Nightmare Street
Aaand, for some odd reason, I am writing this. I have absolutely no idea why. HEAVENS TO BETSY, WHAT IS UNDER MY COMPUTER DESK….it's a cat. False alarm, just a cat…BUT IT WAS FURRY AND IT LICKED ME…anyway…I, at this point in time (June 7th, 7: 24 P.M—TODAY WAS MY LAST DAY OF SCHOOL, WH00T!) have absolutely no idea what the plot of this fic (Let alone the genres or section). So, bear with me here. I'll probably think it up on the way.
NEW (Postmark January 8th, 1:74 P.M—I have written the whole chapter now…yay!)
Disclaimer (In song!)::sings: I don't own it, don't want it Kidding!, never gonna' have it, can't sue me, 'cuz I have, nothing you would waaaaant…:breathes out: yes.
If you must know, the reason I started writing this is because I downloaded at least 30 new fonts for my computer, and they're all just so pretty-full I decided to name things by the title of the fonts….I was writing songs for them, but this one (Nightmare Street, 'tis awesome!) I felt like writing a fic for. And actually, only the title is in Nightmare Street Font…I'm typing this in Palatino Linotype…which for some reason amuses and amazes me. I'm amashed! Indeed I am…
Anyway, wh00t t00t…today was my last day of school, so I'm all happy and freaking about that and such…plus my boyfriend is busy and WON'T GET OFF THE DAMN PHONE TO TALK TO ME, so I am bored. Hehe. And now, here we are. Aren't you excited? Yes? Well, me either.
Whatever you do, PLEASE review! Hehe, that was catchy…things that rhyme amash me. Don't steal that word…I had it patented. 0o ANYWAY (God, I am so ADD-ish…), don't flame…or I will laugh. Hard. Long, hard, and unforgiving-ly-ish. Trust me, bwahaha!
:Roasts a marshmallow: Oh, what was I doing again?
…
"I am not afraid of the dark. I am afraid of what lurks in it."—Anonymous
"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy is when men are afraid of the light."—Plato
"What does not destroy me, makes me strong."— Friedrich Nietzsche
"Ultimately we know deeply that the other side of every fear is freedom."—Merilyn Ferguson
"When a man has quietly made up his mind that there is nothing he cannot endure, his fears leave him."--Grove Patterson
…
"Turn on my nightlight?" A small voice asked, muffled from the layers of blankets thrown over his head.
"Oh, Mac." His mother rolled her eyes, "You don't need that stupid thing. You're old enough to sleep without a light."
Brown eyes grew huge, and he tightened his white-knuckled grip on his blankets, "But, mom…I'm afraid of the dark."
His mother sighed, brushing a few frizzy strands of brown hair out of her eyes. She tapped her foot impatiently—she didn't have time for this. She was already late, late, late. "There's nothing in here to be afraid of, sweetie. It's just your room."
Mac just nodded his head, knowing she wouldn't understand. "Night, mom."
She walked back over to his bed, and placed a quick kiss on his tear-stained cheek. A small bruise shone under his right eye, and she touched it gently. Mac winced. "Your dad's been drinking again?"
Mac sighed. He hated how she referred to him as 'his dad', and not 'her ex-husband'. He didn't call him dad—not in his head, at least. "No." He answered simply, looking down at the stained bedcovers.
She stared at him for a few seconds before nodding quietly and exiting the room. She was already late, and she had no idea where in god's name her car keys were. Somewhere in the tiny apartment house they lay…along with the haunting memories and broken promises.
'I've got to get out of here.' She thought, locating her keys sitting on top of the microwave, which sat in the middle of the small square table they ate on. 'I can't stand it.'
And so she did as she had done many times before. She drove away, and away, and away…until she hit the end, and then she drove back. Another job she would be fired from, and another complain of "I'm freaking hungry, mom." from Terrence. She knew Mac felt it too—but he never complained.
But she couldn't leave them there, not when he came around sometimes. He never went after Terrence when he was drunk—the thirteen year old could easily punch him back. But Mac, the shy eight year old he was, would never think of hitting anyone.
And so she drove back, hoping his car wouldn't be there—if he still remembered how to drive a car, that was. But his car wasn't in the lot, and neither was he. She exhaled a sigh of relief, and glanced at her watch. '2:03 A.M.' it read in loud, bright numbers. Her boys would be asleep right now, sleeping safe in their own beds. 'God, I'm so tired…'
She sighed again, pushing back more of her short brown hair. The ponytail she had once held it back with had been used to scare him off when he had come around earlier. She hadn't been home at the time, but had come home in time to see him ready to leave.
Remembering the Police's orders, she made a silent promise to herself to clean up the small apartment soon. One of the neighbors had finally called the cops on him a few weeks back, when he had gone through all the apartment doors banging on them and making a fuss, saying he was looking for his 'girl'.
His 'girl', as he had referred to her as, opened up their apartment door, and had proceeded to throw their only china plates at him—the ones her parents had gotten for their wedding. Thankful—or maybe not—for her bad aim, the only thing she managed to do was keep him out of the apartment room for the time being. Until the cops came, however. They had told her if she didn't clean up the apartment, Child Services would take Mac and Terrence into their own hands.
Although it would be better for them, she knew, she couldn't bear to lose them. She knew she was never home—she worked 2 jobs just to make ends meet—and even then the ends didn't exactly come together. But they were all she had—besides a drunken ex-husband who still visited every now and then, and left reminders of how it was before he had left.
Slipping off her shoes and kicking them inside, she shut and locked the door, throwing her keys on the microwave again. Silently, she moved towards Mac's closet-sized bedroom. She opened the door with a silent squeak, and peered inside. He had, apparently, turned on his night light, which burned dimly on his bed stand. The covers were drawn over his head, and she could see his tiny hands clenching onto the sheets tightly. He was squirming about, and the covers were damp from where he had begun to sweat. He was muttering incomprehensibly, and when she moved closer, she heard an unmistakable, "Please…don't hurt me…" uttered from his mouth. She wished he didn't have those dreams.
Sighing again, she backed out of the room and once again closed the door. Skipping over her older son's room, she made her way slowly into her own bedroom. Easing off her jacket, she lay down into the bed, not even bothering to take off her work clothes. She was far too tired and exhausted.
Glancing around the room, she could feel the anger and hate penetrating through the walls. This had once been his room. You can remove the problem, but you can never erase the past.
…
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