Original Stuff: Random Characters
Just things that I wrote down because, well, bored and these ideas get stuck in my head, and since I can't role play them out and I don't want to write huge novels on them, I scribble them and *poof* they go away.
"Mph..." It isn't really a umph sound, and it isn't really a growl, the sound Jude makes when Milo wakes up, crawling onto his back and settling there. The next sound he makes is a growl, though, as he buries his face in his pillow. He's a writer, and writers don't wake up before noon. This is a fact.
"Jude...." Milo whines, bouncing slightly on Jude's back to try and get him up. He's a small boy, short like he never had time to grow up, but for the first time in his life he isn't locked away in a wolf pack. No running around at all hours, no eating only what you can kill. Now he spends most of the time in their hotel room while Jude writes, snacking on foods he's never had before. He's pudgy but adorable, and it only makes him more like a kid. "I'm bored."
God, if he could have a dollar for every time he heard that. Jude had found this kid in a pack of wolves, living in a run down house, following their leader. Jude had lived there two months, trying to fit in, to find a way to control these animalistic urges the change gave him. And it was boring as hell, they never tell you that about animal life.
Boring and fucking hell. Yet now that Milo is out of there, all he does is complain about how much there isn't too do, just because they don't spend their time chasing around rabbits. "Watch TV..." Jude groans, trying to roll over, but Milo's weight keeps him pinned. He has to get this boy unaddicted to oreos.
"No..." Milo leans down, hot breath against the side of Jude's skin. Twenty one years, that's how long he spent ignorant, normal. Twenty one years and then he has sex with one guy who forgets to say that werewolvism is a lot like an STD, one bite in any form will do you. Now he can smell everything; the room like sex and Milo like the room. "Jude, I hate it here..."
"Look..." Jude manages to get out from underneath the boy, almost falling off the bed. Being part wolf, it doesn't make you any more graceful. Grabbing the desk he stands up, looking down at Milo. He's on his hands and knees, crouching on the bed. Perfectly human, but he can almost see his tail wagging. It's weird, not just the wolf but Milo and everything hidden right under Jude's nose this entire time.
He's still trying to get use to it. Wolf, pack, changes. It would be easier if he could just lock himself in a cage once enough but, no, these is this pull to find a pack and to be the wolf more and more. There is a pull towards Milo, as weird as he is sitting there on his hunches.Jude rolls his eyes at his own attraction. "I'll take you walking or something. I think we have a dog park around here."
Now it's Milo's turn to growl, and he does it better, too. Almost just like the wolf. "I'm not a dog."
Lysander’s least favorite thing about the beach is, perhaps, the crowd. Nothing is more annoying than trying to take a calming walk along the shore and having a bunch of drunken teenagers screaming at you, little kids running around screaming and crying, and parents waving their arms wildly in your face, yelling over the sound of the ocean to try and get their attention. It interrupts his thoughts, put a real wrench into his head when he’s trying to concentrate.
Then again, his least favorite thing about the town is when it’s empty. When he’s in town he wants to meet people, maybe get drunk himself. You don’t go into town to relax, you go there for the noise and the people. Of course, the big problem is that when the beach is empty, like Lysander prefers, the city is like a fucking ghost town and when the shore line is a mess with people throwing their litter carelessly around and polluting his space, the town is wonderfully alive.
It isn’t a fair price, Lysander thinks, he wants to have his own beach and an active town at the same time. Of course, he never gets that, just one of the other.
Worse, living in Paradise like he does, Lysander has to live with one or another all the time. His parents own a small hotel on Paradise Island so Lysander is forced to live with either the fucked up beach in the summer when people seem to move there in masses or in the winter when it’s almost entirely empty except the few residence like his parents, like Lysander, caught there constantly.
It’s what he’s thinking now, helping his mom straighten up the rooms. It’s still spring, but people are starting to trickle in, so Lysander is getting the place ready. His sister practically wrestled the desk job from him this time around, the most coveted of the two since, for the first part of spring, being at the desk means sitting around watching tv.
So Lysander is stuck looking over the sheets, making sure the rooms are made up. He has his headset in, bobbing with the music as he pulls and tugs at the covers, but his mind is mostly distracted with how full the place will be soon enough with tourists, and how having more kids his own age back in town will be a fucking break for him, but then the beaches will get ruined. It’s hardly a decent deal.
The music, though, that’s taking up a lot of his attention to, so he doesn’t notice his mom until she’s pulling the headset off his ears. “Lysander!”
