Post by Alec Individual on Feb 8, 2009 16:25:15 GMT -5
If you want to burn yourself, remember that I love you.
If you want to cut yourself, remember that I love you.
If you want to kill yourself, remember that I love you.
Call me up before you’re dead, we can make some plans instead.
Send me an IM I’ll be your friend.
I was on my computer late that night. If I didn’t finish writing this story, I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Funny how a high school student can become so fully obsessed with tasks that they don’t particularly need to accomplish. It was about a kid I know; one from my history class…And my English class. Actually, he was in all of my classes. His name was Jacob Greyman and he was one of the quietest people I have ever known. I had him on my instant messenger address book, but he was never on. I think he just had the account for the sake of having something to do with a computer.
He was a tortured youth, I think. Something in his blue eyes spoke of pain and torment that I didn’t think existed. I’ve heard things about him, whispered rumors. Some said that he was an orphan and that he’d killed his own parents. Some went with the idea that the church kidnapped him when he was an infant to brainwash him and use him against the “forces of evil,” whatever those are. Most all of the tales were bad because the human mind seems to favor the negative. He was a good friend, though.
I’m the only one he talks to directly because I’m the only one who bothered to bug him until he talked back. Ever since, he’s been kind to me. He even protects me from the ridicule that goes along with associating with him. I appreciate him, and I always will. However, some times, he seems to have such a fragile stability of mind that I think he might go over the edge any moment now.
My speakers gave a quiet beep and an IM window popped up as I was typing a sentence. Half of the text went into the box before I realized it was there. Without checking to see who it was, I cut the sentence and pasted it in the word document. Then I opened the IM box again and almost fell out of my chair.
Jake G. had written “im runing away” with his horrible spelling and grammar. I was uncertain of what he was talking about so I replied.
Scudster: What?
Jake G.: alicia and paul are driving me nuts so im geting the fuck out of here.
Alicia and Paul were his foster parents. He hated them more than life itself—half because they are vegans and half because they don’t let him be himself. I guess I saw where he was coming from, but I didn’t understand why he’d run away. He never even suggested it to me before.
Scudster: What happened?
Jake G.: he hit me. then he said that im not allowed to hit him back when i tried.
Scudster: What the hell?
Scudster: How hard did he hit you?
Jake G.: then i told alicia and she sent me to my room.
Scudster: How hard did he hit you?!
Jake G.: that doesnt matter. can i go over there
I rolled my chair over to my door and peered down the hallway to my parents’ room. They were asleep, but I’m sure that they’d have no problem with Jake being here. They liked him and pitied him. Still…I should at least ask. I slid across the wood floor back to my desk and hit the keyboard.
Scudster: I have to ask.
Jake G.: its past midnight
Jake G.: you dont have to wake anybody up for me.
Jake G.: i just wondered…
Scudster: It isn’t a problem. Just hold on, I’ll brb.
In a flash I jumped up and slid on soft socks to the door to the master bedroom. Without knocking, I turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly. It didn’t creak, which meant that Dad had oiled it recently. As quietly as possible, I tip-toed up to the right side of the bed—where Mom was—and tapped her shoulder.
“Wh-what?” she stirred slowly and remained blessedly quiet enough not to wake her bed-partner. “What is it, Bug?” That was my nick name. It was pretty stupid, I know, but I didn’t correct her this time.
“Can Jake come over? He’s running away from home and I don’t want him getting hurt or anything.”
She blinked a few times and raised her eyebrow. I could tell that she was just barely conscious, and that was good. “Sure, honey. He can sleep in the guest room.”
“Okay, thanks Mom.”
I left a window open in the living room for him and just as I’d expected, he came in that way. I’m not sure why he does it that way; maybe he likes to think he’s unexpected. Trying not to wonder how he get up to the second story like that every time he comes over, I turned on the light and laughed at his wide eyes. He looked like he’d been caught. “You’re a horrible burglar,” I told him.
He straightened to his full height and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets to seem casual. “Well…you know.”
Yeah, I did. I took a moment to examine him from a distance. Over all, he still looked like Jake. Messy, blond hair, tan skin, tall, lanky figure; he was basically the nerdy kid that he was, so I confirmed in my mind that this was not an imposter. Pointing at the couch, I told him to sit down. “Now,” I began with a smile, “Tell me what happened. I want to know everything, every little detail.”
By the way he flopped down on the cushions, I could tell that he was exhausted. “Do I have to…?”
“No, it’s okay.” I sat down next to him and leaned my head back on the pillow, just the way he was sitting. Staring at him, I liked to stare at him, I wondered what was going on in his head. In truth, I did that a lot: wonder about him. He wasn’t your average kid. “Ya hungry?”
Turning his head, he looked straight at me with his oddly blue eyes. “Not really, why?”
“I was gonna make some French Toast.”
His eyes lit up to something mischievous and it made me smile wider. “I love French Toast,” he stated with a deep, playful gravity to his voice. I laughed at him and this side of his composure that I didn’t see too often. Most of the time, he wasn’t happy like this. Then I saw it, saw why. The dark mark forming under his eye.
“You don’t bruise easily,” I commented. Carefully, I reached out and touched it. He didn’t even flinch. “I was under the impression that you didn’t at all.”
“I usually don’t.”
“That hard, huh?” He didn’t reply. If he actually cared about the bruise on his eye, I’d be surprised. “That’s it, you deserve French Toast. I’ll make you some.” I winked at him as I started to scoot off of the couch.
