The book - bit by bit

[lukas989]

He had received his acceptance to the Media Studies course before Jill; but not more than two days had passed before he learned from someone that Jill was letting it be known that he was only attending that particular college because she was - alluding to the fact he was obsessed with her. The problem was, was that in general, he was an unknown commodity by in large - meaning that it was a viewpoint mostly believed by people. He had laughed when first told; it was only when the person telling him reacted with a confused '...so you aren't?' He took a moment to make sure this wasn't a piss-take - gathered together the raw tirade he had swimming through his brain, and delivered a simple, 'I was accepted first.' Wasn't really much else required - anything more to be honest would provoke the old 'One doth protest too much.' It garnered the required reaction - namely a scoffed, ' Oh right really? Why the fuck is she saying that then?' They shared a sarcastic smile as they seemingly answered the question with the same internal 'Because she's a fucking fruitloop.' He had no doubt, this was insufficient ammunition to make sure the retort spread throughout the village, but when he thought about it, he didn't really give two shits. Putting effort in to clear his name was like saying he gave a fuck about what these unimportant folks thought about him - in a matter of weeks they'd be mere blips in his history; the only link between he and they would be Jill...at the very least she'd portray him as someone to natter about, rather than just that random guy who used to live here. The thought of potential notoriety actually gave his a strange sense of importance; gaining emotion from people who had up until then he had mustered little reaction from. In a way he could live vicariously via the bollocks Jill decided to put together. Bollocks he learn about bit by bit, creating a story of enhanced interest about himself...the crazier, more unhinged person he might be, if he let go a little. He often thought Jill possibly did this to tug the wild side out of him, but in truth she was clearly too caught up in her own journey through life, there was little doubt she did it purely so she would be sought after as the giver of facts. There were very few instances where it could be construed she was even trying to have his best interests at heart even...there was always that initial wide-eyed reaction upon hearing what crazy thing she had been up to; the few seconds of ire caused by some outlandish thing she said or did. For the majority, the facts showed that people generally embraced the anger, and took her head on, forcing her to justify her actions. He didn't. But there was one particular occasion where he was extremely close to doing so. And perhaps on reflection, he should have.

[lukas989]

It had been around a year previous - a terrible accident had occurred, in which four people had died. A local to the next village over - Colin -  popular amongst the blossoming group of pot smokers, had been behind the wheel, couriering members of his large family; both immediate and extended to his village, for the purpose of attending his aunts wedding, which was to happen the following day. He was one of the select few amongst the doper fiends who had his license, and as such was much sought after, and at the centre of much of the excitement that happened...groups of them would load into his, and the three or so other vans and cars and head up into the forest above the village, navigating down dirt tracks to a clearing they had adopted as their home for stoned tomfoolery and hi-jinks. The attention had massaged Colins ego to the point where his arrogance behind the wheel was worrying to say the least. He knew this through personal experience; a brief flirtation with the groups activities had seen him sat in the back of Colins Peugeot, nervously grabbing hold of whatever crevace was available, in order to lessen the force at which the reckless driving was tossing him about. The large spliff hanging seemingly at every moment from Colins mouth, was no nerve-easer - it seemed only a matter of time before an accident would happen. Unfortunately for him - and for that matter his passengers, the mass of people attending the wedding, and the two Canadian tourists in the car driving towards him, it was that night. It was a notorious corner; sharp at the bottom of a hill, turning into a longish straight over a bridge crossing the canal - certainly not the sort of corner to cut at a good 75mph. Colin was killed instantly, along with his cousin John, sat in the passenger seat. Four others were sat in the back - not buckled into seats; sat on the floor backs to the sides of the van. Miraculously all of the survived, a broken arm, four ribs, a collarbone and a major concussion between them. The two in the other car both died - the man instantly; the women however was alive for several hours as rescue teams attempted to cut her from the wreckage. She died en route to hospital. The wedding the next day, went ahead as scheduled. The picture of the bride and groom leaving the church adorned the front of two national newspapers the day after, headlined, 'The Tragic Bride'. A lot of Colins family were local to the area, and as such, there was huge sense of loss and devastation felt for a long time after - fresh flowers were placed regularly at the scene by several different people. It wasn't something he felt any real connection with - he without a doubt felt pity for those who felt the loss and sadness of it, but personally it wasn't something that hit him emotionally. He hadn't been anything more than an acquaintance with Colin. It really hammered home how much on the outside he was in truth; it seemed like everyone his age was affected by it - they'd talk about it seemingly all the time and for a long time after...almost as if it were their own family member. Jill dealt with it especially badly he recalled - he witnessed many a time where she'd be crying uncontrollably at the events, being consoled by people. This provoked a bit of backlash in many, along the lines of 'what reason has she got to be so upset' type stuff, as if she didn't have the connection with Colin that many others had. This stemmed from the line she took whereby she claimed to have been on the cusp of romantic involvement with him - right up to the time Colin had died, she had been getting increasingly close with him. It came to head where another girl - Susan - confronted her, calling her out on her claims; she herself with a legitimate case for being romantically involved with Colin. Jill, crumbled under the scrutiny, apologising unreservedly for the misunderstanding through floods of tears and exaggerated gulps. It was a horrendously awkward and tense turn of events - he had watched cringing at it playing out, knowing something of this ilk would occur. It was after all not just some stupid teenage bullshit they were all dealing with here - this was all centred around a guy who had died. After the confrontation things calmed down, aided by the passing of time. It was probably around three or four months later, that he had agreed to head into the nearest town for an exciting day of shopping with Jill. On the bus journey back, they happened upon Ian, who had almost disappeared in light of Colins death - choosing to regress to the confines of his house, having been a close friend of Colins. Thus Ian provided a source of fresh conversation for Jill about this very topic - the majority of the hour aboard the bus was spent chatting about Colin, how great he was, how much they missed him and so on. He had little to offer on the topic, instead doing his best to listen in, sympathetically nodding along to the musings and tales. A portion of the chat focussed on Colins driving - they all had a story they could chuckle along with about trips they been on with Colin - he was finally able to quip in about his own experience; grabbing on for dear life as Colin hurtled along the dirt track into the clearing. Thankfully for him, arrival at their destination, spelt the end of the oft repeated convo, and they said their farewells. It was times like these that made him wonder if maybe missing out was worth it - would he have better served getting more actively involved? He felt a strange sort of guilt at his natural reaction to events such as these; dread opposed to sadness, a sense of 'Woah!' rather than ' Holy fuck no!!' Nothing was more awkward than watching raw emotion in others, if its owing to something you cant really fully sympathise with. The effect of the bus trip wasn't something he expected, or gave any thought to - why would he? But as it turned out, even if he did want to explore the option of getting more involved, he would never be able to.

