Three chapters later

I read with much anticipation, there must be an answer between the lines or in the middle of them. There was no note on the first page, I havent got further than to the third chapter yet (and he is still no where to be seen) I don't know what Im looking for, but Anaïs keeps me company while I try to figure it out.

When I feel lonely and without purpose I always walk down to Piccadilly circus. There's always someone missing out on being in the group photo since he has to take it, and there I am offering to help them out. I save their memories and they make me feel needed.

Statutory rape

At Naptek, sipping on a cold cappucino thinking about last night.
Amanda waited in the hotel bar, laughing at some man who must have made a clever joke when I stepped in. He looked at me with such dispair. I ruined their moment. She wrapped her arms around me, kissed my forehead grabbed my arm and yelled VAMOS!

Dinner at Nobu, same crowd as always. She's beautiful in any room, I look like Donatella. We eat in silence, observing our surroundings closely. I drink more than I eat, blink more often than I breath. Out in the street again I loose track of her, she's gone and I can't bare calling. "Disappear here" she texts.

Alone in a bar with a ceiling filled with airplanes. Walls covered with photos of old american presidents. Im the only guest, the bartender is old and he makes for a sad excuse of a man. Dry martini, no music in the background. must have been turned of when I walked in. He's not closing, but the night is dying. I watch him with loving eyes as he fills up my glas, lights my smokes.
A man walks in, talking on his phone and orders a beer without making a pause in his conversation. He smiles at me. I empty my glas. Another one. Another road not taken.

One hour passes, I cant focus my eyes on one single object, my eyes move like a tornado. He changes seats, moves closer and when I look up he grabs my hand. Wedding ring on. He holds my cold thin fingers in a firm grip for a minute or two, Im to tired to care, to intrigued to pull back. When Ive finally gathered the curidge to say something he pushed a finger to my lips, lets me hand go and pick up a book from his briefcase. You need this more than I do he says, and leaves in such a hurry Im left wondering weather or not it actually happened.

Woke up this morning next to "Little birds". Anaïs Nin understands young girls better than we understand ourselves.
Why didn't he stay and tell me why. Why did I need it more than him?

Back home

I never understood the whole green tea revolution. I don't drink to get healthier, feel better or live longer. One cup of black tea wont effect my decaying body, so I don't really appreciate the way the young man in black uniform looks at me when I decline his offer to give me something with "a lot of nutrition"

If its "supposedly" good for me, then so be it but I've made a habit out of choosing the other option. I always chose the other option.

Can you breath he asks and when I reply with a slighty nervous nod he ads pressure by forcing his thumb into the thin skin that covers my throat. This is what I chose above love and comfort. I choose little or no air.

I close my eyes and the smell of death passes me by, a longing for some sort of constant sleep suddenly feel more present than him or my own body for that matter. I wish for a never ending sleep.

Instead I get green tea when I specifically order black and a city filled with life and laughter. Its a tragedy, being alive but feeling dead.

Where to miss, home I presume?

Yes, sure. Sankt James hotel, please

Lay on top of me, London

Fucking and punching

In the library with my dark passanger. The journal never leaves my sight, it has a life of it’s own. It has come to be my constante, knocking a bottle of plum wine disguised as Vitamin water of the throne. 176 pages of hate. I carry them around, loath them but love them.

I never felt closer to her than when I read about her first time. of course, this was written by an adult so it didn’t have the right tone but there was something in her words I could relate to. The disgust, the feeling of being in the wrong place although the place had nothing to do with it. She wrote about his sent and the way he moved. To imagine a man making her feel uncomfortable is like seeing god.
You see, she never felt uncomfortable, except when I cried at family dinners. He was heavy, or maybe it was just that I was a very thin girl at the time I cant help but laugh. The honesty ends there. Her truth is always modified, and I am forced to realize what I should’ve know from the start.

I only feel close to her when she lie.