Lysander jumps back, barely hanging onto his iPod as he looks back at his mom. She’s wearing a bright, perfect smile. Lysander looks a lot like his mom, pretty but a little too old. Of course, on Lysander it looks good, but as his mom gets older and her hair grays too soon it doesn’t work as well. Still, she had a bright, almost childish smile. She always seems just a little to happy, even to Lysander. “Do you mind going down to the beach?” She asks. “Just check the deck?”
“Uh…” Slipping of his headphones, he nods, stuffing it in his pocket. He runs a hand through his hair, once brown but now bleached out by the sun to a dirty blonde. “Yeah, sure thing.” Anything sounds better than house work, and with a jump Lysander hurries down the stairs and out to the beach and their breakfast/bar-ba-que desk area. Where people other then him meet up and talk about how wonderful their vacation is, while Lysnader scrubs dishes. "Welcome to paradise, huh," he mutters, stopping down at the dock and looking out over the ocean. Maybe summer isn't worth having.
Just one little knock. Hit your knuckles against the door, make a light sound, pull hand back and repeat once or twice. The smallest of raps, that is all it will take. Go on, Ari, just knock.
Ari takes a deep breath and sets his hand against the door. It doesn’t make a noise. He’s kind of glad about that. He doesn’t think he could take it.
He’s a coward and he knows it. See, all he knows is that it will take is a little knock and there he would be, standing in the doorway with that smile. He’s seen that smile everywhere it seems, flashing it at the director, to all his coworkers. For all Ari knows he could practice it all day in the mirror, just trying to look that amazing and sweet and… Deep breath, Ari.
This was a bad idea. Ari should just walk away, go jerk off in his apartment. That would be the smarter thing. Instead, he leans against the wall, flinching nervously at every little sound.
He can write a play, he can get it produced, he can come up to New York and make it as a playwright, the nearly impossible, but he can’t flirt. No, that is too far out there for him. All he has to do is knock at the door to get his attention.
Well, if he can’t get up the courage to do that much he’ll just stay here against the wall, waiting in hopes that he’ll come out and see Ari and maybe start a conversation. Fuck knows what he’ll say after that. He already knows he’s only clever in writing, that when he tries to talk to guys he gets nervous and unsure and sort of sick to his stomach, but he wants to talk to this guy so much he’s willing to wait.
He hates actors. Actors and their gorgeous smiles and how confident they all seem. He really hates this one particle one and the way watching him makes Ari’s stomach cramp up. And he’s so fucking good, too. Embodies the character so fully that Ari is having weird sex dreams about having sex with one of his own characters.
It isn’t a healthy obsession.
Licking nervously at his lips, Ari looks over his shoulder, trying to look casual about leaning against the wall as he waits and waits and waits. It’s starting to feel a little like stalking, really, just waiting out here ready to pounce when he appears. Writers are allowed to be a little crazy though, right, Ari thinks to himself, trying not to stare at the door anymore than he has to in case there is a camera around or something to catch his craziness. Yeah, writers are supposed to be a little weird, but waiting around for an actor is going from weird to creepy and he knows it.
Only with writing five plays in just under three years, between the Tony nomination and the parties and then work, work, and more work Ari hasn’t had time to find a boyfriend or hold a steady relationship. He’s had one partner the last three years - his hand. So maybe the creepiness is a result of that, and maybe it’s from the guy’s smile. Ari likes to think it’s a mix of both and less of him being mentally unstable.
There was nothing particularly amazing about Noah Brown.
A short little street urchin with cubby cheeks and a cute enough smile, nothing you could fall in love with or that you would even remember three minutes later when you got bored of looking at such an unremarkable kid. There really was nothing particularly amazing about Noah Brown.
Except, of course, that his hand currently looked like a book.
Noah narrowed his eyes, not upset but trying to concentrate harder. He looks down to the book, the actual book and not the one that look liked it was molded out of his flesh. It said that if he concentrated, he could hold the form and even get his body to react. Try turning a page, the book suggested.
Noah looked down at his arm, he glared at it, trying to look like he was truly concentrating. Turn the page, he told the book, just turn one page.
It turned back into his hand. A wholly unremarkable, dull looking hand. The sort of hand you would never be able to pick out of a line up, which came in handy if you had a history like Noah's. Now, it just disappointed him. He couldn't even turn the page of his own hand.
