Draft #1 - "Scars and Wounds"

The clock ticks onward. Tick tock, tick tock. Why won't my head stop pounding like a pickaxe going through a rock in straight-speed. 

 

Ugh.

Today is Friday, August 28th, 2005, this is the first entry into life story of some sorts due to a lack of determination in school work and the courageous pulse of my parents down my neck thinking writing down every little move would benefit me. Hah. Obviously I will not let them know I even started this documentation on my life, nor at least let them know that I even decided to follow their orders. 

This is for my benefit and only mine.

My name is Tyler Martain. I was born and raised in the Suburbian shit-hole of a community just outside of Atlanta, Georgia. This is my life.

~

It's the beginning of seventh hour and all I want is a smoke. This god-awful pretentious pre-Calculous teacher, Mrs. Sallenburg, is babbling on about her wonderful teaching skills while still accellerating speed at the rate of a Kindergardner. "Alright students," she begans to speak at the beginning of class, "I know it's the end of the day, but I need to make sure you guys are still with me." She does know this is a class full of Seniors. No Freshmeat to complain to or show a bundle of importance to. We all want out. Her middle-aged mind is seeping away at a different reality than what she really presumes is going on. "I know you guys are tired, I get it, me too, but for this last problem, I will take a break on you guys and show some remorse." Remorse? When she finishes her sentence, she approaches the white board and glimpses across the scene. She grabs her chalk, mind you we're also in the 21st generation, and writes on the board in a hard stance problems that would take the class the whole period to answer. Rather than me who, actually,  can pass her fucking class with a eligible  grade. I swung away at my own dispair while sitting in my seat blasting Mayhem on semi-full volume. Quietly enough, I sunk away into my seat and let my eyes dream into space. Underneath my music, out of my earbuds, I hear the sound of my peers laughing.  This is such a tiring class to deal with; the jocks and preps are surrounding my every side. Honestly enough, I wouldn't be surprised if they spoke in their own language compared to how me and my companions speak. Hell, they could probably speak in tongues.

At a second to none, the final bell rings to dismiss the 3,150 teenagers off to the weekend to enjoy their two days off. Many of them plan away going to the beach, hanging out with their lover in the back-seat of their cars, and just having fun. As for a guy like me, I am stuck working the deep fryer and taking orders at the local greese-hut, Don's Greese Machine. The name kills me. It's also a major turn-off for me to stray from Sandy. She refuses to even get near the sight of seeing me in a joint like this. Honestly enough though, I don't blame her. I've been meaning to quit a place like this since the second month of being employed. Yet, a year and a half later, I'm still stuck here, scrubbing the fuck out of the grills after hours and making around five dollars and 63 cents an hour doing so. What a luxury. I wouldn't blame the bastard that quit this place, like Bob did after they made him work over-time. His girlfriend left him for another man because of the hours they struck him with. With the economy in a global downfall, I'm left in an under-staffed team getting double the amount of hours I ever asked for. Yes, I am complaining. The only upside that I can find in this place is that it helps pay for gas and all the shit that Sandy needs in her life.

"Always been a let-down to your friends? Never get the love your mother was supposed to give you? Call me, Ronald Swartz, at 935-335-2323 for the love and care you desercve. Our operators are standing by waiting for your call." God, even radio commericals went to shit ever since creativity left America. I scramble around for my iPod in my bag as the kids are pulling out of the student-faculity parking lot, all awaiting to head home. The line races around the parking lot, extending to the point where the only thing between me and the front doors of the school is a road-bump. For a steady 15 minutes, the line moves in the pace of a tortise, while everyone on the street were the hares. "Move your fucking ass!" yells a distant person from two cars ahead of me. I can't help but drown myself in my music. I rolled my windows up and proceeded to play some dark music to enlighten my day. Darkthrone, Mayhem, Nifihisem, Immortal. All plunging a sensation of fufilment into my ears. 

