Okay...

So I know I'm not the easiest person to talk to when I'm depressed.
I know that I turn down everything anyone says,
Or I lash out unnecessarily,
Or I simply refuse to respond if I don't feel like it.
But that's all just a defense mechanism,
Because I don't know how to explain what I feel.
I don't know how to tell you that I'm not happy, when there's no reason I shouldn't be.
I don't know how to ask for you to be supportive or make me feel better, because I don't think that's your job.
So I just sulk and pretend I don't want someone to walk me through it,
But that doesn't mean I don't,
I promise.
So just once... even if I act like it doesn't help...
Can't someone at least ask if I'm going to be okay?  Or if there's anything they can do?  Instead of just saying, "Oh, well, I guess I'll talk to you tomorrow." 
I don't want you to talk to me tomorrow...
I want you to talk to me now...

/emo rant over.

The Forgotten Generation: Chapter Seven

The Forgotten Generation

Chapter Six: A Thug and a Bird 

“I get the uncomfortable feeling he hates me.  I guess it isn’t something unusual that I should be dwelling on.  Who doesn’t hate me?”

--taken from the diary of Shelley Underwood, age 18.

Shelley gave a hesitant, tight-lipped smile to the boy across from her.  He looked like he could easily snap her in two and not give it a second thought.  If she had to describe him in one word, it would be “intimidating,” and she could tell that he knew that.  His arms were crossed over his chest as he slouched in the desk.  She wasn’t sure if he was trying to look intense or apathetic, but whatever it was, he was definitely succeeding. 

“Well.”  Shelley jumped when she heard Mr. Vaughn’s voice, ordering that they, “Talk.”  What was there for Rainer and her to talk about?

“Um—hi, I’m Shelley,” she stammered. 

The guy rolled his shoulders and replied simply, “Rainer.”

"Um... it's nice to meet you," Shelley said politely, or at least as politely as she could manage; Rainer freaked her out, a lot.  She'd never been more nervous to be around someone-- well, except for Mr. Vaughn, that was.  That was a whole different sort of nervousness, however: she was shy around Mr. Vaughn because of her knee-weakening, heart-pounding crush on him, but she was terrified of Rainer because she felt that one wrong step might be the last move she would get to make in this lifetime. 

Rainer swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing.  Shelley was almost surprised that it wasn't as audible as it was visible, with as dramatic as the movement was.  She wondered if everything about this huge guy was this intense.  Thinking back on her earlier first impression, she corrected it: "intimidating" wasn't the perfect word so much as "intense" was.  He was like a typhoon or a forest fire, unstoppable and natural and wild.  She wondered, then, how someone as calm and complacent as Quincy had befriended him.  They were as opposite as night and day, from her perspective; if Rainer was a natural disaster waiting to happen, then Quincy was the earth waiting to be consumed or destroyed.  Their friendship, or relationship if it was more, as she distantly heard Madeline Nelson suggest, didn't seem the sort of unlikely that would be all the stronger for its absurdity; it seemed unlikely because there was no good that could come of it.

Then again, Shelley supposed she had to accept that Quincy knew Rainer better than she did.  If he had faith that the scary thug wouldn't bring him any harm, then she would simply have to have faith in Quincy's judgement.  Besides, if he weren't the type to give everyone a chance-- even the more intimidating and intense ones, such as Rainer, then Shelley didn't think she would have been granted the same courtesy.  It was something she tried not to dwell on, but most of her peers didn't give her a chance to explain or prove herself.  She couldn't bring herself to blame Quincy for being able to see past image (both hers and his) and attempt to be her friend even despite her countless faults.

"So, what's your deal?" Rainer asked eventually.  

"Umm... I don't think I follow.  What do you mean?"

"I mean, why are you here?" Rainer asked, gesturing around them at the classroom.  "Vaughn said something about being out of place or whatever.  I know Park's-- Quincy's," he corrected, realising that he was the only one to call the blond by his middle name, "Reason, and I know why I'm here, so I'm just wondering what's up with you.  How did you piss off everyone?" 

Shelley dropped her eyes.  "I don't think I 'pissed off' everyone," she protested weakly.  "I'm just not very well-liked, I guess...  I don't know if you've noticed, but the others aren't exactly fond of anyone who isn't Madeline-perfect."

Rainer raised an eyebrow.  "You got a problem with the Queen?"

Shelley, for her part, only shrugged.  She didn't have too much of a problem, to be honest.  A part of her was simply jealous.  It never seemed that Madeline worked to look good, with her hair, her makeup, or her body, and yet everyone worshipped the ground that she walked on.  Shouldn't they praise the hard effort someone put into being beautiful, instead of just extolling the virtues of chance and good genes? 

Rainer chuckled.  "You know, I think just about everyone has a problem with her, so don't feel too out of place." 

Shelley's eyes snapped to him.  "You think so?"

"Well, I damn well know I don't like her, and I've got a pretty good feeling Parker ain't all that into her, and it's pretty hard to make an enemy out of him without doing anything.  I mean, just look at us-- he spends all his time with me.  If he can handle my temper, he can handle just about anyone else.  Except that Madeline chick."

Shelley turned in her seat to look at Quincy, only to see Madeline getting up.  Apparently, she was leaving already.  Didn't she understand how lucky she was to have Mr. Vaughn spending his valuable time on her?  Surely he had a family to return to-- she hadn't missed the wedding band that adorned his finger, practically mocking the futility of her crush on a daily basis-- but instead, he was staying after school to help his students, the ones whom no one else would help.  Shelley found that even more endearing than anything else he had done so far...

