Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28060931-20170103211339/@comment-28060931-20170115215213

Okay, I fixed all the errors I could find and edited it the way I was supposed to. The first draft was one the most embarissing things in my life, so I hope this draft is good enough, or better than good enough is what I really hope. Now onto somethings I'm unsure of:

1) Which title is better: "Accident Prone" or "Tough Luck".

2) Should I delete 90% of the dialogue and replace it with story.

3) If the character is still cliche and boring as fuck.

Those are my personal worries and if you do as much as correct one tiny spelling mistake I will be extremely grateful that you took the time and effort to help out with my story. Enough ado, here's the story:

Call me accident prone. Or unlucky. Whatever grinds your gears. Names don't change facts, and the facts are so: throughout my life an aura of unluckiness followed me wherever I went.

Let me illustrate: you're seven and walking home. They're doing construction on some house two streets from your own. You're not superstitious so you don't think twice when walking under a ladder on which some guy is, painting the walls, or window or whatever. As he lifts his brush a few splotches of paint drip from it. Just a bunch of minute drops; and they fall into your eyes, hit that mark like robin hood in an archery contest!

The paint stings your eyes, you panic and recoil right into the ladder. The painter falls off. He doesn't fall into the road and gets run over by a convenient school bus, actually, that guy smashed you to the ground.

At seventeen, the school hires a bunch of students to paint the roof. You got the job. When on the roof you reach behind to scratch your ass. You knock over a can of paint. You turn around and look down. You see the street splattered with some girl’s brains.

A few days ago, near midnight, I was in my bathroom. I picked up a bottle of Listerine, uncapped it, and took a swig. I moved slightly and I slid on a puddle. I fell to the ground, knocking back the whole bottle. It went down smoothly but I got drunk fell down the stairs.

I woke up in a hospital. When I got well enough to comprehend the situation, my doctor told me that my liver is barely functioning, and that next time if I want to get hammered I should grab a beer.

This was the fever pitch for me. I'd had enough. I stopped taking the meds they gave for my liver and paid an orderly with financial problems to get me some alcohol. She got me rum. I downed the bottle in one gulp. An explosive pain erupted in my belly and I convulsed, digging my nails into my stomach. I released a strangled scream.

Doctors rushed into the room. I remember something pushing into the back of my throat and I choked, vomit rushing up my throat. I passed out before the waterfall of rum and porridge shot out of my mouth.

I woke up with a tube in my mouth and a pain in my belly. It took me three months to recover. I got assigned a psychologist. I didn’t want one. But I decided to have a test session so the Pretty Huge Dicks would stop hounding me. I sat in a dull room that was a step away from a padded cell.

A pretty girl with blonde hair tied into ponytail walked in and sat opposite me. She had a commercial smile plastered on every cunt of a flight attendant you met.

“Hi, Alan, I'm Julie, nice to meet you,” She said.

“Can’t say that’s mutual,” I said.

"Okay, so let's talk about why you tried to kill yourself?”

“You have my goddamn file, you know why, " I said. "I'd rather not go into it myself, if you don't mind."

“I also know why you really tried to do it. Too much accidents in a lifetime, huh?" She said it with a wink, a wink that said "I know you know that I know, Al." I sat there, dumbfounded, until the psychologist said “I can help you, Al, you’re not alone.”

I agreed to visit her again. I went home but couldn’t sleep. Was she saying what I think or pure paranoia?

We met in her clinic, not the hospital. This office was bigger and had comfy couches and paintings on the walls. Julie came in and sat opposite me.

She smiled and asked me to recount the three most memorable accidents in my life as I have done for you, reader. After I finished, she said:

“We are predisposed to accidents, there are things far beyond our understanding. For example, a lot of people would relate if someone said that their bastard English teacher never checked homework except when they forgot to do it! That one day of the year when their dog was run over and their grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. Most people can relate to it, yet when the teacher checks the homework you're the only one who forgot to do it.”

