Andy's Journal
September 26
And of course Lethia writes in my journal after I tell her not to even look in there! Just now, I got angry at her and I felt like shit. She told me to either toss the note or keep it. I've decided to keep it and tuck it away inside the one of the many dividers in the notebook. Honestly, it might come in handy.
If anything, I'm going to write more in here now. I must plan out my thoughts and actions before I act on them. I am becoming even more tense than ever before.
September 27
The both of us woke up in a good mood. I caught Lethia snooping in my texts to Juliet. Really, she had the right to read them. It was my fault that they even existed.
We went laser tagging with Ash, Kane, Frey, CC, and Jake. She really let her wild side out. She even came in second place! And that's amazing, considering Jake plays Call of Duty 24/7.
September 28
I swear to God I almost had a heart attack! Those fucking idiots that tally up votes for acts fucked up! They announced on live television that Scraps was going home. But there was a really huge miscalculation they had missed, making the audience pissed beyond belief!
You should have seen Lethia's face. Her innocence was smacked out of her as soon as her band's name was called. The audience revolted and the band was horror-stricken. She looked like a poor, lost, small child.
She's now sleeping next to me. Defect Rhymez got voted off instead. That's also a real silly name for a band if you ask me.
September 29
So, a lot happened today. I'll have to go event by event.
First, upon arriving to rehearsal, we learn the acts must go into a ten-minute interview. Talk about bad timing! She confirmed our relationship and some intriguing information about the band that I didn't even know. The whole time, she had this smirk laced upon her face. She was cunning and mature. She knew the tricks and loopholes of the press. She dared not let them overpower her then!
I also introduced the song we would be singing this week: 'Deathbeds' by Bring Me The Horizon. She knew the song, front to back. I still have to brush up on my vocal abilities, as this week's theme is Act's Duet Choice.
And at the end of my day, Lethia broke free of her never-ending silence. She spoke of prophetic, alien voices taking root inside her head. They apparently told her right before elimination that there was a huge mistake with Joe and the readings he was going to say. She said she trusted them...and they were absolutely correct.
It boggles my thoughts to think that these foreign creatures slumber inside my love's mind. I guess it is something she has not yet fully been accustomed to. I mean, doesn't everyone have voices inside them? I do from time to time. Maybe it was just women's intuition? Maybe it was just a type of luck or karma? Maybe...
October 1
The past couple days, I have been away from my journal. And for good reason. I wasn't at the hotel!
I brought Lethia over to my house to stay after rehearsal. She helped clean up the pig sty that Juliet had created.
I also got her to sit down with a bottle of wine and let everything loose. She talked about her past origins and family members. She says she really misses her brother. I believe his name was Art. Yes, Art Custodire Harper. And I have sworn by Lethia that I will bring him to LA!
I'm also planning something very special for her when he supposedly comes. Even if he can't, the event will still take place, but it will only be bittersweet. I will not list here what the surprise is, for Lethia may read this. And what's the point of a surprise if you ruin it in the first place?
There were many sexual actions going on between us at the house.
Lethia tried to call Art on her cell. It said the line was disconnected and that there was no use calling it. She looked very sad and stricken. She looked fragile and beat down. I could tell she really wanted her brother back.
At the moment, I am currently in the works of locating him. Starting in Mission Bend, Texas.
Also, I find myself taking glances at that note Lethia made for me long ago. I find myself connecting with it, staying in tune with its beat. I look at it and evaluate it every so often. For it is a glimpse into Lethia's naïve mind. For it is how I should act, according to her. I am doing my best to follow her guidelines. I must, I can, and I shall!
October 4
I'm not sure exactly what is going on between Lethia and I. She is in her band's hotel room. She is leaving me alone. She says we need a break from each other. I honestly don't think she understands my nature!
The guys vowed to stick together today. It was a pretty heart-warming scene.
Also, Astaroth and I had a little disagreement a couple days ago about Lethia's well-being. I showed my ugly side to him in front of Lethia. She was very angry at me for a limited time. She then found sympathy for us both and told us not to be the drivers of the car that is her life.
I then proceeded to let all my emotions out in the car drive back to the hotel. Tears were broken away from my eyes. She comforted me tenderly; it felt like home.
My confessions to her were ones she took very literally and personally. I told her that I was not as godly and strong as everyone around me perceived me to be. I think I really tried to show her a perfect side of me in the beginning. And now, she just saw a side of raw emotions. She just saw one she is not used to. I'm not sure what she is thinking, but whatever it may be, may it be pleasant.
She's probably having fun with her friends. And I am stuck here alone in this hotel room. Being alone does crazy, insane things to me. That is why I crave her touch so much. Yes, that is why!
I guess I'll get to work with my surprise for Lethia. I hope she enjoys it. I really do...