"Yes, I suppose I may have made that mistake with all of you…  It’s clear you all want to go home, so if you’re ready to leave for the day, I won’t stop you.  But we’re going to have another meeting next Wednesday." 

Shelley offered as bright a smile as she could muster, as the others filtered out of the room.  "Of course, Mr. Vaughn," she replied; it seemed that no one else was willing to give him that courtesy, and she figured that she could be nice.  How else was she going to get on his good side?  Not that she thought she could win him over enough.  She knew that Mr. Vaughn wasn't the type to cheat on his wife, with whom he was probably hopelessly in love.  Still, that didn't stop her from wishing or planning, in her delirious, teenage girl brain.  Some days, hope was the only thing that kept her going.  If she would relinquish that so willingly, then what would she have?  Nothing.

"Are you ready to go home?" 

Shelley jumped a bit, her muddy green eyes looking to the other senior she hadn't even noticed in the room.  She wasn't sure how she had forgotten, seeing as Fayola had gotten the seat that Shelley had been wishing and hoping for.  She tried to fool herself into thinking that choosing her would have been favouritism, although she didn't particularly believe that in the least. Still, it helped to ease the slight disappointment just a little bit.

"Um, yeah, sure," Shelley agreed, with one last wistful glance to her English teacher.  "Goodbye, Mr. Vaughn," she said, trying not to let the adoration seep into her words.  "We'll see you tomorrow!" 

As they began walking, Shelley lingered slightly behind Fayola, her green eyes trained on her figure, even though it was hidden beneath the fabric of a traditional, ethnic dress, the name of which Shelley never quite remembered.  Fayola had told her numerous times what it was, but Shelley had a habit of only remembering things that were close to her heart.  While Fayola was her best friend, and a companion Shelley treasured greatly, the name of whatever garment draped across her was not quite important enough to her.  

Fayola's figure wasn't particularly well-defined, but it wasn't indistinguishable, either.  She was round without being plump, curvy without necessarily being "fat."  She still was on the heavier side compared to girls such as Madeline-- or Shelley, especially-- but it didn't detract from her beauty.  In her old village, as she had again told Shelley time and time again, heavier women were considered to be the most beautiful of all of them.  After all, for a woman to gain weight, she had to eat; being "overweight" was actually a sign of wealth and health, as well as fertility.  Since being in America, food had been easier to come by, and Fayola had gained some weight.  It wasn't enough yet to be unhealthy, but it was enough that some of the students had begun to tease her about her weight.

Shelley actually thought she was quite beautiful, even despite her weight, however.  She would have made a great poster child for the beautiful, ethnic villages that dotted the landscape of Africa.  Not to mention the fact that, although she obviously tried to rein in her pride during school hours to prevent further teasing, Fayola loved her background and where she had come from.  While most kids Shelley had met were more interested in "getting out" of wherever they were, Fayola would have much preferred to stay in the land that she had known her whole life.  It was admirable, in a sense, the patriotism she could have for a place that was often considered "uncivilised" or "savage."

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Fayola asked after a while.

"Hmm?  With Rainer?"

"Yes; he seemed to... be kinder with you."

Shelley pressed her lips together as she thought back.  "Yeah... I guess he was a little bit nicer," she agreed.  "I wouldn't say it was fun, though.  It was pretty awkward...  I don't know how Quincy does it all the time."  She shook her head; Fayola didn't approve of talking bad about anyone, even when they deserved it.  "I guess he wasn't as bad as I thought he was, though."

Fayola's dark brown eyes were soon trained on Shelley.  Was this what Mr. Vaughn had meant?  He had gathered a motley crew of misunderstood individuals who were poorly treated-- regardless of their status in the school, apparently, since even Madeline was there-- and allowed them to interact.  She knew that they had misconceptions of each other already, even while they knew how painful it was to be judged.  Perhaps, as they realised each other had merit beyond what the eye could see, they would be able to understand that they were just as guilty of judging as they were of being judged.

It was a far-fetched thing to hope for, but Fayola found herself siding with Mr. Vaughn.  It would be difficult for them to set aside their differences and to work anything at all out, especially where it came to each other, but maybe in the end it would be worth it.  There was only one way to find out, though, and that was to wait and see how it all played out in the end. 

"Oh," Shelley said suddenly, "This is my stop."  She didn't wait for a response from Fayola before she darted off down another road.  Sighing, Fayola shook her head.  One thing was for certain, though: no one had been wrong in calling Shelley Underwood absent-minded.

Shelley cast her gaze back over her shoulder as she approached a small, abandoned-looking house.  It was overgrown with weeds, and the wooden porch was beginning to rot.  Light grey paint was peeling form the wooden door that still stood guard even after all these years.  It wasn't much, and Shelley hated everything about it, but it was home-- and it was cheap.  Her family couldn't afford anything more.

She scoffed at the idea of that: family.  Ever since her parents had divorced, she had been on her own.  Sure, she lived with her father, but he no longer supported them.  Instead, Shelley had been forced to grow up much too quickly and support the very man who had raised her.

She wondered about that sometimes, though.  The broken shell of a man, the body that so often lay on the couch, unmoving, was not the same man that she remembered once upon a time.  The divorce had thoroughly ruined him.  It had never been explained to her why exactly it was carried out, but she knew that the feelings that it should end were not mutual; when her father was drunk or high (or both), and she was home, he would sob about how much he loved her mother.  Shelley reminded him of her, he would claim, although they couldn't look more different.  Shelley's mother had been tall and beautiful, bold, with pale blonde hair and bright blue eyes; Shelley had received her father's muted colouring, instead, with unremarkable brown hair and dull green eyes.  

