Anamaria
New Member
Faerie
When you get burned, there's bound to be someone to pick up the ashes and hold them close.
Posts: 17
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Post by Anamaria on Jul 22, 2004 18:45:52 GMT
Disclaimer: All the characters here are mine! *grins* WARNING: This does contain m/m, but it’s in the nicest sense. Or at least I like to think. Also contains self-harming issues and home-violence. If you're not willing to read anything about those, or are offended by any of them, don't read this story and flame it afterwards. for those who do read... apologies at the harshness of some of the topics, but they're ones that so many face. Anyway. R&R!
“Jay! Jay, are you up yet? Quick, sweetheart, your father’ll be home soon, you have to help me make breakfast!”<br> Jamie awoke with a start, his curled-up form quickly straightening out as he heard the desperation in his mother’s voice. He cursed softly and he slid his legs from underneath the duvet, his hands reaching out, grasping for his contacts.
Finding them, he stumbled into the dismal, brown-walled bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, his hands finding the faucet and turning so the water trickled in a gentle stream down the edge of the sink. Placing a contact lens on the edge of a finger, he wet the tip of another finger, tipping his head back and letting the water-droplet splash into his eye. Jamie shuddered, hating the feeling; he had never liked putting in his lenses, but he knew that he preferred them no question to glasses.
After slipping them in after much debate whether he ought to bother, due to the fact that as soon as he went downstairs it was likely that his mother would be a nervous wreck because his damn father was coming home after ‘late night working’, he leaned against the sink and stared at himself in the mirror opposite him. Every day he looked at his reflection, and each day he wondered why he hated it so much.
People were constantly telling him what a ‘comely’ and ‘good-looking’ guy he was. Telling him he’s lucky that he took after his father.
“f*** that,” he muttered to himself, his dark green eyes whizzing over his form. Dark brown hair, sort of spiky but surprisingly soft (‘queer hair’ as his old friends used to refer to it as), relatively smooth skin, a firm yet not majorly muscled tanned body and around a height of 5ft 10’’. Overall, he was bloody good looking.
But a complete replica of his drunken, violent father.
“JAMIE!”<br> The voice screamed this time, pure terror seeping into his mother’s voice. This startled him, and made him move quickly to his bedroom. Slipping on a clean pair of boxers, pants and then a plain white t-shirt, he ran downstairs full pelt - at seventeen years old, the person he was closest to in the world was his mother, and when she hurt, he did to.
And by the sounds of it, she was frightened beyond belief.
“Mum?” he shouted, skidding into the kitchen. He found her, not as he expected, standing in front of the cooker, beans dripping from her blouse and onto the floor. Tears rolled down her cheeks as her eyes stared at her son, begging for help.
“Mum, come on,” he said gently, stepping forward and stroking the tears off of her cheek. “You’ve got to stop panicking. We can do this together, so that when Dad gets in, we can. . . we can have everything under control. Okay?”<br> She nodded slowly, her wispy blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She wiped away her tears quickly, before smiling weakly.
“I’m sorry, Jay,” she said quietly, turning to the sink and beginning to wipe at her blouse hastily, her eyes feeling suddenly dry. “I just want everything to be okay for when Robert gets home. You’ll help me, won’t you?”<br> Jamie grasped his mothers’ hands from her shirt, and found her eyes with his.
“Always mum,” he said sincerely, his eyes searching hers for the tiniest bit of happiness. “I’m always here for you… and that’s why we’ve got to get this breakfast going!” he ended cheerfully, grinning at his mother, before letting go of her hands and wrenching open the fridge, perhaps a little more heavily than he had planned.
He breathed in the cold air of the fridge and tried to force himself to relax. As he reached in to grab some eggs, his t-shirt lifted up slightly, his stomach showing a little. Four deep gashes, each beginning to heal, flashed its way into the world. He glanced down, before quickly withdrawing his hand and pulling his shirt down. Taking a deep breath, Jamie quickly shoved his hand in the fridge and pulled out six eggs. He shut the door with a tiny sigh, before placing the eggs on the counter.
“Only six today, sweetheart? Not eating?”<br> His mother said it in a falsely cheerful voice, and, for her benefit, Jamie forced one back.
“Not really hungry – must be lack of exercise, I think. Anyway, what else have you – “<br> BANG.
The door flew open and crashed against the side, causing his mother to yelp weakly.
Jamie stopped; dread was drenching the back of his neck in sweat.
He was home.
Robert.
