Fast Forward; Life in the Gutter
Oct 15, 2014 19:15:22 GMT -8
Post by clouds just clouds on Oct 15, 2014 19:15:22 GMT -8
Before he was seven, he never really understood what acting meant. In fact, it all had been fun and games for him for a long while. His father told him that his mother had been an actor. It aspired Aleksy, not because of his mother, but because he knew that his father had loved his mother, so maybe he would be proud of him, too. The entire concept of acting didn’t really draw upon Aleksy until he was about ten, or maybe twelve. But when he was dropped off at a stranger’s home, he had the beginnings of understanding in what it meant to act, because he acted like everything would be okay when his father walked away. He acted like it wouldn’t be the last time he saw him.
Over the years, he learned how to act by experience. He acted that they had got his birthday right, he acted like he liked the food, and he acted like he didn’t miss his father more than anything. When acting became too much, there was one person that he didn’t have to act around. She kept his life stable, a reality for him because he slowly was becoming who he acted to be, like a second skin he was building for the purpose of hiding, and she was the only one who knew how to pull him out of it.
Still, even over the years, he grew more serious, and it felt as if she grew happier, brighter, and more exciting to make up for his seriousness. She meant the world to him. Except, in his awkward teenage years, he couldn’t admit this. Over the course of eight years, he talked to her about many things, awkward things, girl things, boy things, all things. Crushes. Of course, it happened on accident. His nose was buried in a book, sitting down in the part with her beside him. He spoke quietly to her, reading it aloud for her, when she jabbed her elbow into his ribs and said, “Damn, he’s hot.”
“You shouldn’t swear,” Aleksy murmured as his eyes cast up to catch the eye of the so called “hot” guy. A blush spread his lips and their eye contact stayed until both were forced to look away. “Yeah,” Aleksy’s voice was shaky, which never happened. An actor had to have a strong voice.
“Do… do you like boys?”
Then proceeded to Aleksy vehemently denying this fact, but she had found a way to make him blush, and he finally caved by telling her that he didn’t have a preference. About three years after this occurrence, his adopted parents came to him with a serious face. “You can’t see her anymore.” They both molded into one giant monster.
Of course, Aleksy had tried his best never to defy them, but this was something he couldn’t just give up. His entire world was slowly crashing down around and he searched their eyes. “What?”
“You can’t see her anymore. If you continue, we won’t fund your college education. What would your father think if you chose a good life over a girl?”
The conversation turned into an argument, one that had ended with Aleksy in near tears. In the end, he had no other choice. Between her and his father, he had to choose him.
That was when one of the greatest performances of his entire life called to his attention. It was his most hated one. Like any great performance, the moment built up. He did so perfectly, distancing himself, snapping at her more often. And then it happened, the day he finally cut all those strings and then dug the blades of the scissors deep within his chest and cut his heart out. (Not that he technically had one anymore, it had long since gone silent since he gave it up). “I can’t do this anymore.”
The performance started with those five words. He remembers them crisply, like the first time he kissed someone, and the day his father left him. Annoyance radiated off of him in waves and he slapped away her hand when she tried to catch his arm. He turned to her, filling his gaze with a horrible, icy hatred. He knew because he practiced in the mirror, and he had given the same look to anyone who tried to hurt her. “I can’t do this anymore.” He repeated, clenching his fists at his sides.
“You’re ridiculous. Are you even doing anything with your life anymore?” He spat acid. “I am actually doing something with my life, what are you doing?” Of course, he knew to make this performance perfect, he would have to deal the final blow with exact precision. He was still building the moment, waiting for everything to set in that it was serious.
It wasn’t. Every acidic word he spat to her cut him with deep tearing wounds. Like someone stabbing him with a butter knife. “All you do is party. Do you know how lame that is? You’re not going to be pretty forever.” He gave her a look of disgust that he had once given to a girl that dared to call her a slut. “This isn’t real. Why are you trying to do this?” That’s all he wanted to hear from her. If she had, he would have caved in and fell into tears. He would have explained it all.
Instead, he had to keep twisting the butter knife, “You’re poor, and you’re not even trying. That’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. From the beginning, I tried. But you know what? You’re just like your father.” The final blow was coming, like kicking a man when he’s down, he stepped away from her and shook his head. “I never liked you, I hated you. From the start. I don’t want to deal with you anymore, so, if you kindly could stay out of my life that would be great.”
