They are all connected to Santa Carla.
Ooohhhh spooky! Enjoy and stay awesome!
(The following piece is the updated written account of Lost Boys related dream I had back in 2009. All of the stuff I had set out to write and accomplish over the years had been accomplished and there was nothing left for me to say. Or so I thought. Unfortunately David did not feel the same way about the situation as I did and made sure that I knew it. That jerk.)
Why am I here?
No, honestly. Why the hell am I back in Santa Cruz? And why is it night time? Can someone fill me in on why it feels like it's...twenty-five degrees? As in twenty-five degrees celsius? It's freaking summer.
What the hell?
Last time I checked it was minus fourteen with a wind-chill factor of minus twenty which means, for all you non-Canadians, it's freaking cold!
But it's not cold. It's warm. Nice and warm. I have no idea why I'm standing on the beach by the Boardwalk with bare feet seeing how there are probably dozens of used needles and bits of broken glass hidden all over the place just waiting to jab me and give me a serious case of hepatitis or tetanus. God that would really suck wouldn't it?
What they don't tell you about in the movies. Gotta feel for Jami Gertz having to do the whole bare foot hippie shtick. However, the braless thing I can totally get behind. It was the eighties for crying out loud. Live a little would ya?
But I gotta say that this sand does not suck. It feels damn good.
Mmmm squishy.
I wriggle my toes in deeper and let out a small sigh. It does feel good to be back here. That one week in October was nowhere near enough. Not for me anyways. There was still so much to do, to see, to explore. God knows when I'll get the chance to come back. I know I have to go back though. I missed something. Something important.
In the distance, a whole harem of sea lions swish and swirl about in some sort of weird circular formation, like they are all piled on top of one another in the water. Must be nice. Spend all day snoozing in the nice warm Californian sun and swim all night doing whatever it is that sea lions do best. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a sea lion for a day.
Brrrrrrr
I think someone just walked over my grave.
An involuntary shudder grips my shoulders and speeds down my spine and I can't stop the jolting tremors that shake me like a split second personal earthquake. God, I hate it when that happens. I always feel like a ghost walked right through me or something. Gives me the wig ya know?
Wait, no you don't.
Who are you anyways?
Am I talking to myself?
Why am I talking to myself?
What the hell is going on here?
I look down and stare at the colourful folds of the free-flowing gypsy skirt that I find myself wearing. Okay. I'm dressed like Star. Sort of.
Wait. Why am I dressed like Star?
I'm holding a shawl now? Where did that come from?
And my hair!
Okay I know I have big hair but I chopped most of it off last month. It's back to its old length and it is really poofy. Serious Bon Jovi style poodle poof going on here.
I have big hair, in a skirt, on a beach, listening to sea lions "arf" in Santa Cruz.
Am I dreaming?
Yes. Yes, I am.
Hang on a second.
I slowly turn on the spot as the wind picks up and my stupid hair swooshes into my face like some sort of damsel in distress motif off a harlequin romance novel cover. I think I'm going to vomit a little in my mouth. This dream is making me edgy.
I shouldn't be here.
It's been what, two...two and a half months since I was in Santa Cruz? Why am I back here?
Why, why, why! What is with all the whys? And I am rambling. I always ramble when I get nervous. Great, now I'm nervous.
Ack! Dang it!
Shudder
Not another one. Two tremors under a minute and a half? Okay Cat Lady radar is coming online and something certainly stinks in the state of Santa Cruz and it isn't the decaying seaweed and fish bones. Wait.
Sniff...sniff...sniiiiiiiff
What is that funky smell? Can you smell it? Wait, no you can't. This is a dream. How can I be smelling things in a dream?
Swwwwoooosssshhhhhhhh!
Oh for the love of- now I'm wet. Where did that wave come from? Freaking wet big-ass skirt. Now I have sand glued to me. Oh this just gets better by the minute.
I don't want to be here. It's not right. I don't belong here anyways. Why can't I go back home? I was in bed, under twenty blankets, I have to get to work early in the morning. I want to go home.
Am I supposed to click my heels three times and demand to go back? Or is there like a pause button somewhere?
Wake up! It's sayonara time!
Anyone?
Hello?
Whose idea was this? Was it mine? I don't think so. Great. Now I'm crying. Why the hell am I crying?
Why do I keep asking myself these questions?
Merde! Sand in my eye! CRAP! I'll never get it out. Not with these nails.
Hold the phone. Nails?
I don't have nails. Mine are bitten to the quick. These are manicured girly never-had-to-work-a-day-in-my-pretty-little-life nails. These aren't mine.
Something catches my attention behind me. It's the light coming from the casino on the Boardwalk. The park remains silent and dark but for some reason the bright golden bulbs that line the archway where the Boys used to hang out at are burning brightly.
From where I'm standing by the surf I can make out the outline of the Laffing Sal automaton that stands guard at the entrance to the penny Arcade. I can't hear anything from where I am but I can see her bobbing up and down like she is laughing at something funny.
