Disclaimer: Characters not mine.
Three: Mark/Roger
September 1, 1985
MARK
I wish I could say that if feels great to be back in school after seven months away from the world. I wish I could say that I was just glad to be getting on with my life. Sadly the truth is, school just isn't that different from the psyche ward. It has the same not dim enough to be dim, not bright enough to be bright strip lights flickering in the ceiling. The walls are painted the same soothing nothing color. You still have to get a pass to go anywhere, even the bathroom. There are cameras in every room. It smells like canned air and bad food and cleaning products. Plus it's full of insane teenagers. There are only two big differences. First off, in the psyche ward we were at least honest about being nuts. Here you have to pretend to be sane. Also, they can't give you Thorazine, instead they use American History 101 as a sedative.
ROGER
"Check the new kid," hisses Ellis, prodding me in the ribs with his long, bony finger. I hate Ellis's fingers. They're like little dull knives, and he's always prodding someone with one.
"Where?" I hiss back, purposefully spattering Ellis with spit so he'll move further away. His breath is ferocious.
"The one with the t-shirt and the hair."
"Gee thanks, man. 'Cause y'know that really narrows it down!"
Ellis roles his eyes. I'm realizing all over again why I can't stand him. I'm also wondering all over again why exactly I hang around with him. "Right there, man!" he points one of his stupid fingers.
Then I see him. And yes, Ellis was right. He is indeed wearing a shirt and he certainly has hair. In fact, he seems to have a surplus. It looks like it's trying to escape or something. It's leaning every which way, toppling over the sides of his head, standing up straight in the back, poised and waiting to jump off his head and make a break for freedom. His shirt is old and faded. It used to be black, but by now it's faded to a dark gray. The Clash is written in cracked pink letters across the front. His shoes look like they're about to fall off his feet. They're Chucks, so they've split along the instep where the rubber meets the fabric. I can see his socks.
I can't really decide if I like him or not. He's got good taste in music, that's for sure, but he looks a little—I don't know, raw I guess. It's like there's nothing between him and the world. There's nothing there to keep him from bumping into things and getting bruises (metaphorically speaking). He looks like the sort of kid who needs a protector.
"He's weird," I whisper, "don't you think?"
"Yeah, there's something....I dunno, off," says Ellis. For a second I'm surprised that he's picked up on it. Then I realize that if Ellis, who has the mental capacity of a yam, can see this kid's vulnerability then everyone else in the entire school can too. He's in serious trouble.
MARK
I am in serious trouble.
It takes me roughly forty minutes to see this. In this time I have had ten spit balls lobbed at me from various points in the room, I've been tripped, someone has thrown a paper ball at my head, and a particularly charming young lady has told me to "Get the fuck out of her seat".
I hate high school. Not this high school, but high school in general. I also hate Sophomore year, and I predict that I will hate junior and senior years just as much.
I decide to skip second period. I need a smoke badly.
I choose the third floor boy's room to wait out Geometry since it's on the Freshman floor so if anyone does come in, they'll be younger and therefore someone I can feel superior to simply because I am one year older.
I light up and lean back against the wall, day dream about Laura. These are—were—her smokes. Cloves. I don't know where she got them, but they're awesome. She gave them to me as a goodbye present. I can see her, still, suspended in the thick hospital light like a photograph. She's folded herself into her favorite chair in the common room, tracing the corduroy valleys with her blunt finger tips. Laura chews her nails something special. Her fingers were always raw and red, the nails gnawed down to the quick. Some days she'd chew so much that her fingers would bleed and I'd let her chew my nails instead. Kyle claimed it was cannibalism, letting her do that.
The day I met her, the first thing I noticed about her were her fingers. Not her eyes, not her hair, not her boobs, her fingers. They looked blind, like stubbed out cigarettes.
