Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site

The tale of a teenage boy living a lonely life. He muses on his life in times of pain. He seeks safety in his humour and lives in a mind of his own. His mother abuses him from the beating of a brush to verbal pain. Very dark and twisted ending. Based of the song The Ballad of Dwight Fry by Alice Cooper...sorta. For fans of psycological stories or movies. View table of contents...


1 2 3 4

Submitted:Jan 18, 2013    Reads: 21    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

"See my lonely life unfold
I see it everyday
See my only mind explode
Since I've gone away"

-Alice Cooper-

"Enough of this black crap."

"Enough of this rock 'n' roll crap"

"Enough of this depressive crap"

God, why is my Mum so harsh? All I do is be myself, but it just seems to never be good enough for her. She wants me to be just like her; overly strict, over protective, etc. I tried making a point to her earlier. I told that I didn't want to be like her. I wanted to be whoever the hell I want to be. It only ended up with a bad outcome. Have you ever heard someone say to you or someone, 'if you do a very hard task, you will get a very good easy outcome…' Yeah, it kind of lies.
So here I am…

Sitting out in the pouring rain, sitting on a rock with not coat on…

Although, I must say, I find that it feels very awesome on my skin and it washed away the misery I hold in my black heart.
If you're wondering why I'm out here, bitching about my Mum, well here's a recap;

Mum and I were sitting at the dinner table, eating bangers and mash, as you do. All was well until she asked me about my day at school. I hate when she asks me about school…

"It was like yesterday," I answered. I was being honest too. I'm never often honest.

"And what was yesterday like?" She pressed further. I wondered to myself about why she does not understand that I hate talking about school.

"Like every other day," I answered whilst rolling my eyes, which she saw. I guess that's what started her shenanigans. She always says I have an attitude problem when actually I just find her very annoying.

So she bitched for about five minutes about what clothes I wear and what music I listen to.

"Enough of this black crap. I will not have a fraggle as a child."

"Enough of this rock 'n' roll crap. It's bad for you."

"Enough of this depressive crap. Do you want to end up in an asylum?"

"Eat your food. You're skinnier than the number eleven."

"OK, I'm gonna stop you there," I raised my hand to silence the damn bitch, "This is me. My life, not yours. I don't care how much you cry and whine about it. I will never be like you, Mother."

She winced at the 'Mother'. She says that when I call her that she feels old. She stood up from the table looking away slightly, "I'm going to the bathroom."

"So you can piss and cry at the same time?" I smirked. My humour is my shield these days. But for some reason it didn't protect me this time.


I felt a sharp pain at the side of my head. After a few seconds of groaning and grinding my teeth at the pain, I saw my Mum with a brush in her hand standing beside me. I don't know where the brush came from but it didn't matter. She hit me. Like she does nearly everyday.

"GET OUT! GET OUT, YOU LITTLE SHIT!" She shouted whilst swiping the weapon at me again and again.

So I left the house…

So here I am, perched in the rain on a rock. The rain is pouring over the bruise on my poor head.

I smell like rain…

Just like I did years ago before getting one of Mum's 'cleansing baths'.

I did have hot water and decent shampoo but I had no soap, shower gel or sponges. Instead, she scrubbed at my skin with a wired scraper. Bleach was my only soap in those days. I recall one time I actually bled and the bleach would burn a lot. On the bright side, I got a fluffy towel after but I didn't heal the scrapes. The good thing was there were not a lot of scrapes. People in school never saw them thankfully.

I sigh…

I like the rain. I basically take all my bad memories and thoughts and let the rain wash them away when it pours over me. It used to sooth the pain at those times in life.

The reason Mum did that was because she didn't want me to be 'unclean' like everyone else in the world. But ever since I turned 12 years old, I've started bathing myself. To this very day, she still thinks I use that wire scraper and bleach. I go to town from time to time and get my own soap and shower gel and hide it in my room. I don't see how she suspects anything though. Doesn't bleach have a specific smell? I don't smell like bleach anymore. I smell like lynx. To make it look like I do use the bleach, I basically empty it down the toilet and empty half a bottle. I'm actually surprised she hasn't noticed how clean the toilet is. Our house is pretty disgusting. Except my room. It's probably the only clean room in the house and it's all mine.

Mum never comes into my room. Asides from her evil personality, she gives me a bit of privacy which leads me onto my next subject;

I say 'a bit of privacy' which is actually a kind way to describe it. Under the planks of wood in my room is a secret compartment. I'm the only one who knows about it. In the secret compartment is a many number of things that Mum would kill for owning.

1.) Candy- She thinks it slowly kills you and rots your teeth in 10 seconds flat.

2.) Playboy Magazines- She says this is a one way ticket to hell.

3.) Novels- she only believes in Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte and the bible by God-knows-who.

4.) Psychological and thriller movies- Really weird movies that mess with your mind like 'Jacob's Ladder', 'Black Swan', etc. But my most favourite is 'Donnie Darko'; the weird movie about the boy who can see a giant bunny rabbit which tells him about the world ending. 'Cause why not…

One day I wish to be like Jake Gyllenhaal; free. But first I have to run away from the old bag first.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU IDIOT?!" A driver shouts to me through the sound of the pouring rain. He pulled up beside the rock I was perched on, "aren't you cold out there?! It's pouring with rain!"

I just stared at him blankly. Mum said, 'never talk to strangers'.

The man sighed with frustration and cursed under his breath whilst shaking his head.

"Damn teenagers," he mumbled as he drove off. In doing so, he splashed a puddle at me.

But I didn't care…

I was soaking anyway.

I was only offended because of how rude he was…


| Email this story Email this Novel | Add to reading list


About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.