After that, he didn’t remember much. Pain. He remembered that. But soon he was in college, in bed with a girl. His kisses feverish and needing, except he kept picturing her. Her. The one he had thought he liked, dare he say love, but she was out of reach, untouchable.
Araceli.
He had whispered her name in the midst of making love, and thankfully the girl had thought he had said something in different language.
Fast forward six or so years, to the great fall out, and then skip to a couple weeks later, when Aleksy had been kicked out and left for the streets. When he first saw him, he at first thought it was a joke. “You ruined my life.” Those words were held in anger, but with a tiny inch of hope.
“You ruined it yourself.” Aleksy replied with a snort. If he knew that this man was on the edge, with a weapon, he wouldn’t had antagonized him.
“You said you didn’t love me!” The man cried.
“You had a wife and kids,” Aleksy spat. “What, did you think I was falling for you?!” With coldness, he turned his back to the man and began to walk away.
“You used me.”
If only Aleksy knew how to read a man on his breaking point, the anger that shook his face. Instead, Aleksy didn’t even turn around as he said, “If I used you, you wouldn’t even had known.”
Then he was running. Through the streets, understreet lamps, and he could still hear angry shouts behind him. Fear naked in his eyes as he kept running, and running. And running. At some point or another, something ripped into his leg, causing him to cry out. A huge chunk of his skin hung from his leg, causing nausea to rip through him. For a while more, he limped.
It wasn’t until he found a safe spot to hide that he addressed the wound, feeling dizzy and in pain. By then his partner, Bixpi, found him. For a day, Aleksy had laid in a ball and held his partner, crying silently. Then, he went around for him. He couldn’t walk for long, his leg hurt too much and he was running of clothes to cut for the wound. When he had given up, Bixpi left him.
Shivering, Aleksy laid in an ally, among garbage and cardboards. Alone. He couldn’t find it in him to cry anymore. Instead he waited for death to come upon him. It was then he started thinking about his life and how miserable it had become. In the end he had lost everything. His father. Araceli. Even Bixpi.
Except, little did he know that Bixpi searched for help from the one person he knew would help. Maybe Bixpi found this one person and used distressed calls, hanging on her and pulling on her clothes. The crowned lemur’s eyes were wide with fear as he tried to call for her attention, hoping that she wouldn’t just push him away.
Over the years, he learned how to act by experience. He acted that they had got his birthday right, he acted like he liked the food, and he acted like he didn’t miss his father more than anything. When acting became too much, there was one person that he didn’t have to act around. She kept his life stable, a reality for him because he slowly was becoming who he acted to be, like a second skin he was building for the purpose of hiding, and she was the only one who knew how to pull him out of it.
Still, even over the years, he grew more serious, and it felt as if she grew happier, brighter, and more exciting to make up for his seriousness. She meant the world to him. Except, in his awkward teenage years, he couldn’t admit this. Over the course of eight years, he talked to her about many things, awkward things, girl things, boy things, all things. Crushes. Of course, it happened on accident. His nose was buried in a book, sitting down in the part with her beside him. He spoke quietly to her, reading it aloud for her, when she jabbed her elbow into his ribs and said, “Damn, he’s hot.”
“You shouldn’t swear,” Aleksy murmured as his eyes cast up to catch the eye of the so called “hot” guy. A blush spread his lips and their eye contact stayed until both were forced to look away. “Yeah,” Aleksy’s voice was shaky, which never happened. An actor had to have a strong voice.
“Do… do you like boys?”
Then proceeded to Aleksy vehemently denying this fact, but she had found a way to make him blush, and he finally caved by telling her that he didn’t have a preference. About three years after this occurrence, his adopted parents came to him with a serious face. “You can’t see her anymore.” They both molded into one giant monster.
Of course, Aleksy had tried his best never to defy them, but this was something he couldn’t just give up. His entire world was slowly crashing down around and he searched their eyes. “What?”
“You can’t see her anymore. If you continue, we won’t fund your college education. What would your father think if you chose a good life over a girl?”
