Bite the Apple.

I fell down with that last entry.
Fell hard. Right into a bush of sharp thorns.
Seemingly side swiped, and when I hit the ground, the thorns digging in, I was ignorantly surprised.
After the post was published, and I lay there, twisting in that awful bush, I was angry. Scared.
It hurt. A lot.
Each thorn, tearing at my flesh, exposing my wounds with pain and blood. Vulnerable and raw. Shameful and filled with heavy burden. I did not feel the release once it was out in the world, actually, the exact opposite. I felt chained down and held back by it. Jailed and accused. Held captive in this place. The darkness surrounding me, very real and tangible in so many ways. A cloud of guilt covered my eyes, and for a time, I could not escape it. I could not see. So, I fought with that damn bush. Twisting and screaming. Flailing around in the dark, like a toddler having a fit. Tearing at it and accusing it. I was embarrassed. Ego filled and prideful. How could I have fallen in this trap? Wasn't I wise on my journey? wasn't I being strong?
So the fight continued. Blind and useless. Every time I'd rage fully rip out a thorn, it would only come back to bleed me out further. I couldn't sleep and when I did, I'd wake every hour. Haunted and weak. When I'd cry out to The Father, I would hear nothing. These soul cries and frustration, left inside of me. Coming to God in self pity and prideful arrogance. Get me out Father, that's your duty. Why would you request this of me, to write this story, and leave me in this bush. You said you'd be there. These words only twisting the thorns deeper. So here is where I sat. Crying, shameful and frightened. A few times, I even considered ending this whole thing. The pain was too great.
 Until this happened.
I got so wrapped up in the thorns, I had to be still. The more I'd move, the more tangled I'd become. The more I thought about it, tried to think my way out of it, the deeper they dug. So, in all that suffering, I had no choice, but, to go back to the beginning. In the beginning, the first thing The Father said to me was, quiet. Be still, be willing to be still, and then I will come to you in your meekness.
In my pain, I was far from humble. My peace had been disturbed, and I blamed the Lord for not warning me. In truth. HE DID. Many times. He had warned me not to go to fast, to wait on Him, and I had chosen, not to listen. I had chosen, to press on, and not heed His loving guidance. I was impatient, as I usually am, when I'm running on my own brain power, and not checking in with my Father. Not waiting on The Spirit. I had allowed this whole scene to become a give and take with my readers, and had left behind the give and take with God. It's not like one morning I woke up and said, hey, I'm going to write my memoirs. NO. God said that, the courage and journey of this has always come from God. I can take no ownership of any of this. ANY OF IT. I write well, because it's a gift God blessed me with. I am a part taker in this story, because it's a gift God blessed me with. It may not seem like a gift at times, but IT IS. The plain truth of it is this, I am nothing but dust and powerless intellect without The Father. Nothing I do in my life will be successful by His terms, without Him. In honesty, I want nothing to do with this unless it's driven by God. Period.
This was the humbleness The Father spoke of. When I saw this, again, I fell to my knees in love. Confessing the ego trip to Him, confessing my impatience, and asking His forgiveness for, again, trying to do things my way. It wasn't a shame thing, there was no guilt.I didn't say, sorry I was a bad girl, take me out of the bush. It was just simply this, You love me SO MUCH, you want things right and whole and full for me. That's it. So here, TAKE IT. It's not even mine. I could pervert this entire story, publish it and make mad stacks. But where's the faith in that? where's the fruit? where's the impact, if there's no grace. No humility. No honesty. No God. NO RAW AND REAL TRUTH, about my journey with Jesus Christ.
It was in that moment, that he lifted from the bush of thorns. Healed each wound, and held me. Set me upright, and brushed me off. Lifted the darkness from my eyes, and showed me, that yes, He was well pleased with this. Showed me, He had to leave me in the bush, by my own free will, and that only in humility and faith, could I be relieved from my suffering. All He was waiting for, was the space to work in me. I wouldn't give it up to Him in my protesting and anger. In my pain. I had to let go first. I had to let go of the one thing most dear to us, to ME... pride.
Let go.
Breathe, cry, and let go.
I wanted you all to know this, because without it I'd be lying. I'd be ashamed to share this part of the journey, and from the first post, I made it clear. I would not be ashamed of our all powerful and all loving Father. Thank you Father, for loving and honouring me enough to let me suffer, even when it hurts you more than it hurts me, because without this suffering, without the fear, this would just be another paperback bullshit novel about the road to self. Screw that, this is my ROAD TO YOU.
Thank you for always meeting me in the middle..thank you for being tangible in my life. Thank you for being so lovingly gentle when you walk through my camp...and delivering my enemies to me. Even when the enemy is myself. Words fail to express all things in my heart. You are EVERYTHING, and I want to give EVERYTHING I HAVE, TO YOU.
I surrender.
Again.