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Lethia's Childhood
Trigger Warning: mild rape scene.
"Lethia, you must run," it speaks, closing in on me.
I stumble back, "W-what?" I question nervously, my palms feeling the back of my cold, dreary, pink wall.
"Lethia, you are ignorant. Go," it taunts, revealing its body to me from the shadows.
It is a creature; a creature that has been suffocated by its own creations. Those creations were walls, binding her away from her own children. She thought for many years that the best method for dealing with horrible situations was to ignore them. And ignore me she did.
I was standing before my beaten mother.
"Lethia, run before he gets you," she shrieks in my ears, beating down on her thighs to make a distressing point.
"Lethia!" a voice screams from the hallway. "C'mon! We have to go!"
Beside my mother emerges a 16-year-old boy. His name: Art Custodire Harper.
He wastes no time and grabs me by my shoulder, fingernails digging into my bruised skin. He yanks me into the hallway outside my room made of stained wood. I charge along the hallway with him and he eventually breaks the grip of his hand on my forearm. Bad decision.
As I ran to the kitchen, I came across a banging door. Screams were flowing from inside the pantry. A man with alcohol in his blood - he was a monster.
I stop and pause in my tracks. I watch the door's hinges creak under pressure. His fists bang against the wood and his anger-influenced rage fuels him. My father - he was a monster.
"Lethia! What are you doing!" Art screams, squeezing my arm and yanking my body towards him. "We have to run!" He suddenly looks over at my mother, worry and tears are evident in his eyes. Art is bleeding from a bash on his right temple. "Mom, please," he pleads, "buy us some time. Then run."
I am too stricken to watch my mother's reaction. I just keep staring, doe-eyed and clueless, at the screaming door.
"C'mon, Leth, we have to go," Art whispers to me.
"You little shits!" the door screams, bangs between the words. "Don't you fucking run! I'll find you and hurt you! Mark my words!"
My mother stood at the door, propping it with any tool or piece of furniture she could find. It was only a matter of time before he broke through the door. And she knew that.
She eyes me with confidence; strength; firmness; worry. Through her eyes, she told me everything. She told me she was sorry. She told me that Moenia Repetere Harper would try her best to protect her children which she had long forgotten...for now.
Art wastes no time in dragging me outside in the pouring rain. My socks immediately get drenched and my soul shivers in the cold. It was November. This was no time for a midnight stroll.
We run down our familiar pathway near the house, straight into the disturbing woods. Art took my hand, charging past the Louisiana wildlife as quick as he could.
"Art?" I question. "What's going on?"
He pants quickly. "Leth, Dad's drunk. Didn't you fucking see? You're 14, goddammit."
I could tell he was angry with himself, otherwise he would not have lashed out at his only sister: the one he cared about so much.
I hold my breath as we run. I knew where we were going. We've only been there a hundred times.
As we ran through the densely packed forest, I quickly made a note to myself to bring shoes next time. The cold was getting to me. The running and the rain were all tiring; they drained my happiness. My pajama pant bottoms were full of mud and leaves. My hair was frizzing and my breath was leaving a trail for my father to follow.
Approaching our destination, Art slowed down to a walk. He placed his arms around me, shielding me from the deafening wind around us.
And then came the horrible shriek. A tremendous boom rang from the house. I turned around, knowing my father had broken free from his cage. He had done something to Mom.
"Oh, shit," Art rang out, tugging at his hair. "Why didn't she fucking run? Is she that fucking stupid?"
My doe-eyes grew wider. "Mom?" I whisper out in the arctic air. "Is she o-okay?" I shivered.
Art shook his head to himself and turns around, heading deeper into the forest. "Leth, let's just keep go - "
I began to run towards the house. I needed to know if my mother was okay! I needed to see her face and hear her soft laugh in my ear again. I needed her lap by my side.
"Lethia, no!" gasps Art, grabbing me by my shirt collar. "Please, just keep going!" he begs, forcing me to turn around.
I obey him, for I knew he was the strongest one, in the end.
We walked until we reached an old bridge. It looked even more beat down than I had remembered.
Art slipped me down underneath the bridge, careful not to dip me in the ice-cold water below. He let himself slide down the bank and pushed himself under the bridge with me.
During the winter and fall seasons, the water levels were not as high as normal. This dried up parts of the banks, allowing us to sit underneath the wooden bridge when our father was mad.
Art and I had many destinations where we would hide. They were scattered all throughout the forest. Since it was raining, he brought us here. We both knew where we would be heading, for the rain hitting the river below would distract our father from our trembling bodies, shaking from the coldness.
And now, we had to play the waiting game.
There was no wild birds chirping their happy songs. The moon had vanished due to an overcast. The rain was making a sad pitter-patter on the wooden boards above our heads. It seems that all sense of happiness was dwindling near a void.
