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A Martyr’s Plight [An Ode to Matthew Shepard] In early October one fateful night Destiny had left you beaten and tied;
Mckinney and Henderson took delight As you, Matthew Shepard, martyr, had died. Brain damage, fractures, death served to declare The attack heinous, based on preference. The murder, a hate crime, ruling unfair Gay bashing brought little court deference. The courts ruled against the legislation That would have termed gay bashings as hate crimes. Injustice prevailed within this nation, Many pray you guide us to better times. One day your influence shall serve to prove Such discrimination is worth reprove. Current Mood:  contemplative
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so effing angry! One of the teachers today (Saturday; no school) insulted me during the SAT prep session. i'm sooo indignant right now! SEVERELY need to vent. This is the incident which I will remember and relate Monday to Mr. K lol! but yeah. angry like you wouldn't believe! I finished entering my answers into the computer program early, like the first 20 minutes we got to the computer lab. So I asked Ms. ---- if I could leave early because I finished. She said I had to effin stay til 3:30. so another hour to kill. So yeah. the rest of the time, I did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING except talk to Akane because I didn't bring extra work and she didn't allow us to go onto other sites. So half an hour pass, 3 pm, and I notice a few people leave. So what do i do? I ask again. She says to me that she's been watching me not doing the work (which is untrue because I finished fucking EARLY) the whole time. and Akane and I were just like shell-shocked. Then I was like "here, I'll show you everything. I only got a few wrong and reworked it an hour ago..." and she was like "no you're lying! you're a liar!" I was slack-jawed from shock. Imagine it. I had the site out to show her it (because it documents the "tries" you have-- you're supposed to have one for the original test and one for the reworking-- and I said "no really, look. It shows that I did each section TWICE." and she was like "liar liar liar" and walked away. In front of the whole SAT prep room. I wasn't majorly embarassed, but I can imagine she was after the fact. Because I may have spoken back, but I felt I had a right to when my name was being slandered unjustly! I did do the work! And-- just think of it. A 30-something teacher calling a 16-year-old female a liar. for something that I explicitly said "if you come and look, this can solve this dispute fairly quickly" So she just walked away. And everyone was like whispering ooooh and i was half laughing because I was so righteously angry, but half confused at the events that traspired. Because it was simply BULLSHIT. 1) I am not a liar. at least not in that case. 2) I think I handled the situation like any indignant debating teen would do-- I debated-- or more like justly argued-- with her. 3) I did NOT call her any names. What a hypocrite! I used to have her for Q period-- and you know what? She used to give lectures about school conduct. No namecalling! (rolls eyes) Most teachers are heavenly. Thank heavens mine were always reasonable. But some are plainly... not interested in teaching and therefore take it out on students. Except for those who suck up to them (ahem L*****a). Thank heavens we switched from Qperiod to HOMEROOM. because my HOMEROOM teacher ROCKS. okay rant done. Current Mood:  indignant
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Flangst Speech!
AD 2006-2007
The nurse entered the room, an apologetic look painted across her delicate features as she quietly recorded the conditions of the comatose patient, one of those that had been there for a prolonged period of time, studiously avoiding the eyes of the patient’s companion and the interlaced hands of the patient and his lover as he remained by his side, his adamant gaze unwavering from the patient’s face even as she took down the vitals. She did not comment, only shaking her head softly as she quietly closed the door, hearing the latch click closed only to be followed by the soft words of the conscious man beyond that door speaking to one whom has already been medically labeled dead, pleading with heartfelt sentiments, whispering terms of endearment into the shell of the patient’s ear, and recounting the day’s events, as per usual since the first day of the patient’s arrival to the ward for incurable conditions. She did not cry for the patient—but for the lover, remaining by his love’s side throughout the whole ordeal, disregarding all diagnoses by accredited professionals that claimed that his lover would never recover—she cried for the man that sacrificed nearly 4 years of his life thus far, merely waiting for the return of a love long gone. She cried for this was the week that she knew would change that man’s life irrevocably—the comatose patient had stated, long ago to his significant other, that after witnessing the trials concerning euthanasia, if he were to ever be in such a state, that after four years, the proverbial and literal plug would be pulled. Four years will have gone by that Sunday. That was the day that the lover had told the doctors to cease the machines that were aiding his lover’s life beyond death. In two more days, it would all be over. The nurse was unable to sleep over those two days, only succumbing to the darkness through the aid of her tears.
