Keiran: Just Between You and Me (On Page 6) - Adult - Chap 1

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Keiran: Just Between You and Me (On Page 6) - Adult - Chap 1

Postby Keiran » Sun Nov 01, 2009 8:10 pm

Um, hi. Nothing to add really, except that this is only the first chapter of a longer piece. A very much longer piece. Oh and the things within the double dashes are supposed to be centred and a different font.


--Unsure of himself; fidgety--

The first four words of a brand new wire bound notebook. I have collected hundreds of such scribblers, like a child hoarding comic books of a beloved character; but these books are not idle fiction but pure uncensored reality, these are my session files. Each of my psychiatric sessions has their own book, some having more than one notebook - the largest number of books for one person being six. I filled six three-hundred page scribblers over the course of three years, three years of two blocks a week with one session.
I always know whose book is who’s though, despite my substantial quantity of them. Each patient has their own drawer in my desk; I take up to six sessions at one time. The books of sessions that complete therapy – through rectifying their problems, helping themselves, or through never returning to it, destroying themselves – go into my filing cabinet; never burned, never thrown out. Oh, but how I wish to destroy some of the ones containing the most disturbing and gruesome information of my most frightening sessions, alas but I can not. I am the one who knows.

I look up from my writing and glance at the boy, no, man in front of me; he looks younger than his eighteen years, and wonder if his hair will reflect his temper… what a vibrant red, darker than copper and with more crimson in it. He bites his bottom lip as he sits in the soft leather armchair in front of me. Such a strange way of sitting, how I long to ask why he sits as he does. His back is arched, slouching forward in his seat, thin hands between his slightly spread legs – not spread in a sexual way, no, not like a prostitute, more… like a child sits. His head is bowed down in submission, but his eyes look right up at me, through a curtain of rich red. It’s almost as if he can look into my very soul, the deepest darkest part of my heart.

“Doctor Onyx?” he asks me, starting to rock forward and back in his seat.

--Attempts to sooth himself through repetitive swaying--
--motions; possible anxiety of meeting unfamiliar people.--

“Call me Maddox,” I tell him, propping my arm against my desk and resting my head upon the back of the same hand. I maintain eye contact as it has become a habit of mine to establish dominance; but not a predatory one, a protective one, to retain control in my office. “Everyone does. What do you wish me to call you, Hycinthus Katzchen?” I ask.
The boy, no, man, I remind myself, continues to sway as he peeps through his shaggy hair. He smiles crookedly – almost like he doesn’t know how to smile straight, like he was never taught to smile – and says to me, “Call me Cinth, my whole name’s a mouthful to say.” He giggles quietly as his right hand sweeps his hair out of his right eye, again he sounds like a child.

--Childlike, but seems perceptive. Scar on right cheek--
--Underneath right eye.--

I look at him appraisingly and ask quietly in a voice one would use to coax a skittish animal, “How did you get that scar Cinth?” I am still leaning on one hand and I start to shake my pen in my other.
He looks away from me, the period of his oscillations growing longer as the path of his rocking lengthens. “Don’ wanna talk ‘bout it,” he says softly, observing my bookshelf to his left.

--Evasive, maybe a fight lost?--

“Alright,” I tell him. “You don’t have to. Can you tell me why you are here with me?” I already know the answer, but I wish to find out if he will lie to me or… or if his family sent him here without telling him why. I can tell the difference from a person’s body language, it’s not hard.

“Mother says it’s because I’m des…” he pauses probably to think of the word. “Despondent.” He looks at me, head cocked to the left, not comprehending what the word means.

--Possible lack of vocabulary; unintelligent, didn’t--
--pay attention or something else?

“Do you know what that means?” I ask him half closing my eyes, knowing the answer but watching for the boy’s reaction.

“Not really.” Truthful and honest, that’s a rare trait nowadays.

I sigh softly and explain without making him feel stupid, “Despondent means in low spirits from loss of hope or courage. Your parents also tell me you are losing a lot of weight.” I watch his reaction as I ask my next question. “Are your parents always that…?” I purposely leave my question hanging, hoping he will finish my sentence so I can know his real opinion.