"I want it all."

The air was humid and chilled as we walked through the university district toward his apartment. My shaking hands shoved deep into the pockets of my jacket, wrapping it around me tightly. Cold moisture on the insides of my palms, fore boding the violence to ensue. I'm watching him, a stalking shadow, as he continues to stop every so often, and turn to see that were still following him. Hands in his khaki pockets, framing the indecency in between. The pathetic wavers of his steps. The fat little feet that carry him. The wind that blows the greased up strands of his black hair across the oily forehead. The bitter taste of my intent, showering me with cold animosity.
I'm resenting the idea, of being boxed in his apartment.
I'm concerned about video cameras in generically furnished lobbies.
I'm imagining late night, meddlesome neighbours.
I'm visualizing the axe, in Shes purse.
I'm thinking about, how entirely cold I feel. Not winter cold. Empty cold. Vacant cold.
The front steps to the small building, lead up to a door, no lobby. It's cheap and run down, the buzzer hardly even even works and I'm relieved. Walking down the rank smelling hallway and stepping into the warm apartment, my heart is beating so hard it hurts. Pounding against my ribs. A rattling little cage. I want to scream so loud the entire pitiful city would hear me, a wretched wailing. Maybe someone would come tear me from this chaos. A big hand to pluck me out of this night terror and rock me back to sleep. The searing reality of this moment, as he closes the door, and I accept, yet again. This is no dream. The settling of it inside, and my mind directs itself to that other place as Butterball leads us toward his bedroom.
The room is small and disturbingly vacant. White walls bearing no pictures. Just a creaky bed and a beat up, dusty computer desk. A folding lawn chair beside it, and I sit down, eyes chasing each corner of the room. Cross my legs, and ask if it's okay to smoke in here.
She, sits down on the bed, bouncing a little as if to test the mattress, while grease pot, over in the doorway, watches with a learing smile. The beige pants barely masking the pitiful tent of his tighty whities. Eyeing him through the smoke of my cigarette, I ask if he has anything to drink, he nods and shuffles away to go fetch.
I turn to She, and in a quiet whisper, tell her to put the axe in her jeans. She does it quickly, carefully placing it along her lower back, and covering the exposed bit with the halter top. Her jeans are tight enough to hold it up, but loose enough to hide the handle, which is good, because Pudgy has come back bearing a bottle of Crown Royal whisky and a couple glasses. Sitting down next to She on the bed, he hands me one of the cups and I dive into the liquor, asking if he has any mix. My hands shaking as I twist off the plastic cap. The spiced heat filling my nose. Thank the world for booze. No mix, he says. Sorry. If you'd like, I can ask my roommate to go to the store. The sentence he just uttered, tightening my chest into professionally tied knots. Choking slightly on the burning shot I just kicked back. Roommate? Roommate.
Fuck.
Roommate.
"Uh, yeah, sure." I say, desperately trying to stay visibly relaxed. "Can you ask him to grab me a pack of smokes too? Du Maurier light king size, cool?" He seems a little annoyed, but I don't care. My minds racing , with this unexpected snag. Damn it. Just get him the fuck out of here.
I'm guessing, at the most, we'll have twenty minutes to jack this guy. Twenty minutes. I can hear their fussing argument as he sends him out the door and it makes me nervous. I can tell Mr. Roomie has disdain for the fact, that were even here. Mildly sympathetic to his companions pervy little indiscretions and  I whisper to She..
"Your going flirt with him, get him off a bit okay? act like, I don't know, your going to massage him or something, whatever it takes, for him to get into it, and close his eyes. The moment he does, the axe. You know what to do. I'll do the talking." She nods, her face full of this, kind of, conviction. Happy to be directed. Always. I feel like a brick of cold ice, as he saunters back into the room. Rubbing the under side of his belly with his hand, and pushing it into his pants as he walks up to She. The swagger in his walk, overly confident and swiftly cut him down.
"Hey, buddy. Calm the fuck down," I say, holding my hand out, a kind of sick laughter comes out of my mouth, and it surprises me.
 " Sit the fuck down. We haven't even talked money yet, money always comes first you horny little shit." He's a little put off, shocked, at my sudden curt. Surprisingly intimidated, as he quickly pulls that vibrating hand out from inside his pants, and reaches into his back pocket for the wallet. Disappointment scrawled across his fat little face. Settled again, when the facade of my smile splashes across my face again, and ask him,
"So, what do you want her to do? She'll do anything for the right price. Anything you want..." my voice trailing off and I don't even know who's talking anymore. This conniving voice a distant echo to the Angie sleeping within. A muffled backdrop to the deep cave of my insides. Is this really happening. Yes. It is, and I watch him squirm with a pulsing fluster, as he empties the entire contents of his wallet on the computer desk next to me.
" I want it all." His eyes wide, the sausage fingers quivering. The shine of his forehead and bulbous nose in the light of his desk lamp.
My hand reaches out and violently swipes the bills into my lap and proceeds to count them. Four hundred dollars. My eyes darting back up to meet with his. Watching She, peering out from behind him, wrapping her hands over his shoulders, rubbing his chest from behind. The words breaking free of this tarnished mouth. Those black venomous lips.
"Four bills should do it. Do it just fine."

