(no subject)
omgah he's so fawking awesum...
MASON and GEORGE should've been together...maybe ill make a fan fic about that...
who has a site for dead like me or "the l word layouts?
Anyway here is a COPYRIGHTED story I wrote:
"The Decent Of Jason-Roy"
rated: PG-13
language, mild violence
Chapter 1
I remember it like it was yesterday, for it was a cut that was so deep, that it will always feel like a fresh wound. It would make no sense to tell you straight out what happened, it would be just a statement suspended in thin air, dangling its feet, ungrounded. So I’ll start the tale sometime earlier.
My early years didn’t get off to a good start. My mother was a basket case kept sane only by my stepfather, the voice of reason. My mother had been impregnated at her senior prom by some loser with back acne after they both had a drink too many. How do I know this, you ask? How would I not know this after hearing it every time I was with the woman?
“He was your real fatha,” she’d tell me, “and his woman somewhere’s your real mutha, ‘cause God know I was neva meant ta be a mutha. That’s why ya call me Charlotte, not ‘Mommy,’ or some shit.”
I had never called her “Charlotte,” but don’t get ahead of me, I never called her “ ‘Mommy,’ or some shit,” either. When I was real young, I’d always call her, “Urgh” to which she’d always respond, “Say Char-lotte, kid. Say Char…lotte.”
“Carl”
“No, not ‘Carl,’ Char-lotte.”
“Ch-” I’d say, and her face would light up “-arl,
Carl! Carl! Carl!”
By this point I had already gotten a smack across the head once or twice, but hell-I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to me was that I liked the way saying the “a-r-l” in “Carl” made my tongue dance in my mouth.
Even years later, after I had learned to pronounce “Charlotte,” my mom was still “Carl”-the name had stuck. Even my dad sometimes had a slip of the lip and would call her, Carl. Then he would chuckle a chuckle that seemed to bellow from the depths of his gut. This chuckle seemed warm and for some reason made me feel safe and happy and like everything was alright-even if when I was hearing it, I was getting smacked across the head.
Even though Marcus Brown (or Black, or whatever his last name was) was not my birth father, he felt more like a father to me then anyone else. Especially not that shifty Sandy character, my real father, whom Carl had always talked about in a way that made you think he was some conniving mastermind, instead of just some horny, drunk, teen, who’d forgotten to wear a rubber.
I know what you’re probably thinking right now, oh this poor little boy, he’s never met his real daddy and his mom’s a neurotic woman who smacks him across the head and doesn’t even care about him… WELL, STOP IT! At least, have the decency to hear my whole story first.
Anyway, when I was eight, my dad was the only one in our house who brought home an income…well, for a while he was. I remember the day it all happened. Carl’s boyfriend, Tommy Davis, had found out about her second life-her kid, and her husband-and had dumped her like last week’s garbage. Carl then did what she always did when life’s a bitch; she drowned her sorrows in booze.
After the fifth beer (with a sixth in hand), she decided to go try to get ole Tommy, back. I tried to get her to sit down and relax until she sobered up. I remember being just a little over knee high, and quite scrawny for my age, trying to hold back a grown woman that smelled like a bum.
“Tommy? Is that you?” she muttered looking down at me through beer goggles, “I missed you, baby, gimme some suga.” She put the beer bottle down and puckered up.
“No, Carl, it i’n’t Tommy, it’s Jason, your son,”
“YOU LIL’ BASTARD!” she said in outrage and grabbed the beer bottle and swung it straight at my head.
CLISSSSSSSSHHHH! The bottle shattered into what must’ve been a million pieces or maybe more. CRRRASH!!! I fell backwards onto the coffee table. I laid there for god knows how long, yowling, screaming, and crying-blinded by the my own blood that was spilling all over my face.
“TOMM-AAAY! I’M COMIN’, BABY!” Carl yelled as she probably stumbled in a drunken haze out the front door.
That was the last thing I heard before I passed out.
*********************
When I woke up, I was still at home-but this time, in another part of it, a part that took me a while to realize, was the bathroom. I felt a smooth, cool surface under me, and soon found out, it was the bathtub.
“Oh, thank god, you’re awake. I thought I’d lost you for good,” came the soothing voice of my father. I heard him turn on the sink faucet and stick something under it, then turn it off again. He walked over to the tub with those heavy steps of his, and the ground trembled under the giant of a man whom I called “father.”
He rolled up the dripping rag in his hand, wrung it out a little and caressed my face with it. It felt rough and hard, but refreshing and pleasant at the same time. I must have shown how it made me feel because my father smiled and said, “It don’t take much to please you, now does it, Jay?”
I smiled and then remembered why I felt sharp pains in my head and face.
“Where’s Carl? What time is it? Shouldn’t you still be at work? How did you know I was in trouble? How long have I been like this? How-”
“Hold up a second, Mr. TwentyQuestions, I can only answer a few questions at a time,” My father interrupted, chuckling, “Well, ya mother’s in the bedroom-um-‘talking’ to that Tommy fella. It’s about nine o’clock, and I knew you were in trouble because I know your mama’s a mean drunk, and when I found out she was so goddamn drunk, I knew that you probably wouldn’t be in tip top shape. I have no idea how long you’ve been like this, but I rushed home at 3:30 ish, Saturday, and now its 9:00 ish, Saturday, so you were probably out cold for about five and a half hours.”
“You left work at 3:30?!”I exclaimed. It hurt to open my mouth real wide to yell, but I was really surprised, “Didn’t your boss, Mr. Ferris, get all mad at you and scream?”
My father looked down and stopped cleaning my face and spoke really low. “Mr. Ferris did get mad, but he didn’t yell-he…he fired me.”
At that point, I thought the worse that could happen had happened and now we would have to restart our lives with a little of a handicap. I wish that I had known about the downward spiral I was headed for. At least that way I could have braced myself for the worst, but just because you wish something had happened, doesn’t mean that it has. Never the less, I still wish that I had known.