Disclaimer: Um, hello.  I don’t own James, or his daddy or momma, or . . jesse belle . . or . . uhh . . okay that’s pretty much it.  They all belong to the creators of Pokemon!  But umm . . I own the bartender guy and Ann.  I sorta own birdland.  The name isn’t mine, but I kinda made most of it up.  So . . umm . . oh, and the song Got the Life isn’t mine either.  That’s by the infamous KORN!  Yup, Jon made it up.  Anyway . . so . . those are pretty much the disclaimer issues . .
    Written by: Eddy Bosch
    Rating: uh . . probably . . PG-13 or something . . no sex, so . .
    WARNING: mild drug use, sexual content, and vulgarism are mentioned.  
    Authors note: hi . . umm . . I want to apologize for this story before you read it.  Lol . . now that I’m going back and re-reading it, I see how bad it actually is.  I just want to let you know, that my stuff’s usually a bit better than this crap, but . . in this case . . I guess it wasn’t.  I’m really not very proud of it, so if you send me hate mail, I’ll know why!  Lol . . but . . I’m sure you’ll always remember it once you read it, so I suggest you go ahead and read it just for the sake of it.  There’s not really a saga or anything to it, so there’s really no continuation.  The story ends how it ends and that’s the way it ends.  Alright, well . . I hope you enjoy yourselves anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To the memory of Pot

My dear lost love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Swamp Foetus

        His real name was James.  Everyone around him called him Jamie, but it was most definitely James.  His parents didn’t care enough to even remember this little fact (nor did they want to take the time to learn it), so they all called him Jamie.  That is, when they were even around him and hadn’t left him in care of the servants who worked for the family estate.
       
    And even the servants weren’t much of company.  The would just keep handing him over, down the line, until he ended up either lost or locked in his room as a punishment that he didn’t really deserve.  Nobody wanted to care for him, it seemed.  But that was okay, because James liked the isolation that his room provided from every other room in the mansion.  He would happily (or some other sad excuse of a from of happiness) draw, or talk, or sing lightly to himself from that big king-sized bed planted in the center of his room, with the all too familiar lyrics unwinding from Jonathan Davis’ mouth, sad and true.  And he hardly ever talk to anyone, including his parents.  
       
    Daddy was always yelling at him and hitting him, while Momma just stood there in her evergreen, gowny dress and watched Daddy verbally and sometimes physically abuse the child she denied ever creating.  The child that had gone corrupt.  And because his disobedience and will to be himself was permanently stained to her self-righteous ego (and maintained as a reflection of her parenthood), she had called upon a lovely young mistress to whom he would be married.  Jesse Belle.  Such a pretty name, thought Momma.  And she was the perfect one out of anybody who could possibly teach James proper etiquette, and drain him of all his individuality that he so richly possessed.  He would not be James by the time Jesse Belle was done with him.  His momma and daddy would see to that.
       
    And while Jesse Belle grew excessively obsessed with him and began taking pleasure in hurting him almost as much as Daddy had, James began to feel so completely alone and lost that every amount of imagination that was stolen from him by Jesse Belle or his parents, would make like energy and would not be erased from existence, but was transferred into mid-air and would create someplace new and enchanting, and one time, even a girl.  The place was called Birdland; the girl he had named Ann.  Such a pretty name, thought James.  And it didn’t sound at all like Jesse Belle — Momma always thought that was such a pretty name.
       
    Birdland was wonderful, somehow stealing the strangeness and uniqueness that was truly New Orleans down in Louisiana.  He didn’t know why Birdland had turned out to be made up of New Orleans life.  He lived all the way up in Sunnytown, North Carolina.  But, all the better because some place far away was what he had been trying to accomplish for as long as he could remember.
    
    At first, Birdland seemed so grassy and fresh, and alive, but after a few years of using, had become run down like the very streets of New Orleans really were.  He knew every day wasn’t like Mardi Gras in New Orleans now, but that’s what he had thought when he first created Birdland, and that was how he wished it would have stayed.  But, that’s what real education does to you, and now he knew the city was as run down as his life.  Everyday was like the day after Mardi Gras: broken, empty, and slightly dusty in some form.
    
