FADE IN:
EXT. STREET - DAY
The street is in a middle-class neighbourhood. There is the
sound of children playing. In the alley that shoots off to
the side there are some boys playing a game of street hockey.
A few cars are parked on either side of the street, some new
while others are older but obviously cared for.
CHRISSY (mid 20s), an active and cheerful young woman, is
jogging down the sidewalk. Her hair is tied up in a ponytail,
and she is wearing running shorts, running shoes, and a tank
top. She has an MP3 player strapped to her arm, and the ear
buds jammed into her ears. Chrissy gets to the corner and
turns to cross the street but turns back when SARAH (mid
20s), a happy and focused young woman, calls out for her.
SARAH
Chrissy!
Chrissy turns to look at Sarah, and touches her lips with her
fingertips before lifting her hand to wave at Sarah. Sarah
begins to return the gesture when her face turns frightened
and panicked.
SARAH (CONT'D)
Chrissy!
Chrissy looks over her shoulder as a silver sedan blows
through the stop sign. The sedan hits Chrissy full on,
sending her flying several feet forward.
Sarah runs towards Chrissy, pushing children out of her way
as they come out of yards and from the alley to see what has
happened.
WOMAN
Has anyone called 911, yet?
BOY
I did.
Chrissy is laying on her back in the middle of the street.
Blood pools around her and covers her body. There are obvious
cuts and broken bones.
CHRISSY
Sarah? Baby?
Sarah kneels in the blood beside Chrissy and carefully
touches the few places that are not covered in blood.
SARAH
I'm here. Right here. I'm not going
to leave you.
CHRISSY
'M sorry. You said ... you said to
be careful.
SARAH
It's not your fault. It's okay.
Everything is going to be okay. I
promise. Remember? We're going to
grow old together. Forever, right?
CHRISSY
Forever.
Sarah's fingers catch on Chrissy's garnet necklace, the only
jewelry that Chrissy is wearing. Sarah chokes out a laugh.
SARAH
You never take this thing off.
CHRISSY
You couldn't give me a ring.
Sarah is fascinated by the blood stained pendant. There is
the sound of an approaching ambulance.
INT. OFFICE - DAY
Sarah steps into her modern-looking office. She closes the
glass door behind her and flicks the blinds down. She leans
against the door.
MR. AMBROSE (O.S.)
This is the last time, Sarah. I
expect you to be on time tomorrow.
SARAH
Of course.
She is visibly upset as she presses a shaking hand to her
head before standing up straight and walking around her glass
desk. There is a frame lying face-down on her desk and Sarah
touches the black frame with her fingertips but does not lift
the photo up.
SARAH (CONT'D)
Just my luck, right?
(Bitter laugh)
Sarah takes a seat at the desk and begins typing at the
small, compact notebook.
The phone on Sarah's desk rings.
SARAH (CONT'D)
Good Morning, Ambrose Publishing
Incorporated.
(beat)
Of course. Mr. Ambrose is available
to meet with you tomorrow at two
o'clock. Does that work for you?
(beat)
I look forward to seeing you then.
Sarah writes down a note in a day planner as the phone rings
again.
SARAH (CONT'D)
Good morning, Ambrose Publishing
Incorporated.
(beat)
Dinner for eight o'clock on
Thursday?
(She checks the day
planner)
That sounds wonderful. We will get
back to you tomorrow afternoon to
confirm.
The clock on the wall changes from 12:34 to 8:17
SARAH (CONT'D)
Look, I understand that you have
had your manuscript in our office
for six weeks already, but you have
to understand that
(Sarah transfers the call
to her cell phone)
The guidelines on our web page
stated six to eight weeks as a
minimum time. If you would like to
request your manuscript back we
would be more than happy to...
She picks up a small black purse, and jots down some notes in
her day planner as she exits the office.
INT. SARAH'S CAR - NIGHT
Sarah drives carelessly, the car slightly swerving as she
shifts hands to jot down some more information. Her cell
phone is cradled between her ear and her shoulder.
SARAH
Mom, I'm not going to come to this
dinner.
SARAH'S MOTHER (V.O.)
Why not?
SARAH
I'm not ready.
SARAH'S MOTHER (V.O.)
Hogwash. It's been over a year
since you were last with anyone,
and how long did that last anyway?
SARAH
A week. And it doesn't matter that
it's been so long. I just can't.
I'll be there for breakfast on
Sunday, okay?
SARAH'S MOTHER (V.O.)
I love you, baby.
SARAH
You too.
Sarah drops her phone and bends over to pick it up. She looks
up and the car fishtails as she slams her foot down. The
brakes SQUEAL.
She SCREAMS.
EXT. UNIVERSITY AREA STREET - NIGHT
Sarah gets out of her car. She dashes to check the damage to
the front bumper. She is only a couple inches away from the
light post.
SARAH
Fuck! Well, isn't this just turning
out to be a great night?
Someone COUGHS behind her. Sarah turns and is faced with a
noticeably younger Chrissy (early 20s). Sarah looks stunned.
CHRISSY
You really weren't watching where
you were going, were you?
SARAH
Neither were you, obviously. What
kind of person just steps out into
the middle of the street without
checking to see if anyone was, oh,
I don't know, driving towards them?
CHRISSY
Whatever. Are you okay?
SARAH
I'm alive, aren't I? What about
you?
CHRISSY
I'm fine.
(beat)
Look. I should head home.
SARAH
Wait. I'm Sarah.
CHRISSY
Chrissy.
SARAH
So, Chrissy, did you want to go get
something to eat? My treat. It's
the least I can do considering I
almost ran you over.
CHRISSY
I'm not... I can't. I really need
to finish this homework.
SARAH
Another time then. Give me your
phone number and we can work out a
different time.
CHRISSY
I guess that would be fine.
Sarah pulls out her cell phone and waits.
CHRISSY (CONT'D)
Seven. Eight. Oh. Two. Four. Oh.
One. Five. Eight. Five.
SARAH
Thanks. So, I'll give you a call
later.
Sarah picks up Chrissy's bag and hands it to her. Chrissy
walks down the street and around the corner.
Sarah dials a number on her cell phone.
CHRISSY (V.O.)
Hi, I can't come to the phone right
now. Chances are I'm busy or
ignoring the phone. But you can
leave a message and I'll call you
back later.
SARAH
Hi, this is Sarah. We just met when
I almost ran you over. I doubt
you've forgotten who I am yet. I
was just calling to see if you
wanted to go out tomorrow night.
Call me.
Sarah closes her phone and gets back into the car. She
ignores the mess of papers on the seat beside her as she adds
another sheet of paper to the pile.
INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY
Sarah sits in a trendy coffee shop. The walls are cream, and
there are some high stools and benches, as well as small
groups of overstuffed chairs with shorter tables. There is a
fireplace on the far wall across from the counter. Sarah has
a paper cup full of steaming coffee, with another two empty
cups across from her. The table is covered in paper, and her
day planner. Sarah is tapping a silver pen against her lips
as she watches the entrance.
SARAH
I'm sick of this. You can't keep
calling and nagging me all the time
about it. I am moving on. I even
met someone, okay, so leave me
alone.
FEMALE (V.O.)
That's not good enough.
SARAH
Well, it has to be. I can't change
the past, you know.
FEMALE (V.O.)
Maybe not, but you could make
amends. You could show that you
give a damn about what happened.
SARAH
You think I don't give a damn? I
lost everything! Every-fucking
thing that mattered to me. Gone
just like that.
Sarah snaps her fingers.
SARAH (CONT'D)
I can't make amends for something
that wasn't my fault.
FEMALE (V.O.)
Stop lying to yourself.
The phone goes dead. Sarah swallows and presses her lips
together.
SARAH
It's not a lie.
Sarah is making a note in her day planner when Chrissy walks
in with a group of smiling people around her age.
Sarah looks up as Chrissy is about to walk past her.
SARAH (CONT'D)
Chrissy!