Even though she had no real emotional attachments to the man who remained in her house, the first thing she did upon crossing the threshold was search for him.

"Dad!" she called, passing into the living room.  "I'm home!  Are you awake?"

As usual, no response came, and she sighed.  Of course he wasn't awake; he never was, so early in the day.  She toed off her shoes and dropped her bookbag next to them as she continued into the house.  However, when her father wasn't passed out in the bed as she had expected, she felt the slightest ounce of worry manifest.  She peered at the dusty floor, but it was absent of vague, dad-shaped lumps.  Heaving a slightly worried sigh, she looked into the bathroom; a breath of exasperation left her chest.  He couldn't even be trusted to be alone for the time she went to school...  Really, she was simply happy he was dressed.

Shelley walked over to the place where a thin, middle-aged man was curled up, his body leaning against the wall.  His breathing racked his whole body, but she was less worried than relieved at that-- at least he was still breathing.  She knelt down to inspect his sunken face.  Twin lines of blood marked his lips and chin, which was becoming more and more of a frequent occurrence.

"Let's get you cleaned up, then," she whispered to an audience that wouldn't hear her if she screamed.  She grabbed a cloth from the counter, wet it, and started dabbing at his face gently, so as not to disturb his sleep.  She didn't have to see the dark bags under his eyes to know how rare it was for him to get a decent night's sleep; he was probably only unconscious now because he'd finally crashed into the ill-fated low after the high. 

Once she'd wiped away the blood that stained his face, Shelley draped the cloth over the side of the tub and stood back to stare at him.  She was too weak to lift him, even with his rapid weight loss; he would stay in that position until he woke.  No doubt he would leave to get another fix the moment he was conscious...

Shelley left the bathroom shortly to grab a blanket, which she then draped over her father's shoulders.  Even if he was broken, he was still her father.  She was incapable of hating him, no matter how much his bad choices hurt both of them.  In fact, she figured she was more upset with him for hurting himself than she was for hurting her.  After all, she was used to handling the pain that came with everyday living in high school; her father was not, anymore.  He had been at the stage in his life where he thought he had reached his happy ending, only to have the proverbial welcome mat pulled straight out from beneath his feet.  He couldn't be blamed too much for toppling to the ground.

Shelley kissed his forehead, drawing the blanket closer to his ears, and moved to her room.  She had work in an hour, and walking would take at least half that time.  Supporting what little, crumbling remains of family she had left meant working full-time in addition to school.  She was more tired than she had ever been, but she had someone there with her. 

She'd considered leaving before, but she knew that it wouldn't change as much as she hoped.  She would still have to support herself, which meant she would still be working full-time, but she would be alone.  More than that, her father would be alone, and that was too much for Shelley to cope with. 

Instead, she soldiered on, enduring what came her way.  After all, things couldn't get any worse anymore.

The Forgotten Generation: Chapter Six

The Forgotten Generation

Chapter Six: Little Miss Perfect and the Fairy Queen

“Well, of course we didn’t get along at first.  Like, I remember thinking something along the lines of, ‘Of all the people to pair me with, you pick the fruity one?’  I mean, how was I supposed to know?  How were any of us supposed to know?”

--from an interview with Madeline Nelson, aged 17.

Quincy settled down nervously, glancing over his shoulder at Rainer.  He hoped that his best friend didn’t do or say something stupid…  Shelley was an abnormally nice girl, and Quincy thought Rainer might even grow to like her, if only he’d give her the chance to prove herself.  From what Quincy had seen, she wouldn’t be the type to anger or irritate Rainer, and she certainly wouldn’t go out of her way to disagree with him.  Maybe the three of them could even be friends somehow.  He just had to hope that Rainer didn’t ruin any possibility of that friendship by being unnecessarily harsh; Shelley also didn’t seem like she’d take criticism well.  He was sure she got enough of that from the rest of the school.

“Look, are you going to keep staring at your boyfriend, or are you going to talk to me?”

An involuntary blush spread across Quincy’s face as he stuttered, “I—he—er, we’re not—he’s—he’s not my boyfriend…  We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, right,” Madeline said, rolling her eyes, “Like I haven’t heard that one before.  What’s next, you’re just experimenting?”  She crinkled her narrow nose as if the very thought of bringing that up bothered her.  Quincy didn’t think he’d be winning her over any time soon, but he hadn’t expected to.  He’d only heard of her before, but he knew that Madeline Nelson was not an easy person to impress.  Quincy simply had nothing to offer her in any way.  He wasn’t exactly popular or well-liked, or even liked at all…  His parents didn’t have an exorbitant amount of money, and he wasn’t intriguing or exceptionally good-looking.  Madeline didn’t have to know anything about him to know that someone hated him, either; a dark bruise stained his otherwise pale skin, blacking out the freckles that dusted his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.  As far as she was concerned, Quincy was useless to her.

Averting his eyes, Quincy shrugged.  “I’m not experimenting, but… Rainer’s straight as a board.  And even if he wasn’t, he’s not my type.”  Quincy didn’t really get the chance to “go after” much of anyone in his school, but he was far more attracted to kinder, gentler souls.  He didn’t want to walk on eggshells around his significant other; he wanted to be able to open up, heart and soul.  There was no point in trying for anyone he’d spend the entire relationship terrified of. It was bound to end in nothing but misery for both of them—and that included anyone who had anger management issues, even besides Rainer. 

