HEYY. Right, I'm rewriting A Styrofoam Deep Sea Landfill, because I've been motivated to write something WORTH peoples reading it. I'm splitting it into two stories, so a huge amount of plot will have changed. I just think I haven't done my own, or Damon and Jamie's characters justice in what I was writing. Feedback encouraging or helpful is VERY welcome; don't let me slip off track like last time.
Updates won't be too frequent, sorry. But only because I want the quality of this to be quite high, I'm not being pressured into writing a lot of rubbish.
Many of times astronauts have compared the depths of the ocean to that of space.
For good reason, both pits of endless blackness are as unknown to mankind as what lays beyond our existence. Perhaps then, both space and sea are similar to our own mortality. But one conclusion can be drawn, wonders lie in the unknown, the dark, and the beyond.
Beyond the stretches of human memory, human knowledge and imagination lurk creatures we cannot even try to believe in. In few walks of life, were religion has hinted at what lays beyond the veil of life and death, the ocean floor, and in the next universe, all that has been found is madness.
Immersed in the sea, 2D could see nothing as pleasant as beautiful stars to draw any similarities between the depths and space. However, he had noted plenty signs of his own growing madness.
For the few short hours Stuart Pot slept, maybe he discovered a nirvana, an empty haven of nothingness. In that time, he was back in the oblivious coma he had woken from over a decade ago. And the short lapse of reality was a godsend.
From his window, 2D saw no stars. No fish. Instead the eye of a whale watched him carefully, it was his prison guard. It was repressive and terrible, purely terrible.
In his bed, he was all legs and arms. Hanging over the edge he rubbed his feet anxiously together. Scratching at the ball of his foot with his big toe, he glanced at the window though he had had the curtain closed for him – a treat for cooperation during recording that day.
His heart continued the sporadic, nervous, beat it had adopted since arriving on the island.
Now his fear wasn't built from the watchful eye of the whale. Nor was it a feeling of terror, as he should have felt at thoughts of his future and its uncertainty. It was dread of his next conversation, which played rapidly in his pounding head as he sat up to face the doorway.
Murdoc Niccals was stood in that doorway, and 2D knew the moment he looked at him, he'd have to ask the question he'd most needed to, but dreaded.
Murdocs body was crooked in the doorway, his spine as twisted as his mind. His legs were crossed at the ankles, and his arms folded across his body, and yet despite his reserved stance the man oozed arrogance.
As he opened his mouth to speak, 2D furrowed his eyebrows in thought. He had probably hesitated for too long before speaking, because as he sat up, slack jawed, Murdoc made an impatient grunt. 2D forcefully shut his mouth, clicking his back teeth, and sucking air in through the gaps. Then he opened his mouth, finally looking at Murdoc.
"Please-"
"No."
Less painfully then he had gotten ready for the conversation he rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling, rubbing his toes in the same anxious way.
"You don't need me anymore." He muttered, scratching his neck. "The albums nearly out," 2D was as subtle as a bus; his question was if he could, after so long, go home. And Murdoc knew it as well as he did, the same could be said about the answer which came:
Murdoc leaned over, close to 2D's face, and sneered. 2D stopped cowering as his head hit the mattress, and pushed into it as far as it could go. With a perverse laugh Murdoc said "you owe me your soul."
Quickly, Murdoc was stood back in his cripplingly cocky position at the door. He took a cigarette from a packet in his pocket, and held it in the side of his lips.
Some days 2D swore that every movement Murdoc made was carefully planned to scare him half to death.
"I've received a letter, Dee." He said, as he reached in a not-so-sophisticated fashion back into his pocket to find the lighter. "So, I'll be taking off for a few days, a sort of business trip. Dealing with that Albarn character again." He scrupled his nose, and somewhat snorted.
With the first puff of his cigarette he said "you're not invited." He remained in the door, looking forcefully at 2D making his point; until with the last puff he laughed and said "Cyborg will bring you food. She's enough company."
In the way people pinch their arms, 2D pulled out a strand of blue hair furiously, checking he was awake. Murdoc was no longer in the room to laugh when 2D squeaked in pain.
"I need you to come into work today, sweetie." Aunty Liz's voice was slow, and beyond the most patronising thing Elle had heard in her life. "There is a man coming in, honey, and I think it would be most advisable you meet him, the rough sort, not unlike yourself. He had an accident a few years ago, and I think he could tell you a bit about how his life has changed."
Elle thought that if her Aunty Liz had not taken a career in getting involved in other peoples business, she'd have made a brilliant primary school teacher. The cold drone of her voice was getting tiresome. "I think you'll really benefit from seeing someone who has turned their life around..."
Cracking her back, Elle sat up in bed. She hated Wednesdays. Nothing good ever came of a Wednesday, other than a day she could lie in bed without a care.
Even in summer, the sky was gray above her flat in Liverpool. The whole room was still black where her blind had been drawn the night before, but she guessed it was about one in the afternoon. Moaning slightly as she pulled the covers from her hung-over body, Elle psyched herself up to move. She knew full well that Liz would be on the phone for another hour if that was how long it took to get her out of bed.
It took more effort than it should have to get her feet on the floor, and when she stood her whole body shook; from the cold and dizziness.
Her toes curled in her rug, and she pulled the phone from the machine angrily. "I'm up." She said.
"I should hope so. Now, how much of my message did you hear, sweetie? It doesn't matter. I'll pick you up in about half an hour, when I have my dinner break. Okay? Be ready, honey." Liz hung up the phone tactically so her niece couldn't argue.
For a long time, Elle stood scowling at the phone, willing it to combust. She was tired, and far from in the mood to talk to one of her aunt's reformed convicts. This was a frequent thing since her Dad had died, and Liz had decided that left to her own devices Elle would, sooner or later, find herself with alcohol poisoning in a ditch somewhere. Even with Liz's help she was on the road to dead-in-a-ditch.
Elle had never worked, not that she was spoiled. She was incompetent – apparently.
Her fathers will had left her with enough money to fuel herself for four years now, and it was running low. Elle was sure she'd be perfectly skilled to hold near any job, she was quick witted, and didn't think twice about anything before jumping to action; especially after a drink.
Elle relieved her bladder, and then her stomach, both into the toilet. She flattened her hair to her head, and sprayed herself in perfume.
Then the hard part started. Elle knew quite well she was attractive, though she didn't realise to what extent. Her appearance was something she held in the highest regard, not that she believed all women should be based in makeup at all times, no. Elle was of the mind set, that a person with a well kept appearance was always better than one without, not because of the aesthetics, but in showing such devotion to looking nice just to go to the supermarket must be an indicator of their dedication in everything else they do.
When she was happy with her face, Elle brushed her hair and teeth, slid into a little dress, and sat on her sofa, snoozing.