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Post by K~Bear on Jul 23, 2004 5:24:04 GMT
That is really good Anamaria! write more please!
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Anamaria
New Member
Faerie
When you get burned, there's bound to be someone to pick up the ashes and hold them close.
Posts: 17
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Post by Anamaria on Jul 23, 2004 9:56:49 GMT
Write more *laughs* I've written tons more. I'll post the second chapter - but it's not nice.
QUICK NOTE: I thought for this chapter, I’d try it in first person. Thought it would make things more personal, more interesting. If I like it this way, I’ll carry on doing it this way, but please R&R with comments on which you prefer. *grins* The usual warnings, m/m, home-violence, strong language, self-harming etc. Not one of the nicest chapters, as you first meet Jamie’s horrible Dad. If you’re homosexual, you may find this offensive, but he’s just a character. I do not share his views AT ALL.
“H-hey Dad,” I said quickly, not realising that my feet were edging away. I stopped; if he noticed it, he’d surely mention it. Tell me I was a sissy, a pouf, a homo. He seemed to find this regular entertainment. “How was w-work?”<br> Dad’s dark eyes remained cold and strangely blood-shot as he slammed his briefcase on the table. He chose to ignore me, before walking to stand next to mum. I saw her tense up straight away, but tried to smother it by coughing. She forced a smile for him, and asked hesitantly,
“Did you get lots of work done, love?”<br> He shot daggers at her through his eyes, which were ringed with heaviness. I could tell that he’d been out drinking again, but I tried not to let my fists clench by my sides. He’d probably notice that too. He glanced at the cooker, checking that each of the foods cooking were ones he wanted. Without asking, he stuck a finger into what was left of the beans, before wiping it over mum’s blouse. He opened his mouth, and spoke in a low voice,
“Why is it cold?”<br> There was silence from both of us; did he want the real answer? Or would mum try and intercept with a story about the cooker seeming to be broken? That was usually what she said, but after his drinking-binge, he never noticed it was the same story.
Dad glared at both of us, before repeating in a louder, coarser voice,
“Why is the f*cking food cold?”<br> Mum opened her mouth, before shutting it again. Her eyes flickered over to me, secretly asking for a bit of help, before answering in a trembling voice,
“W-well, sweetheart, it was the funniest thing – I tried t-turning on the cooker, and it just wouldn’t start! So Jamie – “<br> “B*llocks!” he snarled, reaching forward and grabbing her hair, yanking it so she was dragged closer to him. She gasped, but he refused to let her go. Leaning closer, he shoved his face in hers and spat, “You f*cking slept in, didn’t you b*tch? Thought you’d let me come home hungry after working my ass off for this family? Who do you think you are, hmm? B*tch?”<br> I twitched suddenly, about to say something when he cut in again, shaking her hard. I could see the tears flung from her eyes, but could do nothing. I never did anything.
“I bet you haven’t even ironed my clothes, have you? Stupid sl*t! I need those for later at the f*cking meeting.”<br> “I-I have, daring, I have done your clothes. Y-your blue shirt is hanging o-on the banister.”<br> He pushed her hard, causing her to fall into the table. She let out a cry, but it was smothered by my sudden confession.
“It was my fault Dad!”<br> His body turned slightly so it was facing me, but the tiny movement was like a bullet.
“What?” he hissed, his hands balling into fists and then back again.
“It was me,” I continued, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I got up late. I was going to help Mum, but I slept in late. I’m sorry Dad, I couldn’t help it, I had to help last night as well because . . . because you were working, so I’m sorry – “<br> With a strangled yell, he strode towards me, before placing his meaty hands on my chest (a different between us; I had slim, hairless hands – his were large and disgustingly hairy) and pushed me. I stumbled a bit, but regained my balance quickly.
“So is it my fault now? I work my balls off for you, I get you the money for the clothes on your back, the bed in your room, and this is the thanks I get? Ungrateful little b*stard. You think prancing around the house in an apron and dusting is harder than what I do? I bet you love doing those jobs,” he sneered, his mouth set in a smirk that made me want to heave. “Makes you feel like a real woman, does it? I bet you go and brag about it when you see your f*cking homo mates, say what a good little boy you’ve been, then get done up the ass by some freak.”<br> I gritted my teeth, before saying quietly,
“I’m not gay, Dad. I have a girlfriend.”<br> It was true; I had a girlfriend, Clare – but I’d been too ashamed to bring her here, so we just stayed at her house most of the time. We didn’t generally do much – she seemed a big fan of kissing and sex and stuff. I didn’t really find it all that great to be honest, but I did it ‘cos it made her happy.