“Whatever you say, fruit.” 

“Quincy,” he interjected.

“I’m sorry?” Madeline replied, her voice rising in pitch with irritation.

“I have a name.  It’s Quincy.”  He shrugged again, a nervous habit, as whatever courage he’d had for the past few seconds faded.  What was he thinking, talking back to Madeline?  Wasn’t she dating Keiden, the very guy who tormented him day after day after day?  This should be the last girl he wanted to have against him; she could make his life even worse than it already was, and that was an accomplishment.  He certainly didn’t want to risk making her an enemy, but what could he do?  She already hated him, so it wasn’t as if his talking out of line had set them off on the wrong foot; his mere existence had been enough to do that.  It didn’t seem that there would be any way to get her on his side…  He ran a shaky hand over his shoulder, as if he could comfort himself with the action; it didn’t work as well as he would have hoped.  “It’s just, most people call each other by their names,” he said. 

He chanced a glance back to the girl, who wasn’t meeting his eyes; her own clear blue eyes were focused plainly on the white tiles beneath their feet.  “You haven’t really called me by mine, either,” she pointed out.  Even while she wasn’t looking at him, he could sense that she was still dominating the conversation; it was almost as if she were merely waiting for him to step out of line, waiting for him to make just the “right” wrong move before she would move into checkmate. 

“You haven’t really given me the chance… and I haven’t gone out of my way to insult you.”

It was Madeline’s turn to shrug this time; she wasn’t used to anyone talking so openly to her.  Granted, he wasn’t talking much, but it was a start.  She couldn’t figure out whether it irritated her or pleased her to hear the truth, or at least as close to it as anyone like her was going to get.  On one hand, the break from the constant compliments that turned out to be bold-faced lies was nice; on the other, any compliment was nice, even if she didn’t always believe them.

“So, where’d you get the bruise?” she asked, her eyes briefly flitting to the dark mark on his face.

“I’d…”  Another nervous shrug.  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that…  I mean, you know, sometimes things just happen…”  Really, though, he just didn’t want to tell Madeline that her boy-toy had spent the better part of an hour tormenting him the day before.  “So… um, Madeline… what now?” Quincy asked, not knowing what else to do as his companion fell silent.  When Rainer went quiet, it was generally understood that not talking was in his best interests; when Madeline stopped talking, he felt that he was supposed to say something, but he didn’t have the slightest clue what that something might have been.  Socialisation wasn’t his strong suit, after all.

The question, however, seemed to startle Madeline out of some faraway world she was visiting, but she didn’t respond verbally yet.  Instead, she reached a manicured hand into her purse, checked the time on her phone, and gingerly climbed out of the desk.  “I have other plans, too,” she said, speaking equally to Mr. Vaughn, Quincy, and herself.  “Mr. Vaughn never mentioned this was going to take much longer than a few minutes.”  That was all she said to excuse herself before she walked out. 

Mr. Vaughn cleared his throat and looked to the remaining four occupants of the room.  “Yes, I suppose I may have made that mistake with all of you…  It’s clear you all want to go home, so if you’re ready to leave for the day, I won’t stop you.  But we’re going to have another meeting next Wednesday,” he reminded, as if the first thing that came to anyone’s mind was when they could torture themselves with this again.

Rainer didn’t want for a second chance; almost immediately, he popped up from his seat, slung an almost-empty book bag over his shoulder, and crossed the few yards to Quincy, where he stood in wait impatiently, head cocked to one side. 

“C’mon, kid, I haven’t got all day.  You want to walk home by yourself, or what?”

“Alright,” was the soft response.  Quincy offered a half-smile, which was usually as wide as he ever smiled, even around his best (and, technically, only) friend.  Still, Rainer knew that he was at least somewhat happy as he stood and draped his bag over his shoulder.  “I guess I’m partner-less, anyway,” he reasoned as he trailed behind Rainer. 

Rainer chuckled.  “Don’t I always tell ya I’m the only one willing to put up with you?” 

That comment made the corners of Quincy’s mouth twitch, although his half-smile didn’t widen.  Rainer was used to it, and he even found it enjoyable that Quincy wasn’t prone to overreacting to humour and jokes; incessant laughter grated on his nerves.  If Quincy didn’t even fully smile, then he didn’t laugh, and that meant he wasn’t irritating… or at least not in that respect.  Luckily, to Rainer, at least, Quincy wasn’t irritating in most respects.  He didn’t make much noise, and he knew how and when to hold his tongue.

As they walked, exiting the building, Rainer continued, “Do me a favour—don’t ever ask me to sit in with you again.” 

Quincy’s half-smile fell, and his eyes dropped to the ground.  “That bad?” he questioned.  “I thought you might like Shelley.” 

Rainer fell eerily silent, which made Quincy quite uncomfortable.  Usually, he knew why Rainer fell silent: he simply didn’t want to talk about something, or he had nothing to say.  In this case, Quincy figured it was the first, but he wasn’t sure what his friend’s reasoning was behind the decision… unless his preconception had been spot-on. 

“So, you did like her?” he pressed.  Rainer had an easier time controlling his anger when it came to Quincy, so he wasn’t too worried about setting him off just yet.  “Then how was it so bad?”

“I never said I liked her.  I mean, hell, she’s even scrawnier and wimpier than you.” 

“But…?”

“But—there’s no but,” Rainer argued.  When Quincy shot him a look that obviously said he was unconvinced, he sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets.  “I guess…  I don’t know.  I just… felt weird, y’know?  I mean, maybe…  Maybe something’s up with Shelley.” 

