Welcome.
I’m a high school student.
You can call me Jonathon8.
And yes – I am.
If you’re new here, I recommend you Start From The Beginning. Saves time.
If you’ve been here before, recent posts are listed at the bottom of the page. You know your way around.
Let the carnage begin – and don’t say I didn’t fucking warn you…
– Jonathon8
…and gay.
He lay on his belly across the bed, turning the magazine pages, trying not to hear the shouts of his still angry parents who were blaming each other downstairs. New Moon publicity shots, boy bands, aftershave models. He traced with a finger over the sculptured torsos of beautiful boys scarcely older than him. He looked resentfully to his right for a moment at his reflection in the mirror, then glanced ahead at the window. There was another pale-faced, dark-eyed, bitter reflection. Only – the window was open. So he crossed his arms and rested his chin down on them – and the boy in the window did the same. But here was the difference. “I know you.” The window boy shook his head. “No – I know you. You’re what Death looks like.” The boy contemplated and shrugged. “Knew you were coming here. That’s why I told my parents tonight. It was time.” The boy only swung a leg silently over the window sill. “So they found out who I really was before I decided to – leave.” The boy lifted the other leg through, eyes still fixed on him – mirror boys - as he asked a final question. “Will it hurt much?” But there was not time for an answer.
…works hard for a living…
Who works on a Saturday night? But the insatiable corporate beast is always hungry for fresh blood and new sacrifice, and if she hadn’t tried to get those fucking figures done before Monday morning, that promotion, or bonus, or whatever blood money was driving her would have been thrown away. Of course, it no longer matters now, but for her then, there was the desire to make a – killing. She must have heard the noise from her ninth floor office – the dull thudding. It could have crossed her mind as she made her lone way down the dark deserted hall how cliched a horror film heroine she was being – investigating the strange noise at night. But human curiosity is its own endless thirst, and the real-life adult-world monsters are the deadlines and work stresses and pressures to succeed. One has to become a predator to survive, of course - stalk your client prey, rip apart your enemies’ presentations, feast upon the blood of the fallen. She had no fear here. And all the sound was, oddly enough, was a boy. A boy, sitting on the railing of the conference room balcony, swinging his heels rhythmically against the perspex sheet holding the drop to the black street at bay. Living can be hard work. And when climbing the corporate ladder, it’s always a long way to fall. “Who the fuck are you?” thus seemed such an inadequate question in the face of her impending bloodied death and the ensuing plummet to the pavement. But for now she was fearless, and he was innocuous, and his answer was so simple:
I’m Jonathon.
…loving and giving…
He held back her hair as she vomited copiously into the gutter.
As she staggered up, he shifted her discarded purse under his other arm, so he could support her with the free hand – “You okay, baby?”
She snorted, wiped her face in the crook of her elbow, and pushed him away – “Pfuck off…”
His concern suggested he wasn’t sure what she’d been using – he’d only arrived at the club a little while ago. Her friends had handed her over at the door under the watchful eye of the bouncer, then gone back inside in relief.
He’d parked in the alley around the corner. They only got past the first dumpster before she was heaving up everything bought over the bar and under the counter… “Honey?”
She waved a warning hand at him – “Don’ pfuckin’ start with me…” – staggered to his car, wrenched open the door, half-toppled into the passenger seat, and promptly passed out.
He picked up the strappy sandal she’d dropped, got in, and felt for his keys. It’s a mystery what made him glance into the rear-vision mirror.
The dark passenger in the back tipped the driver’s seat up again after, though. The girl, tarnished and therefore untouched, never even stirred – even when her man then fell gently forward, and then sidewards, and bled his last out on her sequined lap.
…far to go…
Must have been a health kick. Because there was an hotel elevator in perfect working order, but he took the stairs. Might have been in town for the holidays, maybe just finished the family meal and fun, even. Might have been the uncle who flew in unexpectedly – no room to put him up for the night, but at least he can be offered the holiday honor of carving into the bird, stuffing oozing out, white meat or dark? Then chatting and drinking and catching up, promises of last-minute plans tomorrow before he heads home. But for now – climbing up the stairwell, full and sated, and breathing a little hard. The sounds echo around in the ascending concreted silence, the stairs seem to be getting steeper, the steps more labored. He whistles an appropriate Led Zeppelin riff to distract himself, and it’s a few minutes before he realises someone else is whistling too. When he rounds the final landing, that someone is sitting halfway up the last staircase, just between him and the door to the final floor. There might have been some thanks given from what was about to be received. But it’s more likely the carving took place immediately and the bloody feasting began straight after.
…full of woe…
The sun was setting by the time she got to the graveyard, but that suited her fine. She could not have admitted she actually liked the outer world to reflect the inner melancholy, to compliment the brain chemistry that prompted the over-sleeping, the bouts of crying, the obsessive thinking. When the boy with the hollow eyes and hoodie came to join her on the bench she chose, she was almost relieved to hear he had not come to visit someone he’d lost – he only said ‘Not yet.’ Real pain and suffering skewed her current perspective of the world which was unintentionally ego-centric and morbid, and a silent listener was a chance to pour out the strange waves of hurt that had been ruling her life in recent months – the car accident, the job loss, the fleeing fiance, the cancer-stricken parent, the depression that too often fuelled the drinking that fuelled the depression. It was some time before she realised the light was fading faster now, and the boy might not be listening at all – so intent was he on the open grave a little way down the hill. It was presumably waiting in ceremony for tomorrow’s funeral, fake turf laid discreetly over the convenient pile of bare dirt at its side. When he suggested they go for a little walk, it was down that path. And when he left the graveyard alone, night had fallen but the turf had been rearranged carefully over the only slight depleted mound, and the grave still looked just as deep and dark as it should, and if there was a moral about baring your soul to strangers, there was no-one left to hear it. At least on the surface of things.
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