Hullo my angels,

As you well know, Airefeaiel, or Ariel as she is more commonly known, or Spuddy as she is also known, is an awesome writer. She suggested we write a story together, so that I may leach off her bountiful and beauteous talent, which suited me down to the ground.

Speaking of ground, this is our story, Growing Pains, about two girls stuck in an abandoned nursary, extracted from their lives in the fast forward to confront the emultion of emotion that is their very souls. Doesn't that sound intellectual?

The rating is NC 17 plus. Nothing inappropriate, we just don't liek limitting things, it gives us more freedom this way.

Love you guys, first chappie coming.

I'm not THAT good Bubbles. Han is the real genius here people I am simply a leech sucking the genius from her lol. *laughs evilly* lol.

So here is our fic. (well...a banner.. for right now anyway lol)



oh and Disclaimer! We own everyone in this the same as the writing. Please don't steal our work because although we write crappy stuff anyway, stealing isn't nice lol.

:heartbeat: Pat

Prologue

I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad, the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had...Mad World...

God. Dear god. Get me out of here. It's cold. and damp. We're stuck. Trapped behind the glass, forced to smell pesticides for the rest of our lives. HELP!!!! SOMEBODY!!!! We're going to die in here!!! we won't ever get out! I can't die like this!! I'm scared of closed spaces!!!

Dripping. Dripping down the side of the giant fern. Dew. Is it dew? It looks like dew. I like dew. Dew is good. I sing, singing makes me happy and I like it. Dew is good, dew is fun...

I think I'm losing my mind. I look over at her. She seems calm. Calm like the sea on a hot day in the Pacific. Her hair is long and dark, dark, cascading, it's everything that describes beauty. I want her hair. Her eyes are dark, false mystery or is that misery? She can never lie. She's too pure. Too gentle, an Angel.

I'm no angel. I'm a screwed up mess, trapped in here and I'm going to die!!!! I can't die like this!

A scream. Smashing against the glass that won't break, breathing in heavily, chest rising up and down, then a chill, starting from the small of her back, right up to the nape of her neck, the tiny hairs standing up on end. How she hates this. This torment.

(yes...quite crappy indeed...now...Han my dear...please continue and save our fiction)

I'm hooked! Very interested in this! Cannot wait to read more!

Heyllo my beautiful girls!! I love this already!! I can't wait for more. The descriptions are fantastic and so real!!

Love to you both,
Kloey~x0x~

**coughsheliessheliescough**

Gees, no pressure with the funkiness of writing there, eh guys? What an act to follow. Intense, my angel, very intense. I loves it.

Aint she the swellerist?

Love you too, Sun.

The next installment, this time from different perspective

*********************************************

He's coming. He's coming! Black panic on the base of my skull. Throbbing, throbbing. Laugh. Cry. The tendrils of the unbalanced coil and uncoil. They take root in my spine, in my glowing cerebellum where the animal thoughts go.

Quiet. Quiet! Don't let him hear you breathing hard. Don't let him hear you screaming without noise. He just wants to make you react. He just wants to excite you. What it is he always says? Fear and sexual arousal in the human brain are closely linked.

He's coming back. He is. He's coming back. Don't be scared. It's just a game.

The translucent flesh contort in sweaty chasms. Confidently they flaunt their solitude-hardened midriffs, murderers in the skins of ecdysiasts eying prospective buyers, prospective prey.

“He's not coming back.” She says gently. In her voice is all the tempered confidence of a warrior princess. The setting quite fits her, unique, independent, with the passion of the great cause she will never tell.
“Don't say that. He will.” I mew, “He will, it's just a game.”

She shrugs it off. She wears this artificial night, this shadow, as a second skin, a hiding place for her secrets of secrets, a cloak of honour. Her pupils are dialated, incumbering the slow of the streams of light. She doesn't have to say “I told you so”. She doesn't care. It's not now.

Shaking off the choking, husky edged breaths, I can hear her singing under her breath. She's looking around, figuring it out. A few moments more. She sighs, cursing him in her mind. She sits by the wall.