[lukas989]

It was no more than a week later that he learned of the consequence of the bus trip - or at least from the bullshit that had been spouted as a consequence of the bus trip - he was a marked man. Two of Colins oldest friends - Stuart and Calum - had been asking the evening previous as to his whereabouts, owing to some 'things he had been saying'. He learned this from a guy named Colin; himself one of those who was seemingly eager to resign himself to a life of whatever job and more nights than not propping up the end of the bar, where funnily enough he had been situated when Stuart and Calum came a calling, announcing their intent. He was of course oblivious to any reason why this would be the case, and promptly enquired after Colin as to the reasoning for the search and potential beat down. Colin answered with some outlandish stuff - he had apparently been saying 'He was glad Colin was dead,' would 'Dance on his grave,' and, 'The murdering cunt got what he deserved.' Fear rushed through him - there was no point musing on why this info had been planted in their heads; all that was important right now, was that there was two very motivated people out there right now looking to make him eat these words, bullshit or not. Colin offered that he had said to them that there was little chance or indeed reason he had said these things, but they remained diligent in their intent, punctuated with the parting words of, 'You let that cunt know he's a dead man.' Nothing more was said as Colin parted. He stood, lost in paranoid thought for several moments after, confusedly searching for some way of initiating damage control. He would have to do this via some other channel - it seemed pretty apparent there was no dealing direct option without high risk of being admitted to a medical facilty soon after. Not to mention the high possibility that as soon as the word spread, Stuart and Calum would not be alone in wishing harm upon him. He marvelled at the complete opposite position he found himself in, to the one he had spent the last good few years trying to create. The remainder of the day was a blur; no other thoughts crossed his mind. He had no idea of how advanced the rumour was, who knew, what was planned...and of course why it had been orchestrated. He was by no means Captain Popular, but by the same token, he wasn't exactly a hate figure. He figured he would need to put forth a solid stance of innocence - announce to anyone he thought relevant to the situation, that he had never said anything negative to anyone about Colin - why would he? If he waited and did nothing, it would paint a picture of not caring; he had to get it out there that he was disgusted, and that there was a extremely sick-minded fuck out there with an axe to grind for whatever reason. The thing he had going for him with this, was of course that it was the truth. If he could cut through the raw emotion he stood a chance...he needed to put out a firm message of reasonable doubt - without the accusation, no-one had any reason to believe that he ever would say these things. Then, he could work on finding out who put it out there.

[lukas989]

For someone who was accused of making such extreme comments, the reaction was sombre to say the least. Not much had changed really - most of those who were closest to Colin were either no longer attending the school, or was taught in other schools, the next town or village over. Not that this made him relax any; being physically beaten was something he was keen to avoid at the best of times, let alone by those armed with the ammo he'd talked ill of their dead friend. There was a couple of close links in the school, but neither were likely to beat the shit of him - namely Jill, and a guy named David, who over the last year had undergone a somewhat bizarre transition from reserved nerdy bookworm, into pot-smoking loud-mouthed abrasive drunk. He rarely liaised with David these days - mainly owing to this transition, but given the brevity of the situation, decided it best to approach him and put forth his message. He adopted a methodical approach to begin with - mainly to confirm David had heard the rumour. He hoped inwardly that he had - it wasn't a situation he wanted to explain especially, he much rather the chat was minimal. Fortunately - if that was the right word - David was in the know; it was abuzz throughout the pot-smokers clique. He reverted to a defensive stance, strongly denying the accusation and asking if it were possible to pass on this message - particularly to Stuart and Calum, seeing as it appeared their need to extract revenge was the strongest. David these days was a bit of an oddball character; many a time since the transition, it appeared he was about to receive a good smacking from whoever at the time he had offended, seemingly inadvertently...the transition had brought with it a strange complete abandon and recklessness to his dialogue. 'Shitting yourself there are we,' he sneered in response. He had to catch himself from rising to the tone, pausing to think about the best response. 'More confused to be honest. And a bit angry it must be said - seeing as how the rumour is complete bollocks.' He was tempted to enquire of David whether he knew anything about where the rumour came from; it suddenly dawned on him that Davids sneering tone was perhaps due to him knowing fine and well it was a setup. David flippantly retorted with, 'Sure I'll tell 'em,' making no effort to hold eye contact. He was beginning to feel really angry, adrenaline flowing through him at the growing desire to punch Davids stupid fucking face in. ' He quickly responded with a muttered 'Thanks' before turning and walking in the opposite direction. The few yards down the hall and around the corner seemed to take forever; he fought the urge to turn and run back to act out his desire of violence with every step.