The next day fared no better for the star-crossed lovers—as it was filled both with heartfelt moments that the nurse felt she had no right to witness, as well as the preparation for Sunday, when the comatose patient would finally be able to leave his shell of a body, finally being allowed release from the agony of living a half-life. His lover remained by his side throughout it all—still never letting his eyes leave the face of his lover, still never allowing his lover’s fingers to slip out of his own. Today was the day when all apologies were made—the ones from the lover spilling out, like they had so many times before, apologizing for not caring, for being unfaithful, for inadvertently leading to the accident that will force them apart; and the ones that could be seen by any watching—the ones that were from the patient himself, though medically dead, still conveying so many messages through facial contortions and body language. It was almost as if the patient was attempting to apologize for having to abandon his lover during such an emotional time. One day remained. All hope was lost. Finally, as the clock struck midnight, the lover released the hand that he has held for so long, as he drifted off into the dark abyss of sleep.
The plug was pulled. The clock chimed 12 times to signify the end of Sunday—the end of 4 years of waiting for a reunion that was ill-fated. The flat-lining signaled the end of a love that was meant to last nearly forever. He was dead. His lover stared dispassionately, placing on a brave facade as no more tears were able to cascade down his cheeks after the many that have fallen throughout the years. Inside, he was breaking, resolving to kill himself once he left the comfort of the stark hospital room that he dubbed home for the past few years. Watching as the nurses and doctors recorded the data, time of death, and other pertinent information, then as they were wrapping his body to place him in the mortuary, he was unable to control himself as he threw his body over his lover’s, half covering his torso, as sobs wracked his chest—as tears he was unable to shed welled within his heart—as his fingers reached out blindly for his lover’s, searching with clenched eyes to interlace them together.
The doctors and nurses remained where they were, awkwardly turning away to allow a few moments of privacy for the lover to mourn. They quickly turned back around when they heard a raspy throat ask for water.
The patient had awoken. It was a miracle—they all thought, while watching the patient calmly stroke the hair of his hysterical lover. It truly was a miracle—hope had prevailed. Against all scientific evidence and all the diagnoses, it seems like God had answered the pleas of the mortals this once—that a couple was allowed happiness despite their past transgressions and sins. A miracle.
This is a remarkable soap-opera-ish example of what many refer to as flangst. One may wonder, what, precisely is flangst? Urban dictionaries, which essentially are informal databases filled with idioms and jargon created in the vernacular language, describe flangst as a combination word—of fluff and angst. Flangst is, like my anecdote, any fictional account of events that makes the reader suffer and worry before treating the wounds created with heavy dosages of fluff—acting as the resolution to the angst-filled, dramatic issues of the characters. Often, flangst incorporates elements of character death followed by what fanfiction writers term “WAFF”—or warm and fluffy feelings. Flangst is like a balm for the soul, making one cry uncontrollably, if written brilliantly enough, before making the reader feel immensely relieved and/or joyous by the end of the tale.
The moral of this bit of flangst was simply that miracles are able to occur if we have enough faith.
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Narrative Suicide Speech
Academic Decathlon
Cold. That’s how I would describe days like today—as I somberly walk down the street, awaiting the cold to chill me to the bone before I return to the quasi-safety of my home, plastering yet another warm smile upon my face before I greet my friends and loved ones, tiredly thinking to myself, “You must smile for them, because this could be the last time…”
The last time... Of what? Of seeing my friends? Of going into the comfort of the warm living room? Perhaps so. Or perhaps it is the last time that I choose to live through this perpetual routine filled with pseudo-emotions… the last time I force a smile for the sake of my friends and family, the last time I breathe in the thick air to sustain me for a while longer.