If you want to cut yourself, remember that I love you.
If you want to kill yourself, remember that I love you.
Call me up before you’re dead, we can make some plans instead.
Send me an IM I’ll be your friend.
I was on my computer late that night. If I didn’t finish writing this story, I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. Funny how a high school student can become so fully obsessed with tasks that they don’t particularly need to accomplish. It was about a kid I know; one from my history class…And my English class. Actually, he was in all of my classes. His name was Jacob Greyman and he was one of the quietest people I have ever known. I had him on my instant messenger address book, but he was never on. I think he just had the account for the sake of having something to do with a computer.
He was a tortured youth, I think. Something in his blue eyes spoke of pain and torment that I didn’t think existed. I’ve heard things about him, whispered rumors. Some said that he was an orphan and that he’d killed his own parents. Some went with the idea that the church kidnapped him when he was an infant to brainwash him and use him against the “forces of evil,” whatever those are. Most all of the tales were bad because the human mind seems to favor the negative. He was a good friend, though.
I’m the only one he talks to directly because I’m the only one who bothered to bug him until he talked back. Ever since, he’s been kind to me. He even protects me from the ridicule that goes along with associating with him. I appreciate him, and I always will. However, some times, he seems to have such a fragile stability of mind that I think he might go over the edge any moment now.
My speakers gave a quiet beep and an IM window popped up as I was typing a sentence. Half of the text went into the box before I realized it was there. Without checking to see who it was, I cut the sentence and pasted it in the word document. Then I opened the IM box again and almost fell out of my chair.
Jake G. had written “im runing away” with his horrible spelling and grammar. I was uncertain of what he was talking about so I replied.
Scudster: What?
Jake G.: alicia and paul are driving me nuts so im geting the fuck out of here.
Alicia and Paul were his foster parents. He hated them more than life itself—half because they are vegans and half because they don’t let him be himself. I guess I saw where he was coming from, but I didn’t understand why he’d run away. He never even suggested it to me before.
Scudster: What happened?
Jake G.: he hit me. then he said that im not allowed to hit him back when i tried.
Scudster: What the hell?
Scudster: How hard did he hit you?
Jake G.: then i told alicia and she sent me to my room.
Scudster: How hard did he hit you?!
Jake G.: that doesnt matter. can i go over there
I rolled my chair over to my door and peered down the hallway to my parents’ room. They were asleep, but I’m sure that they’d have no problem with Jake being here. They liked him and pitied him. Still…I should at least ask. I slid across the wood floor back to my desk and hit the keyboard.
Scudster: I have to ask.
Jake G.: its past midnight
Jake G.: you dont have to wake anybody up for me.
Jake G.: i just wondered…
Scudster: It isn’t a problem. Just hold on, I’ll brb.
In a flash I jumped up and slid on soft socks to the door to the master bedroom. Without knocking, I turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly. It didn’t creak, which meant that Dad had oiled it recently. As quietly as possible, I tip-toed up to the right side of the bed—where Mom was—and tapped her shoulder.
“Wh-what?” she stirred slowly and remained blessedly quiet enough not to wake her bed-partner. “What is it, Bug?” That was my nick name. It was pretty stupid, I know, but I didn’t correct her this time.
“Can Jake come over? He’s running away from home and I don’t want him getting hurt or anything.”
She blinked a few times and raised her eyebrow. I could tell that she was just barely conscious, and that was good. “Sure, honey. He can sleep in the guest room.”
“Okay, thanks Mom.”
I left a window open in the living room for him and just as I’d expected, he came in that way. I’m not sure why he does it that way; maybe he likes to think he’s unexpected. Trying not to wonder how he get up to the second story like that every time he comes over, I turned on the light and laughed at his wide eyes. He looked like he’d been caught. “You’re a horrible burglar,” I told him.
He straightened to his full height and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets to seem casual. “Well…you know.”
Yeah, I did. I took a moment to examine him from a distance. Over all, he still looked like Jake. Messy, blond hair, tan skin, tall, lanky figure; he was basically the nerdy kid that he was, so I confirmed in my mind that this was not an imposter. Pointing at the couch, I told him to sit down. “Now,” I began with a smile, “Tell me what happened. I want to know everything, every little detail.”
By the way he flopped down on the cushions, I could tell that he was exhausted. “Do I have to…?”
“No, it’s okay.” I sat down next to him and leaned my head back on the pillow, just the way he was sitting. Staring at him, I liked to stare at him, I wondered what was going on in his head. In truth, I did that a lot: wonder about him. He wasn’t your average kid. “Ya hungry?”
Turning his head, he looked straight at me with his oddly blue eyes. “Not really, why?”
“I was gonna make some French Toast.”
His eyes lit up to something mischievous and it made me smile wider. “I love French Toast,” he stated with a deep, playful gravity to his voice. I laughed at him and this side of his composure that I didn’t see too often. Most of the time, he wasn’t happy like this. Then I saw it, saw why. The dark mark forming under his eye.
“You don’t bruise easily,” I commented. Carefully, I reached out and touched it. He didn’t even flinch. “I was under the impression that you didn’t at all.”
“I usually don’t.”
“That hard, huh?” He didn’t reply. If he actually cared about the bruise on his eye, I’d be surprised. “That’s it, you deserve French Toast. I’ll make you some.” I winked at him as I started to scoot off of the couch.