[lukas989]

He lived life based on assumption a lot of the time; no period moreso than back then at high school. There wasn't much choice whilst so out of the loop - no doubt it had its advantages, judging by how much time he lost mulling over certain thing he did get the facts on. But things like this - where it seemed a certainty the negativity was thick and widespread, he would much rather be in possession of the facts. When damage control was put in the hands of cunts like David, he knew fine things were out-with his preferred level of control...some fuck could run up at any moment and plunge a blade into his ear - who the fuck knew. He sought some solace in the fact he was to reside in the village for a finite amount of time; but then extinguished this with the knowledge that other people knew this also - they were dealing with a time-frame in which to exact the revenge required. Going to school was akin to putting himself in harms way; he felt exposed. He was an individual lost in his own thoughts at the best of times - so it struck him as alarming when his Graphic Comms teacher - Mr. O Neill - felt obligated enough to enquire after his current state of mind. There was always a few moments of rawness in times such as these...perhaps it was a desire harboured by everyone; that opportunity to spill their guts to the person who gave enough of a shit to ask. He recalled almost breaking down, sobbing uncontrollably at the overall picture that was his current existence. He managed not to however, masking the momentary lapse with a drawn out confused expression, and a reply tinged with surprise at the question. He was angry at himself for not doing a better job of remaining under the radar, continuing to be the quiet, easy-going studious young man, who showed promise once he came out of his shell. Mr. O'Neill let the silence linger for a while longer - perhaps offering a further chance to divulge - a chance he turned down. 'OK mate,' Mr. O'Neill sighed, walking back to his desk. He felt a spat of sadness at the lost opportunity. But he knew the floodgates were holding back a shitload of weighty and potentially problematic grievances; Mr. O'Neill certainly wasn't 'The Chosen One'; in other ones the person he felt qualified enough to entrust with whatever might spill from his lips. This faceless person was on such a pedestal by now, he doubted he or she even existed. What would they even do after learning it all? He foresaw nothing but regret, if ever he did divulge - someone out there knew, and potentially would let others know. Then, who knows...move on, start again, sacrifice before he was ready to. No - he would handle this alone - learn what he could, put forth the case as diligently and often as possible. He needed to paint the picture of innocence.

[lostpilot]

It's lovely that you keep on writing

[lukas989]

As it turned out, his intentions melted away, replaced by nothing other than a void; it was an awkward subject to bring up - especially so with people he generally didn't converse with..'Hi mate hows it going...yeah...good good...by the way I wasn't speaking ill of Colin after he died - spread the word.' As days changed to weeks then to months, it seemed apparent that little had changed in the grand scheme of things, other than that he had conclusive proof that there was a person among the population, who wished him great harm. There was relief of course that the comforting amount of time had passed, but also shell shock at the disdain he was held in. Having lived a good deal of his life in these parts with emphasis on removing himself, and keeping out of the spotlight, it was an eventuality he had spent a great deal of effort avoiding. As of this time he was mere weeks away from beginning college - it now seemed a satisfyingly high chance he'd be away and gone with all limbs attached. That wasn't to say there wasn't still a great deal of intrigue in finding out why the fuck he was in this position in the first place. On weighing up the pros and cons of investigating this, he decided it best to not don a Colombo jacket, and just leave it be. He'd been mentally tortured by many a taint before; it would nag sure, but he was certain in his mind it was a preference to having his head placed in a vice or whatever. The time passed had allowed a transition  - a transition that scared him a little; not so much for now - more so for the future. That being the switch from fear and confusion to anger and determination....from 'But..but why??' to, 'I'm going to find the cunt that did this and cut out his tongue.' Those words were verbatim from an actual thought in his head. It was perhaps a reaction to no longer feeling like prey; a knee-jerk to the natural humiliation that comes from being inspired to hide away, and be suspicious of everything and anything people say. Once lifted, all that's left is the humbling feeling of weakness and embarrassment, meaning looking at yourself in the mirror is a chore; the reflection becomes associated with patheticness. All being told, his natural response to the accusations was fear...this realisation in itself was cause for disappointment. Looking back, he should have been furious - frantic in finding out who said it and when. It was all fine and well he was angry now, now that the dust had settled, but it was too little too late. He needed an outlet for redemption. And of course this was alive and well in the form of some nasty cunt not too far away from where he sat now. He needed to find this piece of shit and make an example of him - it would form the perfect springboard from which to leap prior to leaving.

[lukas989]

Of course, there was no springboard. Just a solid step from one place to the other. In truth it was probably best, the fantasy of revenge sat lustfully in the back of his mind, knowing he would be totally justified in reaping it. It was seemingly inconsequential anyway...the story, the consequences, the possible outcomes - none of them had any real bearing on what was happening now - he was away, surrounded by new people (and Jill), set on an unknown course, with unknown experiences ahead of him. Any possibility there was of what might have happened as a result, were drowned by the amount to take in. He had become so accustomed to dealing with such definite things, in such small quantities, that it was all completely overwhelming; he was completely unprepared for dealing with so much so quickly. He was set to travel the short distance from his grandmothers house to the halls of residence, the setting of his first dwelling place away from home. The confirmation of attaining a room there had stuck in the mind - the woman in charge of running the day to day operations of the the place - a Ms. Williams - had mistaken him for someone else, when he phoned as scheduled to confirm his desire to accept the offered room. Apparently (it was never confirmed) she had been hassled by someone desperately seeking a room just prior to his call, so when he phoned announcing he was phoning about the room, she had a meltdown, and shrieked at him that she had lost patience and was not willing to discuss the matter any further. He confusedly gathered his composure, and offered forth the possibility that there was a misunderstanding. There was a pause as she seemingly made a check for his name, before continuing (free of apology) with. 'Ah yes, so you wish to commit to the room then?' He responded affirmatively, then listened still shell shocked as she explained away the dates, the monies and all the usual what-have-yous. He tried whenever possible not to read too much in omens, but it struck him as quite the 'fuck off' nonetheless. He admittedly could have really done with a nice welcoming, warm opening dialogue with his pending landlady (in other words a replacement for his soon to be absent mother), but alas it wasn't to be. Instead he was to be brought crashing down into the 'real world', of which he had heard so much about in books and movies and shit like that. In fairness, it wasn't often he watched a movie about the blossoming friendships between overweight, middle-aged landladies (as Ms. Williams turned out to be), and an individual college student, which helped shake off the worry it had sprouted. Surely the fellow, similarly aged students were more the target to aim for...soon enough they'd together play pranks and secretly mock Ms. Williams behind her back; he himself delighting the crowd with his anecdote about her squawking down the phone at him for daring to be the next caller after some arsehole in desperate need of accommodation.

