Post by xToTheENDx on Dec 29, 2007 19:18:30 GMT -5
Title: Paranoid
Author: Me
Inspiration: "Paranoid" by Grand Funk Railroad
Rating: PG-13
POV: Third
Summary: A short piece about phobias and revenge.
Disclaimer: This is definitely fake, never happened, and is not to be taken seriously.
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Did you ever get that feeling in your life
That someone was watching you?
Frank had noticed it the very instant he’d stepped foot on the bus; it gawked at him from the ceiling since that first inspection of the vehicle. In spite of that hideous mar on the ceiling of the living room, the bunks had loved him, enveloped him, so when they asked him his opinion, he said the bus was a godsend. Anything was better than that boxcar of a van. But as they’d left, he’d felt it following him, glaring down at him from its overhead perch.
When they first moved into it near the beginning of the tour, he couldn’t help but notice that someone had put a plastic ring of light around the thing that left him on constant edge. That first night had been spent in his bunk, the greatest attribute of the bus with which he could relate, and not out in the main area with the others. The thought of that thing watching them and recording their every move was ominous. He wanted to shout for everyone to get out of there, but the comfort of the small, enclosed mattress wouldn’t free him even for a second.
After the first few weeks, he became accustomed to the feeling of it constantly watching them all, but that by no means meant that he enjoyed its presence anymore than before. He’d been caught once staring up at it, watching the way it recorded their movements and played them back instantaneously. “What’re you looking at?” He’d just shaken his head and returned his attention to the others. Nothing changed. He was no less aware of it.
The rest of the guys seemed to notice his constant edginess only occasionally. Frank couldn’t tell them the reason behind his odd behavior – something internally convinced him to keep his mouth shut. Maybe it was his love of the beds or maybe it was his fear that he was never all alone. He constantly feared he was being watched and this paranoia added to the others’ anxiety over his change of behavior.
He’d woken up coughing one night and the bunk released him to find something to drink. This, however, meant going into the living area and though he was not pleased with this discovery, the dryness in his throat and ache in his lungs would permit no less. Keeping his eyes and head down, he’d shuffled through the room, anxiously shoving takeout boxes aside; he was afraid to lift his feet from the still-stiff carpeting. The ring of light was on, but the bus was otherwise black and he hated that fact the most, he was sure. There wasn’t even a light inside the refrigerator – he’d fumbled around inside it, clumsy doctor’s hands in a gaping chest cavity, and finally straightened up with a Jones soda (a fitting reward).
But then he’d turned, bumping the fridge door with his hip (which really was more painful than anticipated), and it had trapped him. He’d been studying the can, checking it for impurities in the light from above when he’d looked upward quite abruptly and found himself transfixed. (All at once, he knew it had been that thing’s plan, making him cough so he would have to come out here. Conspirator.) A few steps forward and his shins collided with the coffee table (they are both short and thus understand each other). There he was rooted, staring straight up with his neck exposed to the world (come devour it).
It had been a while later (minutes, hours) when Gerard had gotten up to go to the bathroom and had seen him standing there (cloaked in dim yellow light, hazel eyes cast to the heavens). “Hey, you all right in there?” A concerned voice, body half-hidden inside the bathroom already. He nodded, finally released, and stepped forward uneasily. “Well hang on, I want to ask you something.” He didn’t respond to this; no response was requested. As soon as he had gone, Frank had merely continued on his way, opening the can as he meandered back to his bed. He didn’t have time to chat – he had to escape while he could. They could talk in the morning.
It was two days later when he was confronted about that night: “Why’d you leave? I asked you to wait for me.”
He’d wilted forward on the couch, clenching his jaw and holding his hands so tightly they’d throbbed. “I don’t know,” he’d replied, dropping his head onto his folded hands. His shoulders curved downward like gray rainbows as a hoarse, “I had to get away from it,” crept from his throat. It was mumbled because he was terrified it would hear him and put a stop to this.
“Well at any rate, I wanted to ask you if everything’s all right with you. You’ve been acting weird ever since we got this bus.” He groaned quietly to himself. “What?” Irritated, he could feel it.
“Can we not do this here?” He’d lifted his head and begged with lackluster eyes.