Chrissy continues to walk by. Sarah stands up, knocking over
the full cup on the table as she catches Chrissy by the
shoulder. Chrissy turns to look at Sarah with a startled, but
pleased expression as her friends continue on towards the
counter.
SARAH (CONT'D)
Hey. Did you get my message?
CHRISSY
I haven't checked my messages for a
few days. Sorry.
SARAH
No, don't worry, it's okay.
CHRISSY
So how have you been?
SARAH
Well, I haven't been running down
anymore college students lately.
Probably for the best, since it
seems like a terrible way to meet
people.
CHRISSY
Yeah, most people don't appreciate
almost dying.
SARAH
About that. I still have to make it
up to you, right? I was just
wondering if you'd like to go out
for dinner tonight.
CHRISSY
Tonight? I had some plans already.
SARAH
Oh, I see.
CHRISSY
Hey, maybe another night? Would
that be okay with you?
SARAH
Yeah, another night would be
fantastic. You have my number, so
give me a call. And I'll see you
again sometime soon, right?
Chrissy's friends wave at her from the till,
CHRISSY
I gotta go. Bye, Sarah.
SARAH
I'll see you.
Sarah watches Chrissy leave as she cleans up the mess made by
the spilled coffee.
CHRISSY
So, tomorrow night you guys'll
spring me and we can head to the
party at Mark's? We'll have to be
quiet. You know what my mom's like.
GIRL
Yeah, I thought she was going to
kill you the last time you came
home late!
When the door swings shut behind the group, Sarah adds some
notes to her day planner.
INT. SARAH'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
The room is full of what was once bright colours, brilliant
pinks against a lighter shade of grey. On the long dresser
there is a photograph of Sarah with her arms around an older
Chrissy, both of them smiling. Chrissy is wearing the garnet
necklace she was wearing when she died. The bed opposite the
dresser is unmade, a pair of sleeping pants and tank top
tossed across the pillow on one side of the bed as though the
owner would return later on to wear them once more. Sarah
lays on the other side of the bed, staring blankly at the
clothes.
SARAH
Mr. Ambrose is still as much of a
jerk as always. I've been late a
couple times since, well, since
you. I've been late a few times,
but I just... I can't get force
myself to get going. Not without
you here.
Sarah's voice is cracking and solemn.
SARAH (CONT'D)
Forever, baby. We'll be together
again soon.
On the bedside table there is a small, jewelry box with a
silver chain hanging between the lid and the side.
INT. CHRISSY'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
The bedroom is a prison, white walls with grey carpeting, and
bars on the windows. A worn desk sits flush against one wall,
with a full bookcase beside it, towering up towards the
ceiling and full of textbooks, covers and spines tattered.
Binders are stacked neatly, and one is open upon the desk
with small, neat writing covering the pages with notes on
medicine and surgeries. A small bed is neatly made underneath
the window, the only splash of colour being pale shades of
blue in the comforter.
The door slams shut behind Chrissy as she hurls herself into
the room.
CHRISSY'S MOTHER (O.S.)
You thought I wouldn't notice?
The door rattles as someone bangs on it. Chrissy leans
against the door and wraps her arms around her knees.
CHRISSY'S MOTHER (CONT'D)
I know just how much booze I have,
and if you kids have wasted a
single drop I'll make this look
like fun and games, do you
understand me, you ungrateful
whore?
CHRISSY
Yes, mother.
She turns her head to the side and her hair moves, revealing
small purple bruises on her throat. In the background there
is the sound of glass shattering and Chrissy flinches.
CHRISSY'S MOTHER (O.S.)
And you! I can't believe you didn't
notice your daughter trying to
sneak out of the house. Just
because you're a worthless piece of
trash doesn't mean we need to raise
her to be the same.
There is the sound of someone being hit. Chrissy closes her
eyes and her shoulders shake.
She calls her calm and quiet best friend MARY (early 20s).
MARY (V.O.)
Hello?
CHRISSY
I can't do this anymore.
MARY
Do what?
CHRISSY
Live here. Be around her.
MARY
You know we've got a spare bedroom
here.
CHRISSY
Yeah, but I never wanted...
MARY
You're family. It's not taking
advantage.
CHRISSY
I know.
MARY
When did you want to move in?
CHRISSY
Soon. Tomorrow.
MARY
Start packing, girl. I'll be there
tomorrow with my brother's truck.
Chrissy hangs up and relaxes against the door, tipping her
head back to look up at the bare lightbulb.
INT. CAMPUS BOOKSTORE - DAY
The bookstore is busy, with small groups of people shuffling
up and down aisles and snatching textbooks to compare the
titles against scraps of paper. There is a low hum of
conversation, students gossiping about teachers and
coursework. Some are excited, while others are complaining.
FEMALE STUDENT #1
I can't believe I got her this
semester. I swear, if she says one
bad thing to me...
FEMALE STUDENT #2
(laughing)
Yeah, right. You wouldn't do
anything about it.
FEMALE STUDENT #1
Take that back!
Sarah looks out of place in her business suit and high heels,
her briefcase resting on the floor beside her. She browses
through some of the medical textbooks on the shelf. She picks
one text book up and compares it to the list of worn, folded
and refolded paper, a name scratched out on the top. Chrissy
comes around the corner and nearly bumps into Sarah.
CHRISSY
Sarah, hey.
SARAH
Hi.
(looks Chrissy over)
You look great today.
CHRISSY
Thanks.
(She tugs at her shirt)
You're not stalking me are you?
They laugh.
SARAH
As if I'd want to stalk you. No.
I'm here to pick up some textbooks
for research. One of the writers I
work with needs it, and the joys of
being the assistant means I get to
rush out and go looking.
CHRISSY
Lucky you. Looks like you've got
the last copy of Taber's.
SARAH
It's not on my list. Did you need
it?
CHRISSY
Yeah. If you're sure you don't need
it.
SARAH
You can have it. For a kiss.
CHRISSY
(laughs)
All right.
Sarah leans in towards Chrissy and KISSES her on the cheek.
SARAH
Wasn't so scary, was it?
CHRISSY
No.
SARAH
See. Maybe now you'll agree to go
out with me one of these nights.
CHRISSY
Actually, did you want to go for
coffee?
SARAH
Let me check if I'm free.
Sarah checks her day planner and sighs.
SARAH (CONT'D)
I'm busy today. What about next
week?
CHRISSY
That sounds great.
SARAH
Good. I'll call you and we can try
to work something out then.
Chrissy looks down at the text book. Sarah picks up her
briefcase and steps closer to Chrissy. Sarah presses her
fingertips against Chrissy's chin and lowers her head,
kissing Chrissy softly.
SARAH (CONT'D)
One more for the road.
Chrissy looks surprised.
CHRISSY
Bye.
SARAH
I'll see you later, baby.
Chrissy pulls out her cell phone as Sarah leaves.
CHRISSY
I'm going out with Sarah next week.
(beat)
I'm not really sure what I'm doing.
MARY
Everything will be fine.
CHRISSY
If you say so.
INT. OFFICE - DAY
Sarah leans back in her chair. The phone rings and is
ignored.
MR. AMBROSE
Sarah, you used to be so
meticulous, but lately you've been
forgetting to update the calendar
with my appointments, you've
forgotten about business dinners
you were supposed to arrange, and
you have neglected to keep me
updated on the status of several
projects.
SARAH
I'm sorry, Mr. Ambrose. I've been
having a rough time--
MR. AMBROSE
I know things have been hard since
you partner passed away, but you
have to know that things can't go
on like this.
SARAH
Of course. I'll make things right
again.
MR. AMBROSE
See that you do.
Mr. Anderson leaves the room and Sarah turns her chair to
look out the window behind her. The photo on her desk is of
the older Chrissy, and the glass is fractured and cracking.
It looks as though the picture has been thrown against the
wall. Sarah SOBS, and touches her lips with her fingertips.
SARAH
Things will be better soon.