He abruptly stops rocking and straightens his posture sitting as stiff as a Marine, giving me an… icy laugh which startles me. “Aggressive and obsessive? Yeah, about me they always have been. ‘Cause I was sickly as a baby. I was home-schooled but Helena got to go to school at the normal age with normal kids.” He only seems bitter toward his parents though, not this Helena.

“Do you want to talk about your parents?” I ask as I write in my book again still watching him.

--Seems to dislike parents, formal toward his--
--Mother. Sees them as overbearing.--

“Nope.” He has started to rock again, looking at his hands.

I breathe out deeply and close my eyes. “Who is Helena?” I ask him. I am not expecting a real answer. I’ve had many sessions who don’t want to talk. It’s not hard to assume he’s one of them.

--Does not wish to be in therapy; very evasive, does not--
--wish to speak about his life.--

“Helena’s my twin sister,” he smiles as he says this and I peek one eye open as I cross out my last ten words. I cross out a further seven words as he asks, “Am I allowed to tell you things without my parents finding out?” He is still swaying as he watches me, waiting patiently. He wishes for privacy, I can do that, I take my oath seriously.

--Appears to have mental block on specific subjects.--
--Does not wish for parents to interfere, or does not--
--want them to be insulted/worried. Feels need to--
--speak about certain aspects of life.--

I sit up straight, frowning seriously and I tell him, very clearly, “I will not tell your parents anything that you say to me that you do not wish them to know, it is against my ethics and the oath I took when I started my practice. But if you should threaten to take your own life I will be forced to act.” I catch his eyes with my own to prove the gravity of declaration and my sincerity.

He flashes me another one of his crooked smiles. “I’m not suicidal,” he tells me. “Maddox, I mean that. I don’t want to die. I’m just not hungry and I don’t want to do anything, ‘kay.”

--Does not seem to understand gravity of weight--
--loss. Seems coherent when he says he does not wish--
--to cause himself permanent harm.--

“You need to eat,” I tell him calmly, causally flicking my hand to see if he flinches. I cannot tell if he did. “If you continue to starve your body you will become sick.” The boy – man – bows his head and looks away. His shoulder curl forward and his lips draw together.

--Seems contrite about his self starvation.--

“I do not mean to chastise you,” I tell him, still speaking quietly so as not to startle him – he is very much like a skittish animal, timid and quiet. I press forward, “Can you tell me about Helena? Your… twin sister?”

Hycinthus’s head pops up as he beams, “Sure!” The boy – man – seems to have brightened considerably at the mere mention of his sister. Most boys greatly dislike their sisters, finding them annoying. “She’s taller than me by about two inches and she seems older than me even though we’re the same age, more outgoing and less ignorant. Our hair is the same shade of red but she’s the one with the temper. Like a wildfire, apt to start as soon as the conditions are acceptable.” He giggles again, light and bubbly, higher than most eighteen year olds, carefree and unselfconsious. I watch as he rocks faster than before but his shaking does not move my chair in the slightest.

--Seems to care a great deal about his twin, oscillation’s--
--period decreases with agitated emotion.--

“Her eyes are bright blue, the colour of brand new jeans, the ones without fading. So pretty. Not like mine,” he says, his voice showing his distaste and revulsion of himself. Not showing any signs of knowing his own good points.

--Not as innocent as he seems, deep-seeded loathing--
--for himself. Possible sister complex.--

But I do not mention what I am writing to the young man sitting before me, he doesn’t need to know my opinions yet; I just ask, “And where is she now?” I rest my head on my hand again.

His face falls, his eyes showing his misery; deep and suffocating as the crevasses in the heart of the ocean, sadness and, surprisingly, fear swimming like angler fish awaiting it’s prey. “She’s going to college,” he whispers shivering in despair. “… All the way across the ocean in England. I… I miss her. A lot.” He stops rocking altogether.

--Does despondency stem from absence of twin sister?--
--Is bond between them that deep?--

“Is that why you are not hungry?” I ask as I write, looking at him not the paper. I jiggle my foot anxiously; wanting to understand, to fit the piece the pieces together.

