Venus de Milo

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Hunter Hercsh has just turned 18 and been realesed from a Mental Hospital after 2 years. Hunter is synical, angry, smart, and has a lot of problems, from drugs, and sex with every thing and every one, to a family that wount take him, and a girl he can't have.

*this story is not done yet*

It was as if your parents had named you Venus or Milo, when you were born with a debilitating deformity that cause your arms to be nothing more than shriveled nubs, and then they proceed to tell you how that name is so empowering. I lived my life in perpetual irony.

After 2 years of living among retards and crazies I was let go unceremoniously from Ocean View Mental Institution on my 18th birthday.

“Well Mr. Hersch lets hope to never see you back here again.” The big sack of cellulite and red frizzy hair said as it handed me a plastic bag full of what looked to be clothes.

“These don’t fit me any more, I’ve grown like half a foot, and what the fuck these shoes are a fuckin size 9!” I protested as I looked at the bag full of shit I came in with.

“well I’m sorry Mr. Hersch but that’s what we have for you.”

“Okay you can obviously see my dilemma here. I’m not going to go out on to the fuckin streets of L.A in old blood stained clothing!”

  After much debate and a couple of threats to throw me right back in, they offered me some clothing that had been left behind, I courteously accepted and walked out of their white marble prison in my new threads. I thought about Morgan Freedmen at that moment, then I thought about what wasted fucking slob this gigantic Budweiser shirt had belong to in its previous life. The yellow arm pit stains extended almost to the neck line and the tacky red car on it was fading away.

No body was there to greet me as I took my walk to freedom; I figured no one would be there. The last time I had seen either my mother or the rest of the Hersch family I was standing on top of Todd my mothers husband beating the sass right out of him, with two slit wrist pouring blood all over his nice dress shirt.

“He was always such a quiet, sad boy.” I remember my mother saying as they threw me in the back of a cop car bound, from head to toe, with a surgical mask over my face so I would quit spitting.

She was right I had always been a quiet boy, and that’s what got me in trouble, had I just been a little more hostile, a little more brash, maybe if I had just shoved my sad, angry little feeling in their face they would of taken me seriously. In group they always told us to express our emotions and to do so in a healthy productive way.

“Hey Doug it’s me, Hunter, uhm you don’t think I could possibly stay at your house tonight do you? Yeah I just got out. No I’m not really allowed back there. ” I said into the filthy ass, sticky fuckin public phone outside of the am/pm in West Hollywood.

Something else: Jackson Myers had the surgical precision of a neurosurgeon. He could work his tongue and lips in the most perfectly synchronized fashion on my nob. He was an obsessive, perverted, racist with a love for Claude McKay; it was just too bad he couldn’t go a night with out shitting himself. Jackson stayed on a different wing than me. He was paranoid, delusional, and considered “high risk”. We met on a rant. His stupid, red, freckled face bitched about how “The Harlem Dancer” was the definitive piece in modern literature; how it was the pivotal point were poetry, blah blah blah. “Niggers don’t understand that! They just keep being ignorant that’s all they fucking know!” he yelled at nothing in particular. I looked up from picking at my nails on a clear sunny outing, and met his eyes. He blew me down the hall from the nurse’s station.

“Holy hell Hunter you look…you look tall.” Doug stared at me in shock. His eyes wide and bewildered.

“You look fat Doug what the fuck happen to you.” I say as I walk past his fat ass and into his parent’s house. We had been best friends since the 4th grade when he was the only kid that would stand by me in line. He had always been big, now he was really big with a full beard, and his all black apparel, his pitch black Morbid Angel shirt, his big baggy black jeans. I had been in his house hundreds of times, I had seen the same Saltillo tile in the entrance a million times, and the same peach on the walls. I walked to the back yard past Doug’s morbidly obese beagle, Scone. “You want a smoke?” Doug asks as he put a Marlboro in his mouth. I hadn’t smoked since I got into Ocean View. The first days I was sedated at least twice a day because of the nicotine fits. In reality I guess I was never really taught about restrain, so I nodded my head and lit my smoke.

