Tucker likes his acoustic guitar and his dark room. He doesn’t really are that his parents fight over him and they might get a divorce. He has never had a girlfriend and he’s sixteen. But nothing makes sense at sixteen, so he doesn’t like to worry too much.
He likes to think that maybe at some point he was alive, but that was a long time ago. He doesn’t really have many hopes and dreams besides the ones that live in the very back of his mind, which is a very filthy place. He makes it so filthy and dark that nobody could ever live there. He doesn’t mind too much, because it’s just so perfect for him.
His room is dark even though he lives on the second floor of his parent’s Florida home. He keeps black blankets over the windows and has cleared almost everything from his floor. His furniture was messily painted black by he himself and it’s all pushed against the walls, save for one corner. That is his corner. He likes to play his acoustic guitar all day and pretend he’s really, truly, dead because he would like nothing else.
---------------------------------------
The light gently seeped into his room when his mother opened the door. Her figure outlined on the wall Tucker was leaning his back against. “Honey?” she hesitantly asked, opening the door a little more. Her face was caked with make-up, signaling she had just gotten back from work. She peered inside, not daring to go inside anymore than she already was. “Tuck, I made dinner. Do you want me to bring it up?”
Tucker stopped strumming his guitar and looked up with innocent-looking big, brown eyes. His mother flinched and looked away. “Yes,” he answered in his paper thin voice. Through the light he could see his veins and how pale he actually was.
“Okay. I’ll be right back.” The wood the door was made out of resonated through his room. Tucker let his eyes adjust to the darkness until he could see his scratched up notepad, pencil, and hands lying on an equally beaten up guitar. He strummed the five strings and then strummed them again, enjoying the meaningless cords. He gripped at random places on the fret board until his mother came back with his food. He set his guitar down and crawled to the now closed door. He picked up the bowl and crawled backwards into his corner.
His parents didn’t treat him like an orphan in their own home because they wanted to. He wanted them to. Tucker liked to wear raggy old jeans and ugly shirts and he hardly went clothes shopping. If he did, he went to a thrift store. It was quick in and out for him so he could get back to his guitar and his corner.
Mr. and Mrs. Adams loved their son and didn’t approve of his behavior. They realized their little boy, who used to love to go to school and play with the next door neighbor, was changing when he demanded that they got rid of all of his possessions and buy him a car. Approximately seven garbage bags were piled on their front lawn the next day. They had thrown out all of his old CD’s, clothes, and the night light he had kept in his room. They were scared when all he would do was play his acoustic guitar. Now they couldn’t get their son out of his room other than to go to school.
Tucker licked at his lips and fed himself the pasta his mother had so lovingly prepared for him. He occasionally would find a strand of his greasy brown hair in his mouth and he would move it out. The room was filled with the sound of his chewing and the thump-thump of his guitar against his bruised knees. Eventually he was finished and he shoved the plate back towards the door, not bothering to get up. He hunched over the guitar and mindlessly strum until his mother came back, ten minutes on the dot.
“Are you finished, sweetie?” Her voice pierced the darkness on the beam of light that leaked through the door. “Do you want dessert?”
“No, mom,” Tucker responded. He didn’t even look up at her. She lingered in the doorway before finally disappearing back into the hallway. The room is filled with the mess that Tucker is making on his guitar.
The next day is Monday. Tucker got himself up and stepped carefully around his room to the bathroom door. He shoved it open and turned on the light. He didn’t like to shower in the dark, so his parents supplied him with the lowest light emitting light bulb they could buy. He turned on the shower and got out of his clothes before getting under the water. Even through the pounding of the showerhead he can hear that the morning showers are just starting. A flash of lighting illuminates his room for a fraction of a nano-second as he gets out. Tucker slips on his favorite pair of ratty black jeans and a button shirt. He puts on a jacket just incase the rains gets any harder and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. He did not check his hair before he left.
He refused the offer his dad made to drive him to school. As he walked out, he could hear his mother stare out the window after him.
The walk to the bus stop on the corner gets more depressing with every step on the wet gravel Tucker wills himself to make. He does not enjoy school and the fact that he makes this trip five days out of the week annoyed him. He started to count the steps until he reached the graffiti covered stop sign. ’One, two three, four, five, six, seven.’ Tucker smiled to himself and sat down on the bench even though it was beaded with rain. It was always seven steps from where he started counting.