[lukas989]

The car journey to the college wasn't long enough; he still felt unprepared as his uncle navigated his way up the road to the halls car park. He compared the feeling to running in a dream...suddenly your legs don't work - the simple task of sticking one foot in front of the other, becomes an accident waiting to happen. His uncle - Martin - sensed the anguish, and inquired after his well being; he nodded affirmatively rather than respond verbally such was the level of cotton mouth he was experiencing. 'Give it time,' responded Martin through a knowing chuckle. It was the fear mainly of being wrong...the fear that his confidence in being a likeable person was in fact bollocks. What if the response to his being was forever to be a repeat of what he had experienced throughout his high school career...or even as a result of what he had experienced he was so affected by it, that he was no longer able to function normally. The problem with only having belief in the fact he was likeable, was that it was unproven - there was no basis for it other than his own blind assertion....and by fuck had he been wrong about many a social aspect previously. He just needed to get this bastard of a day out of the way; find even just a single person with which to spit forth a bit of dialogue with, whether they be potential friend or not. All that was required was the illusion he was approachable - if others saw him speaking to people, it would aid the transition into speaking to the observer themselves; thus creating himself his first social scene...in fuck knows how long. He vowed to be open, tolerant and all that good stuff - college was different to his time before - people who were laughed at in more youthful years were applauded here - expressionism was promoted, mockery was for arseholes...all that sort of thing. He was dressed as expressively as he knew how - namely his classic look of the time, band t-shirt over band long sleeved shirt. He had spent so many years being wildly into the music he loved without any form of outlet to explain himself, that he dressed this way  more out of a way of advertising himself, than any form of fashion statement. He didn't really care if he looked like a prick - he reasoned that if someone thought he looked a prick, fuck them anyway. The familiar pang of sweat pricked his brow as he tried to casually (and failed) sling his large bag over his shoulder. He glanced at Martin to convey the message of ' Please - lead on,'. Martin duly did so, with yet another chuckle...he knew Martin held a view whereby he was being ridiculous...but fuck Martin - what did he know. Fuck everyone.

[lukas989]

Martin held the heavy swing door open for him, he swiftly took the weight of it, allowing Martin to wander into the foyer area. He glanced behind him to check for others coming in behind him and followed on through. A staircase wound its way up four (by his count) separate floors, the landings for each to the left of them; doors apparently leading to rooms in either direction. To their right was a hatch covered by a glass sliding door; 'Ah here we go,' Martin muttered - visible was a plumpish woman sitting, eyes down below the hatch opening. Martin had recognized the need to lead the way with decision making as he had hoped - whenever there was an outlet for offloading responsibility he liked to take advantage. There was plenty of time ahead to exercise his new required sense of control - until then resources were to be abused. Martin moved in towards the the hatch, hoping he assumed to catch the eye of the seemingly busy woman. When no obvious acknowledgement came, Martin lightly knocked on the glass. His words were caught by the simple  flick of a finger to their left; the womans eyes glanced up momentarily to make sure the instruction was received and understood. 'In through here it looks like,' Martin mumbled irritatedly, striding purposefully to the door to the left of the hatch. He followed closely behind through the door and into what appeared to be a lounge area; two three seater and a chair - apparently styled for the office waiting rooms of the early nineteen seventies, surrounded a gigantic television set, adorned with wood laminate...it brought back memories of the tv he sat in front of as a five year old - i.e. the first tv he could remember watching. In the centre of one of the three seaters sat a fairly bedraggled looking young man - heavy set with thin ginger hair, thick black-rimmed spectacles and clothed in stuff he might well have stolen from charity bins, such was the randomness of the combination and the well-worn quality of it all. The man threw an animated wave at them, broad grin on his face, to which they responded with their own. Martin sat on the other three seater, inviting him to do so with a 'Looks like we wait,'. He duly did so - but for not much more than ten seconds or so; the plumpish woman appeared suddenly in the doorway of the office space in front of them. 'So - here to book in?' she half snapped; he assumed this was her umpteenth of the day. He responded affirmatively. 'Name?' They went back and forth with the formalities, before the woman instructed him to stay put for a bit - Ms. Jackson would be with him shortly to show him up to his room once she was finished with the current tenant checking in. He nodded, and rested back into the seat as she turned back into the office. 'Seems nice,' Martin laughed. He laughed back - albeit with a little less vigour...she was after all to be his landlady for the next year or so.

[lukas989]

He was absolutely shitting himself; the weight of the unknown was pressing down on his brain with an uncontrollable force. He really needed warmth in abundance here - a welcoming bosom on which to rest his throbbing head, a loving hand stroking his hair - a whispered voice telling him everything was going to be ok. It struck him just how absent even the hint of such occurrences were from his life; then at the same time it struck him what a snivelling tosser he sounded. A damning judgement for sure - but he always liked to add a bit more venom when self deprecating. This way there was no room for error when mulling over the possibility of letting such thought slip to the outside world. This was a raw moment; and he was extremely loath to highlight his insecurity at the situation. He would battle on and hope for the best - he knew regardless of how easy it was to say 'Just get over it - stop being an arsehole', he in fact, couldn't. As luck would have it (he supposed), Ms. Jackson - or at least who he assumed to be Ms. Jackson - walked through the door, clipboard clutched under her arm, impatience etched all over her ageing face. Not a great sign he thought with a suppressed sigh, watching her stride into the office. He just wanted to get this stuff out of the way, safe in the knowledge Martin was en route back to his abode, and that he was alone to make decisions and do whatever, free of being dragged around by borderline angry bitter people. Ms. Jackson appeared in the doorway, glancing down at the clipboard, and read his name. She let her eyes wander round the people sitting in front of her - he being the last. He acknowledged her with a quick nervous wave. She immediately began walking out of the room, 'Follow me.' emanating from her general head region.  He rose to follow, quickly asking Martin if he was ok to watch his gear, to which Martin responded with a mocking, 'Yes, I shall watch your gear!' He was always sarcastic and mocking was Martin - a trait that got tiresome pretty quickly. Sarcasm was something he had a lot of time for most of the time - if the relationship was a comfortable one with the person the sarcasm was being engaged with, it could be great fun - one-upping each others attempts at deprecation. Martin was at it every other sentence however, and many a time he had momentarily fantasized about punching him directly in the face; and wallowing in the aftermath of the resultant surprise and injury. He sensed a certain Tourettes-like quality in himself sometimes....those strange moments where you feel compelled to do possibly the worst thing in any given situation - throwing coffee in someones face, ramming a stick through the spokes of a moving bicycle, violently shoving someone off the edge of a cliff - just to answer those nagging questions that remained unanswered to the good majority of people. Consequences were no secret sure - but what would the experience be personally in the immediate aftermath; how would you explain yourself, what steps would you take to remove yourself from the situation - that kind of thing. Thankfully, he didn't have the necessary balls to perform the required actions to explore these wonderings further. Maybe one day he would - a thought at which he would routinely shudder.

