Thursday, May 31, 2012

Luka Rocco Magnotta wanted

Male model and bisexual porn star Luka Magnotta.

When a suspicious package arrived at Conservative Party headquarters on Tuesday, Jenni Byrne, the party’s political director, took it upon herself to open it. The foot was inside, and there was a terrible smell, which was profoundly disturbing for everyone.

Byrne called the police, who came and took the package. Journalists soon made the link to a maggoty torso that was discovered in a suitcase in a garbage pile in Montreal.

Police traced the bar code on the package, and discovered a second package at a postal sorting station in Ottawa, containing a left hand, that was bound for the Liberal Party of Canada’s headquarters, just a few blocks from the Conservative Party.

By Wednesday afternoon, Montreal police had found an incredibly gory scene in a blood-soaked Montreal apartment and were able to put out a Canada-wide warrant for Luka Magnotta, a former gay porn performer who was born in Scarborough, Ont., in 1982 with the name Eric Clinton Newman.

Magnotta is alleged — by animal lovers who tracked him in a Facebook group — to have previously posted four videos of himself torturing and killing kittens. Killing animals is often a first step for serial killers before they turn to people.

He appears to have posted on Friday what looks like a horrible video of a man murdering, sexually assaulting and dismembering a young man. Police have not confirmed that it’s the victim in question. I don’t advise you to watch the video.

Internet amateur detectives who enjoy looking at gory videos and commenting on them tentatively identified him as the same guy who killed the kittens.

Apparently, he is a former friend of convicted serial killer Karla Homolka, who has been free from prison since 2005, in spite of her conviction in connection with the murders of three teenage girls, including her sister, in the 1990s.

Unlike Homolka’s husband and partner in crime, Paul Bernardo, who didn’t want to be discovered, the perpetrator in this case appears to be motivated by a desire for attention, which he is now receiving from a rapt media.

By mailing body parts to political parties, the suspect guaranteed that he would be the focus of intense media interest in Canada and around the world.

Like Anders Behring Breivik, the Norwegian psycho who killed 77 people in a publicity-seeking killing spree, this killer wants us to pay attention to him. And we don’t really have any choice, do we?

We are fascinated by serial killers. From Jack the Ripper to Russell Williams, stories about pleasure killers strikes a chord in us, because they touch on our powerful unconscious fear of death and the darkest corners of the human mind.

Magnotta has left a wide trail on the Internet, drawing attention to himself however he could.
He did a mawkish interview with the Toronto Sun in 2007, complaining that he had been unfairly linked to Homolka.

In 2009, he wrote a blog post on how to erase your traces and disappear completely, which suggests, creepily enough, it might not be easy for the police to find him.
In December of 2010, he appears to have posted his first (really, really horrible) kitten video, followed by another one a year later.

In March of this year, he appears to have launched a blog, entitled Necrophiliac Serial Killer Luka Magnotta, in which he confesses to a sexual desire for corpses.

“I don’t see myself as some creepy pervert,” he wrote. “I’m just somebody who has feelings, real feelings, for dead men.”

From the glamour shots he used to spread about to his macabre blog from this spring, you can trace his electronic footprints.

I don’t think we benefit from paying close attention to people like Magnotta, Bernardo and Williams. I don’t think they tell us much about the human condition, but we can’t look away.

Luka Magnotta wanted our attention. I wish we could turn away, and not reward him by giving him what he wants, but we won’t.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

A vet visit from Hell!

Aaaww isn't this fawking cute or what? My furball Desi is allowing my pet hamster who by the way is named Mooshie to sit on him, crawl on him and do whatever the hell the l'il rodent wants tah do. Don't laugh at the names. I even have a budgie named Cookie :snickering:

THAT was till tonight. I've now named my furball Cugo. I'll shed some light on that particular reason. Said furball contract a slight infection in his ear. Needless to say I had to take him to the vet. I'm still sweating bullets and my blood pressure has sky rocketed beyond the normal levels. 