"This is hopeless," the boy mutters, flipping the book closed. It doesn't make him feel any better, but he does it anyway, maybe in protest of the fact that he couldn't do anything with his book-hand. Whatever the reason he felt he had to slam closed the dusty old book, it doesn't help him. All he managed to do was lose the page he'd been reading.
He was hopeless, he realized, picking the book up and sliding it back from the cubby hole in the line of books he'd been reading through. Shift shaping wasn't a rare ailment for kids like him, but it sure seemed like it came easier to everyone but Noah. Instead of being out on the street today, he'd stuck himself in the shelter all afternoon, trying to figure out what to do with himself. What a waste of a day that turned out to be. He couldn't even force his hand to turn it's page.
Ashley turns over in bed, looking at the book. If the book had eyes, this would be a staring contest, and in that case Ashley would have lost because seconds later he turns back away. He glowers at the blue wall on the other side of the bed, back turned to the book. Maybe if he ignores it, it will go away.
He gives it a few minutes, then he looks back. It’s still there, mocking him with it’s old black and gold cover. He can almost hear it with a sharp, silent voice telling him how fucked over his family is and how he‘ll never, ever be free of this insanity.
“Fuck you,” he tells it, crawling out of bed and going to the fridge to grab a beer.
At his twenty first birthday, Ashley should be drinking because he’s celebrating the fact that he can get trashed legally. That is what birthdays are about, regardless of what he’s family thinks. He shouldn’t be drinking to try and deal with the fact that his mom has gone completely mental and thanks that forcing him into it is a good idea.
He stomps back into the room, he glares at the book. Nothing happens. Nothing should happen, Ashley reminds himself. This is the real world, not his mom’s brain. Books do not pop to life to tell you off. Books do not contain magic spells. That would be crazy, mom world. Not the world Ashley is in.
Still, he’s sick of this, always having to put up with it when his mom snaps and this book she gave him for his birthday is just the latest incarnation. Since, despite his practicality, Ashley loves his mom he can’t really glower at he. He can treat the book like shit, though, and that makes him feel at least a little better.
“I hate you,” he tells the book, dropping down beside it, finishing off his beer as quickly as he can. Quick enough that he ends up choking, blue eyes water. He hates his eyes, too, and his hair, a bright yellow. It makes his mom say things like, ’you look just like him’, and she doesn’t even mean his dad. More craziness.
Maybe if he’s drunk, this will make more sense. Maybe, but he’s guessing not.
He always thought his mom was a little jumpy, a little too superstitious, a bit of a hippie. She made him get a full star chart done at ten and had it hung in his room for guidance and, yeah, that was weird but no more weirder, he figured, than people who carried around prayer books to pray for every little thing that happened as if some supernatural God had time to stop, look down and notice them, and personally go about fixing their lives.
Ashley throws the bottle into the trash bin and misses, the bottle bouncing back, rolling under the dresser. He growls and gets up to get it, not even half way standing when he has the stupidest idea in history. He stops. He sits back down and grabs the book.
The first page has one word. Apollo. He stares at the gold letters for a while, remembering what his mom told him. He’s a descendent of Apollo, she claimed, and as every seventh generation he has the power of his great-great-great and so on ancestor.
Ashley feels the need for another drink, but instead he flips to the next page. A book of spells, that is what his mom said. Maybe one of them will throw the bottle away for him. Maybe one of them will clear his head so he stops listening to his mom.
“Ara…” He pauses, drowning as he looks over the letters. He isn’t sure what they’re supposed to say. He only took four years of Spanish, and this definitely isn’t Spanish. It isn’t Latin, either. He’s a classical music major, and he’s seen the romance languages and this isn’t one of them. In fact, they don’t even look like letters again, and he isn’t sure how he got the sound “ara’ out of the jumbled signs.
His mom said it would just come to him, that he had and needed to accept this power. Ashley thinks that maybe she’s starting smoking again, and not cigarettes. “AraveriNiblotmpfer,” he rattles off, just trying to go with whatever sound comes to mind.
He looks up, he waits, and nothing happens. Just like he knows it would. This is shit and his mom has gone off the deep end and Ashley needs to stop thinking about shit like this. He has homework and practice and shit to do that is more important than playing his mom’s game. “Fucking book,” he says, tossing it over his shoulder as he gets up to grab his bottle, tossing it away.