Oscar Wilde on Paper street

Mothers journal on the bed stand, a half full bottle of old raj gin on top. You must go through eight stages before you meet the devil. Eight stages of burning hell, then there’s only Cocytus left. A frigid pit of despair where sinners come to suffer

I pour another drink, gin on the rocks except I have no ice left and carefully flip through the pages. She rambles about Oscar Wilde, how he would have been the perfect husband and how she would have looked perfect with an 19th century background. The drink doesn’t help, doesn’t make it easier. I feel a sudden urge to change her words and look around desperately for a pen. There isn’t one pen in this god forsaken room. So I have no other choice but to tear out the page but it doesn’t cut it. It needs to vanish, it’s filled with her condescending words and lack of knowledge. When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire I think and start chewing (a page or two is easy to swallow)

There's a new blog out there, written by a girl who I have a feeling just might get IT. She just might be what is missing.

There's heaven and hell, there's good writers and awful ones. There's serpents and then theres Eve.

How to mess up your daughter 101

1. I remember him telling me to leave her alone, she had been drinking and I had trouble sleeping. Dont talk to, talk to me he said and poured some scotch in my warm milk. It was almost midnight, octobre and I was minutes from turning eleven. I might as well had been fifty. There was nothing to say
2. .Since I never really slept I didn’t have bad dreams and I hadn’t really learned to lie yet. Like a baby shark I could smell the blood, I had an idea about lying but I couldn’t go through with it, I couldn’t kill on my own. Deep gulps of milk and scotch made my eyelids remember what Darwin told us. What plastic surgery can undo.
3. I don’t remember laying down, but I remember him carrying me to my bed and softly whisper Do not wake her up, darling. You don’t want her to wake up

Staying in where crisp white sheets offer some sort of comfort. outside the crisp white snow offers suffering. For once I feel calm enough to chose the calmer option. At least for now, Im content hurting myself by reading words I loath written by the woman I fear will be the death of me.

Next piece is about me.

Mothers journal has for the last 84 pages not mention the fact that she has a daughter, not until now. Seeing my own name in her writing is much like a slap in the face, a stab in the gut. About my weight her thoughts circle she used to be thin, legs like a ballet dancer and lean strong arms. She used to look like me but now I dont know. I simply don't know what has happend. She goes on for another page. I feel sick and strangely violated by this. This was written two years a go.

We all hate what we wish we had when others posses it. We're nothing but petty creatures in the night. I was never the right size for her life, for her standards. To thin, to fat. It was never about weight really. It was about a love we both had lost and tried to regain by hating. This Armed family has always had a peculiar Modus operandi.

If you by any chance like the way I look, or at least dont despise it here's a black swan event. Ive been Style cloned on the smart and exciting site Styleclone.com.

Massmurder and silk underwear

You say Im misunderstood but that like simplifying the first world war down to People were angry. I am not a children's bed time story, there are deeper levels of this. Maybe I chose to be this way. Just like I chose to wear a bra that doesn't come off unless you carry a knife.

It's not that I like it on. I just like the struggle. Five years a go a man murdered his five children and then put on his shoes and went to work. No one knew.

He wasn't misunderstood. He was unhappy.

Carine Roitfeld may you rest in peace. We will always have those summer editorials.

Lies and other drugs

A haze of dreams, hotell corridors are my idea of hell, the ninth stage. Treachery and Demerol should not mix.

When I walked the seventh floors hallway for the hundred time I started screaming. Open mouth, with an unfamiliar strength. No one ever hear me. I decide to leave, and put shoes on my bare feet. Manolos for broken ankles, vintage dress for my bruised skin.

Out in the snowstorm everyones screaming. I ask a girl who's sitting by herself in the bar close to the end of the world if she wants some company. When she doesn't reply I sit down. We drink slowly, in some sort of understanding. She smiles, I leave.

I meet up an old friend and we throw each other back five years to when we used to dance, smile and dream. For a couple of hours I forget about the cold and my fever. I enter a state of mind where nothing matters, where I'm the closest to happy Ive been in a long time. I guess that happens in a city close to the north pole when you're on your back on a bardisk where they mix beer and call it a drink. When you feel closer to the cobble stone than the sky.