    But, unlike Birdland, Ann never grew old and worn out like the real streets of New Orleans did.  She stayed young and fresh, bright and playful.  She never teased him or mocked him or even commented at all about who he was and what he was in to, wouldn’t complain or try and change him.  In fact, she only told James what he wanted to hear, told him things his parents would never have the courage (or even want) to say.  But even though playing mind games with James was one of her strengths, listening was her specialty.  James didn’t really need to concentrate on letting Ann be while he was talking to her.  She would sometimes drift off right in the middle of a breakdown or a question that he knew deep down would never be answered.  But that just meant that she was tired, James decided.  She was always listening, just sometimes not really . . . there.  It was the best he could come up with after having Ann slowly fade away in the middle of a story.  Why else would a pretend ghost disappear unless they were tired?  It was a nice theory.  And true for James.
    
    But even Ann and Birdland weren’t enough to satisfy him.  He still felt that urge to be with someone more, something more.  Every day that he had to spend with Jesse Belle, the hole only tore deeper through his heart, through his mind, and just left him wearing nothing but tears.  But, while the hole of lost meaning grew bigger and stronger everyday, his body did not, and, instead, something else seemed to drink his energy and faith right out of him and hog it all to itself and transform it into something that wasn’t supposed to be there, something that made him cry, something that purely dominated him.  
    
    Ann was doing her best, James had concluded, and Birdland was only inches behind her, but Momma, Daddy, and Jesse Belle were just too powerful, and good at what they were trying to do.  But he had to maintain his position as a living, breathing human being with an identity.  Bobby and Rosana’s perfect, darling son wasn’t a title he wanted to proclaim.  He wanted people to know his name, to remember it and never forget it.  He wanted to be James, not Bobby and Rosana’s son – Jamie, was it?  If Momma and Daddy really wanted him to become what they had dreamed ahead for him, then they would have to love him first.  And tell him.  
    
    But, knowing that would never really happen, James kept to himself a little more everyday, until you couldn’t recognize him as one of the educated, or one of the dim.  He would never find relief and love inside his parents.  They had way too many walls, and maybe even no feelings behind them.  Maybe they were as empty and disillusioned as his very perspective of life was.  He didn’t really care to know.  He cared as much about them as they did about him.  But, of course, he would have expressed his feelings in more practical ways than abuse, ignorance . . .
    
    He would have to half-heartedly rely on Ann and Birdland to keep him alive, keep him sane.  That is, until someone else came along.  Someone new, someone sure . . . someone real.

1996

        Everything was still, quiet, peacefully asleep without disruption.  Rest.  If anything were to move now, it would surely break the worldly peace that only occurs in dreams (when everything is either perfect, strange, or horribly dreadful).  Sleep swept through his room like a breeze, or sigh, gently lulling him into the only thing that comforted him, to a place where he belonged and longed to be in – his dreams.  And whatever dreams he may have been having, they were not forced or implanted by the tyrants dwelling with him – they were simply stopping by to play, to laugh.  And so, he slept on, happily enchanted in his world – the only world that understood him.  Birdland.
    
    A door cracked open.  As soon as the few strands of light fluttered through the air, every object in his room, including himself, grew a bit dull, dead.  Awakened, but dead from the light.  It was disturbing to feel something that you don’t understand, don’t want to understand.  The wicked light reined over the floor of his room, the backboard of his bed, and the complete left side of his face.  It would have awakened him if he weren’t so far away, sleeping sideways at the food of his bed, still in his clothes from that day.  As his pale, fragile skin refracted the light (instead of absorbed it), you could see by the black eyeliner that was dried up in it’s stream, that he had been crying earlier – and only he knew why.
    
    More light poured in as the door opened more surely, and she walked into the room, keeping her eyes on her precious James.  How sweet he looked from this angle, his tears and eyeliner dried up and stained to his skin, the rim around this closed eyes still moist from them trickling out like rain drops fallen on a leaf.  Everything changed when his eyes were closed.  The emotion, they only things that weren’t gray and white, and the slight spark of mischief that twined in the jade retinas of his eyes were all gone.  But, most of all, the misery, the pain, the complete displacement that he felt was all drained, taken away, hidden from the entire family.  Sometimes it was better hen he closed his eyes.  
    
