CHARLOTTE NOA BELLAMYHey there, glad you could join us. So first thing's first, what do we call you?
iíve no idea what iím talking about
i'm trapped in this body and canít get out
Charlotte BellamyóCharlotte Noa
Bellamy, if weíre being formal. Bellamyís my dad Markís last name; they thankfully didnít see much sense in passing on Robertís ďSmith,Ē because how many fucking Smiths
are there in this world? Noa is Robertís doing; thatís his momís nameómy grandmother, though she died when I was two or something. Well, Noelle,
technically, but how many ďellĒs does a person need in their name? Hell, I could have been Michelle Noelle Bellamy, and what the fuck kind of dignity would I have had then? Sometimes, I think my dads are smarter than I give them credit for. Sometimes. A lot of the time, I think theyíre fucking idiots.Okay, got it. And how old are you, if you don't mind me asking?
, eighteen in February. When Iíll be legal and everything. Jesus. I feel like Iíve been an adult for ages, but I guess I need that one extra birthday to make it ďreal.Ē And I donít even mean that Iím an ďold soulĒ or some bullshit; Iím not,
Iím youth incarnate, fucking responsibility, not living towards any kind of real tomorrow. But adulthoodís when you stop trusting the world, stop trusting that someone else will sort it out for you. When youíre totally, completely disillusioned; when all the fairy dust melts away; And the dust fell away years ago, for me. In any case, Iím a senior
now, and unless I pull some kind of magician act, doesnít look like Iíll be college-bound any time soon. Addiction and a worthless senior fall arenít exactly ďhooksĒ on a resume, last time I checked. Not that Iíd even know what the fuck to do with myself at college. Same bullshit Iím doing here, really. Living. Breathing. Killing each day; living for the next, then realizing that one sucks just as bad as the one before. Lather, rinse, repeat.Mhm and, now don't take this the wrong way, but are you a guy or a girl?
Iím a girl, dumbshit. Come on, I know Iím not overly endowed or anything, but the hair and clothes should be a tip-off, donít you think?And are you straight, gay or...?
I like guys. Well, actually, romantically, I donít like
guys at all; I just want them and sometimes love them and generally find myself lusting after them in some sense. But for romantic purposes, at leastóIím not talking friendship; guys make better friends than girls, ninety-nine percent of the timeómost of them are shit. But I fuck
guys, howís that? And sure, I guess, Iíd let a guy rope some other chick into bed once or twice for kicks and giggles, but even then itíd just be for the thrill. I can barely tolerate girls as people,
let alone fathom doing anything more with them. Yeah, raised by two gay men, I was brought up on the ďspectrumĒ philosophy, which is all well and goodóbut Iím pretty damn firmly on one end of that spectrum. No grey area for me. Chicks suck.Have we met before? You look so familiar!
This art teacher I had last summer wouldnít shut the fuck up about how much I reminded him of a young Kate Moss.
Apparently he discovered his great love of the figure
by drawing from one of her photos. Who knows. Iím pretty sure people see one skinny blonde toking on something or other and figure weíre all the same. But donít get all excitedóIím not about to bare my
tits to you just because I have similar features as a chick whoís topless more often than not. ďHeroin chic,Ē I may be; ďnude model,Ē I most certainly am fucking not. Also, I donít do coke. Or didnít. Much.Excellent. Now, for the benefit of our readers, how would you describe your appearance?
See, when I rattle off the factsótall, skinny, blondeóyouíre going to start thinking Iím some kind of fucking Barbie-doll, sorority girl, bleached-blonde California bimbo, and let me assure you, I am not.