INT. CHRISSY AND MARY'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
The walls are covered by bright splashes of colour, and every
available surface is cluttered with knick knacks and small
cow figurines. The couch in the living room is obviously
threadbare, but a yellow knit blanket covers the majority of
its surface. There is a small television in the corner,
supported on a rickety looking side table. On the coffee
table there is a plate of sugar cookies.
The large glass doors are opened wide, and there are some
plants placed on the balcony to get some light. Chrissy sits
on the couch beside Mary and sips at a cup of tea. Mary runs
her fingers through Chrissy's hair, ignoring the faded
bruises.
MARY
How long have you known Sarah?
Chrissy looks away and says nothing. Mary sighs.
MARY (CONT'D)
I worry about you. After everything
with your mom... Are you sure this
is okay?
CHRISSY
I'll be fine.
The doorbell rings with a flower delivery for Chrissy. She
accepts the flowers.
CHRISSY (CONT'D)
I'm going to study. I'll be in my
room.
The plate of cookies on the coffee table is still full.
INT. SARAH'S CAR - DAY
Sarah drives carefully, both hands on the wheel as she
smoothly moves from lane to lane. The front passenger seat is
clean, but for her purse, and the volume on the radio is
turned low. She looks at the time, 5:15, and smiles.
SARAH
Dial Chrissy.
Sarah pauses, waiting for her call to connect.
SARAH (CONT'D)
Hey. I'm just calling to make sure
you got the flowers I sent.
CHRISSY (V.O.)
They're beautiful.
SARAH
Pink roses always were your
favourite. I'm glad you like them.
CHRISSY (V.O.)
They--
SARAH
I'm hoping they can persuade you to
agree to join me for dinner
tonight.
CHRISSY (V.O.)
Sorry. Mary and I had plans to meet
up with some friends later on. Rain
check?
SARAH
Sure. Who knows, maybe I'll run
into your all later tonight. Keep
an eye out for me, baby. Love you.
CHRISSY (V.O.)
Yeah. You too.
Sarah turns the music up and sings along. Her phone rings.
SARAH
Can't talk now, mom, I've got a
date to get ready for.
FEMALE
I'm not your mother, Sarah.
SARAH
You again?
FEMALE
Someone has to watch out for you.
Do you even know what you're doing?
SARAH
I'm doing what I have to do.
Forever, remember?
FEMALE
Not like that.
SARAH
I've got a date. Don't bother me
again.
Sarah hangs up the phone and the car accelerates as she
pushes down on the gas.
EXT. RAVING FLAMINGO NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT
The line of women in glittering shirts that show more than
they hide and men in tight jeans and tighter shirts extends
halfway down the block. The women are either rubbing their
arms briskly or leaning against someone to share body heat.
Sarah looks out of place in her black dress, the hemline
brushing the tops of her knees and the collar resting just
below her collar bone. The line moves slowly. Sarah glares at
her cell phone before making a phone call. She waits and then
hangs up, frowning. When she looks up again, Chrissy is
inside the doors, and Sarah waves. Chrissy does not seem to
have seen. Mary and Chrissy's other friends crowd around
Chrissy. The bouncer checks the ID of the couple in front of
her, and waves Sarah in without checking her ID. He checks
the ID of the young women behind Sarah.
INT. RAVING FLAMINGO NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT
There is very little room to move around. Music is playing a
fast house beat loudly, and the dance floor is crowded. Sarah
presses through the crowd to get to the bar.
BARTENDER
What can I get you?
SARAH
A bottle of water, thanks!
Sarah hands the bartender a five dollar bill when he hands
her the bottle and she waves off the change. She looks around
the crowd, and then stops. She presses her fingertips to her
lips and waves at Chrissy. Chrissy smiles and turns back to
Mary. Sarah pushes towards Chrissy. A YOUNG MAN (early 20s)
steps backwards and Sarah teeters on her high heels.
He catches her arm to steady her but spills his drink on her.
YOUNG MAN
Sorry 'bout that.
SARAH
It's all right.
When she turns back towards Chrissy, Sarah is unable to see
her.
INTERCUT
Chrissy is sitting down at a dirty table with Mary, empty
bottles in front of them. Chrissy sways, unsteady even while
sitting, and obviously drunk. Chrissy speaks into Mary's ear.
CHRISSY
Didya see? God, I told her I was
going out with you guys and she
followed me or something.
(beat)
I need another drink. You want
somethin'?
Mary looks behind towards where Sarah was and then nods.
MARY
Sure. Another one of these gummy
bears would be great.
Chrissy gets up and weaves through the crowd, towards the
bar, then stumbles twice, and takes a side turn into the
washroom.
INT. RAVING FLAMINGO NIGHTCLUB WASHROOM - NIGHT
The walls are tiled, painted black with bright pink to
contrast. Ten stalls are empty, one occupied. A couch sits in
a corner, bracketed by large mirrors. Sarah stands at one of
the smaller mirrors, blotting her dress with balled up paper
towels. She watches herself in the mirror, glancing down
occasionally to check her progress. Chrissy walks into the
washroom. Their eyes meet in the mirror. Chrissy comments on
the odds of running into each other there.
CHRISSY
What are the odds that I would run
into you here?
SARAH
I'm not sure, but I am definitely
glad that you did.
Chrissy takes a couple more steps into the bathroom, then
leans against the wall and smiles at Sarah. Sarah tosses the
paper towel into the garbage and leans against Chrissy.
CHRISSY
Don't stop now.
Chrissy pouts as Sarah pauses and then lowers her head to
kiss Chrissy slowly.
SARAH
Why don't we get out of here; go
back to mine.
Sarah brushes her thumb against Chrissy's neck.
CHRISSY
I... yeah. Let's go.
INT. SARAH'S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Sarah and Chrissy stumble through the door, touching and
kissing each other. Sarah pulls away and reaches into her
purse, pulling out a small jewelry box, the same one that had
been on her bedside table before, and holds it out to
Chrissy.
SARAH
It's for you. A birthday present.
Chrissy opens the box, and Sarah lifts out a silver necklace
with a garnet pendant.
CHRISSY
I can't accept this, it's--
SARAH
It's yours.
Chrissy turns and Sarah helps her put on the necklace.
Chrissy tries to pull away, and Sarah pulls her back.
CHRISSY
I should go.
SARAH
You can't. I love you, baby, I
always will. I just want you to be
here with me. That's all.
Chrissy turns to look at Sarah. Sarah's face twists into a
fierce scowl and she twists the chain in her hands,
tightening it around Chrissy's neck.
INSERT
The car screeches around the corner, headlights blinding as
MICHELLE (early 20s), a quiet and fragile looking young
woman, stands at the crosswalk, one foot raised. The car
barely manages to swerve in time. Sarah climbs out of the
car.
SARAH
You moron! You could have died, or
did that thought even cross your
mind? Oh no, of course not. It's
all about me, me, me with you kids
these days isn't it?
Sarah stops and touches Michelle's hair.
MICHELLE
I'm sorry. I wasn't watching, and--
SARAH
Whatever. I'm Sarah.
MICHELLE
Michelle.
SARAH
You look just like... Hey. You want
to go out for supper? It's the
least you could do for me.
MICHELLE
I... I probably shouldn't.
SARAH
Fine. Then give me your phone
number. I want to make sure you're
still okay later.
When Michelle turns the corner she notices that some of her
papers are missing.
BACK TO SCENE
Michelle presses her hands against Sarah's shoulders,
grunting as she tries to force Sarah away.
MICHELLE
Please...
INTERCUT
Michelle walks into the coffee shop. Sarah grabs her by the
shoulder and forces her to turn around. Michelle flinches,
her shirt pulling away from her neck to reveal bruises.
MARY
Hey, Michelle, we're almost done
here. You coming?
MICHELLE
Yeah. I'm leaving.
BACK TO SCENE
Sarah kisses Michelle, ignoring how she struggles.
SARAH
I love you so much, Chrissy.
Forever.
INTERCUT
Michelle turns the corner in the bookstore as Sarah steps
back into her.
MICHELLE
Are you stalking me?
Sarah laughs.
