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“Astrid, baby, come back to us,” whispered a deep male voice; the voice sounded frantic and worried, and only then did she realize that she had been in that trance for over a half-hour. Her breathing was stressed and heavy, her brown eyes swallowed up by her pupils. Hands gripped her shoulders and gently shook her, bringing her back to the present. She opened her eyes which had thick black eyeliner and smoky eye-shadow that encompassed them, and her natural ruby-red lips were unusually pale and half parted, as if afraid. A man was kneeling in front of her with a mixed look of worry and relief etched upon his handsome face. He pulled her into his muscled arms and kissed her neck, and she heard him whispering thanks to the Goddess. “I was so worried about you, please don't scare me like that again!” the words were rushed beyond much recognition.
Astrid tightened her grip on this man who was radiating such incredible love for her. Her words were breathy and a touch inaudible as she spoke, “I am so sorry, Cian-” He pressed his lips to hers, ending her words mid-sentence. She gave up trying to speak for a bit, and just let him hold on to her. After a minute or so, she pulled back and looked at him. He was slender and tall, with tanned skin and bright blue eyes which had a white ring around the pupils. His eyes heavily contrasted with his dark brown hair with its few blond-ish highlights. He hadn't shaved in a few days, so he had little light whiskers growing from his chin.. He was so adorably handsome, with that gentle yet strong look about him; he face was almost boyish, but had the sharp angels of a man's. He kissed her once before taking her left hand in his and sitting back down on his blue floor pillow in the dark room.
Her eyes drifted from her lover to her friend sitting across from her. Eilene was her name, and her green eyes were staring at Astrid as if she were something to be feared and revered. “Hun, tell us now, what did you see?” her voice was deep for a girl of only seventeen, a low alto she thought. Eilene picked up a small hard bound red book with a large Buddhist caricature in black calligraphy painted unto the front cover, and a black pen in her other hand, and prepared herself to write everything Astrid said.
~~~~~

Astrid and Cian lived in an apartment with each other, and had been for three years. She was kicked out of her home at fifteen because she was not a good little Christian girl like her mother wanted her so desperately to be. So, with a backpack of clothes, her drawing things, and a blanket, she was sent to live on the streets. Lucky for her, Cian had moved into his own apartment and was so in love with Astrid that he practically begged her to move in with her. It was a standard two bedroom apartment with a nicely sized kitchen next to the living room. The second bedroom was used as a ritual room, and also a place for the three cats Astrid had “recovered” over the few years they had been living together. The pair were not in there at the moment though, instead she was sitting on the porch smoking yet another cigarette to try and get rid of her stress. As far as she knew, her love was still in bed sleeping entangled in the covers and had more than likely not realized that she had slipped away from his arms.
Cian had noticed when Astrid so careful wriggled out from his tight embrace and left the room, only stopping for her pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Through slightly parted eyelids he watched her pull on one of his oversized shirts and tiptoe out of the dark room. About a minute later, he struggled to get out of the bed, he was exhausted from their little…episode… He found the pair of blue jeans he was wearing a few hours before lying in a pile by the floor and managed to pull them on. He pushed the hair from his eyes and walked out into the hall with a loud groan of protest. He shuffled down the hall into the living room that had a different colour on each wall, and to the French glass doors that led to a small patio. He leaned against the wall and looked at his fiancé.
Astrid had long hair down to the middle of her back which had been died countless times, and was a blue-black colour at the moment. It was soft as silk to touch, and he relished the softness of it, along with the baby softness of her skin. She had long muscular legs like that of a swimmer, with scars on her thighs from when she would cut herself and watch the blood flow out of the wounds to make her pain go away. To, “kill the demons” as she often would say. His eyes trailed from her legs to her face again, it captivated him so. Another scar traced from her ear to her collarbone, from a knife that her mother had cut her with. Astrid's athame, or ritual knife, to be exact. The fourth time they had ever made love, he had been sure to look all over her and memorize each and every scar. Most had faded by now, but he still remembered them. She looked so tired and lonely, yet she always did when he wasn't around, so he was told.