“I dunno.” Slowly the rocking starts again. “She’s been there through everything, even if she didn’t understand what I was going through. She held me when I was upset, she was the first person I asked for help or advice when I was confused. The first to be happy for me when I got something I wanted. The first to console me when I got hurt.” He looks at me with his big dark eyes and smiles wanly trying not to reveal his pain to me.

“Got hurt?” I started to ask but the beeping of my alarm went, signalling the end of the session. I scowl at it as I write in my book.

--Startled by loud noises.--

Startled is right, I think as I watch the boy – man – who now has his thin hand pressed firmly to his heart. He jumped nearly six feet. I smile at him, mentally laughing at his paranoia, I won’t let anything happen to him while he is in my office. “See you in four days?” I ask, head again resting on the back of my hand.

“Yeah… Sure…” he replies, smiling shyly at me and he stand and walks to the door. I watch, unperturbed, as he turns back to me, opens his mouth to speak then closes it again, without saying a word and turns back around. He leaves without a word.

--Socially awkward, no understanding of social events,--
--actions, or situations. Does not yet seem to trust me.--
--I would be worried if he did.--

I slash a horizontal line under all that I wrote today and close the book. A blue cover, good colour for him. It seems he could use some serenity and peace of mind. I place the wire bound notebook in the bottom left-hand drawer of my desk, safe and sound for later. I prepare for my next block and place his case to the back of my mind.
Last edited by Keiran on Sun Sep 05, 2010 10:36 pm, edited 7 times in total.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Fievel » Sun Nov 01, 2009 8:20 pm

I must, say, I'm impressed. When I write in first person, I sometimes struggle to give the characters personality, but you did a good job at this. Can't wait to read the next part.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Keiran » Sun Nov 01, 2009 8:48 pm

Thanks, I was worried it would be too long. I'll wait a while before posting the next part so people aren't slammed with over ten pages of size twelve font. The One you just read was almost five. I already have to chapter four typed and two and a half more on paper. Plus the plans for the others.
I'm opposite of you Fie, I have a hard time writting in third person. I can't get it to seem natural, it just doesn't flow right. I just make my characters react who I think I would. So far though, Hycinthus is more like me than Maddox.
There's going to be six books in this series, no seven including a prequel to the series.
Last edited by Keiran on Sun Nov 01, 2009 8:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Fievel » Sun Nov 01, 2009 8:50 pm

I just post mine after I'm done with a part, but waiting is probably a good idea. So, are you going to post the entire series here, or just part of it?
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Tragedy_and_Comedy » Sun Nov 01, 2009 8:58 pm

Me neither, Fie.
This is the one I guessed the ending to after three paragraphs right?
You... you really don't get it... do you? I... I love him... I'd die with him. Or for him. That's what you do... how you feel when you love someone. - Impulse
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Keiran » Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:04 pm

I'm not sure, truthfully. I might but I eventually want to get this published, if it's good enough. I'll figure that out later, right now I want to know how an audience would react to it. The series will be slightly controverial. Within it will be mentions of abuse, neglect, murder, rape, sexuality as well how being bullied and sudden detatchment does to a person. Wait, do you think should it be more than a PG-13?
And yes Trag this is the one.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Tragedy_and_Comedy » Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:07 pm

Probably
You... you really don't get it... do you? I... I love him... I'd die with him. Or for him. That's what you do... how you feel when you love someone. - Impulse
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Fievel » Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:07 pm

It depends how you describe those things you listed. If it goes into great detail, then probably, otherwise, I don't think you have to worry about it. I'm also considering getting mine published eventually, but I'm going to post the entire thing, and when I finally do get it published, I'll just add a little something extra and give it a final revision.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Princess » Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:21 pm

Learn t be lonely.. Phantom of the Opera much? :P
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Keiran » Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:31 pm

