"Imagine that," Runty mused on a particularly scorching summer morning. She stood motionless, which is a rather rare action for her, and took in her older brother curled up in a God-Forsaken corner. "You, sulking. Now there's something you don't see every day."
"At least I don't hang out at the car wash," Roger retorted cynically as he plucked a few random strings on his beloved guitar. "Besides, there's nothing better to do anyway."
"Because God forbid you actually go outside."
"It's too hot," Roger replied stubbornly.
"But it's summer!"
"I am perfectly aware of that Runty."
"Don't call me Runty!" The girl squealed, stomping one of her over grown feet.
"Runty."
"Stop!"
Roger shook his head in amusement and continued playing.
Runty couldn't see why her brother enjoyed bathing in his utter boredom. It was almost as if he wanted to be miserable. And maybe he did. But it was such a waste. His life was just going to pass him by.
"Ya know, one day when you're off in a nursing home rotting somewhere and searching for your dentures, your gonna look back and wonder what the hell you did with your life and find the simple conclusion: not much."
There was a momentary silence that seemed to over take the room for a couple of seconds while Runty swayed from side to side impatiently. She could only stay still for so long as was dying to hear her brother's response; IF there would be any response.
"Leave my mark," he stated.
"What?!"
"My mark," the downer repeated. "Something people will remember me by, preferably through song."
Runty scratched the top of her head, which was entirely hidden by a massive array of tangled clumps commonly known as hair.
"But you can't play guitar."
"Oh fuck off."
There was a pause, which was abruptly interrupted by a loud victory whoop originating from none other than the former Riddilin user.
"O-hh!" Ziggy should have heard that! He'd kill you for hypocrisy alone!"
Roger glared defiantly. "Don't they need you at the car wash or something?"
His sister was untouchable at the moment and too preoccupied with her infamous pig-style gloating to take any heed of him. She frolicked around the room chanting interminably "I'm gonna te-ll! I'm gonna te-ll!"
It was at that moment that Roger determined he hated little kids.
Driven purely by insanity, Roger gently threw down his guitar (for it does require a measure of abounding skill to throw something—anything—down gently) and tore out of the apartment like his very ass was on fire.
He bolted straight for the sidewalk and knocked numerous pedestrians over by doing so. Common New Yorkers were use to such a spectacle, but tourists shunned it as disrespect. "They're just lucky I don't have a gun," Roger muttered, his face darkening simultaneously.
'Alright—I'm outside Runty!' the artist thought bitterly even though he possessed no telepathic tendencies what so ever. 'Now what? What the hell's so great about being outside anyway? O-oh, look clouds! Yippee! Oh and hey, check out that over flowing trash can! Aww, and there's a hobo starving there on that street corner. How terribly gratifying. Wow, don't I feel better now!'
With a defeated sigh, Roger sat his bum down on the glistening sidewalk and nearly choked to death on the excess smog being emitted from a nearby bus exhaust. He pondered whether or not a search for happiness was worth it in the first place. Was it in vain? Was it worth getting hurt again and again while pursuing something for the ultimate good? How long did it take to find happiness anyway? And where, exactly, do you find it? It wasn't a tangible substance. It wasn't even visible. You could feel it but—how? How do you make yourself feel something when you don't even know what it is? And how the hell are you supposed to eternally escape the suffocating grasp of depression anyway? The Prozac was a joke between him and Runty but he never seriously contemplated the effects of the apparently useful drug.
But then he'd be plastic.
He'd be hiding behind a false facade; an image of fake happiness. Artificial happiness. He'd find joy in completely senseless things and he'd be too doped up to realize it. Besides, he HAD to experience reality to produce his songs. Roger's songs were the raw truth of life itself, completely un-sugarcoated and un-sanitized for the artistically attuned. It was the epitome of him. How could he sacrifice such honesty to be blissfully ignorant? How could ignore reality? How could he throw away his observant nature? How could he give up his independent logic and flow with the rest of the teeny bopper world? No, he couldn't. And it was as simple as that.
-----------------------
Hey, itty-bitty side note here. These first couple chapters have been written solely for the exposition. The real plot line is gonna start up next chapter. So for those of you getting rather bored have no fear. April is destined to bump into Roger sometime in the next couple chapters. Sometime SOON, I mean. Ahhh, I can just imagine how mad ya'll would be if I ENDED the story with the encounter. Oh geez, I'd lose my jugular vein, wouldn't I? Hmmm, maybe I won't do that. Till next time, I bid thee ado.
