Post by wingedelf on Nov 30, 2007 15:16:21 GMT
Hey
Do you think you could read this and give me some feedback?
It would be greatly appreciated ^^
Shrouded in the Darkness
Oliver Florence sits, at just 15, in a small white room. There is no furniture or characterisation of any sort, the only noticeable feature is a small window, high up in the far left corner of the room; it has broad metal bars across it. He leans up against the far wall, encased in white from head to toe, his head moving slowly back and forth, a haunted expression upon his pale face.
I was 13 when it all started; when I started high school. I never really fitted in at school, long black hair, unfashionable dress sense; I stuck out like a sore thumb. I didn’t really mind, but it did get lonely sometimes. I had a few friends, but no one really special; they were all outcasts like me. I remember the instant it happened, the moment I realised I was different. Of course at the time I didn’t understand, no one understood. I don’t think anyone really understands now, they all pretend they do, my parents, my teachers, doctors, nurses, they all think they get me. But no one gets me. No one except Danny.
The day I first met Danny seemed nothing out of the ordinary. I had endured the usual taunting on the bus, I hated going on the bus, I never understood why my mum made me go on it, she drove right past my school on her way to work, she could have dropped me off. I resented her for that. Anyway, as usual the same group of spineless year eleven, I hesitate to call them boys, they were more like trolls; were giving me the daily mental beating. “Look at ‘im,” one of them would spit, nudging his gormless friends in anticipation; this one was a particularly unpleasant example, the ring leader of these pack of hyenas, I called him Slug. “Look at ‘is greasy black hair, never ‘eard of shampoo, goth?” I avoided looking at him, trying to imagine that there was something spellbinding outside. His friends grunted in appreciation. “Nah,” said the scrawniest of the bunch, Slug’s side kick, a particularly slimy individual, I called him Slime, due to the fact he followed Slug around like a slime trail, “Nah, he…he likes it. M…m…makes him feel connected to all the over greasy Goths he hangs around with.” He also had a stutter. Slug laughed, “Sit in the graveyard do yeh, trading ‘air styling tips eh, Oily Oli?” I didn’t answer, staring fixedly out of the window, trying to count the lamp posts as they went by under my breath. “He’s talking to himself!” guffawed Slime, quivering with glee, “He’s counting! W…w…what you counting Oily Oli?” I could hear them all laughing at me, feel them all around me, cornering me like a pack of lions would a wilder beast.
“You really are a freak,” spat Slug, his voice dripping with contempt, “People like you deserve to be put down.” Put down. As those last two words tumbled out of his foul, cigarette stained mouth, I felt a twinge inside me, my hands shook, my heart tattooed against my chest so hard it hurt, I felt a gush of fury escape me. How or why it happened, I don’t know. But the next thing I became aware of was Slug, lying flat on his back, out cold. I looked up, aghast, to see a boy standing next to me; he must have been sitting on the seat besides me all along. Eyes blazing fist raised. He was a lot older than I was, at the time I thought he must have been in the sixth form, as he wasn’t wearing a uniform. He had dark, shiny hair, which cascaded across his face with a look of effortless coolness mine could never have managed. He had hollow cheek bones, and unusually bright green eyes, so bright I was almost unnerved. “Get what he deserved?” he asked daringly, mockingly, looking around at the rest of them, expecting, hoping for them to say something, to stand up to him. “W…what is wrong with you?” stammered Slime, his eyes wide with shock, and maybe, a slight tint of fear, “Y…you are so dead.”
At the time I found it curious he was looking and speaking to me.
Scene changes, we see Oli sitting upon a doctor’s table, having his blood pressure taken by a nurse. There is a thick-set man barring the doorway, arms folded, expression grim.
