Wednesday, October 2, 2013
My name is Celia. My friends call me Cee-Cee. I am mentioned on page 13 of Jena's diary, in the entry for Friday, October 4, 2013. I have no idea who Jena is.
The diary was express-mailed from San Diego; California two Monday's ago. Because it came via registered mail and had to be signed for, Mom took me to the post office Wednesday after school to get it. The envelope was mailed from a law firm called Mann, Caldwell and Burgess. Inside the big envelope was another, smaller envelope containing 23 handwritten pages of diary entries. I was blown away. It was a joke. Of course it was a joke.
Of course, Mom insisted on reading the stupid thing and was just furious about it. (Of course she was.) She called long distance to California and demanded to talk to the person responsible for sending the envelope, wanting to know what kind of pervert had written it and why it was sent to me. She got twice as furious when the man refused to answer any of her questions. The law firm was not in a position to divulge the client's name or offer any information concerning the envelope, he told her. If she wanted to contact the police or another law firm concerning the contents, she was at liberty to do so. Mann Caldwell and Burgess would respond accordingly.
I thought Mom would blow a gasket and slam the phone down and break it into a thousand little pieces. She surprised me, though; placing the handset into the charger unit like it was made of glass and just staring at it, looking perturbed. Throw the damned thing away, she told me. But of course, I didn't.
There are no real vampires and no 14-year-old girl can fly and time travel. That's just bullshit. Of course it is. But the Barksdale's are real people and I've confirmed that Timothy Barksdale had a sister named Nicole and they lived in a farmhouse on Lovett's Road in Stevens, just like Jena said in her diary. The house was torn down in 1988. Spring Lake Community Center is there now, which is where I went Monday after school to check the place out. Inside, I discovered pictures down one corridor showing the center being built. The big farmhouse and barn are there in the pictures, just as Jena described them, before, during and after being demolished. There is no mistaking the four big, stone chimneys, and the roof could be made of slate, though I couldn't tell for sure. The barn was nearly as big as the farmhouse (maybe even bigger) and I think they built tennis courts where the barn used to be. It was like seeing a ghost in a photograph. I was so creeped out, all the way home. I am still creeped out.
Following are the 23 pages of Jena handwritten diary.
I hate sucking cock. I don't care whose cock it is; if it goes in my mouth and gets hard and stays hard and eventually shoots cum down my throat I hate it. If ever a day goes by without me sucking cock—and oh, should that ever come true! —I would be SO GRATEFUL!
I attend Martin Luther King High School in Millersville, MD. I am a freshman, raw out of Christa McAuliffe Middle School, one of 242 students in my 9th grade class. Us girls make up 56% of the student population and number 133 of the total freshies. Eventually, I will suck the cock of every damned remaining freshman. Before the Christmas break too. I've made a remarkable start, actually; it's barely October and I've knocked off 41 boys. Only 68 left and then I can start on the sophomores, LOL.
Right now I'm naked. It's 2:37 a.m. on Wednesday morning, the 2nd of October 2013. I'm writing this on my little Toshiba netbook. It's a hand-me-down from my brother and I wouldn't trade it for every laptop in the world. It's almost as tiny as me, and fits easily into my backpack so I can take it with me everywhere. The Word file I'm writing into is password protected (JenaHatesToSuck) so I don't have to worry about unauthorized eyes ever reading it, which you can guess is anyone's eyes but mine.
I'm not the smallest girl in school but I'm in the top five. I stand 4'10" tall, weight 85 lbs, and wear Size 00 jeans. You can guess my bra size, and my waist is small enough that guys with really big hands can encircle it, fingertip to fingertip. My hips are not much bigger than my waist and I have really skinny legs, but boys like me anyway.
I'm a virgin, except for my mouth. I've never had a hand on my boobies and never had one down my panties, though guys have tried. A couple got me unsnapped and a couple got me unzipped, and once, a boy named Terrell felt me through the front of my panties, but always I made them stop. No boy I've ever sucked knows I did it to him. To everyone, I am still a virgin.
I only suck boys. I've sucked my school bus driver's son, David, and I sucked the vice principal's son at MLK, and Ms. Frenchette, the principal's son too. Jamie is hot. OMG, yes, he's so hot!