Elevators and painkillers makes for a fun ride

The blond cheerful face belonging to the doctor wakes me up in the elevator. This cant go on any longer.
-You're not dying, but a flue is still a serious thing. Take care of your body, or it will resent you.

I mumble something in response, take her hand with some resistance and swallow the three yellow pills me gives me. Scandinavia is liberal, like a teenager while Britain is an old lady. Painkillers are your friends. The door opens, 713. My address is no longer a street, it's a number. Much like Paper street. If you don't have a home, do you exist?

-How did you end up here darling, what did you do last night?
Wherever i go, people always seem to feel an uncontrollable urge to take care of me.

I smile and while looking straight into her kind blue eyes I open my lap top. I want to show her photos.i want to say "This is what I did last night"
People are afraid to merge of the freeway,and nihilism is deeply rooted in romanticism.
But I dont have the photos. And she leaves.

Mothers journal is mocking me, lying there quietly on the bed stand. Go on, read me. be disgusted!
I think about it while undressing and I slowly smoke a cigarette in bed. Could this really get any worse?
I open the book.

fever sweats in Chanel couture

Im in crisp white sheets. A hotel bed is cleaner than a hospital. Or so Ive been told. Plum wine on the bed stand. Lit cigarettes in the ashtray. In both hands and mouth. Im to sick to smoke. To tired to care.

She: A hotel doctor. Sent up to make sure NO ONE DIES on the seventh floor. White coat, blond hair. Pink lips. A sent that reminds me of spring and blossom. Smiling. Almost to fresh, to healthy. Judging the activity in the room, trying to hide it. Failing miserably.

I: Feverish for days. Shiny eyes. No, not shiny . They're rather wet, but not from tears. Heavy breathing. Panic when the cold stethoscope touches my bare back. Inhale. Exhale. Avoiding her. Piercing my own skin with sharp nails. No no, I am not sick.

And outside, just as the blond doctor leaves I spot something dark outside my window. With trembling steps I make my way to the balcony. One centimeter at a time.

There he is. The symbol of our decaying souls.

Snow and silence

Trying to check in to a hotel next to a night club. Snow storm outside. Inside. In my hand I have my passport, some cash and mothers old journal.

The clerk looks at me with despair, gives me a key and tells me she can arrange for some cloths to appear outside my door within the hour.

-Or anything else you might need, sweetheart

I frantically grab the fur coat, pull it close to my body to cover my bruised ribs and purple nipples. The cold hasn't treated me well. No, I dont have any bags I tell her. No, I dont

need your help.

Share elevator with a man in a dark suit and eyes like the devil. He looks at me with such horror, such fear. I step away from him, trying my best to keep the smell of gin to myself. Not let him know what my breath always gives away.

Outside the hotel room, I struggle with my key. A maid helps me open, guides me to the bed and remove my coat. She dresses my pale skin with some t-shirt that miraculously appeared and when she's about to leave I feel an uncontrollable urge to ask her what I fear I already know

I used to live here, didn't I?

A single man and coagulated blood

A fist full of Tramadol, I swallowed without letting a single worried voice consern me. Just like high school.

These streets of scandinavia's most nihilistic but beautiful city is filled with crisp with snow. Headlines tells us not to leave our homes, but I dont have one. I arrived yesterday, naked under my grand mothers rabbit fur. The paleness of my skin slowly turned less white and more blue for every second spent outside. No bag, just a passport cigarettes and cash.
The freckled girl behind the bar gave me a disturbed look when I ordered my plum wine, they dont have any but they have a lot of port she answers. Thats not the same. Would you sleep with someone less attractive, less understanding, less educated just becaue that is the only option left when you know someone so much better is somewhere out there? She shrugged. I emptied the glas of port anyway. This is not an exit.

Four minuts blanc, not a second more, I rested for four minuts in a pile of snow. And you where there, wearing black. Removing wine stains below my lips with your thumb. Lifting me up, you almost tripped. But you didn't, you stayed stable. You kissed my left eyebrow. Dreams are nothing but a reflection of what we want. And I want that, an stable rock who sometimes almost fall to the ground.