But then… every time I begin to think these thoughts, the fear overwhelms me—so much so that it overrides my suffering, forcing me to continue living as a person labeled medically alive, yet feeling so emotionally dead, as if my soul was already removed from my body long ago. It hurts. Deep down, I can feel the remnants of my being, of my eternal soul, or whatever is left of it, not only splitting, but… it’s almost as if the shards have rubbed against each other abrasively, like two stones competing for the same position in a pond until they ultimately wear away to nothing. I feel like that sometimes. It’s hard to express… but it’s like those rocks I described are my emotions, warring for dominance in my troubled mind. Except it’s so much more complicated than merely two rocks—this is my life. This is what I must go through each and every day. Instead of those two rocks, there are many in their place, still competing for that particular spot in the forefront of my mind that I listen to—the area in my brain that dictates the when, the where, the whys, and the hows.
I suppose I should start from the beginning, as this is the first day of my journal. Yes, hello journal, my name is Julienne. And this is my life.
This is so unbearably lame. I cannot believe those crocks at the infirmary at the academy, who I have made swear to secrecy the thoughts that I divulged to them, forced me to create a journal—I’m only doing this, recording these petty thoughts, so that my “horrid secret” will remain just that—a secret. But, I wonder, who will this journal benefit? Future “troubled youths” such as myself? I hate when they label me. When they categorize me, or young adults who feel similarly yet so vastly different, under one category—the one where they talk amongst each other, referring to us not by name, but by that infuriating label. I am not a troubled youth. I am Julienne, student at Marshall Academy, voted Most Congenial three years running.
Now, journal, I am sighing against the page. This is so tedious. I have been living a lie for the past I don’t even recall how many years. I’m not Most Congenial—but far from that. I’m cynical, pessimistic, untrusting of those that believe they have my faith. Why? Since I’m supposedly “telling all”—I guess it would not hurt to divulge one more minute secret, as no one is going to read this journal entry anyway. When I was a bit younger, I was raped after I witnessed the brutal murder of my best friend who I wanted so desperately, at the time, to be my lifelong companion. How can I not be cynical of the nature of human beings after that? I haven’t told anyone yet. The guilt about not speaking up when I had the chance—shrinking away in fear due to unwarranted death threats upon me should I tell anyone—has been eating away at me, even more so than the pain and agony of reliving the rape on a nightly basis. And yet I smile, living on for a bit longer, just to keep my loved ones, the ones still alive, happy. Because that’s all I can do now. I’m no longer living for myself, but for them.
I think this is enough. I want to cross out the words, thinking that perhaps furiously blotting them out will make the events disappear, but I know it’s useless. What’s happened is done, and cannot be changed. Therefore, it is the actions that I do in the future that define me. That is why I cannot choose to be selfish and do away with my life. Those crocks can question me all they want, but I know I won’t do it. I’m not strong enough to do it. I think about it though, but looking at the people that I’d affect if I did go through with it… I always seem to reconsider.
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New York, New York—Tuesday, January 2nd, 1990.
The ex convict, prisoner number 44050479, recently has been released from prison only to meet his maker shortly thereafter. The details of his murder are currently classified—the case still unsolved. NYPD precinct 13—New York’s Special Victims’ Unit—have not yet made a statement concerning the possible suspects. However, a few are suspected of committing this heinous crime—slashing his body into pieces to only let him bleed to death in the cold climate of winter. Any information regarding his whereabouts that night are greatly appreciated—anyone with knowledge of his company on New Year’s Eve should contact the local precinct to help bring justice to what was believed to be a hate crime.
His family is still grieving their loss.
His clandestine lover, who wishes to remain anonymous at this time, brought forth a series of letters that he believes prisoner number 44050479 would have liked published in the event of his death.
January 1st, 1984
Hello, Philippe. Life is going as per usual—another day spent in the cell, watching the dried moss around me slowly wither away and die. It’s been what—five days since I’ve been placed in this penitentiary?—I believe I am slowly going insane. Another 15 years, but it shall be worth it once I am a free man again, and am able to be reunited with you.
I know I have not been able to speak to you since the trial, love, and even afterwards, I was still unable to contact you. I just want to say, before I forget or the guards take me away, that I miss you every day very much and hope that you shall visit me or even merely write back. The only consolation while living in this prison is that I no longer have to live a heterosexual lie with Anya—instead able to bask in the feelings of love and affection I feel for you without any conscience.
