Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-31619867-20170330175308

Hello there, this is my first time trying to be activ in a wikia community and I'd appreciate it if my story could be reviewed. After the intial deletion I made a majour revision by changing the story from a first person to a third person perspective but I'd like to know which is compartively better and how can the better of the two be improved, thanks.

[First Person]

My mother stared down at me, utterly crossed. In one hand she held her fist was tighter then a corset and on the other she held my crumpled report card. She yelled at me, demanding to know why my term results have been rock bottom plummeting. If I tried explaining this to her it would fall into an argument, and I couldn’t have that. If I argued with her I would stare caring… and it would happen again. I couldn’t talk to her.

She kept on yelling and yelling while I tuned further out. My mind was in the sky, far from the painful reality. Out of the blue my head jerked to the left and I felt a stinging pain on my right cheek. I could feel tears forming in the back of my eyes but I forced the floodgates shut. I must not care. I must not feel.

She smacked me on my other cheek, the burning pain couldn’t compare to the trauma I caused myself after what happened to dad and the others. I declared to myself no more. I kept my head facing away from my mother and let my mind soar to the clouds once again. Nothing was alive in my world, only clouds, rocks and snow populated my solace. The faintest of memories bled through the barriers of my safe world and my sadness. I’ve almost forgotten my father’s face, and I’ve long forgotten his calming voice. My memories of them were fading like sunset’s light.

I heard my mother sobbing and for an instantaneously small moment I felt pity, despair and sadness. My mind returned to reality. I looked down, my mother was on the floor bawling her eyes out begging for me to say something. She cried about how I had changed, how the rift between us had grown into a gorge. For another small moment I felt my bottled up emotions. I struggled to keep the cork on my feelings but remembering what I had done to them sealed the bottle up once more. I unwittingly let out a soft sorry sigh. My mother immediately held onto me, hoping for another sound but I clammed up. I had to stop. This was too much, too close. My mind broke the barriers between my safe world and my memories.

The first memory to arrive was of my father on Christmas eve, he was tall, brooding and had a Victorian styled mustache. I’m pretty sure my mother didn’t mind his mustache, in fact I’m pretty sure she had loved it when it existed that day. That Christmas eve was lucid. I hoped so earnestly for the computer game that I had been wishing for all year long. I did all the chores around the house, brought my grades up and even volunteered at a soup kitchen. Now that I look back on it, I overcompensated just for one measly game.

Christmas day arrived and although I was fourteen I ran down to the tree and ripped my presents apart like a bouncing child but I didn’t find the game. Nothing in the gifts were on my wishlist. I got angry. I was furious. Nothing I had wanted appeared. My dad walked up to me and I asked him why didn’t he get me anything that I had wanted. I had worked so hard the whole year for just one game but it wasn’t there. He didn’t have an explanation and kept vague with his answers. I exploded. He exploded back with more force. He grounded me, on Christmas Day. My anger grew in my room. I wished that he would go away. I thought of all the nasty things I wish I could’ve done to him. I felt so angry, so so angry.

The next morning a copy of the game I had wanted lay on my desk. There was no note, no explanation so I picked it up and looked around the house for my dad but I couldn’t find him. I couldn’t even find the family pictures of him. I went to my parents’ bedroom and found a single bed with my mother sleeping all alone. I woke her up and asked about the game and she replied that I had the game since it was launched and that she remembered buying it for me on that date. I was shocked but I was skeptical. It must’ve been a joke. When I had turned my computer on for the first time that day I found the game installed and ready to play. My character had already finished the game. I was perplexed but still skeptical. I waited the entire week but there was still no signs of my dad and my mother couldn’t explain anything about me having a father. She couldn’t even explain or remember how I was born.

The memory faded from view and my next memory played.

