Post by zulazza on May 14, 2009 14:17:44 GMT -5
Nightmare
Gerald Ronsion had a nightmare. It always began exactly the same way, and it always ended exactly the same way. What happened in between was subject to change, but it never got better. In fact, it usually got worse.
He would find himself in his room - a small thing, by all accounts; it was scarcely decorated because his step-father felt that he didn't need as much as his little sister, Ericia, did. But, in his room, he would be lying in his bed, as the alarm at his side began to play whatever music happened to be on the local rock n' roll music station.
With a groan, he would pull himself out of bed and stumble through the halls of his house until he reached the bathroom. He would wash his face with some water so he could see straight and turn on the shower. The water would be murky and cold, but he'd force himself inside.
It chilled him to the bone, the murky water often serving to make him feel even more dirty than when he stepped in, but it sometimes helped hide his tears as he thought about the poor turn his life had taken since his mother had found love in a new man in a new city.
His father had passed away while Gerald was in the womb, leaving his mother alone to fend for she and her unborn child, alone. They'd spent the early years of Gerald's life living alone in a small town in Ohio. Afterwards, she'd met and fallen in love with her current husband and his daughter. The two were married and moved to Michigan where they lived at present.
There were times when Gerald resented her for it, thinking she'd done it on purpose to spite him. There were other times when he couldn't be angry with a woman finding happiness in a world where she had been fighting to make ends meet. She was happy now and they had plenty of money - even if Gerald didn't get to enjoy the wealth.
When his shower was over and done with, the boy would step out and dry off. Then, with the towel wrapped around him, he would make his way back to his room, rummage through the dresser until he found a remotely decent pair of clothes (his step-father also did not approve of his recieving new clothes when Elicia should not have to bare the pain of wearing the same outfit more than three times) and slide thim on to his thin frame before making his way to the kitchen.
Gerald's step-father was a cruel, cruel man. He played favorites, he always gave Gerald the short end of the stick, he told the boy he would never amount to anything, and he occasionally beat the boy while in a drunken stupor. While all this was going on, Gerald's mother merely sat and watched, confident everything her husband did was for Gerald's sake.
Each morning when he went downstairs, his step-father would be eating cereal and downing a bottle of beer. Gerald had tried the stuff once and it had taken a weak for him to get the taste out of his mouth. How Pete could drink the stuff for breakfast, brunch, lunch, snacktime, tea-time, dinner, and gametime astounded the boy.
Sometimes Pete would be in a bad mood and curse at Gerald for taking so long to make it downstairs. Sometimes he would knock his chair down and come and hit the boy. Sometimes he would even throw empty beer bottles at Gerald until shards of broken glass littered the kitchen floor. Naturally, Gerald had to clean these up with a smile on his face and a tear in his eye.
After Gerald was sitting at the kitchen table eating, his step-father would go into one of his 'you're lucky we kept you around' speeches and go into detail about how he had considered breaking up with Gerald's mother because of the shame being related to such a pathetic child would bring on him. But, being the saint that he was, Pete had gotten over it and married Gerald's mother anyways.
Eventually, Pete would go back to drinking and make his way into the living room where he would collapse onto the couch and watch the morning news until his beer put him to sleep. After that, Gerald would run to the bus stop ride the bus to school.
The bus driver was a lady who looked like a man. Her name was Lina Wilkinson, but the children had other names for her. Some called her a cow, others got creative and called her 'Lina Bitchinson' under their breaths, but everyone was in agreement that Ms. Wilkinson was a monster.
As Gerald climbed onto the bus, she would insult him and make comments about his ratty clothes, saying he should learn to style his hair properly and stop being such a brat. Ms. Wilkinson played cards with Pete on Saturday nights, so, just for Gerald, she usually threw something in about what a gentleman Pete was for keeping such a trashy boy around when she would have thrown him on the streets from the very beginning.
The ride to school was no better. Gerald was smart, extremely so. They had skipped him ahead one grade level and the other kids hated him for it. They insulted him and beat on him and often did almost as much damage as Pete did.