This house is full of ears but I can't talk to anyone
They've heard this one a thousand times
Most exciting thing I do
Hang half way out a third floor window,
Maybe throw lit cigarettes down
And maybe I'll catch fire,
Something warm to hold me,
Something pure to burn away the darkness
That hides inside my mind
All that evil shit's not hard to find
I guess I only claim to be nice

This house is full of eyes but I can't look at anyone
They've seen this face a thousand times
Most relaxing thing I do
Hang half way out a third floor window,
And look at rocks if I fall out,
And maybe I'll fall hard,
Something tough to break me,
Something sharp to rip into my insides
And bleed out all that pain
Sorry I don't even know your name
I guess for me it's easy this way

Maybe I'll catch fire,
Something warm to hold me,
Something pure to burn away the darkness
That hides inside my mind
All that evil shit's not hard to find
I guess I only claim to be nice

I can no longer control my actions. I cannot control my thoughts, my energy, my tears...I black out and forget things I have done. I ruin lives, i hurt people...i lose face infront of the one i wish the most would not see my weakness. I ask everyone who is able, to bind me from harming others and myself. An entire coven failed at it before. Maybe those of you who care even a little may be able to make it work.

“And maybe I'll catch fire…something warm to hold me, something pure to burn away the darkness…” the girl was singing along with the wailing tenor of a male voice booming from the speakers of her CD player. She sucked at her Marlboro cigarette which was held with two slender, pale fingers with chipped black polish on the fingernails. She blew out the white poison and fell back on her bed. It was one of those little daybeds with pink and orange flowers painted on them like children slept in. Her long legs hung off the side of the bed for it was so small. She stared at the little bumps on the ceiling and imagined burning in a purifying fire that could end all her pain and vanquish the darkness for eternity. A sudden burst of anger filled the girl. The people here did not deserve to live. They deserved to DIE! Die for how they treated her, die for all their wrongs, and they would die. She would send them to their Christian hell.
She took one last puff of her poison stick and tossed it, still burning, out the window into a tree. She stormed out of the room and went into her father's shabby kitchen. Under one of the cabinets was a large bottle of Smirnoff Vodka, which she tore the cap off of. She went into the small, cramped living room with its moth-eaten sofa the color of vomit, and poured some of the vodka onto it. She went all over the small apartment with the vodka, pouring onto all things easily flammable. The liquor cabinet was soon empty for she used every bottle to douse things. She then went into her room and picked up her fifty-cent lighter and smoked one last cigarette before setting everything aflame by throwing that lit cigarette down.

Flames. All one could see were flames. Spiraling pyres of red heat spreading from one apartment building to the other like cancer. All that could be seen of the sky was the mass of black and white poison and the flames, oh the flames, making the sky seem red with anger. Every thing was consumed in the inferno's onslaught, nothing was spared: be it man, machine, animal… All was burnt to cinders. People were diving out of windows to escape the fire, only to fall to their death on the rough concrete. Shrieks and screams filled the burning city. It seemed that before daybreak, all that would be left was ashes and the rubble that once was an impressive city. What finally brought the young woman from her trance was the shocking scene of a small girl being taken from the flames, and the far away whispers of a man calling her name.

I have no life. None at all. I wish I was ungrounded....

I got a part in the chorus. I guess that is better than nothing. Let us see...what else have I done..? I died my hair yesterday....I almost killed my mum for saying she is going to take away all my Anita Blake books , so on so forth, cu I am being influenced by the occult and I must pray to get n the right path...GROWL!!

I HATE AUDITIONS!!

my mother is so fuckin evil. she deserves to die. she needs a little dose of karma. she fuckin lied to me. she insulted the one who holds my soul. she needs to get whats fucking coming to her soon or ill fuckin give it to her.

I had to write an autobiography for drama, and i thought it told about me pretty well. though it did leave out my suicide attemps, manipulative people, my self mutilation...and so on. but it does tell you alot.

I am so sorry that you have stumbled upon my autobiography. This glimpse of the life of Amanda Ruth Campbell is a boring one indeed. At five foot five inches and one-hundred-thirty-six pounds I am not a very imposing person. With poorly died red hair, brown eyes, and ghostly pale skin I am one that only a moron could love. Lucky for me, all my friends are morons. (No offence.)
