Like Tar Creeping Over You

I own all the characters within, but if you wanna use them, ask me and I’ll let you. Thanks for all the reviews of all my other stuff; I just thought I’d try my hand at writing some original junk to stick up here. If you don’t get anything, or whatever, you can review or email me, I don’t mind.

Rating: R

Warning: Thoughts of suicide. Dark fic

            The road as he walked along it was dark, illuminated only in bare areas by the orange glow of stark streetlights. Occasionally a car would drive by, highlighting each separate piece of stone on the tarmac and casting long, angled shadows until it moved on with a rumble and a growl, towards whatever destination it had.

            He was perfectly ordinary to look at, an unremarkable background face, of the kind destined always to be a sheep in the nativity play, or the person who was quiet in class, not causing trouble but not particularly outstanding in anything they did.

            That pretty much described his academic achievements. He was a high C/low B grade student, occasionally pulling a low A, but never getting anything consistently enough to be a teacher’s favourite.

            He had average short-cut brown hair, standard brown eyes and wasn’t either particularly tall or short. He wasn’t skinny, fat or well built, but was best described as average. Generally overall average.

            He wore jeans and hooded jumpers to college, bearing the names of miscellaneous bands. He wore well-scuffed trainers and carried all his books in a nondescript bag. He was basically a no one in school. The main groups tolerated him to sit there and some of them talked to him, but they didn’t really give a damn about what he did otherwise, he wasn’t one of the gang.

            He had his friends there, however, a red-haired girl, Jenny, and a blond guy, Mark. They hung out in their classroom at break and lunch, partly because Mark hated the common room, and partly because they couldn’t be bothered with the noise, the bad music and the politics of the place.

            ‘Don’t talk to her. We aren’t talking to her, no ones talking to her because of what he said, but then no one’s talking to him because he’s a bastard, oh Hi! See what I mean, he’s such a prick…’

            And so on. It was draining and annoying, and they preferred to hang out with people who had some substance. Sure, they weren’t popular, but who cared? Who defined popular? The rest of the rabble, that was all, and it wasn’t essential to be liked by them. The girls were backstabbers and hypocrites and the guys were loudmouthed bigots. They destroyed each other’s self-esteem and were so unpredictable that it made his head spin.

            No, his real friends were much better, actually willing to put each other before themselves.

            But, they were all growing up and growing apart, and pretty soon they’d be at University, with other friends, and they’d remember each other only at Christmas or New Year when a thin card with a typified greeting was sent.

            And now he felt down again.

            He kicked at leaves as he trudged home, watching as the few other people who stayed behind for sports or detention or other extra-curricular things went home as well. He sighed. He didn’t want to go home. He supposed that there were other people worse off than he was, but still…

            He sighed again, more struggling to avoid feelings of overwhelming than to get any air into his lungs.

            He looked at the road as he walked, noting the blackness of the tar and how it seemed to sparkle in the wet. He suddenly felt very light-headed, like he couldn’t think properly, like he was missing something vitally important. He felt like he was stuck, being sucked down into some blackness, like the tar he walked over. He tried to smile and keep a light front up, but inside he was suffocating, panicking at everything, wanting just to curl up and sleep forever.

            He shook his head irritably, scolding himself for being so egocentric, self-absorbed and pathetic. He knew he didn’t have real problems; he had no excuses for feeling like he was drowning…sinking…submerging…suffocating…choking asphyxiating like this. There was no reason, no point, but he still felt immensely dejected and it was beginning to exhaust him.

            He came to his front door and opened it, chucking his bag down and kicking off his shoes.

            He walked into the house where his two younger brothers were sitting watching TV. They looked round and then looked back, enthralled in the adventures of some arrogant child actor playing at being a good person and always saving the day. He mentally scoffed, fat lotta good they’d do in real life. They always had to be in the right didn’t they? He shook his head. Scorning them was just as bad as adoring them.

            He went into the kitchen and stood, watching his frazzled looking mother make dinner. He stood there for a full minute before she saw him reflected in the window.

            “Hiya.” She chirped, offering her cheek for a kiss.

            He did so, and then watched her some more. He went out of the kitchen after a bit and shouted ‘hi’ to his dad who didn’t reply. He was working on something that had blown up, the toaster or something. He walked over and said ‘hi’ again. His dad greeted him back and then stepped backwards a bit, next to his toe.

            He danced back quickly, knowing that he was likely to get trod on, and went upstairs to his room

            His room was the best bit about his house, he decided. It was his own little world, his safe nest; the place where he could do whatever and not get scolded or ridiculed for it. He sighed, collapsing onto the bed, and lay there, doing nothing. He had homework to do, but he’d do it the night before, as he always did… he just couldn’t seem to find the energy to do much about it now.

            He sat up only to stick a homemade compilation CD into his player and then sat back to get swept away by the hard emotion that burst from the speakers. Fast rap, heavy rock, harmonious soul and anything else that he liked.

            It was all he needed. He wished that he didn’t have to move from here, that he could just die right now and stop living. The depression was sneaking up on him again. He took off his hoodie, feeling hot, and studied his bare arm, tracing the soft skin there. He thought about it a lot, killing himself.

