(no subject)
Title: Pages
Fandom: The Faculty
Pairing: Casey, Zeke (non-sexual)
Rating: Hard R
Warning: Suicidal ramblings, plenty of angst, hard bullying (ends on a *sorta* good note)
Synopsis: Written for the contrelamontre "Famous Last Words" challenge- 70 minutes. Casey writes bad poetry for anyone, even if he doesn't want anyone to read it. But he does. (...and I HAD to add dashes of the Yuki/Shuichi dynamic from 'Gravitation'. If you know it, you'll see it. ;))
Disclaimer: Don't own anything here. *turns out pockets and weeps*
Started: 9:19
Casey doesn't know what's worse; wanting to die because he wants to die, or wanting to die to bruise the collective conscience of Herrington High for what they'd done to him. It's always a battle to see which side wins out every time he looks at a bottle of his mother's sleeping pills, or the rope in his closet from his time in Webelos, or the heavy five o'clock traffic that doesn't stop for a teenager jumping in the road. Any which way, it's a constant theme.
Even if Casey wouldn't ever do it, he can't stop thinking on it. He ponders on it right now, listening to a few of the JV-jocks holler and whoop on the bus ride to school. He's already taken a few knocks to the head from their football, getting a sarcastic, 'Whoops! Sorry!' each time. So he did what he always did; he grabbed his bag, took out his notebook and pen, and started to write.
Wonder what they'd think
of me dead
if they'd cry and hang they're heads
all in shame
for the boy trapped in the rain
The paper is worn, pages falling out as he's forced out of his reverie to pack everything up. With a jerk, the bus stops; Casey goes to stand up, only to get pushed down by rough hands on his shoulders, as if playing leap-frog. He's forced to his ass hard, puffing out a sort of groan-choke. It amuses the assailants enough as they all get off the bus before him. Casey wonders if the driver would notice him, curled in the back, wishing to escape the day. He doesn't dare try, of course. He leaves just as he always does-- head and eyes lowered, a hand on his camera to protect it from potential punches or elbows to the face.
He lucks out, getting into the school before the big group of jocks near the door notice him. He makes his way through the crowded hall, getting knocked around a few times by people... mostly excited girls. Girls. Casey gets knocked around by girls. He gets laughed at for that, too.
Sometimes it's the girls just laughing at him, like the time Gabe gave Casey a very painful--and very public-- wedgie, right outside at lunch. The bully made sure that they were right next to the group of girls practicing for the drill team. There are times Casey hears their laughter, echoing in his head, even though it's been two years since the embarrassment. It's a horror movie on repeat. That was the last time Casey made an attempt to sit at the lunch tables, opting for the bleachers for his midday meal; and it was the first time he opened a blank, unused notebook to let his demons out in the form of wood pulp and ink.
He scrawls in it still, two years later; he knows he needs a new one, seeing as the four-hundred-and-fifty paged book is nearly full, and so tattered and torn that he wonders how he hasn't lost half his 'work'. He worries at times if someone will ever find it-- if he'd be expelled for the pained scrawling, describing his shooting up the school, and then himself. Making a joke out of such things nowadays could do that, never mind the school's black sheep showing extreme warning signs.
Again... he'd never do it. He only does it through words.
~*~
The relatively quiet day explodes in Casey's face at the very end of it.
"I didn't... fucking..."
"That's not what Karen said, punk-ass bitch!"
Casey can't escape Terry Maven's angry face and hot breath as he yells in his face, no matter how he turns his head away. If he goes to the left, he meets Jason Wells, to the right is Gabe. He's held against the gym lockers against his will, being accused of hitting on Terry's girlfriend, Karen Stanton. It's utter bullshit-- the girl's ugly as sin.
His teeth clench as Terry snarls in closer, his nose almost against Casey's cheek. "I see you even LOOK at her, fag-boy... you're goin' down, worse than ever."
"Take 'im down now, Ter-- the punk deserves it," Gabe adds with a smile.