Another 10 years, minus 5 days now that those days have passed, until we are together again. I only hope you will wait that long for me, for I shall be thinking of you daily—when the sun rises and descends, when I first wake up and go to sleep, you shall be on my mind always. Don’t do anything brash, I am fine here. I’d rather have me be here than—
Must go now. They’re here to take me.
January 1st, 1986
It’s been so long since you’ve written to me, darling. I still miss you so unbearably much that the only thing keeping me alive is the thought that in perhaps another 8 years, if I can get on parole earlier for good behavior, we shall be together. The last letter I’ve written to you was about 4 months ago—and I have stopped just because I’m worrying whether or not this letter arrives to you safely, seeing as this is the 8th one unreplied to consecutively. Are you faring well, dear? Philippe, you are my life, and even while staying in this place, going through the agony of being apart from you, I am able to wait. I will send another letter, the last this year, in a couple of months, should this go unreplied as well.
Love you, darling.
You’re doting partner,
Charles.
January 1st, 1988
Another two years have passed, Philippe. Have you aged much? I feel like I’ve aged another 10 years every hour I remain in this place. I realize that your replies are to be unexpected at this point; however, there is some strange comfort that I get just from writing to you, whether you read this or not. It keeps me sane during the afternoons of monotony.
I wish you’d visit me. Just once shall suffice, and that fleeting moment when I hear your voice once again shall be enough for me to go through the remainder of my years here.
Please reply if you receive this message, for I think I may very well love you.
Odd to say now, of all times and places, but this prison gives me a strange sense of foreboding, so strong that it temporarily overrides my stubbornness to not say that one phrase that I knew meant so much to you.
So I’m saying it now, begging you to write back. Because I do not believe I can live without you.
I miss you and feel my tears slide down my cheeks whenever I think of you and your heart-warming smile— maybe in another couple years. Wait for me, please.
Charles.
January 1st, 1990
Philippe, how I miss you so. It’s been exactly 6 years to this day since I’ve been locked up in this place. How I have not killed myself without your presence is astonishing in itself.
I think I am getting used to living without the freedom; things aren’t as bad as they seem actually. No. That is a lie. Living here has been a nightmare since day 1. But with only a few more hours until I am released, I feel safe enough now to tell you what has really been going on. When I first arrived, I was treated with disdain, spit upon at every opportunity that the other inmates had to degrade me just a little bit more for being a bit different from them—for being gay. The rest of the week passed by relatively normally—I even made a friend, Justin, whom I have gotten to know very well during my stay here—but the second week, things took a turn for the worst. While I was in the shower, a couple of the brutes decided to “have a little fun”—well, their idea of fun anyway. I’m pretty sure you can guess what happened.
I don’t really like talking about it because… no one here listens to me—aside from Justin, but perhaps that’s just because he feels guilty. You see, he was the new homosexual inmate before I arrived, also molested and raped on a nightly basis (or as often as he showered), and when I got there, I was the new target. But at least I had someone to talk to, especially after you stopped replying to my letters.
I have lost hope that you would reply years ago, but had thought that perhaps if I wrote often enough, one letter would arrive here, marked for me, and that would have been enough.
At first, I was angry at you for not writing to me, or even visiting. But then I realized why you may have stayed away. It was not your fault. I should have broke things off with Anya decades ago before things progressed too far between us—before our platonic friendship turned into something with such strong emotional ties that ultimately led to her demise. I don’t feel any sorrow for taking the fall for you though. I love you, and I was and am willing to go to prison for you to remain free. You may have murdered her, but I killed you the first time you told me the extent of your emotions, and then left without a word.
Five more hours until I am gone. Will you wait for me?
I’ll wait for you always.
Charles.
Charles Montgomery’s body was found mutilated on the front porch of his lover earlier this morning, supposedly there to wait for his lover. Shortly after, these letters were submitted in hopes of appealing to you, the people, to help solve this crime. Sadly, his lover, after showing the police the tear-stained letters, seized a hand gun that one of the police officers were carrying, and shot himself, point-blank. The tragic end to the love triangle between three friends, two of whom shall be reunited in death as they were in life.
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