Not that Dad knew any of it. Not that he ever asked.
“A girlfriend?” he let out a bark of laughter that made me feel sick to the stomach. “You? You may have a girlfriend, boy, but that doesn’t stop you from being a f*g, does it? You make me f*cking sick. I can’t stand to look at you – get out of my way.”<br> He shoved me to the side again, and stormed through the hallway before walking into the living room and slamming the door shut. I felt the anger whip up inside of me, but I suppressed it as I heard Mum crying in the kitchen. I walked towards her, putting my hand out to touch her but she pulled away with a jerk, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.
“I just need to b-be alone,” she whispered. “Go to your room or something, Jamie. Just go.”<br> I nodded, barely able to stop the tears beginning to flow down my cheeks as I ran out of the kitchen. I took the stairs two at a time, before entering my bedroom and shutting the door with a quiet “click”. I threw myself on my bed, a million and one thoughts racing through my f*cked-up head.
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Branden
New Member
Ravenclaw Student
Wandering...
Posts: 241
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Post by Branden on Jul 24, 2004 14:39:06 GMT
Hm. Interesting...
Absolutely excellent character development, even in these two short chapters. Overall, seems like a great story so far... I only have one question. How does it link to the setting of these forums?
That's all. ^^
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Post by K~Bear on Jul 26, 2004 7:35:25 GMT
I think I like it in the third person....how the first one was done. But still a great story! ^^
More please! ^^
Nd Braden, the FF's or stories that you write dont have to be just about theses forums, although some people choose to not comment on stories that arent of HP context, which is rather annoying.......
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Lysse
New Member
Lycan
...Drowning In Secrets...
Posts: 70
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Post by Lysse on Jul 26, 2004 20:20:22 GMT
I...you...it's...Fantasmic! I love it! Tis all nifty and yeah...
The plot is great, the characters are well and truly thought out. Must keep going!
-plots down with popcorn to wait for updates-
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Post by ~<3~Morgan Voltaire~<3~ on Jul 26, 2004 21:05:40 GMT
Oh My Goddess This is better than.....well anything Ive ever written I dont care if its first or third person just post more!
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Orca
New Member
Lycan
*is back*
Posts: 818
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Post by Orca on Jul 27, 2004 7:25:44 GMT
Feh. I'm sooo glad my dad isn't like that....
And don't worry. I don't find it offensive, 'cuz the dad seems like an ass. And I don't listen to asses. ^.^
Tis very good...but....where's the m/m? If it's only that his dad calls him gay, then I don't think it's m/m...
Just a comment.
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Post by K~Bear on Jul 28, 2004 9:27:46 GMT
May I ask what m/m is? -is very blonde-
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Orca
New Member
Lycan
*is back*
Posts: 818
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Post by Orca on Jul 28, 2004 16:37:25 GMT
Tedibea-chan....m/m means male/male....shonen-ai....boy-on-boy...take your pick.. but i don't know if this qualifies. unless there's more later on.
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Post by Kasatzia on Jul 28, 2004 16:48:47 GMT
*smiles slightly* I'm bored of Anamaria, therefore I'll post as me. LOL. Enjoy the next few chapters. *laughs* The m/m starts later my dear friends, in about Chapter... 8. Yes, I'm quite sure it's chapter 8. And its mild, as is the m/m in chapter 9... but I still find it intense. I love writing these things. I'll be posting the next four chapters now, so a nice yummy treat for you. WARNING FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER: Contains self-harming. Not nice. But if you're willing to read, please do. It'll help for the other chapters LOL so if you want to read the rest of the story, I'd read this chapter.**************************************************************************************** CHAPTER THREEWhy the hell does everything have to be so complicated? I thought to myself, trying to regulate my breathing once more. Why do I have to go to a school where everyone expects me to be Mr. Cool? They think I’ve got it going for me, with all the girl’s fawning over me, the good looks and the nice personality. Why can’t any of them at least f***ing realise I’m going through hell?I laughed dryly. “You know why that is,” I murmured to myself, lifting up my mattress and slipping my hand underneath it, searching. “Because you don’t WANT anyone to know.”