Whatsername's Past (Sequal Of The Truth Behind The Death Of Saint Jimmy), chapter 1
Whatsername's p.o.v
Growing up for the normal child is hard, but for me it's impossible. I'm 13 and stuck in a shit care home. It's not a home, it's just a house. I've been fostered many times, but always brought back to this dump. All the beautiful, nice and kind kids are fostered straight away. Even the total bitches got fostered. But no one wants plain old Anna Thompson. With her plain face, black hair, bleak eyes and boring name.
It's not Anna Thompson.
My name, Whatsername.
Its better, it's what everyone calls me. It's not a nickname, they just forget my name, and in their memories I'm known as Whatsername.
I don't have any friends, I just stay all my time in my room with the door firmly shut, gothic music blaring, the curtains closed shut, making the black walls seem even more dark.
It's the way I like it.
Sometimes in my room I write poetry. Or songs. Sometimes I play my battered acoustic guitar. But mostly I cry or take my anger out on the walls, furniture or myself. I cursed myself for being born into this life. What good am I doing? I'm just dying here slowly everyday, putting this world to waste. Everyone will be better off if I was dead.
"Oh Anna, what's the matter this time?" my care worker Joanne said to me when she saw the scratches on my wrists, "I thought we'd talked about your self-harm problem?"
"The only problem is you getting at me all the time. It's my body, I can do what I want to it. If I want to cut myself open then I can. You can't stop me."
"I know I can't stop you, but I can help, if you just talk to me..."
"Maybe that's the cause, all the talk, 'oh poor Anna, no one has asked her to be fostered, she's all alone, has no friends, at school she's failing, how can we help her?' I've heard it all, and I don't want your help."
"Perhaps if you tried harder at school to fit in, or joined a youth club, people will know you and remember you. We should try that."
"So people can laugh at me for being myself, and I don't want friends, all the people at school are utter whores who sleep around, all the guys are jerks, and I need some one who will understand me."
"If you talk to them then maybe they will understand you, you'll never know unless you actually go into school."
"I'm not going to waste my time going there. It's fucked and boring. I don't learn anything. It's useless."
"Oh yeah, what about English, Anna, you're good at that. If you just did your homework and school work you could become something."
"Yeah, another loser stuck in a dead end job thinking what could have been. I'm sick of this conversation, I'm going back to my room!" I shouted and then stormed upstairs.
"You can't run from your fears and troubles, because they are just going to catch up with you," she called up the stairs to me.
She was right. The mistakes I've made are going to follow me... unless I change.
For hours I sat sobbing that night. Each tear ran at the same speed as the blood.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I saw a girl with gothic features, unable to hold it all inside. In a battle against the world. Losing. No one cares for her; they are only just in it for the money. I didn't like what I was seeing... it was too true, too realistic, too harsh.
I'm not like that. No one understands me...
... SMASH!
I slammed my chair into the mirror, breaking up the image, destroying the truth it holds... but now I seemed worse in the little splinters of glass. I looked crazy, bleeding wrists, taking out my rage on a mirror, which will always be portraying the truth no matter what.
I heard Joanne running up the stairs. I couldn't bear to face her, she'll go all freaky, trying to analyse me and my 'little problem.'
Yeah, if it's little why does it involve my whole life?
I quickly jumped out the window, landing with a thud on the grass, and then ran. I didn't stop running until I was three blocks away. The street I was posh, carefully trimmed hedges, carefully mown in straight lines lawns.
I'd never been on this street, I'd never felt worthy to go down the street, but now I'm not bothered. They can judge me all they want, I do care? No I don't.
Walking down the street, it got posher and posher, more perfect as I got further down. I kicked over a trash can in rage, making the street look unperfected for once.
"Hey punk, what do you think you're doing?" a male voice said to me, I turned around and saw a teenage guy standing there with black hair, deep eyes and was well built.
"Like you give a damn," I said coldly.
"Well that's mild you know, kicking over a trash can. If you want to make a scene you're doing it wrong," he told me.
"Who do you think you are? King of the fucking punks or something?" I asked him laughing harshly.
"No, I'm... hey, I know you... Annie or something..."
"Anna Thompson, But call me Whatsername."
"Okay Whatsername, I'm Jimmy."
"Saint Jimmy?" I asked him and he nodded.
"People call me that."
I'd heard of him before, he's dangerous.
He's really evil, there's no other way to describe it. Yeah, he looks hot but he's vindictive and sneaky. Evil. Truly evil. People say he's child of Satan, while others say he is Satan.
He's only 13, like me, but he's one of the most feared, wanted and most violent people in Oakland, I always wanted to meet him because he's had a troubled past like me, and now I actually have.
"Wow," I said, "I've never met anyone who has actually seen you. I've heard of you before though."
"Well I've heard of you too. And I've seen you."
"How?" I asked him.
"I'm in your class. You're the kid who's in care, aren't you?" he asked me and then started walking, "Come on."
"Where to? And you're in my class?" I asked him as I followed him.