Jordan was a bully at my school. He picked on everyone because he was not only big, not only burly but he was black too. I always told myself I wasn’t racist but whatever we did that wronged Jordan he would squawk out racism like the world was his twitter. He was the terror at the small town school. The teachers, trying to stay politically correct and save their jobs stayed neutral or sided with Jordan and none of us white kids had a say in it. Even the Asian in the class, Aditya had no say in it. Jordan also claimed that he was gay and threatened to screw many people in the bottom if we tried to stop him even though everyone knew he was the most womanizing and woman-thirsty person in the school, maybe even the neighborhood… and I hated him. He picked on me again on the first day of school and the same burning anger raged through me.

The next day, he was gone. No one in the school knew about him; Aditya, Carl, Johnathan, Kyle, even the teachers didn’t know about him or who he was. Jonathan even said that he would be a great character for a novel. I was scared. My skepticism had long died. I returned home that day and ran back to my room to check for his Facebook when I noticed a brand new and expensive looking laptop on my desk. Once again I asked my mother and she said that I owned it since it was released. I started it up and all the games, including the game i had received the day before were installed onto it. I logged onto Facebook and couldn’t find any trace of Jordan.

The following day during lunch I snuck into the teacher’s room and looked through the records and Jordan wasn’t there. It was as though he was erased from existence and only I could remember him. Then a teacher caught me and lectured me. I tried to explain but he wouldn’t believe me. I got angry again and the next day the teacher was gone. I tried to explain to anyone who was willing to listen but no one would believe me. I lost my tempter again seven times to the people I cared so much about, my grandmother, my older brother, my cousin… my girlfriend… even a stranger who shoved me because he was rushing. All of them disappeared without a trace and only I remembered them.

In exchange I learnt about why they disappeared. The first was an intense emotion, positive or negative I couldn’t feel it. The second was hope, if I had hoped about anything involving them. Finally, my desire to do something to them. If I felt all three to a person they would be the next to dissipate from existence.

My world shook and immediately I returned to reality. My mother was shaking me intensely, still bawling. I couldn’t bear to look into her eyes. I had to keep looking but I needed to pull away. I felt so sorry for her. That I am her son. That I caused all of this to happen. If only I didn’t exist. I hated myself for existing. I wish I could die but I can’t pull the courage to kill myself and I can’t make myself disappear from existence. I already tried.

“I’m…s-sorry…” I uttered.

A large sad smile grew on my mother’s face and she embraced me tightly. She stroked my hair, begging me to stay with her mentally and talk again. To heal the gorge between us A wave of despair came over me. I wish I could just do that… just to talk to her. If only I could able to talk to her again and make it all come back to normal.

Suddenly my hair was dry. All of her warmth disappeared. The room was silent.

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Please…no…

[Third Person]

The neighbors reluctantly shut their windows whilst the crows flew overhead, scattered and frightened. It was happening again.

The Watson house shivered with each screaming word. Ms. Watson yelled and yelled but received no reply from her only son Paul Joseph Watson. He stood there, not uncaring but blank. He just wasn’t there mentally. Ms. Watson smacked her son across his face so hard the windows shuddered from the sheer volume. However he simply stood there, absorbing the supposed pain like a sponge. Ms. Watson prepared a second hit but Paul didn’t brace for impact.

His cheeks were red raw and dry. Not even a single tear drop formed. Mr. Watson pointed up the stairs and sentenced him to a month long ground in his room. Paul complied and walked up to his room.

The night came and Ms. Watson confined herself to her room with only a cup of warm tea to keep herself company. ‘Where did it all go so wrong?’ She thought aloud to herself, ‘He has everything he could ever want, not to mention the good life he’s had…and a good head between his shoulders… but yet why did he perform so poorly for his GCSE finals? And why… why did he shut himself away like that…?’

A river of tears flowed down her dry cheeks. Memories of how close they were flooded in. The memories of them cooking together, shopping together and watching the tell while eating dinner together. Ms. Watson let out a sob, her wish for the days of being together with her son ever strong. All she could wish now was to be with her son once again, to share laughs with her son once again, and to hold him affectionately once again. She laid herself down on her bed and wishfully drifted off to her happy dreams. Paul on the other hand was wide awake. He sat still on his bed with an expressionless face, staring at the plain wall. For a small moment he felt a slight wish to rush downstairs and apologize to his mother but that desire was quickly snuffed out. Paul’s mantra repeated loudly in his head, ‘Do not feel. Do not hope. Do no dream.’