Yes, this was Gerald's nightmare. And there was no escaping it.
His school, Richardson High, had a dance everyother month after the Christmas holidays until school ended. One was the New Millenium Dance, one was the Spring Festival Soiree, and the final one was the Prom/Summer/End of School Party-Celebration. And for each of these, a boy was expected to ask a girl to the dance. Anyone who could not find a date was considered a social outcast and was, for the most part, ignored until he could find a date for the next dance.
Gerald Ronsion was not bad looking, but with his step-father's decrees, he had no nice clothes and could barely afford to keep himself from looking like a walking skeleton. No girl wanted to date a boy without money - that much was obvious. Every time he asked someone, he was refused and laughed at by the girl and her friends.
But each day he would ask anyways before class began. And each day the tormenting would continue. It was as if Fate had chosen for Gerald to spend his life in nerverending agony. Which, he often thought, was just the case.
In class, he would be laughed at by fellow classmates when he answered a question incorrectly or said something foolish by mistake. He was not welcome in the sophomore classes and, truth be told, it ate away at him.
What had he done? How had he angered the world? Was his life God's version of a joke? Why did everyone hate him? How could he change it? Each day he asked himself these questions and more. And never once did an answer come to him.
So he would go through the day, each class the same, with children scorning him. Then he would go to lunch and be 'canned' - that is, thrown into a garbage can - by the older, stronger high schoolers. His pain never stopped. He was trapped in this pattern. And, to make matters worse, the nightmare only worsened after school.
He would ride the bus or walk home. The former if the elements were acting up, the latter if at all possible because it took longer. It gave him more time to think of what he would concentrate on when the nightly beating began.
When he arrived home, his step-father would go into a drunken rage, breaking precious momentos of his mother's and beating Gerald until he had bruises all over his body. Except his face. Pete never touched the boy's face. He told Gerald it was because it wasn't worth beating, but Gerald knew. Pete was afraid that someone would notice a black eye and take him away. There was no risk of that happening, of course. No one cared for Gerald. If he came to school with a black eye, the children would cheer and give him another one.
The attacks took up an hour each night. When they were over, Gerald would take his time going over his homework in the sanctuary that was his room. Then, his sister would come charging in, get right up to his ear and yell, "GERALD, TIME FOR DINNNNNNNNNNNER!"
Dinner was a dangerous affair anytime they ate anything that required forks and/or knives. Gerald had a scar on his back that stretched from his right shoulder blade to his left hip from the night his step-father lost it while cutting steak and attacked him. That had been months ago, but the wound still pained him as much as it had when it was fresh and bloody.
That was the one time he had tried to strike back at his step-father, for fear of losing his life if nothing else. He'd been knocked unconscious by a blow to her head, waking up several hours later with his mother running a cool cloth over his forehead. That was also the one time he'd taken out his anger with her, venting his frustration on the woman whose choices had pained him so.
Never did he lay a hand on her, but they both knew his words hurt her more than any blow ever could. From that point on, he'd vowed to suffer in silence, never again submitting his mother to the wrath he should have been trying to take out on his father.
After dinner, Gerald would be ordered to his room by his father who felt it only fair that he get a good night's sleep so the boy could keep up his good grades. Gerald once pointed out to him that seven o' clock was a completely unrealistic bedtime for someone in high school. His complaint was met with a fist to the gut and a mocking voice saying, "Thanks for visiting the complaints department."
The boy would lie in bed for hours, reading by flashlight. Books were the one thing that gave him joy in these nightmares. It seemed that, no matter what, the people in books escaped their problems. So why couldn't he?
Eventually the question would force him to put away the books and cry for a little while before he found peace and safety in his dreams. But, the next morning when he woke up, the nightmare would start again. And this was how it was for Gerald Ronsion every. Day. Of. His. Life.
((Just something I typed up in my illness-induced stupor. Enjoy!))