I stand and wonder because something about this isn't quite right. Beyond the obvious. What is it? I swear it's right there at the tip of my...I'm not wearing glasses! Yet I can see Sal from this distance? That is impossible. I'm as blind as a bat without my glasses.
Weeeeeird.
But not weird enough.
I lose interest in the Boardwalk and go back to staring out at the surf. I guess there's nothing better to do out here. The full moon is out and some of the stars are twinkling up in the sky. It's kind of pretty and for some reason or another I'm not insanely anxious about being molested by random drug-dealers or serial killers.
Now that I think about it, I'm not worried at all. I'm perfectly calm. Me? Calm? HA! That's funny.
But I'm still sad.
Why am I sad?
David.
I don't even blink.
He's standing there, right there, just a little off to the side and out of my reach. I don't even hear him arrive. It's like he just materializes out of thin air. Why does he always do that? But I'm not worried. I am just standing here, feeling sad, and not knowing what to do.
The light from the Casino is bright enough that it sort of reaches us near the pier and the waterline. It outlines David even though I can see him perfectly in the darkness. I have night vision now? Interesting.
He's just standing there, watching me watching him. He hasn't been this close to me in a long time.
I should kill him.
I should whip out some sort of weapon of mass destruction and blow him to holy and hell back. No wait, I know! My spoon. I'll do it with the wooden spoon. One shot to the head and then stab him in the chest with it. I've always wanted to do that. Especially to him. It would feel so good.
Wouldn't it?
Ummm...me? Hello? David. He's right there. Go get him. C'mon girl! Go on. Go!
No. No? Ugh!
I think I should do it. There's a part of me that's pointing and snapping her fingers but I don't move. I'm not going to. I just stand here, watching him. Because I can.
God, has it really been four years? That was the last time he and I could stand the sight of each other without spouting off death threats whenever we crossed paths. It really doesn't feel like it's been that long but I know better.
Four freaking years and here we are.
I'm just standing here. Why isn't he doing anything? Now's his chance to take out all of that frustrated macho egotistical angst of his on me. He's probably thinking of some really god-awful way to kill me. I'm sure he's thinking it. He's always thinking it. Trust me on this, I know. I just know.
He looks tired.
That smug smirk of his is gone. His eyes are still their bright bright blue but there is no malice in them tonight. From how he's standing I can tell that he has his shoulders hunched forward a bit and it makes him look smaller. I wonder why he's standing like that. This is David after all. He always stands tall and commands attention at all times.
So why does he look like he is about to drop? And why is he looking at me in that way?
The wind picks up again but this time it blows against us, ruffling our hair away from our faces as we both continue to stare at one another in an almost truce-like fashion. He is not here to kill me after all. And I am not here to kill him.
Maybe I should say something?
He beats me to it.
Finish the story. Finish it. Finish the story.
That is his voice on the wind, whispering in my ear and through my hair. Deep and quiet. Coaxing me. Now I know what he wants.
It won't work.
Finish the story finish the story finish the story finish the story finish the story finish the story
"I can't."
My voice is my own. This is my quiet voice that I only use when I talk to myself when no one is around. This is my inner voice made real. Why am I using this voice? This voice is personal. It's private. Yet it comes out and I do not stop it.
"You have to."
He blinks finally and straightens his back for a moment like he's trying to ease the pressure off his spine. Was he in a fight? Is he hurt? Should I care?
"I'm dried up David. The words don't come anymore. I'm done."
Did I just say that?
I've never said that out loud. Not to me, not to anyone. Saying it out loud makes it final. It is admitting a defeat that I do not want to admit. Not to myself or to anyone.
People are counting on me. They are waiting for the words to come. I have promised them all an ending. A great ending. The best ending to a Lost Boys story ever.
But I can't write it. It hurts too much. There is too much of me that I stupidly put into the story and now it has grown beyond my ability to control. I am afraid of it.
"Finish the story. If you don't you'll end up hating yourself. You need to finish it. Finish the story."
He has an almost pleading look in his eyes. That is not something I am used to. His face remains the stone cold mask it always is but his eyes are giving him away. He wants me to finish the story. He wants it badly too.
"Why? You know what happens in the end. I don't want to."
My voice hitches a bit and I narrow my eyes slightly. He knows what he's asking me to do. He knows why I won't finish that damn story I started years ago. He knows I'm afraid. Afraid for myself. Afraid for him. Afraid for them all.
Nobody but the two of us standing here knows how Fighter really ends. The endings that were talked about before online have been scrapped. False trails and dead ends.
There is only one true ending. And it scares the living crap out of me.
"Sarah."
It comes out as a frustrated sigh. He said my name. Said it out loud.
Why would he say that? Why here? I am not that person in this place. We both know that.
"Why do you care anyways? We loath each other? Remember?"
Now it's my turn to get frustrated. He was the one who brought me here. Made me look like this.
Like her. I can't stand her.