That's a good idea Fie, adding something. But if I add something it will change all the other books besides the prequel, so I can't really do that.
Do you think anyone else is going to read this? 'Cause if not I can probably post another chapter within two hours. I just need to revise it.
That was the point Stuffie, all of them are going to have titles of songs as their titles. Learn to be Lonely for Hycinthus, Last Resort for Caitali, Nothing to Lose for Annis, Another Day for Jonathan, The Monster's Loose or Let the Monster Rise for Donnor, In the End or Enter Sandman for Tamma, and What About Love or Top of the World for the prequel that focuses on Maddox.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Fievel » Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:34 pm

Well, people usually just stick to the series' they're already reading, with a few people randomly deciding to read new ones, but the only other people I'd expect to see here are from the EverAfter forum. You can post a new part if you want, gives them more to read when they start so they can get a better feel for your style and the series.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Tragedy_and_Comedy » Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:35 pm

Muahahaha... I corrupted you with Repo!
You... you really don't get it... do you? I... I love him... I'd die with him. Or for him. That's what you do... how you feel when you love someone. - Impulse
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Keiran » Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:46 pm

You corrupt me a lot Trag. You can probably just see the deadpaned look on my face can't you. Should be up soon, must revise.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Tragedy_and_Comedy » Sun Nov 01, 2009 9:54 pm

Duh, I'm you're older sister. And yes, I can, it's cute.
You... you really don't get it... do you? I... I love him... I'd die with him. Or for him. That's what you do... how you feel when you love someone. - Impulse
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 2

Postby Keiran » Mon Nov 02, 2009 12:52 am

Okay, next one is here. It is somewhat longer. Warning dipictions of self-harm.


It is five minutes until Hycinthus Katzchen’s second block and I am not entirely sure how I feel about the boy – man. I keep forgetting the fact that he’s eighteen and an adult, he seems nice, gentle even, but… his mannerisms, they tell of severe trauma. Trauma as deep and dangerous as entering the center of a volcano. What happened to this boy – man – and how has he tried to cope with it? Has he tried at all? Or has he locked it away like a dangerous monster?

I know I should not pressure him into telling me things, if I am patient and calm he will tell me and he will come to trust me. If I push him, he will come to dislike and resent me and therapy will be useless to him. I do admit, though, I am very curious… what could make a man seem childlike despite horrific acts done onto said man? Is it a defence mechanism or just how his personality developed?

I am broken from my musing/revelations by a knock on my dark cherry-wood door, and I rest my head on the back of my hand as I call quietly to my interrupter, “Come in.” Slowly, timidly, Hycinthus Katzchen slides through the small opening between the door and the jamb and he turns around to gently close it behind him. His back is facing me and as he slouches I can count his prominent vertebrae and ribs through his loose long-sleeved t-shirt. This worries me deeply.

--Thin enough to show bones, weight loss has become--
--worrying.--

“Hello, Hycinthus,” I say softly, not revealing my worry about his lack of body fat and muscle, he is an adult despite the fact he does not seem like one, he needs to learn to take care of himself. “How were your last few days?” I ask in the same soft tone. He turns to face me and I suck air into my lungs rapidly, staving off pain for my session. The area around his eyes is red and inflamed as if he has been crying for quite a while before he came to my office.

“She’s never gunna come back,” he whimpers quietly, then he drops to his knees and places his head in his thin hands. I notice that he is pulling his hair with his long finger, roughly, as if he is trying to hurt himself. There seems to be so much stress pressing in on him from all sides.

I stand and quickly walk around my desk. My stride is long as I walk to the much smaller man, trying not to run and startle him, and as I slide to my knees I gently pull his hands out of his hair. I can easily see that he has already clawed his forehead so it is bleeding sluggishly. “Come here, you don’t need to do that, okay? Let’s talk about this, Hycinthus. I want to help you.” I gently pull him to his feet and as I try to walk him to my squishy leather chair he stumbles over his own feet nearly pulling us both to the floor, tears rolling down his face like a car going down a mountain with broken breaks, not stopping when it reaches the bottom. I ease him into the chair in front of my desk. He starts to rock slowly back and forth, arms wrapping around his thin chest, and I ask him, “What are you thinking about Hycinthus?”

“Cinth,” he says, correcting me.

“Sorry, Cinth,” I tell him quietly, hoping to calm him, placate him by doing as he wishes. “Now, what are you thinking about? Will you tell me?” I watch him carefully, seeing the younger man rock slowly.

