Picking Through The Rubble. Chapter 1

Hello, hope you are well:)

Just here to leave a quick review.

Okay, so let's go. Firstly, I would like to say that you have a very vivid and intense writing style, really helped me imagine the things happening while reading them.
However, sometimes it felt like too much comparisons and metaphors, which instead of helping me, made it a bit difficult to read through. The narrative's relentless chaos and disorientation might was a bit challenging. The abrupt shifts in tone and perspective creates a little confusion, and the repetitive phrases and thoughts, while effective in conveying descent into madness, can border on excessive.

That bathroom scene? Seriously messed up, in a good (or maybe bad?) way. - I liked the intensity of it (if I can say I like to read something like that without sounding too crazy), but maybe this wouldn't be everyones cup of tea (which is also okay)

I overall think that this can definately find the right audience (me included), just a few things perhaps to take into account.

Good night, or good morning:)

Hey Andrew here with your Harsh review! As always, this is just how I feel, in complete honesty, hope it can help!
This is a pretty short work, and the very beginning of what seems like a much larger story, so I can't say a ton, but I will say what I can.
Metaphor use
First off, your poetic language and metaphors are creative and on point, but at moments it feels excessive. Like you're just trying to show off your writing skills, not letting us float along smoothly. Unless you want this to be an absolutely psychedelic symbol ride. If so, more power to you, but your story will not be an easy ride.
Dark
Overall, seems very dark, probably want to mark it like 12+ or something with all of the drug and self hurting imagery.
Also, real quick, I don't like super depressing stories, generally. The most depressing books I've read were The Stranger, Animal Farm, and Lord of the Fly's, all of which got me because of their philosophy. I have no particular interest in exploring dark places just for their own sake, so I can not speak to other people's enjoyment of that.
Does this serve the purpose of a first chapter?
That being said, I'd say that this seems like a strange start to a story. Even those *very* depressing stories, don't start with that darkness and pain, they work their way down into the depths.
But maybe what your trying to do is give us this utterly broken character and fix them. An ultimately hopeful story. Starting in this terrible place so when we end in a good one it will be all the more meaningful. If this is what you're doing I think starting in a dark place is a reasonable idea. But I think to make that work, you would have to give us a glimmer of hope here. Make me see that glimmer, make me hope that maybe things can get better, hook me with it, demand that I come back, because I can't help but wonder if this pain will end.
Bit Messy
Next, I feel like the chapters a bit messy, jumping around and dashing me from idea to idea. Many parts of the chapter feel half thought out or haphazardly written. Granted, that's not always a bad thing. The Stranger feels very haphazardly written, but that produces a wondrous effect. Making the terrible things that occur all that more poignant, and really fits the philosophy of absurdism that's trying to be communicated. But haphazard writing often removes me from the story and makes it hard for me to let the story penetrate.
An entirely personal preference
I looooove stories where we take a broken character and build them all the way back up, and do not enjoy stories where we just break down people more and more. So, if this story is just about demonstrating how sucky being a human can be, I am not particularly interested, but if this is a story about building a person back up, tag me for the next chapter (;
Conclusion
As is, I don't have enough info to come to a conclusion about how I feel about this story, but it doesn't grab me, to begin with. I've read a far share of angsty teens sad writing, and I don't need more. If it offers me something to keep me around, philosophy, hope, humor, or some compelling story, then I'd probably read on. The writing style is strong enough and original enough to keep me if you had one of those elements, but I don't recognize one yet.
Well, I do recognize one small one, which is the worldbuilding. I'm curious why he had to wear a gas mask, who this president is, and what the radio is blaring about. This curiosity would probably only keep me around for another chapter, but hey, all you need to do is keep me around for the next chapter, every chapter, and you got a story.



Specifics

Percival woke up with a splitting headache. It was as if someone was mindlessly ripping apart the seams in his mind. Pop! One thread. Pop! Two threads. Pop! Three threads. Far away, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he could almost hear laughing. Cackling. A constant cacophony of madness that made him want to curl into a fetal ball and scream. In the background, the radio droned on in its usual, vacuous, fashion.

Percival closed the door softly behind him. The feeling of his bare feet on the cold. Death-like, white tiles shocked him awake. His feverish hands felt the desire to tear and burn, to scratch and beat the air about him with futile blows. Swallowing down his over-large breakfast pill, his hands reached out for the numerous pill bottles that littered his adajer. One by one he popped the tops off, watching detachedly as the multi-colored contents spilled out and onto the floor like polka dots on a clean white smock. He popped them down with the alacrity of an addict, ignoring their sand-papery texture, almost relishing in the discomfort it gave him.

he shouldn’t be thinking this. Not here, not now, not ever. This is how it started. Thinking. You get thinking, and little harvesters crawl around your brain and lay eggs.

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm here to leave a quick review!!

First Impression: Okayy....so the start...wasn't the greatest. There was a little bit of jumpiness with the tone of the story and I think that needs a little bit of smoothing out there, but for the most part especially the end was pretty good and I love the general premise this seems to be hinting at.

Anyway let's get right to it,

Percival woke up with a splitting headache. It was as if someone was mindlessly ripping apart the seams in his mind. Pop! One thread. Pop! Two threads. Pop! Three threads. Far away, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he could almost hear laughing. Cackling. A constant cacophony of madness that made him want to curl into a fetal ball and scream. In the background, the radio droned on in its usual, vacuous, fashion.

“. . . the Year 2042. . . President Noble declares. . .”

Percival groaned, pressing his head further into his pillow.