She looks up, the light licking her profile. Her voice, pure and deep, the heart of the cold springs in late winter, with the warmth of a time to come resounding in it's hollows, and the chill of sorrows past clinging to the meaning. It changes with the flight of her soul, now, the warm rich operatic sweet, now, the melancholy ballad, now, the bittersweet mocha of jazz and blues.

She stops when she knows I am listening. “I guess we're stuck here then, eh?”
***************************

Oh no, I ruined it, Spuddy! **cries and dies** Please salvage our story before the crapness of my writing destroys it entirely.

You ruined nothing! You're making it grand!!! *hugs* I love your grandness!!! *gets Ioan to revive you*

:heartbeat: Pat

**hugs you** I love you... and Ioan. But you also.

*hugs you back* awwww I love you too bubbles. *throws a tea party with...COOKIES!*

:heartbeat: Pat

*bounces around excitedly* YAY!!!!!!! Spuddy and Bubbles writing a fic together! And it's amazing! I love it! *adds it to the ever growing list of fics she reads here* And you two are full of...cookies *laughs* Neither or you ruined it, you just made it more awesome. :shine: You're both amazing at description, and now I'm very curious as to who this "he" is. :yes:

I'm looking forward to reading more of this, it's going to be great, I can tell. ^_^

******************************

There's a reason for everything, I know there is. Maybe it's all just a sick game? Sure seems that way. But nothing is ever what it seems...or is it...how can you be so sure? How can you be so sure of anything? Love...life?

It's all just a big chasm. Down, down, down you go...into what? Darkness...happiness...seclusion?

I'm sitting, knees bent, leaning against one of the wooden boxes where the tiny sprouts grow. My feet seem strangely fascinating. Covered in striped socks, white and black white and black, I love the feeling, it's like I'm part of the circus.

A smile.

Tapping against the glass, I look over, completely bored, completely desolate, alone, yet she's right beside me, playing with that gorgeous hair. I remember braiding it, with intricate designs and delicate twirls of my stubby fingers. She looked like royalty somehow when it was done, her hair shining in the morning dawn, we liked the dawn.

We liked everything.

Wind blows against the glass, hitting against it a little, aching muscles in the arm as they push and contort, knuckles white soon they turn to red. There's no point in giving up, no point for tears, stubby hands wipe against them, chipped nailpolish flakes off onto pallid cheeks, sprinkling them.

Then it hits me.

Shaking hands pull back, instinctively white and frail looking. There's something there. There lurking. Always lurking. Why does it lurk? Why is it hiding? What has it done? ALL THESE QUESTIONS!!! GET ME OUT!!!!!!

I...I know now...there's no point in fighting...

Fists slam against the glass one last time. But...If I just hold on...a little longer....maybe...

She turns to me with desperate eyes. 'Don't do it,' they say.

*****************************

*inspired by Mr Fancy pants bus driver who wouldn't let me on today* *shakes fist*

:heartbeat: Pat

you are so fereaking brilliant!! I know its all I ever say but I never cease to be amazed at your amazing talent!!! i loved it!!

I love this!!! I'd write something longer but I'm literally dead!

Sometimes, at night, I can hear her thinking, I can hear the echoes in her brain. I know them. They are a little like mine. Sometimes they say teh same things. Somethings are the same, always the same. Growing things. They are the same. Cold and aloof, because they are the same. They have a purpose and place, among one another.

Sometimes I think she's pleading with herself to be cold and aloof. Sometimes I thinks she wants to be the people we are so far from now but still prey on her mind. Growing things. They haunt her. She want to be like them. She wants to fit. When you want to fit, everything special about you is wrong, and she's very special, she is amazing. It must hurt. She cuts herself to make herself fit. Not to be one of them, to be one of anybody, to be something, to exist, to stop the pain. Pain drowning pain, that's the way we live sometimes, pain drowning pain. Vine choking tree choking fern. Growing things.

