Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-9967354-20140523110415

Now BEFORE you are put off by the length of this, let me make it clear that you do not have to read it all. Any criticism is welcome; even if it's just on the first parah.

I've completed the story, and it can be viewed User:WaveDivisionMultiplexer/Sandbox, but I'm going to post it here over some time. One part at a time. So here is part one of the nameless story. There are three more parts, but I'll post them here later.

Part One
 All the rooms in the castle except this one says someone, And suddenly, darkness. Suddenly only darkness. 

When I first saw it, I refused to believe what I saw. Yet, the scars were there, clear as day, physically on his wrist and psychologically on mine. I didn’t care to not be caught staring; I inspected the wounds closely. They were fresh. Not ‘fresh’ as in he’d had a breakdown in the bathroom and found some blades, but fresh enough to be reminiscent of his acts last night.

And I was disgusted, to be quite honest; disgusted and angry. Perhaps it was the strange, selfish part of me that wanted him to be the person I thought he was, but I hated him for it. I counted three, perhaps four cuts, near enough to the mark but not quite; -he was a coward in both ways, then. I didn’t care, and I cared far too much. If I might be honest about myself, for the sake of an introduction, I’m a bundle of complication and controversy. I also have anger management issues. I've had them since I was rather young. Mum used to keep telling me that; she'd say that anger fills your head with hay. I was old enough by then to know that nothing of the sort actually happened, but I understood her point clearly.

Until I became angry. Then nothing else really seemed to matter.

I started reading literature and listening to classical music to cure this, because I was young and my mother didn't think it right to appoint a shrink for me. She was right, mostly. It was a phase that would pass eventually. I feel I've read far too many classics for my own good, and it makes me a bit of an overreacting drama queen, because I relate tragedies to a simple ugly truth. I did this now, and it made me feel indignant.

Another little thing I know all to well about myself but am too proud to change, is that I've always assumed everyone felt this way, because I've always assumed everyone was like me in almost all ways. I like to think that humans have a similar mindset, just like they have a similar anatomy. It makes the world seem less complicated. It isn't a very appealing idea because it seems to defy the famous thought that everyone is unique. I could be wrong, but it was a theory, and I was no exception.

That's enough of an introduction, I think. Perhaps even too much of an introduction? Whatever, I'd like you to know me before you know my story, even if I'm not the main character. This will be a long read. I'm sorry.

Bach to the point? he was overreacting to a minor situation. At least that is what I thought. We all exaggerate sometimes. 'Nothing a small talk can't cure. I was up for the job, and I felt like some sort of hero or life-saver, but when it actually came to it, I couldn't find myself to bring it up.

It must have been the coward in me that told me I had to accept the fact that it was his life, and he could do whatever he wanted with it, even if it meant throwing it away. But for the short while that his sleeve shifted, I wanted to cut him myself. Because that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

Why couldn't he keep his goddamn hands in his goddamn pocket like he always did, and not offer to get me any coffee? He’d always wear shirts that seriously needed ironing; he’d always leave the topmost button open. His collar would always be folded the wrong way, and he’d stubbornly refuse to wear a tie (what’s the point of depicting superiority by tying a noose around your neck? He’d say). But never would he forget to button his cuffs. Why couldn’t he be that careful today? How long had he been trying?

Anger dominated the wave of emotions in my head, and I know, because it’s still there. Steven, or rather, Steve here, was a friend and colleague of mine. I suppose I should have begun with that, but like I stated before, the anger is still there. I knew him to be a fine, young man; Dark hair, dark eyes, tall (‘’pretty damned tall’’) and slightly tanned. He had a great sense of humor, and a pleasant personality. I, on the other hand, was quite different. I was, I am, a person who likes tasks executed in an orderly fashion. I am almost obsessive-compulsive about it. It makes me, me.

A few paragraphs ago (not the bit where I was grumbling), I said that I liked thinking that everyone was alike. It was different with Steve. He was nothing like anybody.