The blonde is all natural, thanks for doubting, not that any amount of bleach can mimic a natural blonde. Iíve got highlights so pale that sometimes I freak and think Iím going grey, though most of my hairís a pretty normal, light-ish, darker-when-wet type of blonde. Itís messy, too, just kind of a tumble of waves falling all over the place. Straight, if I work at it, which I usually donít; ringlets, if I curl it, which I do even less. Itís a bedhead, honestly, but I like it like that. Iíve got green eyes; thatí oneís easy. Green as green can be, none of this ďhazelĒ or ďturquoiseĒ bullshit. Straight green, likeÖGod, I donít know, do I have to give you a fucking metaphor? Green like grass on a foggy day, howís that? Satisfied? I mean, come on, just use your
fucking eyes, why donít you? Iím not that
tall that you canít see
my eyes from there. Iím, what, 5í8? 5í7? Something like that, though in heels, I can get a decent amount taller. Some tall girls always bitching about how hard it sucks to be taller than others, taller than guys when they wear heels, but I donít see what the big shitshow is all about. So what if dresses and skirts fall a little higher on my legs? Iíve got good legs; I see no problem showing them off. Theyíre long, even if they are kind of scrawny, like the rest of me, like Iíve been since I was a kid. It was like I was growing faster than my weight could keep up, and it never really did
catch up. Iím not freakishly skeletal or anything, thereís not just all that much meat on my bones. At 5í8, Iím, what, 120 pounds? Less, maybe? Who the hell knows; I donít weigh myself often at all. And if a stranger had to spot you in a crowd what should they look out for?
Clothes tend to fall pretty nicely on me, though my tits arenít all that big, so sometimes filling out a bustier or something is a challenge. Not that I wear them all that often. I rock a crop top better than most chicks around here, thatís for sure, so all those double-Ds can bite me. Yeah, lots of cropped or cut-up shirts, or sometimes bigger, flowier ones that kind of swallow me up, though Iíll temper those with skintight leggings or shorts. When itís warm, I like the skimpy sundress look, but in the fall and winter Iím all about boots and jeans, leggings, though I still canít get past the tank top fetish, even in the winter. They just fall better on me than any other type of top. Sweaters make me look like a fucking J Crew model or something, which I most certainly am not. Lace-up boots are a wardrobe staple, as are heelsónot stiletto pumps; Iím not some fucking debutante, but ankle boots, lace-ups, those kinds of heels. I donít have any tattoosóyet;
Iíve got one all planned for my eighteenth birthday, because shocker of all shockers, I donít
have a fake ID. Never needed one, seeing as alcoholís never been my drug of choice, nor have clubs been my preferred scene. Anyway, back on topicóyeah, no tattoos yet. Pierced ears, the standard two, and second hole on the left ear, where I usually just wear a stud. Not so into body mutilation. This bodyís not worth it.What's the first thing this stranger would notice about you?
Jesus, how the hell would I know that? You think I sit around staring at myself in a fucking mirror all day? I donít know.
They wouldnít notice much at all, if they were just looking.
I donít emote all that much when Iím just standing around bored. If anything, I just look bored. If they came up and started talking
to me, though, they might notice some stuff. Like how Iím blunt. Not frank, exactly, Iím not one of those people who pride themselves on unabashed honesty or anything like thatóbut Iím blunt. With friends or otherwise, Iím not wrapping up my words in little froo-froo packages of fluff and meaningless bull. I say whatís relevant, whatís applicable, whatís necessary. I donít talk just to talk. And if youíre some random stranger coming up to me for no fucking reason, youíd better have something damn good to say to me, otherwise youíre in for an ice-cold reception. I save the snark for people I actually like.
As for my soft sideÖwell, letís just say that there are a select few whoíve seen it, and Iím not planning on expanding that number any time soon. Let's just say this stranger decides to observe you for a bit - any habits or quirks they might notice?
I cannot sit the fuck still. Itís the most godawful annoying habit ,I know, and itís not like Iím all hyped up on enthusiasm or anythingóIím just a fidgeter. I have the attention span of a goldfish on crack, and it comes through. Iím lighting a cigarette, or spinning an ashtray, or messing with my hair, braiding it, pulling it up, pushing it away, or Iím crossing, recrossing my legs, or playing with my NA chip, or doing any number of fidgety things a person could
do. Before, itíd happen only when I was too-long sober, too-long real,
and weed could settle me down, make me gloriously loose and relaxed and at peace. Now, Iím clean all the time, just perpetually on edge, waiting for that high thatíll never come. Yeah, I can run myself to the breaking point, collapse in exhaustion, not able to move a single muscle, but even then itís not the same. Fact is, Iím tearing at the seams of my fucking skin, and it shows.So this creepy stranger, what would their first impression of your character be?