<br> My fingers closed over what I was looking for, which I pulled out with a sigh of relief - the razor glittered as the early morning sun caught the edge of it, reflecting in my eyes. I smiled at the familiar sight, and knew that soon the tension that was flowing around inside me would be released. No-one knew about my secret . . . not my Mum, not Dad (of course not Dad, he didn’t give a s***) and not Clare. Not even my best friend Daniel knew. It was a secret I’d take with me until the day I died – no-one, as far as I was concerned, needed to know. I started to do it when I was in seventh grade; my parents had been arguing constantly, and it was driving me insane. When I asked my Mum about what was wrong, she told me there was nothing I could do and to just focus on my own life so that I didn’t get involved. When I asked me Dad, he told me it was entirely my fault and that if I kept interfering it would just get worse. So I believed them both. The memory of the first moment the blade broke my skin was fresh and vivid in my imagination, still bringing a tingle to the scar on the inside of my arm. I looked at it now, remembering the psychological pain that had been shooting through my head, knowing that if I just ran the blade over my skin gently that the pain would be released physically. So I cut. I’d been cutting now since then, my arms covered in pearly-white or pink scars. I rarely did them on my arms now, as it was too obvious. I only started doing in on my stomach and chest recently, something that Clare had found increasingly annoying. During sex, she took pleasure in scraping her nails down my body, making me gasp – probably because if she didn’t do that, she wouldn’t get any suitable reaction out of me. Sure, she’d have the time of her life, but me? It was a duty. As I thought about our last meeting, I remembered her slipping her hands underneath my shirt and dragging her finger-nails across my stomach; I could always use that as an excuse for it. It’s not like she cared anyway, as long as she got some. I felt a slight blush of shame come across my cheeks as I thought of our sex life; most guys would get an immediate hard-on, but it didn’t really do anything for me apart from make me wonder why I did it when I didn’t even enjoy it. I violently pushed these thoughts out of my mind as I ran my thumb over the blade. It slit the skin open slightly, but no pain came from it. I felt the strange sense of euphoric bliss slip over me as I pulled my t-shirt up and over my head. Staring at my stomach, I marvelled at its beautifully mangled appearance; red gashes were thrown across it, with pearly-pink scars shimmering up at me, reminding me of past slashes. None were particularly long, but each was deep enough to make me go light-headed when I dragged the razor across my flesh. I placed the blade on my smooth skin now, almost gasping with longing. I pressed it slightly, feeling it begin to pierce the marred skin beneath it, before swiping it quickly. I bit my lip, feeling the stress begin to seep away as the crimson blood came to the surface; again, I cut, over and over again, watching the blood rise and begin to roll in rivulets down my toned stomach and onto my black pants. No-one would ever notice; the red didn’t come out against the black. I thought again of my father’s insults, calling me gay and a fag . . . anger swept through me, and I felt myself tense up. Without meaning to, I lifted the razor and slammed it into my arm, bringing it across as if I were cutting a joint of lamb - I hissed through the pain, watching as the crimson release trickling onto my t-shirt that lay at my feet. I did it again, feeling the anger mount up inside me at each assault. Finally, I felt my head suddenly flash white, and I knew I had to sit. I fell back, landing on my soft duvet, before my hands drifted to the edge of my mattress, shoving the razor underneath it. I lay there, panting, knowing I should get up quickly and wash the blood away before it stained my bedclothes, but also knowing I’d faint if I tried to do so. Losing the battle, I passed out, my head spinning slowly into oblivion as the euphoria ended in a long sleep.
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Post by Kasatzia on Jul 28, 2004 16:51:45 GMT
CHAPTER FOUR
School. Oh yes. My favourite.
Actually, although I say that with sarcasm, it actually isn’t that bad. I get away from home, and I have a great reputation with the teachers and pupils. It’s kinda cool.
I opened my locker with a sigh, carefully placing my books in the bottom of it, about to take out my French books when suddenly a voice next to me said quietly,
“Jamie, come into my office.”<br> With a frown, I turned to see Miss Rogers, my Year Head, walking into her office, motioning with a hand that I should join her. I sighed, wondering what I could’ve possibly done – when suddenly, a strong, icy hand closed over my stomach.
Mum.
What had Dad done to her?
I followed her quickly, my heart racing. As she closed the door behind me, I heard her give a heavy sigh before indicating the chair opposite her desk. I sat, waiting.
“Well, Jamie . . . I have some bad news I’m afraid – “<br> I could barely keep still as I said in a low voice,
“What did he do to her? Is she . . . is she alive?”<br> Mrs Rogers blinked; she looked shocked that I would assume that someone would be dead. My stomach began to relax as I realised I’d been panicking for nothing.