Pulling up to Milestone Ave., I approach a red light. At this moment in time, I experience the biggest gasp of relief. Clairty. Whenever I drive, I have that rush. The emotion. The feeling of having an absolute power of the wheel. The control of one thing in my endangered lifestyle and the power to accelerate how much control I want. Or in this case, need. A cigarette simmers the drive.  I condemn a lot of my emotions beneath me. I figure, 'hey, a cig would calm me down', and release it all in a ever-so-grasping inhale. The intake of nicotine thrills through my veins; strikes the nerves and hits the bloodstream. The sensation that breathes fire. It brings me to the solace that I can't endure enough at all. I need more. Well, not cigarettes as a whole, but the feeling in general. It's those types of feeling that drive me on. That make me so sure that life is worth living. Call it melodramatic, I see it as an understatement. 

The light hits green and I pace myself away from the street. I scramble together my iPod for a second time to change the strength of heart and put on the works of Rose Kemp and Regina Spektor; the artists that break away the silence, in other words. They portray a element in my life that can prevent a bad emotion from happening. They work in pairs at keeping my sanity at the highest bits of on the 'good side'.  The musicians cast me away in a different mind-set; a different scenery. The place they take me away to is a small, bleak definant room that has not the slightest sound to it. It fits the mood of the music being played just right. I cannot move in this dream-like place; but merely feel it all at once. In the middle of the room, is a black Baldwin Classic piano set up, with the fine works of Rose Kemp ringing from the outskirts of the room back into reality. The walls, as black as ever, show the most emotion. They pour out sadness that has been extinguished from the flames of others in different sections. With the walls blackened, the room lights up from the sparkle view the piano gives off, just how it would as if it was just polished. The oasis calls me. Like a new-born  deer to it's mother and to a moth onto a flame. I feel a smile become upon my face and a tear trickle down my cheek. Home.  As I drive past Synners Lane, with the music still playing, all I have on my mind is the state of mind that I needed. Luckily, thinking about it didn't distract my head to the point where I nearly crashed my car. But I was easing into the state way too quickly. I was longing for it. 

I stop at Sandys house before I left for the late shift; she was planning on ironing my uniform. At work last time, an unappreciative prick came and gave me a piece of his mind. Let me also include that this involved me being spat at and open ketchup packages thrown at me. "Why did you let him spit on you in the first place?" Don, my boss, screeched once it happened, "Are you a fuckin' kidding me? What did you fuck up this time?" I considerably felt like throwing a rock at his face, in due honesty. But if my boss accusses me of being the one to mess this up and such, it's just a backfiring mishap. 

I get out of my car and approach onto the side-walk of Sandy's house. Pale-blue house, two stories, actual green grass rather than their neighbors with the dead resin of what used to be grass laying around their yards. Her parents, Carl and Patricia Cole, broke down big in their days. High rollers. They used to take on the city from what Sandy tells me occasionally when she's drunk enough to even talk about her feelings and family. The night she really let me have enough information was a year or two ago, when we first started getting serious. We were on the roof of my car, out around two in the morning, at Sunset Park. "My dad hit it big years ago," she said giggling from the alcohol, "it was back around when I was two or so. His stock buy in's led him the way to the top of the chain." When she first explained this to me, I wasn't sure how to react honest enough. Her father is the type of man that would go to work, go home, drink beer and sleep. He didn't seem like the risky type of many either. If anything, his wife had more dignity towards stuff than he did. Or, at least, in the way it seems. "He went out with millionares, ate caviar, and took my mother places." Sandy continued with her story, still too tipsy to function, "After his buy-in's went down, and everything left him, he basically left himself." When she originally told me that, I remember the exact expression she left on her face. She stared into the trees around the park and grew a blank expression. After that, she made a point to herself to not bring up serious stuff like that anymore until necessary. 