I love being naked. I'd open my blinds and let every boy in the neighborhood see me naked, but my boobs are a total embarrassment--I'd die if one of my selfies ever made it onto the Internet. The webcam is on and I'm watching myself in a little box at the bottom of the screen. If I lean back like this, I can see my little boobies. They'd make me laugh, if they didn't make my cry. (Emily Browning in Sleeping Beauty. That's as close as you'll ever get to me being naked, LOL.)
I'm missing a toe. Let me haul my right foot up high enough for the camera to see it. It happened when I was five years old in a bicycle accident. The sprocket took a hunk out of the toe beside it too, and if you look real close, you can see I don't have a toenail on that toe. It's embarrassing, not having a little toe, but hardly anyone notices. Well, hardly any guys do. Girls always notice. Girls miss nothing.
Girls are cruel. I get so much abuse from girls, mostly from my friends, and always about my boobs or how skinny I am. I hate being skinny but I am deathly afraid of putting on even a pound. Chloe says I am the poster child for anorexia. She's probably right. I'd get a little bigger if I put on a little weight; I guess ... I could be a Size 1, maybe.
Have you ever tasted cum? It's so horrible, isn't it? Bitter and slimy and vomit inducing. The stuff always makes me gag, but I swallow it anyway, because that is what I do: suck cock and swallow cum.
One night I almost ended up in the hospital having my stomach pumped.
Emily Browning is cute. If I were to make it with another girl, I'd want it to be Emily Browning.
I should go check my door. I know it's locked, but I have my desk lamp on and if Mom or Dad goes to the bathroom and sees the light shining under my door, they'd come knocking and want to know why I'm up on a school night. Like I could sleep, you know? I haven't slept a moment since discovering what I am.
What am I? Not a vampire, because vampires get to sleep during the day and experience a break from this unrelenting, 24-hour a day, 7 day a week awareness. And instead of blood, sperm is my sustenance.
Mom and Dad are not like me. Robbie is not like me. Neither is Clare nor anyone else in our family--not that I know of anyway. I've never met anyone like me and wonder if any others exist. If so, I sure pity them.
I could go to bed and play with myself, I guess. Other than being cum-dependent and totally unable to sleep, I'm pretty much a normal 14-year-old. All my parts work right and I enjoy how I'm put together. My clit works the same as the girl's next door and my vagina is just as wet and subject to yeast infections as anyone's. My ovaries dispense eggs every month and I bleed like a stuck pig. My cramps are intolerable. I get horny and diddle myself in bed and enjoy taking hot baths. I dream of losing my cherry. I shiver thinking how a boy will someday put his cock up my ass and maybe I'll like it. Someday a boy will come in my mouth and remember that he did it the next day. Someday my eyes will rise and meet his, and I'll smile as I swallow his jism. Someday maybe I'll even have a baby with someone. Imagine me huge and pregnant with twins.
I'm wet. I sit here typing and know in moments I'll throw on some clothes and leap out the window and find me a cock to suck. Did I mention that I fly?
Thursday, October 3, 2013
I'm naked again. My blinds are cracked ever so slightly, just enough that someone with binoculars could see horizontal strips of me through the slats. Maybe put together a complete image of me using a mental version of Photoshop. The thought of it has my nipples hard and gooseflesh pimpling my arms and chest. I have never done this before and blame this idiocy on my musing last night in this very same journal. Bad Jena girl! Spank spank!
I was bad last night, too. I pulled off my hoodie and took off my bra and sucked the first boy topless, enjoying my nipples. I went so far as to slip out of my sweats and finish sucking him off in just my panties and sneakers. In Bedroom Number Two, I remained clothed, but enjoyed a middle finger on my clitty the entire time. Just before dawn I unsnapped my bra and enjoyed the looseness of it against my bare boobs and nipples. I got home just a few minutes before sunup. Who is this strange creature in my bedroom, I wonder?
I ate a peach today at lunch. It almost made me urk, but stayed down somehow and even now is percolating through my innards, delivering shock after shock to my bewildered digestive system. Poor unsuspecting bowels. Knowing it will come out the far end in just a few hours has me delirious with anticipation. I pee all the time, sure, but I poop maybe twice a year. Not a lot of solids in sperm, you know?
