Anyhow, I also have to say before anyone flips out: I dearly hope I am not being an uppity git, but feel free to call me out if I am. I lived on the street I based Trevor's street off for two years on a little off-shoot past my world's version of the church (which burnt to the ground recently). I'm telling it like it is and somewhat projecting my feelings of being a dangerous escaped circus tiger to the people who never exactly learnt how to deal with my presence. However, Trevor is not me in the way I'm totes not fawesome enough to be a monster exterminator and I'd probably get the longer sentence at the sanitarium. Among other things.
NOTE: This has been edited. You can still read the original version below, however. Thanks guys for helping me out with this!
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HANGING
Trev watched the people moving past with unease; eyes tracking them. He played with the zipper on his hoodie, even as his hair stood on end under its sleeves. He was sitting in a cold spot, one of those things only he seemed to notice.
East Street, with its garbage-filled run-offs and graffiti-decked buildings, couldn’t cheer him at the moment. The Gothic church at the end of the road even made him feel panicky.
There wasn’t a sane reason for that. He was used to this. He was used to the women in too-tight pants going to shop at the Pig or ‘get their hair did.’ He was used to seeing men wearing double shorts--heck, there were two jaywalking with toddlers. He was used to the artsy weirdos with their ‘understanding nature.’ He was used to the families with children living in fear of downtown’s human monsters.
He sighed, rubbed his face with the heels of his hands.
This place shouldn’t scare him. It was home. Of course, his home town had suddenly become his place of work, but--well, drug lords put up with that, didn’t they?
He just had to get better at lying. Not that he hadn’t been already. When he left for a random weekend, he couldn’t very well tell his granny that he was off to annihilate monsters, could he?
This was the sort of job that did a person in--and the sort of job where you had no one to look to.
Perhaps that was because no one else saw what he did, which was either really bad oh Lord I’m mental or really good they don’t have to be scared, too. He hadn’t decided yet.
He jumped when a hand landed on his knee; recoiled. He turned saucer-wide eyes on--Love. She was carrying two Fantas and holding out one for him.
He took the drink, uneasiness making his movements jerky.
“You looked a little lost,” she said.
He shrugged. “Am.”
“What?”
“I am a little lost.”
He popped open the soda and took a long drink.
“I don’t understand how you like those,” Love said, sitting down on the curb beside him.
He sighed, looked back across the street. There it was--a black form, almost shapeless.
Love didn’t even notice it, notice it as it crossed the street and went into an alley only a few blocks down. A car shrieked to a halt as it passed.
“I have to go.” He stood up.
“Why?” Concern.
Why did she have to be concerned?
“You can tell me,” she added.
He flinched. “Yeah, but I hate straitjackets.”
Something about that kept her from following. Success?
Wait, no, she was following. Noisily. He stopped, turned.
“You cannot come.”
“You’re worrying me.”
He laughed, couldn’t help himself.
“Your obliviousness worries me!”
She leaned back.
This time she let him go.
He didn’t find anything. Monsters--always destroying him, his life. But that was their point, wasn’t it?
#
Original Version:
Spoiler
Trevor, with unease, watched people moving past. His fingers fiddled with his zipper and fear continued to grip him, sending sweat down the back of his neck. Under the sleeves of his hoodie, his hair stood on end.
Even the natural setting of East Street, with its garbage-filled run-offs and graffiti-decked buildings couldn’t cheer him. In fact, the church on the end of the road, with its Gothic style, only helped to make him panicky, nothing the place had done to him before.
There wasn't a sane reason. He was used to this. He was used to women in too-tight pants going to shop at the Pig or get their hair did. He was used to seeing men wearing two pairs of shorts--heck, there were two jaywalking with two toddlers. He was used to the artsy weirdos with their dyed hair and their ‘understanding nature’. He was used to families with small children mostly living in fear, wondering about bullying at school and the monsters that roamed the streets.
He sighed and rubbed his face with the heels of his hands.