"Boys! Practice is in less than ten minutes-- put that kid down and get your asses in gear!"
Casey usually can't stand Coach Willis' bellowing voice, but he thanks God for it now. Even if he doesn't usually care about Casey's face getting beat in, football practice is more important than church in this small, Midwestern town. With a few dark looks given to Casey, the boys let him drop; Casey didn't even realize they'd had him a few inches off the ground, until his feet slam hard on the floor.
He takes a minute in the now empty locker room to catch his breath, thankful that they didn't throw him out into the hall in just his underwear... like that past Fall. Sometimes, Casey wonders if they get off on the idea of cornering Casey half-naked and pushing him around. He almost smiles as he gets his jeans on, though his hands are still shaking. He buttons them and looks to the clock. He pales; shit. Shit, shit, SHIT!
~*~
"WAIT! WAIT!"
It really doesn't matter how loud he yells, or how fast he's moving. The bus is pulling out from the curb, the driver either not noticing or not caring about Casey's panic. He REALLY doesn't feel like walking seven miles to get home, and doesn't care if he's making a scene to the others walking around him. His shirt is wrinkled and untucked, hair still wet and his bag unclasped as he makes his frantic, futile dash. He's just about to reach the sidewalk when he finally pays for his haste in dressing.
The shoelace he trips on feels like it's snapped clear off with the force of his step, and he's sent face-first into the grass. For a few moments, he doesn't care that everyone is screaming with laughter over this-- he's having a hard time breathing, the air punched out of him from slamming into the hard, sloping lawn. He can't move, eyes tearing up from a myriad of pain, emotional, mental, and of course, physical. All he can do-- besides trying to suck air into his lungs-- is think about getting home and swallowing ten Ambiens.
That's when a paper suddenly smacks the side of his face. Even unfocused, Casey knows exactly what it is. He feels like crying as he finally lifts his head and finds his overturned book bag-- many, many papers scattering over the lawn...
He can't blame the straggling students, getting to the walk or their cars, for laughing. He might've laughed, too-- he FEELS like laughing. A mad, angry laughing that uncovers every last bit of pain he's felt since his first beat-down in the second grade. He's bewildered by the smile shaking onto his lips as he runs around, grabbing papers that threaten to blow into the street and parking lot. He's going to use the three dollars in his pocket to buy a new notebook from the local Walgreens, trudge home, spend however many hours filling it entirely, and then he's going to fuck the world.
Fuck the world. He's smiling in full, imagining the tears in everyone's eyes... students and bullies wishing they could take it all back. The principal might even read some excerpts of his poetry, her eyes glossy as she begs the students to treat each other nice, 'before it's too late'. Before another student kills themselves, leaving behind hundreds of pages full of anguish and pain. 'I'll even write my last words in blood...' Casey thinks erratically.
He's almost collected everything when he notices three pages going between cars in the lot. He doesn't run this time; doesn't need to. Not many people are wandering around anymore. He figures the cars belong to teachers. He gets past a small sedan and a large SUV, turns and freezes.
Zeke sits in his opened trunk, paper in hand. Casey swallows, realizing just what his eyes are scanning. He thaws and begins walking towards him, hand extended. "That's mine--"
"'They're'?" Zeke utters, not even looking up at the boy. Casey blinks in confusion.
"Huh?"
"'They're'... meaning 'they are'."
Whatever point Zeke is trying to make... fuck, Casey doesn't care. "Just give it back--"
"You write 'they are' for 'their' like... five times in this piece of crap," Zeke says, finally looking up at Casey. His eyes are as dark as ever, narrowed with smoke washing over his face from his cigarette. "Why are you bothering with writing?"
Casey's never been good at English; math and science, yes. English? No. Now is not the time for a quick tutoring in it, however. "I'm not looking to be fucking published. Now give it back," Casey demands, though his voice shakes.
"Pssh... I'll pay you to take it back. You can't write for shit," Zeke says, almost angry while shoving not just one, but two pages his way.