Carl answered the door when I knocked, with a grim welcoming, and let me inside. The house, flourished by short-lived rose pedals, smelt like warm cinnamon. As I crept up the stairs, I couldn't help but hear the sounds of The Smiths being played faintly through a door or two. With each step, the music grows; louder and louder. Me and Sandy have grown to agree that knocking was for chumps; open access is what we have taken and willingly let through. "Hey," she says, as I scramble through her broken door, not even facing my direction, "your shirt is on the dresser. How much time do you have till you go in?" Sandy sat facing her window, reading through the newest issue of Alternative Press and my shirt was on her night-table. Folded, pressed, and cleaned. Sadly enough though, it was surrounded by open jars of Skippy peanut butter and three Pepsi cans. "I have around 30 or so minutes to spare. Don'll be up my ass if I don't show up on time, you know that." she gives off a sigh from behind and turns towards me, with a face of pity. "Quit. For me. My dad's dealer-ship has an opening, and Kohls' is having their grand opening too soon. You can't work there at a shitty little burger joint." She was right. I can't work there. I refuse to, honestly enough. It's like I signed an enslavement forum for myself to be shipped away at work. Hell. "I'll think about it." Nothing more could be said nor discussed due to the time-frame I was running on. "I'd rather not piss the fucker off though." I quickly grabbed my uniform t-shirt on the dresser and kiss her on the forehead. "Don't worry. I'm only 18." Leaving her with a smirking grin, I walked out of the room leaving myself in mourn for myself for work.  Guilt drives down my neck when I look at Sandy. Of all things, she doesn't deserve a douchebag like myself to ditch her off to work unreasonable hours. As I shut her front door, a white 2003 Volvo pulls up next to my car. Patricia. She pulls down the passenger window and yells a sound or two to get my attention. "Tyler! How are you doing?" she asked, "Come to see Sandra?" "Yeah, I left my notebooks in her room yesterday. I just came to pick them up before I had to go onto work." She put the car in park and turned the engine off. "Well alrighty then; I guess I will see you the next time  you come over." She doesn't add anything more than usual, which is good. Right after she finishes up her sentence, I race to my car and drive away.

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She needs to know how I feel about her. Since the beginning of the seventh grade she needed to know. When I first saw her, I knew she'd be the one that would make me feel better again. Not as a start, but rather as a whole. Justine Brown. 

"Will you tell her?" Mom said at the other side of the table the morning of. Today is Valentines Day, 2001. The day I really tell Justine how I feel about her. "I think so," I say with a mouth full of Ego waffles stuffed in my mouth, "I mean, it'd be cool to have her as a girlfriend. Maybe." I can't help but contain the reddening blush coming across my cheeks. "You're too cute. Cross your fingers." my mother says as she takes a sip of coffee. The night before I spent around two hours crafting the card together; another three thinking of what to truly say to her. Did I add enough hearts? Dammit. I need to know these things. She's my best friend. I know her like the back of my hand. "Get your stuff together, Ty. I need to drop you off today. David is too sick to drive you." He never feels well nowadays. It could be the drugs and overusage of alcohol near my mother. He needs to respect his surroundings, honestly. I can't do anything about him, though. Sadly, I am not my mother. I don't have the right to kick out bad lovers who don't have the audacity to earn a job. I'd get hit for that. 

I grab my bag off the kitchen counter and glance at the card near the end of the hallway. A dozon straight thoughts shoot me all at once. Will she like it? What would happen? Would she become closer than just my best-friend? 

The overall mindset I had was dim on the fact of what she'd say in response. I have hope though. In dreams and films, people generally get together that are meant to be. Whether it's fate, destiny, or the push and shove from friends; they end up together in the end. That's what I hope for me and Justine. That's all I've ever hoped, truthfully. We're young, not even in high-school for that matter, but I believe if she gave me a fair chance for her heart; that I'd be able to win her over any of the other guys in the books so far.

I approach the card and place it in the left corner compartment in my backpack. Today will be a good day. It has to be. Before getting in the car, I quickly go and check my wardrobe in the bathroom mirror. Hopefully I didn't over do it with my choice of attire. Levi's blue straight-fit jeans, button-up blue flannel, and a new pair of converse my father got me when I visited him last month up in New York.  "Damn," my mother says while creeping up behind me, "you should let David give you some tips every now and then on new style, because you look good today. You're not in your usual get-up with the jackets and regular tees." Combing my hair couldn't have seemed over-done enough either. I was pumped. "David didn't help me with my wardrobe. If anything, dad gave me his tips to go by." Never will the thought of listening to David's advice pop into my head. He's a prick. A lazy sex-deprived prick who only wants nothing but a free place to stay and sex from my mother. "Oh," she says that with such a grunt in her voice that I can nearly feel her eyes rolling from behind me, "well okay. I'll be waiting in the car, okay?" "Alright, I'll be right there." 