Said cute l'il furball made the cats in the flick Pet Cemetery look like a walk in the fawking park :swiping away the sweat:  HE went from being my cute, furry cuddling sleep on my feet in the bed puss to the most vicious feline I've ever experienced in my entire life. He turned on everyone. The Vet, her aid and even had me backed into a corner saying my prayers to any animal god that would listen to PLEASE tell my puss I wasn't there to harm him, but to make him better. Wish I could've spoken cat lingo. It required the two of THEM cause I sure as fawk wasn't going near my ever so sweet puss to throw 4 large towels over him and muzzle him to check inside one small ear cavity for infection. Low and behold the infection did exist and knowing I wasn't getting near CUGO with antibiotics she gave him a shot in the arse. All my begging, my pleas to sedate my little furball :jumping: who just now walked between my legs to go under my desk and made my jump two feet off the chair, went unheard. 

Maybe I should email Spielberg and say hey man, I have just the cat for Pet Cemetery 3 IF you're interested!  

I let him fester in his carrier for a half hour like the vet suggested before letting him out. All the while with my stomach in my throat, shitting bricks when I finally did open his door to let him out. Fear set it of him attacking me. Dropping some treats and dashing from the room, must have stopped him from any notions of wanting to attack me and I'm sure he's still thinking that if he could talk how he'd call me every name in the book and throw it at me for what I put him through. 

:sighs: My poor furball. Now I need to bring my heart rate down.

Laterz Folks!

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Books by Terry Trueman

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The back of the book says "An intense reading experience"

That folks is an understatement.

You anxiety will reach a crescendo, an all time high and pluck at your emotions like strumming guitar strings. Emotionally I was thoroughly drained by the end of it, but this story, so detailed about what Shawn might be thinking or feeling while locked inside a bottom he has no control over is incredibly vivid. Heart warming at times and utterly heartbreaking at others.

The author brings to light a whole new world and makes your imagination soar incredibly. The story will have you seeing differently, think differently when coming across someone with C.P. I know I will see, sit and wonder if there's perhaps truth to what Terry has written.

It's written perfection in the life of 14 year old Shawn McDaniel.

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book follows 'Stuck in Neutral'

It's Paul's story. Shawn's brother.

He has anger issues, but who can really blame him. The story is told in his POV and you'll get to read how having a brother like Shawn has taken his toll on him. I can't say I understand it, but who can unless you're in that exact situation in which I am not. But what Paul has to tell you in the author's words makes you listen and want to stand up and say: I hear you. It is clear in this book that Paul really loves his brother and he admits to something really painful that he's been holding inside him that he finally lets known.

Another one I've enjoyed by Terry Trueman and I know for fact there's a third book to this set and I'm anticipating its release. To say I'm overly anxious for it is an understatement. That's because of the way the 2 books were left ending. 

Here's the third installment to the short series if you're interested in checking them out. The release date is August 21, 2012

Stuck in Neutral, a Printz Honor Book, introduced the world to Shawn McDaniel, a fourteen-year-old kid with cerebral palsy. But what happens next?

Shawn's got a new perspective on life. But no one has a clue. That's because they can see only his wheelchair, his limp body, his drool. What they don't see? His brain, with perfect auditory memory. And his heart, which is in love with a girl. And his fierce belief that someday someone will realize there's way more to him than his appearance.

How do you connect with others when you can't talk, walk, or even wave hello? In the sequel to Stuck in Neutral, which ALA Booklist called "an intense reading experience," Shawn McDaniel discovers a new definition of "normal" and finds that life happens next for everyone.

You can find these books on Goodreads at:

Saturday, May 26, 2012

May 2012

     Alright everyone, here is a quick baby update. I have been put on walking restrictions by the doc. Reason is the pressure is building up and if I walk to far then I end up feeling like I'm in labor. Only prob is that is I want this little one out NOW...But realistically it isn't going happen until the munchkin is ready to come. We still don't know what the baby is yet. Although my Wolf thinks he knows already. He's still trying to be funny about having twins or trips or quads or whatever the next time around. I keep telling him that it isn't going to happen and that he's going to get nutured lol...On that subject he tells me it isn't going to happen BUT we will see who wins out on that subject ;) *smiles wickedly* More on the baby updates when poss...Love you all whole heartedly *hugs everyone* Try to stay as cool as poss :)

Monday, May 14, 2012

C'est La Vie!