It wasn’t that he was bullied at school. He liked to think that everybody was too scared of him to say anything about his looks or his behavior. He got good grades and his teachers liked him despite how ‘weird’, or ‘odd’ he was. To Tucker, it was just a gathering place for idiots. He considered himself pretty damn smart.
No, he didn’t get all A’s in his subjects. But he knew what the world was really like. He saw depression and anger and frustration when the football team saw girls to fuck and bars to get drunk at. Tucker sorta liked that he saw things that way. He didn’t mind at all.
Water splashed on the bottom of his pants and on his sneakers as the bus came. He got up and climbed up the steps, sitting down in his usual seat in the front. The bus driver peered at him through the window over his seat. “You alright today?” Tucker didn’t know why he asked everyday, because everyday it was the same answer.
“No, but thanks for asking.”
He was not a rude teenager. Tucker just wasn’t sociable. He could are less if somebody wanted to be his friend [which, of course, nobody ever did] or whether or not they liked him. He liked being by himself.
“Oh, well, alright.” The bus driver drove down his street to the school. It was a fifteen minute drive with three stops on the way. Tucker sat on his seat and watched the drizzle turn into a downpour. It was typical Florida weather.
The bus stopped at the bus loop of his high school. As he was walking out, the other students ran to get to their classes. They were a swarm of bees with their jackets raised over their heads as they ran through the courtyard. Tucker trudged slowly in his hunched fashion across the courtyard and to the portables for first period art.
Art was something he took as an elective. He didn’t exactly like it because he wasn’t good, and the teacher kept on telling him to do it a certain way, not the way he was doing it.
So it was like every other class. ”Fuck it, I’m right.”
He took his seat at the table in the farthest corner and brought out two pieces of art paper from his bag. The class went as usual. The teacher, a young woman who the rest of the class was enamored with, handed them the art theory books and told them to turn to whatever page and study.
Today, she leaned over Tucker’s desk and drummed her long fingernails on the cheap, pseudo-wood. “Tucker, when are you going to do your work correctly? I know you don’t want to be in this class, but honey, I want you to get a good grade.”
Tucker shrugged, scratching his pencil along the paper. The rough material of the lead made a loud sound whenever he pressed down. “Don’t really know. I like the way I’m doing my work,” he muttered, looking up at her face. Her lip stick was slightly smudged and he realized that she must have been with the math teacher in the portable next door.
She frowned and stood straight, adjusting her shirt. Tucker stared at her stomach, then her back as she walked away. He turned back to his paper.
For the rest of the class period, he wasn’t bothered. Even up till the bell, the others were scribbling and erasing on their paper. Tucker jumped up and briskly walked out of the portable, and back into the rain. As usual, the other students ran under the lunch patio before venturing back into the rain. Tucker made his way through the mess of students and started to think about the rest of his day.
Last period was probably his favorite period. He had always thought Drama was interesting, even when he was young. Tucker took a seat at the table he had to share with his group. It consisted of possibly the biggest jock on the basketball team, the one cheerleader whose mother had forced her to join the squad, and a girl who had just been transferred to the school. Tucker’s eyes drooped at the first two people. They wandered to the new girl.
There wasn’t anything special about her. She had plain, dirty blonde hair and plain bangs. She wore light blue jeans and a black, form fitting t-shirt with converse, much like the one’s Tucker had on his own feet. He rubbed the fronts together and they squeaked because they were so wet. She still stared mindlessly out at the board.
Tucker frowned and looked down at his palms face up on the table. Someone sitting at the table next to them was smacking their lips together and the jock sitting at his was yawning obnoxiously loud. Maybe today wasn’t the day for seventh block.
New girl turned to him and suddenly blurted out, “Hi, my name is Jenna.”
Tucker blinked and pursed his lips. “Alright?”
Jenna immediately snapped her head forward and bit on her lip. “I’m sorry.”
“I already knew your name,” Tucker mentioned in his usual paper thin voice that was just barely over a whisper.