And suddenly, I'm looking at them again. Nails chewed down to the quick. Stubbed out, blind fingers. Laura's fingers. But no.....no, they aren't right. They're longer, the knuckles more pronounced. And they taper out at the ends, like someone took a rolling pin and pressed them flat. These are boys hands. Boys hands on the knees of faded jeans, connected to an old blue T-shirt with a boy's head sticking out the top. Longish scraggly brown hair (well brown at the roots, died blond). Strong-ish nose, flat eyebrows, wide mouth. But it's the eyes that get me. They aren't right, they almost seem crooked....not crooked.....just different colors. One blue, one green. They throw his whole face off kilter.
"You gonna smoke that, or just let it burn down?" He asks, grinning at me.
I glance down at the cig, surprised that it's half gone and swear silently. These are good smokes, I shouldn't waste them.
I take a drag in answer.
"Are those Cloves?" he asks, plopping down across from me like he's my best friend.
I nod.
"Can I have one?"
"No fucking way."
He laughs. I expected him to slug me (because he's obviously not a freshy, so he could). But no, he laughs. "Well you're not dumb. I'm Roger." He extends his blind, blunt hand.
"Mark." I shake it.
"You're new."
"Yeah." Well someone's observant.
"Where're you from?" he asks, leaning forward.
"Pittsburgh." Maybe if I don't talk much he'll go away.
"Oh. Like it here?" he presses.
"No." I don't I don't I really don't.
"Oh....me neither." Well he's not a fool.
"Okay, Roger." Go away.
"Okay, Mark. What's your last name?"
Who cares? What's is up with you? "Cohen."
"When's your birthday?"
You're a big freak. "December 12."
"Can I have a smoke?"
Well you've got to admire his perseverance.
"No."
And so having had this scintillating discussion, we sit in silence and ponder it's deeper meanings.
I lean my head back, wish on the flickering light that Laura was here, smelling smokysweet as sandalwood and cigs. Leaning her head on my shoulder and talking nonsence. Wishing on that crack in the bathroom mirror that I was anywhere, anywhere, anywhere but here.
A/N please PLEASE review. Give me opinions/suggestions, anything! Thanks so much!!
Three: Mark/Roger
September 1, 1985
MARK
I wish I could say that if feels great to be back in school after seven months away from the world. I wish I could say that I was just glad to be getting on with my life. Sadly the truth is, school just isn't that different from the psyche ward. It has the same not dim enough to be dim, not bright enough to be bright strip lights flickering in the ceiling. The walls are painted the same soothing nothing color. You still have to get a pass to go anywhere, even the bathroom. There are cameras in every room. It smells like canned air and bad food and cleaning products. Plus it's full of insane teenagers. There are only two big differences. First off, in the psyche ward we were at least honest about being nuts. Here you have to pretend to be sane. Also, they can't give you Thorazine, instead they use American History 101 as a sedative.
ROGER
"Check the new kid," hisses Ellis, prodding me in the ribs with his long, bony finger. I hate Ellis's fingers. They're like little dull knives, and he's always prodding someone with one.
"Where?" I hiss back, purposefully spattering Ellis with spit so he'll move further away. His breath is ferocious.
"The one with the t-shirt and the hair."
"Gee thanks, man. 'Cause y'know that really narrows it down!"
Ellis roles his eyes. I'm realizing all over again why I can't stand him. I'm also wondering all over again why exactly I hang around with him. "Right there, man!" he points one of his stupid fingers.
Then I see him. And yes, Ellis was right. He is indeed wearing a shirt and he certainly has hair. In fact, he seems to have a surplus. It looks like it's trying to escape or something. It's leaning every which way, toppling over the sides of his head, standing up straight in the back, poised and waiting to jump off his head and make a break for freedom. His shirt is old and faded. It used to be black, but by now it's faded to a dark gray. The Clash is written in cracked pink letters across the front. His shoes look like they're about to fall off his feet. They're Chucks, so they've split along the instep where the rubber meets the fabric. I can see his socks.