He continues to cry, making not a noise except proper speech, “She’s not gunna come back, she hates our parents so she’s never gunna come back. I – I wanna hurt myself.” He looks at me, most likely to see if I think he is crazy, his body shaking with the strength of his sobs. “Are you gunna tell my parents about this?”

I act like I am thinking about what I going to do, but I already know what I am going to say to him. I stand and take one of my business cards off of my filing cabinet. “I’ll make you a deal, ‘kay Cinth?” I tell him and the young man nods eagerly, not wanting his parents to know about his painful and rapid breakdown. “I won’t tell your parents,” I glance at him and see he is wiping his face with the back of his wrist, clearing his tears, the skin around his eyes still red. I write in the back of my business card and continue to speak, “If you promise that if you have an urge to harm yourself again to call me. On the back of this card,” I hold up my business card, waving it slightly. “Is my cell number and my home number. My cell is usually on but if it isn’t call my house. Okay?”

He sniffs lightly and peeks at me from his curtain of hair, wiping his cheeks clean. “But I don’t wanna bother you… I am so useless. Can’t even-” he begins an upset tirade about himself.

“Stop,” I command, firmly and clearly. He stops immediately and looks up at me fully. “Everyone has their place in this world, no one is useless. And it is not a weakness to need help. It is a strength to know you need it. If you want to harm yourself, call me. Even if it is the middle of the night,” I look at him and reach toward him with the card in my fingertips. “Cinth, I want to help you, but I can’t do that if you don’t let me. Now, promise you’ll call, okay?”

Hycinthus laughs a bit, soft and sheepish, rubbing his left eye with the heel of his left hand. He gives me a watery version of his usual crooked grin and takes the card, looking at it with mild interest. “I promise. Thank you.”

I sit down in my own chair cracking my neck loudly and I smile at him. “I like helping people,” I tell him. “I want to help. That’s why I’m doing this job, Cinth. I love my job. Especially when I can help someone who needs it. It’s not wrong to need help. Everybody needs it sometimes.” I pick up my pen and write as I ask, “Can I ask what made you so upset? The whole thing, not the version you tried to tell me earlier.”

--Insecure, believes he is worthless. Likely told this--
--repeatedly. Great dislike of parents.--

Hycinthus’s rocking slows as he refuses to meet my eyes. “Helena called me today,” he says quietly. “She says she can’t visit me anymore.”

--Dependent on Helena. Therapy will take longer than--
--first anticipated.--

“Why’s that?” I ask him, I glance at my alarm clock and see the block will end soon if I don’t do something. “Just a second,” I say easily as I stand. He waits patiently and watches me curiously as I walk to the digital alarm and turn it off. When he looks at me, seeming so confused, I actually laugh aloud, something I refrain from doing in public. “You are my last session today so I wish to extend your block. You won’t be billed for it. Promise.” He nods shyly, a dusting of pink colouring his cheeks, as I sit back down. “I will have to leave at eight, though. I do have to go home sometime.” I smile at the blushing man and ask him, “Why can’t Helena visit you? No money?”

“It’s ‘cause she can’t deal with our parents, Helena has very strong opinions, ‘specially ‘bout how they treat me and they argue all the time. Her and Mother most, though,” he says, starting to rock at his normal speed, becoming more comfortable with me. He laughs quietly, “ I don’t want to deal with our parents either but I don’t have the guts to just leave like Helena did.” He pauses thoughtfully and rubs roughly at the blood on his forehead most likely causing more pain, “She says she’s doing well and she sounds much happier. I am glad for her but… but…”

“You’re jealous of her,” I say calmly, “And you’re angry that she left you here without a thought.” My smile has been sliding off my face with his explanation. I feel anger for him, at his sister who has left him alone with people whom he doesn’t get along with.

--Wishes to escape reality.--

“I’m not angry at her, I’m happy for her. She has escaped. She’s free,” he says wistfully. He starts to rock faster and I hand him my cotton handkerchief. He looks unsure as of why I gave it to him so I walk over slowly and gently start rubbing the blood off his forehead with it. The blood is mostly dried so I lick my handkerchief and gently continue to wipe, kneeling in front of him so I can see the stain.