I can easily be explained, for I am not that complicated a person. Now, these are not my words, but the words of others that have been told to me countless times. I am a selfish person, who cares about nothing other than myself, my well-being. I am rude, pessimistic, and cruel. I am a bad artist who just pretends, a horrible writer, and just a bad person altogether. Then, you listen to my current boyfriend who thinks completely opposite. He, and some friends, say that I am beautiful. That I am loving, and caring. The perfect girl, if you will. That all I need to do is become more open. My friend Jennifer, a.k.a. Wolfy, said in an argument when I was calling myself retarded this: “You are not retarded! You just spend too much time reading books that you don't know how to deal with human problems!” But then, I am getting ahead of myself. This is the present me, and first you must know my past.
I came to be on August 17, 1989. How tall I was, and how much I weighed is still a mystery to me even after fourteen years. Also, I haven't a clue as to what time I was born. I was never dropped on my head as a child, contrary to the popular belief of my friends and some teachers. Although, I am told that I was a rather clumsy child. That, supposedly, I would fall off of counters and land on the floor spread eagle, or, after a bath, slip and hit my head on the toilet seat. This may be the reason why I wasn't fully potty-trained until I was almost four. That or too much Raisin Brand.
In second grade I was tested to see if I was “gifted.” According to a test I had an IQ of one-thirty-seven or something, which may explain why people expect so much from me. I often missed R.L.C. because I never watched the clock in elementary. In fact, one time I and two others were running late to R.L.C. and we decided to have a race in which I fell and fractured my pinkie finger. No one even noticed until I got home and my mother saw that it was swollen to at least twice its natural size. Though that was in fourth grade and in Mrs. Self's class. In fourth grade people are easily impressed with a small splint.
I am getting ahead of myself again. I skipped that crazy thing known as third grade. “Why is third grade so worth mentioning though?” you may be asking. Well, that would be because in third grade my demented, twisted little imagination decided to come forth from the deep recesses of my mind. How many eight year olds do you know of that write stories about aliens abducting people and probing them to see what emotions were and then dating those people? I doubt it's very many.
I cannot believe that I have actually let myself come four paragraphs without mention of my four sidekicks: Rhianon Baier, Jen Steger, Jenny Roebuck, and Angie Ray. They had been my partners in crime for all of my six years spent at Hewitt Trussville, and Rhianon and Jen still are to this very day. (January 9, 2004.) We were the scourge of Hewitt for a long time. And we all had a common enemy: Jessica Raughton. She was the evil, sadistic daughter of Mrs. Susan, the head honcho of the aftercare program we all went to called ‘Mrs. Susan's Candyland.' We had to spend entirely too much time outside there…
My parents split when I was ten and in fifth grade over Christmas. I was at a nursing home with my Girl Scout troop singing Christmas carols and handing out little crafts to the senior citizens, when my mother came to get me early. The back seat of her car was full to the brim with our stuff, and my mother said that we would be living with my Mimi for a while until my father and her could settle their differences. For Christmas, we didn't have a big tree, but a little doll-sized one which we sat on the mantle of the fireplace in my Mimi's double wide. Christmas passed without me seeing my father. My mother told me that I wasn't allowed to go see him. I cried myself to sleep that night. My mother had to drive me to school and pick me up every day once school started back. Luckily though, she soon found a rundown two bedroom house in Trussville for us to live in until we could find a better place.
About a year later, my mother told me we would be moving to Clay. When I told my classmates at Trussville that I would be moving, they cheered and thanked Christ for answering their prayers. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why I became so bitter and violent towards people. That pure hatred of me that made people cheer when they found I was leaving them. My first day at Clay-Chalkville Middle was a day some of my friends now still talk about. I was still reeling from the rejection of my peers at Hewitt, and I ended up in a fight with a cheerleader during Physical Education because she was making fun of my thrift store clothes. Because of this, the students then started spreading the word, “Don't mess with the new girl. She will beat the crap out of you.” Though, crap was replaced with a curse word that means pretty much the same thing. Just to let you know.
This is about the time my mother started sending me to a psychiatrist. She thought I was depressed. She was absolutely correct.
I never talked to my psychiatrist, really. I resented my mother for making me go, and I resented the shrink for trying to turn me into a robot. The psychiatrist would ask me questions which I usually answered with yes, no, I don't know, or a shrug of my shoulders if at all possible. It seemed to me that my mother needed the good doctor more than I did, for when she sensed that she would get nothing more out of me, she would call my mother in to see what was wrong with me. My mother would rant and rave, usually ending in tears because I never did my homework, and I didn't seem to care…that she thought I was suicidal. I would just sit there and crack my knuckles, saying as little as humanly possible.