No body fought me to wake up. No body fought me to go to sleep. There were no more nurses to force pills down your throat, no therapist to rip the feelings right out of your already blistered heart. Just me, just me. Doug put me in the back room, and threw me a sleeping bag, I didn’t sleep the whole night.

Molly: Molly was blonde, and cheery. Molly was the opposite of me. Molly smiled when the sun came up and laughed as the sun went down; she skipped and frolicked through life with a fairness, an airiness. Molly kissed me underneath the pier on Sundays and let me walk her home on Monday. Molly didn’t take my phone calls any more.    

I wasn’t allowed to stay at Doug’s. his parents wouldn’t let me stay there, so I made off with a sweet striped sweater, and a pair of brand new black cowboy boots size 12, out of his dads closet.

“Sorry dude, my folks just…you know freaked out after they sent you away. They just figure you aren’t, that you aren’t right you know.” Doug apologized as we sat on a park bench. The world had treated us very differently in the past 2 years. Doug was a fat, soft, sack of vulnerable, scared, shit, with his tender brown eyes, and breathy deep voice. He cradled his smoke between his two cushy finger and dragged it like a faggot. His brand new death metal shirts and polished black steel toes’ were exactly what I meant. I shrugged my shoulders at him with a snarl.

“Shit I guess that was weird for every body.”

Yeah that was an under statement. I paced back and forward in front of the bench were he sat, staring up at the sun through the naked branches of the trees. We had never been the kind of friends that talk a lot, shit we weren’t even the kind of friends who knew each others favorite color, and I thanked him for that. We sat at the park for a couple more hours smoking cigarettes. I could tell he didn’t want to just leave me there, alone, by my self. I could tell he didn’t think I could make it. So I started walking away.

“Hey! There’s a show tomorrow up by Rafael’s old neighborhood, you wanna go?” he yelled out. i knew what he was doing.

“No I don’t like that metal bullshit.”

“No it’s that gay shit you like, I promise.”

“Yeah…yeah okay. I’ll be here at 8:30”

The pills in their orange prescription bottle jingled as I walked along the sand. I was supposed to take the anti-depressants once a day and the mood stabilizers twice, along with a chaser of Klonapin for the anxiety when ever the fuck I wanted. I gobbled up 4 of them in one go.  It wasn’t hard to get high back in Ocean View. Pills were traded for everything from a roll of toilet paper to anal sex, odd how they both work in the same place. i had an inclination for the uppers myself, cozying up to the ADHD kids so they would give me pills. I sat on the beach with about $250 worth of pills in my pocket and all I wanted was a god damn line of coke, or a hit of crack, so I popped 2 more Klonopin.

Narcissism: I had a thing about myself. I loved looking at myself. The way my legs were perfectly long, and ceramic white, the bones of my hips, the crease that ran from my sternum to my belly button, how my chest looked almost square, the indentations of my arms when I stretched or flexed them. I would look in into the mirror, pouting, licking, and biting my lips, staring at the black pupil in the center of a pool of blue. i would make faces, panting to see what I looked like. My cheek bones, my not too prominent chin, my perfectly straight nose, the way my black hair laid just right on my forehead. I would jerk off to pictures of myself. I would sit in front of the mirror watching myself, staring at the reflection of me taking my dick in my hand and cuming all over my stomach.

“hey Mol it’s me Hunter. I know we haven’t spoken in a while but…uhm I don’t have a phone right now…uhm I’d love to talk to you though. I’ve been thinking about you, well I never did stop thinking about you, I just, I just have so much shit, I mean so much stuff to tell you. Uhm well, I guess, I guess I’ll talk to you, or I’ll call you and we can talk. Okay. Okay well bye.” I closed my eyes tight . FUCK! I slammed the phone hard on the hook. “GOD DAMN IT I’M SO FUCKIN STUPID!” I screamed while people walked by and stared.


Submitted: December 11, 2008

© Copyright 2022 Tatiana Vilchis. All rights reserved.

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