“Oh, okay,” came her shaky response. She pulled out a piece of paper and started writing random notes in the margin. Tucker observed the way her hands were still shaking and he pursed his lips tighter to keep from chuckling to himself. People were so dumb. She even looked so damn dumb, scribbling blurbs on her paper that had nothing to do with the current lesson, or anything in the room, for that matter. His pursed lips turned into a bitten pair when she nervously started scratching at her knee. She was jittery and it was making Tucker sick.
The teacher was talking about something to do with how to use dialogue correctly when writing a script. Tucker pulled at the bags under his eyes with his fingertips to entertain himself for the rest of the period.
When prompted to do so by the principal over intercom Tucker followed the rest of the students to the bus loop, where he patiently waited to get on the yellow death trap that would take him home. He chuckled inwardly and then smiled. He liked wallowing in his self-apathy and pity. He really did pity himself, just like he pitied the people who called themselves his peers. They were completely blind to what life was like and would only know when they were saying their confessions on their death-bed.
Bus number 341 drove up to the loop and Tucker was the first inside. He sat down in his usual spot and the bus driver asked him again, “How was school, kid?”
“It was terrible, but thank you for asking.”
When he got home, Tucker trudged back up to his room, dropping his bag at the door. He didn’t pause before sitting down in his corner with his guitar.
When he played, he thought. Tucker thought about how he was going to die young. He wanted to be run over by a car in some freak accident. And his mangled body would be put into a casket and shipped off to California where it would be dipped into the Pacific Ocean. Then he could do what he always wanted to do: Wander. The only wandering he does is in his mind and it really isn’t enough.
As to follow the usual routine, Mrs. Adams came up to her son’s room and peeked her head in the door. “Tuck, you want dinner?”
“Yeah, I want dinner.”
She closed the door and Tucker waited until the door opened again. She pushed the food through the door and Tucker crawled over to get it. It was lasagna.
As he ate, he got on his bed and peeked through the blanket that covered his window. Outside, the neighbor’s kids were playing out in the street. Tucker wiped the tomato sauce dripping down his cheek and watched as one fell down and then got straight back up. He scoffed. He was sure he used to play right on spot they were on, throwing a basketball around and always missing the hoop. Tucker drove his fork into his food and twisted it around until all of it looked like soup in the faint light.
The next day was exactly the same.
Tucker got on the bus and the driver asked the same ”You alright today?” and Tucker responded with the same ”No, but thanks for asking.”
He went back into art as usual and sat down in the chair he always sat in. The teacher wasn’t here today, and there was a substitute. She was as old as dirt and Tucker thought it would be nice if she dropped dead while teaching them how to draw a perfect circle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a pair of students, a boy and a girl, who seemed to be a bit too busy with themselves and those four eyes weren’t on the teacher. As the girl nuzzled her nose against the boy’s cheek, Tucker wondered what it most feel like. He curled his index finger and brushed it against his cheek. He jerked his hand back and bit his lip. The skin on skin contact felt odd, and he didn’t like that.
The bell rang at exactly 8:23 and Tucker was the first out. It wasn’t raining today, thankfully, so he moved a bit slower than he usually would. The rest of the day was a blur and before he knew it he was in Drama again, sitting in the exact same way he was before.
Jenna glanced over at him, her hands clasped over her lap. “D-Did you get the script done?”
He hated her stuttering, but he went into his bag and handed the four pieces of paper to her. She snatched them and put them in her lap. “Careful, you’re going to bend the paper,” he said slowly, as if instructing a child on how to put together legos. ’She is so fucking dumb,’ he thought, watching as she slowly mouthed the words on the page to herself. Her ponytail bobbed at the slight movement of her chin.
For the rest of the period they all rehearsed their scripts. Tucker didn’t have a part in their play because he simply didn’t want to act. They made him everything else that wasn’t on stage.
Jenna was the princess. Tucker figured she didn’t fit the part. Maybe the cheerleader and her should switch. Jenna would be the maid cleaning up the mess that the princess made. Tucker watched as she leaned in and pretended to kiss the jock, who was the prince. Then they did the whole play over again.
When there was only five more minutes before the bell, they stopped. Jenna turned back to Tucker. “Do you want… To get together to practice?”
Tucker blinked his blood-shot eyes and watched her flinch. “No.”