He figured he was just scared because it was just job to annihilate monsters of all sorts. That sort of did a person in, especially when they had no one to look to. Love was a good role-model, sure, but she thought he was on drugs or being abused or something. She was there to--
Heck, she was here.
He looked over to see his scarlet-haired friend. One of those richer, artsy weirdos.
He smiled at her, trying to mask his unease, ‘course, and took in the fact she was holding two Fantas. He wrinkled his nose.
“You’re trying to rot my teeth. Can’t afford to go to the dentist, girl.” He frowned. “Not that I’d want to. Creepy buggers sticking metal pointy things in you and drugging you so you have 80s-game related nightmares.”
Love gave him her ‘What the heck?’ look, but sat down on the curb next to him. She handed him a drink.
He complained, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t been drinking crap like that for years.
“So, running low on funds?” Love tilted her head, hair falling cutely.
He grinned a bit more naturally at that, but what was going to happen still hung over him like a particularly nasty storm cloud, one of those that hung black and green at the horizon, some mishapped bruise.
“I’m good,” he retorted. He patted his stomach. “Well fed with a roof over my head. Who could ask for more?”
She gave him her ‘Pity!’ look. “Well--”
“I’m fine.” He said it a bit sharper than intended and he hated the way she flinched. So, he was a 6’2” half-black ‘lovechild’ and scary as frick, but still. She knew him--and he made sure she never had a reason to be scared of him.
“No. You’re not.”
He sighed. “Let’s just say I have a few demons to deal with,” he said.
Even the natural setting of East Street, with its garbage-filled run-offs and graffiti-decked buildings couldn’t cheer him. In fact, the church on the end of the road, with its Gothic style, only helped to make him panicky, nothing the place had done to him before.
There wasn't a sane reason. He was used to this. He was used to women in too-tight pants going to shop at the Pig or get their hair did. He was used to seeing men wearing two pairs of shorts--heck, there were two jaywalking with two toddlers. He was used to the artsy weirdos with their dyed hair and their ‘understanding nature’. He was used to families with small children mostly living in fear, wondering about bullying at school and the monsters that roamed the streets.
He sighed and rubbed his face with the heels of his hands.
He figured he was just scared because it was just job to annihilate monsters of all sorts. That sort of did a person in, especially when they had no one to look to. Love was a good role-model, sure, but she thought he was on drugs or being abused or something. She was there to--
Heck, she was here.
He looked over to see his scarlet-haired friend. One of those richer, artsy weirdos.
He smiled at her, trying to mask his unease, ‘course, and took in the fact she was holding two Fantas. He wrinkled his nose.
“You’re trying to rot my teeth. Can’t afford to go to the dentist, girl.” He frowned. “Not that I’d want to. Creepy buggers sticking metal pointy things in you and drugging you so you have 80s-game related nightmares.”
Love gave him her ‘What the heck?’ look, but sat down on the curb next to him. She handed him a drink.
He complained, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t been drinking crap like that for years.
“So, running low on funds?” Love tilted her head, hair falling cutely.
He grinned a bit more naturally at that, but what was going to happen still hung over him like a particularly nasty storm cloud, one of those that hung black and green at the horizon, some mishapped bruise.
“I’m good,” he retorted. He patted his stomach. “Well fed with a roof over my head. Who could ask for more?”
She gave him her ‘Pity!’ look. “Well--”
“I’m fine.” He said it a bit sharper than intended and he hated the way she flinched. So, he was a 6’2” half-black ‘lovechild’ and scary as frick, but still. She knew him--and he made sure she never had a reason to be scared of him.
“No. You’re not.”
He sighed. “Let’s just say I have a few demons to deal with,” he said.
///
So, yes. There you have it. I'm not sure whether or not it's a wonderful short story, but it's difficult to work with five hundred words and someone as moody as Trev. Anyway, I think I did fairly well. Thoughts?
Lastly, flames will be used to make s'mores and fuel pyromania.