Fever

It had come by surprise. The 'excuse me ladies'. Turning around to see the pudgy student. Knapsack slung over his shoulder, eyes on the ground like an insecure thirteen year old, standing in the corner of the gym at his first school dance. The swipe of dirt, he calls a moustache, shadowing his upper lip. The gut hanging over his beige slacks. Peering out from under the collored lacoste shirt. The pubic hairs of his paunch shameless, and repulsively in view.
"I'm looking for a date," the vibrating, sausage fingers reaching into his pocket, pulling out the black leather wallet.
"I have money...."
She and I , just stare at each other in this harrowing stupor. Taking a minute to realize what he actually,  just asked. This silent monologue between us. Words spoken with facial expressions and muted body language. One arrogant nod, and it's set in motion. The wheels of the crazy train screeching against it's tracks. She wrapping her arm around him, leaning in with an enticing smile. Sweet giggles peppered with manipulation, as she directs the conversation. This butter ball of a man, soaking up the insincere flattery. Like a twelve year old pervert, he eyeballs her chest. The eyes wide and hungry. The wet, lapping tongue gliding over his top lip. Like a dog begging at the dinner table. Pathetic.
 Awkwardly running his chubby, shaking hand over her hip. I can see that he's holding back with all his pitiful strength. The blood pumping sex running through his eager veins. Each touch lashes against this ferocious heat in my chest. Pulling at my hatred. This never ending cycle of molesting eyes. Hands. Grease. Sweat. Salty, drooling poison. The bulge in his pants, twitching and pumping. Sick. Sick. Sick.
My head is spinning with a dark, vengeful hysteria. Everything that makes me up into Angie, is visualizing myself tearing him up into little bloody pieces, and spitting on his waste. You vile piece of shit.
 This rage was not intended for him, but it's too late. He made himself a target the moment he crossed that street. The second those words left his mouth, I knew it. Agreed with it, and gave it life. Feeding the wild beast. Little Shop of Horrors coming alive in my black pit of a gut, the cannibal plant springing roots in my fleshy insides. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me.
 Handing over my eyes and thoughts to a murderous vendetta. Ruthless vindication. I could have been standing in front of the sweetest man in the world, or Paul Bernardo. It didn't matter. The sickness of my perception, left all men in the exact same rotting box. Abusers. Predators. Sexual deviants. Molesters. Naturally drawn to perversion and intimidating violence. The voices of my mind shouting, 'It's my turn to hunt'. MY TURN asshole, my fucking turn.
A victimless crime, they said. He's not even human. He's a mass of bulging penis and sickly, wet desires. A waste of life, a single cell containing nothing but obscene fantasies and pornographic obsessions.  This young, university student, with his unkempt greasy hair, and soiled clothes, was going to taste my fever. Naive or not. The stinking ball of tar was rolling, and I was locked down in psychotic delirium. I don't know where the real Angie went that night. Locked away somewhere inside, in the dark, tearing at herself. With each step towards his apartment, she fell deeper into the pits of my internal lock down. Deranged Angie, tucking her into bed, kissing her forehead with black tarnished lips.
You sleep baby, I'll take over from here.
No ones going to hurt you.
Not anymore.

Hitting Asphalt.