“What do you mean, ‘here’?”
“Someone might hear us…” Someone they were friends with or someone he feared and loathed. His eyes flicked upward just fleetingly but even this motion had been caught.
“All the guys are out,” was the response. “They won’t be back for awhile – it’s just you and me.”
He’d felt an absurd sense of deja-vu then – one that urged him to stand, plant his hands amid the mess on the table, and kiss those pretty lips, if only as a distraction. But he couldn’t; that would be tactless, unethical. They could be watching.
He’d stood and walked out at that point, out into the blistering sunlight. The air had just seemed lighter there.
A few days after that, they’d gone too far north to leave the heat off. That night, his throat dried out and he’d coughed himself awake. It had caught him in the living room again and he gazed up at it, nearly slackjaw and oblivious. Someone had followed him.
“Frank,” Gerard had said firmly, standing straight-up in the bunkroom doorway and blocking his only escape (intentions, intentions).
“What?” he’d snapped, though really he was thankful even for that rescue. The bunkroom door had closed and he was coming nearer.
“Why does it feel like you’re slipping away?” Eyes sympathetic and arms limp at his sides, his hair was tousled. “Are you doing it on purpose?” This was quiet. He was touching then, fingers on a stubbled cheek that wasn’t his own (yet). “I would hate to lose you.” Whispered. And they kissed. Frank wasn’t sure who’d initiated it, but they embraced and kissed nonetheless. That leviathan fear was surpassed only by the intensity of the moment and he forgot everything else.
Cast across the floor, they laid impudently. Still embracing, explorations commenced (as if they hadn’t seen enough of each other at this point). Frank knew that he was consenting to this in order to break the monotony. Repetitive riffs, repetitive shows, repetitive cities – everything could lead to a repetitive life. Aside from that, it was something like trying narcotics for the first time – he didn’t know what would happen, how it would feel.
In contrast, Gerard was only interested in satisfying a fantasy harbored within for some time. There were no feelings involved (he told himself) and nothing was said when drawstrings came undone.
It wasn’t until that mouth was sucking at his neck and his vision was unobstructed that he’d looked upward. There it was, haloed in light and watching, recording. A creamy expanse of back, shifting shoulders, and his own dazed and sultry face – he surveyed it all and swore he could see the lenses adjusting for the best shots. Next came the push and it served to take his mind off it a while (that lovely rhythm in the silence of the bus).
He’d hardly managed to quiet the moans that twisted in the back of his mouth like trapped animals, but by the end of it all, he felt confident that they went unheard. Dressed only in their shorts, they stayed on the floor of the living room, coiled up together. Frank could feel his own pulse in the tips of his fingers, hurried along by adrenaline and fast-fading excitement. Below them, another heart beat, far calmer, and he was envious of that beat for containing itself. When he’d pulled his hand away, the tips of his fingers had seemed heated, still ticking with that other pulse beside his own.
“Stay here with me,” Gerard had requested. He didn’t reply, just brushed his fingertips over those gray-green eyes to make them close and sighed. He never closed his own eyes, just watched the rise and fall of Gerard’s chest until it slowed quite considerably. It was then that he’d gotten up and gathered the remainder of his clothes, head down, and returned to his bunk. He wasn’t allowed to sleep there in the living room.
When he heard someone shouting reprimands and complaints about people sleeping on floors the next morning, Frank bit his lip and turned over anxiously. His back to the curtain, his skin twinged with carpet burn across his shoulderblades as he listened to the movements outside. When the bunk over his groaned in protest to a sudden addition of weight, he knew that the ordeal was over and he closed his eyes to return to sleep.
Gerard didn’t talk to him for three days after that. Frank tried to apologize, but Gerard either shrugged him off or they were never alone, always watched. It was then that Frank realized that it – that overhead monster – was the center of it all. It had turned Gerard against him and probably intended to do so with the other guys as well. While spending spare time in his bunk, he began toying with ideas of revenge, how to rid himself of his cystic handicap and finally be himself again. On that third day of silent treatment, the bus had stopped at some quasi-county-fair venue in a dusty mid-western state. It was then, wandering around and observing teenagers in their natural habitats, that he decided on how to purge the bus of its lone impurity.
