Secrets of the Unfaithful {2}

Note: Everyone might want to read the first chapter to understand what is going on. All reviews are excepted and wanted. Also, if you haven't noticed, the italicized passages are for the soldier and the passages not italicized are for a different character. The soldier is in the past and the character, Laura, is in the future. Enjoy!

~Angel




Secrets of the Unfaithful
By Angel of Death


Chapter 2

"This should warm you up." The man, whose name I now knew was John, set a cup of tea down in front of me. Smoke spiraled out of the hot amber liquid, caressing my nose with its rich, sweet smell.
"Thank you," I said, bringing the cup to my lips. John nodded and then took a seat across from me. We were in the kitchen and Nate was curled up on the couch in the living room. Everything looked like it did years ago. The same off-white curtains hung in the windows of all the rooms downstairs. All of the furniture looked as if it were frozen in time. As if after everyone left, it was untouched. Dust was building up on the surfaces of tables and bookcases. Books and vases looked like they were forgotten about. The flowers were wilting and turning a dead brown. Painting that used to decorate the walls, were now gone and the walls were now a dreadful white. They looked gray when the lights were turned off, and even when they were on, the room still looked bland. No words passed between the two. The only sounds that were audible was the crackling of the flames licking and the firewood. John had lit it and let me warm my hands by it for a moment, before we came in her. I hadn't asked him any questions, but they swam around in my mind, waiting to break free. Who was he to my father and what was he doing here? Did he know about my past? To keep the uneasiness writhing in my stomach from hurting me, I focused on the cream that whirled around in the tea. It made little golden snow angels that slowly disappeared the longer I stared at them.
"What brings you two this way?" John asked, making me jump. The cup mocked my actions and a drop of liquid fell to the table.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." he said, softly. Grabbing a rag, John wiped up the little mess and then sat down. His eyes rested on my face, waiting for me to answer his question.
"I...we don't have nowhere else to go. To be honest with you." I blushed, looking down.
"You know, your father talked about you a lot before..." he started, his eyes widening. I looked up at him. My father talked about me? So John knew all this time and he was just being overly curious. That was the reason for his generosity. I didn't know whether to be scared or shocked. The day my father had found out what I had done he called me every name he could think of and kicked me out of the house.
"You are not my daughter anymore. I will live as if you were never born." he had said. I could still remember the cold look on his face. It turned his deep green eyes into startling black orbs that matched the anger curling in his lips. He looked at me as if he were at war, and I was the enemy. As if I were not a human being, but a monster with sins for a body. And John would look at me the same way, if I gave him the chance. I stood up from my chair, and walked out of the room, deciding not to give him that chance.
Tears were burning in my eyes as I looked down at m y sleeping angel. His soft, chubby cheeks were pink and kissable. Those curls that I would die for, rested neatly around his face and he looked so peaceful. I could not wake him up, but we were not welcome here. Everyone around here probably knew of Father Hawthorne's sinning daughter. They would probably spat and shake their heads when they saw me. As I bent over and picked Nate up, the tears fell like rain on a fall afternoon.
"What's...wrong, momma?" he asked, yawning.
"Nothing, baby. We're just going on a trip, is all." I replied, kissing him on his cheek.
"Where are we going to go? And why are you crying?"
"It's nothing, mommy is okay. We're going to go to a place where you can sleep in a bed and eat pancakes for breakfast, hows that sound?"
"But I like it here." The faltering hope in his eyes made my heart break in two. I have let him down once again and now I was lying to him. His whole life was built up of lies and when he was old enough to understand, I would be too scared to tell him the truth. Scared that he would hate me, like everyone else did.
"You're not going anywhere in this weather. At least not tonight." John walked into the room, his eyes frowning. There was not one bit of disgust on his face. He just looked at me with a gaze that made me think that he felt sorry for me. It made me think that he did not know what had happened.