After completing my SATs with a very good score, I had got two degrees in fine arts and a PHD in astrophysics. Mass of controversy, yes. But Steve had half of my qualifications, and he was superior in rank in the university where we did research. Why? His ideas were fantastic, and his observation even more so. I was his acquaintance for only a few days before we became good friends, despite my introversion. He wasn't the first friend I had, hoecer, that was Emily (brilliant professor in astrophysics). But he was the first one to know how much I like coffee. And he'd offer me a cup everyday.

I feel my description isn’t doing him justice, because he shall be the main character of the story, and his mental image is the only thing left of him with me now. But I’ll get to that. I’ll skip the unnecessary details right to the bit when the camera pans to where the action is.

I’ll cut to the chase.

"Your hand." I finally spoke, after being quiet for most of the day. It was lunchtime, and he had asked me simply and clearly what had been bothering me. I decided to mirror his attitude.

"Ah."

"Why?"

"Well, legs don't cut easily."

"Seriously, Steven, why do you do it?"

I was annoyed at this point, particularly at his careless satire. It had taken me enough courage to ask; now I needed an answer.

"You could be simply overreacting," I said quietly. "There's always another option. You can talk to someone. Me, for example."

"Well, it's not-"

"Don't tell me it's not easy, because it sure as hell isn't and I know. But your mind is making it harder. Analyze the situation and what you have to lose."

But I had begun the conversation late enough, and now it was time to go back to work. I did not wish to do so. I glared at him for the longest time I could manage. This was rather uncharacteristic of me. What made it harder was that his eyes refused to move, too. You must know that strange feeling you have in the pit of your stomach when you make eye contact with a complete stranger for a tad too long? It's like two strange psychic powers colliding. I'm a person of science, yes, but I do believe that the human mind has many yet unsolved mysteries, and cannot be underestimated. Maybe not psychic or telepathic;that's a strong word that makes me seem like a heretic, but a mental connection of a sort. The psychic collision here was too strong for me to handle. Eventually, he spoke.

"I have nothing to lose, Chloe. And maybe I can show you why soon enough."

This is frustrating. It was frustrating then, too, but right now, it's a whole different reason. It's because I remember. Writing is an ordeal when you're restless. I'm nowhere in this story, -you are nowhere in this story. And there's so much more to write.

So, in a nutshell, I went to work, found out my much esteemed friend was suicidal, didn’t like it, came back home.

Almost.

It was about 7:00 in the evening. It was June at the time, so it wasn’t dark just yet. If I were to describe the color of the sky, I’d say it was blue gone wrong. The kind of off-blue you get before a wash dries across the canvas; too much water in the color, a muddy color on the sky. It makes the whole painting look dreary. No brightness in the neighborhood to give the color of the sky a purpose, but already, dull yellow incandescent bulbs were lighting up windows like the neighborhood were a beehive. I was standing outside Steve’s door after an hour of driving. It wasn’t too late to turn back, and that was the only logical option right then, but something kept me there in the bleak atmosphere. I needed to vent this out.

Maybe I can show you why soon enough

I’d been there only once before; it was autumn then, and he had called me over for a reason I can’t quite remember. The place didn’t seem to have changed at all since then, except perhaps that the trees had been beautiful shades of orange and yellow, and they would crunch under my feet as I walked, making everything seem more welcoming than it actually was. It might have, however, been the state of mind I was in, but even with the sun still up and shining, I disliked his neighborhood.

Steve lived in a small flat in a society called ‘’something’’ garden. It was rather big, with a park and a few small fountains that never worked. They must have, some years in the past, but not anymore. It was an old place. In the garden, the paint on the slides and swings was chipping off, and apparently nobody had bothered to pay any attention to it or repaint it. The buildings were quite evidently subject to acid rain, and they were left unfurnished, just like the park. I was walking by the park, which, like the society, was quite large and useless. Half of it had a concrete floor and pipelines that dug into it. I could see a child, all alone, playing on one of the pipes; trying to keep balanced as he walked on it. There were many trees that surrounded the park, though, and I couldn’t quite see the kid very well. The other half of the park had more trees. Well, perhaps not the whole half. There was a muddy place with swings and slides and a few patches of grass here and there, and then a piece of land where tiles had been scattered clumsily. There was more grass there, and, as I said before, trees growing wildly. An open drainage system ran around the park and under the stairs that led to it, but it was mostly dry, and so it didn’t really stink. There was a slope, though, and as I walked down, I noticed the milky water accumulated there. Some leaves had fallen in, stirred by the mechanical wind. It was rather humid and uncomfortable, unlike the rest of the city. For a while I wondered why. There was not a bird in sight.

