Title: Popular
Inspired by the songs 'Flawed Design' by Stabilo, 'Powerless' by Linkin Park, 'Pure Imagination' by Maroon 5, and finally, 'Plastic Soul' by This World Fair. Well, more like I thought of them as I wrote this.
Plot: Popular isn't all that it's made out to be. Just ask the Once-ler. *Dark theme warning*
Started writing this in English class while the idiots that sit at my table discussed prom, dating, and other shit that just pisses me off. Doesn't help I had already had a bad morning. I guess you could say this is a vent of a sort.
The Once-ler. The name alone would send heads turning, eyes wide and faces sparkling with admiration. He was the most well-known, successful man in the world, clad in a green suit, tie, and coat, complete with a top hat; he drew attention wherever he went.
He was popular. No, popular is a word for a high school jock that everyone wanted to be seen with because he was 'the cool kid'. The Once-ler was the lonely boy at the back of the classroom whom the jock made fun of, and everyone ignored, turned world-famous businessman.
Everyone wanted what he had, he felt he should consider himself lucky. Except he didn't think himself lucky at all. Being popular-no, famous-was not as great as middle-class citizens thought it was. When he walked down the street, he would almost instantaneously be swarmed by a mob of people, some congratulating him on his success, shaking his hand, others even asking for his autograph.
And so, to keep his reputation, he'd smile, sign the papers, shake their hands. That's the thing about being famous. You have to play Mr. Nice Guy, put up a façade, because everyone expects the best from you. It seemed he had to lie all the time now, fake a grin, fake happiness, fake everything. Now, to the Once-ler, after doing it so many times, lying was as easy as putting on a mask.
There was only one person that knew the true Once-ler, and that person wasn't actually human. He was the Lorax, the guardian of the forest. The Lorax knew of the kind, honest boy the Once-ler once was, before his invention, the Thneed, became a success.
Now, there was nothing innocent left in the Once-ler. It was all about biggering, and biggering, making more money, turning more Truffula trees into thneeds, and more biggering. More, more, more. It seemed that the only word the Once-ler knew anymore was 'more'.
When the day was over and the Once-ler was alone (alone to him was just himself and the Lorax) in his office, he would break down and turn off his façade, letting every insult, every curse word spill from his mouth, screaming and punching and kicking anyone, or anyone, that was in his way.
When the Once-ler had released everything in his system, multiple things would be broken, turned over on its side, or simply out of place, and the Lorax would leave the room with at least one more bruise on his small, fragile, furry body, and the saddest expression one could imagine on his face.
This routine went on and on for months. Get up with a false smile for the public, go down with violence and, your average person would think, insanity. But if he was accused of such treason, he would deny it. Not that anyone could, or would, accuse him of such a thing, because no one but the Lorax knew of his outbursts after-hours.
And then the last Truffula tree was cut down. The Once-ler and the Lorax had been in the middle of a heated argument when their attention was turned to the tree-chopping machine, approaching the last standing tree, above the thousands, perhaps even millions, of stumps that were once Truffulas. "That's it. The last one. That may stop you." The Lorax had said, before exiting the Once-ler's office.
True to the Lorax's word, the Once-ler's world slowly started crumbling apart. The people of Thneedville stopped shaking his hand, asking for his autograph, some even stopped talking to him all together. The number of thneeds sold stopped going up, because they had sold out, and they could no longer be produced.
Now, when the Once-ler walked down the street, people no longer stopped what they were doing to catch a glimpse of the former millionaire. If they looked at him at all, their eyes and faces were filled with sadness, pity, and with some, even regret. Regret of what? Regret that they thought he would last forever, regret that they ever believed in him in the first place?
Whatever the case, the world that the Once-ler once knew was gone. His family had left him, again, but not before insulting him and bringing him down lower then he already felt. Not long after, the animals left, and with them, so did the Lorax. He was alone again, just the way he had started.
The Once-ler quietly walked back to his mansion of a home, eyes dead and dull, face empty of emotion. He dragged himself down the hall and into his office, shutting the door silently behind him. He sat in his leather chair, staring at a droor in the desk he sat at.
Well, this is it. The Once-ler thought, opening the droor and puling out a small, silver handgun. He fiddled with it, turning the safety on and off so many times you couldn't tell which option it was on. He spun the bullet holder a couple times; there was just a single bullet in it. He was playing a game of Russian Roulette with himself.
He pressed the gun in his now open mouth, biting down hard on the cold, hard muzzle. I had it all. I was the main man, the one with the money, the famous person. And now look where I am. A broke, sad old son of a-
Click.
BANG!