I need a thread
Thread Topic: I need a thread
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same
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Twinkle twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are
Up above the world so high
HIGHER THAN A MOTHERf---ER -
yea
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Brian rapped on the door, before looking through the doorway. He erupted into his infamous smile, to which Edmond gave his own version of it back. I felt my face flush again, to which I shrugged off Brian and Edmond to replace the panel of my machine. I was tapped on the shoulder, and almost had a meltdown because of it.
"Don't touch me!" I shouted, drawing back and shooting to me feet, to stare at a rather bewildered Brian. "J-just don't, ah, ah, ah t-touch me, please," I sent nervous glances to Edmond, and he studied me deeply, as if to judge whether my actions were acceptable. It wasn't my fault; I didn't ask to be touched. Brian apologised profusely before offering me a trip to the pub with Edmond. Although my social ineptness would kick into overdrive, I agreed, only to make him shut up. He smiled before reaching to pat me on the back, and stopping midway through to roll his eyes at himself.
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"See that hot babe over in the corner of the bar? She totally wants me," Brian said, swishing around his pint of beer in cadence with his words. He was a complete idiot - he'd only know me for two years and had yet to figure out that I respected women, and that was it. He was half drunk already, and it was nearly a guarantee he'd make a fool of himself. I groaned inwardly at the prospect of walking him home to make sure he didn't die halfway there. "She's been staring at me for twenty minutes now."
"Maybe she's wondering if you're stupid or just drunk," I muttered, causing Edmond to choke over his beer in a fit of laughter. He'd barely touched his pint anyway. At least I wouldn't have two drunk idiots with me. He wasn't an idiot, neither of them were, but if his behaviour was as bad as Brian's, I'd hang myself.
"Should I make a pass? What do you think, Ben?"
"She dressed nicely. Not the skimpy attire women seem to adorn far too often nowadays."
"What about that rack? Pretty nice, huh?" I froze, staring him in the eye, furrowing my brown at his obscenity. "Ben? What's that look for?"
"If you're going to act like a pig, do it away from me. She's not an object!" He looked at me, mouth agape as if he'd just witnessed a murder. "So no, if you're judging her solely on her physical appearance, which I don't see to be below your level, then don't make a pass. Or go ahead, and be rejected. I will never understand how you have sex with so many women when you simply objectify them!"
That murder he'd just witnessed must have been the murder of his sex drive, because he scoffed at me, and then took a seat at the bar, looking back only to give me dirty looks.
"You just destroyed him," Edmond said, looking sheepishly down at his glass. My lips twitched into a half smile. In the silence, he looked at me to see if I was paying attention. "You really didn't like that girl, though? She was pretty hot."
My heart sunk, and I opened my mouth to speak but couldn't. It was me that was the idiot this time. Falling for an obviously heterosexual man. I sat there, blinking furiously, unsure of what to say.
"N-no, I didn't. I'm not... Into blondes." I murmured, taking a pen from my shirt pocket and thumbing it. Still staring, he nodded unconvincingly, rendering me into a complete mess. "Do you have s-some, ah, ah, ah paper?"
He slid a few sheets to me out of his suit coat. I took them with force, and scribbled maths all over them. I felt manic, and yet completely desolate. I had been wrong. A pen writing physics problems instead of talking to the man you found considerably attractive was the loneliest sound in the world. -
"Are you okay, Professor?" He asked several minutes later, grabbing the end of the pen to stop me. I focused on the papers instead, feeling his gaze burn a hole through me.
"Yes,"
"No, you aren't,"
"I'm fine," I whispered, more to myself. Why was I acting like a complete idiot? I had no idea. I was the one who preferred to not have feelings, that preferred to reference the world in terms of mathematics. That calculated every minute to every second on the basis of maths, and one ajar knock at the door was to be considered insane. He let go of the pen, and spoke.
"Is it because I talked to you like a friend? Would you prefer that we keep it professional?"
"No, th-that isn't what's wrong. I-I...." I bit my tongue, setting down the pen and staring into his eyes, "I'm a homosexual."
"Alright," he said. I raised my brows.
"Y-y-you're Catholic. You wear a, ah, cross underneath your clothes. I've seen the outline. Why a-are you okay with this?" He smiled at me, and I turned my head away,
"I'm Catholic, yes. Doesn't mean I have to believe in anything other than God almighty and Jesus Christ."
"I fancy you," I said bleakly, taking a sip of my drink. At this, he froze, looking like a deer in headlights. He shook his head and blinked.
"What?"
"I. Fancy. You, Edmond." He stumbled over his words before stopping altogether. I bit my lip and nodded, getting up, throwing my overcoat on and saying goodbye.
The walk home was much similar to the mornings. My watch read as 6:39. I had missed my evening run - I nearly felt the hair on the back of my neck raise. The streets were weary; spilling with business men on the way to catch the train, and boiling over with teenage lovers and single parents. No longer was the sidewalk untrodden, the air was still and warm as the sun cast the last of its light just on the tops of unused brick institutions. It was only the environment that seemed safe on this long, winding, never ending road. If you were out too late, you were subject to witness several counts of assault and battery, public indecency amongst others.
