Hunger world

A story I just wrote, not much I guess, the begining of something I hope though. Hoping for more people to read my blog, hoping to get it out there, so I have insentive to write. The bitch within is coupled with my insecurtiy, when no one reads, I feel no nead to write. Hence me thinking my life will always be partially fucked up in its own way. Oh, fuck it.

Hunger

She sits there at the window, picking at a spot on her chin, grimacing in the sunlight when I walk in. She stands up quickly, but gracefully and practiced, putting on a huge smile, that rather than making the room glow brighter, creates a cool fakeness about her, and seems to block out even the sun, leaving only this woman, who I felt more close to watching from afar.
"You must be Mariah," she says, and only that, with no tone or particular volume, just a voice that comes from somewhere in her throat. But I am practiced, and a smile as well.
"Hmm-hmm." As sad and as silly as my smile is, she takes it as she would any other response I would give her and stores it in the notebook in her head, for later reflection. She motions for me to sit down in a cool black chair, and I do so, looking right into her eyes. They are empty eyes, at least temporarily, empty of all emotion, of everything. But my eyes penetrate something deeper in her, something locked up, she coughs deep in her throat and looks away.
"So, tell me why you are here,” she continues on, her speech of comfort, of welcome. But I don’t say anything for a while, looking as though I am contemplating it.
"No," I say simply, and she does not reply with the laugh I know she has ready to give, as though I am making some big joke. Instead she falls silent, in what I believe is disappointment. For I feel she feeds on the tears that her clients shed. Taking all of them and putting them in the back of her mind on a shelf, locking them away, where they are comfortable. But I will not give them to her. I refuse to give her the pleasure of my tears and thoughts. It is strange for her to think that I would give them all up to her when I have kept them inside me all this time. It is as though my thoughts are beasts locked up in chains inside my heart, and the only way they've to escape is through my eyes in tears. But my whole life I have been fighting the chains, and now she is telling me to let them loose? Why should I? They are mine to have, not hers. I will not allow my tears to become her pride. So that when she takes them from me, and locks them in the prison in her heart, she can take pride in the fact that they have never once escaped through her eyes.
I stand up, and she doesn’t move, even if everything in her body is telling her to.
"I've decided no," I repeat, and leave. And when I do and leave some of myself behind with her, a part of me that she wants more than she can even explain to herself, a part she cannot have. She tries to pass the wanting off as hunger, picks up an apple, and takes a bite, lost in hunger, in wanting, in a thirst that will never be quenched, but instead forgotten, ripped out of the notebook inside her head.
Dad has not sent me to any shrinks since her, for there is only one where we live. I don’t know why he sent me to her in the first place. Probably because he knew he needed to do something about me, needed to be the good father. Even though he knew it would not help me at all. But for him, my attitude has changed him from being a father who wants his daughter to be happy, and into one who will do what he thinks other fathers might do when a situation arrives, without much of a care as to whether or not it makes a difference or not. And for all of this, I have always been eternally sorry. But wallowing in sorry's is what people who can think of no solution do, and though I cant think of a solution for his part, it is best not to remind myself of it. So instead, I go and eat pancakes.
Harry's is a wonderful place to eat in my opinion, even if all the cups are dirty, and it is a bar that only serves food to minors who cant drink. I have been eating there ever since I tried to run away from home when I was 9. I was not really running away, just escaping for a while, getting a taste of being away from home, and away from everything. I was walking aimlessly down the street, starting to feel foolish, when I came across Harry’s, a sign in front saying "bar and restaurant: breakfast served all day". The thought of pancakes stirred in me some desire, normal families (at least in my mind) would go out to eat pancakes on Saturday nights like this. So I stopped in and met Harry, he was only in his late teens then, for Harry senior was in fact who started the place. He was a tall boy of 16, with black hair, that seemed wild to me somehow, and a square chin. All the girls in town loved him, but he showed no interest in them. He loved me though, ever since I walked into that bar, bleary eyed and tired, with only 3 dollars. He took my order, and my three dollars, and when he served me my pancakes and eggs, he sat across from me and talked to me like any other person who had walked into his bar. He drank whiskey, and offered me some, which I refused. "You should never drink," he told me, taking a swig himself. "Girls get silly when they drink, and stupid. Men can stay calm and serious". I laughed and told him my daddy said that men and women were really the same inside and should be treated the same, but he just laughed at this. "That," he said, "is one of the most told lies, and an important one at that." he sent me home with a handshake and a promise to give me free pancakes for the rest of my life, as long as a promised never to get stupid. Since then I have never touched alcohol, because he still gives me free pancakes.
So that is where I went after my appointment with the psychologist. And that is where I went on Friday, may 25th, when I was 14 years old. I left school at 3:00, I ironically even did my homework in the library before leaving. I went home, and picked up a bag sitting on the table right inside the front door, then walked down to Harry’s. "Back again sweetheart?" he said, "when I said I would give you free pancakes, I expected you to come back twice tops, not every Friday for the rest of your fucking life." this is how Harry greeted me every single time I walked in the door (well he added the "fucking" in when I turned 12). "Don’t expect me next Friday" I replied, "I am leaving". He rolled his eyes, "you have been saying that ever since you walked in here 5 years ago," he laughed, hitting me on the side of the head. "I mean it this time". I lifted my bag up and put it on the counter, "I've even packed my stuff." he looked down into the bag. "You have only done that a couple of times," he frowned.” you know I would miss you if you left". I sigh, "somehow I think you will survive, an attractive 22 year old, losing a 14 year old friend," I raised an eyebrow. He gave me a look and served another costumer. I ate my pancakes quickly, and kissed his cheek goodbye, he waved me out the door saying, "See you again next Friday?" I smiled. I haven’t seen him for 7 years.
It so happens that I did leave that Friday, and the reason, and the way, I have forgotten, mixed up in my head with all the memories that I have of that place. All that I remember is that I left, and I have not gone back for seven years. According to Dana, who is my only connection up to a couple years ago to my hometown, my father never went looking for me, and Harry still waited for every Friday for years, until he gave up and started dating to get his mind off of me. I may have been much too young for him to be in love with me, but he still loved me more than he had loved anyone else, and I think he still does in a sense. I can just feel in my bones that he is out there somewhere, loving me, and that he always will be.