Speaking of which: I am now 43 out of 109. (The older brother of Boy #1 doesn't count.) I hate the taste of sperm.
Webcam on now; Jena in little box: Hi Jena! Lean back please; show me your little boobies ... good girl.
Is that a hickey I detect on your creamy white skin? No? Well, don't loose hope, Jena. Someday a boy will adorn your body with extravagant oral artwork. I promise you that. Someday soon.
It's freaking raining outside. It's been raining all night and all last evening since around six o'clock. It's pouring hamsters and parakeets. If I were to sail out the window right now I'd be soaked before I reached our property line. (I got hammered by a hailstorm during the summer and wasn't that interesting?)
I think I'm getting a cold. My throat is scratchy and I had these sneezing fits at school. It amused all the boys (imagine a Shih Tzu with a sneezing fit) and all the girls rolled their eyes. I lift off, every time I sneeze.
Michael Shermeyer snapped my bra again in English today. Then he totally embarrassed me by unsnapping it right through my shirt back. The effing douche-bag! He is so far down my list of suckee's that I won't see him until just before Christmas, during the final night of my undertaking. I'd bite off his cock if he wasn't so hot and I didn't have such a horrifying case of the hots for him.
As you know, Dear Diary, my love-hate relationship with Michael Shermeyer goes back to Emily Meyer Elementary School, and the shocking age of 8 years old. Michael is the boy I dream about most often, and the last boy I want in my dreams. Why can't I do something about him? I wish he'd move.
I finished my period today; that's a plus.
I wonder if binoculars are trained on my bedroom window right now? I wish my night vision extended to seeing through walls. If that were the case, though, I'd never get anything done. And having no control over my x-ray eyes, I'd always be walking into walls because I couldn't see them, and wouldn't that be a bummer? Unless, of course, I could walk through walls, LOL.
Do vampires pee and poop? What would I do if one of them ever messed with me for real? They scare me to death, you know, but do they really pose a threat? (They don't want my blood, that's for sure.) I'm stronger--I think--and I can certainly fly circles around their sorry asses. I'm susceptible to their hypnotic stare, but I can look away and that gives me the advantage, I guess. I'm fine with sunlight, but vampires can sneak up on me at night and that's a big advantage to them. Also, they're already dead. When I die, I'll stay that way. I really shouldn't mess with vampires, I guess.
Today in math we watched a third or so of the movie Good Will Hunting. I've seen it before—of course I have; Matt Damon is my favorite actor and I'll watch it any chance I get. I especially love the scene where he rips the preppy math boy a giant new asshole. Too bad he's such conceited asshole himself.
My IQ is somewhere north of Albert Einstein's by the way. (No, the 122 with Mr. Richardson last year don't count. I flubbed the visual-spatial processing and quantitative reasoning questions to keep the evil eye of academia off me; you know that, Dairy.) However, I have yet to develop an interest in anything requiring a single neuron outside the scope of my 14-year-old's area of concern. Maybe I'll do better in college, yeah?
(Did I mention how much I'd like to suck Matt Damon's cock?)
My favorite TV show is Orphan Black. Tatiana Maslany is so just the coolest girl on TV! I can't wait for the new season to start. I hope there will be one. Allison is my favorite but I was outraged when they devolved her into a psycho nutbag killer. A bit of wacko, yeah, but Allison and Sarah and Cosima have the same genetic makeup and no way would she mistake Aynsley for being her monitor, not with the evidence at hand. And what about Cosima coughing up blood? Are they all doomed? Only three of them left now ... and that bitch Rachel.
It's 3:57 a.m. and no is out there spying on Jena through binoculars. Not at 3:57 a.m. I need to start earlier tomorrow night. Give Doofus across the street and Jordan next door to Doofus time to notice the blinds and zero me in before bedtime. Strictly wishful thinking for anyone else though. The Compton's are too far left and the Schmidt's are too far to the right. I'd fair better in a back bedroom with the apartment complex behind us, but the front bedroom is what I got to work with here. (A thought, Diary: Maybe next time Jena is presented with an empty household in the evening, Jena could present herself to those dozens of eager apartment dwellers out back? In the wintertime, anyway, once all the leaves drop away and the sight line is clear?)
