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\\&;hysteria[Too Much]; [PG-13][adult themes?]
Topic Started: Dec 9 2008, 03:35 AM (240 Views)
Hunni
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[NOTE: This is a repost of my story for the fic challenge, as earlier this year I went neurotic and threw a fit and deleted my account [it was all very childish, rest assured]. This is nothing new, just replaced for your viewing pleasure. Lucky the post content was still there when I pressed the edit post button. xD]

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[[Yea. So this is my hella late contribution to the IotH fic challenge, one of four parts. I claimed four words, I finally finished this one. Actually, more like I finally proofread it. ^^; So blarrr, laff all you want at Hunni's terrible rightar skillz. Altho I kinda had fun revising it, and I got some neato idears for the other ones... and I might claim more words if no one else does... and if some people who claimed words are no longer members...
ONE MORE THING: I originally chose four words: [Too Much], [Touch], [Breathe Again] and [Rain]. This may seem like it has nothing to do with the topic I say it's supposed to have something to do with. It does. You're just shallow. >P
[P.S.-If you can guess who this is about I'll give you a cookie. =o]]]



So this was it. Sixteen some odd years would come to an end, right here, right now, tonight. Here on top of this building, everything would finally be over: he’d make sure of it. It was all too much to bear. He was worthless. How could he live knowing that? Nobody wanted him around, in fact, nobody wanted him at all. Every time he’d thought he’d found some new person to hold, they’d simply moved on, mere passers by stopping for a quick refresher on their way to some better place in life.

He stared at the fishing line, pulling it tight between the thumb and forefinger of both hands.

Was it because of what he was? Just a pretty face, just a skanky kid walking the city streets late at night, going home with the first decent candidate; lather, rinse and repeat. But what he was was not the same as who he was. He would argue this vehemently and without end, most likely to no avail. No matter how hard he scrubbed, there was still that smudge of dirt on the mirror that just wouldn’t come off. Society refused to see him as anything other than the lowest of the low, the scum of the streets, the worst of the dregs, to be thrown out with the trash. To be sure, he had his uses, but they were scarce, and it was becoming increasingly taboo to be seen with a person of his caliber these days.

Three years ago it had been a man. A ginger when he was younger, but he’d seemed to have greyed quite early on. The man was only in his thirties. He was a producer of some sort, hip and cool and “in” with the celebrity party scene; he conversed freely in the adolescent lingo prevalent in that area, although he himself was clearly not from around there; he didn’t act old at all: he was really quite active. He was a do-er. The man awed him, did him and left him all alone. That was the first time in this city he’d been abandoned like that- mainly because it was the first time in this city he’d allowed himself to trust someone like that.

Back across the roof he walked, back to the staircase.

Two years ago it had been a woman. She’d fawned over him for ages- months, in fact. She was high-class and everything; had a house she even let him come inside. In fact, she kept him inside it. At first he felt nice, because he thought it was like having a mother: having a house, and a room of his own, and someone who made food for him and felt him up and tucked him into bed and passionately kissed him good night every evening. But he eventually realized he was being kept a prisoner. When confronted, she denied it, as any respectable woman just trying to do someone a favor would. Insulted by his lack of appreciation for her kind deeds, she turned him out within the week.

Wishing almost spitefully that he’d been a Boy Scout, he knotted the fishing line around the handle of the door to the staircase.

The previous year it was just a boy. He hadn’t even started off as a customer; he’d never been a customer. The boy was just someone he’d met while roaming about, killing time during the day. The two hit it off and immediately were inseparable. As it happened, he was loosely involved in some gang activity, but it was “nothing to worry about,” the boy had said. The two were very close when it became clear that it was something to worry about. The boy was gunned down in an alley two blocks from his brothel.

He walked back towards the ledge, unraveling line as he went.

Last month it was just a girl. She wasn’t even special. He wasn’t even interested in her- he wasn’t even kissing her, let alone fucking her. They were just friends. They’d eaten ice cream and gone to the cinema together and stuff. Nothing special—at least not to him—just friends. But she’d smiled at him last week and shown him her ticket and told him she was free. She was leaving and she would miss him but she would never have to see this dirty city again. Then she’d got on the clipper and waved goodbye and gone away forever and he was alone again, and surprised to find himself absolutely devastated.