She's strong tugs on my jacket level me out enough to get my foot up, and kick him in the face with a hard thud. The lanky hands releasing me instantly, and I come down hard on top of She. Scrambling quickly to my feet, and swiftly hopping the metal link fence. Boots hitting the asphalt of the sidewalk, and I'm running. Turn around to see if she's behind me, and she is. Awkwardly sprinting in those clear plastic plat forms. Her long curly hair still wet from the shower, panic all over her red face.
 Run, Angie, run.
 It's all I can hear, all I can conceive to do. I'm hardly even thinking about whether or not She will catch up to me. I just want to get as far away from that house, as possible. The street lamps zipping past me, the feet don't even feel like they're touching the ground. In my minds eye, the paranoia coursing through me, I see our enemies chasing me. The men, irate and vindictive. Tearing down the street. Catching up to us. Tearing me back by the hair, and taking me down to the ground. But they're not. They didn't even chase us, but everything in my body is demanding me to run. My brain is screaming, I'm not safe. My body reacting without thought. I can taste the blood in the back of my throat. The asthma kicking in, but I don't give a shit. Turn back again, there She is. Still behind me. Running. Those awful shoes. This time she calls my name. I can hear it, frantic, overlapping with the hissing of wind in my ears. The pounding thuds of my heart. The loud gasping breathes from my mouth. She calls my name again. My running turning to a jog, and slowing to an exhausted tread. Leaning over, my hands on my knees. Choking with each winded pant. The tears on my cheeks drying quickly, and itching my skin. I can't breathe. The heels coming up behind me, her hand on my shoulder.
 I just remember feeling stunned. Like when I saw her face, and realized we were outside and I could feel the air on my face. Something inside, clicked, and I just went numb. Detached. Shut down. Seeing her there, in front of me. The curls of her hair wet, blowing in the wind. The redness of her cheeks, the way the freckles stood out more that way. The red rimmed, sad eyes looking at mine. My heart broke, and I just stopped feeling. That was it.
We walked after that, quiet and remote.
Somewhere in Quebec.
I have no idea where.
Hitched a ride with some passer-by.
"Where you girls headed?"
"Ottawa..downtown."
"Hop in."
The drive there, an awkward attempt at idle conversation.
Stepping out of the car, and standing on the side walk.
The streets were soundless that night.
The panic begins to sink in, with the silence of the after hours.
Ironically enough, distasteful even, three things were about to offer us an alternative to a penniless, cold night on the street.
The clear plastic plat forms.
The fact that She, had managed to escape with her purse.
And the over weight Asian student who's just crossing the street, about to proposition us into performing illicit acts for money.

Half in, Half out.