“No-one’s dead, Jamie – whatever made you think that?”<br> I remained silent.
“Well . . . the bad news is that this years’ student work quota hasn’t been met. And each of the six classes has to cut down on five students . . . I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.”<br> My mind went blank, but I managed to stutter out an answer.
“I-I have to leave? But where will I go? Why me?”<br> She sighed again, before shuffling some papers on her desk until she found the one she was looking for. Shooting me with what she probably thought was a piercing look, she told me,
“Each of your teachers has written, with the exception of creative writing and music, that your grades have been average or below . . . and quite frankly, Jamie, we don’t have room in this school for a below-average student. We took you in on grounds that you would try your best in this school, but we just haven’t seen the effort. Out of the one hundred and eighty students in this school, your place in the year is one hundred and fifty second. Therefore – “<br> “I’m two into the thirty you have to get rid of and you’re chucking me out?” I said in disbelief, my head spinning. “What about creative writing and music? Don’t they count? I’m ready to bet that the four before me are just average in everything.”<br> Mrs Rogers looked as if she was about to speak, but I didn’t let her.
“No, seriously. Yeah, I’m below average in some classes, but if you look at my work Miss Rogers, you can see I try damn hard. Why wouldn’t I? I’m not like all the other guys, I actually want to do well in school rather than see how many girls’ throats I can stick my tongue down. Please reconsider, Mrs Rogers. Please.”<br> She seemed mildly shocked by the outburst, but her expression softened considerably.
“I personally think you make up a lot of this school’s good reputation, Jamie, and if it were up to me, you’d stay here and just have extra classes after school . . . but the fact remains that it is not my decision. Either you accept it or you don’t, but I can tell you now that accepting it would be the easier option.”<br> I had to hand it to her; she knew how to handle me when I was stressed. Her words soothed rather than angered me, which made me relax into my chair and want her to keep talking. She must’ve seen me relax, because she carried on in a gentle voice, her grey hair suddenly making her seem a lot older than she probably was.
“I know this will be hard for you dear, but we all have trials and tribulations, and unfortunately this is one of yours. You seem to be relatively happy in everything else – I think you’re one of the only students that I see smiling as they walk into the school hallway. Does school really present you with that much inspiration?”<br> I thought for a moment, before saying quietly,
“Sometimes life at home gets a bit stressful, and school sort of takes me away from it, gives me a distraction.”<br> Curiosity and a strange sense of enlightenment lit up her pale blue eyes, and for a moment I wondered what I must’ve said for her to look so pleased with herself. She stood up, lifting one finger as if to stop me from questioning her, and walked over to the metal filing cabinet; for not one moment did I expect her to pull out what she did.
“Tell me if this rings any bells,” she said dryly, smiling slightly. “ ‘When the Rain turned Crimson’ by Jamie Hayes.”<br> I stopped breathing for a moment; no. My creative writing teacher had sworn to me that never would any of the other teachers read that piece. It wasn’t a poem, but it wasn’t a story of any sorts either . . . it was merely thoughts, written down. I think out of all my teachers, Miss Campbell was the one I trusted and liked the most – she had slowly developed into more of an ally than a teacher. But now? She had betrayed me.
“You should know, Jamie, that Miss Campbell did not give this to me,” Mrs Rogers said suddenly, causing me to jump from my pissed-off stupor. “I saw it on her desk, and it intrigued me from the first line in, so . . . I photocopied it.”<br> My mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. I wanted to shout at her for invading my privacy, but I was too curious about what she had to say.
“I think the part that captured me most in here was “Each day the fire of hell builds up in my soul and crimson rain is the only way to stop the pain. Angry words, fierce blows, nothing compares to the immortal insanity I go through day by day, and the crimson rain that takes it all away” – I’m not sure why that got to me so much, Jamie, but it did. And, to be perfectly honest, shocked me.”<br> The familiar words washed over me, echoing through my heart and mind. I knew those words; god I knew those words so well I could say them in the deepest, darkest sleep. I wanted to shout at her, but the syllables, the damn familiar syllables kept repeating over and over again in my head. Taking my silence as unhappiness, she placed a hand on my shoulder and said gently,
“As soon as I read this Jamie, I knew something had to be wrong, seriously wrong. But each time I saw you, you were grinning or laughing – so I thought I must be wrong. Look at me Jamie.”<br> I did; what I saw was not the cold, calculating look of an authority figure, but the kind, worried look of a grand-parent. I sighed, knowing she’d want answers.