“. . . President Noble declares new changes for the new year. . . President Noble. . . President Noble. . .”

“Good, God! Good, God!” Percival rose up in a cold fury, vengefully, smacking the infuriating machine into. . .

Silence. He instantly regretted his decision. Silence. The horrible, self-imposed, tomb-like silence that left him alone with thoughts and his whisperings. He stared dismally at the red, neon, numbers all aglow like the eyes of some fantastical beast just waking from its slumber and telling him the dreary hour of the dreary day. The silence stung like snow mercilessly pelting his skin. It dragged on. . . and on. . . and. . .

Turning it back on, he ran to the bathroom for refuge from the droning radio and the red-eyed fantastical beats, called time, that it harboured inside.

Percival closed the door softly behind him. The feeling of his bare feet on the cold. Death-like, white tiles shocked him awake. His feverish hands felt the desire to tear and burn, to scratch and beat the air about him with futile blows. Swallowing down his over-large breakfast pill, his hands reached out for the numerous pill bottles that littered his adajer. One by one he popped the tops off, watching detachedly as the multi-colored contents spilled out and onto the floor like polka dots on a clean white smock. He popped them down with the alacrity of an addict, ignoring their sand-papery texture, almost relishing in the discomfort it gave him. He popped them down. One pink, one white, blue, green, pink. Not really knowing if he accidentally took the same one twice, but not really caring either. His pills taken, he grabbed his syringe and with an efficiency born of practice, plunged it into his vein. The same place he had done every day for the past five years, watching fascinated as the last clear drops dripped into his arm, infected his bloodstream, and did whatever other things it did in his body. Percival stumbled drunkenly to the mirror, avoiding the pill bottles and the pills. The sight of his face caused him to stop and stare. What situation had altered his face so? This gaunt, haunted, chasm of humanity. When was the last time he had looked at himself in the mirror? He wasn’t sure, but looking at himself now he almost didn’t recognize himself. He looked older; thirty maybe.

“Nineteen and I look thirty,” he muttered to himself. “Nineteen and I look thirty. Nineteen and I look thirty. Good God! Nineteen and I look thirty.” He ripped off his shirt in a blind rage, ripped off his pants and his underclothes and posed questioningly in front of the mirror.

“I’m a God, I’m a God,” He cried out, his feverish hands traced out the neon-blue symmetry lines etched into his body. “I’m a God, but I look thirty. I’m nineteen, dang it! I’m nineteen!”

This realization made him want to cry, but he didn’t know why. Nineteen and he looked thirty. Make everyone look the same. Gather all the population up. Grind them up, mash them up, chew them up. Feed them to some giant, some political, beady-eyed giant with molars for mashing up the masses and watch him chew them up and spit them out into one grey-mush of a faceless void. Make them all look thirty. Make them all melaninless. Give them symmetry and make them perfect. Curses if that wasn’t true. Curses, if-

He shouldn’t be thinking this. Not here, not now, not ever. This is how it started. Thinking. You get thinking, and little harvesters crawl around your brain and lay eggs. Pop! Out comes one idea. Pop! Out comes two, and they would just keep on popping out and multiplying , and popping out and multiplying until your brain was a harvest nest of ink-poisoned thoughts. He suddenly had the notion that if he shook his head hard enough he could dispel the thoughts crawling around in his head.

Shake. And one thought would fall out and crawl like a spider to the dark recesses of the room. Shake. One more. Shake. Two more. Shake. And his mind was empty. Wonderfully and blissfully empty!

Fully clothed, Percival opened the bathroom door, releasing his thoughts with the stifling air. His sturdy black boots squeaked like a frightened mouse on the linoleum tiles. A constant squeak, squeak. Skree, Skree that blended in with the noise of the radio and the silent screaming of the demons in his soul. He grabbed his gas mask off the wall where it sat like some boar’s head hunting display.

“. . . President Noble declares cleaning crew to remove the rubble from cities across America. . . President Noble. . . President Noble. . .”

Percival picked up the newest thing and hurled it at the radio, missing. It kept crackling like fireflies in a bonfire, like dead leaves underfoot.

“. . .President Noble. . .”

Curse President Noble, he thought as he grabbed his bag and headed out the door. He kept shaking his head as he left the housing complex, hoping that one more would fall out. Just one more.

Gotta love a first chapter in the Green Room!

Okay, this is a very interesting beginning. You give just enough for me to get the sense that this is some sort of dystopian future but also didn't dump a load of information at the reader straight away.

Metaphors and similes... there is A LOT of them. It's best to use them sparingly so they really have an impact. If they are used to describe everything, it makes the piece feel overwritten, like you're trying to prove to your readers that you can write.

'red, neon numbers' - could be changed to 'neon red numbers' so it just runs more smoothly. You even use it later with 'neon-blue symmetry.'

I like the repetition of the 'popping' from the first paragraph and then again to the thinking. Does that mean the 'threads' are his thoughts? But I think that later when you use this again with 'Shake. One more. Shake. Two more...' it's a bit of an overkill.

I know the repetition is intentional here but as this is a lot and it's only the first chapter, it gives the impression that this will be a strong feature throughout the story which will quickly become tedious.

A little mistake, I think. You mention Percival turning off the radio and then when he leaves the bathroom it's on again. If this is a sort of control thing where the higher power doesn't let you turn the radio off so it comes back on, mention that. But it may just be a mistake

'Percival picked up the newest thing' - nearest thing?

Overall, interesting first chapter, it definitely draws you in and makes you question things, which is needed for a beginning!

Hope this helps and happy writing!