I watch her eying the glass. Hypnotised. Wandering. I can see it moving in her eyes. Drown me. Drown me. Drown me. I can hear it. Her crying in the night.

I wonder if that was why he cut me, to make me fit? I wanted to fit in him. I wanted to be a part of something so perfect. I wanted to be loved, at any price, flesh, pain, dreaming, water through my broken hands into his waiting sinew.

What are you reaching for, you plants? What do you see that none of us see? These things so easily in our reach that we cannot comprehend, we cannot understand. What do you know about this existance through which you move so slowly? What do you know about the ages that we do not see?

I look at her, my ageless friend. She is every time. She is every moment. She is the growing things that she begged herself to be. She was just stretching for a different thing, a subtler sunlight, a deeper well. Something they could never see. I want to tell her that.

"It'll be alright." I say.

My pretty that was a glorious chapter! *hugs* More for our angels.

*************

She used to be so full of life. Grasping everything, taking things with open arms and giving them back just as generously, but...it's different now.

It all changed that day, she was just odd, unnatural, virgin to her surroundings.

Pain echoed, terrible pain, pain beyond words, beyond recognition, beyond anything that this world knows, or that we know. Will we ever know?

Lights dance on the ceiling an escapade of rainbow crystals, mirrored, reflected on painted glass, trancelike. A droplet of water beside her, ballet dancer on the glass, peaceful, harmonious, trancelike.

Away. Away from me, away from the light. That's what they would say, painted faces, taunting and poking, everyday, every hour, my whole life. She understood it? Maybe...I suppose, there's no real answer. Rhetorical.

Chocolate eyes follow the light, dancing with the shimmer, a different world, fantasy.

That's what I wish...I wish this was a fantasy...sometimes...I think it could be.

I look to her, breaking the silence, hating it.

'Guess there's nothing left to do...'

When I met him, he was with her. The way he looked at her, the way he idolized her, I still dream about that. The way they would melt into one another, even in front of everyone, just completely absorbed, willing themselves into one seething creature. Everyone said it was fake. Everyone said that they were trying too hard, that people who have a natural affinity, that they can be distant and intimate at the same time. They don't have to will or try or push, they just are. Sighing cupids. But there was the raw romance of the animal on the carpet, the awkwardness clothed in the rudimentary wanting and getting.

God, I wanted him. God, I wanted that, the melting of the awkwardness that always dogged us mortals. To be wanted, needed, on such a fundamental level. I hated that I wanted that. I always have.

When he first kissed me, I thought they had broken up long before. They didn't even look at one another, and she spoke about him almost as if he was dead. I should have picked up on that. People romanticize about people who are dead. It was night, at some stupid party, and the chill drew me closer to him, he took me in his arms, and when he held me, there was no holding back in him. I thought no one could be so generous with love, with loving. The aching in my ribs tells me I still believe that.

When you get everything you want, you know you've done something terrible wrong, and you know that the guilt will destroy you.

When he closed the door, I knew that it was easier to break us than to mend us. I knew that he was cold inside. I knew the very look that was concealed by the shadows that mercifully concealed the hollows of his eyes. Too much. Too little. The love starved and the love stuffed. I knew that was us. I knew the thing you only know when you're out of the spells that love you have to try for curse on you.

When the light breaks the curvatures of her face, I see it's tiger striped with the makeup of a desperate lover, an unrequited lover, an animal who cages herself. I see a woman with a contorted disguise, that is peeling. I see all the lies she worked for slip. I see the venerability, the longing, that sounds so romantic, but are the leprosy and black plague of emotions. I see the our mirror image in the dusty glass, leaning up against the wall like a whore in the morning.

DUDE! that chapter was awesome! *faints*

:heartbeat: Pat

You lie, maestro.

A Lady doesn't lie. But a diva does...so whichever you think I am more, will tell you the truth. But ya...it rocked.

'Like a whore in the morning' really hit me. I think it's the handmaid's tale affecting me.