Paul clutched his chest. Trying so desperately hard to stop caring about his mother. Paul exhaled his first sigh in months. He closed his eyes and tried to forget it all.

Paul opened his eyes once again and found himself in a dark cinema. The brain textured curtains over the screen pulled away as the projector warmed up. The cinema was the only safe place where he could hope and he could dream with his old memories projected onto the screen made from the back of his eye. This was the curse of the Nihilo. Paul sat there, in the middle of the lonely theatre and watched the memories that never were.

The camera descended down on last year’s snowy Christmas Eve and entered the house. Mr. Watson was, for once home for the holidays instead of piloting the Christmas shift at London Airport. Mr. Mrs. and Paul Watson all sat around the telly, eating their dinners while watching another episode of Doctor Who.

The camera shifted away from the three Watsons and oriented itself to the Christmas tree. A small mound of presents littered the base of the tree. One present in particular had the exact dimensions of a game casing. The fifteen year old Paul Watson was excited. The theatre filled itself with the thoughts of the fifteen year old Paul Watson, of how much he wanted to rip the wrapping apart and finally be able to play the game he so desperately wanted for the year. The camera flickered into a flashback of fifteen year old Paul faithfully performing all the chores, bringing his grades up and occasions where he had volunteered at a soup kitchen in order to impress Mr. Watson enough for a single forty pound game.

The screen went to dark and this time took the perspective of the fifteen year old Paul Watson waking up on Christmas Day. He jumped up and out of bed and ran down the stairs. Immediately targeting the wrapped game casing and ripped the wrapping apart. Fifteen year old Paul’s hands were trembling. Words of self-congratulations and ‘Finally!’ now flooded the theatre. He ran up the stairs and back to his room where he booted his computer up and cracked the case open. A depressing disappointment atmosphere filled the theatre. It was the game but it was the normal edition. Paul had asked Mr. Watson for the special edition.

Fifteen year old Paul was ticked right off his rocker. He marched straight to Mr. Watson and chided him for the minor error. Mr. Watson was apologetic and offered to go back to the shops the day after Christmas to get the right game even if a swap wasn’t possible but fifteen year old Paul was utterly livid and wouldn’t listen to reason.

Paul closed his eyes and listened to the theatre. There was a faint whispering in the background of his fifteen year old self’s angry thoughts and curses. The Nihilo had blown his anger out of proportion that day. The whispers were all in Latin but Paul could roughly translate it as saying, ‘Anger, anger, grow in anger. Grow so that we may feast in hell.’

Paul opened his eyes and continued to watch the ongoing film of his life. Mr. Watson had enough of his son’s five year old like temper tantrum and snatched the disk before dramatically snapping the disk in two before his son and ordered him into his room for the entirety of the holidays. The loudest angry thoughts flooded the theatre. Wishes and hopes to destroy his own father. Desires and despair about the game. Bitterness over the lost effort. All emphasized by the constant whispering chant of The Nihilo.

That night, fifteen year old Pau’s anger brewed. He wished he could punch his father and that his jaw would be broken for the next month.

Morning arrived and The Nihilo’s whispers were now silent. Paul arose from bed now fueled with guilt, sadness and confusion about the events of the day before. He felt utterly terrible for snapping at his father and felt especially guilty for all the terrible things he wanted to do to him. The thought ‘Maybe it’s a disorder or something…’ rang through the theatre. Paul could hear The Nihilo laughing and mocking him, this time in Ancient Greek.

Fifteen year old Paul went around the house, looking for Mr. Watson but couldn’t find a single trace of him. Not even a photo or his pilot uniform. Perplexed, he entered his parent’s bedroom and found only his mother sleeping in a single bed. Every single trace of Mr. Watson was gone. Completely gone. Fifteen year old Paul wasn’t worried however. He knew his father was a prankster and thought that this was all just an elaborate prank. The Nihilo’s whispered laughter echoed through the theatre once again. This time taunting Paul in Ancient Mesopotamian. Fifteen year old Paul woke his mother and asked about where Mr. Watson had went and she was as perplexed as he was. She replied, “What do you mean, Paul? You have no father!”

