Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Dreams ❯ Pills and Razorblades ( Chapter 2 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Emoyasha 
This is where you begin to notice not only a pysical, but deep mental problem... enjoy
Miscellaneous: Original Stories Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Psychological | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 07.04.2007 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 220 | Status: Completed
This is where you begin to notice not only a pysical, but deep mental problem... enjoy
Miscellaneous: Original Stories Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Psychological | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 07.04.2007 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 220 | Status: Completed
Chapter Two
Pills and Razor Blades
By: Zach Gossett
I woke up several hours later in a haze. My vision was blurred so I couldn't see the
numbers on my stereo. I grabbed some jeans and slipped them on under the covers as well
as a black Alkaline Trio band tee. I threw the blanket off as I set my feet on a pile of dirty
clothes. I hunched over and rested my head on one hand as the other dangled off my knee.
I looked around and found a couple of black socks. I had no idea if they were a pair or not
but I put them on anyway. I got up and stretched like a cat, trying to get every little
muscle at once. I pulled up my pants, as they hung loosely around my waist. I walked to
the recliner, over some empty cans and a broken glass that had been there for awhile. The
glass shimmered like diamonds and emitted a spectrum of colors. One piece stood out
above the others. My eyes focused on a single blood-stained piece. I glanced at the back
of my arm and pulled my shirt over the wound. No sense inviting questions I didn't want
to answer.
I grabbed a pair of tattered, black Chuck Taylors and plopped into the recliner, causing it
to squeak back a couple of inches. I fought to get one partially ripped shoe to cooperate
and finally got the damn shoes on. I went back into the living room. The couch was piled
with bills and disciplinary notices from school. There was also a notice for an upcoming
court date I had to attend. In the back of my mind, these things were wreaking havoc with
my conscience. I bottled it deep inside, like I did with a lot of other things that stressed
me. I grabbed a pale, forest green Army jacket. I opened the big white metal door and
slammed it behind me, pushing the frigid screen door away as I ran onto the concrete
porch. I jumped down two steps and onto the grass. I threw on my jacket as I began
walking toward a hilly sidewalk. I knew I looked like a white trash drug addict. Baggy
pants, a tight emo band tee and a fucking twenty-year-old army jacket.
About halfway down the hill, I stopped abruptly and searched for my cigarettes
and lighter. Frustrated, I turned around back toward our plain red house. It had a big
number 5 on one corner. I guess it was the city's recognition number. The city let us live
here for about six dollars a week. We were poor… we had no income. My Dad had a
work-related injury at the Pella Window factory. He had shattered a disc in his back and
had surgery on it about three years ago. As soon as my dad was healthy again, he went
back to work and ruptured another disc into his spinal cord. He eventually got fired
because he was too much of a "liability" and he was a loss of manpower to an already
failing division. He began an ongoing lawsuit against them and worker's compensation
that hasn't moved forward in two years.
I reached the house, ran to my room and grabbed my cigarettes and lighter. I
grabbed the pill bottle and dumped at least seventy Kolonopin into my hand. I screwed
the lid on and tossed the bottle under my bed. I shoved the pills into my pocket with a
couple going into my mouth, reached under the mattress, and pulled out a small bag of
marijuana. Quickly shoving the bag into an inside pocket, I hurried out of my room. I
closed the fragile, mock-wood door behind me, ran back out of the house and resumed
my journey. I followed the sidewalk downhill, passing houses that were identical other
than alternating red and yellow brick facing.
After about 35 minutes of walking, I reached the park. Everyone seemed to hang
out here now. Mostly drug addicts and thieves. I trudged by the fenced-in baseball field --
the only place any "decent" people hung out, but that of course is only during the spring. I
emerged from behind the chain-link fence that surrounded the baseball field and passed a
couple of dead, oversized bushes. They were about eight feet high and didn't have a
single leaf on them. I noticed the park seemed rather abandoned. It had an almost eerie
feeling to it. The swing set in the distance was rusted, with green paint chips flaking off.