And the second before my eyes opened again, and I realized that I am nowhere near stable. That must have been why he fell.

signs and the meaning of life

We're the generation who has nothing to say, and we proclaim that fact every single day.

I enter China white, dive straight into the euphoria that is chaos and coke. Loud music and beautiful people, eat me alive please. Consume my flesh.

Im in the middle of a deluge, a limbo. This is not an exit a sign tells me. No its not I suddenly scream out loud. Does anyone hear me though? No. Im like a tree falling in the forest.

They're busy chasing drugs, blow jobs or if nothing else at least a drink or two. I suddenly come to think about what one of my teachers once told me about the black sea "It was a violent rush of salt water into a depressed fresh-water lake in a single catastrophe that has been the inspiration for the flood mythology" and I suddenly feel as though maybe he was talking about me. A violent rush.

Miri smiles, drags me into the bathroom. Inhale this darling this is not an exit. She pees on the floor, my red soles plash against her urine and the expression on her face: pure pride

I escape, leave her there. And then the real deluge comes crashing and I decide then and there to let the fuck go. I pour plum wine down my soar throat and smoke in the crowded hallway. I think about Avy and her perfect legs. About Chloé and all that love. Father figure Frank and mother. This is not an exit, it's a ferocious rush of salt water down my chin.

The last supper

At the breakfast table.

Miri breaths like an old woman. Like our downstairs neighbor. Heavily and uneven. With no beat. Possibly like a rhythm closer to jazz than the swan lake. In front of us, two half full bottles of plum wine. Miri grabs one, empties it. I struggle with my coffee. The wine made it to sweet, but we dont have any milk. Whats a girl to do.

Dinner last night, the old woman went on and on about her roof. Our shower still running upstairs. There is no explanation to why we wont shut it of. I stopped taking showers ages a go. I hate the sound of water running.
Miri almost fell a sleep in the middle of a sentence. The old woman had crazy red hair and offered us long island drinks stronger than the ones Louis used to make me. She told us about her Hollywood career, about her wealthy husbands, about her modeling and all the money she married into and left with. She made sure we ate a lot, forced foie gras on us until we begged for mercy.

Miri is staring out the window now, not knowing that she is the most beautiful in a straight forward angle. I need to let last night go. I need to get out of my dress. Black of course, I had a feeling last night was a funeral of some sort.

And today, well the feeling remains.

Outfit

Dress Yves Saint Lauren

Straightjacket with black pearls

Mood: morbid

Where death means birth

Two deep breaths, in out in out and then I decide that I am strong enough to do this. I step inside, this room used to be mothers. Now Miri sleeps on the floor her heels once walked on. Quiet and peacefully she sleeps. Like a fucking zombie.

I havent slept since she arrived. Nor had I gotten any sleep before that either. I simply cant. Bein unconscious doesn't count.

When she sleeps I walk the endless hallways, I read books Ive read ten times before. I let my tears fall in to them. Bury my emotions in Karenina, 1984, Lolita..

Gather some courage, swallow some left over wine, I read another page in mothers book. Black covers, yellow pages and horrible grammar. Hate. She tells me further about Louis and how he is a burden she must carry. I suddenly feel last nights dinner re entering my mouth. Let it out in the kitchen sink. Last nights wine paint my snow white chin red. Dark red. Like coagulated blood.

Outfit

Lace knickers Agent provocateur

Cashmere blouse Jil Sander. Mothers old one.

I have never felt closer to her.

Truth and Tramadol

Three Tramadol makes me feel less heavy inside. Five creates a massive amount of stones in my stomach. Its all about balance. Control. I look around the kitchen. A bottle of what I assume is champagne is left half full on the table. I grabb it and empty it in 3 gulps. For each one the distance between emotions and me grows further.

Sitting by the table smoking my benson slowly coming to life I suddenly notice it. . A black tattered notebook. I look at it like it holds all secrets of my past. Things is though, I realize while flipping pages that its not mine. Its hers. Iris. My mother never told me about a journal. she never told me anything.

Her childlike letters and crappy spelling hits home, I hold the key to something awful here. With a mixture of hate and fascination I read.