That Iím here, but not here
That my headís not quite in the game. That Iím looking for something else, something better, something more.
That Iím in limbo. That Iím living wideótoo
wideóawake. Painfully present, but God, so
discontent. Trapped in someone elseís pathetic body; stuck with their susceptible brain. Iím fidgeting, Iím running, Iím flying, Iím doing anything
to break free from this godawful curse of humanity, and if a person or situation nor sensation isnít helping me get higher, all I have for them is a lifetimeís worth of disdain, condescension, hatred. Iím hateful. Angry. Squeaky-clean, free of anything harder than nicotine or adrenaline, but angry. Angry at myself for being weak enough to break under addiction; angry at the people who can use and use and never crack; angry at those who expect me to be all sunshine and fucking rainbows now that Iíve joined their pure-ass ranks. Angry at the world, at whatever greater power there is out there, for sticking me in this body, this life,
when I so desperately want something more. And angry at myself, again, for not knowing what that something more is. So, sport, you got any hobbies?
ďHobbies?Ē What, like woodworking
or something? Jesus, who the hell do you think I am? Have you not been paying attention; not caught on to the whole burnout act yet? I donít do
fucking origami or sculpture or needlepoint. WellóI draw, I guess thatís something, and Iím sort of decent at it when I put my mind to it, which isnít all that often. Usually just charcoal sketches; I suck at painting. Canít handle all that color at my disposal. So thereís that. I run, tooÖIím actually captain of track, now, though thatís more a matter of seniority than anything elseótrust me, I donít campaign for it like some fucking brownnoser. I just like to run, Iím not record-breakingly fast or anything. Iím a sprinter. Short sprints, in theory, though in reality I like to go for miles; sprint til my muscles give out and it takes me hours to catch my breath. Like I said, Iím not exactly the athletic departmentís model participant or anything. There was a brief, brief phase last winter, when I thought Iíd take sports more seriously, be an involved
student like a good little girl, and I joined lacrosseóbut hell, Iím the farthest fucking thing from a laxtitute. Iíll stick to pounding the pavement. Anyway, lately, my main ďextracurricularĒ has been thrills. Heights. Getting high, without getting high. Pushing my body to its limits. Driving a hundred miles an hour on a ďborrowedĒ car; cliff-diving; spending hours at raves, losing myself in the crowd; shooting targets; running for hours.
Seeing how far I can fuck with my limits, fuck with nature, fuck with reality. Pushing harder, going further, til I leave myself behind. Interesting! And what about the things you like the most?
For me, itís all about that something more. Something bigger than me; something that can sweep me up and make me a part of its grandeur. Some of that stuffóitís actually mundane. Normal. Like friends, the good kind, the kind that takes you as you are and doesnít try to change you, the kind that, when youíre with them, you stop being just you. Those
are the kinds of friends I keep around. They donít bog you down with smalltalkóhell, you donít even have to talk at all, sometimes, with friends like those. You can just be,
and somehow, being with another person is easier than being just you. Thatís the same reason sex is so good. And Iím no whore; I donít fuck the first guy who looks my wayófar from it. Iíve had two relationships, a couple of flings, and a few one night stands, all of which were totally deliberate; totally served that carnal purpose: to be you, and another, at once, joined in that perfect moment, no matter how well you do or donít know each other. The relationship
itself, for meóthatís not all that different from a friendship, if itís done right: coexisting, feeding off each othersí energy, just having that person there.