“Take that,” he says, wiping off his hands and feeling good that he at least managed to beat at least one thing in the worn down apartment. He’s so busy gloating over the bottle, he isn’t even paying any attention to that damn book anymore.
"Mph..." It isn't really a umph sound, and it isn't really a growl, the sound Jude makes when Milo wakes up, crawling onto his back and settling there. The next sound he makes is a growl, though, as he buries his face in his pillow. He's a writer, and writers don't wake up before noon. This is a fact.
"Jude...." Milo whines, bouncing slightly on Jude's back to try and get him up. He's a small boy, short like he never had time to grow up, but for the first time in his life he isn't locked away in a wolf pack. No running around at all hours, no eating only what you can kill. Now he spends most of the time in their hotel room while Jude writes, snacking on foods he's never had before. He's pudgy but adorable, and it only makes him more like a kid. "I'm bored."
God, if he could have a dollar for every time he heard that. Jude had found this kid in a pack of wolves, living in a run down house, following their leader. Jude had lived there two months, trying to fit in, to find a way to control these animalistic urges the change gave him. And it was boring as hell, they never tell you that about animal life.
Boring and fucking hell. Yet now that Milo is out of there, all he does is complain about how much there isn't too do, just because they don't spend their time chasing around rabbits. "Watch TV..." Jude groans, trying to roll over, but Milo's weight keeps him pinned. He has to get this boy unaddicted to oreos.
"No..." Milo leans down, hot breath against the side of Jude's skin. Twenty one years, that's how long he spent ignorant, normal. Twenty one years and then he has sex with one guy who forgets to say that werewolvism is a lot like an STD, one bite in any form will do you. Now he can smell everything; the room like sex and Milo like the room. "Jude, I hate it here..."
"Look..." Jude manages to get out from underneath the boy, almost falling off the bed. Being part wolf, it doesn't make you any more graceful. Grabbing the desk he stands up, looking down at Milo. He's on his hands and knees, crouching on the bed. Perfectly human, but he can almost see his tail wagging. It's weird, not just the wolf but Milo and everything hidden right under Jude's nose this entire time.
He's still trying to get use to it. Wolf, pack, changes. It would be easier if he could just lock himself in a cage once enough but, no, these is this pull to find a pack and to be the wolf more and more. There is a pull towards Milo, as weird as he is sitting there on his hunches.Jude rolls his eyes at his own attraction. "I'll take you walking or something. I think we have a dog park around here."
Now it's Milo's turn to growl, and he does it better, too. Almost just like the wolf. "I'm not a dog."
Lysander’s least favorite thing about the beach is, perhaps, the crowd. Nothing is more annoying than trying to take a calming walk along the shore and having a bunch of drunken teenagers screaming at you, little kids running around screaming and crying, and parents waving their arms wildly in your face, yelling over the sound of the ocean to try and get their attention. It interrupts his thoughts, put a real wrench into his head when he’s trying to concentrate.
Then again, his least favorite thing about the town is when it’s empty. When he’s in town he wants to meet people, maybe get drunk himself. You don’t go into town to relax, you go there for the noise and the people. Of course, the big problem is that when the beach is empty, like Lysander prefers, the city is like a fucking ghost town and when the shore line is a mess with people throwing their litter carelessly around and polluting his space, the town is wonderfully alive.
It isn’t a fair price, Lysander thinks, he wants to have his own beach and an active town at the same time. Of course, he never gets that, just one of the other.
Worse, living in Paradise like he does, Lysander has to live with one or another all the time. His parents own a small hotel on Paradise Island so Lysander is forced to live with either the fucked up beach in the summer when people seem to move there in masses or in the winter when it’s almost entirely empty except the few residence like his parents, like Lysander, caught there constantly.
It’s what he’s thinking now, helping his mom straighten up the rooms. It’s still spring, but people are starting to trickle in, so Lysander is getting the place ready. His sister practically wrestled the desk job from him this time around, the most coveted of the two since, for the first part of spring, being at the desk means sitting around watching tv.
So Lysander is stuck looking over the sheets, making sure the rooms are made up. He has his headset in, bobbing with the music as he pulls and tugs at the covers, but his mind is mostly distracted with how full the place will be soon enough with tourists, and how having more kids his own age back in town will be a fucking break for him, but then the beaches will get ruined. It’s hardly a decent deal.
The music, though, that’s taking up a lot of his attention to, so he doesn’t notice his mom until she’s pulling the headset off his ears. “Lysander!”