The conversation turned into an argument, one that had ended with Aleksy in near tears. In the end, he had no other choice. Between her and his father, he had to choose him.
That was when one of the greatest performances of his entire life called to his attention. It was his most hated one. Like any great performance, the moment built up. He did so perfectly, distancing himself, snapping at her more often. And then it happened, the day he finally cut all those strings and then dug the blades of the scissors deep within his chest and cut his heart out. (Not that he technically had one anymore, it had long since gone silent since he gave it up). “I can’t do this anymore.”
The performance started with those five words. He remembers them crisply, like the first time he kissed someone, and the day his father left him. Annoyance radiated off of him in waves and he slapped away her hand when she tried to catch his arm. He turned to her, filling his gaze with a horrible, icy hatred. He knew because he practiced in the mirror, and he had given the same look to anyone who tried to hurt her. “I can’t do this anymore.” He repeated, clenching his fists at his sides.
“You’re ridiculous. Are you even doing anything with your life anymore?” He spat acid. “I am actually doing something with my life, what are you doing?” Of course, he knew to make this performance perfect, he would have to deal the final blow with exact precision. He was still building the moment, waiting for everything to set in that it was serious.
It wasn’t. Every acidic word he spat to her cut him with deep tearing wounds. Like someone stabbing him with a butter knife. “All you do is party. Do you know how lame that is? You’re not going to be pretty forever.” He gave her a look of disgust that he had once given to a girl that dared to call her a slut. “This isn’t real. Why are you trying to do this?” That’s all he wanted to hear from her. If she had, he would have caved in and fell into tears. He would have explained it all.
Instead, he had to keep twisting the butter knife, “You’re poor, and you’re not even trying. That’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. From the beginning, I tried. But you know what? You’re just like your father.” The final blow was coming, like kicking a man when he’s down, he stepped away from her and shook his head. “I never liked you, I hated you. From the start. I don’t want to deal with you anymore, so, if you kindly could stay out of my life that would be great.”
After that, he didn’t remember much. Pain. He remembered that. But soon he was in college, in bed with a girl. His kisses feverish and needing, except he kept picturing her. Her. The one he had thought he liked, dare he say love, but she was out of reach, untouchable.
Araceli.
He had whispered her name in the midst of making love, and thankfully the girl had thought he had said something in different language.
Fast forward six or so years, to the great fall out, and then skip to a couple weeks later, when Aleksy had been kicked out and left for the streets. When he first saw him, he at first thought it was a joke. “You ruined my life.” Those words were held in anger, but with a tiny inch of hope.
“You ruined it yourself.” Aleksy replied with a snort. If he knew that this man was on the edge, with a weapon, he wouldn’t had antagonized him.
“You said you didn’t love me!” The man cried.
“You had a wife and kids,” Aleksy spat. “What, did you think I was falling for you?!” With coldness, he turned his back to the man and began to walk away.
“You used me.”
If only Aleksy knew how to read a man on his breaking point, the anger that shook his face. Instead, Aleksy didn’t even turn around as he said, “If I used you, you wouldn’t even had known.”
Then he was running. Through the streets, understreet lamps, and he could still hear angry shouts behind him. Fear naked in his eyes as he kept running, and running. And running. At some point or another, something ripped into his leg, causing him to cry out. A huge chunk of his skin hung from his leg, causing nausea to rip through him. For a while more, he limped.
It wasn’t until he found a safe spot to hide that he addressed the wound, feeling dizzy and in pain. By then his partner, Bixpi, found him. For a day, Aleksy had laid in a ball and held his partner, crying silently. Then, he went around for him. He couldn’t walk for long, his leg hurt too much and he was running of clothes to cut for the wound. When he had given up, Bixpi left him.
Shivering, Aleksy laid in an ally, among garbage and cardboards. Alone. He couldn’t find it in him to cry anymore. Instead he waited for death to come upon him. It was then he started thinking about his life and how miserable it had become. In the end he had lost everything. His father. Araceli. Even Bixpi.
Except, little did he know that Bixpi searched for help from the one person he knew would help. Maybe Bixpi found this one person and used distressed calls, hanging on her and pulling on her clothes. The crowned lemur’s eyes were wide with fear as he tried to call for her attention, hoping that she wouldn’t just push him away.