I can't really decide if I like him or not. He's got good taste in music, that's for sure, but he looks a little—I don't know, raw I guess. It's like there's nothing between him and the world. There's nothing there to keep him from bumping into things and getting bruises (metaphorically speaking). He looks like the sort of kid who needs a protector.
"He's weird," I whisper, "don't you think?"
"Yeah, there's something....I dunno, off," says Ellis. For a second I'm surprised that he's picked up on it. Then I realize that if Ellis, who has the mental capacity of a yam, can see this kid's vulnerability then everyone else in the entire school can too. He's in serious trouble.
MARK
I am in serious trouble.
It takes me roughly forty minutes to see this. In this time I have had ten spit balls lobbed at me from various points in the room, I've been tripped, someone has thrown a paper ball at my head, and a particularly charming young lady has told me to "Get the fuck out of her seat".
I hate high school. Not this high school, but high school in general. I also hate Sophomore year, and I predict that I will hate junior and senior years just as much.
I decide to skip second period. I need a smoke badly.
I choose the third floor boy's room to wait out Geometry since it's on the Freshman floor so if anyone does come in, they'll be younger and therefore someone I can feel superior to simply because I am one year older.
I light up and lean back against the wall, day dream about Laura. These are—were—her smokes. Cloves. I don't know where she got them, but they're awesome. She gave them to me as a goodbye present. I can see her, still, suspended in the thick hospital light like a photograph. She's folded herself into her favorite chair in the common room, tracing the corduroy valleys with her blunt finger tips. Laura chews her nails something special. Her fingers were always raw and red, the nails gnawed down to the quick. Some days she'd chew so much that her fingers would bleed and I'd let her chew my nails instead. Kyle claimed it was cannibalism, letting her do that.
The day I met her, the first thing I noticed about her were her fingers. Not her eyes, not her hair, not her boobs, her fingers. They looked blind, like stubbed out cigarettes.
And suddenly, I'm looking at them again. Nails chewed down to the quick. Stubbed out, blind fingers. Laura's fingers. But no.....no, they aren't right. They're longer, the knuckles more pronounced. And they taper out at the ends, like someone took a rolling pin and pressed them flat. These are boys hands. Boys hands on the knees of faded jeans, connected to an old blue T-shirt with a boy's head sticking out the top. Longish scraggly brown hair (well brown at the roots, died blond). Strong-ish nose, flat eyebrows, wide mouth. But it's the eyes that get me. They aren't right, they almost seem crooked....not crooked.....just different colors. One blue, one green. They throw his whole face off kilter.
"You gonna smoke that, or just let it burn down?" He asks, grinning at me.
I glance down at the cig, surprised that it's half gone and swear silently. These are good smokes, I shouldn't waste them.
I take a drag in answer.
"Are those Cloves?" he asks, plopping down across from me like he's my best friend.
I nod.
"Can I have one?"
"No fucking way."
He laughs. I expected him to slug me (because he's obviously not a freshy, so he could). But no, he laughs. "Well you're not dumb. I'm Roger." He extends his blind, blunt hand.
"Mark." I shake it.
"You're new."
"Yeah." Well someone's observant.
"Where're you from?" he asks, leaning forward.
"Pittsburgh." Maybe if I don't talk much he'll go away.
"Oh. Like it here?" he presses.
"No." I don't I don't I really don't.
"Oh....me neither." Well he's not a fool.
"Okay, Roger." Go away.
"Okay, Mark. What's your last name?"
Who cares? What's is up with you? "Cohen."
"When's your birthday?"
You're a big freak. "December 12."
"Can I have a smoke?"
Well you've got to admire his perseverance.
"No."
And so having had this scintillating discussion, we sit in silence and ponder it's deeper meanings.
I lean my head back, wish on the flickering light that Laura was here, smelling smokysweet as sandalwood and cigs. Leaning her head on my shoulder and talking nonsence. Wishing on that crack in the bathroom mirror that I was anywhere, anywhere, anywhere but here.
A/N please PLEASE review. Give me opinions/suggestions, anything! Thanks so much!!