Art holds me close, whispering sweet nothings in my ear. He tells me it will be all right. He says that Daddy will come to his senses soon. He promises me that Mommy will be okay. He tells me to be quiet, saying he can almost hear Daddy's footsteps near us.
Eventually, my father nears the bridge. The two of us hush to our quietest mode possible. My father steps out on the floorboards, stepping right above my head. I shake and begin to get anxious. Art pulls me in closer, hushing me with his palm to my mouth. His black, recently-dyed hair tickles my cheeks as my head nears his torso. We sit in fetal positions, like how we sleep together when I have bad dreams.
Art was my best friend. He comforted me like I was his own child. He even sometimes would joke about my childish antics. I just concluded I was a child at heart, for I never really got the one chance to grow up.
I was Art's play doll. I treated him like a best friend; a brother. I would be his little girl. I was his sense of wisdom. I was the reason he would stand up to Dad and keep on breathing.
Our father waltzes his way across the bridge, stepping into a deeper, darker side of the forest. He was looking for us, intent on finding.
A good fifteen minutes passes with no sight or sound of him. Art whispers for me to stay under the bridge. He says he is going to run back to the house and check on mom and call the police.
I shake at "police". Our situations had never been so bad to the point where we've had to have law enforcement brought here. Instead of being rebellious, I nod obediently.
Art strips his black jacket, telling me, "It'll keep you warm."
I refuse to keep the jacket, saying, "You're wearing a white shirt. He'll easily see you."
"Well," he answers back, "I don't want him to see you."
There was no use arguing. I took the jacket and laced it on my skin, shielding me from the horrible wind.
"I'll be back soon," Art says, giving me one last goodbye.
Art steps outside the underneath of the bridge. He steps up, on solid ground. He begins his walk to the house, but it is shortly ended...
From the trees on the other side of the river, I hear a rattling. Oh no, Dad was playing puppy dog.
I get a strong urge to scream, "Art! Run!" but I remember that I shouldn't give away our position.
Dad runs across the bridge in a hurry, catching Art's attention. Art sees him and begins to run sideways, against the flowing of the river.
I watch the whole ordeal take place. First, my father catches up to Art, tackling him onto the ground. Screams erupt from my brother's vocals. It is almost too unbearable and inhumane to listen to. Second, they wrestle for quite a bit. Art kicks Dad's gun into the raging rapids below. And thirdly, Dad dominates his own son. He bashes his body repeatedly into the rock-hard, packed-down ground. His body is thrown like a rag doll. Art bleeds from his nose and temple; more places are not to be mentioned.
"Where's Lethia? Where's my Baby Leth?" my father screams.
Art holds his stomach, retorting after another kick in the spleen. "I don't know! She ran another way!" he strains out.
"Fucking liar!" my dad shrieks, kicking him once more.
Art begins to crawl towards the bridge, looking at me with eyes telling me to run.
My father follows his gaze and catches the twinkling of my iris. "Ah," he says, "I see. She's under the bridge."
"RUN, LETHIA, RUN!" Art yells with all his remaining strength. My father kicks him after he says it.
I move from under the bridge and up on the ground, running the opposite direction Art ran. I run with the current of the river.
I was not a physically fit girl. If anything, I was remotely skinny. This led to my capture. My father tripped me and picked me up with my feet draping down his front and my head and torso on his back.
"LETHIA, RUN!" Art still screams.
My father did not pay any attention to his son. He, instead, started humming an unknown tune. He yells out, "Baby Leth is going on a little trip, now!" to where Art can hear him.
"NO!" I scream, "NO, DAD, PLEASE!" I knew all too well what this meant. And I wasn't going to let my father touch me again.
"DAD, I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD, LAY ONE FINGER ON HER AND YOU'RE DEAD!"
Daddy chuckles. He pays no attention to Art. He starts heading back to the house, me draping on his shoulder.
I eye Art with tears in my eyes. "ART! ART, HELP ME!" I bash my dad's back with my fists and kick him in the stomach. This doesn't phase him.
As my father walks to the house, I eye Art standing up and walking sloppily. His impaired judgement and blood loss are hurting him physically. His picks up rocks and throws them at us, missing us completely. He begins to run as soon as he gains some sight. He mouths, "I'm coming," to me, making me hopeful.
My father and I walk in the house. We walk past my mother, passed out on the floor with a broken leg. I see a hole in the ceiling where the bullet must have gone off. My mother was okay, just like Art said.
My dad brings me in his room, his usual choice for his punishments on me. I am told to sit on the bed and not move.
"Dad, please don't do - "
"Shut up!" he screams, hitting my cheek in rampage. "You know what you are to call me in this room."
I cringe from pain. "Yes, I am supposed to call you Daddy..."