Gerald Ronsion had a nightmare. It always began exactly the same way, and it always ended exactly the same way. What happened in between was subject to change, but it never got better. In fact, it usually got worse.
He would find himself in his room - a small thing, by all accounts; it was scarcely decorated because his step-father felt that he didn't need as much as his little sister, Ericia, did. But, in his room, he would be lying in his bed, as the alarm at his side began to play whatever music happened to be on the local rock n' roll music station.
With a groan, he would pull himself out of bed and stumble through the halls of his house until he reached the bathroom. He would wash his face with some water so he could see straight and turn on the shower. The water would be murky and cold, but he'd force himself inside.
It chilled him to the bone, the murky water often serving to make him feel even more dirty than when he stepped in, but it sometimes helped hide his tears as he thought about the poor turn his life had taken since his mother had found love in a new man in a new city.
His father had passed away while Gerald was in the womb, leaving his mother alone to fend for she and her unborn child, alone. They'd spent the early years of Gerald's life living alone in a small town in Ohio. Afterwards, she'd met and fallen in love with her current husband and his daughter. The two were married and moved to Michigan where they lived at present.
There were times when Gerald resented her for it, thinking she'd done it on purpose to spite him. There were other times when he couldn't be angry with a woman finding happiness in a world where she had been fighting to make ends meet. She was happy now and they had plenty of money - even if Gerald didn't get to enjoy the wealth.
When his shower was over and done with, the boy would step out and dry off. Then, with the towel wrapped around him, he would make his way back to his room, rummage through the dresser until he found a remotely decent pair of clothes (his step-father also did not approve of his recieving new clothes when Elicia should not have to bare the pain of wearing the same outfit more than three times) and slide thim on to his thin frame before making his way to the kitchen.
Gerald's step-father was a cruel, cruel man. He played favorites, he always gave Gerald the short end of the stick, he told the boy he would never amount to anything, and he occasionally beat the boy while in a drunken stupor. While all this was going on, Gerald's mother merely sat and watched, confident everything her husband did was for Gerald's sake.
Each morning when he went downstairs, his step-father would be eating cereal and downing a bottle of beer. Gerald had tried the stuff once and it had taken a weak for him to get the taste out of his mouth. How Pete could drink the stuff for breakfast, brunch, lunch, snacktime, tea-time, dinner, and gametime astounded the boy.
Sometimes Pete would be in a bad mood and curse at Gerald for taking so long to make it downstairs. Sometimes he would knock his chair down and come and hit the boy. Sometimes he would even throw empty beer bottles at Gerald until shards of broken glass littered the kitchen floor. Naturally, Gerald had to clean these up with a smile on his face and a tear in his eye.
After Gerald was sitting at the kitchen table eating, his step-father would go into one of his 'you're lucky we kept you around' speeches and go into detail about how he had considered breaking up with Gerald's mother because of the shame being related to such a pathetic child would bring on him. But, being the saint that he was, Pete had gotten over it and married Gerald's mother anyways.
Eventually, Pete would go back to drinking and make his way into the living room where he would collapse onto the couch and watch the morning news until his beer put him to sleep. After that, Gerald would run to the bus stop ride the bus to school.
The bus driver was a lady who looked like a man. Her name was Lina Wilkinson, but the children had other names for her. Some called her a cow, others got creative and called her 'Lina Bitchinson' under their breaths, but everyone was in agreement that Ms. Wilkinson was a monster.
As Gerald climbed onto the bus, she would insult him and make comments about his ratty clothes, saying he should learn to style his hair properly and stop being such a brat. Ms. Wilkinson played cards with Pete on Saturday nights, so, just for Gerald, she usually threw something in about what a gentleman Pete was for keeping such a trashy boy around when she would have thrown him on the streets from the very beginning.
The ride to school was no better. Gerald was smart, extremely so. They had skipped him ahead one grade level and the other kids hated him for it. They insulted him and beat on him and often did almost as much damage as Pete did.
Yes, this was Gerald's nightmare. And there was no escaping it.