When he reached the ledge he stopped and continued to let out the line a few more meters.

Also, he was short on cash. He’d been short on cash for a couple of weeks now. He couldn’t figure out why. He’d been working the same as always, spending the same as always. He didn’t buy new clothes unless he needed it, and he hadn’t grown since he was twelve, so he didn’t need new clothes until the ones he wore each week fell apart. He mooched constantly off of his friends and repaid them with empty promises or loveless favors. He smoked his crack economically, recycling any cumulative left in his filter or pipe, and he had a cheap provider. He picked up clientele at raves for free ecstasy, and knew a DJ who’d get it to him super-reduced for favors. There were some walkers who handled salvia and would trade hits for jobs, and occasionally he’d tripped with some good-natured acid-ravers. But for some reason, he had been short on cash recently, and unable to sustain his usual haze. He’d crashed, and it did not feel good. Past the point of physical illness, the psychological slump was crushing, perhaps even more difficult to bear.

But no one cared. No one at all. He was the worst kind of person. The kind that no one needed. The kind that no one even wanted. He wasn’t worth the time to kill, or arrest, or even smack. He had to do all that himself.

He fished the line over the edge of the building, testing its length. It seemed long enough. He reeled it back up, draping it over his palm, and tied the end in a loose loop. It slid up and down its own length, growing larger and smaller in circumference as it glistened in the city lights. He glanced up at the sky and brushed a curl out of his face. Clouds in the sky reflected bright hues of orange and red back down onto the lively nighttime city, threatening a down pour. His face threatened the same. He didn’t know what he’d do if it rained: he didn’t want it to rain. He hated rain, it was so depressing. In fact, just the thought was depressing him right now. Rain washed everything away. Everything beautiful was bowed in the rain: flowers were pelted to the ground; everything colorful and bright was dulled in the rain: blue sky turned grey in the rain; everything ran in the rain: people, make-up, water; rain was just no good.

He stepped onto the ledge and stared out into the night, trying not to focus on anything in particular. It wasn’t terribly difficult: his mind was so preoccupied with such intense self-loathing, it made his rather minute deposit of fear seem particularly half-hearted and lusterless. Still, his hands trembled as he slipped the makeshift noose over his head. It caught on a curl and he tugged, tearing free from his head both the knot and one or two ebony hairs. That just made his day worse, but in the end, he knew, it didn’t matter.

Back down off the ledge. He turned and faced the door, retracing his steps. He wasn’t chickening out, not now, not ever. But he took his time and counted his steps and tasted the salt on his lips and the moisture in the air. A far off rumble gave him jitters and he assured himself it was because he hated rain. How he would hate for it to rain tonight! That would totally suck. He couldn’t bring himself to move though, and he felt stupid just standing there. He told himself he was waiting for a signal. He didn’t believe it until he heard it. Somewhere below him on the street, a car honked and tires screeched and there was a small crunch- probably a little fender-bender. Someone must have gotten rear-ended. Anyhow, he knew it was time.

So he ran. Straight for the ledge. A frenzied sense about him. Because he knew this was it.

It started raining lightly.

He was lifting his foot to step up when the door slammed open. The first thought that flashed through his mind was that he’d just lost a meter and it might not work. Now he was in trouble. However, he couldn’t stall his momentum, but simply move with it. As he stepped up, he swiveled to gaze wide-eyed at his would be rescuer. One of the women he lived and worked with; she was like a sister to him. Even through the rain he could see her glaring furiously at him, tears streaking her face, smearing her mascara. She wore way too much make-up. She was a gorgeous woman without all of that junk slathered on her face.

‘Oh, Gina,’ she heard him call as he slipped over the edge, ‘come back!’

She almost didn’t have the heart to stand there and listen to the faintly fluid sounds of choking. There wasn’t quite enough line. Thank god it was over quickly.


So there he was hanging, under that gaudy, fiery, neon sky with his upturned face and his hands still clutched at his throat. He was cold and wet, except where he was bleeding- but he was still wet there, too, so it didn’t much make a difference, in the end. All there was left to consider was how much he hated rain. It was humiliating. It proved him wrong on every count.

do you choose the plastic? or the real?
man i choose the plastic.

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