I thought back to the cyclist. Had he slowed to accommodate the dozen some odd people, perhaps he wouldn't be amongst the million dead. This street was filled with the misery and sorrow of thousands, and I refused to be including in that statistic. My elongated walk became a jog, which in turn broke into a sprint. I had missed my run; I didn't have to leave it uncompleted. The sole of my dress shoe tore at the asphalt, resulting in a loud clack. I could feel the strange looks from bystanders and in common assumptions and ideals, they likely thought I was missing the train. How stupid people could be. -
I stumbled when I reached the concrete steps leading into my house, catching myself on the rail beside. The slight creak of the forest green door was my only welcome home. My shoes were discarded to the tray in the corner of the den, and off came my overcoat - it hung neatly on the back of the chair at the table. The neighbours, whom were young frat boys, held another rambunctious party. The stench of alcohol permeated the walls from dozens of feet away, along with the noise they referred to as music.
I followed my typical routine, showering, setting clothes for the next day, making a light meal for dinner and leaving half of it to design things for my machine. I stayed up later than the frat boys cared to on that particular night, checking my watch for it to note an overly early 3:32. I wiped at my eyes and thought about Brian. He'd wake up tomorrow, teach his first class and come crying to me about how much he hated it. Edmond would walk past me, scowling in distaste, much like how half of the adults in the building did. I ran my hand through my hair, saying under my breath how long it was getting, and trumped through the house, bare feet scuffing against the wood flooring, returning to discard my half eaten and very cold dinner.
In only my pyjama pants, I took to the porch to have a cigarette. I fumbled with the lighter - all the while constantly scolding myself on the carcinogenic properties of the tar - and taking a melancholic drag. Even in the early morning, the buzz of life echoed about, leaving me to wonder why anybody bothered. TVs illuminated windows, lights littered rooms and dogs howled. The newspapers predicted an Armageddon, the new Nuclear era, the future war that would end all wars. They made that mistake once; I didn't believe they could make it again.
The cold March air drove me indoors, forcing me to prematurely snuff out the cigarette. I stretched, sitting in the blue arm chair in the corner of the living room. I usually slept there, if not on the floor, because beds took too much space. The only thing beside me was a vintage wood drawer desk, and a light switch that belonged to nothing. In fact, it once powered a ceiling fan but the fan fell from the ceiling numerous times. They removed it long before I moved there.
While in the grips of sleep, the phone rang. I checked my watch. It read 3:47, and my heart sped up as I realised I would have to answer. My palms grew clammy when I reached for the desk phone, and I had to stop myself. It was mental, I told myself. There was literally nothing to do wrong. I picked up the phone.
"H-hello," I stammered. "Professor Benjamin G-grant's r-residence,"
"Oh my god, Ben? I didn't think you'd answer, I was going to leave a message!" An airy voice tinged with a superficial English accent exclaimed, belonging to no other than Jane Swift. I broke into gasping type breaths as I fought back the urge to cry. There was a painfully awkward silence before I remembered to speak.
"Jane," I said, voice cracking. "H-how, ah ah, are you?"
"Very well! You sound... Your stutter is worse," she whispered, and I could almost feel the sympathy burning through me.
"That's good," I ignored her, and so the halting dialogue began. "I'm glad you're, ah, well,"
"Ben?"
"Y-yes?"
"What happened?"
"Are you glad you will be returning to the US?"
"Benjamin,"
"Ah, ah, you know, the weather isn't so bad, it's been quite w-w-warm, ac-actually,"
"Benjamin, what happened?"
"Brian got his carpet, he's a professor, now,"
"Ben, I swear to god, if you don't stop avoiding me, I will never come see you again," I faltered, contemplating if she was bluffing. I almost put the phone down, but I couldn't make myself. I wasn't sure. I couldn't read people by their voices or their expressions. Only by what they said. "Ben, tell me."
"Are you sure you want to know?"
We must have talked for several hours, before she told me that she would be in the US soon, and she wanted to meet Edmond. That he sounded sweet, and I told her she could if he would ever talk to me again. She said that she thought he would definitely. My alarm clock rang a few minutes after I hung up. 5:45 was breakfast time and breakfast was just two pieces of toast. I couldn't force myself to eat, but made the food anyway before taking an excruciatingly hot shower. My schedule dictated my morning. Things always should happen at certain times and the schedule helped with that. 6:15 signalled that I should experiment with some machinery and pack my briefcase. 6:55 was a slot for the daily newspaper crossword puzzle. 7:00 was used to double check all switches, appliances and the like. 7:15 was when I began my walk down the descending steps into hell - "out of the frying pan and into the fryer". -
Jack Nicholsons character is so serial killery right from the beginning...
