A Sick Desire For Self Abuse
[Mood| 
Thoughtful]
[iPod| Your New Twin Sized Bed - Death Cab For Cutie]
Title: A Sick Desire For Self Abuse
Rating: R for Language
Characters: Keith Olbermann
Pairings: None
Series: Countdown with Keith Olbermann
Warnings: It's kind of dark. Talk of domestic violence.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: He can't remember the first time his father hit his mother or the first time she angrily provoked it. He also can't remember the first time they blamed it on him; but he does remember almost every time after that, no matter how hard he tries to forget.
Author's Note: My first attempt at writing Keith Olbermann. We'll see how it goes. =) This fic was inspired by the song "Your New Twin Sized Bed" by Death Cab for Cutie (and I admittedly stole a few lines for my story and its title).
[X-posted at fakenews_fanfic]
He can't remember the first time his father hit his mother or the first time she angrily provoked it. He also can't remember the first time they blamed it on him; but he does remember almost every time after that, no matter how hard he tries to forget. He doesn't think about it often (that part of his life is just a mere shadow of what his life is now) but sometimes, when he is feeling particularly melancholy, touched with a sick desire for self abuse, he remembers. Alone in his office, long after the sun has set and everyone has gone home, he relives the memories with images and sounds that are as fresh as the morning's rain, along with the pain that comes with it. He tries to figure out why it still makes his heart ache, why he still feels the sinking weight in the pit of his stomach and the lump in his throat that he finds hard to swallow, even after many moons have come and gone. He can still hear the yelling and sound of objects hitting walls or bones. He's suddenly fourteen again, locked in his room with the Yankee game turned up as loud as can be, staring at the screen with unseeing, unblinking eyes.
Keith gets up from his office chair, grabs his jacket, and turns out the lights; he doesn't want to think anymore. As he exits the building, a gust of bitter winter wind makes him clutch his jacket closer to his body. He listens to the sound of his feet hitting the asphalt and the whooshing sound as cars go by, but it isn't enough to keep his mind quiet. He remembers sinking into a deep depression during his freshman year of high school. He remembers the isolating and paralyzing feeling, the way it stunted the growth of his ability to give, receive, and show love. The way it suffocated him and ate his insides; the way it always found him, even in a room full of people. He remembers not being able to eat or sleep or wake up in the morning, he remembers the black thoughts that snaked their way around his brain; thoughts about blood and the contemplation of a more permanent solution to his problems and suddenly it's as if he's drowning ; he can't breathe, he can't think, he can’t see, and he's numb.
He stops walking and grabs hold of a lamp post, the harsh light making him close his eyes as he tries to regain control of his rebellious heart and mind. He takes a few deep breaths letting the icy air rush into his lungs and he exhales. In, out; in out, he mentally repeats over and over until he can actually hear the wind in his ears.
He's not sure if he's up to taking the train so he hales a taxi instead. He slides in the back seat and as he tells the cabbie where to go, it's as if someone else is speaking for him. His voice is gravelly and the lump that he knows so well is back in his throat along with the sinking feeling in his stomach. As the car starts to move he feels like vomiting; the lights rush by in a blur and he's remembering again. He remembers the whispered conversations at family functions when he was fourteen. The way various family members would confide in his mother that "there is something wrong with that boy." His mother would only nod and reply that he hadn't spoken to anyone in days. He wanted to yell and scream that it was her fault and dad's fault and if they just stopped, just fucking stopped he wouldn't be so fucking fucked up; he'd be normal. He remembers his mother dropping him off at school, and during the short ride they had somehow gotten into a shouting match. He'll never forget the way she yelled with tears streaming down her face, "There's something wrong with you!! You NEED HELP!!" The anger pounded in his ears and felt like venom rushing through his veins but he just stared ahead and watched the houses pass by, not answering; never answering to anybody. He walked into school not two minutes after and he felt like he was about to explode. But no one noticed, no one ever had.
He throws a couple bills at the driver and stumbles out of the cab, onto the curb. A chilly wind stings at his cheeks and he steps inside his apartment building. He rides the elevator up to his floor and sticks his key in the door, hearing the lock click. He steps into his apartment, the dark pressing against his eyes and ears but he doesn't turn on the lights. Instead he flings his jacket onto the loveseat that only he uses and toes off his shoes. He loosens his ties and falls onto his side of the bed (he thinks that maybe someday, someone will come and lie beside him on the box springs that have stayed like new). He puts a single pillow underneath his single head and stares at the ceiling, unseeing, unblinking. He doesn't fall asleep.
