This is another slow moving story. I don't know where this idea came from, but I just started writing. I do think I'm biting off more than I can chew with all these stories, but oh well...
:D Hope you enjoy!
"Thomas Joe Ratliff! What is the meaning of this D?" my mother yelled, pointing her finger at the large red letter scribbled across my English essay. I was surprised my egotistical muckrake of a teacher didn't write, "I fucking hate Tommy, and I hope to kill him soon. His intellect barely outranks that of an infant!" Yea, he doesn't like me very much at all…But then again he doesn't like anyone at all except his damn self and all the pretty bitches that attend the school. He's a pervert, and no higher authorities seem to care about that one tiny aspect.
But here we go again. This happens practically every day. I come home, grudgingly give my mother a marked down piece of paper (more like piece of crap) just for her to yell at me and say that I need to improve my grades. But honestly, I didn't care about them. I'm seventeen and I don't need some lecture shit from my forty nine year-old mother. It was the same rant every time! 'You'll never succeed in life if you keep going down this route!', 'Thomas, baby, please do this for me.' It was pathetic really. She knew I was stubborn, but she never stopped her ludicrous nagging…Don't get me wrong, I do love my mother, but honestly, I'll never be the child she wants me to be. And I thought she already knew this from the get go. Of course I feel bad for not giving her everything she could possible hope for, but I can't change myself to make it so I'm that golden child. It just wouldn't be me. And I know that sounds insanely selfish, but would you go out of your way to become a goody two-shoes, just so your mother could be happy for a couple days until you drop back into your old shell? That would be an even bigger disappointment than before.
"I don't know, it could mean a lot of things…Dog, dance, doodle…" I mumbled, crossing my arms and not giving a rat's ass about the grade. School is just school. It's not going to help me launch my career in being the best bassist of all fucking time. So why should I care? If writing an advanced essay about Romeo and Juliet's love life and their complications between each other, will help me with my dream, hell, I'll write five pages, but too bad for Romeo and his bitch; neither of them played guitar. They were just two sad people that were kept away from each other when they were falling in love. I didn't even read the book. It's called blogs on the internet.
"Thomas, that it! This is the last straw! I'm getting you a tutor, and you are going to get these horrible grades raised up to at least a C! Please," she begged, looking at me seriously and her arms crossed. I knew she meant business, but I didn't. What's the worst she could do? She loved me too much to hit me, kick me out of my growing (but miserably failing) band, or even take away my most prized possession. And I worked this weakness to my advantage.
"No…" I muttered, standing up and walking out of the kitchen. I didn't need this crap. As long as I had my bass, that was all I really needed. Hell, I could be homeless and I wouldn't even think twice about sleeping in a box as long as my bass was safe with me.
"Fine then, Thomas. I'm taking your bass," she threatened. And that was all she needed to say for me to turn around and shook my head like a child that didn't want his mommy to take away his favorite toy. Bitch, she finally gave in. I knew it took every fiber of her being not to cry from saying those four dreaded words. But when she said something, she meant it. And I knew that if I were to deny the tutor now, my life would be taken away from me, thanks to my stupid D…
"I'll take a stupid tutor!" I yelled, running upstairs and slamming my door. Fuck me, I hated the woman (I'm bipolar, okay?). Why the hell did I need a tutor for? Okay, that was probably the world's worst and most obvious question ever. But seriously. She's probably going to get some old man pedophile that would rather rape me than teach me the basics to simple physics. Man. And how embarrassing would it be if everyone in my school found out about my short comings? I mean, not I wouldn't give a damn about what they thought of me, but it certainly wouldn't make life any easier, that's for sure.
As you probably already know, I'm Thomas (No, I hate that name-let me start over)-Tommy Joe Ratliff. My mother is Lily Ratliff, and my father left us when I was four. I'm not that judgmental (understatement of the year), so I can't call him a bastard on my behalf, but I can on my mother's. She was so broken when he left, that I think she even forgot she had son. By my age of five, she finally regained herself and began being a mother to me again. But by that time, I was already an independent loner. Of course, she later regretted the fact that she had abandoned me and smothered me with anything a teenager could want. That's why I probably suck in school; never had any discipline to actually finish my homework. So partially, it's her and mine fault. But whatever.