    He was only 11, and as battered and bruised as a man in old age.  He had experienced every ounce of pain in his 11 years on Earth than a single man would probably ever encounter in his average 80 years alive.  So tortured.  So . . . troubled, and diverged from anything that was slightly familiar to him, the only place he could call home.  No wonder he cried all the time.
    
    His lips were dry and crackled, but this was her only chance to maybe feel them against hers, her only opportunity to feel his tongue mingling with hers.  Perhaps he would waken in time to notice that it was actually Jesse Belle’s tongue he was massaging against his own, or maybe he would and completely indulge in it and melt into her mouth like hot, flowing lava.  But, she couldn’t see any of that happening as she found herself making her way through the hollow block of light towards his bed.  She somehow (as if by instinct) remembered to tip-toe her way across the carpeted floor, and stay that way as she leaned over him, observing his chest rising and falling with every soundless, peaceful breath he took.  She almost felt ashamed to want to disturb it.  But, she had come in here to do this and it wasn’t that she was afraid (which she wasn’t), it was that she knew this was just like her – and she absolutely loved it.  It felt good torturing someone you’ve loved for a long while, especially when you get to stare upon the look imbedded in their faces like a plate of metal – such torture.  She needed to kill him to truly love him, and that’s what she had been doing for the past eight years since their meeting – killing him softly.  Slowly.  She couldn’t wait to wake him up now.
    
    She was barely able to feel his breath sweep across her face before she leaned in, touching her lips ever so lightly upon his own.  They did feel dry and crackled, but they were still his, and the moister of his tongue completely covered over the dryness of his lips.  But, right when her tongue slid in his mouth, he jerked away slightly, barely moving his head away from lip-lock – which she refused to break, and kept going, completely unaware that he may have wanted to stop soon.

    
        He was walking along the streets of Birdland, the sky was a velvety purple, the grass a bright neon green (such as it usually is in Birdland), and a saxophone was heard wailing in the distance, screeching as it’s cartoon arms reached from it’s side and played itself, looking for no tips, just feeling a lust to play.  The street he was walking on was empty, like the day after Mardi Gras, with scattered, broken beads laying everywhere, a hint of Carnival Day still lingering in the air like the memory of a scent.  Old and open bars guarded the crumbling streets of th city, some looked deserted.  Neon open and closed signs flickered on and off through the fingerprint-stained windows.
    
        He didn’t feel the need for a drink or a joint at the moment; he had just passed by here for some reason and all he wanted to do was take a walk around the midst of New Orleans—a fine place to visit when wherever you want to go is nowhere.  It seemed logical, but his curiosity got the better of him and he ended up strolling into one of the bars at the corner, entering so casually that it even made him feel more grown-up—as if he had actually visited a bar without sneaking in.
    
        The smell of old popcorn, cigarettes, pot, and the rusty scent of blood filled his lungs.  The air in this joint certainly hung oppressively low around him, letting him know just how abandoned and lost this bar was.  Probably never visited that often.  The floor was sticky with spilled beer and soda cans, cracking under the soles of his shoes as he stepped forward from the entrance of the bar.
    
        He loved the smell of a place that was not that of his own house.  And this place only completely countered to what he faced at home.  He looked around and spotted a passed out bum-addict sprawled over a booth table, an old syringe claiming his left hand as the black blood leaked from the fold of his right elbow and through the brown, ratty coat he was wearing, trickling across the table and pooling around the hand with the syringe.  Typical day in New Orleans—such a cause for blood spilled.
    
        But other than himself, and the f**ked-up addict, the bar was empty.  The bartender must have been in the back, because he sure as hell wasn’t out there waiting to serve customers that probably never came in anyway.  He strolled over and took a seat at a bar stool, leaning over and putting his chin in his hands, waiting for the bartender to come out and talk or offer him a drink, or something.  Something.
    
        And he finally did waltz out with a tall glass suffocated by a rag stuffed cleanly to the bottom.  He smiled at his only conscious customer and set the glass right down in front of James, smirking slightly at him, letting him know that the drink was somehow on the house—even with a sense of a dying business lingering in the air.  Turning the corners of his mouth down, James accepted and ordered a wine cooler, and when the bartender turned around to get the drink, James stuffed his only five into the tips jar.  He didn’t seem to notice, because when he turned around with the cool, refreshing beverage condensing in James’ small hands, the bartender opened his mouth to say something.
    