After disappearing for close to half an hour, he returned to the empty vehicle and set right to work (who knew when someone would come back?). He left the windows up and shut the door so the smell would remain contained rather than attract unwanted guests. He hadn’t thought to buy a mask, but didn’t think he’d need one within the first five minutes. Besides, a mask would just give him away and they would send someone to interrupt his retribution. He couldn’t have that, and so sprung the surprise on the thing when it probably thought it had him by now.
The first coat took all of fifteen minutes, but even then he began to notice his lightheadedness. He attributed that only to having stood with his head tilted back for so long, though, and only sank onto the couch for a few minutes to let everything dry (even though he admitted to himself that he really was drawing lazier breaths). He wouldn’t admit defeat this early on, however, and stood again after watching the black drip from the ceiling for a good five minutes. Though his vision went a little gray, he shook it off and resumed his work, adding two more coats over the next twenty minutes. Once the can could spray no more, he tossed it aside at last and fell backward onto the couch (with little control, but it couldn’t see that now).
He let his head fall onto the crest of the couch so that he could stare up at his work, magnificent work! It was just then, when he realized he was feeling rather asthmatic and oxygen wasn’t easily reaching his lungs, that the door opened and enter, stage left: Gerard. At first, the vocalist didn’t seem to notice a change or difficulty on the air. The fresh afternoon air from outside had rushed in behind him to cleanse the thick air within the bus. But once Gerard reached the top of the little set of steps and turned into the living room, he realized something was wrong. Maybe it was the maniacal grin of victory on Frank’s face or the black paint dripping from the ceiling or the fumes that stood stagnant there, but he put things together pretty quickly.
“Geez, Frank, are you trying to kill yourself?” he demanded, lifting his hand to cover his mouth and nose. After opening two or three of the windows, he pulled Frank onto his feet with one hand and pushed him toward the door. With one last look into the living room at his work, at the blacked out mirror on the ceiling that would never again mock him from above, Frank stumbled down the stairs, into the dazzling sunlight, into the air that felt almost otherworldly after the fumigation of the bus.
Gerard had followed him down and watched skeptically as Frank collapsed into the small patch of yellowing grass beside the bus. The guitarist flopped onto his back, eyes closed against the sun, and just breathed with that grin on his face. Laughter bubbled slowly from his chest and he gasped in deeper breaths as he rolled over onto his elbows and knees. From there, he coughed forcefully as his lungs fought to expel every trace of the spray paint. Gerard was about to step forward, concerned that something might really be wrong, but then Frank had fallen onto his side again and the air was rent with his apocalyptic laughter.
“Get a little too screwed up, Frankie?” Gerard asked stiffly, but there was a smirk on his face when Frank looked up. Even though it was a bit obnoxious, Gerard didn’t honestly mind Frank’s change of behavior – it was the first time he had laughed so wholeheartedly since God only knew when. Frank regained enough of himself to motion for Gerard to come closer and, sighing and rolling his eyes like he thought it was ridiculous, Gerard had knelt next to him as Frank sat up a little. Frank flung his arms around Gerard’s neck and shoulders, pulling him forward and laughing some more when Gerard cried out, startled.
“I’m sorry, Gerard,” Frank admitted, abruptly (appearing) sober. “I’m sorry I left you alone.” Gerard wasn’t struggling to get away anymore, but rather staring with wide eyes at the dusty grass (probably only planted there to prevent erosion when it rained). Frank had pressed Gerard’s mouth into his shoulder and left him no room to speak, neither retorts nor acceptances. Gerard could only stare there at the grass and listen, but he was sure he liked it better that way. “That stupid thing – it was the only thing I ever hated about the bus. The only thing.” Frank loosened up then, moving his hands to push Gerard’s head up and into position for a kiss (one that Gerard didn’t deny – a good sign). Afterward, he’d shoved Gerard away again, laughing some more. “It’s over now! The f*cker thought it had me beat, but now look who’s lost!”
The laugh was infectious; Gerard had snickered a little as he’d inched closer to Frank’s side and turned his face upward as he moved over him. He grinned and shoved another kiss on Frank’s lips. “To tell you the truth, I never liked it either.”