I weighed 81 lbs. this morning. I always loose weight during my period where everyone else gains weight. I'll probably hit 79 or 80 lbs tomorrow morning. I can see me in Size Triple-Zero jeans. Aeropostale, here I come!
Thursday, October 3, 2013
I'm naked and my bedroom door is locked. More to keep Robbie out of my bedroom than Mom or Dad. Robbie has absolutely no respect for anyone's personal space ... mine, least of all. His territory includes me, my bedroom, and all of my possessions. He delights in catching me out of my clothes: twice last week in my bra and panties and once topless, Diary! He is so much a bugger. One day I'll pitch him out the window and watch him fly.
I am constantly on guard to keep my cool around Robbie. It would not be good to break his arm because I overreacted to being grabbed or dope-slapped, which he does to me all the time. I can't begin to describe the aggravation of coexisting with Robbie every day of my life. Of being taken over his knee and having my bottom paddled because I talked back to him, or embarrassed him in front of his buddies. So far he's never spanked me bare-bottomed, but he threatens to do it a lot. And he's also threatened to throw me face down on my bed with a knee in the back while he beats me bare-bottomed with his belt. (Which would really hurt, but I'd heal in a matter of hours and would have to fake agony the next day. Just like I heal up from the occasional concussion, broken shoulder or arm from flying into things in the dark. I see just fine, mostly, but my depth perception at night sucks.)
I want to know if someone out there is spying me. It's aggravating, not knowing and not knowing how to know. I could set up an apparatus, I guess, to scope them scoping me, but that's elaborate stuff and you know how un-elaborate a girl I am, Diary. Of course, I could go peek ... LOL.
Sometimes I fly naked and that's really cool and stupid at the same time. Cool, because I'm naked and someone could see me flying around up there, and stupid because I share the air with flying nocturnal creatures. A bird can be a life-threatening collision in the dark—to the bird, at least—and I've hit any number of bats and wiped out a gazillion flying insects. Some nights I come home looking like a paintball victim. I've taken to protecting my eyes with goggles and wearing a hoodie even in the hottest weather to protect my upper body. I wish I had sonar like bats. It doesn't help them much against me for some reason--I seem to be sonar invisible—but trees and houses and telephone poles? No problem. Jena? Watch out!
I finished that book I was reading, D. I read it three nights running and that's like a total no-way for me. (Twilight went faster, but I was bad sick with a cold and the book had my undivided attention for two days.) It's YA fiction about time travel and centers on a teenager named Marina and her best friend Finn. The action takes place in her present and the very near future, though mostly in the present. Her older self, Em, is 20 years old while Marina is just 16. I loved the book, but I have to complain that I didn't understand the ending. Why would Marina loose all memory of what she went through with Finn and James, even though she was right there at the end with them both? I'll Google it later and see what other readers say about it.
I think it would be so cool to travel in time. On the other hand, maybe time travel would be the abomination Em said it was. I'm not versed in the mechanics of time travel (yet), but I can imagine a government like ours putting it to ill use. (OMG, North Korea with a working time machine? Would I even exist now? Would anyone in the US?)
What if I could, though, you know? I'm not exactly normal. Until the day I became airborne in the girl's bathroom at school (and nearly brained myself ramming a light fixture), I had no clue at all. The possibility has me suddenly very excited. And scared to death. How would I know? How would it work? Think of a time and place and just snap my fingers? (I just did, and I'm still here, LOL.) Time travel is just so much science fiction, but then again, what about me?
I'm tired of writing, D. Let's go binge on some Vampire Diaries and Arrow and Supernatural. Race you there!
Friday, October 4, 2013
I'm in so much trouble, D. I just spent 5-1/2 hours back in 1952 and messed with someone I shouldn't have messed with.
During the second episode of Supernatural, it occurred to me that I hadn't given the attempt at time travel a very conscientious try. For one thing, I was typing on a laptop that hadn't even been thought of in 1952, in a house that wouldn't be built until the late 1990's. What effect would just those two things have on a desire to time travel, I wondered? (As it turned out, nothing.)