Because I treat my friendships like relationshipsóI put my trust in you, to get to see me,
as I really am, that vulnerability. A relationshipóa good
relationshipóis that, plus the sex. Sex, though, itís its own category. Sex, itís that perfect drug, the perfect mixed bag, ecstasy and dissociation and ascension. That ultimate high, ultimate thrill. Because really, thatís what I want: to fly, high. By any means. Not just drugs; not by drugs at all, anymore. Thereís music, for one, all sorts of musicóI donít have that one genre Iím all hoity-toity about, hell, I donít even know the names
of half of what I listen to, classical and electronic and everything in between. Itís those perfect songs, though, the ones that make you pause whatever youíre doing, the ones that sweep you off your feet, up, away, into this alternate universe where octaves and bass drops are the ultimate form of communication. Itís not like I even aspire to have an ounce of musical talentóitís just light transcended, light turned into sound, just waves and waves falling on the shore of your mind, crashing over sand dunes and reeds, forming this perfect, heavenly harmony. It takes your breath awayólike looking at the most exquisite landscape, or feeling winterís first harsh wind on your face. Those moments when you feel so completely caught up in the spin of the world that your soul just might get ripped out of your body and thrown into the mix. Thatís
what I live for; thatís
what I love. People think Iím all blasť, all removed, all aloof, unaffectedóbullshit.
Iíve just got high standards for happiness. Thatís what happens when you become on something artificial to give you that thrill: it takes one hell of a natural high to produce the same result.And there's gotta be things you don't like too, right?
I hate reality. What, you couldnít deduce that from everything Iíve already said? I hate the day-to-day banalities of life; the schedules, the forced, stilted way of living: wake up, eat, learn, live, laugh, love, sleep. I hate feeling like the world fucked me over by not giving me a brain thatís happy pretending that bullshit is enough. And I donít like the people who are content with it, whoíre happy eating their salads and going to their cheer practices and falling into storybook romances. Why do you think
that the majority of people I consider my friends are fuck-ups, druggies, thrill-seekers like me? Weíre all restless, trapped, looking for that something more. And when someone like that turns their back on meóleaves, dies, changes, anything
óI canít deal. Canít take the betrayal. Because itís not just a betrayal of me,
itís a betrayal of us,
is so much more than we,
individually, and itís fucking murder to blow that off. Iíve got this unnerving pattern, too, where the people I take the longest to let in die, or leave, or leave me.
And Iím done with it. They dropped me, well, hereís me dropping the entire fucking world. Watch
me. Iím stronger on my own.Great! So are you keeping any secrets? Don't worry, I swear I won't tell.
Iím doing a good job of it, arenít I, pretending everythingís all fucking dandy? Like Iím totally stoked
to have this glorious
opportunity to reclaim the world as mine, fit myself into its rhythm, rejoice
in its natural beauty? Like Iím thanking God
me, giving me another chance? Yeah, well. Those tiny moments, tiny natural highs I keep raving about? They barely make a dent. Barely lift me out of this grey, concrete funk
of an existence Iím stuck living. And I Know for sure it wonít last. Yeah, Iím clean now, clean as a whistle, straight as an arrow, fresh-faced, bright-eyedófor now.
Now, when everyoneís on my case so hard that I couldnít crack if I wanted to. Now, when the memory of Allison dying and me losing myself is too strong to deny. But the truth is, I know the memory will fade. I know the therapy and check-ins and phone-calls and sponsors will ease up. I know that I can only run so far, climb so high, before it stops being enough. And when that happens, I know Iíll slip. Crack. Fall. And the truth is, Iím fucking terrified.My lips are sealed. Now, what would you say is your best quality?
Iím quick. Not booksmart, and yeah, obviously Iíve made some shit life decisionsóbut I can match you, word for word, snark for snark, fuck for fuck. Quick. Sharp. I like the last word, and more often than not, I get it. The people who can challenge me on thatóthose are the ones I respect.And your worst? C'mon, no one's perfect, kiddo.
My bodyómy brain
ólet me down. Betrayed me. Itís weak.
Susceptible. Addictive. Hooked, so easily. And yeah, I love the thrills, the rush, the flightóbut I hate that I need it. That Iím this pathetic junkie, when so many people, they can play in the surf and not drown. Itís in my genes, hardwired into my DNA, and Iíve never hated anything more.Now how about the other people in your life, let's talk family.