After the first incident with Slug and his crew, Danny stuck by me, talked to me, comforted me, it was the first time I’d ever had a best friend; it was amazing. Danny was everything I wanted to be, everything I looked up to. He was tall, tough looking, handsome. We had identical taste in music and film, some of our favourites being The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Reservoir Dogs. We dressed similarly, although Danny always managed to carry off the clothes far better than I ever managed. But that wasn’t even the best bit. People began to respect me, fear me even. The days of people pushing me about and taunting me were over; people knew if they messed with me, they’d have Danny to deal with. I never did work out what I did to deserve Danny, why he chose me out of everyone else. But at the time I didn’t care, he was a blessing: Danny was the spark I needed, the gaping empty holes in my sorry excuse for a life were filled. Danny completed me; and for the first time, I felt alive.
I found out there was just one rule:
“Don’t talk about me.” “Why?” I asked inquisitively. He looked at me, his bright green eyes shining spitefully, “Because,” he said slowly, I could see him weighing every word carefully, “How do you think people would react to me if they knew I was best friends with you? I mean, look at you. You’re a loser.” It was like a kick in the stomach, needles in the eyes, I was stunned. “What?” I asked nonplussed, my voice dead, “I thought we were mates.” “Yeah we are Oli,” he said, winking, “Just so long as you don’t talk about me, not to anyone.” I shrugged, still quaking with hurt, “I guess.” “Good,” he said, flashing his pearly whites.
This was the first hint of a side of Danny I hadn’t seen before, and looking back, I should have realised. But I didn’t, I didn’t want to. I was content.
That all changed.
Scene changes once more. Oli is seated at a table, the room is once again bare, clinical bright light shining down on him. Opposite him sits a middle aged women, she wears glasses and a slight crease to her brow as she scribbles away on a clipboard.
It was on the 22nd of July, must have been about midnight, I can’t really remember. It was then I got a taste of the real Danny, the real Danny who had been lurking all along, just beneath the surface, close, but never close enough, to taste or feel or touch. Tonight though, he reared his ugly head, bursting up through the surface of the lake with devastating effects.
“Come on Oli,” Danny called moodily up at my bedroom window. He always refused to come inside. I never considered why. “Alright, I’m coming,” I retorted, carefully climbing down from my bedroom window, using my mum’s rose terrace for support. “Pathetic,” Danny had spat scathingly, folding his arms, “Ickle Oliver not allowed out to play?” I ignored him, my stomach twanging uncomfortably. “Did you get it?” he asked, his green eyes glowing with excitement. “Yes,” I replied, some what reluctantly, carefully taking my mum’s prized Pug, Bertie out of my rucksack. I remember clutching him close to my chest, and suddenly feeling afraid. Danny was looking at the dog with the most profound look of wickedness I had ever seen, it shook me “No, Danny,” I said, taking a step away from him, already feeling panicky, “I really don’t think this is a good idea, my mum will kill me if anything happens to him.” Danny eyes suddenly blazed, a sudden swell of green fire, it was frightening. In one swift, powerful movement, he yanked Bertie from my arms, holding him aloft by his collar, he shook him violently. “No, Danny! Please!” I cried, lunging forward, Bertie’s whimpers of pain echoing in my ears. With his free hand he punched me, squarely in the nose. “Haven’t I taught you anything?” he roared, towering over me, still shaking Bertie’s now lifeless form, “You have to give people what they deserve. That pregnant dog deserves this. She’s selfish; she never looks out for anyone but herself. Remember all those times you used to come home crying, broken, bruised, from where people had knocked you about? Remember how she used to gloss over everything, pretend its okay? She deserves everything she’s going to get.” He threw a now limp Bertie into my lap. I remember looking down at his broken little form, so small and defenceless. I remember crying with guilt, feeling my heart break in two, the horror of what he had done. I remember placing his lifeless body in his basket, taking a knife from the kitchen drawer, and stabbing Danny in the chest, 14 times.
I remember waking up in a hospital, tubes, doctors. I remember being told I’d been attacked. Being told I’d nearly died. Received 14 stab wounds to the chest.
I remember telling them I’d done it myself.