SARAH
Let me take you out for supper. It
won't kill you. Or should I make a
huge scene here?
MICHELLE
No, I'll go.
Sarah pulls Michelle against her and kisses her roughly
before letting her stumble back into the shelves before she
leaves.
MICHELLE (CONT'D)
Mary, I'm scared. She was here.
BACK TO SCENE
Michelle seems to be growing weaker. Sarah continues to kiss
her, still tightening the necklace around Chrissy's neck.
Blood drips down.
INTERCUT
In the nightclub, Michelle sees Sarah wave and ignores it.
Michelle pulls Mary away.
MICHELLE
She's here!
MARY
I don't see her anywhere.
(laughs)
You so owe me another drink for
that one. You know there's no way
she could have found us here.
INTERCUT
Michelle stumbles to the bathroom to cry and is cornered by
Sarah.
SARAH
Well, well. Look who I've found.
Sarah pulls Michelle against her, winding her hands in
Michelle's hair.
MICHELLE
Please don't. Stop.
SARAH
I promise I won't hurt you. I just
want you to come home with me.
MICHELLE
I... my friends are waiting for me.
SARAH
And your friends will keep waiting
for you. Unless you'd rather I go
out there and tell them I'm taking
you home myself.
MICHELLE
No! I'll... I'll come with you.
SARAH
I'll make this so good for you. You
deserve the best, Chrissy, and
you're going to get it.
MICHELLE
That's not my name. Please.
SARAH
Let's go.
INTERCUT
Michelle looks at the necklace covered in blood.
MICHELLE
It's covered in blood.
Sarah slaps Michelle and forces her against the wall,
pressing the necklace against her throat and pressing it in
deep.
SARAH
It's yours, Chrissy. You have to
wear it. You have to stay here with
me.
BACK TO SCENE
Michelle struggles against Sarah before she sags. Sarah drags
Michelle to the bedroom. She carefully changes Michelle into
the night clothes on the bed, before tucking her in. She then
climbs onto the bed beside Michelle and kisses her.
SARAH
I love you, baby.
Michelle stares sightlessly at the ceiling.
SARAH (CONT'D)
I'm quitting my job. Mr. Ambrose
hasn't been thrilled with me
lately, and I want to spend more
time with you. I can't lose you
again.
Sarah trails kisses over Michelle's body, lingering on the
curve of her abdomen.
SARAH (CONT'D)
Forever.
EXT. STREET - DAY
There are two police cars parked on the side of the street as
Sarah is getting out of her car. She ignores the officers as
she pulls a cardboard box of books and photographs out of the
car. She nudges the door closed with the toe of her runners.
Sarah turns and notices the yellow police tape for the first
time. She sets the box on the roof of her car and crosses the
street.
POLICE OFFICER
I'm sorry, miss, but you can't go
in there.
SARAH
Why? What happened?
POLICE OFFICER
There's been a homicide. Do you
live in this building?
SARAH
No. I was just dropping some stuff
off for my friend.
POLICE OFFICER
I'm afraid you'll have to do that
later. For now, all tenants and
anyone who may have information are
being asked to report to the police
station downtown.
SARAH
I'll make sure Chrissy knows. And
if I can think of anything I'll go
down there myself. It's just awful
that someone was killed.
This has always been such a nice
neighbourhood.
POLICE OFFICER
You have a good day, miss.
SARAH
Thank you.
Sarah turns to leave, placing her box of personal items back
inside her car. She fingers the garnet necklace around her
neck as she picks up her cell phone.
FEMALE (V.O.)
You aren't remorseful in the
slightest, are you?
SARAH
I was wondering if you'd call
again, Chrissy.
CHRISSY (V.O.)
That isn't forever, you know.
SARAH
Maybe not. Next time will be.
CHRISSY (V.O.)
You have to let me go.
SARAH
I can't. I'll find you again.
CHRISSY (V.O.)
The only person who can stop this
is you.
SARAH
Maybe I don't want it to stop.
(beat)
See you soon.
When Sarah lets the phone fall to the ground the screen is
blank. No one is on the other end. Sarah gets inside her car.
She drives away.
FADE OUT:
“Laureen was twenty-three hours,” Mom says, sipping at her coffee as she looks across the table.
“That’s nothing,” Shirley laughs, shaking her head. “Aaron was thirty-four. They finally had to give me a caesarean.”
Mom winces.
I have heard these stories before, but trading birth stories seems to be a badge of honour that will never make sense to me. Who wants to brag about being in pain for that long? It gives me a sick feeling in my stomach and I wrinkle my nose, trying to ignore the bitter scent of coffee and cigarette smoke that never fades.
“A caesarean is easy, at least. No pushing.”
“Longer to heal though.”
“I don’t want to know.” I swallow, and look up from my book, My Sixth Grade Teacher Is an Alien. They both look at me and laugh.
I really don’t. I don’t need to hear about giving birth and having babies because that’s gross. I’d rather just read, but my sister has already gone to bed so the only place I can is right here in the kitchen where mom is.
“Why not? You’ll have babies some day.”
“No, I won’t.” I gag dramatically. “I don’t even like having a sister and brother, why would I have kids?” There’s a pause as I look back down at my book. “Besides. It’ll hurt.”
“You forget about the pain.” Not like I believe them, not after hearing them bragging about how painful it was.
“No, thanks! I’m never gonna have kids.”
“You’ll change your mind.”
But I won’t. It’s a promise I make to myself right then and there. I will never have kids. I don’t want to be a mother, and I don’t want to give birth. I want to be able to do what I want forever without having to worry about some dumb kids holding me back. I deserve that, don’t I?
At least that’s what I think. But as I get older I start to wonder, I start to think maybe it would be okay, maybe kids could be kind of… I dunno… fun, maybe. Kids could be all right, as long as I had them with the right person, like maybe Kevin, the cute boy from my class. So when my mom asks me to babysit for her friend I think, hey, practise. This could be okay.
“Fuck you,” Sheldon, two-year-old brat from hell shouts at me.
“Come on, you need a diaper change, kiddo,” I grit through my teeth, refusing to take another breath in because, man, this kid reeks. If I’d known babysitting would involve changing dirty diapers and having to deal with temper tantrums like this… I would never have agreed. Mom does not need to play bingo that much.
“I don’t wanna! I hate you!”
For a two-year-old the kid has got quite the vocabulary, and I wince.
Babysitting reminds me how much I hate kids. I promise myself again. Never. Ever. Have. Kids.
My promise works for five years, until I graduate high school, and find myself stumbling into a serious relationship. It’s love, I’m sure, and one night—one stupid, stupid night—we forget to use protection. I’m swept away by the stars above my head, grass prickling against my back. It’s romantic and sweet and could have been torn straight from a Harlequin. It’s perfect.
One month, two months later I take a test and my dreams shatter. I wanted to do something with my life, go to college, get a career… Instead, I’m pregnant and my path twists and churns as I drop out of college—one week after being accepted. Losing out on this chance for my future hurts, and I’m bitter and resentful and I hate this.
“How could you do this to yourself?” Mom asks, unhappy, unimpressed. This, being pregnant, was never in my plans for the future. It was never in my parents’ plans for myself. She wasn’t supposed to know yet. I didn’t want her to know. Not yet.
Dad is even less happy than Mom was. “How are you going to be able to afford this?” I’m silent. I don’t know the answer, not really. “Babies are expensive. Diapers, formula, clothing…” He keeps going on, listing how expensive things are, and I flinch as though every word is a blade.
He’s right. Kids are expensive and this one… it’s wrecking my life. It’s ruining my future. I hate it, I hate this. But I got myself into this mess, and I have to live with it. I’m going to resent it, though. Nothing can change that. I will resent this baby, I do resent this baby.
It only lasts until I see my baby in black and white, shifting and moving on a screen in front of me. I’m going to be a mother. Somehow that seems more important than school right now.