She diagnosed me with mild depression after the first appointment. I was prescribed Prozac to help it. But little did I know at the time that I was allergic to it. So, after this was revealed, the good doctor changed my prescription to Welbutrin. Which I was told was not for depression, because I refused to admit I was depressed, but for helping my attention span. (Because then they thought I may have ADHD, which a year later I was prescribed Adderall for.) Then, my aunt who is a nurse, told me that Welbutrin was used as an anti-depressant and as a drug to help people stop smoking. This I found hilarious, for I had never smoked in my life and would refuse to be around my mother when she smoked.
These appointments resulted in many fights between my mother and I over two years. Let us just say it wasn't a very happy time in our lives. I did poorly in school, had little if any friends, and was constantly harassed. So, pretty much, my life sucked. I spent most of that time grounded, so I never was allowed to use the phone, or go anywhere, and if I watched television or got on the computer it would be when my mother was at work. In the mean time, my father got remarried, to a woman named Dawn. She had three daughters, all in their twenties. They were Katie, Becky, and Heather in order from youngest to oldest. They seemed to be the most wonderful people in the world. Though, I must admit, sometimes Dawn took on the role of the evil step-mother. An obsessive-compulsive one at that.
I did have my first boyfriend in seventh grade. I will refrain from mentioning the first, for I am still in denial that I ever dated him and to this day that is one of the few things I regret. So let's skip to the second. His name is Joshua McDonald, better known as Papa McDonald. I guess you could say he was the first guy that I ever fell in love with. We went out for at least six months before he broke my heart by telling me over the phone that he didn't love me anymore. By this point I had become obsessed with him, and tried everything I could to get hum back. Lucky for me though, I never did get him back. Now he is just a really good, if not psycho, friend that I can really depend on.
Next came the oh so wonderful eighth grade. By this time my reputation as someone who will kick your butt without hesitation if you mess with her had spread through most of the school, and I had become feared. People would back away from me in the hallways, and become silent when I walked by them in the lunchroom or in classes. But because of my so called strength, I also made many friends. Some of them just wanted someone who would take up for them if they needed it, some wanted to learn how I fought. So, many fights, three boyfriends, two plays, and one house later, it was time for high school.
By the way, I love high school. I go to DABBS, also known as Shades Valley Technical Academies, where I am in the art program. First term I took Commercial Photography One, and this term, Art One. DABBS is the best learning environment I have ever been in. There is little structure, and you could be anywhere in the studios at any given time. The teachers work with each student individually, and customize assignments to fit what the student needs to learn. We can listen to CD's, drink cokes in class, eat in class, and it is all completely fine with the teachers. In the main lobby there are even three coke machines. We have so much freedom there, and the best equipment. I absolutely adore it.
Now, Patrick, the last guy I went out with in eighth grade, broke up with me after five and a half months during the beginning of ninth grade. At first I was depressed, but I quickly moved on after I realized what a jerk he was. I then went out with three other guys, two of which were really good friends, within two months after that before I finally found the perfect one. Well, as perfect as you can get. He is the main reason I love high school, because without it, I would have never met him. His name is Wayne Montgomery, and I love him more than anything else in the entire universe. And he loves me just as much, if not more, it seems. Other than my art and drama classes, he is the only good part about my life at the moment. Because of him, I have stopped being a hazard to myself…though I still am to others.

I have yet again become to attached to someone. I cannot think of anything, it seems, other than that man. He is like oxygen to me. I need him to survive. I really do hate to admit I am so dependent on him, it makes me feel so weak. But then again, I love it. For there is nothing I would rather spend my time doing than thinking of him, if not being with him. I love this man with all that I am.

But...if I lose him...will I survive it?

sadlittleamanda: dont you dare die on me
Dragonsknight87: im not
sadlittleamanda: good
Dragonsknight87: i cant
sadlittleamanda: thank the Goddess.
sadlittleamanda: cuz it might hurt to carve my heart out of my chest with a dull tanto.