The swings were swaying slightly back and forth even though there wasn't even a breeze
to prompt such a thing. There was very little shelter, except for a small, gray painted
cinder block hut that housed the bathrooms. I quickened my pace through the layer of
dead leaves. The deafening sound of endless crunching echoed through out the park.
Before I entered the building, I looked around, making sure no one was following me or
might need to use the restroom soon. Satisfied, I slammed the green sheet metal door,
causing the cold December air to rush in after me.
I walked over to the sink. I looked down with minor disgust at the rust stains and a
cockroach sitting behind the faucet. I waved my hand at the creepy little thing and
watched it scurry behind the mirror. I shivered, but it wasn't from the cold. I looked up at
the mirror, which had a lot of water and soap stains on it. I could see into the stall behind
me. Shit was smeared on the walls, and the toilet was cracked at the base. It was the most
disgusting bathroom I'd ever seen. I shuddered and averted my eyes to my image. What I
saw in the mirror would have disturbed me if it had been an overnight change, but I've
become immune to the changes that have ravaged my body. I had bags under my eyes, no
matter how much I slept. I was pale, and my face was marred with burst blood. I rubbed
my face, hoping to wipe it away, to see who I used to be. Maybe I wasn't immune, maybe
I was just fooling myself. Waves of emotions rushed through my head as I held back
tears. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small razor blade. Dried blood
stained the blade. I pulled back one of my coat sleeves, revealing a pale, scarred arm. I
held the razor with two fingers as I ran it across my arm, first lightly, then deeper. I shut
my eyes, partially in relief, partially to pain. Not physical... but mental. I slowly pulled
the razor out of the cut as blood began to run down my arm. I looked down, slowly
turning my arm over and over, watching the blood spiral down my arm and drip onto the
grimy tile. I dropped my razor blade into my side pocket and reached for some of the pills
I had stuffed in there earlier. I grabbed a few and shoved them into my mouth, almost like
I was forced to, and crunched them up with my teeth and swallowed. My body shivered
with the bitter taste running down my tongue and into my throat. I straightened up for a
moment and looked into the mirror. I swallowed again.
Pills and Razor Blades
By: Zach Gossett
I woke up several hours later in a haze. My vision was blurred so I couldn't see the
numbers on my stereo. I grabbed some jeans and slipped them on under the covers as well
as a black Alkaline Trio band tee. I threw the blanket off as I set my feet on a pile of dirty
clothes. I hunched over and rested my head on one hand as the other dangled off my knee.
I looked around and found a couple of black socks. I had no idea if they were a pair or not
but I put them on anyway. I got up and stretched like a cat, trying to get every little
muscle at once. I pulled up my pants, as they hung loosely around my waist. I walked to
the recliner, over some empty cans and a broken glass that had been there for awhile. The
glass shimmered like diamonds and emitted a spectrum of colors. One piece stood out
above the others. My eyes focused on a single blood-stained piece. I glanced at the back
of my arm and pulled my shirt over the wound. No sense inviting questions I didn't want
to answer.
I grabbed a pair of tattered, black Chuck Taylors and plopped into the recliner, causing it
to squeak back a couple of inches. I fought to get one partially ripped shoe to cooperate
and finally got the damn shoes on. I went back into the living room. The couch was piled
with bills and disciplinary notices from school. There was also a notice for an upcoming
court date I had to attend. In the back of my mind, these things were wreaking havoc with
my conscience. I bottled it deep inside, like I did with a lot of other things that stressed
me. I grabbed a pale, forest green Army jacket. I opened the big white metal door and
slammed it behind me, pushing the frigid screen door away as I ran onto the concrete
porch. I jumped down two steps and onto the grass. I threw on my jacket as I began
walking toward a hilly sidewalk. I knew I looked like a white trash drug addict. Baggy
pants, a tight emo band tee and a fucking twenty-year-old army jacket.