Thoughtful]
[iPod| Your New Twin Sized Bed - Death Cab For Cutie]
Title: A Sick Desire For Self Abuse
Rating: R for Language
Characters: Keith Olbermann
Pairings: None
Series: Countdown with Keith Olbermann
Warnings: It's kind of dark. Talk of domestic violence.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: He can't remember the first time his father hit his mother or the first time she angrily provoked it. He also can't remember the first time they blamed it on him; but he does remember almost every time after that, no matter how hard he tries to forget.
Author's Note: My first attempt at writing Keith Olbermann. We'll see how it goes. =) This fic was inspired by the song "Your New Twin Sized Bed" by Death Cab for Cutie (and I admittedly stole a few lines for my story and its title).
[X-posted at fakenews_fanfic]
He can't remember the first time his father hit his mother or the first time she angrily provoked it. He also can't remember the first time they blamed it on him; but he does remember almost every time after that, no matter how hard he tries to forget. He doesn't think about it often (that part of his life is just a mere shadow of what his life is now) but sometimes, when he is feeling particularly melancholy, touched with a sick desire for self abuse, he remembers. Alone in his office, long after the sun has set and everyone has gone home, he relives the memories with images and sounds that are as fresh as the morning's rain, along with the pain that comes with it. He tries to figure out why it still makes his heart ache, why he still feels the sinking weight in the pit of his stomach and the lump in his throat that he finds hard to swallow, even after many moons have come and gone. He can still hear the yelling and sound of objects hitting walls or bones. He's suddenly fourteen again, locked in his room with the Yankee game turned up as loud as can be, staring at the screen with unseeing, unblinking eyes.
Keith gets up from his office chair, grabs his jacket, and turns out the lights; he doesn't want to think anymore. As he exits the building, a gust of bitter winter wind makes him clutch his jacket closer to his body. He listens to the sound of his feet hitting the asphalt and the whooshing sound as cars go by, but it isn't enough to keep his mind quiet. He remembers sinking into a deep depression during his freshman year of high school. He remembers the isolating and paralyzing feeling, the way it stunted the growth of his ability to give, receive, and show love. The way it suffocated him and ate his insides; the way it always found him, even in a room full of people. He remembers not being able to eat or sleep or wake up in the morning, he remembers the black thoughts that snaked their way around his brain; thoughts about blood and the contemplation of a more permanent solution to his problems and suddenly it's as if he's drowning ; he can't breathe, he can't think, he can’t see, and he's numb.
He stops walking and grabs hold of a lamp post, the harsh light making him close his eyes as he tries to regain control of his rebellious heart and mind. He takes a few deep breaths letting the icy air rush into his lungs and he exhales. In, out; in out, he mentally repeats over and over until he can actually hear the wind in his ears.
He's not sure if he's up to taking the train so he hales a taxi instead. He slides in the back seat and as he tells the cabbie where to go, it's as if someone else is speaking for him. His voice is gravelly and the lump that he knows so well is back in his throat along with the sinking feeling in his stomach. As the car starts to move he feels like vomiting; the lights rush by in a blur and he's remembering again. He remembers the whispered conversations at family functions when he was fourteen. The way various family members would confide in his mother that "there is something wrong with that boy." His mother would only nod and reply that he hadn't spoken to anyone in days. He wanted to yell and scream that it was her fault and dad's fault and if they just stopped, just fucking stopped he wouldn't be so fucking fucked up; he'd be normal. He remembers his mother dropping him off at school, and during the short ride they had somehow gotten into a shouting match. He'll never forget the way she yelled with tears streaming down her face, "There's something wrong with you!! You NEED HELP!!" The anger pounded in his ears and felt like venom rushing through his veins but he just stared ahead and watched the houses pass by, not answering; never answering to anybody. He walked into school not two minutes after and he felt like he was about to explode. But no one noticed, no one ever had.
He throws a couple bills at the driver and stumbles out of the cab, onto the curb. A chilly wind stings at his cheeks and he steps inside his apartment building. He rides the elevator up to his floor and sticks his key in the door, hearing the lock click. He steps into his apartment, the dark pressing against his eyes and ears but he doesn't turn on the lights. Instead he flings his jacket onto the loveseat that only he uses and toes off his shoes. He loosens his ties and falls onto his side of the bed (he thinks that maybe someday, someone will come and lie beside him on the box springs that have stayed like new). He puts a single pillow underneath his single head and stares at the ceiling, unseeing, unblinking. He doesn't fall asleep.