Author: Penmaster51 PM
-One-shot- "He wasn't strong like the other boys; he often broke down in the privacy of his own room and tried to write in his little black journal, but his hands would get so shaky, it would be impossible to read the scribbles he called writing."Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst - Words: 1,542 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 2 - Follows: 1 - Published: 02-26-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2779987
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: This story is in still the rough plotline stage. But I couldn't resist posting the Prologue. There may be some editing in the future- I really think I like this plot. No fantasy, for once, and it's inspired by some of my own dark thoughts but the whole plot is original.
Read & Review please.March 17
Time: 1:32 am
Location: My BedroomEntry #27
Life is becoming too hard. No one listens… no hears my cries… it's pathetic. I'm nothing here. So here I am writing this all down, as if I can save myself.
There's nothing left of me; it sucks to feel so empty. I remember when I played basketball in fifth and sixth grade until I gave it up in seventh grade. I remember seeing all the movies I saw with my friends, then made fun of half the actors because we could and the confined to each other about our thoughts on the actresses.
But still, I find the energy to write to you. I don't know why my obsession with you, you damn little black journal. I don't understand anymore…
Mom's come home, once again, with a random dude from the bar scene. She came, threw up in the bathroom (which I unhappily, cleaned up), grabbed some food, told me she'd be back before twelve am then raced off with her little boy toy.
It's currently 1:33 am. Liar.
School's worse. My grades are failing and my dream of becoming a director is fading; I can see it blow away in the wind. I'll end up just like Mom- desperate, useless and a complete nut job. None of the teachers notice me though; I'm just your average kid… my ass!
Plus, those damn bastards won't leave me alone! They beat the shit out of me… almost start me on fire cause of their stupid lighters and their alcohol spilling all over me. Damn idiots…
They got me though. My arm… it hurts badly. It's becoming all puffy red and it itches like hell for some goddamn reason I don't know. I think it's only a first-degree burn though… nothing bad as the images I see on the Internet. I dunno if it'll scar… just gotta cover it up for a few weeks and hopefully, it'll be fine.
I can't take it anymore.
There's nothing left for me here.
So I'll leave.
The young man looked up from his desk, staring out through his window. There was the low beating of a fall of raindrops hitting the roof of his house; at first, it was merely a random pat-pat-pat sound but gradually, it formed a beat.
One little raindrop caught his eye. He watched it as it strayed away from the already made paths of its friends; at first, it slowly rain down the plane then built up speed. For a moment, it was flying compared to its comrades. Then, it came to a halt before slowly descending once more.
He looked down at his journal, shutting the cover with a steady hand. The plain cover showed the signs of abuse given to it not only by him but also by them too. There was a corner peeling; there he had nervously picked at it when he wasn't allowed to write his thoughts down during class. A thin slice towards the middle of the cover, showed how close he was to getting cut by them. There were dirty foot-imprints still embedded in it and along side that, it didn't have its pretty black sheen.
It was now a worn, almost dark grey journal.
He stroked it lovingly, humming along to the song that had no significance in his life.
The spine was falling apart and many times, he had sewed it back up. He always pricked his fingers and if you took out the black string he had in it, there would be little dark dots on the brown inside. His fingers had little ridges where he usually pricked himself; it hurt but after a while, he ignored it.
He flipped through a few pages of the book.
There were pages that were slightly wrinkled, due to his tears he often cried while writing. He wasn't strong like the other boys; he often broke down in the privacy of his own room and tried to write in his little black journal, but his hands would get so shaky, it would be impossible to read the scribbles he called 'writing'.
There was the time where they thrown his journal into the puddle. That's when he got his black eye and almost broken nose; Ronnie's fingers strayed at the bridge of his nose, remembering the physical pain that punch had made him feel. Yes, he started to truly hate them after that incident. But he was at fault; he was stupid enough to fall to their level, unable to control himself and he landed a feeble blow on their leader's jaw.
"So stupid," he murmured to himself, slowly skimming the pages still.
There were the days, the rare bright days, where he talked about the girl he liked. Her bright smile that made him smile too; except, she never noticed him. She shouldn't; she would have come down with him that Ronnie is for sure of.
He got up in his loose flannel pajama bottoms and a too big for him blue t-shirt. He petted the journal as he pushed in his computer chair, feeling suddenly exhausted. He hadn't slept for very long each night, waking up and covered in sweat, his blankets and bed sheets thrown all over the place.
He scooped it up, cuddling it close to his chest and walked down the stairs, silent as usual. He strode into the kitchen, kicking his tattered slippers on the rug outside the room. He was about to click off the light only he paused to stare at the kitchen knives.
He shook his head, flicking the light switch down along with the motion. It'd take too long; it'd make too much racket. He didn't have the self-strength to end it that way. He needed something fast, something that'd just…
Just end it.
Still clutching his dubbed obsession, he took the stairs to his basement, remembering where his mom had put all his dad's stuff. Thump-thump his not socked feet went against the wood, it echoing in his mind. He wiggled his toes as the sudden coldness of the bare concrete below his feet. Nonetheless, he continued forward.
He stopped after three short steps. His breathing started to become more like nervous pants. He squeezed the journal closer to his chest, licking his lips. He could taste the beginning of sweat; it left an unappealing salty taste on his lips and tongue. He reached up, dropping his journal and ignoring it. He left it for the ground to hold onto.
He frowned, not feeling what he wanted. Then he felt the fragile string brush his fingers and he grasped the thing, grimly staring at what he thought was his hand. He couldn't exactly see well in the pitch-blackness of the basement; it was always a problem when he came down here to protect himself when his mom had a drunken rage.
He gave a small jerk on the string, the light suddenly turning out and shining brightly. He could make out a few cobwebs near it; he felt no need to reach and brush them away. He lower tore his glaze away from the bulb, allowing his eyes to adjust to the brightness. They settled on the familiar object in front of him.
He slowly bended down to the concrete, feeling his journal's tattered cover. He stroked it multiple times, feeling every unnatural ridge, cut, scrape and rip of it. He remembered each time his precious bundle had been beaten and how he felt terrible afterwards, as if he had been the one hurt.
After while, he endeared those beatings right along with his best friend and no matter how hard he tried to find the courage to tell someone, he always felt like no one was there.
But no longer he would have to deal with the suffering. No longer did he have to deal with his mother's verbal abuse, no matter if she was drunk or not. No longer he had to deal with them, the teachers, the girl who didn't notice him and the pain he always felt.
He gave the journal one finale pat before reaching towards the object.
He had thought up of a thousand and one lines to put into his journal, to be remembered as his last words. He could remember sitting out, night after night, trying to figure out the right one sentence to explain how he felt. But something clicked in his head the other night and it made sense. He wasn't coming back; this was, after all, his last entry.