A long time ago, in this very section of Facepunch, I posted that I was going to start a writing and share some if it. Those plans immediately toppled over and I never made a single revision or post, because I didn't really care for what I had posted and never followed through. I just wanted to make the attempt, to feel like I had done something. It was a shallow effort only made to satisfy myself.
I vowed that I'd return in a grandiose fashion with something worth posting, and I think like for once I have something I can really pursue. Something real. I don't have much started yet, but I want to write this. I feel like it could benefit me as a person. But more so then anything else, I need to see if I can actually do it, write something real.
That said, I'm lacking confidence that anything I write is worthwhile. I may be too weak to even read about legitimate criticisms, though logically that's exactly what I need if I ever hope to improve my skill.
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Chapter 1: Alone
Thomas sits on his bed with the lights off and the television on. The volume is turned down way low and is barely audible. It's been a silent night since the screaming died down a few hours ago. It almost feels safe enough to go outside and grab something to eat and that The Drunk has probably passed out, hopefully in his room and not on the couch. Willing up the courage, he leaves his room.
The only source of light comes from the bathroom, which shines out into the hall and almost reaches to the boundary of the living room. It's as good as sign as any that no one else is awake and Thomas proceeds with caution, creeping through the hallway on the tips of his toes. Attempting to be stealthy, he leans his head around the corner into the living room to see if anyone is there. If anyone happened to be awake, Thomas would have been immediately noticed. Thankfully, the coast was clear and he continued to the kitchen.
The kitchen is dark. Instinctively, Thomas reaches for the fridge door and opens it. Light shines out and hurts his eyes, then he takes a quick inventory of his options. Some left over steak and mashed potatoes seems good, and he quickly transfers a large portion of food to a plate on the counter. It's a lot of food stacked on that plate, but Thomas hasn't eaten all day; and his stomach growls in anticipation. The seconds on the microwave glow green as Thomas keeps inputting a time and resetting it, debating on how long to reheat the food. That's when he hears a door open from somewhere in the house.
Panic sets in, and Thomas thinks about what to do. The only way back to the safety of his room is the way he came and where the other door just opened. Quickly, Thomas retreats to the back door and steps outside onto the porch, carefully closing the door behind him as to not make any noise. From outside, he notices the lights turn on in the kitchen, but he can't see who turned them on. Then, the microwave timer goes off.
Outside, the sound of crickets fill the night as Thomas hides with his back against the house. He hears movement inside the kitchen briefly, then a pause, and then foot steps approach the back door. SHIT! He's caught now, and the confrontation he hoped to avoid in the kitchen will be even worse when he's discovered hiding outside. It was a stupid plan; but he was desperate to avoid The Drunk. Thomas closed his eyes as the back door opened.
“Thomas? Is that you?” To his surprise, it's not the incoherent and slurred voice of his father but his brother that greets him.
“Goddamn it, Jack, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Why are you hiding outside?”
“Why do you think? I thought you were someone else.” Jack nods his head in understanding. Thomas realizes that Jack must be here for the exact same reason he was here. They both wanted to eat.
Thomas took his food out of the microwave and Jack went to place his food in the microwave. Thomas felt like he should say something. That this might be the only time he'd be able to speak to someone; but he could not think of anything that needed to be said. Just like they didn't need to mention who they were both afraid of; they were able to understand each other to some degree without speaking. As if he could sense the tension, Jack turned around and said, “Yeah, this sucks.” Thomas smirked.
“Yep. Well, good night.” Thomas silently left the kitchen and crossed through the living room again. He stopped by The Drunk's room. He closed his eyes and listened for clues to his father's state of being. The TV was on, but it was always on. He didn't hear any snoring, which upset him a little bit. He had no idea if he was still awake or sleeping and the uncertainty killed him. Defeated, Thomas continued to his room.
Alone, Thomas ate in the glow of the television screen. These moments late at night were the only thing he looked forward to everyday. It was a tentative peace at best; which could be broken at any time if The Drunk woke up, but you have to take what you get in life. He finished his meal and placed the plate on his computer desk, waiting until the morning to take his dishes out.
That's when it hit him like a ton of bricks. Sadness; Thomas had no desire to do anything. Anxiety and depression came roaring into his mind: What am I doing? Does anybody really care about me? Why won't anyone help me? Why am I even alive? What did I do to deserve this?
They were common thoughts to Thomas. Questions that he had no answers for. Motionless, he sat in bed, barely aware of what was going on around him. He felt like he wanted to kill himself tonight. He thought about how great it would be for everyone if he did. Maybe someone would finally notice the situation and come help. If it meant Jack would get help, he felt like he'd do it in a second. It was a good fantasy, one where his death served as the catalyst to repair his family, a fantasy where his life would actually serve a purpose.
10/10 would read again
Posted a little bit more. I only get the time to write a day or two every week.
I'm still writing a bit more tonight, if I get anything else done, I'll edit tonight. I'm having a difficult time formatting though to make it easily readable in the main post. Considering what little I've wrote so far, it's not a huge concern at the moment.
EDIT:
From now on, I'm going to be posting my writing here as well.
[url=http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Inspector_Jones/1240524/]Link[/url]
It's much easier to format and looks nicer then just posting everything in the original post. I'll be sure to link to work in progress chapters in the OP.
Left you a review on Writerscafe.
The sun was bright outside, but that didn't mean much to Thomas. Every day felt like the day before, so he couldn't quite find any reason to get up at all. He kept his eyes closed, hoping he'd fall back to sleep to no avail. As if to stamp out all hope of falling back asleep, the neighbor was out mowing his lawn.
“Who mows the lawn at ten o'clock in the morning?” he said facetiously. Falling off the mattress; Thomas walked over to his closet. Clothes were thrown inside in a heap, and it was impossible to tell what was dirty or what was clean. Digging through the piles, Thomas picked out an assortment of clothes that he liked. A dark blue shirt with a pocket which he was pretty sure was clean; he could not recall wearing it recently anyhow. Next came a pair of jeans and a belt. The belt clung to life by a few threads of brown leather which would surely give today due to the burden of its responsibility.
Thomas entered the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. The person he expected to see was always there, a fat loser. His dirty blonde hair was wild and untamed and his face was unshaven; his thin and inconsistent facial hair made him look like a sexual predator. He looked and noticed he had a new addition on his face, a small pimple near his right nostril. His reflection smiled back at him, and noted how discolored his teeth were. Yeah, there wasn't much going on up here that was going to win the ladies' attention.
His attention moved downwards to his chest. If his face was bad, then his body was beyond recovery. His fat man tits rested on rolls of repulsive fat; a lifetime achievement of neglect and poor choices. If it weren't bad enough, there were hideous stretch marks that covered his stomach. They were red and appeared like scars on his body; each one looked like someone had slashed at him with a knife. Each aspect alone would have been enough to discourage him, but everything combined amounted to an even worse package.
Stripping bare, Thomas stood in the shower; the warm droplets hitting his face were the only comfort he could take this morning. He watched as the water rolled down his face and fell to his fat stomach. From there it traveled over hills of flesh and finally departed from him; hitting the bottom of the tub. He watched as water continued to journey downwards from the top of his head and crossing over his chest and gut. The water gave definition to this body he hated so much, the way it almost had to roll over his skin; and it made him even more depressed.
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Some more work in progress stuff. Whole chapter in progress can be read on Writer's Cafe.
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