"Scientists themselves are baffled and they’ve been doing research since the early forties.” Julie said.

“And they concluded that ghosts are fucking with us?”

“I just want you to know that you’re not alone. There is tons of people who are accident-prone. We even have group gathering every Sunday.”

I was silent.

“You’ll come back tomorrow, right? Or better yet, come with me to the meeting.” Julie said.

“No, no I won't. This is the last that we'll be seeing of each other.” I said as I stormed out of the room.

What the hell was I doing believing all this shit, how desperate was I to find some comfort or explanation. ‘’Hell, I’ll prove myself wrong’’, I thought, ‘’I’ll go to their circle jerk of freaks.”

The next day I was back at the clinic and my doctor was in her car, ushering me in. I got in, feeling my Wilson Combat 1911 in my pocket.

We did not talk much. We just drove until we reached open country with hills and trees and pastures looming in the distance.

We pulled into a weathered shack beside the road. The shack was older than Hitler’s missing testicle. A gravel road lead to the door. I could see bugs and insects crawling in and out of the wooden planks, the windows were pools of dark water.

“Come, we’re here.” Julie said.

I squeezed the gun in my pocket. A rusted weathercock screeched on the slanted roof and I choked from a sweet smell of decay. We went in through the door. An ass-naked beefcake stood on the other side with a poker face.

“Sorry, I did not mention this but you have to get naked before attending.”

“No," I said, squeezing the gun.

“Please, Al, you don’t want this to get nasty. You made it this far, so please, we just need to make sure you’re not carrying weapons and we need to feel fully comfortable with each other in order to be honest.”

“No thanks. Just take my word for i-“ that was a chair smashed over my head.

I awoke with a headache. Hazy images chased each other in front of my eyes. I smelled tar and… burned flesh? I jerked around but leathery restrains strapped me into a splintered chair. My vision cleared and I saw that I was sitting in a circle of naked people with masks.

“What the fuck is this shit!” I yelled.

“Relax, Al.” Julie said. She sat opposite me.

The masks reminded of Hawaiian masks you'd see in a Scooby-Doo cartoon, they were carved at acute angles which defied the shapes of human heads. They were styled as demonic faces; red and black with jagged teeth and pointed ears.

In the centre of the room, there was a fire pit. I craned my neck to see into it, when I did, I sank back down and heaved. Human bodies burned in there, charred black; releasing a stench of scorched flesh.

I went into a fear-driven frenzy; I knocked over my chair and flailed on the ground. Voices in the background told me to stay calm, that everything is going to be okay. I flipped myself up and a ghastly mask shot up before me. The man wearing it held a cleaver. I flailed as he swung the cleaver at me, he missed and cut me free. More people surrounded me, some were wielding knifes, some pitchforks. These fuckers slashed at me until my chest was a red waterfall. Eventually, they managed to cut off the restrains and I darted through the fuck out.

I found my way to the corridor I came in from and saw my clothes neatly laid out on an end table. I ran to my trousers and took out the gun.

A stampede of lunatics spilled out from behind me. I took three shots. One guy dropped dead and the rest tripped over him. I burst through the door and ran for Julie’s car. Before I got the door open, one whack-job tackled me to the ground. Luckily, he tripped over a rock and ‘’luckily’’ his face hit a peculiarly jagged which cracked his skull open and his brains spilled onto the ground.

I looked up to see a lunatic thrust his cleaver above his head. He swung at me with amazing dexterity. By a stroke of luck he missed, and chopped his dick off.

I got into the car and turned the key which was -- luckily --  in the keyhole. I drove the fuck away. I saw some cars behind me revving up, but the engines took a lot more motivation than Julie’s ’69 Chevy.

I drove away into the sunset. I guess I was too gullible and desperate for explanations. I think God’s luck will eventually even out what harm satan’s luck did. So remember, don’t trust your psychologist or you might end up abducted by a cult of sex-crazed, nudist nut-jobs