"Yeah, I sit at the back, but mostly I'm isolated. And at school they don't know it's me," he said and smiled at me.
"You're kidding me, right? You're not Saint Jimmy, and you're not the Jesus of Suburbia," I told him and he laughed.
"I'm not the Jesus of Suburbia but I am Saint Jimmy. And I can prove it."
"How?" I asked him.
"We're going to the 7/11," he told me.
"The 7/11? Isn't that where all the punks and junkies hang out."
"Yeah, and you can meet The Jesus Of Suburbia."
Part two
Whatsername's p.o.v
"Hey JOS, this is Whatsername," Jimmy introduced us. "I think she can be some help to us."
I guessed that JOS stood for the Jesus Of Suburbia. The Jesus of Suburbia was lounging on a battered ripped old dirty red sofa, smoking a joint, and he had a bottle of vodka in his hand. He had dirty brown hair, bright blue eyes, and pale skin. He wasn't hot like Jimmy, but he had alarmingly entrancing eyes.
"Jimmy, how do you mean..." I started and then I was interrupted by the Jesus of Suburbia.
"Hello Whatsername," he said and held his hand out for me to shake, "I'm Jesus of Suburbia, but you can call me JOS."
I took hold of his hand. His grip was tight, strong and controlling. I could feel him squeezing my hand tight but I didn't flinch, I just squeezed his hand to, in despite of him.
"You're right Jimmy, she can be some help," JOS said and let go of my hand.
"So how did you adapt the name Whatsername, Whatsername?"
"I'm in care, and people who have fostered me never remember my name," I told him, "They were like to my carer, 'how's old Whatsername?' And that's how I got the name," I told him.
"So people don't remember you?" JOS asked me.
"Very little people do," I said, "Very many people don't."
"Do they remember what you look like?" JOS asked me.
"Vaguely, they know I have black hair and that's about it."
"See, I told you she'll be helpful," Jimmy said as he sat down on an old tattered sofa and lit a joint.
"How do you mean I'll be helpful?" I asked him and JOS laughed.
"Have you heard of The Underbelly?" JOS asked me.
"Yeah, that's you guys," I said. "But what that got to do with me? I'm just me, I'm useless, and..."
"...to some you may be useless, but you can actually be quite handy... you want revenge on people in this world, don't you?"
"Yeah, and what does that have to do with the underbelly?" I asked.
"You can become one of us," JOS said.
"You were saying to me about being forgotten, this would be brilliant, Whatsername, you'll have friends, somewhere to hang out away from that care home, and you can get revenge," Jimmy said.
"Okay, what do I have to do?" I asked.
Growing up for the normal child is hard, but for me it's impossible. I'm 13 and stuck in a shit care home. It's not a home, it's just a house. I've been fostered many times, but always brought back to this dump. All the beautiful, nice and kind kids are fostered straight away. Even the total bitches got fostered. But no one wants plain old Anna Thompson. With her plain face, black hair, bleak eyes and boring name.
It's not Anna Thompson.
My name, Whatsername.
Its better, it's what everyone calls me. It's not a nickname, they just forget my name, and in their memories I'm known as Whatsername.
I don't have any friends, I just stay all my time in my room with the door firmly shut, gothic music blaring, the curtains closed shut, making the black walls seem even more dark.
It's the way I like it.
Sometimes in my room I write poetry. Or songs. Sometimes I play my battered acoustic guitar. But mostly I cry or take my anger out on the walls, furniture or myself. I cursed myself for being born into this life. What good am I doing? I'm just dying here slowly everyday, putting this world to waste. Everyone will be better off if I was dead.
"Oh Anna, what's the matter this time?" my care worker Joanne said to me when she saw the scratches on my wrists, "I thought we'd talked about your self-harm problem?"
"The only problem is you getting at me all the time. It's my body, I can do what I want to it. If I want to cut myself open then I can. You can't stop me."
"I know I can't stop you, but I can help, if you just talk to me..."
"Maybe that's the cause, all the talk, 'oh poor Anna, no one has asked her to be fostered, she's all alone, has no friends, at school she's failing, how can we help her?' I've heard it all, and I don't want your help."
"Perhaps if you tried harder at school to fit in, or joined a youth club, people will know you and remember you. We should try that."
"So people can laugh at me for being myself, and I don't want friends, all the people at school are utter whores who sleep around, all the guys are jerks, and I need some one who will understand me."
"If you talk to them then maybe they will understand you, you'll never know unless you actually go into school."
"I'm not going to waste my time going there. It's fucked and boring. I don't learn anything. It's useless."
"Oh yeah, what about English, Anna, you're good at that. If you just did your homework and school work you could become something."
"Yeah, another loser stuck in a dead end job thinking what could have been. I'm sick of this conversation, I'm going back to my room!" I shouted and then stormed upstairs.
"You can't run from your fears and troubles, because they are just going to catch up with you," she called up the stairs to me.
She was right. The mistakes I've made are going to follow me... unless I change.