Lysander jumps back, barely hanging onto his iPod as he looks back at his mom. She’s wearing a bright, perfect smile. Lysander looks a lot like his mom, pretty but a little too old. Of course, on Lysander it looks good, but as his mom gets older and her hair grays too soon it doesn’t work as well. Still, she had a bright, almost childish smile. She always seems just a little to happy, even to Lysander. “Do you mind going down to the beach?” She asks. “Just check the deck?”
“Uh…” Slipping of his headphones, he nods, stuffing it in his pocket. He runs a hand through his hair, once brown but now bleached out by the sun to a dirty blonde. “Yeah, sure thing.” Anything sounds better than house work, and with a jump Lysander hurries down the stairs and out to the beach and their breakfast/bar-ba-que desk area. Where people other then him meet up and talk about how wonderful their vacation is, while Lysnader scrubs dishes. "Welcome to paradise, huh," he mutters, stopping down at the dock and looking out over the ocean. Maybe summer isn't worth having.
Just one little knock. Hit your knuckles against the door, make a light sound, pull hand back and repeat once or twice. The smallest of raps, that is all it will take. Go on, Ari, just knock.
Ari takes a deep breath and sets his hand against the door. It doesn’t make a noise. He’s kind of glad about that. He doesn’t think he could take it.
He’s a coward and he knows it. See, all he knows is that it will take is a little knock and there he would be, standing in the doorway with that smile. He’s seen that smile everywhere it seems, flashing it at the director, to all his coworkers. For all Ari knows he could practice it all day in the mirror, just trying to look that amazing and sweet and… Deep breath, Ari.
This was a bad idea. Ari should just walk away, go jerk off in his apartment. That would be the smarter thing. Instead, he leans against the wall, flinching nervously at every little sound.
He can write a play, he can get it produced, he can come up to New York and make it as a playwright, the nearly impossible, but he can’t flirt. No, that is too far out there for him. All he has to do is knock at the door to get his attention.
Well, if he can’t get up the courage to do that much he’ll just stay here against the wall, waiting in hopes that he’ll come out and see Ari and maybe start a conversation. Fuck knows what he’ll say after that. He already knows he’s only clever in writing, that when he tries to talk to guys he gets nervous and unsure and sort of sick to his stomach, but he wants to talk to this guy so much he’s willing to wait.
He hates actors. Actors and their gorgeous smiles and how confident they all seem. He really hates this one particle one and the way watching him makes Ari’s stomach cramp up. And he’s so fucking good, too. Embodies the character so fully that Ari is having weird sex dreams about having sex with one of his own characters.
It isn’t a healthy obsession.
Licking nervously at his lips, Ari looks over his shoulder, trying to look casual about leaning against the wall as he waits and waits and waits. It’s starting to feel a little like stalking, really, just waiting out here ready to pounce when he appears. Writers are allowed to be a little crazy though, right, Ari thinks to himself, trying not to stare at the door anymore than he has to in case there is a camera around or something to catch his craziness. Yeah, writers are supposed to be a little weird, but waiting around for an actor is going from weird to creepy and he knows it.
Only with writing five plays in just under three years, between the Tony nomination and the parties and then work, work, and more work Ari hasn’t had time to find a boyfriend or hold a steady relationship. He’s had one partner the last three years - his hand. So maybe the creepiness is a result of that, and maybe it’s from the guy’s smile. Ari likes to think it’s a mix of both and less of him being mentally unstable.
There was nothing particularly amazing about Noah Brown.
A short little street urchin with cubby cheeks and a cute enough smile, nothing you could fall in love with or that you would even remember three minutes later when you got bored of looking at such an unremarkable kid. There really was nothing particularly amazing about Noah Brown.
Except, of course, that his hand currently looked like a book.
Noah narrowed his eyes, not upset but trying to concentrate harder. He looks down to the book, the actual book and not the one that look liked it was molded out of his flesh. It said that if he concentrated, he could hold the form and even get his body to react. Try turning a page, the book suggested.
Noah looked down at his arm, he glared at it, trying to look like he was truly concentrating. Turn the page, he told the book, just turn one page.
It turned back into his hand. A wholly unremarkable, dull looking hand. The sort of hand you would never be able to pick out of a line up, which came in handy if you had a history like Noah's. Now, it just disappointed him. He couldn't even turn the page of his own hand.