On my eighteenth birthday, I go out for dinner with a small group of friends. A nod to being an adult, perhaps, or an attempt at being responsible. My evening does not end here. From the restaurant, we go to the Purple Onion, a small bar just off Whyte Avenue, and I flash my ID at the bouncer.
“Happy birthday,” he says as he is handing me back my ID. I open my mouth to thank him and it’s too late, he’s already moved on to the next person in line.
I’m eighteen, I’m officially an adult and it feels so good, so freeing and irresponsible and reckless that for a moment I want to drink, to act like every other eighteen year old I know.
I don’t.
I drink orange juice and I dance, ignoring the acrid stench of spilled beer and cigarette smoke. When it becomes too much I move towards the doors, open to allow the chilled fresh air passage into the darkened bar. The dance floor is a mass of shifting, harried bodies that twist and grind to the pulse of classic rock and new pop, the music overloud and bass turned up too high. When I miss the taste of alcohol I kiss my boyfriend, and in his mouth, I find the lingering traces of rye and coke. Remember this, I tell myself.
I turn eighteen and it’s a short pause in my life as a mother.
My life doesn’t change overnight. It’s a steady process full of hard decisions that I know I need to make. It hits me in Safeway, when I bypass the cookies and pick up bananas—“According to your blood test, your potassium is low,” my doctor tells me, his accent rich and warm and soothing, even as I’m trembling and terrified of the implications. “You should eat some bananas, if you like them. You’re taking your vitamins still, right?” I’m all right, my baby is all right—I’ve begun to make conscious decisions for my child’s health.
Oh, I’m not perfect. Is anyone? I still drink pop, but I’ve stopped drinking coffee. It’s a give and take kind of situation. I trade in some of my poor habits for healthier ones, but some… some I can’t give up.
When I’m three and a half months pregnant the gut wrenching morning sickness changes from one breathe to the next. I have almost gotten used to the need to vomit at any smell, regardless of how fond of it I had once been before being pregnant; God only knows how many times I’ve had to beg off on cooking supper because the smell of raw meat makes my stomach clench in horror. I have spent this time exhausted, queasy, and generally unhappy. For all the pain and sorrow I’m going through, I thought I would have something to show for it, but instead my stomach is nearly as flat as it has always been.
I stumble into the tiny kitchen of our apartment, the smell of freshly brewed English Toffee coffee fills the air, and instead of the urge to vomit, I find myself inhaling deeply. The scent floods my senses with a sense of peace and homecoming, taunting me with its nearness. The rich warmth of the smell of coffee caresses me, a gentle touch that reminds me of cold winter nights curled up in front of the fireplace.
I glance over at my boyfriend, ready to share my thrilling revelation with him when I pause, caught up in his easy beauty. It is as though I am seeing him for the first time all over again, and I smile. Sleep clings to him, eyes hooded against the light of morning, shadow covering his strong jaw. “Beautiful,” I breathe, and as he takes a sip of his coffee, I swallow heavily.
There, clinging to his lower lip is a drop of coffee lingering, tantalizing, taunting, and tempting me. Soft, wet brown on the pale pink of his lips, caressing them, leaving behind a trail of heavenly coffee flavour. It torments me as my vision narrows until all I can see is those lips, with that single drop of coffee that hangs poised, before the sight of his deep pink tongue darts out to catch the drop breaks my vision.
Without thinking, I lean forward and catch his lips between mine, halting the progress of his tongue, savouring the first taste of coffee to pass my lips in three months. It’s a perfection that I hadn’t expected, the taste of the coffee bursting in my mouth, flooding it with the taste of English Toffee. It isn’t the same, getting coffee second hand, but it’s better than nothing and I sigh, relaxing.
I ask the doctor for permission to take up yoga again, the gentle stretches relaxing and helping to maintain my stress levels. I slip back into the movements as though I had never stopped practising, a flashback to being a child and doing yoga with my younger sister as a warm-up before we would go to gymnastics. The older woman on the television never failed to amaze us with how flexible she was, and we would follow her instructions, laughing the whole while.
I press up into a back arch, my stomach lifting towards the sky and I swallow slowly, head dipping backwards as I relax into the movement. Breathing slows, my heart rate drops as I just am. Beside me, my sister is giggling, watching as I shift my five-month pregnant body, abdomen finally swelling with new life.
“You better have the baby before my birthday,” she tells me in all seriousness.
“Why?” It never fails to amaze people that I have retained my flexibility so easily.
“Because I have to be fourteen still when you have her!”
When I lower myself to the ground at last, it is with a laugh as I turn my head to the side. My sister and I look at each other and we smile. I am becoming a mother, and yet I have never felt closer to my sister.
I go for walks, and I take long, hot baths. I read, water swirling around me as I take the opportunity that was never mine before. One bathroom and a large family meant that relaxing in the bath was not an option, not something I could do without inconveniencing everyone else. Now I devour books as I soak in the tub, stopping often to drain and add water, keeping the temperature hot enough to turn my skin red. It isn’t a punishment, a way of hurting myself. I love the heat, the way it drains the tension out of my muscles and leaves me limpid and relaxed. I love to read, and I have the time right now. Time that I know will fade when my baby comes.
When the heat of summer is too much I lay on the couch with the fan cooling the sweat upon my body and I take naps. In the background is the hum of talk shows and soap operas, legal dramas where justice is served, and after an hour the show is over and the loose ends are tied up. These shows are a mindless break in the monotony of the day-to-day. The house is clean, supper ready to be cooked, and I have nothing else to do with my time. My kitten bats at my toes, and I grin from my place on the couch. Everything is slowly shifting and coming together. My life is changing, and taking a different path than the one I swore it would take, but I can’t find myself caring about the changes any longer. “Everything happens for a reason,” I tell myself as I roll over, toes moving away from the kitten. My eyes close and I listen to the children playing outside my patio door. Soon my child will be here.
I refuse to allow people to smoke around me or in my house. I hate the way it smells, even more than I hate the way it lingers on my tongue, bitter and acrid. The choice is for me, I don’t want to smell it or taste it in the air. But the choice is also for my baby. Carrying it within me affords some protection, but not enough. I have read the statistics; hours spent scouring the Internet as well as reading my mother’s nursing textbooks. I devoured the knowledge, the information, and I refuse to take the chances with my child. The change isn’t so difficult. My parents stopped smoking years ago, and the few friends I have who smoke are happy to step outside instead. The only time I have problems is when I go out, and I’m so far along now that going out is no longer the pleasure it once was. I would rather stay at home, cleaning and relaxing, getting ready for the child who will be here, home, soon.
I have become the perfect example of a young, conscientious mother-to-be.
“You never used to want kids,” my mom tells me, drinking the coffee I have made for her, as we sit at the dining room table. She laughs, reminding me of all the times I swore I would never get pregnant, would never have a child. “You said it was gross.”
“It is!” I laugh with her, one hand dragging across my swollen stomach as I sip at my juice. “The whole thing is gross, but…” I trail off, waving my hand in an attempt to say with my body what I cannot with words.
“It’s worth it,” she agrees, smiling.
“It’s gonna hurt.”
“You forget the pain, afterwards.”
I’m not sure if forgetting the pain is worth it, if it will really help as much as my mom seems to believe it will, but I only have her word on it. And she is right. It is worth it.
“I’m going to be a mom.” Tears sparkle, blurring my vision. I’m due any day now. Any time, in fact, if my doctor is to be believed. Five centimetres dilated, and it could happen soon. It frightens me and thrills me, and I wonder if I’m ready.
My mom leaves, hugging me and promising to be there when the time comes. I believe her.
Three in the morning, I am lurched out of bed with the urgent need to use the bathroom. It takes me ten minutes to realise that my water has broken, and it is time. Despite all my promises to myself, the sworn vows that I would never be a mother… the time has come.
I’m going to be a mom.
Today I ask for help for the first time in my life. Today I take charge and latch on to my future. It is a thrilling and terrifying moment that I have worked towards for so long that I never believed it would happen.