[lukas989]

The nerves suffered at the situation had sent his legs into 'dream mode'; they struggled to perform the tasks he wanted them to. He labelled this 'dream mode', because he often had dreams whereby his legs would fail him, at the very moment when he needed to escape the clutches of a predator, or a floor was caving in, or if he had to leap out of the way...his legs just sat there, unable to move properly. He was well aware of the likelihood this was relative to feelings of being trapped and all that - that was fine - he would wake up after all, and everything was fine. It was moments like these, where situations required him to step up to the plate, and it was if his fucking body was refusing him the right to even make a stab at it. It was akin to his inability to pee in public - the scenario of standing in a public toilet in front of a urinal, was something that caused his bladder to cease from working. As such he was one of those that went for 'too many shits', when in fact he was just seeking the solstice a locked cubicle door offered him to enable urine to trickle out of his dick. It made him feel inadequate and embarrassed...any hope he had of being a confident forward thinking being were being largely dented by the tools his body offered him. His bladder was his bitch tits. His legs were his polio. Lucky he supposed when you compared it to that - but it was like his mother saying to him 'Think of the starving kids in Africa' when he prodded the leftover courgette on his plate, pronounced scowl etched on his face - it was shit that people had to deal with comparatively worse things than he did of course, but it didn't make his problems any less of a pain in the arse. The primary reason he became drenched in solitude (he wasn't always by golly - he was quite the popular little prick at one stage) in his teen years, was because he recognised the ones who had it all were cunts. This wasn't a rule he applied by definition - i.e. those who have it all are automatically cunts - just the ones that were in his vicinity were cunts. It was a choice; either gloss over the cuntiness, and make the necessary adjustments and sacrifices to enable a social group...or say 'fuck you cunt' and bed in to a life of loneliness. He tossed the experiences he had gained from the group dynamic up to the point he made the decision onto the scale - and loneliness it was. He took himself as a blueprint - same moral fibre, same fairness in judgement and acceptance of others...but with the looks, magnetism and confidence of your average 'have it all'. There was no need to force upon others the bullshit hoop-jumping and initiation to 'earn' their spot in the group, or victimize them if they don't share the same beliefs. Not to mention the all too transparent homo-erotic undertones of such shenanigans....'Put you thumb up each others arseholes and you can join the group'...it was a strange, forced and downright creepy dynamic that always made him shudder to think of. Just seeing such groups together on the street or at school, looked forced - the underlings faces etched with nothing more than relief really that they had got themselves out of the potential victim spotlight and were now part of the gang. But in saying that here he was now, breathing irregularly, struggling to pull back the fire escape door, sweat forming on his brow, panic setting in that Ms. Jackson was going to shout at him...maybe he was just making excuses. Maybe the group dynamic would have crafted a better prepared human model than the mess he was at this very moment.

[lukas989]

He hurriedly followed Ms. Jackson up the winding staircase, the exertion not helping in his efforts to stem the flow of sweat leaking from his pores. The journey took them all the way to the top floor - a five storey ascent to what he would call home for the next nine months. He followed through the fire door at the top, and abruptly was forced to stop in front of the first door on their left, as Ms. Jackson swiftly halted her stride. The door was ajar, revealing the delights inside; the first thought that came to mind was the likeness to a prison cell. Not a bad prison cell - maybe more a juvenile detention centre type dwelling, resplendent with budget laminate board matching furniture (chest of drawers with adjoining table and chair, and a wardrobe) ,the thinnest carpet tile known to civilization - in a fetching rust orange no less, and a bed that reminded him of the type seen on board boats - small, tight and uninviting. He scalded himself at the reaction - who the fuck was he, Royalty? Suck it up you whinging prick. Ms. Jackson regimentedly ran through the itinerary of equipment at his disposal, which made him feel dumb - although obvious that he was looking at a 'bed', 'wardrobe', and so on, she made mention of everything, eyes fixed keenly upon the clipboard she held with two hands in front of her face. Upon finishing she walked out of the room, and through the door opposite, which led into the wash room; to the left four sink basins, separated by dividing plywood walls, and to the right, five cubicles - one containing a bath, two containing toilets, and two containing showers.  All pretty standard of any camp-site wash-room you've ever been in - frill free and offering of what is generally required by all. Once again, the itinerary run, then the abrupt exit. He followed down the corridor and through another fire door. The right side swapped wall for windows, revealing the kitchen and dining area; a table and chairs at the near side, a squared off area containing double sinks, cupboards, oven, freezer, fridge - all the usual shite - just less nice and inviting than what was back home. In spite of the sensation of dumb, he listened regardless to the itinerary run-down - you never know he reasoned...there just might be a diamond amongst the long list of rough. He was wrong as it turned out, but at least he wasn't left wondering. Ms. Jackson turned to face him for the first time since leaving the room downstairs, and handed him a key, issuing him with the warning 'The door will lock behind you so please try not to leave your key in the room,' in a tone so patronizing, he was semi-tempted into head-butting hard right on her stupid fucking nose. Instead he nervously laughed and turned red. 'Right,' she continued, 'You're free to move in your belongings. People will be moving in all day, so try and hold off on requests until tomorrow.' Then, she was out the door and gone. He stood in the dining area, staring out the window at the distant view of the college grounds. And so this was it; the start of life without for granted-ness.