Well, thereís my dads. Mark Bellamy and Robert Smith. Theyíve been together for something like twenty-five years, and got married for real the second it was legal. Markís the tall, all-business type, straight-forward, always wanting reasons, answers. Born and raised in New York, supposedly on his way to CEO of one some life insurance company. He met Robert, whoís a photographer, in 1979, Washington Square Park. Robertís the ďmomĒ of the two, the one who made me my lunches, braided my hair, took me shopping, and put me in art classes. Markís more the one whoíll give me a firm hand when I need it; whoíll lay down the law when itís necessary, like it or not. But honestly, theyíre both these liberal, progressive types, which is why weíve never really had a falling out, per se. When the drugs were really bad, Iíd stop calling, and thatíd drive them crazy, but theyíre always there for me. Iím lucky, that way. Then again, their laissez-faire
attitude is probably why my understanding of what it means to be ďfreeĒ is so fucked up. Itís not their fault. They canít help that I come from a heroin-addled egg and probably equally drugged-up sperm, that I came out of some pathetic shell of a human being, that really, all niceties aside, Iím a crack baby. Itís not their fault, itís hers. Allison. Sheís not my family; never was. Sheís a junkie who drugged herself to death, and passed the instinct on to me. Any pets?
No. I think itís bullshit to fall head over heels for an animal.
And besides, if I want to be free so bad, why should I go imprisoning some other creature? You're doing great, just a few more questions. So where are you from?
I was born in Woodstock, New York, and grew up there. Mark commuted to the city for work, Robert had a pretty successful gallery in town, and I was there through middle school. When Mark got relocated, we moved to San Franciscoóthat was when I was fifteen, already done with a year at Hallows Edge. Sold the house in Woodstock for an apartment in downtown San Fran. Iím not complaining. Iím much more a west coast girl, I think, anyway. Definitely
not a small town chick; Hallows Edge has proven that much.I see, cool. So how come you ended up at HEA?
Thatís a damn good question. I sure as hell donít know what Iím still doing here. Something about how itís my comfort zone, and how changing the environment right now, in this ďfragile time,Ē could ďtriggerĒ a ďrelapse.Ē Bull. Being surrounded by idiotsóor, if theyíre not idiots, druggies, reincarnations of my so-called former selfóis hardly
productive. Iíve outgrown this place; I outgrew it the second I came back. I came for ninth grade, just off my very first rehab stint, all eager-beaver, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed. Totally thrilled
to be here; totally happy
to make friends with every fucking stranger who looked my way; totally stoked
to fall in love. After I left for San Fran in tenth grade and came back in the middle of eleventh, thoughóGod, I donít know, maybe itís that I grew, or changed, or that the people around me did, but I wasnít happy. No, it wasnít all badóactually, there were a few months there where I was pretty damn happyóbut the people making me that way were the exception to the rule. And anyway, the one who made me really
stop caring about the imbeciles around me, thatís more than over. Now, Iím stuck here. Marooned in a small town of smaller minds, and Iíve got no one to blame but my stupid, naÔve, sixteen-year-old self. Almost done. So anything else we should know about you?
I was born on February 15, 1995, to one Allison Stewart. She was sixteen, pregnant by her dealer, and, despite what she might have told my dads and the adoption agency, she was notóread, not
óone hundred percent clean. Donít get me wrong, itís not like I was born with an extra finger or second head or inability to see the color blue. Nothing nearly
that obvious. Nothing really, at all, until I had to go and activate the instincts. In any case, thatís when I was born. In Palo Alto, California, all white-blond and big-eyed, and was safely whisked off by Robert and Mark, back to Woodstock.
We lived there for the first fifteen years of my life, and I never had a single complaint. Wellóthatís not entirely true; itís not like I was some completely zen kid and had a magnificent transformation. I was always a little difficult growing up. Not rebellious; that stuff came later, even though none of what Iíve done was ever
a direct act of rebellion. Iím serious. You probably donít believe Iím capable of loving anyone at this point after hearing all of this, but hear me when I tell you that I love my fathers more than anyone, and I know that without them, Iíd be a hell of a lot worse off than I am now. They never questioned adopting me; not when I was two years old and prefaced every sentence with the word ďno;Ē not when I was five and accidentally set the kitchen on fire trying to make tea; and even now, after Iíve spent two sessions in rehab, theyíve never once said that they regret me. Theyíre my rocks, and they gave me the best childhood a person could have. If weíre talking nature versus nurture, my flaws are my nature. They nurtured me; they still
nurture me, and theyíre not responsible for me being so fucked up.