“It’s alright to be mad at her,” I tell him, rhythmically swiping the cloth against the rivets of blood. “I would be upset, too.” He does not answer so I continue to speak, “Can you tell me what it is like being a twin? Is there even a way to explain it?”

He looks shocked and I realise I am the first to ask him about being a twin. “With Helena near I… I feel protected and safe, shielded from harm. My parent’s jibes do not penetrate the resilient armour her presence provides to my heart and mind. When she is gone, I feel like curling up and dying, any attack on my heart and mind feels like a maiming blow. Like shoving your hand in a garbage disposal and surviving with the mulch that was your arm.” He is quite calm as he says this not at all disgusted and I make a mental note to write down his morbid metaphor. “It actually hurts when she isn’t here with me, a physical ache,” he murmurs, gently rubbing his chest. He looks at me, right into my eyes, something people rarely do. “I’m not angry at her, I love her far too much. It always hurts me when I am really upset with her and it hurt. She’d cry sometimes if I got upset with her. It didn’t happen often. But it happened,” he says, watching me calmly.

I finish wiping blood off his forehead but near his left temple is a stubborn cut that has not yet stopped bleeding. “Stay here,” I tell him, standing slowly. My knees pop loudly as my kneecaps snap back into place and I close my eyes against the pain of the old injury. I walk to my filing cabinet and open the bottom drawer. He tries to peek over my squishy chair to see what I am doing, kneeling on it to see over the high back. I pull a first aid kit out of the bottom drawer and walk back over to him. As I kneel down to put the sterile gauze on his temple, I ask him, “Does it only hurt to be a twin? Is it all so painful?”

“No,” he tells me, looking horrified and shocked at my connection. “Helena is my other half, my champion, my knight in shining armour. She causes me the most joy. When she smiles, my mood instantly lifts. I have never been lonely with her. I’ve always had a playmate and someone that I belong with and to. Someone to comfort me when I’m sad and to lie down and talk to when I’m confused. She made my see sense when I couldn’t understand the world around me. I have always been loved. Not everyone can say that.” He stops rocking so I can more easily attach the gauze with a strip of medical tape. “She means everything to me because she’s doing what you’re doing now.” He looks at me and seems to be content.

“What do you mean?” I ask, tilting my head in my childhood habit, like a small pup does.

“You’re taking care of me,” he explains, smiling softly, his smile still crooked and his teeth slightly chipped. “Only Helena did that, she helped me when Mother cut down me like a recalcitrant slave that needed to be whipped as a reminder to behave. She cuts me with words, not a knife or a tool.”

I look at him calmly and speak softly, so softly that if Hycinthus had not been as close as he was I doubt he would have heard me, “But wounds from instruments heal or give you a relatively quick death. Words penetrate the heart, where the wounds fester and pus and scar in a mangled mess. Words kill you slowly, painfully, like a man who is to be hung but when he is his neck doesn’t snap and he has to suffocate.” I close my eyes and just breathe slowly.

When I open my eyes I see that Hycinthus is looking at me, his head cocked to the left in an unconscious imitation of me. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I raise an eyebrow in response and he asks, “Do you write at all?”

My eyebrows furrow together, showing my confusion. “A bit, why?” I respond to his question with a question.

“It’s the way you talk,” he replies smiling crookedly, showing a tiny gap between his front top two teeth. He laughs quietly, blushing again, pink dusting his thin cheeks making him seem healthier. “Poetic description. I do it too. I… I like to write. One of the few things that I like to do but Helena doesn’t,” he tells me, rocking happily in gentle, fluid motions.

I notice that the gauze on his temple is bleeding in red, but I don’t mention it to him; instead I ask a question, “What do you like to write about?”

“Fantasy,” he murmurs quietly, “I like to create other worlds where my problems and
experiences don’t exist.” He glances over at my digital clock. “Hey, sir?”

“Maddox,” I say, smiling at the younger man, making him feel more at ease.