^

They brought in another wounded soldier and placed him in Simon's cot. The sheets were new and the pillows had been changed but death still lived there. It whispered promises to me at night when I slept.
"You're next, Marshall."
His name was George Mitchell and he was from Alabama. His skin was as dark as coffee with no cream. It was a beautiful, lively color and was different from the pale, green faces that surrounded me. Unlike Simon, he was quiet and on occasion, he'd look at me and quickly turn away. I could see the scars on his face. They were fresh and oozed strawberry jam. Nurses should have been came to bandage those up. They would get infected if they were not tended to. His right leg was missing and there was blood stain where the wound was. No one had come to change his dressings. I wasn't one for making small-talk, but the silence was killing me.
"I'm Marshall," I said, looking over at George. His eyes were closes and when I talked, they fluttered and then fell again.
"My...name...is...Marshall," I sounded out phonetically. George didn't stir. He was so still that I thought he was dead.
"I heard you the first time," he whispered. His voice was like sandpaper, rough and scratchy. It slipped through his lips like water and hung in the air.
"Then why didn't you answer?" I felt like I was talking to myself."
"Well I thought I was dreaming." George replied, chuckling.
"I don't know how you could dream this up. You must have a vivid imagination."
From then on, we talked about what had happened to us. A bomb had hit one of their barracks and his squadron either died of infection or bled to death. A couple of soldiers found him unconscious and brought him here. People gave him funny looks when he was wheeled in.
"This war is so divided, its not even funny. We're all fighting for the same reasons, but yet we can't share the same infirmaries. They'll ship me out by tomorrow, though. I thank God for his watching over me. If them soldiers never found me, I wouldn't be talking to you now."
"You got lucky, is all. God couldn't care less if you lived or died. He's heartless."
George looked at me and smiled. Then a laugh as smooth as butter leaked out of his mouth.
"I ran into a lot of people like you."
"What do you mean?"
"You're an atheist."
Nodding, I met his gaze. His lips were still open, signaling that was not finished talking. I waited for disapproval or disgust to wash over his face but his features remained blank.
"You know, a lot of soldiers say they're atheists. They put down God's name and say he's heartless and evil. But really, if you didn't believe in God, you wouldn't talk about him."
George's words stung. Could I believe in God, my supposed creator, the ultimate being? I really never thought that He didn't exist, I just gave up on the thought of His existence. From what people have said, He is a God who punishes sinners, unless they repent. Well the time for repenting had passed long ago, and I would punish Him before he deemed me a sinner is his eyes.

^

"You can sleep in here, if you want. I'll just take the couch." John turned on the light to reveal a room that was not in my childhood. It was the first room at the top of the stairs, my parent's room. But it looked different. The white lace curtains and the gray-blue walls were gone. All of the furniture have been replaced with two cots, a dresser, and a radio on a nightstand. Frowning, I placed Nate on one and turned to look at John. He was a handsome man. His brown hair was cut to his head and he had a nose that was positioned perfectly with his strong jaw and thin pink lips. There was a scar above his eyebrow that looked like a crescent. My cheeks caught fire when I realized I was staring at him.
"Is there anything else that you need?" he asked, softly.
"No, I don't want to burden you. Thank you." I replied, smiling. John smiled back with an even bigger grin. The ties in my stomach started to untangle, but there were still some things that needed to be cleared up. A yawn broke free from my lips before I could ask him if we could talk. Thinking that I was tired, John took one last look at the room and then at me.
"Good night, Miss Hawthorne." he said.
"Its Laura and good night to you too." John nodded and then turned to walk down the steps. It felt wrong sleeping in a room that my parents never let me come in. Where had all their stuff gone too and more importantly, what happened to my father? Laying down in the cot beside Nathaniel, I stared up at the ceiling searching for just one piece of my parents. There, above the door, shining in all its bronze glory, was the crucifix that my mother bought. She had hung one in all the bedrooms, So that the Lord could watch over us as we sleep As I stared up at it, I prayed that tomorrow would be a better day.

