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He wasn’t a best friend. He wasn’t even a good friend. In fact, we were in that awkward stage between “acquaintance” and “friend.” We had fizz ed together. The unit was rock climbing, and we always partnered up together with Emiley. It was a perfectly normal day, he didn’t show any of the “usual signs.” They say it was her fault, but I was there…I’ve been there…and I don’t buy it.

He was such a great guy, and I couldn’t wait to see him tomorrow. He was going to bring in his hackey sack so we could play. I found out that night, it was all over MySpace and the phones. I couldn’t believe it. For the longest time, I didn’t. It was too nightmarish. The expectation was there – he would show up, he always did. This was just a sick joke someone was playing, that’s all.

Some would say I was numb. In a way, I was. That was the only way I could cope, at the time. It was a state of numb disbelief, followed by pain and tears, in turn replaced once again with the numb detachment of unfeeling loss.

He always had a smile to offer, or a funny story to tell about what he or one of his friends had done. Sometimes, I still don’t believe he’s never coming back. I’ll never hear his voice, his laugh, ever again. I won’t get the chance to ask him to teach me how to hack better, or to work up the nerve to find out if he likes me. Many times, I just wonder what happened, what he was thinking about or feeling. Why he abandoned us here, just left so quickly without saying goodbye.

If he’s around somewhere, as a spirit or a ghost, I wonder, does he regret it? Would he have done something differently? Would he have stayed around a while longer? I’m not sure I’ll ever fully get over Erik killing himself; I don’t know that anyone will. It’s just unfortunate, I suppose, that I have no way of going back in time and finding a way for him to feel wanted, needed. I guess it is true, after all, what they say: tomorrow never comes.



© October Ravyn 2007

In the eight seconds before her finger pulled the trigger, a million thoughts ran through her head. She breathed in fourteen times and out thirteen. The faces of every person who had ever teased, bullied, harassed, reaped, molested or threatened her flashed into her mind’s eye. During those eight seconds, she relived every bad moment of her life, during many of which she wished she didn’t exist. In the ninth second, the final second before the cold, hard bullet entered her brain, she thought of her love. And in that one, final second before her finger pulled the trigger, a single tear rolled down her face and dropped onto the barrel of the gun. That last second, her final thought was his face, a glossy photograph, just before they laid his lovely ashes into the unforgiving earth. She pulled her trigger, just like him.



© October Ravyn 2007

Alfred Lord Tennyson once said, “I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.” I know exactly what he meas. To keep your mind, your body, your entire self so busy that you don’t have time to feel. Life is easier this way; after all, the time I feel most hopeless is at night, while I am waiting to escape into the haven of my dreams, or lack thereof. It is an overwhelming sensation. Nearly unbearable, in fact. Yet somehow I am able to numb myself to the point of nonfeeling. The mask I wear is a façade, my very own smile, molded and exact. A defense. A wall, between the outside world and my cold numbness inside.



© October Ravyn 2007

Living a nightmare. Filled completely with despair. Did it ever really happen? Was I just dreaming something up? Perhaps my sanity is not as I thought. Perhaps it is not there. Does this, then, make me insane? This sense of dread which causes my breath to catch in my throat, my heart to beat faster, my voice to fail me? Now I am overcome with a trapped, hopeless fear. She needs me, but I cannot; I cannot, I cannot, I am not strong enough! Did I make this up? Was it truly his fault or was it mine? What will people think, say, do? The stares, the accusing fingers, the whispers…I cannot, I cannot, I cannot. Yet I feel as though I must… This is what it must mean, to be insane. Completely, irrevocably insane.



© October Ravyn 2007

Fear has many faces, voices, shapes, sounds. Twisted grimaces or panicked tears, wide eyes and gaping mouths. Embodied in certain people, places, things, actions, thoughts or feelings. It is an ugly, beautiful broken face which fear wears, most often followed by a mask of serenity or happiness or some state of normalcy. A façade of a peaceful, collected figure. Happy and pure, carefree on the outside but tumultuous and confused, chaotically despairing within. As a serene sheet of ice covering the rushing river in winter, or a light frost upon the glass obscuring a blizzard, this mask camouflages the trepidation and alarm one feels.

The physicality of fear is iffy, only glimpsed for moments at best. A gut-wrenching lurch; short, pained gasps and panicky, faltering steps. Wild darting eyes. Death is fear. Life is fear. Love and hate are fear. Fear what you do not understand; hate what you cannot comprehend. Caused by danger, helplessness or some random, meaningless thought or sense, fear can overwhelm even the strongest person. Brave or cowardly, black or white, strong or weak; it does not matter. Fear is dispassionate in selecting its victims, and can contort even the most beautiful face into a hideously distorted mass of flesh.

Fear takes on all forms. Be it painful or pleasing, logical or nonsensical, if it exists then also exists a fear of it. Some would call fear a bad, menacing thing; others would call it a tool. According to the dictionary, fear is a reverential awe, or a specific instance of or propensity for such a feeling. The psychological aspects are incredible and mystifying, confounding even the worlds most intelligent minds. Emotions in all are an essence, an incomprehensible it, an intangibly elusive sensation which we cannot identify. Therefore, it is the unknown. In order to feel fright, you must feel the unknown. In order to feel the unknown, you must be afraid. So, when you are scared, you are closer than ever to that which humans will likely never be able to completely define and categorize.

The sources of this unknown, this terror, are many and widespread. Knowledge, history, experience, misconceptions. Fear is caused by everything; fear is caused by nothing. Brought about by a sudden adrenaline rush, a surge of oxygen to the brain. Sometimes this dread is avoidable, other times it is completely mentally overwhelming and physically vacillating. A conundrum of the utmost perplexity, emotions, particularly fear, are entirely, frustratingly enigmatic. Unstoppable and uncontrollable, unable to be simply reigned in or fended off. Completely unaccommodating yet entirely advantageous, a common factor in daily events. Fear is.



© October Ravyn 2007

Your hand is shaking. Did you know that? Can you feel the tiny tremors as you move your pen accross the page? Ink flows, red as blood, from the tip. I can't take my eyes off your creation. Somehow, everything about you mesmerizes me. I think I could just sit and look at you for hours. Your little drawing caught my attention, but now my eyes move to your hand. Your fingers, holding the pen. On, up your black-sweatshirt clad arm, to grazing your neck, resting upon your face. You really do have a striking face. Curly blonde hair, amazing blue eyes. A scratch, not quite healed yet, above your lip, from that fight last week. Then you speak; I must admit, your voice delights me. It's deep, and I love listening to it. Perhaps I sound creepy, or stalkerish, but I don't care; it's true. Your head is turning, what are you looking at? Me? Of course I'll read your poem. Let me hide these words from your blue, blue eyes first. I'll set down my pen, and pay attention to you.



© October Ravyn 2007