Marlboro Boy
Alarm Clocks.
Alarm clocks- the most annoying things on this planet. Their rings are so high pitched and aggravating. But it’s not just the rings that drive you crazy, it’s the things they have the nerve to do. They actually have the guts to wake a troubled kid, from his own peaceful world, and they transport his subconscious mind into this stupid place- an over-rated dump.
Alarm clocks are the reason why kids commit suicide.
With a groan, I unplug the stupid clock and chuck it with all my might at the musty-poster filled wall. I couldn’t help but smirk as I heard it smash and crumble.
I’ve just killed my worst enemy.
Ha, I wonder why kids call me a freak at school.
I moan as I get up and stretch. I wish I didn’t have to do this day, after day. It’s all just a broken record. I get up and live the same old thing every day- cigarettes, school, cigarettes, TV diners, & cigarettes. When is something not stupid, and NON- pointless going to happen?
I shuffle over to my mirror and glare at myself.
A short chubby kid stares back at me. His eyes are icy blue; they have no emotion at all, giving him a loony look about him. Under his eyes are deep red circles giving him an exhausted and dumpy look; his long black hair doesn’t help either.
“This is Matt Winslow, and I need to fucking deal with myself”, I spit at myself angrily.
Getting on my hands and knees, I search for an outfit. I spot my old black jeans under my bed; I put them on, and shoved a Casualties band tee on.
It may not be the best fashion, but fuck it, it suits my mood.
With an outburst of anger I kick my door open.
“You better not kick my door, you little bitch!” I hear my mom shriek from downstairs.
I ignore her and slam my door shut, and stomped the rest of the way downstairs.
Yeah, it may seem like I’m behaving like some bratty kid, but this is just mere child’s play to what she used to do to me. The worst thing she did to me was when I was just five years old. I remember that day vaguely, but I’m not making up crap, I still have the scars. Anyways- my mom and dad were in their room arguing about drugs, money, and me. I remember hearing my mom yell “We should just abandon the kid; we don’t give a shit about him!” Then I heard my dad yell “I give a shit about him, you fucking whore! He’s my son!” They yelled some more, and my dad got up in the middle of it, and packed his bags, he went out the door and never came back. After my dad left, my mom told me to go into her room, I did. She started to brand me with her burning curling iron up my right arm. Yes, sadly big 80’s curls were in. She blamed my dad’s leaving on me. Regular beatings happened for the next couple of years until my mom gained two hundred pounds, and was too lazy to “crack out the whip”. The only reason why I’m scared of her now, is that I might get her angry enough to sit on me.
When I go downstairs, I see my mom on the faded 70’s orange couch watching some talk show. She took her beady eyes away from the screen and set them on me.
“You’re a son of a bitch”, she spat at me.
I could only smirk. How stupid can one human be?
“’Mother’, I hope you know that you are only insulting yourself”, I smirk some more.
She glared at me some more and flung the TV remote at me. She ‘only’ missed me by 3 feet.
“Great throw”, I snapped at her sarcastically.
All she could do was breathe heavily. She was out of breath…from throwing a remote.
“Pick up the remote, Matt”, she said slowly.
I picked up my messenger bag and swung it over my shoulder.
“Mathew”
I opened the door.
“Mathew, pick up the goddamn remote”
I step through the door.
“MATTHEW, PICK UP THE GODDAMN REMOTE”
I slammed the door shut, only to hear my mother’s muffled shouts.
Reaching into my bag, I take out a cigarette and lit it, and got into my car.
My car’s the shittiest piece of shit on the planet. I slaved over a fryer for months for this piece of shit.
I look at my house- wait no. My house is worst then my car.
I put the radio on, and drive to school.
Alarm clocks are the reason why kids commit suicide.
With a groan, I unplug the stupid clock and chuck it with all my might at the musty-poster filled wall. I couldn’t help but smirk as I heard it smash and crumble.
I’ve just killed my worst enemy.
Ha, I wonder why kids call me a freak at school.
I moan as I get up and stretch. I wish I didn’t have to do this day, after day. It’s all just a broken record. I get up and live the same old thing every day- cigarettes, school, cigarettes, TV diners, & cigarettes. When is something not stupid, and NON- pointless going to happen?
I shuffle over to my mirror and glare at myself.
A short chubby kid stares back at me. His eyes are icy blue; they have no emotion at all, giving him a loony look about him. Under his eyes are deep red circles giving him an exhausted and dumpy look; his long black hair doesn’t help either.
“This is Matt Winslow, and I need to fucking deal with myself”, I spit at myself angrily.
Getting on my hands and knees, I search for an outfit. I spot my old black jeans under my bed; I put them on, and shoved a Casualties band tee on.
It may not be the best fashion, but fuck it, it suits my mood.
With an outburst of anger I kick my door open.
“You better not kick my door, you little bitch!” I hear my mom shriek from downstairs.
I ignore her and slam my door shut, and stomped the rest of the way downstairs.
Yeah, it may seem like I’m behaving like some bratty kid, but this is just mere child’s play to what she used to do to me. The worst thing she did to me was when I was just five years old. I remember that day vaguely, but I’m not making up crap, I still have the scars. Anyways- my mom and dad were in their room arguing about drugs, money, and me. I remember hearing my mom yell “We should just abandon the kid; we don’t give a shit about him!” Then I heard my dad yell “I give a shit about him, you fucking whore! He’s my son!” They yelled some more, and my dad got up in the middle of it, and packed his bags, he went out the door and never came back. After my dad left, my mom told me to go into her room, I did. She started to brand me with her burning curling iron up my right arm. Yes, sadly big 80’s curls were in. She blamed my dad’s leaving on me. Regular beatings happened for the next couple of years until my mom gained two hundred pounds, and was too lazy to “crack out the whip”. The only reason why I’m scared of her now, is that I might get her angry enough to sit on me.
When I go downstairs, I see my mom on the faded 70’s orange couch watching some talk show. She took her beady eyes away from the screen and set them on me.
“You’re a son of a bitch”, she spat at me.
I could only smirk. How stupid can one human be?
“’Mother’, I hope you know that you are only insulting yourself”, I smirk some more.
She glared at me some more and flung the TV remote at me. She ‘only’ missed me by 3 feet.
“Great throw”, I snapped at her sarcastically.
All she could do was breathe heavily. She was out of breath…from throwing a remote.
“Pick up the remote, Matt”, she said slowly.
I picked up my messenger bag and swung it over my shoulder.
“Mathew”
I opened the door.
“Mathew, pick up the goddamn remote”
I step through the door.
“MATTHEW, PICK UP THE GODDAMN REMOTE”
I slammed the door shut, only to hear my mother’s muffled shouts.
Reaching into my bag, I take out a cigarette and lit it, and got into my car.
My car’s the shittiest piece of shit on the planet. I slaved over a fryer for months for this piece of shit.
I look at my house- wait no. My house is worst then my car.
I put the radio on, and drive to school.