"Don't talk about blood, or the emo boy over there is going to go cut himself," my friend snarks, eliciting a quiet, if awkward, laugh from the people around her. It is a stereotype that the only people who cut themselves are the emo teenagers—you know the ones. They sit in their dark, possibly painted black, bedrooms listening to The Cure and writing bad poetry about how no one has ever liked them. These are the teenagers who have one or two spare suicide notes lying around "just in case," so obviously these are the only people who harm themselves.
I'm laughing, too. Just the same as everyone around me, but if my laugh is a little more brittle and forced, then who is to know? Because the fact is, I don't fit the stereotype of the emo teenager and yet I have a strong history of self harm. It goes great with the depression and anxiety.I am twelve when I cut myself for the first time. My best friend and I are sitting in her bedroom for yet another sleepover. I have spent the night so often that I have my own toothbrush and clothes here. I have no need to pack a bag or prepare at all. Normally we spend our time watching anime and listening to music. If her brother is gone, we sneak into his room to read his comic books. Tonight, though, is different. Tonight we have chosen to stay in her bedroom, and for the first time we each hold a knife and cut into our arms. We have no intention to kill ourselves. The silence is broken by the sound of our breath catching, hissing through our teeth as we mark our arms with our own names. When we first talked about it, it seemed like a good idea. Now, I am not so certain. I never have been fond of pain.
It does not take long for the blood to bead and rise to the surface and I stare, fascinated. It hurts still, and my name is so much longer than my friend's, but the endorphins—a word I have only just learned in class—are starting to rush and I am left with a heady feeling of weightlessness. There is a sense of peace and relaxation as I close my eyes and breathe out slowly. Life, once so hard that I felt this need for pain, suddenly looks so much brighter, so much fuller, so much more. Pain is the answer to my problems, I decide.
Pain is not always an escape, I eventually learn.
I collapse at work when I am twenty-one, a sudden pain in my chest that is rushing through the left side of my body. I am found twenty minutes later, late coming back from my break, by my supervisor who was sent to find me. I am rushed to the hospital with a suspected heart attack, and all I can think of is my two-year-old daughter at home with my mother.
The wait to see a doctor is terrifying in a way I have not experienced before. I am alone in a waiting room, surrounded by sick and injured people, only the ache in my chest and arm for company and compassion. My throat rattles as I struggle to breathe. It seems the air around me has turned syrup-thick, sticky and sweet as only hospital air can be, and I find myself choking on every breath I take. When I am finally admitted into the back, the doctor barely looks at me before writing on my chart.
"What you've experienced is an anxiety attack," he tells me. The look in his eye says that I have wasted his time and I flinch. I work in a high stress job, I admit. A call centre that provides technical support is an understandably stressful place to work, but I am ashamed that this stress has translated into this pain.
I leave the hospital feeling lessened by my experience and turn back to the painpleasure of a knife. It helps for a time, until I experience another anxiety attack. And then another. At my mother's request, I turn to my family doctor and she prescribes Ativan, a small white pill, barely the size of the head of the pins I remember my mother using when she had the time to sew. I slip it under my tongue and I am lost. This is not the last time I lose myself to the medication.
My attacks continue to come without warning, just a sudden shot through my chest as my teeth grind together, leaving me gasping and fumbling for purchase even as I am fumbling for the Ativan. It is such a tiny pill for the relief it brings—like a shot of whiskey, according to one person, or like smoking the good weed, according to another. I would not know; I have never smoked weed, and never been fond of whiskey. What I do know is that the Ativan leaves me in a haze and removes the pain. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, each breath sparking golden hot as I draw it in, coming out mist-black with anxiety and depression and anger and hurt.
Exhaustion overcomes me, drowsiness pulling at my eyelids and tugging them downwards: another side-effect of the Ativan, one that I welcome. Insomnia is an ongoing concern, one that I have come to expect—if not welcome—with open arms. I can often be found joking that the only reason I have managed to complete many assignments on time is a direct result of my insomnia.
Right now, insomnia is not a problem.
I collapse into bed, eyes closed tightly as my mind races. I cannot stop thinking any more than I can stop breathing, and it is almost physically painful in a way that the anxiety attack was not. I can breathe freely now, but it is not enough. With every breath I take my mind races, tumbling down through half-formed thoughts and ideas.
I run my fingertips over the smoothbumpy wall, writing words in the hope that I might remember them come morning and wakefulness. Is this what an opium haze feels like? The thought is etched across the paint by the touchdrag of my finger and then it drifts away, lost in the sleep-slurred mess of my imaginings. My last conscious thought is of a knife, steel glorious and tempting, urging me to seek relief in harm, in cutting myself again.
Morning after is fuzzy, the drug taking its time to clear my system even as I stumble drunkenly. I need to squint in order to place my legs in the holes of my pants, and dressing becomes a chore of epic proportions. I know the words traced upon my bedroom wall by the way my fingers remember them and I sit in front of my computer, furiously typing before they slip away for good. The vision of the knife remains, a temptation I long to resist and yet long to give into. My nails scratch across my arm, digging in along the scars I bear, and I catch myself, surprised and appalled at my subconscious behaviour.
Ativan has its flaws, and being addictive is one of them, so I make it a point to use them sparingly. I prefer meditation or yoga to calm myself as much as possible instead. Insomnia returns when I stop using the Ativan, and I am left fatigued and drained even as I toss and turn, unable to sleep. I lose all sense of who I am, twisted and torn apart by depression and anxiety. Realisation comes slowly, a painful process where I learn that I can no longer do this alone. I need help, surprise, surprise.
I finally make the decision to go see a doctor. The trip is riddled with anxieties and second, third thoughts. The wait gives me fourth and fifth thoughts. Finally I am brought into the examination room. I look at the doctor—his brown hair, brown eyes—and for the first time I talk. I talk about how I can't sleep, can't concentrate, can't breathe, how I'm not myself anymore. Help. Please, help me. And he listens. This is the strangest part. He listens, and it's like my Ativan, dragging away the stress and anxiety as he agrees to help me. Together we work out a plan—not for me to be free of these issues, but a way for me to manage my problems. The relief is so profound I begin to cry, startling myself.
When I leave the doctor's office I smile, relieved and at peace.
Today, I find hope.
Since Mark had passed away ten years ago, Karen had done her best to survive, and even move on. She missed him though, and she wished the twins had known their father. Instead, he had died in a plane crash four months after Karen and Mark had been married. She had been planning to tell him she was pregnant that night when he came home, and had a romantic dinner cooked. She was just finishing her makeup when the phone call that shattered her world had come.
Shaking her head to break herself out of her reverie, she smiled sadly. Rolling her shoulders against the tension that had built up throughout the day, Karen grabbed the mail from the box, flipping through the envelopes. A postcard fell to the floor, and she bent over, smiling at the bright picture on the postcard. She was curious about whom it was from—no one she knew was in Miami right now. Flipping it over, she felt her stomach drop at the sight of familiar handwriting through suddenly tear-blurred eyes. “Mark…” she whispered, her fingers running over the words. She could feel her world shatter once more.
Karen,
I can’t do this anymore. I love you, but not the way I should, not the way you deserve. I had an affair—with another man. I can’t live a lie.
Mark
The postcard was dated March 10th, 1997—Karen pressed her hand to her mouth, choking out a sob—the day before the crash.
Written for: Distilled Prose
Assignment: Write a 500 word postcard narrative. Then revise and shorten the story to 250 words.
Where or when is “the line” crossed?
It is hard to determine when we are crossing the line because the line is constantly being redrawn. Instead, we have a set of morals that shift dependent upon the whims of society, and as time goes by these morals change. Years ago, the line was very different from the lines we have drawn for ourselves today. The thought of scientifically creating a life belonged to the realm of science fiction, while today we are unsurprised to see cloning performed – essentially creating that life. Much of the new technology we have at our disposal would have been unheard of: medicines and medical equipment, visiting the heavens in rocket ships… Because these things were unheard of, just the thought of being able to do them had to be “crossing the line.” If this trend continues, and our morals and technology shift the way they have been doing, then it is entirely likely that by the time we have reached a point where what we could consider “crossing the line” today, it will most likely be acceptable then. However, with that being said, I do believe that there are certain things that will never be considered acceptable. For example; the complete genocide of the human race, enforced sterilization biological weapons/warfare et al. It is my belief that science should be used to help humanity, not to harm it. Causing deliberate harm unto others would be something I consider “crossing the line.”