Thanks!
xoxox
Do you think you could read this and give me some feedback?
It would be greatly appreciated ^^
Shrouded in the Darkness
Oliver Florence sits, at just 15, in a small white room. There is no furniture or characterisation of any sort, the only noticeable feature is a small window, high up in the far left corner of the room; it has broad metal bars across it. He leans up against the far wall, encased in white from head to toe, his head moving slowly back and forth, a haunted expression upon his pale face.
I was 13 when it all started; when I started high school. I never really fitted in at school, long black hair, unfashionable dress sense; I stuck out like a sore thumb. I didn’t really mind, but it did get lonely sometimes. I had a few friends, but no one really special; they were all outcasts like me. I remember the instant it happened, the moment I realised I was different. Of course at the time I didn’t understand, no one understood. I don’t think anyone really understands now, they all pretend they do, my parents, my teachers, doctors, nurses, they all think they get me. But no one gets me. No one except Danny.
The day I first met Danny seemed nothing out of the ordinary. I had endured the usual taunting on the bus, I hated going on the bus, I never understood why my mum made me go on it, she drove right past my school on her way to work, she could have dropped me off. I resented her for that. Anyway, as usual the same group of spineless year eleven, I hesitate to call them boys, they were more like trolls; were giving me the daily mental beating. “Look at ‘im,” one of them would spit, nudging his gormless friends in anticipation; this one was a particularly unpleasant example, the ring leader of these pack of hyenas, I called him Slug. “Look at ‘is greasy black hair, never ‘eard of shampoo, goth?” I avoided looking at him, trying to imagine that there was something spellbinding outside. His friends grunted in appreciation. “Nah,” said the scrawniest of the bunch, Slug’s side kick, a particularly slimy individual, I called him Slime, due to the fact he followed Slug around like a slime trail, “Nah, he…he likes it. M…m…makes him feel connected to all the over greasy Goths he hangs around with.” He also had a stutter. Slug laughed, “Sit in the graveyard do yeh, trading ‘air styling tips eh, Oily Oli?” I didn’t answer, staring fixedly out of the window, trying to count the lamp posts as they went by under my breath. “He’s talking to himself!” guffawed Slime, quivering with glee, “He’s counting! W…w…what you counting Oily Oli?” I could hear them all laughing at me, feel them all around me, cornering me like a pack of lions would a wilder beast.
“You really are a freak,” spat Slug, his voice dripping with contempt, “People like you deserve to be put down.” Put down. As those last two words tumbled out of his foul, cigarette stained mouth, I felt a twinge inside me, my hands shook, my heart tattooed against my chest so hard it hurt, I felt a gush of fury escape me. How or why it happened, I don’t know. But the next thing I became aware of was Slug, lying flat on his back, out cold. I looked up, aghast, to see a boy standing next to me; he must have been sitting on the seat besides me all along. Eyes blazing fist raised. He was a lot older than I was, at the time I thought he must have been in the sixth form, as he wasn’t wearing a uniform. He had dark, shiny hair, which cascaded across his face with a look of effortless coolness mine could never have managed. He had hollow cheek bones, and unusually bright green eyes, so bright I was almost unnerved. “Get what he deserved?” he asked daringly, mockingly, looking around at the rest of them, expecting, hoping for them to say something, to stand up to him. “W…what is wrong with you?” stammered Slime, his eyes wide with shock, and maybe, a slight tint of fear, “Y…you are so dead.”
At the time I found it curious he was looking and speaking to me.
Scene changes, we see Oli sitting upon a doctor’s table, having his blood pressure taken by a nurse. There is a thick-set man barring the doorway, arms folded, expression grim.