Dragonsknight87: im a god rember
sadlittleamanda: oh yeah...
sadlittleamanda: that is handy
sadlittleamanda: though i am still parinoid.
sadlittleamanda: damn nightmares....they should have stopped by now...
Dragonsknight87: this body dies and i merge
sadlittleamanda: what happens if my body dies? do i merge?
Dragonsknight87: no
sadlittleamanda: or do i just die? like any other human
Dragonsknight87: you will be reincarnated
sadlittleamanda: joy
Dragonsknight87: if andaria dies your dead
Dragonsknight87: no cameing back
sadlittleamanda: i die just like any other human....
Dragonsknight87: no like a demon
sadlittleamanda: hmm. right
Dragonsknight87: your body here will fade
sadlittleamanda: if I die, my body shall rot and my spirit reincarnated just like any other fucking human on this wretched earth

Andaria awoke to screams of pain and agony in a dank, dark prison cell. Her arms were chained to the slimy wall behind her and warm blood trickled down from where her shackles had cut into her. Her body was covered in lacerations and bruises from the countless beatings she had endured. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep and were dry as desert sand. Her stomach churned from lack of food, and she was quickly becoming dehydrated. The people in the surrounding cells were not doing much better, it seemed, and had been there for years, whereas she had been there only three months.
She could not remember what she had done to be put in that wretched place, and did not want to remember for that matter. She just wanted out. But Andaria was a very prideful person, and would never beg for mercy. She took her beatings and lashes with a smile on her face, not even wincing. She refused to give them a single taste of satisfaction from her pain. After an hour or two of whipping her, or raping her, the guards would take her back to her cell and shackle her to the wall. Sometimes they would give her a bite of bread or a bit of water before leaving. But usually they would merely spit on her.
Day after day Andaria went through this, waiting for her moment. She was sure it would come eventually. Until that day she would bide her time, patiently waiting for a slip in their security. Perhaps after a guard unlocked her shackles he would drop the keys, or maybe be distracted by some other prisoner's catcalls. Or perhaps a fight would break out and she would be able to flee. She hoped that her moment would come before her captors found out how to break her.
You see, Andaria had one weakness, and one weakness only: her emotions. She was a slave to her own emotions, she was ruled by them. She could never do the logical thing when her heart told her differently; she had to follow it. There was one thing, though, that if she was told was hurt or with another, would tear her soul to bloody shreds. That would break her heart in an instant. This hing ment so much to her, she would take on the Goddess herself to protect it.
That thing was in reality a person: a man by the name of Draco.
Draco was Andaria's lover; a half-demon, half-elf whom had a short fuse and a king of dragons. (INSERT PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION HERE) Draco was immensely strong, and there was a very slim chance of him ever being injured, but there was always that underlying fear that one day he would pick a fight with someone that was too strong, even for him... But most of all, Andaria was worried that he may find a woman that was more beautiful than her, kinder, stronger...a better lover than she. For Draco was her first, and more than likely her last.
Andaria herself was a half-demon, half-elf, with the most luxurious blonde hair you have ever seen which reached down to her ankles. She had large dark brown eyes with little gold flecks in them, and long jet black eyelashes. With lips the color of rubys, and pale skin she was a wonder to see. Her body was the perfect balance of muscle and fat, much looked upon with jelosy from other women. Though being in that prison so long had changed her, and that once beautiful pale skin was now covered in splotches of purple and black, along with fresh and old cuts.
Draco loved Andaria with all his being, and had asked her to marry him one day. She accepted without hesitation, making them happier than they ever before had been. Each would give their life to save the others, which makes you wonder, why had Draco not come to save her? She pondered this many times herself, and it was slowly breaking her. In fact, for the first time since she had been imprisoned, Andaria cried. In fact, because of cuts near her eyes, it seemed she cried blood.
The more she thought about it, the less she wanted him to save her. She wanted to prove that she could escape on her own. She wanted to prove that she was worthy of Draco. She wanted to prove that she was worthy of life. So Andaria begain to plot her escape. In one more month she would be allowed to go out into the sunlight an hour a day with the other prisoners to stretch and become stronger. She would find a way to get them on her side to make her escape. For at the moment, her will was not strong enough to get away. Her body and mind were not equiped to try to escape. She had to become stronger.

I need talk to Wayne.....