^

The day was bright and beautiful outside. I could hear birds chirping and I could see insects flying pass the window. It was quieter than usual, except for the occasional moans and groans by other patients. Lucy would be around in time to feed me breakfast along with that large grin that rested under her nose. George was probably taken away in my sleep. The last thing I remembered talking to him about, before I drifted off to sleep, was his family. He had two sisters and a son named, Henry. His wife was expecting another one and he was sad that he wasn't going to make it back home. There was a smart man. Instead of hoping and praying, he used his fear to build up his strength. I told him that one of these days, we'd get together and have a few beers. We'd sit around talking about the war days and all that we saw and then we'd get mad drunk and rant about anything.
"You believe," he had whispered.
"Shut the fuck up," I replied, closing my eyes.
I'd give anything to trade Lucy in for George. He wasn't all butterflies and rainbows. Women. They always had to see the good in things. And that was exactly why they couldn't fight in a war. Though they made good lovers and friends, they were also God's lump of coal to man. How they made you do things...
Lucy came walking up to my cot, just like I pictured her. That red hair of hers was pinned up real nice and her uniform was white and neatly ironed. In her hands she held something other than my breakfast. Thank goodness. I was getting sick of the mushy oatmeal they fed us.
"Pancakes and sausages!" she exclaimed, sitting down.
"If I had arms, I'd seriously slap you." I hated the way she talked to me as if I were baby. Just because I was handicapped and a soldier, didn't mean I wasn't a man anymore. My feelings would have been made known if she didn't frown. I hated it so when she frowned. It was the sun not shining. Sighing, I apologized and opened my mouth. She laughed at this and fed me forkful by forkful of dry cornbread pancakes and crusty pork.
"This taste like..." I started, forcing more down.
"Hey, watch it."
"I can't help if I'm an opinionated man." Lucy smirked at this, and then wiped my mouth. Placing the tray on the empty cot, she pulled out a notebook and looked at me.
"What's that gleam in your eye for?" I asked, curiously.
"I'm writing a book."
"This should be interesting,"
"Yes, I know. You are interesting."
My eyes widened, knowing exactly what her book was about. It was about me. I knew the girl couldn't be trusted. But I was safe, she didn't know enough about me to write a book. Relaxing, I looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
"Yesterday, I decided I wanted to write a book to make the time go by in this dreadful war. It's not like I'll really publish it or anything, its just that I wanted to know what your life was like before this war.You're so mysterious and..." She stopped talking, which was good for me because I could tell my face was turning pink. This was embarrassing. If only she knew the life of Marshall Green. Heck, if only she lived it. Then, we wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation.
"So what do you say?" she continued, her voice full of hope. I didn't know what to say. To be honest, it would be nice to have someone listen for a change. To have someone unbiased to look at the situation. And God wasn't going to listen anytime soon, so I nodded 'yes'.
"Great. When shall I start the interviewing."
"Come back at lunch. I need my rest."

Yay, I'm the first reply! Okay, so I have a question that I was thinking about a lot: Do you read war stories? You made this story seem very realistic and truthful. I could tell it was straight from the heart and now I'm really starting to get attached. What inspired you to write this? Your idea is just so fresh and unique. Okay, I should probably get to editing.

"This should warm you up." The man, whose name I now knew was John, set a cup of tea down in front of me. Smoke spiraled out of the hot amber liquid, caressing my nose with its rich, sweet smell.
"Thank you," I said, bringing the cup to my lips. John nodded and then took a seat across from me. We were in the kitchen and Nate was curled up on the couch in the living room. Everything looked like it did years ago. The same off-white curtains hung in the windows of all the rooms downstairs. All of the furniture looked as if it were frozen in time. As if after everyone left, it was untouched. Dust was building up on the surfaces of tables and bookcases. Books and vases looked like they were forgotten about. The flowers were wilting and turning a dead brown. Painting that used to decorate the walls, were now gone and the walls were now a dreadful white. They looked gray when the lights were turned off, and even when they were on, the room still looked bland. No words passed between the two. The only sounds that were audible was the crackling of the flames licking and the firewood. John had lit it and let me warm my hands by it for a moment, before we came in her. I hadn't asked him any questions, but they swam around in my mind, waiting to break free. Who was he to my father and what was he doing here? Did he know about my past? To keep the uneasiness writhing in my stomach from hurting me, I focused on the cream that whirled around in the tea. It made little golden snow angels that slowly disappeared the longer I stared at them.
"What brings you two this way?" John asked, making me jump. The cup mocked my actions and a drop of liquid fell to the table.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." he said, softly. Grabbing a rag, John wiped up the little mess and then sat down. His eyes rested on my face, waiting for me to answer his question.
"I...we don't have nowhere else to go. To be honest with you." I blushed, looking down.
"You know, your father talked about you a lot before..." he started, his eyes widening. I looked up at him. My father talked about me? So John knew all this time and he was just being overly curious. That was the reason for his generosity. I didn't know whether to be scared or shocked. The day my father had found out what I had done he called me every name he could think of and kicked me out of the house.
"You are not my daughter anymore. I will live as if you were never born." he had said. I could still remember the cold look on his face. It turned his deep green eyes into startling black orbs that matched the anger curling in his lips. He looked at me as if he were at war, and I was the enemy. As if I were not a human being, but a monster with sins for a body. And John would look at me the same way, if I gave him the chance. I stood up from my chair, and walked out of the room, deciding not to give him that chance.
Tears were burning in my eyes as I looked down at m y sleeping angel. His soft, chubby cheeks were pink and kissable. Those curls that I would die for, rested neatly around his face and he looked so peaceful. I could not wake him up, but we were not welcome here. Everyone around here probably knew of Father Hawthorne's sinning daughter. They would probably spat and shake their heads when they saw me. As I bent over and picked Nate up, the tears fell like rain on a fall afternoon.
"What's...wrong, momma?" he asked, yawning.
"Nothing, baby. We're just going on a trip, is all." I replied, kissing him on his cheek.
"Where are we going to go? And why are you crying?"
"It's nothing, mommy is okay. We're going to go to a place where you can sleep in a bed and eat pancakes for breakfast, hows that sound?"
"But I like it here." The faltering hope in his eyes made my heart break in two. I have let him down once again and now I was lying to him. His whole life was built up of lies and when he was old enough to understand, I would be too scared to tell him the truth. Scared that he would hate me, like everyone else did.
"You're not going anywhere in this weather. At least not tonight." John walked into the room, his eyes frowning. There was not one bit of disgust on his face. He just looked at me with a gaze that made me think that he felt sorry for me. It made me think that he did not know what had happened.