His school, Richardson High, had a dance everyother month after the Christmas holidays until school ended. One was the New Millenium Dance, one was the Spring Festival Soiree, and the final one was the Prom/Summer/End of School Party-Celebration. And for each of these, a boy was expected to ask a girl to the dance. Anyone who could not find a date was considered a social outcast and was, for the most part, ignored until he could find a date for the next dance.
Gerald Ronsion was not bad looking, but with his step-father's decrees, he had no nice clothes and could barely afford to keep himself from looking like a walking skeleton. No girl wanted to date a boy without money - that much was obvious. Every time he asked someone, he was refused and laughed at by the girl and her friends.
But each day he would ask anyways before class began. And each day the tormenting would continue. It was as if Fate had chosen for Gerald to spend his life in nerverending agony. Which, he often thought, was just the case.
In class, he would be laughed at by fellow classmates when he answered a question incorrectly or said something foolish by mistake. He was not welcome in the sophomore classes and, truth be told, it ate away at him.
What had he done? How had he angered the world? Was his life God's version of a joke? Why did everyone hate him? How could he change it? Each day he asked himself these questions and more. And never once did an answer come to him.
So he would go through the day, each class the same, with children scorning him. Then he would go to lunch and be 'canned' - that is, thrown into a garbage can - by the older, stronger high schoolers. His pain never stopped. He was trapped in this pattern. And, to make matters worse, the nightmare only worsened after school.
He would ride the bus or walk home. The former if the elements were acting up, the latter if at all possible because it took longer. It gave him more time to think of what he would concentrate on when the nightly beating began.
When he arrived home, his step-father would go into a drunken rage, breaking precious momentos of his mother's and beating Gerald until he had bruises all over his body. Except his face. Pete never touched the boy's face. He told Gerald it was because it wasn't worth beating, but Gerald knew. Pete was afraid that someone would notice a black eye and take him away. There was no risk of that happening, of course. No one cared for Gerald. If he came to school with a black eye, the children would cheer and give him another one.
The attacks took up an hour each night. When they were over, Gerald would take his time going over his homework in the sanctuary that was his room. Then, his sister would come charging in, get right up to his ear and yell, "GERALD, TIME FOR DINNNNNNNNNNNER!"
Dinner was a dangerous affair anytime they ate anything that required forks and/or knives. Gerald had a scar on his back that stretched from his right shoulder blade to his left hip from the night his step-father lost it while cutting steak and attacked him. That had been months ago, but the wound still pained him as much as it had when it was fresh and bloody.
That was the one time he had tried to strike back at his step-father, for fear of losing his life if nothing else. He'd been knocked unconscious by a blow to her head, waking up several hours later with his mother running a cool cloth over his forehead. That was also the one time he'd taken out his anger with her, venting his frustration on the woman whose choices had pained him so.
Never did he lay a hand on her, but they both knew his words hurt her more than any blow ever could. From that point on, he'd vowed to suffer in silence, never again submitting his mother to the wrath he should have been trying to take out on his father.
After dinner, Gerald would be ordered to his room by his father who felt it only fair that he get a good night's sleep so the boy could keep up his good grades. Gerald once pointed out to him that seven o' clock was a completely unrealistic bedtime for someone in high school. His complaint was met with a fist to the gut and a mocking voice saying, "Thanks for visiting the complaints department."
The boy would lie in bed for hours, reading by flashlight. Books were the one thing that gave him joy in these nightmares. It seemed that, no matter what, the people in books escaped their problems. So why couldn't he?
Eventually the question would force him to put away the books and cry for a little while before he found peace and safety in his dreams. But, the next morning when he woke up, the nightmare would start again. And this was how it was for Gerald Ronsion every. Day. Of. His. Life.
((Just something I typed up in my illness-induced stupor. Enjoy!))
simple easy sentences and flow. Think it missed a bit of emotion. It was a telling story, rather than a feeling one. I wanted to know some more of Gerald's feelings.