“Maddox,” he corrects himself. “It’s eight. We both have to go home.” He looks so sad about returning to a place that should be his sanctuary. I anger at that relevetion.

I stand and retrieve the wire-bound notebook from my desk. I close it and calmly walk back to Hycinthus. “Would you like a ride home?” I ask him smiling softly.

He looks up at me, obviously quite suspicious of my intentions, “Yes?” He turns his head left so he is only looking at me with his right eye; piercing, almost searching my soul for blackness and cruelty.

“Then c’mon,” I tell him, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair and opening the door for him, acting completely unfazed by his suspicion. In truth, it hurts at the most primal level, most people greatly dislike rejection – I am one of said people – and most people trust me; they say I have a ‘kind face’, once they get past my eyes anyway. My eyes have a tendency to scare people.
I walk to my car, Hycinthus in tow, shuffling his feet, as if he thinks I will take back my invitation. As I let him in the back of the small car, I ask him, “Did you have many friends when you were younger?”

He looks at me as I calmly slide into the driver’s seat and answers me as I sit comfortably, “No, but I don’t care. It’s not like I need any friends. I have Helena… Had… Helena.” He looks out the window, his jaw locked stiffly as his hands begin to shake, clenched hard enough to make his knuckles white.

“I didn’t either,” I tell him truthfully, turning right. “The other kids thought my eyes were creepy because they’re almost black. They also thought I was too smart for them, got good marks.”

“Really?” he asks me, his voice slightly hopeful and excited. “They thought you were a freak too? What colour are your eyes?” He looks back up at me, smiling now, catching my eyes in the mirror, tilting his head.

“Brown,” I tell him. “Yours?”

“Blue,” he replies dismissively, “I never learned how to play with other kids because Mother wanted me to stay away from them. She thought I’d get sick and they were a ‘bad-influence.”

“Turn left?” I ask and when I look into the rear-view mirror, he nods his head. “Parents teach children to judge others based on social differences,” I tell him calmly. “Some people realise as they get older that this is the wrong way of thinking, but most don’t.” I stop in front of his house and turn around in my seat to face him. “I still wear sunglasses sometimes, to avoid the stares from people. No one likes to be different, to be the freak, so maybe to avoid social awkwardness I could teach you some things about interacting with other people. If you want me to.”

He smiles brightly at me, making warming my body with contentment. “Would you?” he asks me his face showing the tiny seed of hope that was growing tentatively in his heart.

“Yeah, I will. See you in four days, ‘kay ‘Cinth?” I smile at him, hoping to convey my own happiness at the prospect of spending time with him, such a good-hearted person.

“Sure,” he says, seeming miserable about the idea of leaving my company. He gets out of my car slowly and closes the door gently.

I roll down my window and I call to him, “Phone me if, you know.” I do not mention his self-harm in front of his beautiful house, just in case someone is trying to listen to our conversation.

“I promise,” he calls back, now at his front door. I can tell he appreciates me not talking about why I want him to call me. I drive off to my house as he closes his door. I stop in my little driveway. I pull my notebook onto my lap and I write about the extended session in it.

--Turns to self-harm to release self-loathing. Likely makes--
--him feel as if he is doing something meaningful. Writes to--
--escape. Parental induced lack of self-esteem and social--
--understanding. Does not feel angry at Helena for leaving--
--but envies her for her freedom. Freedom is lacking. Needs to--
--learn how to depend on others besides Helena and how to--
--depend on self. Needs to learn others will not turn on--
--him at the drop of a hat, likely was betrayed. Uses--
--morbid analogies to cope with stress – any attack on--
--me is a maiming blow. Like shoving your hand into a--
--garbage disposal and surviving with the mulch that was--
--your am – Needs someone to take care of him. Admires--
--Helena. Lacks trust.--

I slash the line across the bottom of the writing and I close the book. I get out of my car, lock the door and go inside my house. My house is my sanctuary.
Last edited by Keiran on Sat Nov 07, 2009 1:49 am, edited 4 times in total.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Fievel » Mon Nov 02, 2009 1:05 am