        But, as if suddenly changing his mind, the man lunged forward pressed his lips up against James’, forcing in his tongue as if his life depended on it into his mouth—reaching, massaging, wanting.  And James realized he was being kissed . . .
    

        What a f**king dream.  But what was happening now?  He felt a tongue barging it’s way through his dead, moist lips, seeking his own tongue and catching it in it’s slippery grasp, sliding in and out of his mouths like a snake’s.  Why was he feeling this?  Hadn’t he woken up?  Without returning tongue yet, he started to jerk away slightly and slowly open his eyes to find that the face which was fused to his was Jesse Belles.  And it was indeed, Jesse Belle’s.  For, her long, red hair was draped over him, not letting him really see anything around her, barely even breathe.  
       
    But what was she doing with her tongue?  It sort of tickled him in a way he had never felt before, and he found himself smiling a little and closing his eyes shut now, returning the kiss completely, deliberately.  She was the one who tortured him, killed him a little every day, and now he was kissing her.  Why?  It didn’t make any sense – but, then again, nothing else in his life ever did either.  He may as well kiss his mortal enemy.  After all, love is stronger than hate.  But, this was only a suburb living next to love – lust.  That and that only.  So this was what it was like to kiss the enemy.  Blissful . . . but . . .
    
    But then it wad different.  He suddenly couldn’t really feel who he was kissing.  He wasn’t even sure if he were to call it kissing anymore, for, he could no longer feel her heart beating, couldn’t feel her blood pounding through her veins , he couldn’t even feel a mind there.  It was like kissing a dummy.  No feeling, no emotion; nothing was kissing back but her lips.  Something was going through her, making her seem as hollow as his life.  It went from being kind of fun, to empty and barren.
    
    As the kissing went on deeper (or, shallower as you might say), he became lost and alone, frightened and cold in a dark room somewhere inside her, shivering, barely hanging on to consciousness.  And then he couldn’t breathe.  Images flashed through his mind of her on top of him, sliding her sticky sweaty hands over his bare, goose-bumped chest while her mouth fused with his and refused to loosen him from her grasp.  Her tongue was like ink and her mind numb as ice and pounding into his, the ink, spilling into his mouth, dripping down his throat, choking him, and the ice freezing his brain shut, burning it with it’s deathly chills.  Unpleasant.  So he pulled away suddenly, shutting his eyes tighter and curling his lips in, not letting her continue.
      
    And all she could do was look down at him, no expression.  He opened his eyes and saw that her eyes weren’t even blue anymore – they were nothing.  She may as well have been faceless.  He was scared.  She was going to slap him again; he could feel it.  She was going to hurt him.  There was nothing else she could do.  She had tried to kiss him, and he pulled away, and now she was just staring him down, angrily, but a little dumbfounded.
    
    She budged, and James flinched back a touch, expecting something to happen that was slightly related to something of pain.  But she didn’t strike.  She just slid off him, off his bed, backwards, eye contacted, grabbed the doorknob clumsily, made the light disappear.  She was gone.  
    
    His tension declined, breathing became easier, drifting was now possible.  What was that?  Was all she wanted, a kiss?  And why was kissing her such a torture?  What was that feeling that grew inside her as their tongues became more in-tune with each other?  It was so . . . hollow.
    
    A noise from the other side of the room perked his senses, and he sat up straight, gazing down at the long, velvety drape covering his windows.  She stepped out then, in her white, lace nightgown, as cute as ever, and slowly walked forward out of the darkest shadows in his room.
    
    “Ann?” he spoke, and jumped up to flick the light on.  Yes, it was Ann.  Her face seemed almost identical to his own: dried tears painted onto her pale, white skin, eyed red and still a little puffy.  She had been crying too.  “What’s wrong?  Why’ve you been crying?”
    She sniffled.  “She hurt you,” she spoke.
   