Remember The Time Travel's Wife? Henry always turned up completely naked wherever he went, so maybe I needed to be that way also. I was actually in panties and a t-shirt at 1:10 a.m., when I snapped my fingers at the keyboard. I stripped naked and flew out my side window, the one facing the side of the Cameron's house, and hovered just outside.
Where to go, I wondered? Sitting at my desk earlier, it had been 10 minutes into the past, right there in my bedroom at the desk. That obviously wouldn't work. Today's date worked me, and picking my current time of 1:15 a.m. was smart, because I'd be invisible in the dark when I got there. Which left only the year to decide on. And then I thought, okay, why not 1952?
In History, we're studying the British Monarchy. Queen Elizabeth succeeded King George VI as the new monarch in 1952. Could I go back that far, I wondered? 48 years before I was even born? What a cool and scary idea!
Nothing happened at first. And then something went pop right behind my eyeballs, and shrieking, I shot 500' into the air, and for a brief instant I was being yanked inside out, my toes hauled out through my mouth along with all my insides—not a good feeling at all—like being skinned alive. And then suddenly the air was 20 degrees colder and I was hovering above woodland that stretched in every direction for miles and miles and miles. Had I not shot upward I might have ended up inside a tree. My strange mind, saving me again.
I didn't know it yet, but Stevens, the town I live in didn't exist in 1952—I tell you that with certainty, Diary. Millersville, with its sprawling fancy mall and surrounding developments was nothing but a one-stoplight town in October of '52. An ESSO station sat on the corner of Sedgwick Road and Minor Avenue--like we saw in Canada a couple of years ago—and a Sinclair was a block down on Minor Avenue with a green dinosaur on the sign. I never even heard of Sinclair gas! Where the Weiss Market is now was a country store called Miller's Gas and Go, with truly weird looking gas pumps out front. (All the gas pumps are truly weird looking in 1952.) The road to the mall was non-existent, and I'm not even sure where the mall location is in1952 because everything is so different from now. The bridge on Route 57 over the railroad tracks is boxed with steel girders like the bridge on 40 coming out of Thomasville. It doesn't even curve up and over the railroad tracks like it does in 2013! Just goes straight across. And it's only one lane wide!
And D, the fucking cars! The cars are right out of the 1940's and 50's and they're not antiques! (I know, duh!) No bright colors other than red and white and they all have huge chrome bumpers that would demolish any modern car with even a nudge. The headlights are round and they all have dinosaur grills that look ready to gobble up anyone stupid to get too close. They all have stick shifts too, and almost every car had white-wall tires.
Anyway, the temperature was no more that 40 degrees and I was completely broken out in gooseflesh, shivering like crazy. The closest farmhouse looked about a mile a way. I zoomed right over and set down on the roof outside a dormer window. Two dogs asleep in the front yard woke up when I arrived and started baying at the top of their lungs, like to scare me to death, D. Lights popped on and cows in the barn woke up and started to low. The chicken coop I didn't even know was there went crazy like a fox was inside stealing eggs. I hid behind a stone chimney and cursed the damned stupid dogs, wondering if maybe I could shut them up with a couple of well-placed stones. But I'm not cruel to animals, and I'm chicken-shit to boot. And I throw like a girl. Then Farmer John came rushing outside with a shotgun in one hand and a lantern in the other, and it was time to leave. I floated away, using the chimney for cover, while the dogs chased each other in circles, nipping at their own tails.
Why I didn't just flash back to the present I don't know. I'm not even sure the thought occurred to me right then; I only wanted away from that house and those effing crazy dogs, and that damned shotgun.
My second attempt went better. The farmhouse was three stories tall and surrounded on three sides by a wide veranda. It had a slate roof and four huge stone chimneys, one on either end of the building and two opposite each other in the middle. The barn and the outbuildings were much larger and more well cared for than those of the previous farm, and something had recently been painted; I could smell paint in the air.
Cautious, I floated to one of the dormer windows and peeked inside. A teenage boy with long blonde hair lay folded into the covers of a bed across the room from me--I almost wept with relief!