Souls of Fallen Angels
You're probably wondering about this picture I placed into this blog post above and I'll get to that in a moment.

My last post I wrote? It was noted that I had written something quite lengthy and I went back and deleted it, leaving just the picture in its wake. I apologize, but after I posted that blog I thought to myself: Who really cares? Who gives a shit whether I'm having a good day or a bad one. Who gives a shit what's going on with me and mine in my personal life. 

After group which I attend every Monday night where I've connected with other people I had a revelation in thinking why did I delete what I'd written. We create a blog in order to express ourselves and people can chose to read or not to read it and getting shite of your chest by putting it into words is supposed to be therapeutic. 

I'm going to take my own advise and makeup for what I'd written and took down and just talk. Put my words into and out my fingers. 

It's been 8 months and I've had no urge to want cut, damage myself and the suicidal tendencies which had plagued me are no longer. Sure I still think on it and I have to ask myself: What the fawk was I thinking? Everybody kept telling me about how much I had to love for, but I wasn't coherent enough at the time to listen and everything was my way or no way. 

These last few weeks have been the ultimate trial in my emotions and thought patterns. They're all over the chart and I want to yell out to anyone who will listen: Can you give me a dayum map, show me where I am and get me onto the road that'll lead me in the right direction. Is it at all possible? What's got me in an emotional state of confusion you might ask. When I finally got my appointment in with the nephrologist and sat in the office while he reviewed my files and latest test results I was stunned to being mute when he came out and told me my kidneys were functioning at only 55% capacity. I could hear my own voice screaming inside my head in at first with anger that my family Doc lied when he told me they're functioning at 70%. Asking myself WHY would he do that? That scream settled to a groan and how bad this was turning out and then to a whimper that this isn't fawking good. Not at all. Having my sis with me, sitting next to me in the office saved me from telling ONE family member, but I still had my 'rents to contend with. 

Now the series of tests start. I've had all the blood and urine work done. Same day I had seen the Nephrologist cause he wanted to get that going. Last week I had the ultrasound done and lastly after my trip to Denver in June I'm booked into this hospital to have scans and a MRI done. When ALL is said and done it'll be back to the specialist for the results and take it from there.

I will NOT let this get to me cause thinking about these things can make you bat shit crazy at the best of times so just imagine the worst of times. I think that if you had to deal with constant burning in your chest because your kidneys are releasing toxins into your body which cause this, all your joints hurt to the point that touching your skin hurts, feels bruised under the pores, swollen ankles and feet caused by high blood pressure that's being dealt with, with a high dose of high BP meds and feeling ashamed because you need a walking cane get to get around and are three shades of red embarrassed by it... the rest is a walk in the park. I think.  I've even taken to having naps during the day on weekends. The energy level is massively low. Thinking and writing this is already taxing. It'll be awhile before I post again.

I don't believe there are any words of advice that can be given to make me 'feel' better. Nothing can be said to lessen the anxiety that courses through me with all this bullshit deck of cards that's been dealt to me. Such is life right? Que sera sera, whatever will be will be. 

I can confirm that my lifelong battle with my blood disorder and high blood pressure are the cause of my kidney disease, but the extent of the damage remains unknown. For now. 

Did I tell you how you think there's no one who gives a shit till something like this strikes. My sis let the cat out of the bag while speaking to relatives. Next thing I know all these relatives are coming out of the woodwork to say they'll test to see if they're compatible should I need a kidney. :snorts: I ask if it's cause they really care or if they're trying to perform some heroic feat to say: You will live because of my kidney. Whatever.