“Okay,” she returned to the other two in the group. Tucker wondered why she was so timid. She would probably be crying when she got home. Tucker blinked again. Why was she even attempting to be nice to him in the first place?
The school’s principal came back on the overhead. Tucker stood at the door with his bag and stalked out of the classroom once she called for the buses to start loading. He got on his and went through with the regular Q&A with the bus driver. He got home and went straight to his room. He sat in his corner, but he didn’t pick up the guitar.
Just thinking, today.
He imagined that his mind was a monster and he was the host it was feeding off of. His pessimistic ways were the marching band inside his chest that made his heart thud, thud, thud-thud with it’s irregular heart beat. Tucker crossed his legs and put his hands on his stomach, pulling at the worn out fabric of his shirt. His stomach rumbled under his hands. Tucker raised one hand to his hair and pressed through his hair to feel his skull. The room was dead silent and Tucker couldn’t exactly see what he was doing, touching his skull and stomach with his calloused fingertips. He took in a deep breath and felt the area above his stomach expand. In his mind the monster grew larger and it felt like tree roots digging their way into his veins and arteries, entering his heart. His breathing grew erratic as he became terrified and the monster got into his stomach.
His mother came in and dropped off his food, closing the door right afterwards. Tucker couldn’t see where the food was. He took his hand slowly away from his head and placed both hands on his stomach, falling on his back. He pretended like the growing feeling in his stomach was his ignorance. He fell asleep trying to throw it up.
The door bell rang at around 6 PM. Mrs. Adams looked at the girl standing out on their porch. “Does Tucker live here?”
“Yes, but I don’t think he wants to see anybody-“
“Please let me in?”
Mrs. Adams warily moved out of the way and let the girl in.
Tucker felt the imaginary tree roots encircle his eyes and cover his corneas. He wanted to vomit out something that really wasn’t even there. There was a knock on his door before Jenna came in. She stepped inside and closed the door. The utter darkness of his room swallowed him again and he ached for light. He turned his head and watched Jenna move slowly to him.
“Tucker?”
“Yes?”
Jenna waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness before she got up and went into the bathroom, turning on the faint light. She could see Tucker’s eyes and how big they were. She went back to him, slightly trembling.
“Are you sick?”
“I am very sick,” Tucker responded, turning his head away from her. He wondered why she was even here, trying to comfort him. The pit of his stomach felt like moss. He pressed down and felt nothing.
“Why don’t you take medicine?”
“There isn’t medicine for why I’m sick.”
Jenna realized what he was talking about. Being his room let her feel how sad he really was because he didn’t understand much besides himself. She had a feeling he didn’t even know much about what he wanted. And here she was, the girl in his drama class, comforting him. “Why aren’t you happy, Tucker?”
Tucker had the urge to vomit again and felt his head pound. “I can’t see happiness.” He felt the dull thudding in his head and the moss in his stomach and Tucker realized that it was utterly and completely true.
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Author's CommentsAll original stuff. Story and characters copyright to me. Title will change until I find one that fits, because I sorta really do like this. Music: In My Stomach - Alkaline Trio [link] [I would REALLY appreciate it if you listened to the song while you read this. You won't get the full effect.] Word Count: 3,492 For:  's contest.My prompt was 'I can't see'. I did not take this literally, obviously. Comments would be really helpful, just sayin'.  |
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Comments
Wow, I really do like this, and I did listen to the song whilst reading it.
I like the ending; it's just showing how his mundane life is all quite meaningless to him.
--
~~ It isn't botherin' me, is it botherin' you?!~~
Thanks.
I'm entering too; reading other entries is all part of the fun
--
~~ It isn't botherin' me, is it botherin' you?!~~
It sure is!
Have you submitted your entry yet?
I'm in the middle of doing that one and the one for your contest,
I got the prompt "Crawling in the Dark", the song by Hoobastank
which I had never heard of before so that is going to be interesting XD
--
~~ It isn't botherin' me, is it botherin' you?!~~
Oh, god, I remember Hoobastank!
They were a big part of my early adolescent life, yes yes.
;]
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~~ It isn't botherin' me, is it botherin' you?!~~
xD
They had that one song, on the radio... xD
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The Big Contest
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