[lukas989]

He stood there for a while, for no other reason than to allow Ms. Jackson enough of a head start, there would be no danger of catching her up on the stairs. The place was eerily quiet, which made him suspect he was the first one on the floor. He toyed with the idea of doing a quick search through of the kitchen; open drawers and cupboards -basically examine what delights it all held. He resisted however - his mind was telling him he shouldn't be the first to do this. He shared this with vampires - he had to be invited in before he could venture forth; had to leave the thrill of breaking the seal to someone else. The process of the thought and subsequent rejection, offered him enough reason to assume the correct amount of time had passed, and thus decided to return downstairs to Martin. The full journey of corridor, stairs and foyer, brought with it no encounters whatsoever. In spite of the acknowledgement of his arrival, the guided tour and everything else that suggested otherwise, he began thinking maybe this was the wrong day...he was being lulled into a false sense of security, and all these fucks were in on it - Jackson, Williams, the ginger guy - even Martin...they were all in on the joke. The unreasonable doubt still lingered in his mind as he carefully pushed open the fire door into the recreation room. Martin sat there, mid-conversation with the ginger guy, laughing about something or other. He let the moment pass, allowing Martin to register his arrival. 'Good to go then?' Martin inquired. He responded affirmatively, stooping to gather up his fair share of bags. Martin rose, turning back to the ginger guy, wishing him 'Good luck,' with another punctuated laugh. He immediately wanted to know what with - it was obvious by the laugh, that there was a back story here - an opportunity to gain some background on a prospected contact. The ginger guy responded with a 'Thanks mate,' as he led them out of the room, holding the door open for Martin. 'How far up?' Martin asked, as he began the ascent. Another scoffing laugh at the confirmation of the top floor. He was practically biting his tongue at beginning the cross examination about the ginger guy, but told himself to be patient; wait until they were safely behind the confines of the room door. The exertion of the climb, armed with all his belongings, the excitement and intrigue of what Martin would potentially say about ginger guy, the shrouded mystery of what the next few days of getting to know people would entail, had him sweating thick droplets of perspiration from the crown of his head, tracing uncomfortably down his forehead and along his nose. Both hands were tied up with bags too heavy to raise up to his face, so instead he made an effort to blow upwards. This only hastened the ascent of the beads, a couple landing straight into his open mouth. The taste of sweat was not too unpleasant, he had no problem admitting, but the fact it was sweat, and that it was in his mouth, wasn't a reality he could handle reasonably for too long - he immediately started spitting it out, in a reaction much like an arachnaphobic would have to coming across a big fuck off tarantula. The feeling of helplessness caused by his predicament caused his to pick up the pace significantly, leaving Martin trailing in his wake. He shot through the door at the top without holding it open, and darted into the open room door, dramatically dropping all he carried so he could frantically swipe at his saturated face, and rid his tongue of whatever sweat particles remained upon it. He turned to face the freshly arrived Martin, who looked not best pleased, 'Yeah thanks for holding the door open for me there,' he scalded irritatedly. Fuck him. Walk through life scoffing and patronising, and sometimes you get a door in your face, cunt, he thought. This instead came out as a rambled excuse about how his arms were ready for falling off at the weight. Martin mumbled something intelligible.

[lukas989]

The urge came swiftly after to defuse the situation, so he plucked thankfully at the thought he had intended to ask as soon as the chance came to light. Martin laughed encouragingly at the enquiry about the Ginger Guy; a story worth telling would no doubt unfold, he hoped. 'He's here begging for a room,' Martin began through tittering laughter, 'Seems to be a mix-up with the place he got sorted out; he was telling me he was basically an old folks home...as he was knocking on the door to introduce himself, an ambulance pulled up - as he waited to speak to the right person, the ambulance crew left with a guy who had seemingly died! Taking that as a sign things weren't as they were, he just grabbed his bags and headed up to the college....that's how he ended up here - to see if there was space for him.' Martin began laughing again. He laughed along with, but couldn't shake the unnerved shudder he was experiencing at the Ginger Guys woes. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for him, over the next few days. 'So you think you'll be ok? I can leave you to it?' Martin asked, with no effort to hide the hope in his face that he would reply yes, and let him away to sit and watch tv or whatever. He replied affirmatively, furrowing his brow a little, as if to suggest, 'I'm not a child - of course you can go.' The reality was, was that he was practically shitting himself; the tale of the Ginger Guy, had not aiding his quest for early tranquillity. 'Ok good good - well good luck,' Martin responded, holding out a hand to shake. He had wanted to follow him down the stairs - a combination of prolonging and a genuine need to return to the common room to double check he hadn't left anything down there (98% sure he hadn't - but the check was worth the appeasement). The handshake acted as confirmation that following Martin was now no longer an option - he would have to wait for a few minutes for the coast to be clear. Ridiculous really, but less so owing to it being Martin - a scene played out in his mind of Martin mockingly laughing at him, as he followed down the stairs , like an infant not wanting to allow his mother to leave. He reckoned five minutes was an ample amount of time to let slip by; and decided to empty one of his bags to ease the transition. He decided upon his large bag of clothes, taking each neatly folded item out, laying them in groups (underwear, socks, tops, jeans/trousers) on the bed, to aid the next stage (putting them away in drawers or the wardrobe). He chose his 'classic' (in other words only), drawer allotment technique - i.e. socks & underwear in the top drawer, t-shirts in the middle drawer and sweaters/jumpers & jeans/ trousers in the wardrobe). The bottom drawer was as usual kept clear for the 'miscellaneous' items; shit basically - knick knacks he never used but couldn't bring himself to throw away like cards he'd received from folk, batteries, multi-tools, receipts, tickets, Alan keys, screws, bolts....any crap he felt some day just might be required. He decided against spilling the can of worms further for now - getting too deep into putting stuff away could eat up the rest of the day - just now was only for the eating up of five minutes after all. He'd go and do his check downstairs, then return to continue. He strode out of the room pulling the door behind him. He set foot on the first step down, and froze on the spot. He had just locked his key in his room. The perspiration poured out of his face as all sorts of combinations of 'fuck' cunt' 'shit' and 'twat' rolled furiously through his mind.