I'll end this post with thanking Raiden for posting. It was quite the post :whistling low: Angel, for posting as well and a few words to my angel girl: I'm looking forward to when you bring your little one into this world. What's the chance of he or she named after me? Yeah know, Demon has a nice ring to it :snickering:

Almost forgot! The picture above? Represents our struggle between good and evil, the dark and the light. Life or death. I'm in between. Where are you?

Have a good night and take care.

Over and out.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

May 2012

     Hey everyone, Sorry that I haven't been more lately...But you all know how it is when you are dealing with Docs and apps and a lousy connection. Well here is some info on our little pup. The baby's heart is fine which was my main concern. Had the Fetal MRI done and the results were abnormal. But no matter what happens this little one is going to be so loved that he or she won't know what to do about it :). Now come to find out the clinic where we have the ultrasounds done at want to use me for a human guinea pig and run more tests on my and the little one. But my Wolf told them in no uncertain terms that there will be no more tests on us and that I don't need to be stressed out over the possibilities which is very true. Because the more stressed I get the more stressed he gets and the more upset he gets also. Baby's heartbeat is 150 and normal. The clinic had me talking to a counselor which actually helped me. I hadn't realized that I was under so much stress due to the fact that I don't have no contact with my daughters and everything else. Yeah, I do miss my girls more than I thought but I am slowly finding out bits and pieces of info from my family about the 'living hell' that they are in. IF I could go back and undo what I did believe me I would and they would be home where they belong. Now all I can do is help get them out of the mess that they are living in because of me. I love you all *xxxxxxx everyone*. I am still writing so don't worry I will try to get the stories that I have completed posted up soon :) Writing right now is about the only thing that does keep sane and helps me to work out my rampant emotions anymore. Hopefully my emotions will start to settle back down again. BUT if I know my Wolf he's already informed me that well....we'll be back in the family way again *giggles* or that I will be in trouble after the 6 weeks is up *giggles*

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

'Daddy!,' homeless man cries as cops fatally beat him


What is the world coming to? Is there any good left. Makes you wonder if it's worth living. 

I saw this on the news today while reading my book. This heartless act sickens me and I cried for the helpless victim who this happened to. In my opinion I hope the 2 cops fry. This is one story I will follow and I hope justice is served. You expect the 'police' to be those that protect you, but who really feels that protection when something like this occurs. This video I'm posting has HIGHLY sensitive material that is an ALERT if you chose to watch it. 

(CNN) -- A graphic video played at a hearing Monday to determine whether two California police officers should stand trial in the beating death of a homeless man showed them kicking and punching the mentally ill man as he lay on the ground -- screaming in pain and begging for help.

The victim, Kelly Thomas, died five days after the beating on July 5.

Manuel Ramos, a 10-year veteran of the Fullerton, California, police department, is charged with second-degree murder and involuntary manslaughter, while Cpl. Jay Patrick Cicinelli faces charges of involuntary manslaughter and felony use of excessive force in the same case.

Both have pleaded not guilty.

The black-and-white video was played during a preliminary hearing for the two officers.
It begins with Thomas -- a 37-year-old homeless man with schizophrenia -- sitting and being told by Ramos to put his feet out and hands on his knees.

The officers were responding to a call about a homeless man looking into car windows and pulling on handles of parked cars.

In the video, Thomas is slow to cooperate.

Ramos then tells him: "You see my fists? They're getting ready to f--- you up."

Thomas, who is unarmed and shirtless, stands and another officer walks over. They hit him with their batons and hold him on the ground as he begs for help.

"Ok, I'm sorry, dude. I'm sorry!" he screams. At one point, Thomas says he can't breathe. The officers tell him to lie on his stomach, put his hands behind his back and relax.

"Ok, here, here, dude, please!" he says.

Other officers arrive.

At times, trees block the view of the camera and it's not always clear who is doing what as officers pile on top of Thomas.

One uses a Taser stun gun.

Thomas cries out for help and. toward the end of the beating, for his father: "Dad! Help me. Help me. Help me, dad."

His voice gets softer and trails off.

By the end of the video, he is lying in a pool of blood as the officers wonder out loud what to do next.