Like I said, I wasnít a quiet kid. I was constantly in motion, constantly doing something,
and swinging from highs to lows at the drop of a hat. I wasnít the kind of kid who was content sitting on a couch with a book all dayófar from it. I needed constant stimulation. I was always finger-painting, or spying on neighbors, or climbing trees and refusing to come down. There was never a quiet momentóthatís the beauty of childhood; you can just play
and do whatever the hell you want, and itís okay.
No oneís going to lock you up for having too much fun; in fact, theyíll encourage it. I think thatís why, when I got a little older and realized there were real responsibilitiesóthings that werenít so funóI could hardly stand it.
I made it longer than youíd think. I was fourteen by the time I let someone talk me into playing the grown-up way. The illegal way. The way that was done in the elementary school playground at midnight, five of us, about to start high school, huddled like puppies around a single, sloppily-rolled joint. I didnít even like it at first. It took me three tries to inhale without coughing up a lung, and another four to actually feel it. But I was determined. Iíd talked my fathers into boarding school and was regretting it, scared of leaving them, of leaving the known. I was terrified
of growing up, getting more
responsibility, being less and less able to play in fantasyland. And weed was a promise of escape, from all that. It was my very own portal into Neverland, and within a single week in July, I was hooked as a person can be on a drug thatís not supposed to be addictive. We all were, I thought, and yeah, while we were all smoking almost every day, riding the highs, I was the one who took the lead. Found a dealer, scrounged up the money, established a stash. And since I was the one who held it all in my custody, I was the one who ended up on the roof her house at three A.M. on an early August morning, high out of my mind, convinced that if I jumped, Iíd fly. I was raving about how I was going to become a part of the galaxy, when my parents found me.
They freaked, kind of unnecessarily, I thought. Yeah, I was too high, but god, it was summer,
and Iíd only been into the stuff for a month.
Still, my dads being my dads, they went into some hyperventilative fit
and shipped me off to rehab. It was kind of a joke of a rehab experience. Mentally, yeah, Iíd been obsessed, but hardly addicted. Not really. It was a slap on the wrist, more than anything, and it worked: I started ninth grade at Hallows Edge steadfastly refusing to smoke anything ever again. I didnít want to be the girl who worried her parents to death. I was fourteen, starting at some fancy-shmancy prep school, and I wanted them to trust me.
Sounds unbelievable, right? Like I could have ever been this goody-two-shoes, this parent-pleaser. Trust me, I wasnít all smiles and rainbows. It was at Hallows Edge that I learned to drinkósomething Iíve never
liked as much as getting highóand where I fell in love for the first time. Discovered the thrill of another personís body; of breaking the school rules and sneaking into each otherís rooms; of sharing two beers, getting idiotically tipsy, and taking off each othersí shirts. Exploring new Neverlands. It was at the end of the year that we finally lost our virginities to one another, and after that, I was hooked on something new: love.
Which is why I utterly lost it when, just a couple of months into my sophomore year, my fathers announced that we were moving, and I was coming. They didnít want me across the country, with no home nearby to come back to if something happened. I didnít realize it for a few more months, but my earlier little dabbling with drugs had scared them more than I knew, as theyíd known, at least in some capacity, who Allison had been. They knew I had a better chance than normal of slipping deep into that world, and they were scared shitless. So, San Francisco it was, with a hearty side of heartbreak. Fifteen years old and forced to leave who I thought was the love of my life, I thought my world was ending.
My parents had always been open with me about my adoptionóhow could they not?óbut it was only then, when they saw me starting to hate them, that they let me contact Allison. I donít know why, exactly, I wanted to. Mostly, I think, because I knew she was in California, and I figured if I couldnít love Ben in Massachusetts, maybe I could have a different sort of love for someone else, in California. That maybe sheíd understand me a little more, in ways that, try as they might, my real parents couldnít. So, I wrote her letters. Gut-spilling, rambling, typically teenaged letters, to which she responded with words that made me sure
me. She sounded exactly like
me, in the way she saw the world. The way she had absolutely no focus; the way her mind jumped around, as if against her will. She was living in the Bay Area too, she said, so we agreed to meet.
