note: This isn't anything fully formed, more scraps, but I find them interesting for several reasons, so here they go.
At some point I was developing a mentally unstable character by the name of Luke. After the much more cherished Lucas moved into my mind, I couldn't much use this name anymore, and so I abandoned this fellow all together. And now, I'm thinking, perhaps this was Lucas's alter-ego all along. This is the part of Lucas that is constantly on the edge of snapping; where Lucas is boring and dissatisfied, Luke is crazy...and dissatisfied. It works somehow. Perhaps I'll start him up again.

Rating is for language, basically.

--

I lit up all the houses on my block today,
burned them up in fire red,
laughed as the smoke billowed and swayed
and told you about what I had done,
and you said to me, "Good boy, nice boy,"
and I ate up my breakfast and all was well.

Now where have you gone, Mother Dearest?
Out to the butcher's and back, again.
Did he cut you open, Mother Dearest?
Or shall I have to burn the houses, again?

I never cry, I do not cry, my tear ducts
ripped and torn to floor, I shall not cry
for you or me or the butcher who takes
your life from me, oh, woe is me,
and death to the innocent,
death to the innocent who know not what
they do, and still they do, and so they die,
as well as you --

I never cry.

To Sleep, Perchance to Die

People like to say a lot of stupid things. "Chin up, young soldier," was a phrase his uncle would bombard randomly towards anyone who looked a little gloomy -- and so, on Summer days when he was very bored, Lukas Riley would steal his sister's Barbie dolls, pop off their heads one by one, and say in low monotone, "Chin up, young soldier. Who let a girl in this army, anyway? Cut your hair, bitch!" Pop, pop, pop. "Can't cut your hair if you keep upping that chin. Can't see the enemy with no head. Stupid girls."

"Luke, give me back the dolls!" A soft pound produced on oaken door forced the popping of the heads to stop a moment; then begin again. "Where did you put them this time?! Are you melting them, like you did to your old soldiers?! If you melt my dolls, I kill you, you little freak!"

Low, monotone: "Pop...pop...pop goes the Barbie."

With this, and more than a bit of evident frustration, a head of brunette hair bombarded through the door as a head of brunette hair landed with a plop against the floor. The body followed the head in both respects, and then the yelling came.

"What do you think you're doing?! You freak, you can't just take my dolls and start playing one of your masochistic little mind-games with yourself, you want me to tell Mom and Dad what you're doing? They'll put you in that home like Dr. Hubart said, and--"

"I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy, Maureen."

The girl, her eyes already red from tears come short before, began to cry again, and fell down to her knees. "Don't do this, Lukas, I don't need this, please. I know you're not crazy. We all know that you're not crazy. It's just that when you do things like this--"

"And I'm not a freak, either, you can just shut the fuck up if that's all you have to say to me. Shut up and go fuck a quarterback, or something."

Maureen, tears dissipating, stood dramatically and stared her brother down until he was sufficiently lower than she was. "Lukas...you're not crazy. You're not a freak. But you are a grade-A bastard."

MIND GAMES AND THE MANIC-DEPRESSIVE TEEN
((note: I have no idea who these characters are supposed to be, but they were found in the same documents; perhaps I was attempting to change Luke's name to Jordan. What disturbs me here though is that Lewis seems to be Lucas, and this other guy is very clearly Gary with a slightly dirtier mouth. This actually reminds me of a very similar scene I once wrote between Gary and Lucas that I've since misplaced. I love that realization.))

"Jordan F. Baker, isn't that what the teacher called him? Damn, who the hell uses a middle initial? Especially one as stupid as 'F'? Jordan-Fucking-Baker, well la-de-da. His hair was greasier than the underside of that lemon you drive, Mac."

Lewis McDonall laughed third-heartedly, grimaced to himself and picked up a limp french-fry from the greasy paper box in front of him; he examined it, placed it in his mouth, and chewed slowly, contemplating briefly the need to eat fast food everyday, and what it must be doing to his body. Not a hell of a lot of good, we wagered. He swallowed.

"I don't know," said Lewis softly.

"Don't know about what? What the fuck don't you know about, I didn't even say anything."

"What you said before, about that Baker guy. Don't you ever listen to yourself?"

"Geez, well, ain't we the one to talk? You're swooning over your french fries when there's a dozen or so good looking chicks around these parts, and while I swoon over THEM, you finally get back to J.-F'in'-B. -- Mac, you want some friendly advice?"

"No, not particularly."

"You need to get laid."