“What caused you to write this?”<br> Time . . . I needed time. I had to come up with a convincing story – or should I tell the truth? The truth, the whole truth and nothing but?
“This is your chance to talk about it.”<br> I knew it was. I knew that right there, in that office, I could spill all the s*** in my life and she’d listen until the cows came f***ing home.
But I couldn’t.
“There was no real reason for it, Mrs Rogers,” I said in a smooth, direct voice. Sometimes my lies were so real I almost believed them myself. “I watch people, try to see their emotions as my own – and I see a lot of pain; so I just transferred it to paper.”<br> Mrs Rogers’ eyes did not leave mine as she said softly,
“Is that the truth, Jamie?”<br> Crossing my fingers behind my back, I said sincerely,
“The whole truth and nothing but.”
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Post by Kasatzia on Jul 28, 2004 16:52:15 GMT
CHAPTER FIVE
So, inevitably, I had to change schools. Great. Just dandy.
I hated having to get to know new people. I seriously couldn’t hack it; they asked so many questions, questions that were completely pointless and meant absolutely nothing. Why the hell would someone want to know where you were born? Or what primary school you went to?
I had to change schools as quickly as possible – not for the school’s sake, but for my own. Home life just kept progressing from s*** to s***tier, and I was almost certain that if I spent a full day in that hell-hole, that I’d cut too deep.
But then . . . how deep was too deep?
Dad had been surprisingly quiet lately, making me slightly wary of him. He put his arm around Mum whenever I was around, but the tear-tracks down her face were enough to show that Robert had not been giving her a ‘break’, as it could be described. She smiled shakily at me when this happened, but the fear in her eyes was an instant giveaway – f***, I could kill him.
Of course, I kinda had to concentrate on MY life. Starting at a new school took a lot of preparation, a lot of . . . well, don’t take this the wrong way, but . . . shopping! I needed some new stuff just to get ready for school. New pair of pants, maybe a nice shirt, couple of pens, the usual. I asked Mum for the money, and she said yes without a fuss – no different. I almost laughed out loud as I walked away, imagining what it would be like to ask Dad for money.
Death sentence.
So it was the day. The day where everyone would judge me and make up their minds about whether I was worth the effort.
As I walked down to the bus-stop, I found myself wishing I had a friend to walk with, someone like John or Maria or just one of the guys I used to hang around with. Saying goodbye to Daniel, my best mate, was awful – I swear, he was almost crying. And for the star quarterback, that was scary. I walked down the road casually, pretending that my stomach wasn’t tying itself into knots, glancing at the passing people. A couple of them nodded in familiarity, a few looked me up and down and the occasional one or two stopped to talk to me.
I was ten minutes late for school. Big surprise.
“Jamie Hayes?” a brisk voice said in my ear as I leaned against the receptionists desk panting, out of breath after my two mile run from the bus stop. Two f***ing miles – that cut off about half an hour off of my usual sleeping time. Fan-bloody-tastic.
I nodded, not even bothering to wonder how the heck she knew my name, and focused on what she was now handing me.
“A map around the school,” she droned, her hawk-like eyes fixed on my face, “a welcome letter with your time-table on the back and a slip for your parents to sign saying that during lunch hours you can leave the premises.”<br> Grinning at this last piece of information, I took the information pack before turning back to her.
“What about my locker?”<br> Mr. Hawk-eye-receptionist stared at me as if I was the biggest dumbass she’d ever come across, her thin lips twitching.
“There’s a main locker-room – just take whatever locker you see spare. Don’t count on anything though.”<br> I strained a thank-you through gritted teeth, before pulling out the map as I walked off, muttering under my breath. God, what an annoying b****.
“First left, second left, outside, past the music-house, then to the right,” I said quietly, my gaze darting around as I walked. This school was so different to my old one; it was a real proper ‘who gives a s***’ school. The walls were cracked, the floor had a thin red carpet which had god knows how many pieces of gum squashed into it, and it had the lingering smell of dodgy school-lunches.
I figured I’d probably fit in quite easily.
Climbing up the stone steps into a wooden cabin-like place, I pushed open the heavy doors and came face to face with a tall guy, about 5ft 11’’ with dark brown hair streaked with red and wearing a black shirt and black jeans.