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PROW 104 – 507 Instructor: Sophie Lees |
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A Tolerance for Violence |
|
Deliberative Argument |
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Laureen Guldbrandsen Handed in: 1/30/2007
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“Boys will be boys,” I would always hear my mother say in response to yet another fight that happened at school, even when it wasn’t the boys fighting. That is one of the most common phrases I hear from parents. Yet April 20, 1999 brought a marked change in many parents’ opinions; on that day, twelve people were brutally murdered, and another twenty-four wounded before the assailants committed suicide in what was soon to be known as the Columbine High School massacre. After the events of that day, parents began to believe that it was no longer a matter of “boys will be boys,” but was instead a concern that needed to be addressed. Nearly eight years later, things have not changed; fights continue to occur in schools, bullying is as much an issue today as it was then, and the issue of drugs has only increased. Now, as a mother myself, I find myself concerned about the failure of the education system to adapt a zero tolerance policy in regards to youth violence. While many schools will inform parents that they will not tolerate violence, the truth is that they can and do tolerate it, and often look the other way.
Youth violence can be defined as any intentional physical, sexual, emotional or psychological assault on another person (or persons) by one or more young people aged 12 to 19 years. Zero tolerance towards youth violence of any kind in schools means that violence would not be accepted as the norm, and would instead be punished heavily upon the first offence; this includes bullying, taunting, teasing, and fighting, as well as drug usage, which is known to lead to violence. Students must be held accountable for their own actions and recognize that their misbehaviour is a result of conscious choices, not the result of disadvantage, discrimination or peer pressure. There must be clearly defined consequences for violence and other misconduct in order to provide for a safe environment for everyone to feel safe in the education system.
Currently, youth violence is an issue that is glossed over, and over-looked by many individuals in the education system. This allows for more violence and misconduct to occur than what could be considered safe. Gangs and drug usage are one of the most common concerns in high schools today, both of which lead to violent situations. According to the Edmonton Police Service “there is a growing concern about gangs in schools. Gang-related problems have escalated, and schools are now in the position of deterring gangs and gang-related activity for the safety of themselves and the students.” (Edmonton Police Services) Gangs are known for creating, and thriving in, violent situations. They are also behind much of the drug-related issues in many high schools. Drug usage is an issue for many students, especially for those who feel pressured into doing the harder drugs such as crystal methamphetamine, a drug which is known to cause a psychological effect on users, commonly provoking them towards violence.
While it is difficult to determine the exact extent of youth violence in Canadian high schools, we see that every year one in ten youths comes into contact with the police for violations of the Criminal Code or other federal statutes. While ten percent may not appear to be a great deal, we must take into account that the average number of students in a classroom ranges from twenty to thirty students. As well, in the past eight years, we have seen a dramatic increase in youth violence, and homicide rates.
A zero tolerance policy towards youth violence would prevent a great deal of the violence that occurs in high schools, and allows corrective action to take place in the event that violent events do occur. If students expect there to be no tolerance for any violent actions they intentionally take, whether physical, sexual, emotional or psychological, they would be less likely to take action and instead think things over before making a decision as to what action they would take.
“If I knew I wouldn’t have been able to get away with [getting into fights] then I wouldn’t have done it. The teachers never cared,” said Stephen Guldbrandsen when asked about his violent past in school. Suspended only once for fighting, he had a reputation as one of the more violent young men at M. E. LaZerte Composite High School, and was a football player on the Junior team, where that reputation helped him. As a father of one now, he is more than willing to admit that a zero tolerance policy towards youth violence is a requirement in today’s schools. “The peer pressure to do drugs affected my judgement, and probably was what brought out that violence. [Teachers] really should have watched out for the drugs,” he adds.
With teachers and various educational staff looking the other way in regards to youth violence and other forms of misconduct we are sending a message that this is allowed, even acceptable behaviour, when in fact, it is not. “Boys will be boys,” is not a valid excuse for the violence we see in today’s schools. Youth violence is a growing trend that needs to be remedied, and the best way in which to correct this behaviour is to stop it at the first indication of trouble. The moment we allow it to proceed unchecked we are giving our consent and our blessing; this is not acceptable. Instead, we should be operating under a zero tolerance policy, wherein bullies, students who fight, and students who push drugs upon others are held accountable for their actions.
Bibliography
Edmonton Police Services. 28 January 2007 .
Guldbrandsen, Stephen. Interview. Laureen Guldbrandsen. 23 January 2007.
Statistics Canada, Canadian Centre for Justice Statistics. "Canadian Crime Statistics." Juristat, 16(10) (1995): 14-15.
As children we are taught that “sticks and stones” can break bones, but that names cannot hurt us; we are raised to believe that names have no real emotional value, not to complain when we are called names. And then we are told that the opposite is the truth. These same children are taught that to call a black man a “nigger” is wrong and hurtful, to call an Asian woman a “chink” is cruel, and to never call a Native American “primitives” or “savages.” This name-calling that we, as children, were taught meant nothing has grown to have a huge impact in the world as we grow older. With that impact we begin to learn about being “politically correct,” and our thoughts and speech shift accordingly. But how much is too much? Is there a point where we must step back and begin to name things as we see them, or do we persist in using euphemisms to name groups, cultures, and people?
“What's in a name? That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet” (Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet act II, sc. ii) Shakespeare was wrong when he stated that a name is not what matters, but what it is inside that affects us. The names that we call one another, or ourselves can affect our way of thinking about ourselves. If a young teenager consistently hears herself called “fatty” she is more likely to perceive herself as being fat, whereas that same girl constantly called “beautiful” is more likely to have a higher self-image.
Names matter to people, and while what is inside does count, the names we are called can affect our perception of ourselves and others. The name “nigger” is an example of how much a single word can impact our reality. Gloria Naylor writes of how that word can have many different meanings depending on who it is that speaks it, and to whom they are speaking. A young black woman may call her boyfriend “my nigger” without anyone batting an eye, yet a young white child calling the black girl a “nigger” will be reprimanded immediately, and with good cause. After all, it’s not a very PC word to use, and one of the worst racial slurs known to the English language.
If a name we give ourselves, or are called can affect one individual so much then when we look at a name for an entire group of people we see how it can either create social cohesion, or can tear apart a community. Biased language has allowed bigots and tyrants in the past to control others by removing their humanity, and reducing them to mere property or objects; making them below the rest of us. For example, Maggio says that calling Asians by racial slurs “made it easier to kill them.” (Maggio 506) When we de-humanize another person we make it all right to behave in a manner in which we would not normally act; for example, the slavery of many black men and women only a mere couple hundred years ago.
However, many groups are making a concerted effort to reclaim many words that have been commonly used as slurs. Lillian Faderman specifically references a group of young gays and lesbians in New York, in the 1960s and 1970s, who made an effort to reclaim the word “queer” by calling themselves the Queer Nation. “There are now enclaves of the Queer Nation all over the country.” (Faderman 545) By choosing to reclaim a name that is fraught with emotional tension and making it their own they have not only given themselves a newly remade word to title themselves with, they have also created the opportunity to become a closer knit community of people. Another group that has begun the act of reclaiming a title is Wiccans, reclaiming the word “witch,” commonly used as a derogatory insult towards women in general. They find pride in a word that causes a political stir, and are willing to work hard to re-shape the word to define what many Wiccans perceive to be the new witches–caring, loving, and peaceful.