"I didn't ask you for your fucking opinion, Tyler. So fuck you," Casey retorts, snatching them away.
"Sure. I'd kill myself too, if I wrote like that. But you won't."
"Won't what... kill myself?" Casey asks. At Zeke's small nod, Casey snarls. "Just you wait."
"Shut up. It's all self-serving, badly-written crap. You couldn't kill yourself if you tried."
"Oh yea? Just you wait," Casey repeats.
"Sure. Need a ride?"
"No."
"Uh huh. Hold on..." Zeke says, now standing and turning to his trunk. Casey doesn't know why he's waiting, but he does; Zeke soon turns around and holds out a hand. "C'mere."
"Why?" Casey asks, narrowing his eyes.
"Just wanna help," Zeke says. His voice is surprisingly soft, letting Casey feel safe. That soothing feel leaves when Zeke grabs his wrist and pulls him over.
Casey's eyes widen in seeing a straight-edge razor going to his wrist. "The fuck-- the fuck are you DOING?" Casey yells.
"Helping you out. See, you go up from the bottom of you palm and down, not straight across like they do in the movies--"
"F-FUCK, let GO!" Casey wails, trying to pull away. The razor grazes his skin, causing Casey to jerk and panic. "Stop it!"
Zeke lets go suddenly, making Casey stumble backwards. His breath comes out fast and hard as he brings his wrist to his other hand, cradling it in fear. To his surprise, Zeke grins and tosses the razor back in the trunk.
"Told you. Now... need a ride?" he asks.
Bewildered and upset, Casey stares at the tall young man. His eyes are somewhat sympathetic, making Casey's go wet. "Yea," he croaks out, holding back his tears. He's never cried in front of another student, and he doesn't plan on doing it now.
The ride is quiet. Zeke gives him a 'see ya later,' when Casey gets out and goes up the walk to his house.
He tears up the notebook and throws it away when he gets to his room, still smelling of Zeke's cigarettes from the drive.
Ended: 10:26
Fandom: The Faculty
Pairing: Casey, Zeke (non-sexual)
Rating: Hard R
Warning: Suicidal ramblings, plenty of angst, hard bullying (ends on a *sorta* good note)
Synopsis: Written for the contrelamontre "Famous Last Words" challenge- 70 minutes. Casey writes bad poetry for anyone, even if he doesn't want anyone to read it. But he does. (...and I HAD to add dashes of the Yuki/Shuichi dynamic from 'Gravitation'. If you know it, you'll see it. ;))
Disclaimer: Don't own anything here. *turns out pockets and weeps*
Started: 9:19
Casey doesn't know what's worse; wanting to die because he wants to die, or wanting to die to bruise the collective conscience of Herrington High for what they'd done to him. It's always a battle to see which side wins out every time he looks at a bottle of his mother's sleeping pills, or the rope in his closet from his time in Webelos, or the heavy five o'clock traffic that doesn't stop for a teenager jumping in the road. Any which way, it's a constant theme.
Even if Casey wouldn't ever do it, he can't stop thinking on it. He ponders on it right now, listening to a few of the JV-jocks holler and whoop on the bus ride to school. He's already taken a few knocks to the head from their football, getting a sarcastic, 'Whoops! Sorry!' each time. So he did what he always did; he grabbed his bag, took out his notebook and pen, and started to write.
Wonder what they'd think
of me dead
if they'd cry and hang they're heads
all in shame
for the boy trapped in the rain
The paper is worn, pages falling out as he's forced out of his reverie to pack everything up. With a jerk, the bus stops; Casey goes to stand up, only to get pushed down by rough hands on his shoulders, as if playing leap-frog. He's forced to his ass hard, puffing out a sort of groan-choke. It amuses the assailants enough as they all get off the bus before him. Casey wonders if the driver would notice him, curled in the back, wishing to escape the day. He doesn't dare try, of course. He leaves just as he always does-- head and eyes lowered, a hand on his camera to protect it from potential punches or elbows to the face.