One can be heard saying: "We ran out of options so I got to the end of my Taser and I ... smashed his face to hell."

Thomas suffered brain injuries, facial fractures, rib fractures, and extensive bruising and abrasions, according to prosecutors.

The Orange County coroner listed his manner of death as a homicide and said he died after having his chest compressed, leaving him unable to breathe.

The FBI is investigating possible civil rights violations in his case.

Six Fullerton officers, including Ramos and Cicinelli, were put on paid leave after his death. The case drew widespread attention to the police department of Fullerton, located about 25 miles southeast of downtown Los Angeles.


Thursday, May 3, 2012

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Torepedo Alley


The hallway stood as it had yrs before; dark with shadows that the bald yellow bulb never seemed to cure. Then as now just looking at the solid four square frame set wood sent cold clammy chills down her arms and spine till the flesh rose in spiky goosepebbles. Not bumps, her mind insisted as almost instantly the inner spell check flipped the word around to proper syntax. These mountains sure as hell are, not, bumps. They are most definitely pebbles.

There however was a difference in the hallway, and the door. 

Cobwebs hung heavy in the corners and dripped along the walls of peeling blue paint, revealing the near olive brown coating underneath with all the allure of chipped and peeling scales with wide missing gaps. The once dark brown impregnable door stood warped and sagged in bows or cracks with dented blemishes along the lower knob corner where it seemed some kicking had been applied unending to the point the tarnished gold knob hung limp and loose in its bracket. 

And... it smelled. 

Enough to curl her pert little nose into a good wrinkle and blink back tears from the acrid smell of what had to be mold or some kind of damp rot. Not too far off from the smell of old pee sheets she'd cleaned day in and out when she'd candy stripped as a teen for a old folks home. You never forget that smell, or, the soon to follow smell of death coming. She'd worked that job for exactly one summer, two months and thirteen days. In that time she'd witnessed more than fifty-eight deaths, and in every incident she'd known it would come by the smell. 

The rot. 

As a young girl she'd learned from one of her grandpa's people, Cherokee, that there were things their people, Native Americans, knew more than most in white man's world. Rot, death, and sickness are amongst the highest ranks. She being a seer as had been most in her grandfather's linage could spot it a mile away. This had that sickening sweet damp smell that burned the nose and tickled the back of your throat as you breathed it in... as it should. 

That is after all why she'd sealed it all those years ago. Closed the door and sealed it shut with a power that would allow nothing to ever open it again, not even herself... or so she thought. 

The mind is a powerful thing. It can bring so many tricky things to the owner; happiness and depression of vastly wide ranges, self worth and delusion in stunningly record time, and even angelic spirituality or equally sickening evil depravity. It can twist what once was into tales you'd swear to all that is holy were one hundred and fifty percent true, even though you know deep in your heart its all lies and long suffered wishes. 

This protective double sided powerhouse can also take and hide what we can not or will not cope with and lock the event in its entirety behind sealed shut doors to preserve its host. Never to be unlocked until some event more traumatic or shocking comes to pass thereby forcing the door to suddenly spring open in its dank dark lost labyrinth of multilevel hallways the ID calls home.   

Her tongue slicked across the dry palate of her mouth with a chewing tug of her already plumped lower lip and small ring, darkened grey eyes staring unblinkingly at the darker slim opening between the door and its jam. Her throat clogged thick with hard tears as the child inside her both recognized the door and cried knowing what laid inside even as her adult mind did not. Hearing the sharp Texan drawl of her grandmother speak through deafened ears from outside her body, obviously tossing yet another new torpedo even before her mother's body could be declared brain dead. 

Torpedo Granny.

The woman earned her nick the old fashioned hard way, by using the action liberally and with fully intended malice only a well sharpened and seasoned surgeon could. Shooting not the true victim, but all its close bystanders.  In her grandmother's case, her grandchildren at large. 