Where Maggio strives for the political correctness, with its euphemisms that veils meaning in flowery phrases, that is proliferate in today’s society, Michiko Kakutani believes there is a spread of “sloppy, abstract language.” (Kakutani 519) Euphemisms, and the kinder ways of phrasing things do nothing to help those groups which are named by them. By making light of the situation in the way we speak of it, we are detracting from the seriousness, and as such making life more difficult for these same persons. For example, because someone is “poor,” and we refuse to acknowledge them as such, instead referring to them as “the economically marginalized,” they are less likely to receive the support and assistance that they require in order to survive in today’s world.
Suppressing and hiding politically charged words and phrases do not prevent harm from being done; instead, it cloaks the harm, secreting it behind a mask of political correctness. Names can bind us together; we are humans, mankind, citizens and people. They can tear us apart; there are Jews, Chinks, Redskins, Niggers, Rednecks, and Whites… They can be reclaimed, like queer, and witch. Names can build the self-esteem or they can shatter it. Names have proven that they have the ability to harm as well as heal, and that old childhood rhyme can be safely set to the side and forgotten. Sticks and stones can break bones, but names have more power than can be known. However, if we persist in hiding behind the euphemisms that clog modern speech we add to their strength to do harm, and detract from their ability to heal. Naming ourselves and others allows us a way to connect, and bond with one another.
Works Cited
Faderman, Lillian. “Queer.” in Exploring Language, Gary Goshgarian edition. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004
Kakutani, Michiko. “The Word Police.” in Exploring Language, Gary Goshgarian edition. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004
Maggio, Rosalie. “Bias-Free Language: Some Guidelines.” in Exploring Language, Gary Goshgarian edition. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004
Naylor, Gloria. “”Nigger”: The Meaning of a Word.” in Exploring Language, Gary Goshgarian edition. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004
Shakespeare, William. Romeo and Juliet. New York: Washington Square Press, 1992
the last kiss
tasted like tobacco
a bitter and sad smell
-- Utada Hikaru "First Love"
Walking down the sidewalk, my head ducked down, toque pulled low, scarf high, I catch the scent of cigarette smoke, and it lingers reminding me of you. The way it used to cling to you, mingling with your cologne, and the underlying scent of you. It makes me smile, a small comfort as I continue on my way to work. I never thought it was possible to feel so strongly for any one person, other than my daughter. I bury my hands in my jacket pocket and allow myself to remember the smell of you as you kissed me awake this morning, the taste of tobacco lingering on your lips, smoke tingling my nose. If I lick my lips I can still taste you there. It's kind of funny, I'm a non-smoker but the smell of cigarette smoke is just one of the things I love about you, even though I bug you to quit.
Winter has come and gone, and the smell of cigarette smoke lingers on your side of the bed, clinging desperately to the pillow I'm soaking my tears in. You left, and all I have to remind me of you is this smell, and a child still growing within me. It's not fair, because he'll never get a chance to meet you, or to smell that cigarette smoke that just screams your name. The taste of you lingers on my lips, mingling with the salt of my tears as I clutch your pillow tighter and roll over. It feels like my heart has been torn out of my chest, and the smoke fills the empty space and I cry.
Every once in a while I catch the scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air, a dark cloud on some days, reminding of the day you left me. On those days I can feel my throat clenching, holding back tears. Other days I can remember that sense of comfort, the smell of you as you held me close when I was scared and needed your touch to soothe me. It's kind of funny how even now the smell of cigarette smoke, the taste of it, reminds me of you.
I took myself on a date, as it were -- this in itself is surprising because as a single mother of two finding the time to do something like this isn't an easy task. Somehow I managed to find the time while house-sitting, and when both of the kids were tucked up in bed. I grabbed my palm pilot, loaded up with a couple CDs in mp3 format, and my sketchpad and went for a walk.
Out of the city there's a different ambience, the night is still and quiet, but for all the lack of street lights it's still breathtakingly brilliant. The light of the stars and the moon shimmer, and if I let my eyesight go just a little fuzzy I can almost convince myself that it's a group of fairies dancing in the bush. I prefer that idea than the reality of he breeze stirring the snow enough to create that magical glimmer.
The sound of Nelly Furtado flows through the ear buds, rattling around in my head and I take a moment to listen to the words.
You speak out all you feel is defiance
All you need is some self-reliance.¹
More truthful words I can't think of. Self-reliance… the thought sparks and as I settle into the tree house, my legs swinging over the balcony I won't let my daughter near, and I begin to sketch. I'm no artist, but like anything I do I do it for the enjoyment.
Take the lead or follow
I want to feel the light shine on me.¹
Doesn't everyone? I pause a moment, considering. I'm shy by nature, maybe I don't truly want the light to shine on me -- at least not all the time. Maybe every once in a while.
The song changes, and I can't help but laugh because really, this song is most definitely one that could be handed in as a dramatic monologue.
At first I wrote it "dear you," then it turned,
"to whom it may concern."
I began it in this way because
I needed to express through these words,
How deeply I was hurt²
Which song? The Letter, by Heather Headley. Reminds me of my ex-fiancé, and I almost wish I knew how to get hold of him to let him hear it. Maybe I am still bitter. Scratch that… I am bitter. I switch the song on purpose, because really, who needs to be feeling melancholy on such a beautiful night? And besides, this is my date with myself.
So afraid to open your eyes, hypnotized.³
Evanescence plays, dark and angsty… hard, and wild. Somehow, where The Letter made me feel melancholy this song makes me sing along, head bopping in time, legs swinging through the air.
Heaven shine a light down on me.³
The moonlight shimmers over the snow, and I glance at the time displayed on the screen of my palm. Hmmm, it's been a few hours, and the baby will be waking up soon to nurse. I guess it means that my date is over. Hey, I got to draw and write… and to be honest I feel a lot more relaxed now than I did before.
¹Nelly Furtado, "Afraid"
²Heather Headley, "The Letter"
³Evanescence, "The Only One"
Three and a half months pregnant and all of a sudden, the gut wrenching morning sickness had changed from one breath to the next. I had almost gotten used to the need to vomit at any smell, regardless of how fond of it I had been before being pregnant; God only knew how many times I had to beg off on cooking supper because the smell of raw meat had made my stomach clench in horror. I had been exhausted, queasy, and generally unhappy. For all the pain and sorrow I had been going through, I would have thought to have something to show for it, but instead my stomach was nearly as flat as it had always been.
The smell of freshly brewed English Toffee coffee filled the air and instead of the urge to vomit, I found myself inhaling deeply. The scent flooded the senses with a sense of peace and homecoming, taunting me with its nearness. The rich warmth of the smell of coffee caressed me, a gentle touch that reminded of cold winter nights curled up in front of the fire with my husband.
I glanced over at my husband, Mark, ready to share my thrilling revelation with him when I paused, caught up in his easy beauty. Blond hair, a little shaggy, and in desperate need of a haircut, fell into his chillingly bright blue eyes, and his lips looked soft and tender. It was as though I was seeing him for the first time all over again, and I smiled, musing on how breathtaking he looked first thing in the morning. Sleep still clung to him, eyes hooded against the light of morning, shadow covering his strong jaw. Beautiful, I breathed, and as he took a sip of his coffee, I swallowed heavily.
There, clinging to his perfect lower lip, a drop of coffee lingered, tantalizing, taunting, and tempting me. Soft, wet brown traveled across the pale pink of his lips, caressing them, leaving behind a trail of heavenly coffee flavour. It tormented me as my vision narrowed until all I could see was those lips, with that single drop of coffee that hung poised, before the sight of his deep pink tongue darting out to catch the drop broke my vision.
Without thinking, I leaned forward and caught his lip between mine, halting the progress of his tongue, savouring the first taste of coffee to pass my lips in three months. It was perfection that I hadn’t expected, the taste of the coffee bursting in my mouth, flooding it with the combined taste of English Toffee, and the unique flavour of Mark. I’d forgotten the way he tasted, and took my time remembering just what I had been missing these past few months before pulling away.
Opening my eyes slowly, I was greeted by the sight of my husband as he breathed out on a sigh, smiling sleepily at me. I smiled in return, taking his cup and setting it to the side. There was time yet to return to the coffee—later.
on Tobacco Kisses