“Rain, I knew that from the start…  I mean, I’m not going to say that I know what it is, but…”

Rainer shrugged.  “It’s none of my business, or yours, for that matter.  I should just stay out of this at all, I think.  You guys can have your little get-togethers or whatever, but when you’re planning ‘em, lose my number.”

“It really cannot be that bad…”  Quincy frowned.  “Come on, just give it one more try?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“For Shelley?”

“Hell no.”

One of Quincy’s hands wrapped tightly around the strap of his bag, his knuckles turning white.  “For me?” he asked nervously, very nearly pouting. 

Rainer paused.  There was silence for a while, and Quincy figured he was, for once, trying to think of a tactful way to say “fuck off,” but he was surprised when his friend finally opened his mouth.  “Fine, but only because I owe you.”

The half-smile lit up Quincy’s face again.  “I knew you’d come through.”

Madeline was pleasantly surprised to see a familiar, dark blue sports car in her driveway when she arrived home.  She climbed out of her own car and peered at her reflection in the shiny window, fussing with her hair and wiping at the lip gloss at the corners of her mouth.  Her heels clicked against the pavement as she quickly walked to the house and slipped through the door. 

In the kitchen, Anne was politely entertaining (probably more like bothering, knowing the aging housekeeper) a well-built, broad guy clad in a letterman jacket.  At the sound of Madeline entering, both of their heads turned.  Anne’s smile was polite, but the male’s bordered on outright lecherous.  Madeline giggled and moved to drape her arms over his shoulders.  He kissed her deeply in greeting, obviously not caring if Anne saw or not. 

Madeline did, though, and she drew away although her teasing smile remained.  “What do you say we head up to my room?” she murmured. 

He agreed all too quickly, blond head nodding much like a bobble-head toy, and she pulled him out of the chair.  As they disappeared to the second floor, Anne sighed and shook her head, wondering where they had gone wrong with Madeline Nelson.  Little Maddi used to be such a good child, but that was before she reached the age where she really needed a strong parental figure.  Anne did her best, but she couldn’t replace the poor girl’s real, biological and legal parents.  She would forever blame Mr. and Mrs. Nelson for ruining such a sweet, genuine little girl. 

Forty-five minutes later, Madeline had climbed off of her bed, pulled her underwear back on, and wandered into the bathroom.  She didn’t particularly have a need or a desire to fix her hair or makeup, despite how atrocious it looked—she wasn’t quite as vain as she often pretended to be—but it was better than lying in bed and having to actually socialise with someone like Keiden.  He was the sort of guy who wasn’t good for many things, and the things he was good at were very specific: sex, violence, and sports.  He wasn’t the kind of guy she’d take to meet her family… not that they’d even bother to show up if she wanted to introduce them, anyway.

She jerked a little when she saw a naked Keiden in the mirror behind her.  She whirled around, irritated, and snapped, “Would you put that away?  God, have some decency for once, would you?”

Keiden didn’t seem fazed by her rudeness, as he merely held up a little plastic baggy filled with something that looked vaguely illegal. 

“Kei!  What the hell?” she whispered harshly.  “For fuck’s sake, get that out of here!  Shit, if my dad finds out—”

Keiden’s brow furrowed.  “I thought you said he wasn’t home.”

“Ugh, he’s not, but—just—just get rid of it, would you?  Fuck, how stupid are you?”  Madeline pushed past him to go back into her room.  She picked up his boxers off the floor and chucked them at him.  “Get dressed, and get out,” she said, throwing his jeans at him, as well. 

“What’s your problem?  It’s just a little—”

“Just a little what?” she snapped.  “I do a lot of things, but weed isn’t one of them. Now get that shit out of my house.”  Even though he was only holding his bundle of clothing, and still very much naked, she started pushing him out of her room.  He was easily stronger than her, but he didn’t bother resisting much, even when she slammed the door in his face. 

With a laboured huff, Madeline ran a hand through her tangled hair.  No doubt Keiden would be pissed at her for a while, but she didn’t care much about that.  Sure, she misbehaved, but she wasn’t going to get caught doing something that stupid, especially not in her own house.  She really needed to start hanging around smarter guys…

CoH (1)

SOMEONE wanted this.  Blame her.  d:  Also, this is originally written with no chapters or breaks, etc.  So I'm just cutting it off during the timeskip.

The Colour of Hope

Part One

Avian.  Gods, isn’t that a beautiful name?  Such a perfect match for a beautiful person… Avian.  He was… wow.  He is wonderful.  He has beautiful, expressive hazel eyes that resemble the starry night sky with their sparkling depths; they took and take my breath away.  I’ve never been one to be attracted to soft, effeminate men before, but Avian is different.  He is beautiful and gentle and charmingly hesitant.  I loved everything about him from the start—well, everything I know, that is, which admittedly isn’t much.  I know his name, his face, and that he goes to my school but lives off-campus.  Other than that, he is a mystery.

Perhaps I should start from the beginning.  Last week, my best friend and roommate Kael invited me to a party.  Normally I don’t go to parties, and I’d put up quite the argument—I had a portrait due in the coming week that I’d been putting off—but since it was Kael who asked me, I went anyway.  I was pouring back beer by the cup when I saw him.  On the other side of the room, beyond the bumping and grinding of my classmates, he stood, the only other person who looked reasonably wary over the whole ordeal.  His arms were wrapped around himself, and his eyes were on the floor.  I quickly set my generic plastic red cup on the table next to me and worked my way over to him, with all the intentions of fulfilling my overwhelming desire to run my hands through his midnight hair. 