^

They brought in another wounded soldier and placed him in Simon's cot. The sheets were new and the pillows had been changed but death still lived there. It whispered promises to me at night when I slept.
"You're next, Marshall."
His name was George Mitchell and he was from Alabama. His skin was as dark as coffee with no cream. It was a beautiful, lively color and was different from the pale, green faces that surrounded me. Unlike Simon, he was quiet and on occasion, he'd look at me and quickly turn away. I could see the scars on his face. They were fresh and oozed strawberry jam. Nurses should have been came to bandage those up. They would get infected if they were not tended to. His right leg was missing and there was blood stain where the wound was. No one had come to change his dressings. I wasn't one for making small-talk, but the silence was killing me.
"I'm Marshall," I said, looking over at George. His eyes were closes and when I talked, they fluttered and then fell again.
"My...name...is...Marshall," I sounded out phonetically. George didn't stir. He was so still that I thought he was dead.
"I heard you the first time," he whispered. His voice was like sandpaper, rough and scratchy. It slipped through his lips like water and hung in the air.
"Then why didn't you answer?" I felt like I was talking to myself."
"Well I thought I was dreaming." George replied, chuckling.
"I don't know how you could dream this up. You must have a vivid imagination."
From then on, we talked about what had happened to us. A bomb had hit one of their barracks and his squadron either died of infection or bled to death. A couple of soldiers found him unconscious and brought him here. People gave him funny looks when he was wheeled in.
"This war is so divided, its not even funny. We're all fighting for the same reasons, but yet we can't share the same infirmaries. They'll ship me out by tomorrow, though. I thank God for his watching over me. If them soldiers never found me, I wouldn't be talking to you now."
"You got lucky, is all. God couldn't care less if you lived or died. He's heartless."
George looked at me and smiled. Then a laugh as smooth as butter leaked out of his mouth.
"I ran into a lot of people like you."
"What do you mean?"
"You're an atheist."
Nodding, I met his gaze. His lips were still open, signaling that was not finished talking. I waited for disapproval or disgust to wash over his face but his features remained blank.
"You know, a lot of soldiers say they're atheists. They put down God's name and say he's heartless and evil. But really, if you didn't believe in God, you wouldn't talk about him."
George's words stung. Could I believe in God, my supposed creator, the ultimate being? I really never thought that He didn't exist, I just gave up on the thought of His existence. From what people have said, He is a God who punishes sinners, unless they repent. Well the time for repenting had passed long ago, and I would punish Him before he deemed me a sinner is his eyes.

