|
|
Post by Patrick Follman on Mar 2, 2008 19:58:16 GMT -5
don't want to be a boy you want to be a man
[/font][/right] Long story short, Patrick hated it here. The smell of the hallways, the sound of the tile beneath his shoes, the looks he received from the others who lived here as well. He was just glad he was here on short term. Moving so much had made him lose sense of what home felt like. He'd completely forgotten exactly what home had been, or whatever it had once meant to him. The fire had taken every bit of home that could have ever existed for him at this point. It's flames lapping around it like a monster, it's taste buds hungry for anything that meant a single drop of something to someone. It'd swallowed Patrick's life whole, leaving him like a dead weight in the middle of the ocean. Non-afflicted by burns but damn did it hurt either way. The sound of the door hinges creaking as he opened it made him clench his teeth, jaw locking and unlocking in a single instant. Blue and gray headphones laced around his neck and bumped against his chest as he walked, Converse sneakers that were tracing death row clung to his feet and hovered above the peeling tiles with each step. His hands became subject of gravity as they rested limply in the pockets of his denim jacket. His black JanSport backpack hung loosely from his shoulder and shifted with discomfort as he shifted his weight back and forth, his steps slowing as he entered the front room and hesitated to move. What was he doing here exactly? The question continuously popped in his head and stabbed him in the chest with a dull blade. Vomit slowly began to rise in his throat and he forced it back down, giving a woman a long side glance as she said Hello to him then disappeared around the corner into one of the other rooms. A sigh of relief loosened his shoulders as she left, avoidance of conversation becoming his friend for a split second. Slowly his body moved without much expectation and he found himself in the far corner of the room, leaning against the arm of one of the beat up couches that gave the place a loungey feel. This was, honestly, the last place he wanted to be. Hell, this entire building was the last place that he wanted to be. But he was sure that if he ran off to his room right now, someone would be knocking on his door later asking him if he was alright. Oh- but how he wanted to race up those stairs and down that hallway, fling open the door and dive onto his bed, cover his face with the sheets and say goodbye to the world for the night. Even though, lately, even his dreams felt the need to haunt him. Nightmares that he could never seem to explain, woke him in the middle of the night. Sweat often was rolling down his face and adrenaline coursed through him as soon as he had awoken, and most often he felt as if he hadn't slept at all. He sighed once more, exhaustion stabbing at him everywhere that it could reach. He hadn't slept the past few nights, his subconscious mind falling victim to fear of another nightmare. His backpack fell from his shoulder and slumped next to him on the couch, gaze raising to study the other faces in the room- but none of them glanced up to meet his own. A small group had gathered around the television to play the Xbox, a few others grumbled about how they had wanted to watch it but majority had ruled over who got to do what with the TV at the moment, and how they didn't feel like walking across the building to see if they other television had been in use elsewhere. Green eyes fell back down to his backpack and he gave it a half-hearted smirk, deciding to ignore the homework that he had for the moment. The idea of going to get his laptop from his room left him when he went to stand up, and found his entire body aching from sleep deprivation. Maybe I'll just sit here a while instead... His eyes closed for a moment then snapped open seconds later, a panic rushing through him as to whether or not he had fallen asleep. But the same people where in the room as there had been before, and the same people completely ignored his presence. A huff of relief allowed him to relax again and he leaned against the arm of the couch, slowly shuffling what was in his pockets. Fingers grasped the items and pulled them out, eyes studying what now lay in his lap. A set of keys- two of them to his room, one to his car, and another two that fit into the lock box that was currently hid beneath his bed. Four guitar picks- two orange, one yellow, and one a transparent blue. A couple pieces of a ripped up piece of notebook paper, and a bit of pocket lint. He took a deep breath and fumbled with the picks, running them up and down his knuckles, then staring at the scratches that turned them red. Patrick bit his bottom lip at the rawness and the small stings of pain, the sound of the plastic hitting his rough knuckles dull against the holler of the other teenagers gathered around the television and whom were chatting about on the sofas across the room. you've got to show them that you're really not scared [/right][/font] [/size][/blockquote] |
|
|
|
Post by Mo Evans on Mar 3, 2008 5:15:35 GMT -5
Tell me your troubles and doubts
Giving me everything inside and out and
[/b] she said gently, smiling nervously, like she expected him to turn around and snap at her for whatever reason. Mo was quite a timid person, and even more timid around people that she outwardly liked. "I'm sorry," Mo said, pulling the plate toward her. "I... I heard about the fire, I'm so sorry," Mo repeated again, and then decided he probably wanted to talk about something else other than the fire which had ripped through his apartment. At least he was okay, she thought. She couldn't imagine what she would do if she found out something had happened to him. Patrick was one of the few people who was her age and who actually treated Mo liked a proper human being. "Would you like a pancake?" Mo asked, offering Patrick one from the plate, if she didn't know better she'd say the boy was totally famished. [/ul] Love's strange so real in the dark
Think of the tender things that we were working on[/blockquote][/size] |
|
|
|
Post by Patrick Follman on Mar 3, 2008 16:37:12 GMT -5
"Patrick," Fear struck him with an iron fist. Adrenaline shot shards of glass through his heart, hands started to tremble as an uncontrollable force took hold. He almost stood, his mind succumbing to a flight censor of adrenaline, muscles screaming for him to run down the boys hall and lock himself away in his room. He could’ve stayed there forever. Kept to himself like he always had, even before the flames of destruction set in. But not only had it ripped down the only home he’d ever known, not only had it taken away his parents- it killed his self-worth, self-respect. Suffocated any form of esteem or confidence he had in himself in its charcoal grasp. Self mutilation had become a game of his. A silly little game that the morbid soundtrack of his mind tricked him into playing.