When I spend time with my father in New York, I actually feel comfortable with my life. The tension around the house isn't so pushed on my back. I am able to escape miles away from the problems and enter the realm my father lives in. When my parents first  seperated back in 1999, my life couldn't have worse. They sat me down one night and confronted me before we had our casual Monday night dinner before my father sat down to watch college football on ESPN. "Nothing was your fault," my mother said to begin the confrontation, "mind yourself of that." They all focused on explaining it in the simpiliest way they could. My father, who is a hearty man when it comes to many subjects, couldn't help but hold his heart out in his hands and tear up as my mother basically spoke for his behalf on the seperation. My father loved my mother with all his heart. He wasn't a man of mistreatment in anyway, shape, or form. He treated me and my mother like we were royalty. Hell, we probably were in his eyes. "When two different connections break apart, you never know what could happen. For me and your father, in that case, we just didn't.." looking down at the marble countertops, my mother froze in thought. "I don't know. We didn't see the future in each others eyes." Red-eyed, my father got up from the chair he was sitting in and abruptly thought aloud; "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I love you, Tyler." He had the look of fright in his eyes. He didn't want his relationship with the woman he's loved for so long to fall apart. Soon enough, though, he caught on that she didn't need him anymore. She wanted something different. Not him. I got up from my chair and walked over to my father. He was three seats or so away, sitting on the opposite side of my mother on the dinner table while I was in the centerline. I couldn't help but reach open across him and hug him with all my might. Tears struck from my eyes. The thought of my parents withering into their own directions killed me. "I love you, dad. Please never forget that." My mother stayed in her seat over on her side of the dinner table. She knew she was breaking away something she couldn't fix; she knew it wasn't going to be the same.

After that, my father moved away to New York for work in the comics section of The New York Times. My mother lets me see him in the summer-time and every winter. Other than that, I occasionally talk to him on holidays, my birthday, and other important events. 

After messing around with my hair, I get my backpack off the stairwell and my letter for Justine off the hallway table. Today is going to be different. I know it will be. As I get into my mothers beaten up 1998 Toyota 4Runner, she gives me a large grin. "She better be a special girl," she says, "because I'd rather not see my boy slaving over something like that for nothin'." Once she said that, I had the confidence I needed. My goal is clear; my mind is set. Telling Justine my feelings will prove it all to me.

 

~

The everyday cigarette before work gives me time to think over what I should, or let alone could, do with this issue. How fustrating it is to decide on leaving this shit-hole or not. Where would I go to work? Let alone, how will I pay for gas or anything Sandy wants? I can't leave. But I have to, at the same time. This is too much for me. All of this. There has to be a split way for me to actually gain away from this place before it fully consumes me whole.