I was suddenly overtaken by the urge to make him move—to make him want to move—to dance.  I wondered if he liked to dance even.  I shook my head and told myself to focus on what I was trying to do—approaching him, that is.  What could I say without sounding crazy or creepy or simply retarded?

“Hi,” a shy voice spoke softly.  I turned my head.  The boy I’d come to speak to had taken the initiative, which rather surprised me.  “I’m Avian.”

I tried to pull off a charming smile.  It’s hard to say whether or not I succeeded.  “I’m Glenn. Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So, uh… do you wanna dance?”

“I’m not really much of a dancer…”

I held out my hand, ignoring his protest.  “C’mon, it’ll be fun.  Promise.”

He hesitantly placed his hand in mine and took a step away from safety.  “Alright,” he said quietly.  I grinned as I led him toward the pulsing, convulsing mass of college students.  His hand gripped mine even more tightly the farther I led him into Gomorrah.

“You okay?” I asked him.  Sure, I may have wanted him to dance, but his knuckles were turning white and my hand was being clenched beneath them.  Clearly there was some reluctance on his part.

“Yeah.”  He said yes, but his body screamed no.  Nevertheless, I turned him toward me and pulled him close.  As we began to dance to the beat of the song, it didn’t take me long to notice that he moved more stiffly than any of my former dance partners.  Not that I’d had many, but the point remains the same.

“Relax, Avian,” I half-shouted to be heard over the music.  “You’re thinking too hard.”  His body was pushing against mine, not flowing and cooperating.  “Just breathe.”

He tilted his head back as if he were frustrated, but I felt him breathe deeply.  The sigh that left his body took with it the majority of his tension as well as his adamant refusal not to let go of his inhibitions, apparently.  The change in his motion was palpable.  He still moved clumsily, but there was a much stronger cooperation on his part.

“So,” I said into his ear so he could hear me, “I haven’t seen you around before.  Do you go here?”  Avian nodded, eyes closed.  I didn’t like his eyes closed; I loved seeing the way the light reflected and refracted in them, the deepest eyes I’d ever seen before.  “What’s your major?”

His eyes opened, slowly and carefully as if he’d planned every exact millimetre to perfection.  “Biology,” he replied quietly.

I quirked an interested eyebrow.  “What is someone like you doing in something like Biology?” I asked.  I’d always thought that as an Art major, I wouldn’t be missing out much on beautiful people.  Apparently I’d been dreadfully wrong.  Who knew the sciences were harbouring a specimen like this?

“What’s yours?” Avian asked, pointedly ignoring my question.  I let it be; I could be patient for him if he needed it.

“Art,” I said.  “More specifically, 2D.  But my favourite is painting.”

“Oh.”  He didn’t say anything else, and I decided not to press anymore.  Instead, I focused on dancing.

I gripped his hips and held him close to me as we shifted and swayed together.  Before long, his hands were on me, too, tracing the seams at the sides of my shirt.  He bent his head forward so that I

could feel his hot breath against my collarbone.

I lost control.  I grabbed his head, taking only a split second to marvel at how his hair slid through my fingers, and kissed him heatedly.  I wanted more of him; I was pressed closer than I thought possible, and I only wanted closer.  Avian’s exploring hands quickly began pushing at my chest until I at last pulled away.

“Stop—don’t come any closer,” he said when I tried to take him to me again.

“Avian, I—”

He held up a hand.  “Just… just stop…”  He pushed past me and for a moment I could do little but stare as he strode away, far away.  How could I let him go, though?  I had to follow, and so I did.

“Avian, wait—” I groaned and tried to push past people so that I could catch up to him, but he was really good at squeezing through minute gaps in the crowd. “Avian!”

He paused suddenly, and I ran into the back of him.  Even if the closeness killed me, I was afraid to step back; he might run away if I gave him that distance.

“Avian, whatever I did, I…”  I trailed off.  What could I possibly say?  I had meant to kiss him—I had meant it—and I had known what I was doing.  What I didn’t understand was why it had upset him so badly.  If he didn’t want it, I’d gladly back off.  Since when was a single kiss the end of the world as one knew it?  And had it really been that bad…?  How embarrassing…  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I finally said, albeit weakly.

“No,” he agreed, “And that’s the problem.  That’s always the problem.”  He didn’t sound like he was talking to me, so I didn’t reply.  Eventually, he murmured, “I have to go.”

As he stepped away, I grabbed his wrist.  “Don’t leave me.”

He spun around, irritation nearly hiding the glimmer of fear in his eyes.  “Don’t leave you?  You hardly even know me!”

“And if you walk away, I never will.”

“I know.  That’s why I’m doing it.”  And with that, Avian tore his arm out of my slackened grip and did exactly what he said he would.  I let him.

The Forgotten Generation: Chapter Five

The Forgotten Generation

Chapter Five:  Fayola's Too Black

“A month has passed since we first arrived in America.  [Grandmother] talks of ‘home’ relentlessly, as if to remind us where we came from; I think she worries that [Nnena] will forget our past.  [Father] keeps saying that one day, things will improve.  That’s good, but I don’t want [Nnena] to forget.  I don’t want to forget.”

--roughly translated, from the diary of Fayola Ihejirika, aged 18.

Fayola was pretty, not that she’d ever say as much of herself.  Dark skin, even darker hair and eyes.  Her father had rejected many requests for marriage from neighbouring suitors back home, despite how unheard of such rejections may have been, because he’d been praying for a better life, even then.  Fayola had become one of the oldest unwed females of the village, still a maiden at eighteen, and many of the villagers had come to look at her as being arrogant.