------------
Don't ask.
Comments?
Author: Me
Inspiration: "Paranoid" by Grand Funk Railroad
Rating: PG-13
POV: Third
Summary: A short piece about phobias and revenge.
Disclaimer: This is definitely fake, never happened, and is not to be taken seriously.
-------------
Did you ever get that feeling in your life
That someone was watching you?
Frank had noticed it the very instant he’d stepped foot on the bus; it gawked at him from the ceiling since that first inspection of the vehicle. In spite of that hideous mar on the ceiling of the living room, the bunks had loved him, enveloped him, so when they asked him his opinion, he said the bus was a godsend. Anything was better than that boxcar of a van. But as they’d left, he’d felt it following him, glaring down at him from its overhead perch.
When they first moved into it near the beginning of the tour, he couldn’t help but notice that someone had put a plastic ring of light around the thing that left him on constant edge. That first night had been spent in his bunk, the greatest attribute of the bus with which he could relate, and not out in the main area with the others. The thought of that thing watching them and recording their every move was ominous. He wanted to shout for everyone to get out of there, but the comfort of the small, enclosed mattress wouldn’t free him even for a second.
After the first few weeks, he became accustomed to the feeling of it constantly watching them all, but that by no means meant that he enjoyed its presence anymore than before. He’d been caught once staring up at it, watching the way it recorded their movements and played them back instantaneously. “What’re you looking at?” He’d just shaken his head and returned his attention to the others. Nothing changed. He was no less aware of it.
The rest of the guys seemed to notice his constant edginess only occasionally. Frank couldn’t tell them the reason behind his odd behavior – something internally convinced him to keep his mouth shut. Maybe it was his love of the beds or maybe it was his fear that he was never all alone. He constantly feared he was being watched and this paranoia added to the others’ anxiety over his change of behavior.
He’d woken up coughing one night and the bunk released him to find something to drink. This, however, meant going into the living area and though he was not pleased with this discovery, the dryness in his throat and ache in his lungs would permit no less. Keeping his eyes and head down, he’d shuffled through the room, anxiously shoving takeout boxes aside; he was afraid to lift his feet from the still-stiff carpeting. The ring of light was on, but the bus was otherwise black and he hated that fact the most, he was sure. There wasn’t even a light inside the refrigerator – he’d fumbled around inside it, clumsy doctor’s hands in a gaping chest cavity, and finally straightened up with a Jones soda (a fitting reward).
But then he’d turned, bumping the fridge door with his hip (which really was more painful than anticipated), and it had trapped him. He’d been studying the can, checking it for impurities in the light from above when he’d looked upward quite abruptly and found himself transfixed. (All at once, he knew it had been that thing’s plan, making him cough so he would have to come out here. Conspirator.) A few steps forward and his shins collided with the coffee table (they are both short and thus understand each other). There he was rooted, staring straight up with his neck exposed to the world (come devour it).
It had been a while later (minutes, hours) when Gerard had gotten up to go to the bathroom and had seen him standing there (cloaked in dim yellow light, hazel eyes cast to the heavens). “Hey, you all right in there?” A concerned voice, body half-hidden inside the bathroom already. He nodded, finally released, and stepped forward uneasily. “Well hang on, I want to ask you something.” He didn’t respond to this; no response was requested. As soon as he had gone, Frank had merely continued on his way, opening the can as he meandered back to his bed. He didn’t have time to chat – he had to escape while he could. They could talk in the morning.
It was two days later when he was confronted about that night: “Why’d you leave? I asked you to wait for me.”
He’d wilted forward on the couch, clenching his jaw and holding his hands so tightly they’d throbbed. “I don’t know,” he’d replied, dropping his head onto his folded hands. His shoulders curved downward like gray rainbows as a hoarse, “I had to get away from it,” crept from his throat. It was mumbled because he was terrified it would hear him and put a stop to this.
“Well at any rate, I wanted to ask you if everything’s all right with you. You’ve been acting weird ever since we got this bus.” He groaned quietly to himself. “What?” Irritated, he could feel it.
“Can we not do this here?” He’d lifted his head and begged with lackluster eyes.
“What do you mean, ‘here’?”