    He sighed, knowing that she had felt his aloneness just as much as he had himself.  It weighed heavily on her imaginary soul, anchoring her down with him as he felt this emptiness overpower him, pound into him.  He had forgotten that Ann would be feeling the same.  And every other feeling belonging to James, was inevitably hers.  If James died, there would be nothing left of her because he would stop dreaming, wouldn’t really need her anymore to play with, ans she would slowly creep away into none-existence.  Fading, dying physically, lacking imagination to keep her going.  
    
    James wouldn’t become a ghost as Ann had been created, wouldn’t confuse God and leave him no choice but to stick him here, in this house.  Maybe this was Ann’s heaven, but James’ heaven was nothing like this place.  Oh, no.  his heaven was far away from her.  Not even Ann was a strong enough impression to make want to stay.  If he died, he would miss Ann terribly, but he would still leave.  She knew it.
    “Did you feel all of it?” he asked her.
    She shrugged her shoulders.  “Depends.  How bad was it for you?”
    He drew in his breath for a last time.  “Bad,” he answered.  “Worse.  I couldn’t feel anything but pain . . .”
    Ann lowered her head and climbed into the large bed with him.  He was going to tell the story she wanted to hear.
   
    “At first, I had no idea, because I thought I was still dreaming.  But then it came into view, and I realized she was . . . and all I could do was kiss back.”  He smiled.  “I kinda liked it at first.  But then it grew to be something else.  I don’t know how to describe it . . .
    “It was like something was pulsating right straight through her, like something was controlling her completely and she was just this big, open, black void in which my life was being sucked into.”  He started to whimper.  
    “And, it was like she was draining me, but filling me like –” he let the sob go.  “Like she was trying to kill me at the same time.  And then my mind hurt so bad.  So bad I thought it was going to freeze up like ice and break through my skull.  She was numbing my brain so bad.  But all I could think about was what was pulsating through her, where it all was coming from.  
    “Something was going through her to me, but I don’t know what . . .”
    “Then, yes,” answered Ann.  “I felt all of it.  Every last drop.”
    “At least I have you,” he started.  “You care.  You can feel it, too.  I don’t have anyone else . . . ‘cept you.”  He lowered his head.  Oppressed images of a dark aura encircled him, brought him out.  He knew he was alone.  More than he would ever be.  All he had was an imaginary friend . . . and Birdland.  And his music.  But no living soul understood him.  Birdland and his beloved music were alive in a sort of way . . . but not Ann.  She never was and never will be.  But he didn’t hear her complain any.  No.  The only one to complain was hi.  And merely about a selfish deed of being alone in a world so wicked and wide.  “But it won’t always be that way,” she added.
    
    He looked up, took a few seconds to let the tangibility of the words sink in, let them become a reality.  And then his face saddened, as he realized this fact . . . this impended fate of all that is aloneness and solitude.  He would forever be alone after Ann.  No one would refill his life with as much meaning . . . and then the kiss wasn’t what was important anymore.  Jesse Belle had depressed him, stunned him, rattled his nerves, made him think about why again.  Why.
    
    Gross.  He hated that question with such a passion – because he couldn’t ever find the answer to any of it.  Why had she kissed him with such a strange mood, such a strange reaction?  Well, why did he even exist in the first place?  Maybe God had merely become bored one day . . .
    
    Aw, f**k it.  He would never know.  Why waste your time trying to find what no one else has ever discovered before?  It was stupid.  He would never be truly happy for more than a split second in his lifetime.  Not with anybody around to be miserable with, that’s for sure.
    “I wish it would stay that way though,” was what he mouthed-out next, saying it half-heartedly, even though he meant it to be more . . .
    “It will.  Not for me.  But you’ll find others.”
    He looked up at her. Others, he thought.  Then said it.
    “Others?” he asked.  “What others?”
    She smiled at him, sweet and innocent, just like how she had been created, and paced herself over to the relatively old cd player on his bureau.  All she did was press one of the dusty, sticky buttons, and let the music reach out to him.
    “You are not alone, James.  You never have been.”

    Hate something, sometime, someway,
    something kicked on the floor for me.
    Something, inside.
    I’ll never ever follow.
    So give . . . me . . . some . . . thing . . . that . . . is . . . for . . . real!
    I’ll never ever follow.