"Martain, where the fuck have you been? You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago." Don screeches from his office once he sees my reflection from his glass window towards the kitchen. By the looks of things, today has been a slower day than usual; less cars, less people, less of everything. "I'm sorry, Don," time to see if I can catch my words and  reason with him, "traffic has been on my ass all day. It won't happen again, I swear." He gets up from his seat and puts his hands on his desk; covered in Cheetos' prints all over his button-up Kohl's shirt. "You've been late five fucking times ever since the year has started. You're digging your grave into a pile of shit, you know that?" With each word he screeches from his disgraceful mouth, pieces of his Cheetos' fly and land on my shirt. Pig. All I could do is stare at my shoes. Defensiveless. Afraid, actually, of getting fired; let alone me taking the plunge and purge myself away from the store. "I apologized," I began, "please let it go." He smirked in the most disgusting way; or maybe that's how he generally smirks. Maybe I was too scared to notice it. He began to sit down back into his chair and take a sip of his Big Gulp mixed with different assortments of drinks; sadly I know this because he bragged about his ''creation'' of sodas in the kitchen while I was stuck cleaning the fryer at closing last week. "Denise was considering taking a day off tomorrow," he said turning to look at her in the side window while she cooked orders, "I know you marked on the calander for the morning shift, but it seems like you're gonna have to take Denises shift alongside yours." My mind flooded with anger; I could feel my blood from inside my veins begin to burn. All I could do is stand there, showing the most emotionless expression on my face, while he looked at me with such  a malevolent grin. "Great; I'm happy you're willing to do this for the staff. You're so kind." All I could do is stare back at him while my blood started to gain to it's boiling point inside me. I feel like an ulcear has began to take place. "No," I say without feeling in my body, "you won't do this to me. I won't let you." I can't seem to move my muscles; less feeling each second. "Well, I'm sorry. It has to be done; you've been late, you get work. Go ring." The line was crossed, my mindset was irrational at this point. Suddenly, I approach closer to his desk and close my eyes. "How about this," no motion exceeding inside me, "I'm going to walk out of this room and you can go fuck yourself?" He stood up all at once and his face grew bright red. "What the fuck did you say to me, Martain?" "You know what I said. Go fuck yourself. I'm done with this low-life job and your shit. I'd rather not make shit money for doing more than it's worth." Before hesitating, I turn my back and close my eyes. Step by step, I walk myself out of his room and gaze at my shoes. The whole time, all I could think was, "you finally did it. You're free." Before exiting the food-joint, Denise stops me at the door and shows a saddened expression. "What happened in there?" She speaks in a worried tone, "I heard Don yelling at you and then your last response before walking out." I've known Denise for around two and a half years; since before I started working at Don's. She lived down the street from Sandy before moving to Parkwell, fifteen minutes away from the store. She's the only person on the staff that actually could end up being a friend off-the-clock. Around two months ago or so, we hungout behind Don's and talked for what it seems about four hours. Her most recent trip with her boyfriend led to him dumping her and leaving her to work off her own rent; since they lived together. With her head in her hands, tears trickeling down her eyes, all I could honestly do was try my best to help. "He spent his time with some bitch he just met at work," she said under her tears, "and all he could do was say to me 'well I'm sorry you weren't good enough.'" I let her use my uniform as her personal tissue for the night. I couldn't let someone end up dealing with that shit alone; it was a call for help with someone needing to be there. I was that person. "You're better than than him," I said, "he's a low-life. Scum, really. You can easily do better."  She sunk her face into my shoulder and continued to cry her eyes out. From under her breath, she scrambled up a couple of words, "thank you." From then onward, we continued to have a close-work relationship for that matter. "He's an asshole; I can't continue to work for someone who doesn't give much respect towards me." I went to grab my pack of cigarette's from my back pocket and noticed that my fingers couldn't stop this trembling feeling. The feeling that you get when something is wrong. The feeling along the lines of going downstairs early on Christmas morning and seeing no gifts under the tree; but Daddy and Mommy sitting drinking their lives away. Issues. "Well, did he give you much of a choice?" Sticking the cigarette in my mouth felt fufilling; rewarding. She stood there impatient for a quirky response from me; which I honestly couldn't give to her without going into much detail. "He wanted to make me work fourteen hours tomorrow; covering our shifts. You were gonna have the accessability to have a day off. I'm sorry." Denise faced her eyes to the concrete sidewalk besides her. "This has to be somewhat my fault, I could go and talk to Don for your job back if you-" "Denise," I interupt her mid-sentence, "I don't want you to plead to this fat douchebag. I'm more than fine strolling on my way from this place. Trust me." Without hesitiation, she shook her head and replied nothing but, "Alright. I'm here if you need me." She looked to the door of Don's and glared back at me. "I need to get back to work. Call me later and we can talk?" I turned away and nodded while approaching my car. This was a headache waiting to happen.