[lukas989]

The sound of the door down below opening, and the echo of voices, stole him out of his negative trance. There wasn't any sort of alternative here - he was five floors up. It was just a case of preparing himself mentally, before biting the bullet and approaching Ms. Jackson, and the other fatter woman in the office downstairs for the spare. It was far from an ideal start to his stay, or indeed to his relationship with these women, but needs must. The voices had disappeared; he assumed they had got in there ahead of him, and were currently going through the same rigmarole he had. At least that would buy him some time he reasoned...he could sit and wait in the common room, showing off his ability to be patient and respectful. Maybe presented in the right light, his faux pas could even come off as being endearing, and the whole mishap could end up being a catalyst to a great friendship with them...he'd arrive in from college everyday, and they'd great him with an over the top 'why hello there,' big beaming smiles on their faces, glancing at each other, impressed at this fine young mans' journey through life and his great attitude. He paced down the steps, allowing the positivity to flow through him, flushing out the fear and anger. He wiped at his face, removing the beads of sweat, controlling his breathing; trying to calm himself down, bring the temperatures back to a level where he could pull off the calm reasonable personae required. The last couple of flights of stairs were taken at minimal speed,; eking out every possible remaining second prior to committing and walking through the door. One last big breath was exhaled, and he wandered through both doors. The room was empty - Ginger Guy had gone...perhaps turfed out onto the street, perhaps into a welcoming spare room. He found himself somewhat cruelly hoping for the former - the little he had heard Ginger Guy spout, had led to the damning judgement that he was an arsehole. What sort of twat arrives for college without sorting out accommodation? Maybe the trials and tribulations the ginger prick was experiencing would teach him a valuable lesson about preparedness. He snickered at the complete unfairness in his judgement, the mental image of Ginger Guy sitting on a pavement, surrounded by his belongings asking anyone who passed by if they had a spare room widened the smile further. He sank into the single seater chair quietly, hearing voices from behind the closed over office door. He made no effort to listen in; now was the time to concentrate fully on what he would say - how he would reason away his idiocy. Zero aggression basically - just put it out there 'I've locked my key in my room,' and accept all abuse, sighs, frustration and so on - tough it out, and it would all be over. What did it matter if he was overly friendly with these women anyway - they certainly weren't what he had in mind as he sat daydreaming about college back home. If anything, a negative exchange would provide an amusing anecdote to regale others with over the next few days; a perfect way to break the ice. No more than five or ten minutes of being somewhere he'd rather not be, then onwards and upwards. Easy.

[lukas989]

The release of worry stopped the intent mulling over of what he would say; instead focusing on the surroundings. The massive tv from a couple of generations ago, loomed large in the corner...he pondered momentarily about potentially watching whatever the others watched (he never chose when there were more than one other in the room); listening to their conversations, nodding and smiling at remarks they made, laughing when they did...he had given up on the reasons why he was such a submissive arsehole in the beginnings of relationships, so much so, he incorporated it into his imaginings such was its commonplace. Behind him, the pool table; the white ball up by the 'd', chalk rested on the edge. He was tempted to get up and practice a stroke or two....but didn't. What if someone caught him. He audibly tittered...caught hitting a pool ball, the most heinous of crimes. Much like the submissive thing, he struggled for an answer as to why this was a natural response - don't do that (i.e. anything - quite literally), you might get caught. It was almost as if he didn't want to be associated with the action itself...like it was embarrassing to commit to an activity, in case it was the cause of ridicule. He remembered as a young teenager - say thirteen or fourteen - he had undertaken a personal mission to remove some extra bulk he had acquired; mainly owing to the sudden removal of any physical activity from his life. This was due to the switch in his existence from once belonging to a group of similarly aged teenagers, then not. At all. Weeks turned to months turned to over a year - outside became a no go. And with it arrived a sizeable midriff, coupled with ample bitch tits. The tits are what did it - at least the memory of them staring back at him in the mirror, was a dark and not enjoyable one. He dedicatedly began an ever increasing exercise routine; starting with twenty of each of press-ups, sit-ups, squat thrusts and so on - building up in increments of five as comfort increased, pushing and pushing until he was doing sixty or seventy of each discipline. It was a practice that came and went throughout his life - the desire would eventually wane when the numbers had got so high, that he was forced to dedicate more time to it than he could be bothered with on a daily basis...so he would lapse, become bored and give up. Back then, he had been going for a solid five months, religiously waking each morning before school, pumping out the exercises, when one morning he was disturbed by his stepfather - himself unexpectedly wandering through to investigate what the grunts and groans were all about. He shot up to his feet as if he had been caught stealing from the biscuit tin, at the moment of his stepfather opening the door, wide-eyed. His stepfather stared at him for a moment, saying nothing, then laughed, before retreating back out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. A few moments passed and he began to laugh himself. But he had revisited that scene countless times since; why had he reacted that way? Why was embarrassment and fear always his go-to reaction?

[lukas989]