This seems much darker than it truly is after watching Metalocalypse. Anyways, I love your use of metaphor. I've also never heard of the knight in shining armor thing used to refer to a girl before either. If you ever do publish it, I'd certainly purchase this in a store.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Tragedy_and_Comedy » Mon Nov 02, 2009 1:16 am

Yeah, me too. Kei, if you ever go near the garbage disosal switch again I will hit you with my O. R. Melling book. The big yellow-gold one with the faeries on it.
You... you really don't get it... do you? I... I love him... I'd die with him. Or for him. That's what you do... how you feel when you love someone. - Impulse
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Keiran » Mon Nov 02, 2009 10:51 am

I'm glad you are enjoying it, if we are still on the site when I get published I'll tell you when it's out.
Fie. it's supposed to seem dark, Donnor's part will be much darker.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Fievel » Mon Nov 02, 2009 10:59 am

I know it's supposed to be dark, but it's even darker after watching that show.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Keiran » Mon Nov 02, 2009 11:38 am

Ah, alright. I get what you mean now. I like writing the dark stuff better than other things, like romance or, heavenforbid, comedy. I couldn't write comedy to save my life. Except dark sarcastic type humour, but that's not comedy, it's satire.
Do you think stuffie's going to come back and read this part?
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 1

Postby Fievel » Mon Nov 02, 2009 11:41 am

She might have already and simply decided not to comment. I'm fairly decent at comedy, with my specialty being absurdist humor, but I prefer to write darker stories as well, but it's probably better if this story doesn't have comedy, considering what the subject matter seems to be.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 2

Postby Keiran » Mon Nov 02, 2009 1:20 pm

Yeah, comedy would destroy, no undermind, the point I'm trying to prove. Though my father would probably have laughed at the garbage disposal thing. I did, as soon as I thought of the line I laughed. I'm as fucked up as my characters.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 2

Postby Fievel » Mon Nov 02, 2009 1:25 pm

I like to base characters off of myself too, though they're usually just my dark side, which I rarely ever bring out in real life. Still, it gives you more attachment to your characters.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 2

Postby Blood Lord » Mon Nov 02, 2009 9:32 pm

K. I didn't read it.

I have a good reason for it.

1: Your Structure.

Tis a bloody mess. A sad bloody mess, in which it is damn confusing to read.

Freedom is lacking. Needs to
learn how to depend on others besides Helena and how to
depend on self. Needs to learn others will not turn on
him at the drop of a hat, likely was betrayed. Uses
morbid analogies to cope with stress – any attack on
me is a maiming blow. Like shoving your hand into a
garbage disposal and surviving with the mulch that was
your am – Needs someone to take care of him. Admires
Helena. Lacks trust.--
I slash the line across the bottom of the writing and I close the book. I get out of my car, lock the door and go inside my house. My house is my sanctuary.


What is going on here. I'm not talking about the events, but how the paragraph is structured.

Is this a poem?

“Brown,” I tell him. “Yours?”
“Blue,” he replies dismissively, “I never learned how to play with other kids because Mother wanted me to stay away from them. She thought I’d get sick and they were a ‘bad-influence.”


There should be spaces in between new paragraphs, and when someone talks.
“Brown,” I tell him. “Yours?”

“Blue,” he replies dismissively, “I never learned how to play with other kids because Mother wanted me to stay away from them. She thought I’d get sick and they were a ‘bad-influence.”



Its not a rule, or a major problem, except it makes people not want to read it.

Its one of the reasons why I didn't read it. It looks like a mess, and it is hard for the reader to follow and understand.


I'm starting to hater myself for bring up the Literature Section, and encouraging you all to do this. Because now I feel as if I should go work on my own.
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Re: Keiran: Learn to Be Lonely: PG-13: Original work: Chapter 2

Postby Keiran » Tue Nov 03, 2009 1:05 am

Sorry Blood. Thank you for the tips. I'll fix it.

It's not a poem, it's the psychiatrist, Maddox, writing in his notebook. In the book, the entries will be centred and a different font.

Edit: Is that better Blood? Do you like the content of the story? Is there anything else I should fix?
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