And I'm gay! Okay? Don't laugh. Wait, you can go ahead and laugh if you want too, because I don't care. Being gay isn't a choice like some people might think. It's something you're born with and you can't change it, just like the color of your hair. No matter how many times you dye it, underneath, it will always be your natural hair color. So any homophobic bastards can go fuck themselves, because I'm sure no girl will want too…In fact, I've never had sex. Surprised, huh? A 'rebel' like me from the back hood never once did a guy. Well, it's pretty hard being gay here. My mother doesn't even know about it, and if I tell her, I know she'll support me in every way possible, but I would disappoint her to the ends of oblivion.
Sometimes, when we're cooking together (I can cook, is that a crime? Don't come crying to me when you're dying because you never learned how to make spaghetti) she'll talk for hours about how great of a life I'll have with my wife and three beautiful children. Since she rants about it so frequently, I've never had the guts to "come out of the closet" as some people say. I can't imagine her talking freely about me and my husband and our gorgeous Chinese adopted daughter. It just doesn't seem up her alley. I'm not saying she's against gay people or anything. It's just that she seems like the kind of person who just wants a normal life for her kid, and no complication inquired. Too bad she doesn't even know the worst part.
I sighed and stripped down to my bright red boxers. I had a fairly average body, but I was pretty skinny and small. This led to quite a bit of bullying, but I have fists too, and I'm not afraid to use them. However, my biggest hater was this dick named Adam Lambert. I don't know what his problem is, but he seems to find it extremely amusing kicking my ass and taunting me to the point of no return. One time, he pushed me up against my locker and got real close to my face. Then, he just stared at me with those blistering blue-gray eyes. I was freaked out, yea, but what could I do at that point? His eyes were sucking me in, and I was in a daze. Alright, I'm a sap for pretty boys, but all the handsome dudes are either straight or dicks. That's right, not taken, no. They're dicks like Adam fucking Lambert. If he was even remotely nice to me, and maybe actually hung out with me, I'd tap his ass so quickly. But he was a douche-jerk, just like the rest of them. Adam hangs out with the jocks and whatnot. But those jocks are delicious, I grudgingly say. While they're at their popular lunch table, sucking up, I'm in my preferable dark corner, sucking up all the depression in the room that seems to seep through my skin.
So I was a loner. It was the way I lived. So I was a cutter, that's the way I relieve stress. Sure, I was told plenty of times to stop by my mothers' rants, but I never heeded her pleads. It was like an addiction. She was lucky I didn't do crack. I smoked pot, oh, fuck did I smoke pot. I have an entire stash under my mattress. I'm a messed up rebel that is pretty cliché (except for the fact that I'm gay). And I know this life will get me no where except the gutters. But I'm already so far deep in the shit hole, there's no turning back now.
Truth is, I do get lonely, but I would never let it show. I'm too proud to allow such a weak emotion to surface on my rather tough exterior. But, having a friend would be nice. Someone to talk to and talk me out of my bad habits (Lily's done it so much, I tune her out now). It sounds so pathetic, I know, but what other choice do I have? I'm forlorn, and there's nothing I can do about. Sure, I could clean up my act, but old habits die hard. This specific (and dream) person would have to have a really powerful impact on my life. And honestly, I don't think that will ever happen. I'm too far down the gutter.
Anyway, back on the topic of Dicky Adam. Why was he like the way he was? Pretty, but as rude as rude fucking gets? Fuck if I know and frankly I could give a rat's ass about what he thinks of me or how he treats me. But damn was he pretty. With his flowing and gelled milkshake hair and those penetrating blue eyes. So, I had a crush on the guy, but I would never admit it. He's such a jerk.
I looked in the mirror before I passed out from stress. I was okay with my reflection: not good, but most certainly not bad. I was me, and I couldn't do anything about it. My black bangs were parted and greasy (I take a shower about three times a week; say ew, I don't care), and my blond scalp was slightly messy with a thick coat of shine covering it. My eyes were brown. Just shit brown (most certainly not an Adam Lambert color), and I couldn't be happier with them. With a small sigh, I got into bed and closed my eyes, dreading tomorrow and my fucking tutor.
