[ota] DJ Shuffle: Everyday a little sadder, a little madder. Someone get me a ladder?
All day long, there's been rather depressing music playing on Shuffle's secret station. Songs admitting defeat, songs about regret. Occasionally, there'll be the crackle of a microphone being turned on...and then silence.
He doesn't know how to say it.
He needs to, though.
It's finally after Blue October's Amazing that he forces words to come out. Because he needs to, see.
"I know. There's more than a few of you who scoff every damn time I open my mouth on-air. And I don't care, because no one really cares about what I have to say, just...that I say it and they can fling shit at me and I'll fling it back and..." He's off to a bad start. He takes a deep breath, trying again.
"I'm talking into a void, not knowing if anyone's listening. But today, I really need someone to be. I need help."
There's a pause, a couple seconds where all that can be heard is his breath against the cheap microphone he uses.
"As most of you have figured, I'm just a teenage punk, living out in Town and trying to call it as I see it. So here's some insight into my life. I live with a single parent--gender not specified because I'd like to preserve at least the illusion of anonymity. The problem is, my parent is severely depressed. Beyond the point where I can take care of them by myself. And I don't know what to do. I've gotten used to it, to literally locking my parent out of the medicine cabinets because I don't want to take them to get their stomach pumped again. Yes, again. I've gotten used to asking my neighbor to check in on my parent when I'm at school to make sure they haven't found where I hide the knives. I've gotten used to running the household by myself, paying the bills and buying groceries and trying to juggle school at the same time."
His voice breaks. "And I don't know if I can do it anymore. And I don't know that I have any other choice. So...so I'm asking, begging, hoping someone can tell me what to do. Because I'm at the end of my rope, and I'm no good to her--my parent, this way. So...I'm turning to all of you, because I don't have anyone else who I trust to listen. And I bet half of you've gone and turned your radios off because I started talking. But I just need one. One person, one who can tell me, what am I supposed to do?"
When he's done talking, he lets the silence stretch for a moment, and then he plays something to try and cut the tension, so he can turn that old cheap microphone off, bury his head in his hands, and wait to see if anyone will call in.
There's a tiny part of him, that's lost all faith in humanity, expecting someone to tell him to just kill himself.
He doesn't know how to say it.
He needs to, though.
It's finally after Blue October's Amazing that he forces words to come out. Because he needs to, see.
"I know. There's more than a few of you who scoff every damn time I open my mouth on-air. And I don't care, because no one really cares about what I have to say, just...that I say it and they can fling shit at me and I'll fling it back and..." He's off to a bad start. He takes a deep breath, trying again.
"I'm talking into a void, not knowing if anyone's listening. But today, I really need someone to be. I need help."
There's a pause, a couple seconds where all that can be heard is his breath against the cheap microphone he uses.
"As most of you have figured, I'm just a teenage punk, living out in Town and trying to call it as I see it. So here's some insight into my life. I live with a single parent--gender not specified because I'd like to preserve at least the illusion of anonymity. The problem is, my parent is severely depressed. Beyond the point where I can take care of them by myself. And I don't know what to do. I've gotten used to it, to literally locking my parent out of the medicine cabinets because I don't want to take them to get their stomach pumped again. Yes, again. I've gotten used to asking my neighbor to check in on my parent when I'm at school to make sure they haven't found where I hide the knives. I've gotten used to running the household by myself, paying the bills and buying groceries and trying to juggle school at the same time."
His voice breaks. "And I don't know if I can do it anymore. And I don't know that I have any other choice. So...so I'm asking, begging, hoping someone can tell me what to do. Because I'm at the end of my rope, and I'm no good to her--my parent, this way. So...I'm turning to all of you, because I don't have anyone else who I trust to listen. And I bet half of you've gone and turned your radios off because I started talking. But I just need one. One person, one who can tell me, what am I supposed to do?"
When he's done talking, he lets the silence stretch for a moment, and then he plays something to try and cut the tension, so he can turn that old cheap microphone off, bury his head in his hands, and wait to see if anyone will call in.
There's a tiny part of him, that's lost all faith in humanity, expecting someone to tell him to just kill himself.