The window was cracked to let in fresh air, and I quickly removed the screen—made from real metal mess, D, not plastic or fiberglass or whatever it is they use nowadays in window screens--slid the window open noiselessly and climbed inside. The sudden change in temperature—or maybe just a sense of my unauthorized presence in his room--made the boy stir in his sleep. I stood motionless against the wall holding my breath while he turned away, grumbling. My teeth chattered like a plastic wind-up toy and gooseflesh covered me head to toe. Spotting discarded clothing on a nearby chair, I tiptoed over (if you can imagine a Popsicle tiptoeing) struggled into a dark flannel shirt and a pair of jeans made for a giant. I clutched myself like a drowning victim. A sound something like a kitten would make trying to escape a shoebox escaped my throat.
Go back and close the fucking window, I told myself. I did, and then migrated to the corner where a rectangle in the floor proved to be a grate through which magnificent warm air arose. The grill was wrought iron, I think, or maybe cast bronze, like the ones in Shannon Towfield's house. I sat down and surrounded the grate with my appendages and wafted air upward with my frozen hands. If you threw me against a wall, I'd shatter like that Popsicle I mentioned earlier.
In 2013, any teenage boy's bedroom would be covered with posters: Heavy Metal or Rap, Grunge or whatever, depending on his click. Swimsuit models or hot actresses and of course, pictures of his many girlfriends. None of that was here. Instead, glancing around the room, I took in framed black and white photos of the boy and his family, he and his friends at play, magazine cutouts of cars and motorcycles and airplanes; a crucifix hung directly above his head and some general with a chest full of medals took a place of honor above the heavy wooden desk. I spotted no laptop computer, no cell phone on his bedside table, and no TV set—not even one of the old clunky ones—weighing down his dresser. A wind-up alarm clock ticked loudly beside a lamp on his bedside table. An AM radio big as a TV menaced a stack of schoolbooks on his desk. The furniture was made of wood—real wood, D, not cheap veneered stuff or pressboard faced with plastic laminate. The floor was polished wood alos, mostly covered by a rough-textured oval rug. No red lights twinkled in the dark, not from a stereo, or a TV or a DVD player. No electronics in 1952 at all.
It took a full 10 minutes, but finally I thawed enough to risk venturing away from the vent. I went on hands and knees to the bed and sat back on my calves, listening to the boy slowly breathe. I got the hint of a snore, so light as to be almost indistinguishable. He was seventeen maybe, I thought, three years older than me. I wouldn't be born for another 47 years, I realized. A shiver, seeming to emanate from my very bone marrow, tore through my body.
"Don't wake up," I whispered.
He muttered discontentedly.
"What's your name?" I whispered.
In a sleep-husky voice he answered, "Tim."
"How old are you, Tim?"
"17," he muttered.
"I'm almost 15," I told him. "My name is Jena. That's spelled J-E-N-A, not G-I-N-A. I'm from the year 2013. I time-traveled here, although I didn't know I could do that until about half an hour ago or so."
"Uh-huh," he agreed dully.
"I did it with no clothes on and I about froze myself to death. It's a lot colder tonight that it was in 2013." I frowned. "What day is it here, anyway?"
"Friday, October the 3rd."
I picked up his alarm clock and turned it to face the window so I could read the dial. "It's 1:48 a.m., Tim."
"Saturday morning, then," he corrected.
"You'll be going to temple this morning?" I questioned.
His shoulders stiffened in consternation. Not Jewish then, I thought. Jewish boys you could always depend on being circumcised.
"Church tomorrow morning then?"
He nodded this time.
"Where to?" I wondered aloud.
"Redeemer Lutheran," he muttered.
"In Lavonia?" Lavonia was south of Stevens, 10 miles or so the opposite direction of Millersville. I dimly remembered a church at the intersection of Burns Road and Route 57, though I couldn't tell you for sure if it was Redeemer Lutheran. But I thought it might be.
"Calvary Baptist in Stevens for me. When my parents make me go anyway, which isn't all that often anymore. Are you an alter boy or something?"
"No," he grunted.
I fingered his long blonde hair. It really surprised me; I thought boys in the 50's sported butch-cuts or flattops like you see in the old black and white series on TV Land. Tim could be a skater laying in wait, I thought. I touched his right shoulder.
"Do you like being a farm-boy?" I asked.
"No," he answered curtly.
"Up early every morning to milk the cows?"