^

"You can sleep in here, if you want. I'll just take the couch." John turned on the light to reveal a room that was not in my childhood. It was the first room at the top of the stairs, my parent's room. But it looked different. The white lace curtains and the gray-blue walls were gone. All of the furniture have been replaced with two cots, a dresser, and a radio on a nightstand. Frowning, I placed Nate on one and turned to look at John. He was a handsome man. His brown hair was cut to his head and he had a nose that was positioned perfectly with his strong jaw and thin pink lips. There was a scar above his eyebrow that looked like a crescent. My cheeks caught fire when I realized I was staring at him.
"Is there anything else that you need?" he asked, softly.
"No, I don't want to burden you. Thank you." I replied, smiling. John smiled back with an even bigger grin. The ties in my stomach started to untangle, but there were still some things that needed to be cleared up. A yawn broke free from my lips before I could ask him if we could talk. Thinking that I was tired, John took one last look at the room and then at me.
"Good night, Miss Hawthorne." he said.
"Its Laura and good night to you too." John nodded and then turned to walk down the steps. It felt wrong sleeping in a room that my parents never let me come in. Where had all their stuff gone too and more importantly, what happened to my father? Laying down in the cot beside Nathaniel, I stared up at the ceiling searching for just one piece of my parents. There, above the door, shining in all its bronze glory, was the crucifix that my mother bought. She had hung one in all the bedrooms, So that the Lord could watch over us as we sleep As I stared up at it, I prayed that tomorrow would be a better day.

^

The day was bright and beautiful outside. I could hear birds chirping and I could see insects flying pass the window. It was quieter than usual, except for the occasional moans and groans by other patients. Lucy would be around in time to feed me breakfast along with that large grin that rested under her nose. George was probably taken away in my sleep. The last thing I remembered talking to him about, before I drifted off to sleep, was his family. He had two sisters and a son named, Henry. His wife was expecting another one and he was sad that he wasn't going to make it back home. There was a smart man. Instead of hoping and praying, he used his fear to build up his strength. I told him that one of these days, we'd get together and have a few beers. We'd sit around talking about the war days and all that we saw and then we'd get mad drunk and rant about anything.
"You believe," he had whispered.
"Shut the fuck up," I replied, closing my eyes.
I'd give anything to trade Lucy in for George. He wasn't all butterflies and rainbows. Women. They always had to see the good in things. And that was exactly why they couldn't fight in a war. Though they made good lovers and friends, they were also God's lump of coal to man. How they made you do things...
Lucy came walking up to my cot, just like I pictured her. That red hair of hers was pinned up real nice and her uniform was white and neatly ironed. In her hands she held something other than my breakfast. Thank goodness. I was getting sick of the mushy oatmeal they fed us.
"Pancakes and sausages!" she exclaimed, sitting down.
"If I had arms, I'd seriously slap you." I hated the way she talked to me as if I were baby. Just because I was handicapped and a soldier, didn't mean I wasn't a man anymore. My feelings would have been made known if she didn't frown. I hated it so when she frowned. It was the sun not shining. Sighing, I apologized and opened my mouth. She laughed at this and fed me forkful by forkful of dry cornbread pancakes and crusty pork.
"This taste like..." I started, forcing more down.
"Hey, watch it."
"I can't help if I'm an opinionated man." Lucy smirked at this, and then wiped my mouth. Placing the tray on the empty cot, she pulled out a notebook and looked at me.
"What's that gleam in your eye for?" I asked, curiously.
"I'm writing a book."
"This should be interesting,"
"Yes, I know. You are interesting."
My eyes widened, knowing exactly what her book was about. It was about me. I knew the girl couldn't be trusted. But I was safe, she didn't know enough about me to write a book. Relaxing, I looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
"Yesterday, I decided I wanted to write a book to make the time go by in this dreadful war. It's not like I'll really publish it or anything, its just that I wanted to know what your life was like before this war.You're so mysterious and..." She stopped talking, which was good for me because I could tell my face was turning pink. This was embarrassing. If only she knew the life of Marshall Green. Heck, if only she lived it. Then, we wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation.
"So what do you say?" she continued, her voice full of hope. I didn't know what to say. To be honest, it would be nice to have someone listen for a change. To have someone unbiased to look at the situation. And God wasn't going to listen anytime soon, so I nodded 'yes'.
"Great. When shall I start the interviewing."
"Come back at lunch. I need my rest."

Yay, I'm the first reply! Okay, so I have a question that I was thinking about a lot: Do you read war stories? You made this story seem very realistic and truthful. I could tell it was straight from the heart and now I'm really starting to get attached. What inspired you to write this? Your idea is just so fresh and unique. Okay, I am going to really edit this later.