A record full of the saddest songs played in the background of each night that stooped him down to such a level. The words, the hatred- they all made him feel so bitter as his skin parted to a sharp edge. Oh- but the release. It felt so disgustingly good. An addiction. The withdrawal and build up was the emotional stagger. Thoughts fighting into his head- any way to make him feel useless. Broken glass sinking through a paper heart, and despite his self-control and power- he could never seem to make it all stop on his own.
"I'm sorry," He tried to ignore her, pleading to nothing that she would just go away. He didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He wanted- no, needed the world to just disappear in a cloud of dust. "I... I heard about the fire, I'm so sorry,"
He glanced up, eyes meeting Mo’s as she sat across from him. Sorry? Fuck sorry. He suppressed a scowl and the urge to stand up, the urge to start screaming at her was all forced back down his throat. What did she know anyway? What did she know about losing everything twice? All these years he had worked so hard. All the counseling, all the social work after the fire that had engulfed his house as a child- the blaze that had stolen his parents from him. Now it’d come back to haunt him, take away everything he had worked for, for so long. It’d been said that it was a kitchen fire that had taken the apartment down, but he couldn’t give himself the benefit of the doubt- he couldn’t let himself believe it. The only things salvaged where what he had had with him at the performance that night, what hadn’t been left in his apartment before he went to the café. His clothes became ash, all of his furniture and necessities were lost without a second thought. His bass was lost as well as his Gibson, his keyboard was gone, his drum set was gone. The last picture of his family that he had- went down with it all. All burned to the ground. Some sort of spite the world seemed to have against him he supposed, being himself up over something that he couldn’t have possibly suspected or stopped.
He had no money, very little clothes, and felt so sick all of the time that he couldn’t bare the thought of eating. Things had grown so desperate for him that he couldn’t even afford his sleep medication if he even wanted it, but he didn’t have the courage to step up and admit that he needed some sort of help. Patrick had always been independent, and an odd sort of stubborn- and even depression or poverty couldn’t change that for him. His cell phone was shut off because he couldn’t pay the bill, he’d only had internet because his laptop tapped off the connection that the staff computers had in the offices. Patrick had come so close to selling his brand new Fender. It was still in absolute perfect condition, despite it’s amount of use. It’s pewter body was spotless, the fret board shined with a sheen that was hard to accomplish without it being waxed. It struck a chord in his heart to think of letting it go, especially after how long and hard he had worked to buy it in the first place. But, what had to be done- had to be done. He owed a month and a half’s payment to Terryton anyway, and the payment back for the guitar would be more than enough to get himself up to date and possibly buy himself some better clothes. It was days like these that made him absolutely hate how nice some of the workers were at Terryton. He always apologized whole-heartedly when his check came in late, or when he knew that he wouldn’t be able to catch up payments soon. It made him feel absolutely horrible, and their kindness and empathy toward it all often made it even harder for him to handle.
"Would you like a pancake?" Suddenly his anger toward her and the world started melting away. His eyes soften slightly amidst the undeniable weakness and pain, and guilt began to settle in for even considering yelling at her. Patrick couldn’t even really remember the last time he had ever even considered yelling at anyone, none the less actually doing it. He was anything but violent, but his lack of anger was made up where he was excruciatingly hard on himself. A twang of pain stung his heart, anger toward himself began to boil slightly just because he had considered even raising his voice to Mo. She’d never done a single thing wrong to him. It was himself he should be mad at, not her. He’d been the one to fuck up his life. It was entirely his own fault and he shouldn’t be going around blaming it on other people. His thoughts snapped at himself for a few moments, emotionally ripping himself apart limb from limb. His stomach tightened when his gaze lowered to the pancakes sitting on the table, digging at him to take it and wolf it down. But he couldn’t. He hadn’t eaten in days, possibly a week or better. He’d been living off of tap water and occasionally he’d make a bag of microwave popcorn and stashed it in his room, which he nit picked at for days on end, only tossing it when it began to acquire the taste of cardboard. Sadly enough it wasn’t uncommon for him to vomit from either exhaustion or hunger, the burden of both putting enough strain on him to make him physically sick. He knew it was quite obvious that he was far from well- the bags under his eyes and the weight he’d managed to drop off in such a short period of time said it all.
”No, thank you.” He replied calmly, his gaze meeting her’s for only a split second before they diverted to something across the room. That forsaken soundtrack started playing again, its tunes reminding him of what kind of horrible person he was. Flames danced before his eyes and he shook his head lightly to banish them off, though he knew they’d come back to blind him anyway. They always did, and nothing now would change a thing. ”What’ve you been up to lately?” He asked her rather nonchalantly, trying to ignore the depression that burdened his head, and suddenly it became apparent to him. Who was he trying to fool? The world? Or himself… [/blockquote] |
|