Here, though, it was very much a different case.  There weren’t many other people like her.  In fact, the town was ninety percent white, and it hadn’t quite gathered that racial profiling wasn’t the best way to go about things; they went about matters in an us versus them manner, more often than not, and the Ihejirika family was a part of the “them.”

Her eyes on the large bathroom mirror, Fayola readjusted the colourful, traditional kanga she wore.  If anything, the dress made her stick out even more, but wearing what the other girls wore sounded uncomfortable and restricting.

“Fay, I have a favour to ask,” Shelley had said, the nervous edge in her voice stronger than usual.

“What is it?”

“Mr. Vaughn asked me to come to this… thing… after school.  He didn’t say much about it, but—well, I thought that… it might be easier, if you’re there, too.”

Fayola had agreed almost immediately; Shelley was too nice for her own good, and others took advantage of that.  Every chance they had, they ripped her to shreds.  If she could prevent that, she gladly would do her best.

Fayola sighed as she thought about that earlier conversation with Shelley.  Something about this meeting made her blood tingle, and she didn’t know why.  It felt… dangerous.  Or perhaps “dangerous” wasn’t the right word, but something in her body felt that it would be life-changing.

Still, a woman’s tongue was not made to lie, and Fayola intended to keep her word.  She finished smoothing the folds from her kanga, and then she headed to Mr. Vaughn’s classroom.

Four students were there already, seated, with varying expressions on their faces: Shelley sat, looking pleased at the boy beside her; the blond boy also looked vaguely happy, in stark contrast to the other two bodies.  An intimidating male with broad shoulders sat hunched over the desktop, drumming his fingers in what was obviously an act of irritation, while a pretty girl had her slender arms crossed over her chest.  When Fayola entered the room, the latter two gave a huff.

“Mr. Vaughn,” the pretty girl said, straightening her spine, “I thought that this meeting was… personal.”

“I apologize for misleading you,” he said pleasantly, and Fayola saw Shelley’s eyes snap to him as she sighed.  “Fayola, if you would like to join us…”  Slowly, Fayola took the invitation, sitting next to the irritated boy. 

“Mr. Vaughn, if you don’t mind my asking… why are we all here?”

“Good question.  With the exception of you and Octavian—”

“It’s Rainer,” he objected.

“Right, Rainer—I had noticed that some of my students were feeling a little… out of place.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Octavian—it’s Rainer—said, “This is high school.  ‘Out of place’ is going around.  And that sure as hell don’t explain what Miss Bitch is in here for,” he added, gesturing toward the pretty girl, who shrugged in response.

“You’d be surprised how much the five of you have in common.”

“Alright,” Rainer admitted, “We all hate each other.  That’s about as close as we’re gonna get to being similar.”

“I don’t,” the blond said quietly. 

“I don’t, either,” Fayola agreed.

“Yes, well, I do,” the pretty girl said.

“Madeline,” Mr. Vaughn chastised.

“What?  I do!  They’re all losers and freaks.”

Slamming his hands on the desk, Rainer stood.  “Don’t you even start, you slut,” he said angrily, his face quickly reddening.  “If anyone here’s a loser or a freak, you’re damn well included.”

“Now now,” Mr. Vaughn interjected, “Rainer, Madeline.  There are better ways to socialize than insults.”

“Oh, fuck this,” Madeline breathed.  “I’m out.”

“Then so is your grade.”

Madeline paused, and Fayola could tell from her seat that the girl was gritting her teeth.  “Fine,” she said after a while.  “What do you want me to do.”  It should have been a question, but it wasn’t, at least from what Fayola heard.

“Get along.  It’s that simple.  I’ll split you into pairs.  I suppose since there’s an odd number, the odd one out will sit with me…”  Fayola cast her eyes to Shelley, knowing that the girl was praying to be that ‘odd one out,’ with that absurd crush she’d developed on him.  “Let’s see…”  He looked around the room, apparently making the connections in his brain.  “We’ll have Madeline and Quincy together, and… Rainer and Shelley.  Alright, move together, then,” he said. 

Fayola blinked.  So then she was the odd one out.  Well, she supposed that wasn’t altogether unusual.  Shelley caught her eye, a nervous look apparent in the girl’s muddy green eyes, but Fayola wasn’t going to be tempted to question authority, whether they were officially in class or not.  Instead, she followed Mr. Vaughn to his desk as the reluctant sound of metal scraping against linoleum filled the room.

Silence soon reigned.  The pairs didn’t even seem to look at each other.

“Well.  Talk,” Mr. Vaughn said.  A moment passed before a light murmur filled the room. 

“Mr. Vaughn, I… don’t think I understand,” Fayola admitted.

“You will,” he assured.  “One day.”

The Forgotten Generation: Chapter Four

I'll admit I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter. Octavian's characterization is just a little off, and I didn't get to touch on how he's perceived as much as I'd have liked, but that also is because Quincy addressed it earlier... I don't know. Hopefully I'll fix it in the editing process. XDD

The Forgotten Generation
Chapter Four: Octavian's a Thug

“People make me angry. I’m not going to bottle up my emotions for the sake of someone’s feelings or their pretty faces. They should know that. If they piss me off, they’re going to know it, and they’re going to feel it. But that doesn’t make me some common street thug. I’m not some mugger, or some gangster. I’ve got a cause every time I get into a fight.”

--transcribed from a recording of Octavian Thornton, aged 17, during a psychiatrist visit.