Normally, on Saturdays, I would be as happy as a dog receiving a bone. Not today. No, instead of relaxing and practicing my bass, I was going to be taught by some smelly old man. Oh joy.
"Sweetie, eat some breakfast," Lily said, setting down a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in front of me. "Your tutor should be here any minute…" And as if on cue, there was a knock at the door and she ran to it and greeted whoever was knocking. "Hello! I'm so glad you could take this job! Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. I really appreciate this…" I heard her talking and it was barely auditable. I just munched on my cereal, staring intently at my bowl as if it was freaking Gandhi, not averting my eyes to the two of them talking. Who was it going to be? Someone from my school? I doubt it. Nobody there was smart. They were all dumbasses like me. And I knew I didn't have to worry about my tutor being one of my tormentors. They may be pretty, but they're as stupid as a nail. So what are my other options? A teacher? No, they hate students. Yea, believe it or not, all the 'mentors' that call themselves teachers hate kids and practically abuse us at school. It's more sad than shocking, really. So I couldn't imagine one of them volunteering to tutor a helpless child. Hm, so students and teachers are crossed out. Who else is there? Someone professional off of Craig's List? Perhaps…I could hear them walk into the kitchen (breaking me from my trance). "Baby, this is your tutor."
Reluctantly I looked up and saw it. It, with its gorgeous strawberry milkshake hair. It, with its piercingly familiar ocean blue eyes. It, with freckled lips that taunted me everyday. Its name was Adam Lambert.
"Hey, Tommy," he chime cheerfully, waving to me, as if all the times he had ruined my day meant nothing at this point. He (it) was dressed in some tight skinny jeans that hugged him perfectly, and just made him look like a fucking god. His (its) perfect ass made me want to drool with pure envy. His (its) black nailed hands were placed casually in the taut pockets. His (its) torso was covered by a Marilyn Mason shirt (oh, no…I LOVE Marilyn Manson, and so does he! Could this guy be anymore perfect? Aside from the part of being an asshole). Necklaces covered his neck, and a single silver earring dangled from his left lobe. He had thick black eyeliner on and minimal eye shadow. His thick lips were creased into a genuine smile.
My heart had stopped beating, but I made this fact unknown as I snarled lightly into my food and glared up at him. "What?" I hissed and Lily immediately got angry. Here we go again. She's going to treat me like a child and tell me to settle down. Don't do this in front of it! I already have enough problems as it is as school. He doesn't need to know what happens in my personal life too!
"Tommy, he's going to be teaching you for awhile now! Don't make him hate you on the first day…" she demanded, making my ego drop all the way down to hell for Satan himself to dance on it. "Now go upstairs and starts working!" she commanded, smiling at Adam and giving me a stern look. "Play nice." He just shot her back a breathtaking smile and turned it to me.
I rolled my eyes and stormed upstairs, Adam hot on my tail. I walked into my room, and gestured him in. He smirked a little and practically strutted (like a strutting GOD) into my unkempt room; glancing around my crib (sometimes I call it that to sound cool). His hands were still in his pockets, and he nodded his head. He nodded it like I needed his inspection on my room and I mentally rolled my eyes and scoffed. This guy really thought he was everything. And of course he was right. But still, he didn't need to rub off his ego on me. Me: A fragile and pathetic loser who cuts himself to get rid of the terribleness radiating off school.
"You've got a nice place here. I like it," he commented, sitting on my bed, crossing his legs. I noticed his cheetah boots pretty much sparkle through the sun's penetrating rays. "Do you play the guitar?" Adam suddenly asked, looking at my bass. He smiled again and gazed at me. Rage suddenly boiled in the pit of my stomach. How dare he look at my most prized possession. No, his eyes don't even get to look at it! Fuck him and his glamorous ways! I'm not going to take for this anymore!
"Listen, you're here to teach me stupid education. Not glance around my room and make petty conversation," I snapped. Harshly. He seemed a bit taken back by my venomous tone and shrugged it off.
"Fine, Mr. Ratliff. Let's get started." He said that in such a voice that made my heart swell and burst. Oh, frick. How long did he have to teach me all this stuff?
I would much rather have that old guy pedophile be my tutor, than this narcissistic and glamorous jackass from Hell.