:heartbeat: Pat

Whn I'd stay with my aunt in King's Cross, I'd always seee thr prostitutes and strippers smoking in the dorrways to the clubs. I think that's the reason I don't really wear makeup, come to think of it. Your turn lol.

The handmaid's tale is great. I want to know what happened to her child.

:heartbeat: Pat

I was about to post asking for more, but haaaa, it's my turn *facepalm*. I shall bring more.

:heartbeat: Pat

The tables have turned, have they not, old friend.

I shall post soon and it shall be based on Lenny Kravitz's Mr Cab driver...I think.

:heartbeat: Pat

So...it WAS based on Mr Cab Driver, but it got kinda freaky writing about racial prejudice and then seeing what happened in Cronulla, so i decided Kelly Clarkson was the way to go. *nods*

I will not make the same mistakes that you did
I will not let myself cause my heart so much misery
I will not break the way you did you fell so hard
I’ve learnt the hard way to never let it get that far

I can never go home now. It’s not the swirling abyss at my feet that prevents me. I prevent me. If I was strong I could fight it. Fight neon jelly beings that choke my sane and rational mind.

Because of you
I never stray too far from the sidewalk
Because of you
I learn to play on the safe side so I don’t get hurt
Because of you
I find it hard to trust not only me
But everyone around me
Because of you
I am afraid

He kept hitting her, and I was powerless to stop it. If I had loved her, I would have found a way. Am I sick to say I smiled watching it? I thought it was entertainment. Everything was entertainment, down to the candy pink tassels on my bike’s handlebars. That was then. Abuse.

I lose my way and it’s not too long
Before you point it out
I cannot cry
Because I know that’s weakness in your eyes
I’m forced to fake a smile, a laugh
Every day of my life
My heart can’t possibly break
When it wasn’t even whole to start with

I bleached my hair for anonymity against the animosity. Rhyming games. The memories wouldn’t rest ever day my hair was like his, my eyes a cruel reminder. They pierced flesh through mirrors, they were deadly. They fought off the bugs crawling underneath my skin, his satanic eyes. Now I was demonic. I was the succubus. My victims suffered, emotionally not physically. Am I more cunning that way? I’m deadlier, it’s true, the real predator, streamlined. Relishing in something much more truthful, truth stripped down to the naked flesh, the ritual carved into beckoning skin, feeling it burn with the victorious sizzle of the reaction. Hot sinner’s flesh. Scarred.

Because of you
I never stray too far from the sidewalk
Because of you
I learn to play on the safe side so I don’t get hurt
Because of you
I find it hard to trust not only me
But everyone around me
Because of you
I am afraid

Trapped in here my hair has time to grow, in the time capsule, broken off to everyone. My hair is black. Dreaded black. The Devil’s hair. The devil never wore red. He wore black and I’m his Anima Sola. This is purgatory, but its distance from him, here I’m safe. Purgatory is bliss. Abuse.

I watched you die, I heard you cry.
Every night in your sleep.
I was so young
You should have known better than to lean on me
You never thought of anyone else
You just saw your pain
And now I cry in the middle of the night
For the same damn thing

She’s my silent warrior and she passed it to her too. I wonder if she knows; she just sits there like she did. Bruised and battered, letting the pain wash over and lap away like the waves in winter. Winter storm was her favourite; I bet its hers too as she sits there staring at the moss, mulling our pathetic existence over. Does she have nightmares locked in this prison? Does her mind question, or is her life as simple as her blank expression? Is ignorance the key? Maybe I should ignore, I will ignore. Though, the mark on my wrist is a reminder, a tourist attraction, the animated beeping of an alarm clock. Will the wounds he dealt be healed? Is ten years enough? Does she have nightmares? My sister. Scarred.

Because of you
I never stray to far from the sidewalk
Because of you
I learn to play on the safe side so I don’t get hurt
Because of you
I find it hard to trust not only me
But everyone around me
Because of you
I am afraid

Song Credit – Because of you - Kelly Clarkson.

:heartbeat: Pat