Growing up had never been easy. When you're born to a sociopathic bipolar pathological liar mother with Munchausen by proxy tendencies you should count yourself lucky to actually reach adulthood, but when you do that raising other siblings while dodging information torpedoes that explode not only your world but the world around you, you deserve a parade. 

There never was a parade. 

Mother never liked her, they were polar opposites and unless mom was on a odd bipolar up moment there really weren't any good things passed between them.  It seemed all she did was either clean up mess after mess or support the two of them one way or another while mom partied and told more crap to grift or get more things neither of them ever needed. Then she raised the woman's babies. Having never played with dolls or house, this was a hellva feat, but not one she regretted most days.

She could still remember the first tiny body plopped in her hands only a week after the tiny babydoll clothes fitting girl was born. 

All red and squiggly with a sweet milk breath... so small the baby fit literally half way down her short fourteen year old forearm. Mom was done playing "mom" and so was the drugged out abusive hubby. Already she'd grown from single target to protecting a second grade cousin and another five year old boy lost in the hubby's crackpot of a "christian" homeless shelter... and now she'd have to protect this squiggly baby that she didn't even know how to feed. 

She could barely manage to find food to feed the cousin and boy since the hubby wouldn't allow any kid to eat more than a baby bowl of food in his house. Not even her. She at least didn't feel hungry anymore, but a baby they screamed all the time and that would bring hell to pay if it started screaming because it was hungry. She was good at kicking the dude's ass in, she did it every night like clock work when she wasn't locked in one of the basement's tiny rooms or being forced to endure punishment... even managed to keep the kids alive and basically unbruised, but a baby don't go to school. A baby is so small anything could happen.. it couldn't even keep its damn head from hanging off its neck like a dead chicken...

Yah, she remembered to damn good. 

One turned into three and then into adopted fosters. Least with age and new husbands mom got better. Even loved the last one and never did much of anything to it. Then again it had been over five years before the woman had the second sister, and by then the whole world had changed in the relationship between her and mom. First of all, money became the woman's golden carrot. Pay enough and the kids get left alone. Second, and more important, never piss off the tiger who raises your brats. She will literally wipe the floor with you and bask in the shiny glimmering pools of your blood while doing it. Its amazing what height, weight, and solid well trained muscle can do when it grows up. 

So yes, growing up was never easy... but then there was a hell of allot worse than these goody gumdrop memories laying behind this door. Much more rot and darkness than even her already dark mind could handle... back then and quite possibly now. 

She trembled in fear as torpedo granny laid hit after hit less than a hour after leaving the ICU where mom's oxygen deprived body laid sprawled on a bed hovered by donor hawks so thrilled to get their reaper hands on her that they actually called mom dead and salivated with waving papers... all before any tests could be done. So dead was the old bitch that she followed her around the room with rolling eyes and machines freaking out whenever they forced her to move out of eyesight. So dead that tears lined her bloated yellowing blue eyes when with a strained voice caught with emotion her daughter told her she loved and forgave her for everything, tears that poured down her round cheeks that seemed to have aged over night. So dead that she gurgle choked each and every separate time those words were said throughout the night by her and her alone. 

And here, less than a hour later torpedoes were being thrown mercilessly by her own seventy-five year old mother after having sat at some Denny's eating pancakes as though nothing was even remotely wrong. All while like transfixed zombies her eldest grand daughter and her family sat and stared at her stirring coffee or juice and pushing uneaten plates of nameless food around limply. Then as if the horror wasn't stunning enough followed her to her house to rest so they could all go back to the hospital... only to have torpedo season open up like the fourth of fucking July.

Munchausen is a bitch and a half. 

"Did you know you have a father?"  asked so innocently while being offered coffee and other drinks. The zombie crew shooting blank stares first at Grandma and then at her. 

"Um, yah, I mean everyone does, right?"  She manages to stutter only to receive a gimlet icy grey-blue stare. "I know mom was raped... its the how or who I don't.

"She wasn't raped." snapped like a whip across the air conditioned double wide's swank livingroom as she returns with whatever drink someone nodded to. Was it her sister-in-law or her man who ordered it? She knew for damn certain it wasn't her husband, he hardly ever took anything off her grandmother.... "She was married. The man's name was Jeff."

