they said
Down at the tattoo place.

Internet radio.

It caught my fancy,
As my love for solitude
Conflicts so with my need
To vent at foolish humanity.

Here is the best of both:
Alone in my room, yet
Telling the sheep
They have been measured, and found wanting.

Some simple software, and voilá
I'm live and on the air.

I play a few of my tamer tracks;
Queen Adreena, Libitina,
And lesser known sounds.

Between the music, I offer my wisdom
For anyone who might stop for a listen.

I suspect it's all make believe.

The next day I'm better prepared,
(Spent Literature class writing out
The content of my rant)

I skewer the powers that be--
Local and Global
And take a parting shot at my most recent adversaries:
The local mall's music store
Who've reduced the alternative and punk sections
To make way for a bright and cheery
Hannah Montana aisle.

I sign off with my chosen name
So few know it anyway.

The next day I'm surprised
Walking home through the mall
(Simply to avoid the rain)
A window boarded up

And there, scrawled on the wall
"Dythandra defies Disney,
Death to corporate sellouts"

This is an interesting development

I hurry home to my computer
There is further mayhem to be wrought.

Positions Wanted

Internet radio means late nights
And I, already so slow to rise,
Now wearied further
By late night verbal ministrations to my loyal audience.

Public school's near an end
For one such as myself
Yet here are hoops to jump through
And my apathy
Makes such gymnastics difficult.

The counselor looks up warily,
As I saunter in, sit indifferently, pop my gum
And meet her tense smile
With narrowed eyes.

So, (here she speaks my hated name)
It seems we have a problem with your... credits.
You're not in a position to graduate.
I glance at the computer screen she swivels my way.

Of course, if you pass your math class...
She and I both know that math,
Bane of my school life,
And oh so early in the morning
Is an insurmountable obstacle.

So, (she seems a little hesitant)
We need to see what we can do
To put you in a position to graduate.
She keeps repeating that phrase.

I murmur something about positions, too
Alluding to something more... tantric.
The color in her cheeks
Tells me she heard, but chooses to pretend.

She decides my last best hope
Is to saddle some poor teacher
With a less than enthusiastic assistant
It will provide the credit hours
That will free me from this place.

She runs down the options quickly,
Shakes her head at some,
Giggles at another--
I sigh and slump back in my chair.

Then a pause.
What do you know about computers?
Seems the nearly-retired computer teacher
So behind the technological times
Has lost his most able helper.

'Twas actually a North Korean,
And the passport was off a bit
In age as well.
The Homeland Security folks
Took our young foreign student away
When he tried to access missile command
From the school's computer network.

I grab the proffered life preserver
And head down to the tech lab
To get the papers signed.

Serendipity, it seems
When I arrive home that day
To discover our internet provider
Has warned we've reached our bandwith limit
My radio success has overwhelmed our allotment.

Now the school server
Will broadcast my wisdom
To my faithful fans

If only I trusted them enough
To share this delicious irony.

I could have coasted thus, content
To the end and then, escape.

But only three weeks later,
I'm called to account.
Seems one of my most loved record labels
Has tracked me down
And copyright lawyers are coming to visit.

My best battle is yet to come.

Waterloo Averted - A Ballad

My ‘net radio was scant weeks old
When their lawyers found it
"Intellectual property"
They’re chomping at the bit.

To “Dythandra” came the letter
Thanks to my ISP
My mother shook her head and sighed
And passed it on to me

A record label I had wronged
“Dovebludgeon”, the band’s name
They pretend to be all gothic,
But play the corporate game.

Some other bands were also named
The label’s ages old
Their lawyers want to meet with me
If they could be so bold.

Well, it’s just one lawyer, really
Paul Blentwick, LLB
He’ll be here in town next Wednesday
And plans to visit me.

There is one good thing in all this,
I try to keep my cool
They made their case before I moved
The server to my school.

Had that not been the case I fear,
The school board lawyer types
Would play this in the media
And there’d be lots of hype

But this ‘twere best done quietly
And I begin my plan
No school this week, I must prepare
To thwart this lawyer man.

The law library is step one,
Some case law I must check
Information is one thing
That might help save my neck

Then my old albums I peruse,
And find the one I seek
The line “Kill hated siblings all”
Might influence the weak.

From one more of this label’s bands,
When I was only ten
Sold at a concert I’d snuck in
“ ’01 Gothagedden”

Their booth tried to look so hardcore
Albums on a table
Conformity was not for them,
And no Advisory labels.

With case law and cd in hand,
There’s one thing more I seek,
Of all my plans and strategy
This part is the most weak

I’m glad when underneath my bed,
The weathered case I find
The evidence of when they thought
I’d truly lost my mind.

My parents moved me from our home,
A town I thought I loved
Suburban, bland conformity
Was where my soul was shoved

Back then I was in middle school
Precocious they all said
I made a little fairy tale
A brother who was dead.

I photoshopped some photographs
Faked a few news stories
Wrote one for Wikipedia
So sad and oh, so gory.

And then on show and tell one day
My classmates got to hear
I took a knife to brother’s room
And stabbed him in the ear

I held a picture up right then
Some kids began to weep
I said the psych ward for two years,
Was where I got to sleep.

And then they said that I was cured
“We’re starting fresh right here”
I looked, and all around the room,
Kids’ eyes were filled with fear

That was the first of many times
My mom and dad were told
I was a budding psychopath
It really does get old.

And now I’m glad I’ve kept these things,
And also glad to see
That Wikipedia hasn’t cut
The lies made up by me.

In fact, a Google search reveals,
There’s something slightly more
Than seventy assorted links
To my fictitious lore

I add a few facts here and there
To add meat to the tale
Use different ID’s to proclaim
What pushed me past the pale.

‘Twas gothic music dark and bad
That made this child go wrong
She cut up her little brother
Advised by a sick song.

When Wednesday comes, I’m fully clothed,
In scary, leather gear
I smile and introduce him to
The voices that I hear.

I arranged to have this meeting,
A little after lunch
Dad’s still at work; mom drinks upstairs
Her favorite “homemade punch”.

I ask Paul Blentwick, LLB
If there is any way
To meet the band whose instructions
I followed on that day.

I show him the collection of
The things I have prepared,
His voice no longer arrogant,
Starts shaking; he is scared.

He asks if he can step outside,
I nod, his wish is granted
And on his laptop, in his car
Finds evidence I planted.

I see him talking on his phone
A frantic call or two
Then back inside my living room,
Says “Here’s what we can do”.

The settlement was fine with me
Took what they had to give
I’m free to use their music for
As long as I shall live.

That night I tell my listeners
About my little scare
But have no fear; it’s over now
Dythandra’s on the air.