“Someone might hear us…” Someone they were friends with or someone he feared and loathed. His eyes flicked upward just fleetingly but even this motion had been caught.
“All the guys are out,” was the response. “They won’t be back for awhile – it’s just you and me.”
He’d felt an absurd sense of deja-vu then – one that urged him to stand, plant his hands amid the mess on the table, and kiss those pretty lips, if only as a distraction. But he couldn’t; that would be tactless, unethical. They could be watching.
He’d stood and walked out at that point, out into the blistering sunlight. The air had just seemed lighter there.
A few days after that, they’d gone too far north to leave the heat off. That night, his throat dried out and he’d coughed himself awake. It had caught him in the living room again and he gazed up at it, nearly slackjaw and oblivious. Someone had followed him.
“Frank,” Gerard had said firmly, standing straight-up in the bunkroom doorway and blocking his only escape (intentions, intentions).
“What?” he’d snapped, though really he was thankful even for that rescue. The bunkroom door had closed and he was coming nearer.
“Why does it feel like you’re slipping away?” Eyes sympathetic and arms limp at his sides, his hair was tousled. “Are you doing it on purpose?” This was quiet. He was touching then, fingers on a stubbled cheek that wasn’t his own (yet). “I would hate to lose you.” Whispered. And they kissed. Frank wasn’t sure who’d initiated it, but they embraced and kissed nonetheless. That leviathan fear was surpassed only by the intensity of the moment and he forgot everything else.
Cast across the floor, they laid impudently. Still embracing, explorations commenced (as if they hadn’t seen enough of each other at this point). Frank knew that he was consenting to this in order to break the monotony. Repetitive riffs, repetitive shows, repetitive cities – everything could lead to a repetitive life. Aside from that, it was something like trying narcotics for the first time – he didn’t know what would happen, how it would feel.
In contrast, Gerard was only interested in satisfying a fantasy harbored within for some time. There were no feelings involved (he told himself) and nothing was said when drawstrings came undone.
It wasn’t until that mouth was sucking at his neck and his vision was unobstructed that he’d looked upward. There it was, haloed in light and watching, recording. A creamy expanse of back, shifting shoulders, and his own dazed and sultry face – he surveyed it all and swore he could see the lenses adjusting for the best shots. Next came the push and it served to take his mind off it a while (that lovely rhythm in the silence of the bus).
He’d hardly managed to quiet the moans that twisted in the back of his mouth like trapped animals, but by the end of it all, he felt confident that they went unheard. Dressed only in their shorts, they stayed on the floor of the living room, coiled up together. Frank could feel his own pulse in the tips of his fingers, hurried along by adrenaline and fast-fading excitement. Below them, another heart beat, far calmer, and he was envious of that beat for containing itself. When he’d pulled his hand away, the tips of his fingers had seemed heated, still ticking with that other pulse beside his own.
“Stay here with me,” Gerard had requested. He didn’t reply, just brushed his fingertips over those gray-green eyes to make them close and sighed. He never closed his own eyes, just watched the rise and fall of Gerard’s chest until it slowed quite considerably. It was then that he’d gotten up and gathered the remainder of his clothes, head down, and returned to his bunk. He wasn’t allowed to sleep there in the living room.
When he heard someone shouting reprimands and complaints about people sleeping on floors the next morning, Frank bit his lip and turned over anxiously. His back to the curtain, his skin twinged with carpet burn across his shoulderblades as he listened to the movements outside. When the bunk over his groaned in protest to a sudden addition of weight, he knew that the ordeal was over and he closed his eyes to return to sleep.
Gerard didn’t talk to him for three days after that. Frank tried to apologize, but Gerard either shrugged him off or they were never alone, always watched. It was then that Frank realized that it – that overhead monster – was the center of it all. It had turned Gerard against him and probably intended to do so with the other guys as well. While spending spare time in his bunk, he began toying with ideas of revenge, how to rid himself of his cystic handicap and finally be himself again. On that third day of silent treatment, the bus had stopped at some quasi-county-fair venue in a dusty mid-western state. It was then, wandering around and observing teenagers in their natural habitats, that he decided on how to purge the bus of its lone impurity.