"Grandma I know there was pictures posed with that friend...."

"Friend! Ha! He was your father and they were married."  BAM! BAM! BAM! Each a direct hit as the collective group sucked in breath as one entire hispanic lot watching their very own Novella playing out. Dark eyes darting between the old woman and herself so obviously waiting for the dramatic music or real shit to hit the fan as everyone in both families well knew that not only had good ol ma lied to her over and over to the point that there was no strain of truth any longer after thirty aught years, but that she wanted the information so bad she'd kill for it... and more to it, that lies equaled death in the matter.

Everyone but her had a past, a somewhere in the road of fuck ups their mother had taken. Everyone but her. She was a illegitimate bastard her mother had to beg some friend to pose wedding pictures with so her own Navy Seal Injun daddy wouldn't kill her before the baby was born or disown her for the rapist being black and her ass so deaf and dumb she couldn't stop it... or so one of the many multiple reality lines went. Out of that only three strings had ever held true. He was black, a picture was made, and gramps was a Navy Seal Injun

"Ok, look, I know you may think this is funny, but its not."

"Funny? Darlin, this is the truth. You have a father and his name is Jeff, and they met at Quatico Virgina when your grandpa had to go a couple years before you were born. He was in the military, army, and had gotten back from Vietnam."  A funny ringing started sounding in her ears and her head throbbed as doors started slamming open harder and harder one after another to the point that the hardest and loudest creak she'd ever heard brought her torpedo battered mind slamming through the labyrinth to the darkest hall with the darkest of doors.  

To go through that door would forever open all the parts she locked out. She knew without a doubt this meant to know even a small sliver of the truth would mean sifting back through all the bad... truly bad... shit till she could even recall the blob of a guy her unending photographic memory would pull up. The same memory she had attached to the one and only solid thing she knew was from a time she was younger than three years old. The memory of a guy saving her and rushing her to the ER after her mother poured scalding hot soup on her tiny naked high chaired back during a hardcore fight with that guy. Which happened to coincide with the same memories of being shoved out a trailer at dawn when a booming truck's engine cranked and pulled out and left to wander the entire day till right before dark when the truck would come home. How other mommies fed her or cleaned her up when her diaper sagged off... the blob guy was the last in a extremely long series of men in a history she herself could only keep track off by houses she'd lived in and school age. Something that gave her nose bleeds and migraines every time she tried working back to get even a the tiniest of clues.

"Oh, and while you're here, I have pictures of him and you. Pictures your mother told me to burn long ago and trash. I didn't and cleaning out recently I found them again. So if you want them you better take them."  

Sometimes you get extremely odd thoughts at the most unlikelest times, right then as her body lay floating in a sea of 'you fucking bitch' and 'what the fuck didcha just tell my ass'... after an entire lifetime of being lied to by every damn one of her adult family members, She couldn't help but wonder if at some point had her grandmother ever been an old school soap star and if that was why her grandfather ever married her. Because right then that woman was sitting all regal in her straight backed nice and tidy fashion with perfect silver blond hair up in a delicate broach hair thing and flowing down her back with perfect poise delivering all this as if it was the most everyday unlifeshattering event you could possibly think of while gleaming in a brilliant cat grin not even hours after having sat all night and day in a hospital waiting room knitting or whatever the hell it was she was doing that this tired overwrought torpedo damaged mind couldn't possibly remember even if held at gun point and a fucking video recorder playing it scene by fucking scene for description.  

"I have entire trash bags of pictures for each one of you girls."

Entire trash bags. 
Entire fucking trash bags.
Entire fucking trash bags of what?? More dirt ma obviously didn't want us to have??

"And... you have a brother."

- Thats all I got done today..... its off something I am working on... I'm not sure if its going to stay as is... I wont go further into details, but its pretty damn close to the heart. Gimme ur thoughts, cause like I've said previously its been forever since I really wrote anything.