What Have I Become?, chapter 1
I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything
He closed his eyes, taking in Johnny Cash's deep voice. The guitar and piano flowed together perfectly. Johnny's voice went perfectly with the instruments. In fact, this song was the only thing that made him feel perfect. It was the only thing that understood him.
His eyes snapped open at the sound of yelling. It clashed with Johnny Cash's sweet voice of purity, of perfect-ness. The yelling made this song imperfect. He hated that. He thrived to be perfect, but he wasn't, and he hated it. His whole life was a lie. Every single picture of his smiling family was a lie. He hated lying. It wasn't perfect. He sat straight up, stretching. He walked down the stairs, perfectly silent. He listened to his parents bicker, which was imperfect.
"I waited there for three hours, three fucking hours!" His mother screamed.
"Who cares?" His inconsiderate father bellowed back.
His dad had forgotten about their date, the fifth weekend in a row. He didn't come back until three, and he was totally smashed when he had gotten back. The date had been a petty thing to try and repair the relationship. Which obviously was not perfect.
He went through the front door, pulling up his hood as he went. He rubbed his exhausted eyes, groaning. He hated his father. His inconsiderate, imperfect, asshole of a father. As he rubbed his eyes, he heard car doors slam. He heard foreign accents, yelling. They sounded as if from Europe. He lifted his head towards the voices. Three people were getting out of a car, and behind the car, a U HAUL truck. New neighbours. New foreign neighbours. More people to explain his OCD to. You see, he couldn't stand anything dirty. It was imperfect. His neighbours had to be informed so they knew not to get anything imperfect on him. He hated his OCD.
He noticed one of the three people. It was a girl, about his age. (Which was fourteen, by the way.) She had natural red hair, which could be described as "emo." He could see her bright green eyes from where he was standing. She was wearing a black Jimmy Eat World tour shirt, with jean capris with cuffs at the bottom. She had various bracelets and wristbands on, and was very skinny. She looked about 5'2", 5'3" at most. She wore lots of black eyeliner. Without thinking, he started to walk towards her.
He stood next to her, she smiled. Her smile was perfect.
"Hello." she said, as he realized she had a very Swedish accent.
"Hi. Just moving in?" he asked
"Yeah, from Minnesota."
"Oh, I was going to say Sweden." He said, bewildered.
"Originally I'm from Sweden. We moved to Minnesota when I was nine because we needed to be closer to some of our relatives who moved to Minnesota before I was born. Then we moved here for my dad's job," she said, as he noticed she slightly pronounced 'Sweden' as 'Sveeden', a very Swedish thing to do.
"Oh, I see."
"I'm Dorothy, Dorothy Johnson," she said, shaking his hand.
"Joey, Joey Armstrong."
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything
He closed his eyes, taking in Johnny Cash's deep voice. The guitar and piano flowed together perfectly. Johnny's voice went perfectly with the instruments. In fact, this song was the only thing that made him feel perfect. It was the only thing that understood him.
His eyes snapped open at the sound of yelling. It clashed with Johnny Cash's sweet voice of purity, of perfect-ness. The yelling made this song imperfect. He hated that. He thrived to be perfect, but he wasn't, and he hated it. His whole life was a lie. Every single picture of his smiling family was a lie. He hated lying. It wasn't perfect. He sat straight up, stretching. He walked down the stairs, perfectly silent. He listened to his parents bicker, which was imperfect.
"I waited there for three hours, three fucking hours!" His mother screamed.
"Who cares?" His inconsiderate father bellowed back.
His dad had forgotten about their date, the fifth weekend in a row. He didn't come back until three, and he was totally smashed when he had gotten back. The date had been a petty thing to try and repair the relationship. Which obviously was not perfect.
He went through the front door, pulling up his hood as he went. He rubbed his exhausted eyes, groaning. He hated his father. His inconsiderate, imperfect, asshole of a father. As he rubbed his eyes, he heard car doors slam. He heard foreign accents, yelling. They sounded as if from Europe. He lifted his head towards the voices. Three people were getting out of a car, and behind the car, a U HAUL truck. New neighbours. New foreign neighbours. More people to explain his OCD to. You see, he couldn't stand anything dirty. It was imperfect. His neighbours had to be informed so they knew not to get anything imperfect on him. He hated his OCD.
He noticed one of the three people. It was a girl, about his age. (Which was fourteen, by the way.) She had natural red hair, which could be described as "emo." He could see her bright green eyes from where he was standing. She was wearing a black Jimmy Eat World tour shirt, with jean capris with cuffs at the bottom. She had various bracelets and wristbands on, and was very skinny. She looked about 5'2", 5'3" at most. She wore lots of black eyeliner. Without thinking, he started to walk towards her.
He stood next to her, she smiled. Her smile was perfect.
"Hello." she said, as he realized she had a very Swedish accent.
"Hi. Just moving in?" he asked
"Yeah, from Minnesota."
"Oh, I was going to say Sweden." He said, bewildered.
"Originally I'm from Sweden. We moved to Minnesota when I was nine because we needed to be closer to some of our relatives who moved to Minnesota before I was born. Then we moved here for my dad's job," she said, as he noticed she slightly pronounced 'Sweden' as 'Sveeden', a very Swedish thing to do.
"Oh, I see."
"I'm Dorothy, Dorothy Johnson," she said, shaking his hand.
"Joey, Joey Armstrong."
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