Louis needs to get his act together. I wont help him off the floor again, put him in some black cab and tell it tp drive off to yet another rehab. I wont do it, its not fair to me. I have my own problems.

Cant help but think, did she really think of me as a problem to take care of? If so, why didn't she?

Outfit of the day

Dress: Jil Sander circa 1975.

Lipstick: chanel, colour of coagulated blood.

Death and disaster darlings.

REMEMBER THIS, REMEMBER US

In postmodern culture, only a picture can testify that we exist, that we matter- Tetzlaff

I realized something valuable today, something I should have known all ready. I realized that Patience is next to Godliness. And I have none.

Write what you know

Dear Miri

Companion in life, knight under the full moon. The snow on Londons god forsaken streets remind me of your skin, I keep on filling my pockets with it. Trying to bring you homer with me. You melt, you disappear, slipping through my fingers. Impossible to hold, impossible to let go.

These walls are screaming, the air is white from cigaret smoke that never's allowed to leave. Windows stay closed here, I try to capture my own shadows. Much like you, they're impossible. They run. Blood stained foot prints, old paintings smelling like death. Every single book ever written ( before this century of course) creating an layer on top of the floor. I walk on top of them. Float on stories thats been worn out. They're just as tired as I am.

What did you dream last night?

I dreamt of you. In your mothers blood stained wedding dress you smiled and you had some sort of sick desperation in your laugh.

Companion of mine, give me life.

love, Belle

quid pro quo

Could I go there you ask. I just might could, but Im not sure it would do any good. Without Louis and that greek god that was his boyfriend I dont know what else there is left. Some paintings, a mirror leaning against the wall and some Brooks brothers jackets in the closet perhaps. And if Im lucky, those jackets might still smell like Benson & Hedge and Old Raj gin. Other than that? Most likely nothing. Fifteen bedrooms and ten baths filled with nothing. One balcony that could fit an entire soccer field and a dining hall good enough for queens. To have a lot of space is worth nothing less than zero when you lack emotions or items to fill it with.

In the end, your stuff ends up owning you. Im thinking about throwing away all my dresses, to keep only one left for myself. Eat sleep and breath in it until the end of the year. If I have nothing, then Id possibly be up for a trip to the countryside. A time travel to when times weren't this rough.

When there's nothing left to burn

If you could chose anywhere to wake up tomorrow, where would you wanna open your eyes and meet the morning? Father figure Frank called in the middle of the night, he whispered with a voice filled with unanswered questions. Filled with guilt and anxiety.

I know the answer. Its a vague and unfulfilling one, but an answer non the less.

Louis owned a spectacular house, maybe he still did until he was brought back to life and then killed once more.Louise Dahl-Wolfie would have made such a beautiful painting of him had she known him like I did. L walking

endless corridors, mirrors covered with black fabric in the end - his face had lost its beauty and L hated all things

whom lacked beauty, he hated them above murder, torture and war. He hated ugliness. So he hid, like a mad man in a house big enough

for fifty people. His young adonis stayed with him, took care of him and helped him keep his substance abuse under control.

Under control for them meant satisfied, and fulfilled.

I adored that house, the parties held there were the best ones in Britain. Models, actors, poets and other idiots

drank Louis champagne and smoked cigars until night became day. And in the middle of it all was I. A young blond freckled little girl,

not ever a word spoken but still there. Watching, and thinking that in that room - I wasn't that different.

Iris never cared if I came home smelling like gin, and with evidence of wild nights in the shape of white powder on my expensive dresses.

She never cared. But she made sure the dream was interrupted to early, she woke me up and forced me out of it prematurely.

If I could run anywhere, I would run to that house.

You have to set yourself on fire

When sleeping comes to be the hardest part of the day, thats when you have to self medicate. I turned to Anna Karenina and Tramadol last night, like two knights in shining armor they guarded my mind while sleep failed to do so. I lit candles in a circle around my bed, pretended to be a corps in an old and expensive chest. It was a funeral, it was a childish dream.

Much like my life in general ; a funeral/a childish dream