    He tilted his head in somewhat of confusion at first, but then just smirked and lay back down on his bed, closing his eyes and letting the music pour over him, envelope him in this soothing cradle of comfort.  The message and puzzle pieces of it all came together on what Ann was trying to say: someone did truly understand how he felt.  Jon knew.  He’d known ever since he was James’ age how it felt to be so out of place and feel so cut off from everything that was normal, everything that was sane.  Was he, himself, just crazy to hate his life as it was now?  Perhaps.  But at least he had someone to be crazy with along the way.

    Hate something, somewhere, each day,
    dealing without forgiveness.
    Why?  This shit inside.
    Now everyone will follow.
    So give . . . me . . . noth . . . ing . . . just . . . feel!
    And now this shit will follow.

    The only difference was that Jon could express his feelings physically and to the entire world, while all James could do was keep them to himself in horrible nightmares that awoke him so many more times a night than fantasies.  And, now, for once in his life, he didn’t feel quite alone.  Like Ann had said, “You’re not alone, James.  You never have been.”  There were others just like him out there, but he felt his connection only with Jon, and nobody else.  Like they were the only ones who felt the same amount of pain.  They could reach each others’ minds, finish each others’ sentences.  They had a connection through something so simple, feeling completely at one when Jon sent him those messages through the screaming guitars behind him.

    God begs me, the more I see the light he wants to see.
    God told me, I’ve already got the life, oh I say . . .
    God begs me – he’ll never see the life he wants to see.
    God told me, I’ve already got the life, oh I say . . .

    He didn’t want to admit that there were indeed other kids around the world thinking the same thing he was (for, a hint of jealousy sprouted inside him), so he didn’t.  He imagined only him and Jon sharing the mike, pressing their bodies up against each other so tight as if their mere existence counted on it, creating twisted lyrics spontaneously, and all in front of a crowd of lost souls – dancing, singing, getting lost in the sweet lullaby that was so loud you couldn’t hear it.  He animated the music in his mind, made it come to life for him, making the music fly through the air in long, black ribbons, swirling around him and holding onto him, fastening him in their comforting grip of security – the only thing he was known by.  Lost in Jon’s music, but safe in the ribbons as well.  They filled his room, slithered through and in-between the cracks and spaces that were scattered around his it.  And all he could do was float there, in a place that was much more powerful than Birdland, far more fulfilling and intriguing than any dream he had ever had.  
    
    And just like that was how he stayed.  Eternally – mentally.  Ann was gone.  She had diminished shortly after James had discovered others in the universe, shimmering away from mere existence, not knowing exactly if she was ever going to see him or be here again – or if she would even be.  But James had no acknowledgment of her disappearance.  He would have no reason to – he didn’t need her anymore.  He had Jon now and that’s all who he would always have until he was handed over to the next soul that would tolerate him.  But for now, he just lay there, dying in the music that played on, sleeping in the tune that only he truly understood, dreaming about the song in that animated, cartoon-ish way that made him smile.  And there was the club again, shouting and singing along as their arms swayed in the same true song as before, closing their eyes, feeling their body and soul completely.

    Each day I can feel it swallow, inside something took from me.
    I don’t feel your deathly ways.
    Each day I feel so hollow, inside I was beating me.
    You will never see.
    So come dance with me . . . dance with me . . . dance with me . . . ME!

    James felt apart of them, too.  He didn’t feel the cold, numbing penetration of Jesse Belle’s mind, didn’t feel her inky, slithery tongue drip down his throat.  All the felt were the melodic vibrations of the club; all he could smell was the body sweat of the other kids, pushing and shoving up against him, some trying to kiss him.  And all he could think of was Jon being a part of him,
    understanding him –
    dancing with him.

    
    His eyes were closed now, and beginning to drift off into dream . . . and before the song fully finished, before Jon mumbled out the rest of the lyrics from that wet, tired mouth of his, something shoved him into a dark room in his mind, which was sweetly illuminated by a pair of large, crystal-blue, deep sea eyes . . .
    Familiar ones, but sweet, nonetheless.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                -Eddy Bosch

Authors note: I know . . I know . . it really really sucks!  I hate it too . . I promise my next one will be better though.  Really, I do!  Feel free to insult it at vampgirlslust@yahoo.com.  Buh-bye now!  I suppose . . .

Love and slack,
Eddy