"Sit down."
Leb's heavy weight coming down on my shoulder. Solid hand forcing me back down to the chair.
"This 'aint your business." The bitter smell of hard liquor wafting from his mouth.
I want to yank out from under his grip, and make this my business. I'd be stupid if I did. I feel like a chump sitting here watching her get a scolding from this leech, at the same time, self-control is the one thing that's going to get me out of this. If I'm lucky. It's infuriating, and takes every drop of composure I can collect.The size of his hands. The broad shoulders, and hefty chest. The nostrils that flare slightly when I fidget. The eyes that dart towards me, with every sound, or heavy breath I take. I imagine the young blond girls in Russia, sold into the sex trade. I imagine them in those bath houses, in the multi roomed brothels. Trapped. Intimidated into frozen sick dolls. Robbed.
I can hear She's voice, travelling from the small confines of the bathroom.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I'm gonna clean up okay? and I'll go. I'll go...", the voice hushed and vulnerable. Shaky. Tremulous.
The door closes with an unexpected slam, and I jump in my seat. Fists seizing up, forgetting to breathe, and I'm immediately remorseful of my natural reflexes. Babyface, walking towards us and taking his stop, in between me and Leb. Leb on the couch across from me. Babyface standing in the middle of us, off to my left side a bit, cigarette in hand. The long fingers, and dark shiny knuckles, holding it.
"This bitch better not play me man," he says, shaking his head violently.
 Pulling a deep drag from the thin, white cigarette. Glaring right at me. Into me. I can feel the red poking hatred that lies behind those yellowed eyes. The blackness of his pupils, bleeding into the dark irises. Looming and constant. I feel like a deer, cornered by two hunters. On a beautiful spring day when the flowers have just begun to bloom. Mayhem tearing its way through. Unforgivably barbaric.
"Are you playin' me?" he asks. It's calm and direct. My heart beating loudly in my chest. The cheeks getting hot, flushed.
"I'm not playing you Babyface." Eyes locked, the unnerving pounding in my ears. " I swear man, I just want her to take a shower and get ready. Just like you do," Eyes still locked. He's just sitting there staring at me. Reading me. Watching. The sound of water rushing from down the hall. She's in.
"You know what's gonna happen if, either of you fuck, with me. " Tapping the cigarette on the ashtray in front of me. I think of all those scenes in the movies, where the pimp burns the girl with his lit smoke.
" Imma' take from both of you what I gave, you understand?" Leaning in closer towards me. "Seeing as neither of you have any money, what 'chu you have to offer is yo' ass. It's business. It's all business up in here, you understand? I don't wanna have to do you like this. But, like I said it's all business, and if your bitch plays me, Imma take what I'm owed." Another long deep haul off the cigarette. Still, the calm voice, the undertone of pure control. Disturbingly candid.
I honestly don't remember what all was said in between this moment, and She coming out of the bathroom. The weight of this short time was so heavy, and the fear completely unbearable. Holding my breath while clips of violating rape rush through my mind. Imagining what it would feel like to get punched with those hands. Searching the room with my eyes, looking for something, anything I can use as a weapon. Can I get to the kitchen in time, would I make it to the cutlery drawer, in attempts to get my hands on a knife. What if they keep the steak knives somewhere else. They'd get me before I could find anything. How much do you think Leb weighs..maybe 250-275 pounds. How helpless I would be underneath that. The sheer defenselessness of it.
I remember just doing my best to convince him, that I agreed with him. That he had a right to be angry, and that I, myself was annoyed with her dramatics. Saying things like, she should follow through with her word. That going back on your word was unforgivable, yes. That I would help her get ready, and motivate her. She'd be going out and not to worry. It would be fine. Just to only, give me a chance. Hating myself for throwing her under the bus, but having to, in order to gain, at the most, a small amount of trust. Just enough, to allow me the opportunity into the bedroom with her. Alone.
By the time She turned the shower off, Babyface was sitting down next to Leb, having poured himself a drink. At least he wasn't pacing around anymore. Lighting smoke after smoke. Hovering over me in antagonizing skepticism. Turning to face her, Babyface shouts,
"Your girl 'aint got your back man!" Heat rising up my chest. "You best go get your ass ready you trifling bitch!" She's eyes accusing me. The anger shadowing her face and I can't say a damn thing. I need to get in that room. The adrenaline starts to pump. The hands start to vibrate as I look over to him, and ask if I can go help her. He clenches his jaw, eyeing me suspiciously. The heart pounding louder. Deafening me. He nods his head yes, and I slowly stand up.
Robotic and terrified.
I see my purse resting on the linoleum floor next to the front door, and walk over to grab it. The moment my hand envelopes the fabric handle, Babyface barks at me. "What the fuck you need your purse for?" My hand drops it instantly. He stands up from his spot on the couch. I'm shaking so bad, it's embarrassing.  "You leave your purse with me. How do I know your not gonna take off? you think I'm fucking stupid?" Blood runs cold as he hovers over me once again.
"I had some make-up in there. That's all. Imma girl, I need my purse." I say. Hoping he doesn't call me out.
"Don't fucking touch it, it's mine." I nod my head, and tell him I'm sorry. Turning around slowly and walking towards the bedroom. My coursing adrenaline, like I've never felt before. Everything is slow motion hysteria.
Walking through the door, I close it gently, leaving it open just enough to be safe. She has her back to me, angry and talking shit. She's telling me I'm a bitch for selling her out, but I don't care. All I can see is that window. Rushing over and finding the locks as fast as I can. It's one of those windows with push locks on the top  and bottom  of the screen. Where you have to push them inwards at the same time, and pull it open. It hurts your fingers, every time, and you reel back, sticking the tip of your finger in your mouth, and sucking on it. Right now, is not one of those times. I can hear She behind me panicking. Putting on the hooker shoes, and whispering, "Your fucking crazy!" Getting her clothes on as fast as she can, as I violently pull the screen open. There's a loud crack as the metal drags against itself, and I seize up. Motioning to her quickly with my waving arm. Mouthing the words, hurry up! Now!! NOW!!!!!
She runs over and throws her leg over the window sill, the long heals scraping against the siding of the house. She's out, awkwardly falling down onto the grass of the backyard lawn. My heart beating ferociously as I throw my leg over. In this same moment, Babyface charges into the bedroom. The door crashing loudly into the wall behind it. The drywall cracking.
I can hear him swearing rage fully as he bounds towards the window, grabbing my foot. My side digging into the window frame as he pulls me back. Each rib, dragged across the metal with burning hot traction.
The skin tearing. She's hands reaching up to pull on the back of my jacket...half in, half out.