"I bet you hate that shit. I'd hate having to suck off a bunch of smelly cows before it even got light in the morning. That's basically what you do, right, suck them off with those metal thingamjiggies?"
His shoulder tightened under my fingertips.
"Have you ever been sucked, Tim?" I asked softly. "By a girl?"
He shuddered convulsively. "Girls should never put things like that in their mouths! It's whorish! Girls don't do things like that around here."
I laughed softly. "You have a lot to learn, Tim. Even in 1952, I bet."
Excited now, I ran my hand along his ribcage and under the covers onto the flat of his belly. A shudder rippled through him and this time he groaned. His belly was flat and hard and reacted to my touch by tightening and pulling away. I fingered his waistband and he half-turned toward me with an expectant groan. His erection was plainly visible beneath the covers and moved beneath them as he turned. I started to reach, and then hesitated. Something about that name. Something half-remembered from my childhood.
"Tim, what's your last name?"
"Barksdale," he grunted unhappily.
I snatched my hand away and rocked back, stunned. Timothy Barksdale was my great-uncle, Grandma Nicole's older brother. Somewhere in this house Grandma was asleep in bed, only 6 years old, 20 years shy of my mother's birth. I was in the old Barksdale farmhouse off Lovett's Road, I thought. The house didn't even exist in 2013, mowed under in the late 80's to allow development of the neighborhood where I live. I had only seen it in old black and white photographs in Grandma Nicole's albums (now Mom's), and wasn't even sure where it had been--until now. My Great-uncle Timothy was dead.
"Oh, my God!" I hissed, scuttling away. I looked frantic around the room; sure the Fiery Angel of Time would erupt from a shadow and cleave off my head with a giant hour hand. If a mouse had peeped I would have screamed. On hands and knees I scurried to the window and yanked it upward. Behind me Tim moaned and turned beneath the covers and then came awake in time to see me launch myself out the window into the night.
"Hey!" he croaked in surprise. "What the--?" A moment later he was half out the window, throwing wild looks in all directions, including upward, though I was too deep in the shadow of the chimney for him to see. I flattened myself to the cold slate roof.
"Are you there?" he whispered anxiously. "Jena?"
I couldn't help it, I yelped in surprise. He craned his head and peered into my section of darkness, a hand over his eyes to block nonexistent glare. How did he know my name?
My heart hammered against my chest wall. I made a mewling sound that pricked up his ears, and then, to my utter astonishment, he floated out the window and drifted toward my position, assuming a lotus position in midair. Another terrified kitten sound escaped my throat as he halted six feet away.
"Are you OK?" he asked.
I said nothing.
"Why are you hiding, Jena?"
I said nothing again and he cocked his head and his mouth twisted in a wry grin.
"Oh, my God! This is your first time back, isn't it? This is your first trip back to 1952! Oh, my God, you must be totally freaked out!" He laughed softly and shook his head. "I'm not gonna bite you, Jena. You've been here before, you just don't know it yet."
I gulped painfully loud. "Yeah?"
He nodded, grinning wide at my mouse-squeak voice. "You told me it would happen; you just wouldn't say when or where." He laughed, delighted at my rattled expression. "If you could see your face, little girl, you would shit square bricks. Come inside before we both catch pneumonia. Those tiles must be like fucking blocks of ice."
They were like fucking blocks of ice.
He unfolded and stood erect in air, motioned with his hand and then drifted down to float alongside his dormer window. Stiffly, I arose to a standing position and floated down to join him. He cannonballed and darted inside, unfolding above the oval rug and dropping lightly to his toes. Totally unnerved, I entered with none of my usual aplomb, stood on my tiptoes, just inside the window. Then he stunned me again by closing the window with a flick of his finger. I gawped, bug-eyed.
"How did you do that?" I demanded.
He laughed. "You taught me how."
I squeaked: "I can't do that!"
He laughed again. "Not yet. But you will."
His expression changed, becoming more pensive. "You're really young," he said softly. His eyes roamed up and down his purloined set of clothes, hesitantly stopping at my chest--or lack thereof--and I reacted unconsciously to his stare.
"Oh, sorry," he said, looking away. "I'm used to you being..." He blushed and made a vague gesture with his hand. "Sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean to embarrass you, Jena."