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Which explains his roles in "Batman" and "The Shining". Jack Nicholson plays demented killers...o_0
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Omfg I wanna read more
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I'm talking about The Shining; I think that's the best part.
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REDRUM
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@redrose
You said you wanted to read more so here is where I'm at so far plus a little bit more
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As day time quickly burned off in to night time, the crowd began to dissipate. Only four remained; Brian, Edmond, Mathew and myself. I knew that on the Monday that I returned to work, I would be referred to as the 'human calculator' as Brian had announced. People could be so dull, so boring and so unproductive. The Irishman, Graham, could had easily beaten me had he been more focused. The pressure of the crowd could have slowed him down, the fear of error could have as well. Six seconds was slow for me - it could have easily been beaten.
Although the measly crowd of three around me generator the equivalent noise of a jet engine, I couldn't have been further away in my own mind. For the first time, I thought about politics instead of academic questions. There was a probability of being poor, rich or a middleman. It came to me then that I was a middleman and would be for as long as tension continued throughout the countries. The man on the street whom had been drunk before the day even began had likely been a middleman at some point. I cringed and finished my drink.
It was as quickly as I had downed my scotch that the waitress came again. "Anything else for you boys or are you heading off for the night?" Brian got one last beer and I studied his movements as he struggled to lift his head up. Edmond seemed sober however, and Mathew was is the same boat. She looked at me without saying anything.
"Ben?" I was asked by Edmond. "Are you okay?"
It took me a moment to respond. "Yes, w-why?"
"She asked if you wanted something and you've just been staring off."
"I.. I thought I had replied. Yes, something like a scotch, doesn't quite matter," She nodded to me and headed off. My mother had once referred to me as having the reactions of a dead body because of that type of behaviour. Although I informed her that dead bodies didn't actually possess reflexes, she wouldn't have it, insisting that my dead body reflexes were why I was so rubbish at sports, rubbish at conversation and rubbish at being masculine. I thought back to my childhood in that moment.
Mother rigorously asseverated that what I needed was a doctor. Sometimes she would wail to my father, lamenting my nonexistent mental issues, tears spilling; "why isn't he like Oliver?", "what's wrong with him?", "he needs a better opinion!". But every professional had the same opinion, that'd I grow out of my personality and become the poster child my parents wanted. My behaviour went from being "normal at a young age", to "quite strange for such a young man," to unacceptable for my parents. I didn't share the love of sports, cars, or violence like my father, and soon his wishful hoping became solemn regret; once stating that if I was going to be so effeminate, he'd much rather have a daughter. It was as some point that regret and lamentation became extreme denial; my father would make me join rugby matches and forced me to watch formula one racing reruns every day after school. My mother made me try to associate with the neighbourhood boys and wrestle around with them; which was a phenomenon I enjoyed observing but not participating in.
"You're just odd," she had whispered to me, but really only talking to herself. "You're an oddball, one of a kind, I guess. As long as you go to church every Sunday, and look like the nice strong man you are, you'll always be just right to me." It was a philosophy she abided by so strongly that any deviation should be taken as sin. She didn't let me wear my hair long; instead trimming it to a prim Ivy League cut, and no longer could I wear shorts resting above my knee. "I love you," she had said, as if it she wouldn't if I behaved like myself.
I found myself staring at russet liquid in front of me, having ignored what it was, and failing to notice Mathew having to lift Brian out of his chair to get him standing.
"f---in' hot damn. Headin' off now, you," Brian slurred, catching himself on the table just in time. "You idiots," A circle of goodbyes sent him drifting off into the night.
"I should probably go with him," Mathew said, eyes wide with worry. Edmond bid him off with a wave and I muttered a good bye, swishing the whiskey round in the glass. The silence had reached the point of deafening despite the background noise, and Edmond finally spoke up.
"You're quite strange," I looked up at him. His pale complexion glowed in the caramel lighting; all imperfections melting away and his features dusted with freckles. I felt my face flush from a reason other than alcohol. "I love it. Everything about you, Benjamin. When you smile, although it's not often, it makes me swoon. Since the first time I saw you... I just fell so hard,"
"Brunch, tomorrow. I can't do it,"
"What? Oh, yeah, brunch. How come?"
"I u-usually go to church then. I made a promise long ago that every Sunday, I'd attend."
"As blasphemous as this is going to sound," he suppressed a laugh and covered his mouth. "Why don't we go together? Not as a date, because, um, it's church and I don't think that's what you're supposed to do but-"
"N-n-no, I'm sorry," I shook my head, taking a pull on my drink. "P-people w-will, ah, talk. I can't have it, n-no."
"How long have you been going?"
"Since I was a child. W-wait, you mean here? Since I've come to the U.S."
"They... They don't know?" He asked, a confused look washing over his face. "Who knows?"
"Knows what?" He noticeably stiffened.
"Your sexuality," his teeth looked clenched and my our eyes watched each other's for what seemed like an eternity. "Who knows?"
"You do." -
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your writing is the
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