After disappearing for close to half an hour, he returned to the empty vehicle and set right to work (who knew when someone would come back?). He left the windows up and shut the door so the smell would remain contained rather than attract unwanted guests. He hadn’t thought to buy a mask, but didn’t think he’d need one within the first five minutes. Besides, a mask would just give him away and they would send someone to interrupt his retribution. He couldn’t have that, and so sprung the surprise on the thing when it probably thought it had him by now.
The first coat took all of fifteen minutes, but even then he began to notice his lightheadedness. He attributed that only to having stood with his head tilted back for so long, though, and only sank onto the couch for a few minutes to let everything dry (even though he admitted to himself that he really was drawing lazier breaths). He wouldn’t admit defeat this early on, however, and stood again after watching the black drip from the ceiling for a good five minutes. Though his vision went a little gray, he shook it off and resumed his work, adding two more coats over the next twenty minutes. Once the can could spray no more, he tossed it aside at last and fell backward onto the couch (with little control, but it couldn’t see that now).
He let his head fall onto the crest of the couch so that he could stare up at his work, magnificent work! It was just then, when he realized he was feeling rather asthmatic and oxygen wasn’t easily reaching his lungs, that the door opened and enter, stage left: Gerard. At first, the vocalist didn’t seem to notice a change or difficulty on the air. The fresh afternoon air from outside had rushed in behind him to cleanse the thick air within the bus. But once Gerard reached the top of the little set of steps and turned into the living room, he realized something was wrong. Maybe it was the maniacal grin of victory on Frank’s face or the black paint dripping from the ceiling or the fumes that stood stagnant there, but he put things together pretty quickly.
“Geez, Frank, are you trying to kill yourself?” he demanded, lifting his hand to cover his mouth and nose. After opening two or three of the windows, he pulled Frank onto his feet with one hand and pushed him toward the door. With one last look into the living room at his work, at the blacked out mirror on the ceiling that would never again mock him from above, Frank stumbled down the stairs, into the dazzling sunlight, into the air that felt almost otherworldly after the fumigation of the bus.
Gerard had followed him down and watched skeptically as Frank collapsed into the small patch of yellowing grass beside the bus. The guitarist flopped onto his back, eyes closed against the sun, and just breathed with that grin on his face. Laughter bubbled slowly from his chest and he gasped in deeper breaths as he rolled over onto his elbows and knees. From there, he coughed forcefully as his lungs fought to expel every trace of the spray paint. Gerard was about to step forward, concerned that something might really be wrong, but then Frank had fallen onto his side again and the air was rent with his apocalyptic laughter.
“Get a little too screwed up, Frankie?” Gerard asked stiffly, but there was a smirk on his face when Frank looked up. Even though it was a bit obnoxious, Gerard didn’t honestly mind Frank’s change of behavior – it was the first time he had laughed so wholeheartedly since God only knew when. Frank regained enough of himself to motion for Gerard to come closer and, sighing and rolling his eyes like he thought it was ridiculous, Gerard had knelt next to him as Frank sat up a little. Frank flung his arms around Gerard’s neck and shoulders, pulling him forward and laughing some more when Gerard cried out, startled.
“I’m sorry, Gerard,” Frank admitted, abruptly (appearing) sober. “I’m sorry I left you alone.” Gerard wasn’t struggling to get away anymore, but rather staring with wide eyes at the dusty grass (probably only planted there to prevent erosion when it rained). Frank had pressed Gerard’s mouth into his shoulder and left him no room to speak, neither retorts nor acceptances. Gerard could only stare there at the grass and listen, but he was sure he liked it better that way. “That stupid thing – it was the only thing I ever hated about the bus. The only thing.” Frank loosened up then, moving his hands to push Gerard’s head up and into position for a kiss (one that Gerard didn’t deny – a good sign). Afterward, he’d shoved Gerard away again, laughing some more. “It’s over now! The f*cker thought it had me beat, but now look who’s lost!”
The laugh was infectious; Gerard had snickered a little as he’d inched closer to Frank’s side and turned his face upward as he moved over him. He grinned and shoved another kiss on Frank’s lips. “To tell you the truth, I never liked it either.”
------------
Don't ask.
Comments?