"At least I don't hang out at the car wash," Roger retorted cynically as he plucked a few random strings on his beloved guitar. "Besides, there's nothing better to do anyway."
"Because God forbid you actually go outside."
"It's too hot," Roger replied stubbornly.
"But it's summer!"
"I am perfectly aware of that Runty."
"Don't call me Runty!" The girl squealed, stomping one of her over grown feet.
"Runty."
"Stop!"
Roger shook his head in amusement and continued playing.
Runty couldn't see why her brother enjoyed bathing in his utter boredom. It was almost as if he wanted to be miserable. And maybe he did. But it was such a waste. His life was just going to pass him by.
"Ya know, one day when you're off in a nursing home rotting somewhere and searching for your dentures, your gonna look back and wonder what the hell you did with your life and find the simple conclusion: not much."
There was a momentary silence that seemed to over take the room for a couple of seconds while Runty swayed from side to side impatiently. She could only stay still for so long as was dying to hear her brother's response; IF there would be any response.
"Leave my mark," he stated.
"What?!"
"My mark," the downer repeated. "Something people will remember me by, preferably through song."
Runty scratched the top of her head, which was entirely hidden by a massive array of tangled clumps commonly known as hair.
"But you can't play guitar."
"Oh fuck off."
There was a pause, which was abruptly interrupted by a loud victory whoop originating from none other than the former Riddilin user.
"O-hh!" Ziggy should have heard that! He'd kill you for hypocrisy alone!"
Roger glared defiantly. "Don't they need you at the car wash or something?"
His sister was untouchable at the moment and too preoccupied with her infamous pig-style gloating to take any heed of him. She frolicked around the room chanting interminably "I'm gonna te-ll! I'm gonna te-ll!"
It was at that moment that Roger determined he hated little kids.
Driven purely by insanity, Roger gently threw down his guitar (for it does require a measure of abounding skill to throw something—anything—down gently) and tore out of the apartment like his very ass was on fire.
He bolted straight for the sidewalk and knocked numerous pedestrians over by doing so. Common New Yorkers were use to such a spectacle, but tourists shunned it as disrespect. "They're just lucky I don't have a gun," Roger muttered, his face darkening simultaneously.
'Alright—I'm outside Runty!' the artist thought bitterly even though he possessed no telepathic tendencies what so ever. 'Now what? What the hell's so great about being outside anyway? O-oh, look clouds! Yippee! Oh and hey, check out that over flowing trash can! Aww, and there's a hobo starving there on that street corner. How terribly gratifying. Wow, don't I feel better now!'
With a defeated sigh, Roger sat his bum down on the glistening sidewalk and nearly choked to death on the excess smog being emitted from a nearby bus exhaust. He pondered whether or not a search for happiness was worth it in the first place. Was it in vain? Was it worth getting hurt again and again while pursuing something for the ultimate good? How long did it take to find happiness anyway? And where, exactly, do you find it? It wasn't a tangible substance. It wasn't even visible. You could feel it but—how? How do you make yourself feel something when you don't even know what it is? And how the hell are you supposed to eternally escape the suffocating grasp of depression anyway? The Prozac was a joke between him and Runty but he never seriously contemplated the effects of the apparently useful drug.
But then he'd be plastic.
He'd be hiding behind a false facade; an image of fake happiness. Artificial happiness. He'd find joy in completely senseless things and he'd be too doped up to realize it. Besides, he HAD to experience reality to produce his songs. Roger's songs were the raw truth of life itself, completely un-sugarcoated and un-sanitized for the artistically attuned. It was the epitome of him. How could he sacrifice such honesty to be blissfully ignorant? How could ignore reality? How could he throw away his observant nature? How could he give up his independent logic and flow with the rest of the teeny bopper world? No, he couldn't. And it was as simple as that.
-----------------------
Hey, itty-bitty side note here. These first couple chapters have been written solely for the exposition. The real plot line is gonna start up next chapter. So for those of you getting rather bored have no fear. April is destined to bump into Roger sometime in the next couple chapters. Sometime SOON, I mean. Ahhh, I can just imagine how mad ya'll would be if I ENDED the story with the encounter. Oh geez, I'd lose my jugular vein, wouldn't I? Hmmm, maybe I won't do that. Till next time, I bid thee ado.