“Sorry,” he muttered, pushing past me as if looking at me would contaminate him. I let him go past me without a fuss, but felt more than slightly offended – he could’ve at least said ‘hi’ or something. I shrugged it off with a mere raise of my eyebrow; I guessed that being the new guy wasn’t much of a plus around here, but that there would be better people to talk to, ones that would actually stay around long enough to have a proper conversation.
As I walked further in, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a long, messed up mirror that was leaning against a wall. I was wearing a plain, long-sleeved white t-shirt with baggy blue jeans, my hair spiked up and that slight, almost cocky grin on my face. Maybe it’d been the smile that had frightened the guy off . . .
I shook my head slightly, not really wanting to think about it. I slung my bag from my back onto the floor, my eyes shifting so that they could spot a glimpse of silver somewhere. Dragging my feet half-heartedly around the locker-room, I desperately tried to spot a locker key, but was totally unsuccessful. I began pulling at random lockers to see if any were open. Eventually, I came to one that was right in the corner of the room; one that I knew would be a hell of a squash to get to – but it was still an open locker. I pulled it open hurriedly, and with relief saw that it was un-taken. Shoving my bag in there, I unzipped it quickly and pulled out my pencil-case and an A4 pad. I couldn’t be assed to take any other bits of s*** with me just yet.
I found my information pack again, and on the back of the welcome sheet was, as Hawk-eye had said, my timetable. I checked it out, and groaned as I saw my first subject was Science. Oh wow. I was so damn lucky.
As I wandered around the school grounds, half-trying to find the labs, I found my thoughts drifting to the guy I had bumped into, wondering if he’d be in any of my classes.
And half-hoping.
Don’t ask me why.
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Post by Kasatzia on Jul 28, 2004 16:52:52 GMT
CHAPTER SIX The day dragged on longer than I would’ve wanted – and it was less than eventful. As I predicted (although not gleefully, I might add) I got about ten girls’ numbers and a pinched ass about seventeen times. These kids weren’t very big on the subtlety.
Music was my last class, and, incidentally, my favourite. This was the once class I actually wanted to do well in, and as soon as walked in I felt more at home that I had done in any of the other rooms. All around the ‘classroom’ were instruments, old and new, broken or intact – it was a musician’s goldmine.
Some people were crowded around the teacher’s desk, until one of them plucked up a piece of paper and waved it in the air.
“Teachers not here!” the person shouted gleefully, a dumb smile appearing on his somewhat flat face. “We can do what the f*** we want, people! Let’s bunk!”<br> There were quite a few cheers to this suggestion, as about half of the class spilled noisily out of the classroom and out of the Music block doors, no doubt getting prepared to go and chain smoke by the bike shed. Original.
I wandered around aimlessly, wishing someone I knew was there to tell me what to do. I noticed an acoustic in the corner, dusty and unused, which annoyed me greatly - my guitar at home was the only possession I had that I actually took pride in. I walked over and grabbed it, tuning it deftly to my liking, before quickly throwing out a few chords. Satisfied, I began to play a song I’d written recently, which sounded like it was talking about people drowning after a boat crashed, but was really about life and how it could always end up on the rocks.
As I began to let myself become lost in the music, I heard a quick riff being played by someone in a small practise room near me – and they were using an electric guitar. You have to realise, not everyone can use an electric guitar properly, and from what I’d seen that whole day, no-one seemed to have the capacity to be able to play any instrument other than a xylophone.
I knew I should leave them too it, let them have their quiet music time like I had wanted, but now that I actually knew someone here could play, I was intrigued. And I had to meet them.
Turning the door knob quietly as not to disturb them, I slipped in the room, still clutching the borrowed guitar. The person was almost facing me sideways on, their back turned to me slightly as their black sneaker rested on a chair. My eyed drifted first to their hands, expertly running up and down the strings, so smooth you could hardly see the note changes. Slowly, my eyes drifted up to rest on their face as my breath caught in my throat – I knew that face. It was the guy that almost sent me flying hours earlier in the locker room.
Concentration was etched on every line of his face: his eyes were shut, as if all he had to do was see the notes dart across his eyelids to see what he needed to play; his mouth was set in an extremely slight smile, a little open; a lock of his hair fell from the rest and onto his forehead, resting just over his eye.
This got to me majorly – it was all I could do to stop myself from reaching over and brushing it away so it didn’t irritate him. Unfortunately, my body chose that moment to twitch slightly, as if the piece of hair had awakened it to its senses.
