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Writer
Join Date: Mar 2007
Location: Wales, UK
Gender: Male
Posts: 36
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Wacker.
Hmm, this ones a bit longer than I usually write, I don't like it, but I finshed it and I figured someone could explain why they didn't like it. Although it is quite long and uninteresting. Thanks for reading, and if yo uread *any* of it, please comment, I'd love to see where i'm going wrong!
thanks
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Y'know when people say 'He has a screw loose' or 'she's a few sandwiches short of a picnic', well, this guy, Steve, this guy, was like, well I, dunno, I guess some inventor came along and picked up all these loose screws and just sorta invented.
Steve Wacker. It was all ready in the name. We called him Steve Wacky. Wacky Steve. To be fair, the guy never had a chance at life. In the whole 'nature vs nurture' argument, I think it took four hours before nature rejected him, and probably until he could understand sentences before the nurture aspect let him down. It's pretty safe to say this guy got bullied more than anyone ever. I can't say I never did, When I was fourteen, I had, well, somewhat developed faster on side of my body. They called me Zara Tit. Singular. Every time it'd get to me, I'd just stick in a ''Look at Steve! He's....." then insert whatever he was doing. It was pretty much a constant get-out-of-jail card. He was a truly missing something.
One time at school, he told his mother he wanted to pack his own lunch, so he went to the store on the way to school grabbed two tins of jalapenos and three apples, rolled them out the store then tried to set fire to his mother when she tried to pay. He managed to get to school that day, tins intact, and he even tried to open them. I think he succeeded, but the teachers had to remove him. I remember there was blood all over his hands and forehead, and he'd lost at least two teeth. I remember that as being the straw that broke the camels back.
It was about a week later we were told he had moved ''to be with his father''. No goodbye, no nothing. I think a few years later, i'd heard he'd being having electro shock therapy. I also heard he'd died, so I wasn't entirely sure on what to believe. I guess I never cared enough to think about it.
So when Steve was taken out of my life, I wasn't as pleased as many others. The tits comments continued, and still today, people call me tits. Me, Zara Jones, 24 years old. One boob large the other padded. What I wouldn't have given to give to see Steve on Prom day: No matter what designers, shop assistants, the internet or anyone says, Padding doesn't always cut it. I still have the photos of that day.
Sixteen years later, it was the coincidence to end all coincidences: I was buying jalapenos, when he snuck up behind me. He tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, and he'd turned out a lot better than I think anyone could even hope.
He asked if we could go for a drink. Thankfully, we were already in a multi-mart, so it wasn't out of the wayand a drink wasn't going to kill me, and really, I owed it to him. I might have had one tit, but he had about the same amount of sane thoughts a day.
He'd ordered a tall latte. And we sat near the window. He started telling me about how he worked as a cinema projectionist, and managed to round up missing years into three refills of his latte. He told me about how he had to take over 3000 pills a year: something like nine a day and that he'd had brain surgery. He even did the obligatory 'lean over the table, pulling the hair down and saying ''see the scar there?!''' pose that gets everyones attention, and I remember thinking how embarrassed I was about this. Everyone looked. I bet they were thinking 'Zara Tits and Steve Wacky!' The scar from the jalapenos was undecipherable: he had many scratches on his head. But his teeth had been replaced, so he didn't look as bad as I would have projected he would have after all these years.
I found it weird that the entire time we spoke, he spent looking at my breast. The real one, which, is strange, usually people look at the padded one, I suppose it was nice someone paid attention to something that was there. It felt pure to me, In my life, I found that humans (myself especially) like to pick out peoples inadequacies and flaws and then exploit them, but not Steve. I guess he saw that I had one fucked up tit,and one great one; I guess he must have thought 'Yea I have some moments, but can't you be optimistic for once'. I liked that. He was the first person to make me feel special in quite some time. Men care more about tits and looks than personalty, although I am lacking in the latter. I spend most my days writing online articles, only leaving the house in cases like this. I'll die old and alone. I know this.
We'd been talking for about three hours, and so I told him i'd better be leaving. I said all the pleasantries, meant most of them (not the 'we should do this again sometime one), I stand up and grabbed my bags,when he says 'You know Jennie Gilbert's dead, right?'
'Oh my God....what happened? I only spoke to her a few days ago. You sure it's Jennie?' I fell back into my chair and my elbows and hands saved my face from smashing into the table.
'Yea'
'What happened?'
'I bled her like a pig.' There was nothing I could say. Words had failed me completely.
'Oh come on Zara. Don't play dumb with me. For years that stupid cunt called me names and threw things, the lot of you. Everyone. Even the fucking teachers said things. You think i'm too nutty to realise that kinda stuff? You too. You especially. You were bullied just as I was and what did you do? You just push all that extra stuff, all that... that negative energy at me. Why? You're just the same as me. you.. you.. you didn't grow into your body right, and it's like you blame me for that.'
I wanted to stand up for myself,and say that it wasn't me. I could feel the hate in voice, I wasn't scared as much as I was ashamed that what he was saying was right. I wasn't scared until he stood up and leaned over at me and began whispering "I went to see Jennie yesterday and I slid my fucking knife into her and I enjoyed it.''
He pulled out a hatchet out of his bag, and before I even saw it, my left hand was gone.
He turned to the barman, who was clearing the table behind us and began clubbing him with the blunt end, Then he turned to a customer and caught her just below the eye, before hitting her son directly on top of the head. He couldn't have been older than six.
"This is ALL your fault. If you can pass on all that hatred and all that energy, then i'm passing on all this anguish and hatred to you. This would never have happened if you took a few seconds to think about Poor Steve Wacky. Poor Steve Wacky and his stupid fucked mind. Stupid poor Steve Wacky. You fucking cunt. I hope they get here just in time to save you, because I want you to remember this when you're 85 and sitting alone, and the only reason you're alive is to try to comprehend the pain you caused me''
It's a surprise I remembered all that, especially because he axed me again, not fatal enough to kill, so I guess his wish was true. I'll be eighty five, thinking about that poor boy who was killed because my I was too little of a human when I was a child.
I never saw him again. The police told me about eight months later they'd found him, he'd attacked someone outside a club and failed and ended up jumping off a bridge. He'd made headline news, thankfully my name was left out of the story.
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