I cursed the reflex of my shoulders and arms and refused permission to cross them protectively over my chest. "How old am I usually when I'm here?"
He shrugged. "16, maybe, and as old as 26, I think. You don't always tell me your age. And it doesn't always come up, you know?"
Could this be any stranger than finding myself on Mars, I wondered?
"How many times have I been here?"
He hesitated. "I'm not supposed to tell you that. Specifically, I'm not supposed to tell any of your younger selves anything about the future." He shrugged. "I guess I already blew that a bit though, didn't I? Sorry."
Befuddled, I shook my head. "Why? Do you know why?"
"It causes you conflicts, you said. Having to be somewhere or do something at a specific time, ahead of time. It screws with you big time, you said."
Someone ran a cold fingertip up my spine. "Am I doing something to the future right now, just being?"
He shrugged. "No wars erupt that you don't remember, or important shit got changed that you do remember. Once you told me that someone in your school was no longer at your school, but you were intentionally vague about that. Like you always are about the future."
This was too weird.
"You've never been to the future yourself?"
"I xan't. The future hasn't happened for me yet, so there's nowhere for me to go. We can both go back, though, and we have, and we don't have any trouble returning to now. Guess it's okay to say that. I'm not being specific."
"I can return, though, to 2013? You're sure of that?"
"You're not trapped here," he assured me. "We've been doing this a long time, Jena. Well, I have, anyway. You will be too, starting now."
Grinning, he then shocked me a third time by crossing to where I stood, grabbing my upper arms and kissing me gently on the forehead. I gasped a little and blinked as he said: "I'm glad you finally came. We've had a great time together in 1952. Now you will too."
OK, so you can see why I'm totally screwed up here, Diary. I met my dead Great-uncle and have been traveling back and forth for at least the next 11 years to see him. I'm telekinetic as well as vampiretic and can leap tall buildings at a single bound. I am obviously emotionally involved with Timothy Barksdale in 1952, and fuck, this is just so fucking messed up!
What am I supposed to do?
It took a few minutes to calm myself down. I am rational now, Diary. Trapped in some kind of Time Traveler's Wife scenario, but let's skip that for the time being.
Obviously, Tim has no idea that I never get to meet him in real life. I am pretty sure he dies in 1970 outside some fucking South Vietnamese village that nobody's ever heard of. (You know I'm gonna find out the fucking name of that village for sure!) I'm also pretty sure he left behind a wife and three kids when he died. How can I tell him that? How can I keep from telling him that? One little blunder and his whole life up in smoke!
OMG! Why did I do this?
I need a sedative. I need a whole fucking pharmacy, D!
He says I come back dozens, or maybe even hundreds of times. He wouldn't be specific about it, but I got the impression that it was closer to hundreds than dozens. Until I'm 26 years old, D? How long will I continue this shit? When does it stop?
Ohhhhhh My GOD! This is so frustrating!
I'm never going back again.
I have to go back again.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Any normal 14-year-old would get drunk when shit falls apart like this. The only beer I ever tried made me puke and poop my guts out for hours. It's gonna cause so much trouble when all my friends start to drink and I can't. They already think I'm weird. I don't eat lunch and Cee-cee is always after me about my weight. I'd get boobies if I gained 20 lbs, she says. (I keep thinking about how Tim looked at my chest last night. Do I get bigger? I certainly hope so.)
After the forehead kiss he was careful to keep his distance. He wouldn't reveal any details of our relationship and he was distressed. I could see it in his eyes. There's history here that I know nothing about, D. That scares me.
God, what if we've done it? Or will do it in the future ... or the past ... or whatever? I feel like an amnesiac introduced to her husband the first time. I'm overwhelmed and scared shitless. He didn't want to say goodbye, and I didn't either.
I took a break to get my homework done. It's 9:16 p.m. and I turned off my cell phone so calls go right to voice mail. It's bad enough I have to hear the chirp of incoming texts. I honestly believe the teenagers of 1952 have it all over us for privacy. We have no idea how little privacy we have in 2013. It's been totally shredded by cell phones and the Internet. The 5-1/2 hours back in Timmy's time were probably the quietest of my life.