Nearly a week passed after the diner incident, and Octavian—who liked to be referred to by his middle name, Rainer—had returned to school, much to the chagrin of the disciplinary department. Many students with his track record for trouble would have long ago been expelled, but he was what the other students called a “charity case.” That was funny, he thought to himself sometimes, seeing as they didn’t actually know what his so-called problems were.

Well… not most of them, anyway, he rectified this particular day, casting a glance to a silent Quincy who sat next to him. He had never meant for anyone to discover that part of him.

Rainer had arrived home early, having been suspended from school again. He’d slammed his backpack on the floor, a part of him relishing the loud noise it made in his otherwise silent home, and stomped through the house.

“Anyone home?” he’d shouted, although he already knew the answer. After a moment, he’d muttered something about thinking that was the case, and then he’d stormed off to his room, shoving a book to the floor on his way.

He’d spent the majority of his day off napping or practicing his aim with paper wads. Not quite an hour after school, however, he had heard a knock on the door.

Of all people, it had been a student a year younger than he was, a student to whom he’d never spoken before.

“The hell do you want?” Rainer had asked, leaning against his doorframe.

“This is where you live…?”

“Now, let’s get one thing straight; I won’t have you—”

“No, it’s—it’s fine—I only thought… well, Mr. Vaughn asked me to give this to you,” the boy had replied, handing him a stack of papers.

Rainer had only stared at them for a long time. “Why you?”

“W-well, I live a few blocks down the road… I walk home, so I’d be passing by, anyway, and...”

Eventually, Rainer snatched the papers from his hands. “What’s your name, kid?”

“…Quincy…”

“Call me Rainer.”

“Do I have something on my face…?” Quincy asked, wiping self-consciously at his cheek.

“Nah, I was just thinking.”

Quincy hummed in response, taking a bite of his turkey sandwich. He had a habit of covering his mouth with his free hand, and even when he didn’t, the hand never seemed to leave his face. It was a nervous habit he had that Rainer couldn’t say he found altogether irritating, unlike many habits many people had.

“Should I bother asking?” Quincy asked, pushing half of his sandwich to Rainer.

Rainer shrugged and took a large bite of the sandwich. “Prob’ly not,” he replied; his voice was garbled due to the food in it, and he saw Quincy make a face at the display.

They ate in companionable silence. Most of their lunches passed this way. Rainer wasn’t one for conversation, and he knew that Quincy knew what to say about as much as he did.

It felt unfair, sometimes, that Quincy should be his best friend. Of all the people…

“Hey, what are you doing after school?” Quincy asked out of the blue.

“Uhh… can’t say I’ve got plans. Why, what’s up?”

“Well, there’s this… thing… after school that Mr. Vaughn wants me to go to. I think maybe… you should come, too?”

“I don’t do your stupid study groups,” Rainer said firmly.

“It’s not a study group. It’s… more of… a support group.”

“I don’t need a support group, Quin.”

“No, but maybe I do!”

Rainer fell silent, avoiding Quincy’s eyes. With the exception of perhaps his mother, Quincy was the only person Rainer ever had trouble telling no. “Fine,” he grumbled, biting into the sandwich again. “But just this once.”

He didn’t have to look up to feel Quincy’s soft smile. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, well, mention it to anyone, and you’ll end up in the hospital.”

“I’d expect no less.”

Rainer couldn’t say with any amount of honesty that he was looking forward to the impromptu afterschool gathering. Truthfully, if it were anyone other than Quincy, he would have shown them exactly where they could shove their little invitation. Actually, he probably would have slammed his fist into their face or his knee into their gut before they’d even managed to get out the first three words. It wasn’t so much that Rainer was antisocial as it was that he hated everyone. Quincy simply happened to fall into a very rare category of people Rainer didn’t consider “people.”

To Rainer, any nameless face was always in need of a good beating. Anything anyone did could set him off. He’d been told he had anger issues that needed work, and if the suggestion didn’t piss him off so much, he’d be inclined to agree.

“I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you’re thinking,” Quincy tried to tell him as they walked.

“Quin, other irritating, weak and helpless people are going to be there. Why did you even fucking invite me?”

Quincy shrugged. “I don’t know… Do you want to leave? You don’t have to stay…”

“Damn straight I don’t have to,” Rainer muttered. Still, he sighed. When Quincy looked like a disappointed puppy, he really had a hard time saying no. Frankly, it made him angry, but that didn’t mean he was any more likely to turn Quincy down. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Rainer could tell that Quincy was fighting not to beam. In response, he only glared as Quincy wrestled open the classroom door and slipped in.

“Oh, hell no,” Rainer said immediately upon walking in. What the hell sort of support group was this? “I ain’t sittin’ in the same room as Miss Queen Bitch and that cracked-out whore.”

Quincy shot him a dark look, and Rainer couldn’t help but be taken aback as his best friend sat next to the “cracked-out whore,” quietly telling her something or other. Were they seriously friends? When the hell had this happened? Had he walked into some Insecure Losers Anonymous meeting, and they hadn’t told him? And if so, why the hell was the leader of the Bitch Squad here?

Rainer loudly flopped into the desk on the other side of Quincy, slamming his textbook on the top.

“I told you that you don’t have to say,” Quincy pointed out.

“Someone has to walk your pansy ass home.”

Rainer chanced a glance at the smile threatening to form on Quincy’s face, and he gave Quincy a stern look. This wasn’t one of their cute little luncheons. This was a classroom where they were surrounded by other people, and it was a battlefield. Rainer would be killed before he’d take off his game face.