I'm not going to nitpick, but I'm really curious - do you want us to despise Marshall? Because I sure as heck do. He's a whiny, snappy, somewhat slow guy with such a pessimistic outlook I just want to slap him. Isn't there any redeeming quality to him?

Oh, and another thing... in one part, you said Lucy had green eyes, and in the next one, you said brown. Maybe, make up your mind?

Anyways, it's not bad - interesting storyline for sure. Just try not to fall into stereotypes, with the whole 'Wawawah, God isn't listening, he hates me, call the waaaaaaaaa-ambulance!'

Good luck! From me, anyhow.

-SELA

Hi Angel! Here's my review for part two!

I couldn't find any glaring errors in it, this is a solid chapter. I'm still interested in how these two characters are going to become intertwined. I'm sure that it will be very interesting. I like the noir tone you seem to have adopted, rich with description. That's just because I'm a sucker for those sorts of things.

I'm sorry that this review is so short. If you'd like, you don't have to count this as one of the five critiques I owe you, and save that for a better review, okay? This really is a good chapter. PM me when you put out Chapter 3, alright? Good job.

Thanks everyone for the reviews. I actually see some things that need to be edited, but I am lazy, as all writers are when it comes to these type of things.

Selene: I only have read one war story, which I never got to finish, though it was good, for the most part. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway, tis a good book. I try to stay away from real war stories, because I cry too easily, and I had family members in wars but I never really were close to them so...I guess you can say that this was just an idea that turned into this magically. A lot of pictures from the forties, inspired me too. This story is not going to take place in the war, this is just to set the stage, if you will. This is a romance that doesn't start off like any other. So, I hope you enjoy where this leads, and thank you again for your comment. ^_^

Sela Locke: Thanks for the critique, I guess. I am aware of the eyes bit, I'm just lazy. Also, reading a lot of books, I have come to find that not all characters have redeeming qualities. Marshall may seem to be an ass, which I will admit he is. His belly-aching gets on my nerves but I love him to death. He is one of those characters who is not perfect, who has sinned, who has did everything to be a good person and then he is one of those characters who will make you cry and laugh and most importantly, think. A word of wisdom: There are a lot of pessimistic people out there and it doesn't need to be slapped, they either need a hug or God. Marshall has been through a lot, so don't judge him too severely.


Connie: Ah, your critiques may be short but they do make me smile. It makes me happy that I can write something solid, because I feel as though I can't seem to do that anymore. This is supposed to be a very dark book in beginning, but then it gets a little light, I suppose and then falls back down a hill, you know? I will definitely tell you when I post the next chapter. ^_^

Angel, I'm back! Gosh, I feel like I have been away from YWS for an eternity (more like three weeks) but yeah

Hopefully this review helps!

Painting that used to decorate the walls, were now gone and the walls were now a dreadful white.

You use "now" a lot in close proximity in this sentence. Be careful of that.
Also, don't you mean "paint" instead of "painting"

They looked gray when the lights were turned off, and even when they were on, the room still looked bland.

This sentence is awkward. Maybe try: When the lights were on, the room looked bland, but when teh lights were off, the walls melted into a grayish hue, making it appear even more plain. or something like that.

No words passed between the two. The only sounds that were audible was the crackling of the flames licking [s]and[/s] the firewood.

I would cross out "the" here.

John had lit it and let me warm my hands by it for a moment, before we came in her.

"Here" istead of "her" at the end.

"I...we don't have nowhere else to go. To be honest with you." I blushed, looking down.

I would use "anywhere" instead of "nowhere"

Tears were burning in my eyes as I looked down at m y sleeping angel.

No space between "m" and "y"

His eyes were closes and when I talked, they fluttered and then fell again.

"Closed" instead of "closes"

I could hear birds chirping and I could see insects flying pass the window.

I would cut out the second "I" in the sentence.

Angel, again, you don't dissapoint. Seriously, where do you come up with such amazing ideas to write about?

Well, you have my attention now.

Keep up with this!

Well, obviously there are pessimistic people out there, and I'm not saying he's a bad character - just that, unless you were hoping we'd despise the guy, you could perhaps add some sort aspect to him that's not to sickeningly insufferable. I merely say this because it's hard to read about someone so self-centered - it makes me, at least, not want to keep following the story.

Otherwise, I do really like it. The writing's good, and the story has no major flaws. I just imagined that he might not need to be so... well, perhaps cliche in the way he looks at the world.

Anyhow, good luck! ^_^