            He had to stop himself blurting out that he didn’t plan to live that long, when he heard people talking about his future, his career, his children, his grand children.

            ‘I don’t plan on being around then. I don’t wanna live that long.’

            He wanted a release from everything, all the little problems that he didn’t have, all the feelings of unworthiness and disgust that he felt for himself, all the self-pity and the scorn, the constant tug he felt inside for attention. He understood, he had a large family; it was inevitable that he would get little attention, but still, he wanted it. He got ignored at school, trod on at home, and he respected his parents too much to upset them by pounding his younger siblings into the ground when they annoyed him.

            He reacted to their jibes by retreating to his room, and then later, when he complained about them to his dad, was confused when he told him that he should be standing up for himself, trying to sort it out.

            “But that always ends up with one of them crying to you, and then you get annoyed with us…”

            His dad cut him off.

            “Well, that shouldn’t happen. You should be able to compromise, reach an agreement without having to come to me or mum about it. They’re younger than you anyway, you should be responsible and mature enough to handle it.”

            Great. Now I felt inadequate and pissed off. I wanted to swear, to scream, to raise my voice at him and say, ‘Look! They don’t give a shit, they basically just tell me to fuck off and carry on with what they’re doing. Why the hell should I have to back down all the time?’

            But he wouldn’t. He never would. He couldn’t swear at his dad, he was too scared of the punishment. And as for yelling at him, he couldn’t do that either. So he stood, there, waiting to be dismissed, the knot of frustration and confusion building up inside, so he was afraid that he would swear and scream and then run out into the road to get killed by a car.

            His dad said nothing, and he slunk away unnoticed, running back up to his room.

            He gasped for breath, trying to calm himself down, whispering quietly to himself, ‘fuckitfuckitfuckit’ the only thing he would allow himself to say, and only when no one was around.

            He was getting a headache.

            He thought back to the last time he’d had a headache and got the bottle of aspirin. It had spilled a handful of the little pills into his hand, as if asking him to overdose on it. He would have, but he forced himself to put them back, only take two.

            In retrospect, he’d probably just be sent to hospital and have his stomach pumped, rather than die. He’d be in pain, but not dead, then he’d have to face everyone afterwards. It was too much trouble.

            He wrapped his hands around his throat and squeezed experimentally. He felt a thumping in his head, felt his body begin to struggle for air, and reflexively let go. He gasped as air rushed cool and clean into his lungs again, and his face stopped being beetroot.

            Not that then, he didn’t think he could do it that way.

            That left….

            He wanted to, so much. He’d just have to take a razor from the bathroom, lock the door, slice down those soft silky arms and let all his life hurtle out. Yes, it would hurt, but he’d be free, not here, he’d be gone.

            The more he thought about the more appealing it seemed. He stroked up and down his arm with a finger, dreaming, seeing the crimson, bright, fluid, beautiful glistening blood flow out and leave him empty but happy, at peace.

            But then he thought about the consequences. What if someone found him? What if he was stopped halfway through, and they asked him what he thought he was doing? They would be angry, send him somewhere to ‘get help’ he’d have to talk about himself to some stranger, one thing he hated to do. He couldn’t explain, they wouldn’t understand, they’d walk on eggshells round him.

            That was unlikely though. No one would come up here to get him until dinner, and then they’d only come up if he didn’t answer for a while. So he’d be dead, grey, lifeless, his blood contrasting him, staining everything, messing up the carpet.

            He couldn’t do that.

            If his younger siblings found him they’d have to live with it for life. He imagined the screams or the shocked silence, his mother crying over him, his father… he wasn’t sure.

            He imagined the funeral, everyone crying, or silent. His parents blaming themselves.

            He’d have to write a proper suicide note, unlike the one he’d already written in a chat room one day, the one that had popped into his head suddenly.

            ‘If anyone finds this letter, I will have been gone by now,

            The world is too a hectic and a crushing place to stay.

            I’m suffocating in my own life, and I can’t breathe or I breathe in lead.

            So I think I’ll cut my wrists instead and drain it all away.’

            He laughed bitterly. It was so pathetic, so symbolic and pathetic. Hah! Who even talked like that?

            He wanted to kill himself; he wanted to so badly, he longed to die, he didn’t want to live anymore.

            But he couldn’t. He had too much responsibility. He imagined no one entering the bathroom afterwards, the mess that’d have to be cleaned, his room which might stay untouched or be cleaned out. How would they react? Would they stop talking about him, obsess about him, go mad and pretend he was still there? Would they try and join him? Would his mum ever stop crying?

            He would ruin their lives and it would all be his fault. No, he couldn’t do that to them, not now.

            He supposed he’d just have to live with it, suffer silently, scorning himself for his weakness, yet not being able to overcome it. It wasn’t serious enough to get treatment for it.

            He’d never escape.

            He curled up as tight as he could as he realised this and then wished that he still cried as inside, he sobbed for his jaded way of thinking, his loss of a will to live and the tar that had dragged his soul down where there was no light and the world was black and stifling.