"This is hopeless," the boy mutters, flipping the book closed. It doesn't make him feel any better, but he does it anyway, maybe in protest of the fact that he couldn't do anything with his book-hand. Whatever the reason he felt he had to slam closed the dusty old book, it doesn't help him. All he managed to do was lose the page he'd been reading.
He was hopeless, he realized, picking the book up and sliding it back from the cubby hole in the line of books he'd been reading through. Shift shaping wasn't a rare ailment for kids like him, but it sure seemed like it came easier to everyone but Noah. Instead of being out on the street today, he'd stuck himself in the shelter all afternoon, trying to figure out what to do with himself. What a waste of a day that turned out to be. He couldn't even force his hand to turn it's page.
Ashley turns over in bed, looking at the book. If the book had eyes, this would be a staring contest, and in that case Ashley would have lost because seconds later he turns back away. He glowers at the blue wall on the other side of the bed, back turned to the book. Maybe if he ignores it, it will go away.
He gives it a few minutes, then he looks back. It’s still there, mocking him with it’s old black and gold cover. He can almost hear it with a sharp, silent voice telling him how fucked over his family is and how he‘ll never, ever be free of this insanity.
“Fuck you,” he tells it, crawling out of bed and going to the fridge to grab a beer.
At his twenty first birthday, Ashley should be drinking because he’s celebrating the fact that he can get trashed legally. That is what birthdays are about, regardless of what he’s family thinks. He shouldn’t be drinking to try and deal with the fact that his mom has gone completely mental and thanks that forcing him into it is a good idea.
He stomps back into the room, he glares at the book. Nothing happens. Nothing should happen, Ashley reminds himself. This is the real world, not his mom’s brain. Books do not pop to life to tell you off. Books do not contain magic spells. That would be crazy, mom world. Not the world Ashley is in.
Still, he’s sick of this, always having to put up with it when his mom snaps and this book she gave him for his birthday is just the latest incarnation. Since, despite his practicality, Ashley loves his mom he can’t really glower at he. He can treat the book like shit, though, and that makes him feel at least a little better.
“I hate you,” he tells the book, dropping down beside it, finishing off his beer as quickly as he can. Quick enough that he ends up choking, blue eyes water. He hates his eyes, too, and his hair, a bright yellow. It makes his mom say things like, ’you look just like him’, and she doesn’t even mean his dad. More craziness.
Maybe if he’s drunk, this will make more sense. Maybe, but he’s guessing not.
He always thought his mom was a little jumpy, a little too superstitious, a bit of a hippie. She made him get a full star chart done at ten and had it hung in his room for guidance and, yeah, that was weird but no more weirder, he figured, than people who carried around prayer books to pray for every little thing that happened as if some supernatural God had time to stop, look down and notice them, and personally go about fixing their lives.
Ashley throws the bottle into the trash bin and misses, the bottle bouncing back, rolling under the dresser. He growls and gets up to get it, not even half way standing when he has the stupidest idea in history. He stops. He sits back down and grabs the book.
The first page has one word. Apollo. He stares at the gold letters for a while, remembering what his mom told him. He’s a descendent of Apollo, she claimed, and as every seventh generation he has the power of his great-great-great and so on ancestor.
Ashley feels the need for another drink, but instead he flips to the next page. A book of spells, that is what his mom said. Maybe one of them will throw the bottle away for him. Maybe one of them will clear his head so he stops listening to his mom.
“Ara…” He pauses, drowning as he looks over the letters. He isn’t sure what they’re supposed to say. He only took four years of Spanish, and this definitely isn’t Spanish. It isn’t Latin, either. He’s a classical music major, and he’s seen the romance languages and this isn’t one of them. In fact, they don’t even look like letters again, and he isn’t sure how he got the sound “ara’ out of the jumbled signs.
His mom said it would just come to him, that he had and needed to accept this power. Ashley thinks that maybe she’s starting smoking again, and not cigarettes. “AraveriNiblotmpfer,” he rattles off, just trying to go with whatever sound comes to mind.
He looks up, he waits, and nothing happens. Just like he knows it would. This is shit and his mom has gone off the deep end and Ashley needs to stop thinking about shit like this. He has homework and practice and shit to do that is more important than playing his mom’s game. “Fucking book,” he says, tossing it over his shoulder as he gets up to grab his bottle, tossing it away.
“Take that,” he says, wiping off his hands and feeling good that he at least managed to beat at least one thing in the worn down apartment. He’s so busy gloating over the bottle, he isn’t even paying any attention to that damn book anymore.