He lucks out, getting into the school before the big group of jocks near the door notice him. He makes his way through the crowded hall, getting knocked around a few times by people... mostly excited girls. Girls. Casey gets knocked around by girls. He gets laughed at for that, too.
Sometimes it's the girls just laughing at him, like the time Gabe gave Casey a very painful--and very public-- wedgie, right outside at lunch. The bully made sure that they were right next to the group of girls practicing for the drill team. There are times Casey hears their laughter, echoing in his head, even though it's been two years since the embarrassment. It's a horror movie on repeat. That was the last time Casey made an attempt to sit at the lunch tables, opting for the bleachers for his midday meal; and it was the first time he opened a blank, unused notebook to let his demons out in the form of wood pulp and ink.
He scrawls in it still, two years later; he knows he needs a new one, seeing as the four-hundred-and-fifty paged book is nearly full, and so tattered and torn that he wonders how he hasn't lost half his 'work'. He worries at times if someone will ever find it-- if he'd be expelled for the pained scrawling, describing his shooting up the school, and then himself. Making a joke out of such things nowadays could do that, never mind the school's black sheep showing extreme warning signs.
Again... he'd never do it. He only does it through words.
~*~
The relatively quiet day explodes in Casey's face at the very end of it.
"I didn't... fucking..."
"That's not what Karen said, punk-ass bitch!"
Casey can't escape Terry Maven's angry face and hot breath as he yells in his face, no matter how he turns his head away. If he goes to the left, he meets Jason Wells, to the right is Gabe. He's held against the gym lockers against his will, being accused of hitting on Terry's girlfriend, Karen Stanton. It's utter bullshit-- the girl's ugly as sin.
His teeth clench as Terry snarls in closer, his nose almost against Casey's cheek. "I see you even LOOK at her, fag-boy... you're goin' down, worse than ever."
"Take 'im down now, Ter-- the punk deserves it," Gabe adds with a smile.
"Boys! Practice is in less than ten minutes-- put that kid down and get your asses in gear!"
Casey usually can't stand Coach Willis' bellowing voice, but he thanks God for it now. Even if he doesn't usually care about Casey's face getting beat in, football practice is more important than church in this small, Midwestern town. With a few dark looks given to Casey, the boys let him drop; Casey didn't even realize they'd had him a few inches off the ground, until his feet slam hard on the floor.
He takes a minute in the now empty locker room to catch his breath, thankful that they didn't throw him out into the hall in just his underwear... like that past Fall. Sometimes, Casey wonders if they get off on the idea of cornering Casey half-naked and pushing him around. He almost smiles as he gets his jeans on, though his hands are still shaking. He buttons them and looks to the clock. He pales; shit. Shit, shit, SHIT!
~*~
"WAIT! WAIT!"
It really doesn't matter how loud he yells, or how fast he's moving. The bus is pulling out from the curb, the driver either not noticing or not caring about Casey's panic. He REALLY doesn't feel like walking seven miles to get home, and doesn't care if he's making a scene to the others walking around him. His shirt is wrinkled and untucked, hair still wet and his bag unclasped as he makes his frantic, futile dash. He's just about to reach the sidewalk when he finally pays for his haste in dressing.
The shoelace he trips on feels like it's snapped clear off with the force of his step, and he's sent face-first into the grass. For a few moments, he doesn't care that everyone is screaming with laughter over this-- he's having a hard time breathing, the air punched out of him from slamming into the hard, sloping lawn. He can't move, eyes tearing up from a myriad of pain, emotional, mental, and of course, physical. All he can do-- besides trying to suck air into his lungs-- is think about getting home and swallowing ten Ambiens.
That's when a paper suddenly smacks the side of his face. Even unfocused, Casey knows exactly what it is. He feels like crying as he finally lifts his head and finds his overturned book bag-- many, many papers scattering over the lawn...