Was it to get to me? One final dig to settle an old score? Or maybe he had no other choice?
Maybe putting me in Star's place was the only way that he could yank me out of myself and into Santa Cruz. Or is it Santa Carla?
Shit. This is Santa Carla. I am in his realm.
"Finish the story. It has to be finished."
He straightens out this time and takes his hands out of the pockets of that big black trench coat he always wears. He's still wearing his leather gloves.
What is he hiding?
We stared at each other now. His words are hanging in the air between us. I can feel them. I can also feel his rising need to smoke at least three cigarettes in the next thirty seconds. But he doesn't. He knows I can't stand the smoke.
He's trying to be polite on my behalf.
That's the realization that gets to me. David is actually being nice to me, after all the mud slinging and name calling that we've gone through. I don't want to trust him. It could all be an act to get what he wants.
He's good at that you know. You can't trust this guy as far as you can throw him. It is never far enough.
"It's no good. Too much darkness in it. I can't do it anymore David. I don't care enough anymore."
There. I finally said it. I hope he's happy.
I can't write that story any more. I want to, I do, but the words stopped flowing a long time ago. It's all just radio static and ceaseless violence now. So much violence and hatred. So much bloodshed.
Too much if you ask me.
I have lost the point to it and now it has snowballed into a monster. If I try to finish it I don't know what will happen.
I'm scared and I'm tired. I feel just as tired as David looks.
This has gone on for long enough. I just want to go home and for him to leave me alone.
David senses this. Somehow he does. He always knows things. I hate it.
He sighs again, but this one is long and drawn out. His attempt did not work.
There is a lot of sighing. I wonder. If you sigh in a dream are you doing it in reality as well?
Oddly enough when he looks at me again sparks aren't shooting out of his eyes. He has a resigned look on his face and instead of hissing and spitting as I would normally do right about now I just stand there and hug myself a little tighter. My claws aren't out and his fangs aren't bared.
This is a first for the both of us.
The sea lions start barking up a storm and we hear them splashing about in the water. The wind decides to kick up a bit of sand and chase a few waves as we watch each other to see what will happen next. We're in unfamiliar territory now and aren't quite sure what to do.
David makes the first move. He always does.
My eyes are following him as he moves closer. His boots sink into the sand with every step he takes while I just stand there, wary but not alarmed. He stops when he's about a foot away from me. We're so close I can feel him around me. I haven't felt him like this since the first time I laid eyes on him and was knocked clean on my ass by his gravitational pull.
But that pull isn't there anymore. It's just the two of us, nothing else.
We watch each other warily. I guess we both look like we're staring a potentially lethal creature in the face and waiting for it to strike. That would normally be funny somehow but right now it's not.
A faint, almost non-existent strain of music makes me look away for a second. It's the refrain from To the Shock of Miss Louise. I'd know that song anywhere. Is it coming from the carousel? It might be.
I turn my head to the right in order to look over my shoulder in the direction of the carousel house and that is when the world stops turning.
Before he could talk himself out of it David plays his hand.
I don't even see it coming.
Why do I never see it coming?
He steps forward and the next thing I know he has his left hand buried in my hair and pushes me into him. It happens so fast that there isn't time to resist or even scream. In one clean fluid motion David has me pressed up against him, trapped with my arms at my side, and with his mouth on mine.
I'm dead. I'm dead. It's finally happening. He won and I'm dead.
But I'm not dead. I'm not dead right? I can't be dead. If I was dead then how come I can feel the stubble of his permanent five o'clock shadow against my skin? I can actually feel it, especially against my lower lip and chin. His skin is rough and his lips are chapped, as if the salt in the air has taken its toll. His hand on the back of my head keeps me immobile and I quickly shut my eyes.
I refuse to witness this.
I can feel it all.
Feel the coldness of him through his clothes, the roughness of his grip as he brings me in closer as if that were even possible. I can actually feel each and every action but I refuse to witness it.
I press my lips together as tightly as I can and refuse to rise to his challenge.
I won't. I won't do it. He can't make me.
I am such an idiot.
He finds away. He always does. I should have known he had something else up his sleeve. Here I am landed hook, line, and sinker. His hand in my hair tightens into a fist and he pulls my head back, not too hard but just enough to make me grimace. My lips move just a tiny bit and it's enough. His tongue pries its way through my teeth and I can feel the sharp prick of his fangs as they elongate against my upper lip.
Oh Christ! This is what he tastes like?
There are no words.
No wonder Star got suckered.
You know what the freakiest part of all this is? Not that he is kissing me. Not that I'm not fighting back when I should be screaming for my life. The scariest part of it all is the fact that deep down inside there is the tiniest part of me that likes it and I kiss him back.
Hard.
And it feels good.
Really really good.
And I want more.
This is when I wake up screaming blue murder at three am and send my cat flying off bed thinking his tail is on fire.
How do you explain to yourself that you've just been mind-fucked by your old nemesis?
Damn you David. I will get you for this.
I swear it.