The guy dropped the guitar noisily to the ground, his eyes finding mine, wide with shock. His hands were clenched by his sides, almost as if to warn me off – but as I let my eyes linger at his own, he relaxed. The notes that had crashed out as he had dropped the guitar were still vibrating softly through the air, and it seemed that neither of us wanted to speak.
As I stared into his eyes, I saw a slight flush of red illuminate his cheeks and I smiled slightly at this act of girly-ness. I slowly rested the guitar I was holding against the wall, not removing my eye contact with him.
“Hey,” I said quietly, my voice sounding un-naturally loud after the silence that had fallen before. “I’m sorry, man, I just heard you playing and wanted to check it out – “<br> “No, it’s not a problem,” he said quickly, raising his hands. He had a deep, melodic voice similar to mine, deeper if it was possible. “I’m sorry for jumping like I did – I just don’t generally get an audience, y’know?”<br> I grinned, expecting one back, but didn’t get one. He looked away quickly, reaching down and taking the guitar back into his embrace slowly. Suddenly my eyes drifted to the section of skin that had come on show as his black shirt had lifted up from his back – it was olive-golden, so tempting to just reach out and touch –
Oh my god. What the hell was I thinking?
My eyes snapped back up to him, but he wasn’t looking at me – he was running his fingers over the strings of the guitar.
“Look, if you want me to go, you can just say. I can understand if you want some time alone.” I said awkwardly, fingering my shirt.
The guy looked up at me, a faint smile finally appearing, relieving me of the suspicion that he was dead to the world. He reached forward hesitantly, his eyes flickering down to my hand that was by my side as he said,
“Don’t worry about it – I’m Carter by the way. Carter Johnson.”<br> I took his hand in my own, and had to bite my lip – his hands were so smooth, almost like a girl. I realised with a shock that mine were like that too and quickly snatched my hand out of his grasp. He flushed red again, before saying,
“Sorry man, didn’t mean to offend.”<br> I realised the same blush of embarrassment was creeping up into my own cheeks, and knew I had to say something quickly.
“No, sorry, it’s just your hands are really... ummm... cold.”<br> This was the worst damn lie ever, but I had to stick with it. He smiled slightly, causing his grey eyes to crinkle at the sides. I felt a lurch in my stomach, and felt instantly sick with myself. What the hell was I doing?
Carter took the guitar again and began to play quietly, until I picked up the acoustic by my side. I listen to what he was playing, before realising it was “Red Is the New Black” by Funeral for a Friend. I began playing a side accompaniment that I’d created at home myself, and started quietly humming it under my breath. I looked up at him, and he was looking at me with that look of concentration again. I smiled, and began singing a bit louder. I could sing a bit, and although I was no professional, it sounded good with acoustics. Carter didn’t join in, but the ghost of a grin I’d seen before was on his face again.
“This eventual stop, this break in the mould, I scream down this hotline... just to feel something.”<br> As I sung this, I felt a jolt of anger in my stomach, and my fingers starting fingering the guitar even harder, the strings almost groaning in protest. Those words... I used to sing them to myself in my room when I was cutting myself, to spur me on – I could feel the same anger flowing through my veins at that moment of singing them.
“There isn't anything wrong with giving up, and for what it's worth I still hate you.”<br> I spoke that line under my breath, an image of my dad circulating in my head. I said it again, forgetting where I was, the guitar being squeezed to a dangerous level as I played. Suddenly I realised that Carter’s eyes were fixed on me as they had been before, but in a way that was trying to analyse what I was doing, saying. I stopped playing, before putting down the guitar quietly.
“Uhhh... look dude, I’ve gotta go,” I said hastily, flashing him a painfully forced grin. “This was cool – we should get together and play again sometime maybe? I could do with a mate...”<br> I could hardly tell what I was saying or doing as I reached in my pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. Lying on the floor was a chewed black biro, which I picked up and scribbled my number on. I gave it to Carter, before turning and walking to the door.
“I’ll see you around,” I called back as I slammed the door behind me, cursing myself as I walked out of the Music block early, wanting to escape the only place I thought was a safety from my Dad.
Turns out school couldn’t drive the thoughts away.
“C’mon Jay,” I muttered to myself, my fists balled up. “You’re just gonna freak everyone away if you keep going spazoid on them. Get a grip; you’re not at home yet...”
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Orca
New Member
Lycan
*is back*
Posts: 818
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Post by Orca on Jul 28, 2004 16:58:27 GMT
*dies*
*loves Kasa-chan muchly*
Yeah! So....damn...good...
You should be an author, Kasa-chan.
;D
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