“Oh hello, Chloe!”

This made me jump, and snap out of my thoughts. I was at Steve’s door already, and he had opened it just a little to see who it was. He did that; he was a bit of a paranoid person at times. Not excessively, but considerably so. It was fully open now, as he had recognized me. There was no turning back.

“Hi! I, uh…” I stammered, looking for an excuse to be there.

“Come in.”

Thank you, Steve. That helped avoid a lot of unnecessary talk.

His living room was rather pretty. The walls were in a dichromatic scheme of blue and green, and the lighting was delicately low, even though there weren’t too many windows. Everything was rather well planned, considering the heat in the summer in the area. It reminded me of my own home back in California, where I used to live with mum. It didnt last very long as we kept moving, but it was the one place I remember very well. It was rather lonely, and I didn't have many friends, and mum didn't let me have a dog.

Dad? At the moment I don't think I thought I had a father. Things have changed. I cannot explain it just yet.

Steve didn't have a pet, either, but I think he had a bird when he was young. I was simply guessing, though, because I've noticed that he knows how to take care of pet birds. It could simply have been a random hobby.

Steven was hospitality at its best, and I was glad, because he didn’t focus our conversations on me, but something else entirely, which reduced the pressure of my having to explain why I was there so suddenly, after such a long time. I didn’t really want to explain; I was feeling stupid enough. I had that suffocating feeling in my stomach, but then it faded. We spoke for hours, and it was a good conversation, because I almost forgot all about the scars and the dead bird.

‘’The Dead Bird?’’ I woke up on the couch the next day. I felt rather embarrassed, but I remembered nothing. It was like a hangover without the painful side effects. I checked the clock. 5:38. Well, I was a bit of a light sleeper when I was not on my own bed. I wanted to leave ASAP, but first I had to apologize. I wasn’t sure what for, but I had to.

I decided to take his leave after he woke up. It was only proper. But I couldn’t sleep at all, so I had to find a way to kill time. I wondered if it would be okay if I took a shower. Then I wondered some more, and chastised myself for being a terrible person. Ugh.

Apparently I didn’t need to kill time. Time took care of that. Soon enough, as I was heading to the bathroom, I heard a soft groan from inside. It was very faint -faint enough to be simply my imagination. I was debating over the possibilities with my own mind when I heard it again. It was definitely Steve in the bathroom. What the ‘’hell’’ was he doing?

“Steve?”

Another groan; louder this time. It sounded like he was calling for me. It sounded like my name.

The door was open. ‘Would it be an intrusion to his privacy if I opened the door?’ I thought, ‘’obviously’’. But I was going to do it anyway.

I stepped in.

He was sprawled on the ground, writhing in pain. For a while I just stood and stared, paralyzed by the sight. There was a little blood smeared on his clothes, and spilled on the ground. No attempt had been made to wipe the bleeding cuts on his wrists and ankles. The incisions were deep; deep enough to kill him.

But he lay there, barely moving, muttering to himself time and again, reminding me he wasn’t dead. I think he knew I was there, because he might have said 'Chloe' once or perhaps twice. His expression was distant, and that’s the only word I can use to describe it, other than ecstatic. It was like he was on drugs, but I saw nothing but blades. This was his daily dose of pain. Here was a man so detached from reality, he simply didn't care who knew.

It was difficult to think straight; everything was hazy. I didn't do the obvious. I never screamed. I didn’t call the police, or the ambulance; in fact I doubted he even needed an ambulance. I had only enough sense left in to not ponder, but turn and get the hell out of there. 