For hours I sat sobbing that night. Each tear ran at the same speed as the blood.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I saw a girl with gothic features, unable to hold it all inside. In a battle against the world. Losing. No one cares for her; they are only just in it for the money. I didn't like what I was seeing... it was too true, too realistic, too harsh.
I'm not like that. No one understands me...
... SMASH!
I slammed my chair into the mirror, breaking up the image, destroying the truth it holds... but now I seemed worse in the little splinters of glass. I looked crazy, bleeding wrists, taking out my rage on a mirror, which will always be portraying the truth no matter what.
I heard Joanne running up the stairs. I couldn't bear to face her, she'll go all freaky, trying to analyse me and my 'little problem.'
Yeah, if it's little why does it involve my whole life?
I quickly jumped out the window, landing with a thud on the grass, and then ran. I didn't stop running until I was three blocks away. The street I was posh, carefully trimmed hedges, carefully mown in straight lines lawns.
I'd never been on this street, I'd never felt worthy to go down the street, but now I'm not bothered. They can judge me all they want, I do care? No I don't.
Walking down the street, it got posher and posher, more perfect as I got further down. I kicked over a trash can in rage, making the street look unperfected for once.
"Hey punk, what do you think you're doing?" a male voice said to me, I turned around and saw a teenage guy standing there with black hair, deep eyes and was well built.
"Like you give a damn," I said coldly.
"Well that's mild you know, kicking over a trash can. If you want to make a scene you're doing it wrong," he told me.
"Who do you think you are? King of the fucking punks or something?" I asked him laughing harshly.
"No, I'm... hey, I know you... Annie or something..."
"Anna Thompson, But call me Whatsername."
"Okay Whatsername, I'm Jimmy."
"Saint Jimmy?" I asked him and he nodded.
"People call me that."
I'd heard of him before, he's dangerous.
He's really evil, there's no other way to describe it. Yeah, he looks hot but he's vindictive and sneaky. Evil. Truly evil. People say he's child of Satan, while others say he is Satan.
He's only 13, like me, but he's one of the most feared, wanted and most violent people in Oakland, I always wanted to meet him because he's had a troubled past like me, and now I actually have.
"Wow," I said, "I've never met anyone who has actually seen you. I've heard of you before though."
"Well I've heard of you too. And I've seen you."
"How?" I asked him.
"I'm in your class. You're the kid who's in care, aren't you?" he asked me and then started walking, "Come on."
"Where to? And you're in my class?" I asked him as I followed him.
"Yeah, I sit at the back, but mostly I'm isolated. And at school they don't know it's me," he said and smiled at me.
"You're kidding me, right? You're not Saint Jimmy, and you're not the Jesus of Suburbia," I told him and he laughed.
"I'm not the Jesus of Suburbia but I am Saint Jimmy. And I can prove it."
"How?" I asked him.
"We're going to the 7/11," he told me.
"The 7/11? Isn't that where all the punks and junkies hang out."
"Yeah, and you can meet The Jesus Of Suburbia."
Part two
Whatsername's p.o.v
"Hey JOS, this is Whatsername," Jimmy introduced us. "I think she can be some help to us."
I guessed that JOS stood for the Jesus Of Suburbia. The Jesus of Suburbia was lounging on a battered ripped old dirty red sofa, smoking a joint, and he had a bottle of vodka in his hand. He had dirty brown hair, bright blue eyes, and pale skin. He wasn't hot like Jimmy, but he had alarmingly entrancing eyes.
"Jimmy, how do you mean..." I started and then I was interrupted by the Jesus of Suburbia.
"Hello Whatsername," he said and held his hand out for me to shake, "I'm Jesus of Suburbia, but you can call me JOS."
I took hold of his hand. His grip was tight, strong and controlling. I could feel him squeezing my hand tight but I didn't flinch, I just squeezed his hand to, in despite of him.
"You're right Jimmy, she can be some help," JOS said and let go of my hand.
"So how did you adapt the name Whatsername, Whatsername?"
"I'm in care, and people who have fostered me never remember my name," I told him, "They were like to my carer, 'how's old Whatsername?' And that's how I got the name," I told him.
"So people don't remember you?" JOS asked me.
"Very little people do," I said, "Very many people don't."
"Do they remember what you look like?" JOS asked me.
"Vaguely, they know I have black hair and that's about it."
"See, I told you she'll be helpful," Jimmy said as he sat down on an old tattered sofa and lit a joint.
"How do you mean I'll be helpful?" I asked him and JOS laughed.
"Have you heard of The Underbelly?" JOS asked me.
"Yeah, that's you guys," I said. "But what that got to do with me? I'm just me, I'm useless, and..."
"...to some you may be useless, but you can actually be quite handy... you want revenge on people in this world, don't you?"
"Yeah, and what does that have to do with the underbelly?" I asked.
"You can become one of us," JOS said.
"You were saying to me about being forgotten, this would be brilliant, Whatsername, you'll have friends, somewhere to hang out away from that care home, and you can get revenge," Jimmy said.
"Okay, what do I have to do?" I asked.
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