He can't blame the straggling students, getting to the walk or their cars, for laughing. He might've laughed, too-- he FEELS like laughing. A mad, angry laughing that uncovers every last bit of pain he's felt since his first beat-down in the second grade. He's bewildered by the smile shaking onto his lips as he runs around, grabbing papers that threaten to blow into the street and parking lot. He's going to use the three dollars in his pocket to buy a new notebook from the local Walgreens, trudge home, spend however many hours filling it entirely, and then he's going to fuck the world.
Fuck the world. He's smiling in full, imagining the tears in everyone's eyes... students and bullies wishing they could take it all back. The principal might even read some excerpts of his poetry, her eyes glossy as she begs the students to treat each other nice, 'before it's too late'. Before another student kills themselves, leaving behind hundreds of pages full of anguish and pain. 'I'll even write my last words in blood...' Casey thinks erratically.
He's almost collected everything when he notices three pages going between cars in the lot. He doesn't run this time; doesn't need to. Not many people are wandering around anymore. He figures the cars belong to teachers. He gets past a small sedan and a large SUV, turns and freezes.
Zeke sits in his opened trunk, paper in hand. Casey swallows, realizing just what his eyes are scanning. He thaws and begins walking towards him, hand extended. "That's mine--"
"'They're'?" Zeke utters, not even looking up at the boy. Casey blinks in confusion.
"Huh?"
"'They're'... meaning 'they are'."
Whatever point Zeke is trying to make... fuck, Casey doesn't care. "Just give it back--"
"You write 'they are' for 'their' like... five times in this piece of crap," Zeke says, finally looking up at Casey. His eyes are as dark as ever, narrowed with smoke washing over his face from his cigarette. "Why are you bothering with writing?"
Casey's never been good at English; math and science, yes. English? No. Now is not the time for a quick tutoring in it, however. "I'm not looking to be fucking published. Now give it back," Casey demands, though his voice shakes.
"Pssh... I'll pay you to take it back. You can't write for shit," Zeke says, almost angry while shoving not just one, but two pages his way.
"I didn't ask you for your fucking opinion, Tyler. So fuck you," Casey retorts, snatching them away.
"Sure. I'd kill myself too, if I wrote like that. But you won't."
"Won't what... kill myself?" Casey asks. At Zeke's small nod, Casey snarls. "Just you wait."
"Shut up. It's all self-serving, badly-written crap. You couldn't kill yourself if you tried."
"Oh yea? Just you wait," Casey repeats.
"Sure. Need a ride?"
"No."
"Uh huh. Hold on..." Zeke says, now standing and turning to his trunk. Casey doesn't know why he's waiting, but he does; Zeke soon turns around and holds out a hand. "C'mere."
"Why?" Casey asks, narrowing his eyes.
"Just wanna help," Zeke says. His voice is surprisingly soft, letting Casey feel safe. That soothing feel leaves when Zeke grabs his wrist and pulls him over.
Casey's eyes widen in seeing a straight-edge razor going to his wrist. "The fuck-- the fuck are you DOING?" Casey yells.
"Helping you out. See, you go up from the bottom of you palm and down, not straight across like they do in the movies--"
"F-FUCK, let GO!" Casey wails, trying to pull away. The razor grazes his skin, causing Casey to jerk and panic. "Stop it!"
Zeke lets go suddenly, making Casey stumble backwards. His breath comes out fast and hard as he brings his wrist to his other hand, cradling it in fear. To his surprise, Zeke grins and tosses the razor back in the trunk.
"Told you. Now... need a ride?" he asks.
Bewildered and upset, Casey stares at the tall young man. His eyes are somewhat sympathetic, making Casey's go wet. "Yea," he croaks out, holding back his tears. He's never cried in front of another student, and he doesn't plan on doing it now.
The ride is quiet. Zeke gives him a 'see ya later,' when Casey gets out and goes up the walk to his house.
He tears up the notebook and throws it away when he gets to his room, still smelling of Zeke's cigarettes from the drive.
Ended: 10:26