Paul shut the memory film. It was too painful remembering his mother forget his father, her husband. Paul remembered the weeks of desperation as he tried to find any trace of existence of his father but found nothing. The memory film followed his memories and cut between Paul ransacking his father’s favorite desk, checking with all of his father’s favorite restaurants, checking at his father’s workplace and more. The film cut to a third person perspective from the corner of his room. Fifteen year old Paul was crying on his bed. Wishing for his father back. That the stupid game didn’t matter. The Nihilo in the theatre said something in Ancient Urdu and fifteen year old Paul lifted his face from his palms. A pristine copy of the limited special edition of the game he had wanted had appeared on the table. The Nihilo whispered in the theatre, once again in Latin, ‘Your reward.’

The memory film cut and the screen went blank for a minute before the projector flickered and showed Paul’s school. Once again the camera descended down and traveled into Paul’s classroom. It was History class and everyone was paying attention save for three people. Jordan, Tyrone and Michel. They sat in the back and talked to each other. Paul shuddered as he watched on. They were the typical school bullies but no one could go against. Both because of their abnormally large sizes at 6ft 4in, 6ft 5in and 6ft 2in respectively and their mastery in using Political Correctness to their advantage. If anyone ever tried to defend themselves they would play the victim by claiming racism against African-Brits. Even the single Asian in the class, Aditya who was stereotypically short wasn’t immune to this. The camera cut to a scene where the 5ft 2in tall Aditya was cornered by the three giants. They threatened to rape him.

The camera’s angel immediately turned and Paul stood alone with his pocket knife. Paul yelled at them to leave Aditya alone but they laughed. Taunting Paul to fight them.

The camera then cut to the infirmary where Paul, Jordan, Tyrone and Michel lay. The principle was sourly disappointed and had enough. He threatened all of them with expulsion but lowered it to a suspension when Aditya came forward and when Jordan sweet-talked his way out of it with the power of political correctness.

The Nihilo whispered once again and Paul grew angry and frustrated with the three. Thoughts of Paul wishing that they would be sent to a correctional school and that they would never be able to be happy in their lives filled the theatre.

The screen turned to black and soon opened like an eye. The camera rose out from Paul’s bed and looked around the room. A brand new gaming level computer had appeared on Paul’s desk, along with a drone and an envelop full of dosh. Confused thoughts rang through the theatre once again, and The Nihilo whispered words of thanks in Latin once again.

The camera flickered and skipped to Paul in school but without Jordan, Tyrone or Michel. They were gone. Not a single record or memory about them existed outside of his mind.

Paul awoke, he had fallen asleep and spent the entire night in the theatre. He shuffled his sheets and tried to sleep again. He wanted to stay in the theatre until he could learn to stop loving his mother or die from starvation but his mother had other plans. She entered the room with a plate full of pigs-in-blankets, mash and chips along with a cup of tea. Paul couldn’t resist his favorite breakfast. Ms. Watson sat next to her son as he ate his meal in silence. She rubbed his cheeks gently and apologized how rough she was the day before but Paul stayed silent. Paul remained silent until finally, Ms. Watson broke down crying once again. She begged him to at least say something, to react, to talk but Paul refused. Loving his mother was already dangerous enough.

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Ms. Watson teared up even more. She held her son tightly, resting her head on his. She kept on begging. Asking what was wrong. Paul let out another soft sigh. He wished he could tell her what was wrong, what The Nihilo was and why he should be locked far away or killed in an accident. The Nihilo would prevent any attempts at suicide. He held her hand tightly. Hoping one day The Nihilo would go away and life would return to normal. Paul’s hair turned dry and his hand clutched emptiness. His eyes widened in horror. He loved her. He had wished to tell her about The Nihilo. He had hoped that life would return to normal… for her… Paul gripped his head and hair tightly, The Nihilo’s whispers had grown into a demented laughter as it taunted him further in Latin.

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