About halfway down the hill, I stopped abruptly and searched for my cigarettes
and lighter. Frustrated, I turned around back toward our plain red house. It had a big
number 5 on one corner. I guess it was the city's recognition number. The city let us live
here for about six dollars a week. We were poor… we had no income. My Dad had a
work-related injury at the Pella Window factory. He had shattered a disc in his back and
had surgery on it about three years ago. As soon as my dad was healthy again, he went
back to work and ruptured another disc into his spinal cord. He eventually got fired
because he was too much of a "liability" and he was a loss of manpower to an already
failing division. He began an ongoing lawsuit against them and worker's compensation
that hasn't moved forward in two years.
I reached the house, ran to my room and grabbed my cigarettes and lighter. I
grabbed the pill bottle and dumped at least seventy Kolonopin into my hand. I screwed
the lid on and tossed the bottle under my bed. I shoved the pills into my pocket with a
couple going into my mouth, reached under the mattress, and pulled out a small bag of
marijuana. Quickly shoving the bag into an inside pocket, I hurried out of my room. I
closed the fragile, mock-wood door behind me, ran back out of the house and resumed
my journey. I followed the sidewalk downhill, passing houses that were identical other
than alternating red and yellow brick facing.
After about 35 minutes of walking, I reached the park. Everyone seemed to hang
out here now. Mostly drug addicts and thieves. I trudged by the fenced-in baseball field --
the only place any "decent" people hung out, but that of course is only during the spring. I
emerged from behind the chain-link fence that surrounded the baseball field and passed a
couple of dead, oversized bushes. They were about eight feet high and didn't have a
single leaf on them. I noticed the park seemed rather abandoned. It had an almost eerie
feeling to it. The swing set in the distance was rusted, with green paint chips flaking off.
The swings were swaying slightly back and forth even though there wasn't even a breeze
to prompt such a thing. There was very little shelter, except for a small, gray painted
cinder block hut that housed the bathrooms. I quickened my pace through the layer of
dead leaves. The deafening sound of endless crunching echoed through out the park.
Before I entered the building, I looked around, making sure no one was following me or
might need to use the restroom soon. Satisfied, I slammed the green sheet metal door,
causing the cold December air to rush in after me.
I walked over to the sink. I looked down with minor disgust at the rust stains and a
cockroach sitting behind the faucet. I waved my hand at the creepy little thing and
watched it scurry behind the mirror. I shivered, but it wasn't from the cold. I looked up at
the mirror, which had a lot of water and soap stains on it. I could see into the stall behind
me. Shit was smeared on the walls, and the toilet was cracked at the base. It was the most
disgusting bathroom I'd ever seen. I shuddered and averted my eyes to my image. What I
saw in the mirror would have disturbed me if it had been an overnight change, but I've
become immune to the changes that have ravaged my body. I had bags under my eyes, no
matter how much I slept. I was pale, and my face was marred with burst blood. I rubbed
my face, hoping to wipe it away, to see who I used to be. Maybe I wasn't immune, maybe
I was just fooling myself. Waves of emotions rushed through my head as I held back
tears. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a small razor blade. Dried blood
stained the blade. I pulled back one of my coat sleeves, revealing a pale, scarred arm. I
held the razor with two fingers as I ran it across my arm, first lightly, then deeper. I shut
my eyes, partially in relief, partially to pain. Not physical... but mental. I slowly pulled
the razor out of the cut as blood began to run down my arm. I looked down, slowly
turning my arm over and over, watching the blood spiral down my arm and drip onto the
grimy tile. I dropped my razor blade into my side pocket and reached for some of the pills
I had stuffed in there earlier. I grabbed a few and shoved them into my mouth, almost like
I was forced to, and crunched them up with my teeth and swallowed. My body shivered
with the bitter taste running down my tongue and into my throat. I straightened up for a
moment and looked into the mirror. I swallowed again.