The thought was snapped by the sudden swinging open of the office door, the previously muffled conversation, now fully audible and continuing before him. Ms. Jackson lead the way out, behind her following a quite beautiful girl; slim, longish blond hair - a pleasant, cutesy central-Scottish accent shaping her sentences. The convo was a pleasant one, about welcoming, if any assistance was needed, thank yous' - the type he yearned for. A larger woman, remained in the room, back to him, as the attractive girl and Ms. Jackson left. He half-heartedly rose from his seated position, unsure if he had been noticed, and whether alerting to his presence was required. He quietly slinked forward to the open door, and gave it a quick soft knock. The large woman, 'glanced round at him after a moments pause, staring at him over the top of her glasses. She jutted her head as if to say 'Yes? what the fuck do you want?'. His mouth was suddenly dry - it was a poor start. He apologised for bothering her, suddenly all to aware of his lack of preparedness...no set sentence to utter. It came out as a whimpering pathetic effort; the type of thing a desperate man would say in pleading for his life. She was deeply unimpressed, sighing and tutting. she rose from her seat, reaching up to a board in front of her, where she plucked a key hanging from a hook. 'Straight back with this you hear? I'm budgeting for a lot of this nonsense today, so I've no time for people hanging onto the spare.' She thrust the Yale Key in his direction. He began to form the word 'sorry' in his mouth again, but thought better of it. She turned from him, going back to whatever she was doing at the desk. He retreated out of the office, heart pounding. Fuck fuck fuck....she was a cunt. There's nothing worse than the existence of a cunt you simply have to deal with from time to time. He had zero problem with the existence of cunts in general - just as long as they stayed the fuck away from him. The bummer of this right now, is that he be back dealing with her again in no more than five minutes. He opted to try and smooth the negativity as much as possible, and that was via returning the key in record time - showing respect for her wishes. He launched his way up the stair two, sometimes three at a time, ignoring the acid burning in his thighs. He was back in the room, key retrieved, and heading back down the stairs again in no more than two minutes. As he reached the bottom, he heard a fire door swinging above him, and footsteps head in his general direction - a quick glance round took in a flash of Ms. Jackson, returning from the deposit of the attractive blonde to her room (or so he assumed). He resumed the journey back to the office, pushing his way through the doors. Another light tap on the office door, and the large woman was once again staring over her glasses at him. 'Don't make a habit of this ok?' She said, noticeably warmer. He allowed a smile to crack across his face, replying affirmatively. She said his name and asked for confirmation that was who he was, to which he replied yes. 'Did I speak to you on the phone?' The memory of the call appeared in his mind; this was Ms. Williams...the initial misidentification, and subsequent misplaced anger. He referred to this in his reply, how she had mistaken him for a previous caller and had gone a bit mental at him. The warmth oozed out of her voice, her retort coming just as Ms. Jackson re-entered the office. 'I don't go 'mental' I'll have you know - how dare you suggest anything of the sort!', she snapped, cutting off his efforts to diffuse the situation. 'I think you should probably leave immediately before you dig the hole any deeper.' He glanced round at Ms. Jackson, who stared at him as if he had just shat in her food. No reparation would take place here he thought. Abort you fool, abort...

[lukas989]

His face throbbed with the heat of embarrassment, as he climbed the stairs back to his new abode. Remarkable how everything that could go wrong was...every moment of questionable moral make up flashed through his mind as the thought of karma punishing him, offered itself as a reason. His head hurt with the scalding he was giving himself; on reflection the things he had said and done were beyond idiotic - locking himself out, sure what are you going to do..but calling the fat bitch mental? It had actually been something he had told himself would be an effective way of breaking the ice - of integrating himself with the hierarchy. Fucking ridiculous. Internally, he always thought of himself as smart, wise to things - but at times like this, it shattered his whole perception. He was a fucking idiot. It was the kind of tale people would screw up their faces and scoff at when told, punctuated with 'Why did you say that you nutter'? and suchlike. He closed the door of his room, relaxing a little at the sound of the lock clicking home into place. Time away was needed; and thus unpacking - the perfect activity to remove himself from the woe; handling his personal possessions, remembering when he got them, where they came from, what they meant etc. In truth pretty much all he had was clothes, his cd's, his stereo and his tv. Then there was the practical stuff his mother had armed himself with - cutlery, crockery, towels and so on. Not much to get sentimental about outside his collection of music - and so anal was he about that there was much an original thought to have about any of them. Nonetheless, he placed his stereo on the counter, plugging it into the wall behind. The cd's were naturally all organized in alphabetical order in the box, about seventy or so. They were all still relevant, he listened to them all on occasion, every time from start to finish. He felt obliged to listen to complete albums upon starting them - as if owing the respect to the artist. He plucked out Pantera's 'Vulgar Display of Power', one of the first cd's he had purchased, upon realizing hard rock and heavy metal was the type of stuff he had been searching for. He closed his eyes, as the first riff of 'Mouth for War' kicked in, remembering as he always did, sitting in the passenger seat of his dad's car, driving to his dad's house for the weekend; his brother in the back. His dad was laughing, asking him when he had starting listening to this 'crazy' music. He remembered that time as his favourite with his dad - his parents had split up only a few months previous. As a result the limited time his had had with him and his brother, meant a whole new level of generosity and attentiveness - great gifts for Christmas, long conversations about how they were finding school, getting on with their new school colleagues. It was memorable because of its briefness - within a year of the split, his dad had found a new partner of his own - a lady named Mary. Or 'The Cunt' as he liked to call her.

[lukas989]

The duration of the cd had accompanied the successful distribution of his belongings to their new home. He had a bag of emergency rations to see him through the first day or two: tea, coffee, biscuits, cereal and so on. As good a time as any to break the seal on the kettle he thought - the embarrassment had been diluted somewhat, thanks to his mind being taken off the subject of being a complete imbecile. He wandered through to the kitchen, jar of granulated coffee and mug in hand. Still, no other folks were visible en route. Unfashionably early he realised, but a bedding in period was important; all the better if he could stretch out in the space alone. He sloshed cold water into the white plastic electric kettle, plugging it in and forcefully pressing the stiff switch down. Two spoons of coffee were then carefully measured into the mug - no frills black was the preference - but the recipe was a precise art; his taste for coffee was implemented at an early age - cups were washing down whatever shit he was eating from the age of twelve, sat in front of the tv for a marathon four to five hour stint on his bedroom comfy chair. He recalled a social experiment they had done in school; for a week, a diary would be kept recording what tv they had watched. during the week, he saw no tv at all for two days, owing to a family trip to visit his grandma to celebrate her birthday...a nice meal was had, followed by a walk along a picturesque path. In spite of this he was the second highest tv watcher in the class of fourteen. In the moment of the announcement he remembered feeling frustrated at not being number one - but the ensuing reaction to number one (David), had him realising it wasn't perhaps the characteristic he had thought. Still, to be number one...it pissed him off. In spite of the negative reaction, David was quite the scoffing cunt about it all - proudly wearing his medal of honour with pride. He had wanted to punch fuck out of him - that was my title he had fumed, and spent the next day or so toying with the idea of revealing why the hours he had clocked had waned for those precious two days. The desire sapped somewhat, when he witnessed David being continuously berated for being a 'sad hermit fuckwit', by the gang of arseholes who took it upon themselves to convey these kind of messages. Second with the knowledge he was the real winner was enough from then on.