I still donít entirely understand what happened. What her thought process was. It was clear, when we met, that she was jonesing, from something hard.
Something way harder than Iíd ever experienced. Ever wanted
to experience. Iíd poured my heart out in those letters, and she had, too, in a lot of waysóbut when we met, she barely knew who I was. She didnít realize that it was the sixteenth anniversary of the day sheíd given birth to me; hell, she barely knew my name.
Maybe she wanted to meet me clean, or maybe her stash had just run outówho knows. What I do
know is, that was what did it. That was the last straw. Iíd been going crazy
, being taken away from Hallows Edge and everything I thought I had there, and realizing I had nothing in San Francisco, eitherórealizing that the woman Iíd thought could really be
some sort of figure
for meóthat she didnít know
me? It killed me. And that was that. Within fifteen minutes, I was high as a kite.
It took a lot of convincing, but finally, nearly a year later, I convinced my parents to let me go back to school. In my mind, I had two choices: I could stay in San Francisco, where I had no roots, no real friends, no real life,
or go back to Hallows Edge, where I remembered loving my life. In the back of my mind, I had the idea that I could maybe patch things up with Ben and start overóand then,
I knew, I wouldnít even need
the drugs. I wasnít using them that much, comparatively, and I really slowed down when I came back. Got wrapped up in the drama of repairing a relationship, to compromise for the fact that what friends Iíd had as a freshman were gone, or changed, or siding with the girl Ben was all tied up with. I over-invested myself in the whole thing, unable to admit that coming back might have been a mistakeóthat I didnít really have much to come back to. That I didnít have anything,
anywhere, if I didnít have this. I convinced
myself that I was still in love with him, even though I think I was holding on to the memory of that puppy love more than anything else. Iíd changed too much. I knew where I came from, now, and I hated it and it scared me and I needed something else to think about.
But, I lost. And without that to take my mind off of things, the drugs came back. At first, it was just weed, just like it had always been. It was an old friend. Reliable. Safe, as far as these things go. And, through that friend, I met the next chapter: Sal. Before he was anything else, he was my dealer, and, in a less-committal sense, my employer. My parents would know
what I was up to if they saw my money disappearing so quickly, so we struck a deal: Iíd help out with the occasional delivery, and get a free supply in return. It only stayed so business-like for so long, though, and before long it was way more than a business relationship. At some point in there, I got a taste of what else was out there. What insane trips I could go on with just a tab, just a snort, just a swallow. How my mind could float up and away from my body, and just soar.
Weedóweed took the edge off of the unbearable tedium of daily life. But this, now, these hallucinogens, dissociativesóthese
were what I craved. And, before long, what I needed.
In October, Allison overdosed. Died. And meóI was already stoned when I found out, and I panicked. Grabbed a handful of whatever drugs I could find, chased them with liquor, and lost my mind.
You can probably guess where things went from there. Thatís how I ended up in rehab; thatís how I ended up alone. And thatís how I really
caught the bug. The need for something more. Simultaneously, the fear that if I do it wrong, Iíll end up right where Allison did. And, at the same time, the idle entertainment of the idea that maybe, that wouldnít be so bad.
What? You said you wanted to know.Now it's time to find out about the player! What are we to call you?
CHARRR. And no, I did not name my character after myself. Itís a long story.And how long have you been on this planet?
NINETEEN YEARS BITCHEZSo how long have you been trapped in the wonderful world of roleplay?
Something like 6 or 7 years.Any other creations of yours wandering this site?
Kiran Leigh Tyler and Owen Casey Swan.And how did you find us?
Literally no idea.Is this app in response to a Want Ad?
Can I take this opportunity to hereby relinquish her from the want-ad shackles? Yes. She was. A LONG LONG LONG LONG TIME AGO AND SHE HAS CHANGED SO MUCH IT SHOULDNíT COUNT ANYMORE. KTB.Is there anything else we should know?
YOUíLL NEVER GET RID OF ME EVERAnd finally, the phrase that pays!
A Kiss With a Fist Is Better Than NoneAnd a super special spot for the Admins!Approve/Disapprove (ADMIN ONLY)