After the first incident with Slug and his crew, Danny stuck by me, talked to me, comforted me, it was the first time I’d ever had a best friend; it was amazing. Danny was everything I wanted to be, everything I looked up to. He was tall, tough looking, handsome. We had identical taste in music and film, some of our favourites being The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Reservoir Dogs. We dressed similarly, although Danny always managed to carry off the clothes far better than I ever managed. But that wasn’t even the best bit. People began to respect me, fear me even. The days of people pushing me about and taunting me were over; people knew if they messed with me, they’d have Danny to deal with. I never did work out what I did to deserve Danny, why he chose me out of everyone else. But at the time I didn’t care, he was a blessing: Danny was the spark I needed, the gaping empty holes in my sorry excuse for a life were filled. Danny completed me; and for the first time, I felt alive.
I found out there was just one rule:
“Don’t talk about me.” “Why?” I asked inquisitively. He looked at me, his bright green eyes shining spitefully, “Because,” he said slowly, I could see him weighing every word carefully, “How do you think people would react to me if they knew I was best friends with you? I mean, look at you. You’re a loser.” It was like a kick in the stomach, needles in the eyes, I was stunned. “What?” I asked nonplussed, my voice dead, “I thought we were mates.” “Yeah we are Oli,” he said, winking, “Just so long as you don’t talk about me, not to anyone.” I shrugged, still quaking with hurt, “I guess.” “Good,” he said, flashing his pearly whites.
This was the first hint of a side of Danny I hadn’t seen before, and looking back, I should have realised. But I didn’t, I didn’t want to. I was content.
That all changed.
Scene changes once more. Oli is seated at a table, the room is once again bare, clinical bright light shining down on him. Opposite him sits a middle aged women, she wears glasses and a slight crease to her brow as she scribbles away on a clipboard.
It was on the 22nd of July, must have been about midnight, I can’t really remember. It was then I got a taste of the real Danny, the real Danny who had been lurking all along, just beneath the surface, close, but never close enough, to taste or feel or touch. Tonight though, he reared his ugly head, bursting up through the surface of the lake with devastating effects.
“Come on Oli,” Danny called moodily up at my bedroom window. He always refused to come inside. I never considered why. “Alright, I’m coming,” I retorted, carefully climbing down from my bedroom window, using my mum’s rose terrace for support. “Pathetic,” Danny had spat scathingly, folding his arms, “Ickle Oliver not allowed out to play?” I ignored him, my stomach twanging uncomfortably. “Did you get it?” he asked, his green eyes glowing with excitement. “Yes,” I replied, some what reluctantly, carefully taking my mum’s prized Pug, Bertie out of my rucksack. I remember clutching him close to my chest, and suddenly feeling afraid. Danny was looking at the dog with the most profound look of wickedness I had ever seen, it shook me “No, Danny,” I said, taking a step away from him, already feeling panicky, “I really don’t think this is a good idea, my mum will kill me if anything happens to him.” Danny eyes suddenly blazed, a sudden swell of green fire, it was frightening. In one swift, powerful movement, he yanked Bertie from my arms, holding him aloft by his collar, he shook him violently. “No, Danny! Please!” I cried, lunging forward, Bertie’s whimpers of pain echoing in my ears. With his free hand he punched me, squarely in the nose. “Haven’t I taught you anything?” he roared, towering over me, still shaking Bertie’s now lifeless form, “You have to give people what they deserve. That pregnant dog deserves this. She’s selfish; she never looks out for anyone but herself. Remember all those times you used to come home crying, broken, bruised, from where people had knocked you about? Remember how she used to gloss over everything, pretend its okay? She deserves everything she’s going to get.” He threw a now limp Bertie into my lap. I remember looking down at his broken little form, so small and defenceless. I remember crying with guilt, feeling my heart break in two, the horror of what he had done. I remember placing his lifeless body in his basket, taking a knife from the kitchen drawer, and stabbing Danny in the chest, 14 times.
I remember waking up in a hospital, tubes, doctors. I remember being told I’d been attacked. Being told I’d nearly died. Received 14 stab wounds to the chest.
I remember telling them I’d done it myself.
Thanks!
xoxox