Post by Nathan Oliver Weston on Mar 26, 2013 21:30:53 GMT -5
IS THIS THE REAL LIFE
OR IS THIS JUST FANTASY? CAUGHT IN A LANDSLIDE NO ESCAPE FROM REALITY[/center]
SAND. Tiny rocks, ground down from years and years of erosion, tossed about haplessly amongst countless currents. A head of curly brown hair had taken it’s rest here, sand spreading and jumping away from the pressure of human weight. It created a perfect imprint, a memorium of a human who had nowhere else to go. Green eyes hidden behind lids, the sunlight already irritating to the male as he began to slowly come down, awakening from his substance-induced slumber. It was a beautiful day, a Tuesday maybe, and somehow Nathan Weston’s endless zest for all things unusual had landed him in this very place. Hands reached for the sand, closing around it, its warmth soothing in a way. He used it as leverage to raise himself to a seated position, his stomach immediately screaming in response. He could feel it churn, like a thousand fists punching him from the inside. Beating through his large intestine, toxic in his liver. He grunted and burped, shrugging his shoulders as he allowed his voids to adjust to the too-bright lighting. Everything about the boy that morning told a familiar tale. Beer stained corduroy jeans clung to skinny legs, a dirty white shirt torn at the collar. A large bottle of Old English lay dormant beside him, empty and retired. Abandoned. It only took moments for the boy to come to, his mind finally catching up with physical sensations. Instead of reacting to his situation however, he opted for a more suave approach and lit a cigarette instead. Nathan was all about poison. Gray clouds of smoke obscured his vision of the ocean as they curled around his messy head, climbing endlessly towards the sky. The heavens. Nathan averted his eyes from the view only for a moment to glance upwards, biting down on the filter of his smoke before shrugging. “i reckon this is how it feels to be on top of the world.” The saddest thing about the few words that spewed lazily from the lips of the male; he really believed them to be true.
CHILDREN played nearby, their screams ringing through the serene air like sirens on police cars. Nathan had never been one for kids, with their snotty-nosed chubby faced cherub grins. When people asked him if he’d ever wanted one, his most common reply was that, well, he just couldn’t be assed. All that time, the work, the money... and what for? Another hopeless half-american wanker? Another bastard child? Nathan laughed in the face of commitment. He’d never been made to commit to something in his life, and somewhere along the line that had affected him greatly in his ability to relate to people. Most saw him as a bum, someone that was far too big of a prick to ever be worth knowing. Their sole interactions with him often consisted of insults, curse words, and the half-ass offer for a fag which he’d hoped would be declined every time. To them, he was selfish. To them, he was in his own world. So what if he was? Nobody knew him well enough to understand why he was there, what he’d seen, and who he was. In the true fashion of a commitment-phobe, however, this didn’t necessarily bother Nathan. He’d convinced himself somewhere along the line that he was above the rest. Someone who was personally entitled to say or do exactly as he pleased. In turn however, he had the incredible ability to tune out, laugh at, or play off the returned insults of others. Nathan lived to piss people off, like the chicken box or that scratch in the back of your throat that just won’t go away. He was the human herpes. As long as he kept others at arms length, nobody had to know the full story. Nobody needed to figure out the secret behind the smelly hair and dirty face. He could remain completely anonymous.
FINALLY raising himself from his spot of rest, Nathan took a long drag on his cigarette before attempting his first step. Slightly shaky, he hobbled across several meters of ground like a newborn fawn before finally regaining his footing. Again, his stomach churned. “Oh shut up.” the sound was less of a warning sign to Nathan than it was a nuisance. A combination of heavy drinking and little to eat would do that to a person though, and he was feeling the affects. It didn’t matter, though. He didn’t need a home. Raising his eyes to be level with the horizon, the boy’s vision was suddenly obscured by a very large man sluggishly attempting what looked like a jog down the shore of the beach. A smirk suddenly appeared on nathan’s lips, a devilish grin that had come about far too may times to ignore. Unable to resist himself, in a thick liverpoolian accent that was pits to understand, he called out across the beach to the man, prompting several families to turn and stare at the source of the abuse. “He’s so fat he can be his own running mate!” The man stopped at that, clearly staring squarely at Nathan. Still good amount of space from the other, Nathan grinned in a self-satisfied way and began to saunter over to the man. He figured it’d be polite to introduce himself, right? Red-faced and sweating, the man’s eyes were attempting to stab Nathan dead right there on the beach. Nathan laughed aloud and slapped the man on a flabby shoulder. “Come on mate, can’t take a joke, can you?” The man shoved him hard, causing him to stagger backwards a few steps. Nathan laughed harder. In protest, the other claimed he’d lost a mass amount of weight and was under the obesity mark in America after over 20 years trapped in his own body. It was all Nathan could do to keep from breaking out in a fit of laughter, but before he turned and began walking back down the beach in the opposite direction, he allowed a final statement to leave his lips; “if you can’t tell the difference between a spoon and a ladle, then you’re fat.”