"That's right, BabyGirl, that's right."
Art bangs on the door just in time. "Let her out, Dad! Let Leth out!"
He chuckles. "No. We were just getting started."
You might wonder why I am being so obedient to my dad's orders. You are probably thinking, 'Why aren't you fighting back, Lethia? Leth? Baby Leth? Jeez, I don't even know, anymore!' Honestly, the reason why I am not fighting is because I am used to these punishments. When I was five, these types of attacks started. My father willed me into the game by telling me that, 'This is what all Daddies do to their BabyGirls.' I believed him, of course. Curiosity always fibs children.
"Art, it's no use. The door is locked. Just go," I say, closing my eyes as my father feels up my shirt.
This only causes him to bang harder against the panels. "Leth, don't you give up on me! Not yet, you don't!"
"Don't call me that name..." I speak. I was getting feverishly angry. Art always called me this since childhood. Little did he know, it struck pain in me every time he used it. "Don't fucking call me that name."
My father smacks me across the cheek. "Language, little girl."
I angrily face him, squinting my eyes.
"Leth, please. Please come out!" Art was going to give in at any moment.
"Don't fucking...CALL ME THAT NAME!" I kicked my dad, pushing him into the dresser. I arise from the bed sheets, unlocking the door and running into Art's arms.
He closes it again and locks it.
My father once again is stuck behind a locked door.
Art and I run into the kitchen. We find our mother on the floor and tend to her leg, which wakes her up. I get a first-aid kit as Art tries to block the door with everything he can possibly find.
Before my mom can stand, Dad breaks free of the door's hinges. He immediately grabs Art, pulling him over his shoulder like he did to me. Art struggles with him. As they charge past me, Art makes a face that says, 'I'm sorry.'
My father takes him, and to my horror, throws him outside. He screams and spits everywhere. "NEVER COME BACK, YOU HEAR ME! YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED HERE!" The door slams.
My mother speaks up. "Asper! You can't just throw our son out into the cold!"
"Hush up, bitch. He'll find a way to survive," he promises angrily. He slinks back into his room after he grabs another Jack Daniel's out the fridge.
As soon as my father exits the room, my mother speaks to me: "Go check your window. Talk to him. But you can't let him stay. Asper will throw a fit."
"Mom, I can't just leave you with a - "
"Go."
I head to my room, locking the door behind me. Sure enough, Art is tapping at my window. I open the glass and punch through the mesh screen. He climbs through and sits on my floor.
"Lethia, I'm sorry, I - "
"Shut up, asshole," I tease, getting a wet towel from the first-aid kit. I place it on his face, cleaning the blood, sweat, dirt, and tears from his face.
He sighs. "Where's Dad?"
"In his room with his buddy, Jack Daniel's," I answer, full of sarcasm.
We stay silent as I address a small wound on his left arm. "Oh, shit," I say, caught off-guard by his wound.
"What?" he asks. He then tries to move his wrist; it causes him much pain. "Ouch! I never even noticed I fucked it up."
"Art," I worry out loud, "that's your painting hand."
He laughs at my worrisome thoughts. "Don't worry. Bodies heal."
I nod, not saying another word.
There is an interval of silence between us, swallowing our bodies whole. There is a lingering topic in the air. It is bugging both our thoughts, but we dare not speak of it.
Art breaks the silence. "Will I really have to go?"
"If you do, Dad will soon realize he's an idiot for letting you do so." I speak the truth, pouring some rubbing alcohol on his wound.
"Ouch," he gasps. "I don't want to leave."
"Mom says you have to," I say, remembering my mother's idiotic comments.
He shakes his head, biting his lower lip. "That's just not fucking right."
Suddenly, a loud bang is heard from across the house. Dad was emerging from his room.
"Art!" I freak. "You have to go!"
He rushes to stand and slides out the window as soon as Dad walks past my room.
"Bye, Art!" I wave, throwing him a backpack for good measure. "Be back, please."
"I will. Don't worry, Leth."
"Don't fucking call me that - "
"Hey!" a voice from behind me booms. "What're you doing?"
I turn and face my dad, shutting the window. "Uh," I say, "looking for my sock I lost outside. I lost it while running."
He smiles like a sociopath. Like nothing ever happened. "Oh, all right." He warmly grins. "Goodnight, Baby Leth."
I bow my head like a good girl is supposed to do. "Goodnight, Daddy."
"Also," Daddy comments, "I don't want you seeing Art anymore. He's too rebellious. I need you to stay with the rules, BabyGirl." He sneers happily. "I heard his voice. Don't play with me. He is not to be talked to anymore. He is not a Harper."
And that was the day the legend of Art Custodire Harper was lost to the wind. It was the day he was to never return. It was the last time I saw him in the flesh.
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