The darkened walls I endulge myself in become reality once more as I walk into my second home. The piano leads on and the melody witfully carves the image into my mind. The setting. In the middle of my great escape, I laid my eyes upon a shiny wooden chair. The walls thicken with tension; trembling from fear of the other side of mortality. "Save me." A voice crys out from the background of the room. Looking around, feeling the rising emotion bleed from within, a black figure leads a guard around the room. Covering itself in black sheets, it's sillohutte deliquetly slithers around the room while the piano constantly plays. Each note hits harder and harder; faster and faster. "Release me." the voice crys out; pleading for freedom to grow it's ever so-longing escape. The figure grasps upon the walls and slides across the floor. It's home is it's enemy. Pacing itself closer and closer, all my mind could do is condole for the being. For once it had been, or have become, an everlasting figure trapped in a dream-room. Alone. "How can I forget your love? How can I ever see you again?" The lyrics from Regina Spektor play out in the room. Suddenly, noises creep up from the sides of the walls. Bangings from the other side, growing louder and more hollow. The pain reigns around my body; like caught into a one piece. The feeling of being restrained on the lines of being in a straight-jacket. Uncontrolable tears are drenching my black hoodie. While the figure scarsfully proceeds to move around the scenery, the music begins to slow down and decrease in volume. More than ever, the pain grows inside me like a virus. The stabbing pain. I am unwanted; a dissolved piece of ice in the styraphome cup that you threw away. Unloved; mistreated since the start of time. A nobody. The figure stops it's motion and stays still like a statue for a good minute or two. The sheets ultimately fall off the figures composition and reveal beauty. Pale skin, black hair like the night-sky, black dress, and little scratches of dried sobbedmakeup. She was lacking much emotion across her face. She gazed through my body and looked across the wall; as if I was merely just another addition to the setting. She stood like a statue. Not a blink nor motion to signify if she was alive or not. Just nothing. Breathless from the view, I gain the authority from inside my muslces  to move upon her. To feel her essence. Step by step, I approach her with my hands behind my back. From the looks of it, her heart has stopped beating from the moment she finished circling the room. The surroundings became less subtle to bear as a gastly aroma spewed from above. The smell of fire; something being burned, like an old piece of plastic in a furance, raises its fumes across the darkened room. Turning left from right, the atmosphere changes. Not so much to a dim fade of  smokey, gaunt color arises to enfold myself and the woman, still motionless than ever. Nothing can stop the salted tears from my eyes drip away, such an uncomfortable feeling rising over me without an end-point. 

In a milisecond, the room transcended into a smoke filled room. Nothing is able to be seen except for the walls, which seem to be expanding wider and wider away from me, gaining more hollow. "Why are you trying?" A broken whisper erupts from the haze, "you have no reasoning." Left, right, left. I seek for answers. Answers that cannot be answered lightly. My chest felt pushed deeper in, to a hollow degree. "Give up on all you love." the broken voice gains closer to me, sounding clearer than ever. It was the voice of a woman who has been left to rot; one to leave it all to the tears and cigarettes to mend the beat of her heart. Denise has shown me this voice before, but this wasn't her. This was someone else. Something else. 

The feeling in my hands are left nothing but numb. Shaking in shock, rather than fear, I ponder silently in my head what is going on. Every breath I take, smoke gets seeped in to lungs. The taste of burnt plastic thickens through my nostrols and out through my mouth. Not being able to see a single thing but fog, I shut my eyes. "Give up."

Before I could take in another breath of the posion, the dream-world was gone. I was back in my car, parked right in front of Sandy's, with the cigarette I lit back at Dons' still burning in my hand. The questions piled one after another; who was that woman? What exactly did she want? So many questions that have really lead me to think that I might be going insane. A whack is unleashed on the hood of the car. Immediately rushing out of the car to see if it was a tree branch, it was to my surprise it was Patricia, Sandy's mother, with devilish eyes. "What exactly is that coming from your hand, Ty?" Taking the time to glance down at my cigarette would've made me look like a fool, so I had to come clean, somehow. "My mother has been doing bad things latel

This is all I have so far. ---- :)