Status: This story is on hiatus and is close to being deleted.
Phony
Chapter 1
Frank
I’ve come to the conclusion that people suck. I know, a big no duh, but it has finally officially been proved—for me, anyway.
“Have a seat, Mr. Iero.” The cliché-looking therapist said in his overly cliché voice. He sat down in his cliché therapist chair, stroking his overdone gray beard, whilst scratching his bald head.
Ew…
I took his offer nonetheless, slumping down in the chair. Normally people would say that I’ll hurt my back if I do that, so I should sit up straight—comments like that earn you a big ass middle fucking finger—but this guy didn’t say anything. He wanted to, I saw it in his face, but he didn’t.
“So, Mr. Iero… Frank, may I?” The therapist asked. I wanted to tell him ‘no’, just to piss the fucker off, but I wasn’t Mr. Iero. My cunt faced, ex-military man, sorry excuse of a father was. I hate the man, really, I do.
“Whatever…” I said, acting like a fucking teenager. Not that I could actually give two shits, but…
“Okay then, Frank,” The therapist—I didn’t bother to ask his name, and if he told me, I already forgot—said, crossing his legs and grabbing a pen, a clipboard on his lap. “Were would you like to start?”
I actually thought about it. Honestly. Normally, I would blow this kind of shit off, but I felt the need to talk to this man, all of a sudden. I actually wanted to open up to a complete stranger. I actually wanted to open up to a person, in general.
I sighed, running a hand through my currently un-dyed, naturally dark brown hair. “Uhm…” I hummed, drumming my fingers on my leg, thinking about where I should start; where the interesting part of the story began. I could start back when I was ten, when I was first sent to boarding school. Whooton School for Boys. I’ll never forget it. I probably would’ve started there, too, talking about how I felt I was a burden on my folks, and that’s why they sent me away and how I was constantly bullied for being short and a bit on the chubby side; and, later on, for having different tastes and being a tad anti-social.
But if this guy was as cliché as he looked, he’d probably say ‘And how does that make you feel?’ and, even an ass as big as this guy here could’ve guessed that it didn’t make me feel too special and loved. I decided as I was coming here, if I were to get asked that question, I would leave. Just stand up, walk out the door and never return.
That’s another reason I didn’t want to start all the way from the top. He’d probably say something like that and I’d leave. I know I would. The thing is, I kind of wanted to be here, someone actually listening to me for once.
“Take your time.” The therapist said patiently, still waiting for me to begin.
“Well, I guess we can start with Pencey… ?” I asked, unsure. The therapist nodded, enthusiastically, acting as if he actually cared—stupid phony, that’s all he was—urging me to begin.
“Okay…” I said. “Pencey was the fifth school I’d been to in five years…”
I remember walking up to the building; the old-fashioned building with pillars and fancy carvings of Jesus covering it. As soon as I saw it, I hated it. Too much Jesus. I didn’t even believe in all the shit I’d been taught at my pervious schools, nor the bullshit I’d be taught there. I was Atheist. There was no God; I knew it.
“Frankie, baby, look at me.” The soft voice of my mother said in my ear. The morning before, when I found out I was going back to boarding school, I’d told myself I’d never look at her again. Never look at either of my parents. Never call, never write; pretend they didn’t exist. But as soon as she said that to me, I was overcome with guilt. To my great regret, I turned my attention to her apologetic eyes.
“Baby, please promise me you’ll try here? That you won’t get kicked out again?”
I was stressing her out. I knew I was. She’s been a nervous wreck ever since the death of my little sister, six years before—a year before my adventures of boarding school—and I wasn’t helping her. At all. Just to give her a little boost, I promised her I’d try. I doubted I’d stick to that promise though. This school was already pissing me off. It was probably filled with phonies, too. A whole bunch of people, with their fake laughs and their fake looks. I already decided that I hated these people. If the school didn’t kick me out, I’d probably just run away from here, eventually. I knew I would.
Together we had walked through the school, filled with boys talking about how many girls they can get, probably, to the main office. My mom signed me in and walked with me to my dorm—432W.
“I love you, baby. Take care of yourself.” My mom said, pulling me into a quick, yet love-filled hug. She kissed my forehead, and gave me a few words that I can’t even recall at this point in time. With that, she had walked away and I had entered my dorm, ready to meet which one of the jerks here I’d be bunking with.
I’ve come to the conclusion that people suck. I know, a big no duh, but it has finally officially been proved—for me, anyway.
“Have a seat, Mr. Iero.” The cliché-looking therapist said in his overly cliché voice. He sat down in his cliché therapist chair, stroking his overdone gray beard, whilst scratching his bald head.
Ew…
I took his offer nonetheless, slumping down in the chair. Normally people would say that I’ll hurt my back if I do that, so I should sit up straight—comments like that earn you a big ass middle fucking finger—but this guy didn’t say anything. He wanted to, I saw it in his face, but he didn’t.
“So, Mr. Iero… Frank, may I?” The therapist asked. I wanted to tell him ‘no’, just to piss the fucker off, but I wasn’t Mr. Iero. My cunt faced, ex-military man, sorry excuse of a father was. I hate the man, really, I do.
“Whatever…” I said, acting like a fucking teenager. Not that I could actually give two shits, but…
“Okay then, Frank,” The therapist—I didn’t bother to ask his name, and if he told me, I already forgot—said, crossing his legs and grabbing a pen, a clipboard on his lap. “Were would you like to start?”
I actually thought about it. Honestly. Normally, I would blow this kind of shit off, but I felt the need to talk to this man, all of a sudden. I actually wanted to open up to a complete stranger. I actually wanted to open up to a person, in general.
I sighed, running a hand through my currently un-dyed, naturally dark brown hair. “Uhm…” I hummed, drumming my fingers on my leg, thinking about where I should start; where the interesting part of the story began. I could start back when I was ten, when I was first sent to boarding school. Whooton School for Boys. I’ll never forget it. I probably would’ve started there, too, talking about how I felt I was a burden on my folks, and that’s why they sent me away and how I was constantly bullied for being short and a bit on the chubby side; and, later on, for having different tastes and being a tad anti-social.
But if this guy was as cliché as he looked, he’d probably say ‘And how does that make you feel?’ and, even an ass as big as this guy here could’ve guessed that it didn’t make me feel too special and loved. I decided as I was coming here, if I were to get asked that question, I would leave. Just stand up, walk out the door and never return.
That’s another reason I didn’t want to start all the way from the top. He’d probably say something like that and I’d leave. I know I would. The thing is, I kind of wanted to be here, someone actually listening to me for once.
“Take your time.” The therapist said patiently, still waiting for me to begin.
“Well, I guess we can start with Pencey… ?” I asked, unsure. The therapist nodded, enthusiastically, acting as if he actually cared—stupid phony, that’s all he was—urging me to begin.
“Okay…” I said. “Pencey was the fifth school I’d been to in five years…”
I remember walking up to the building; the old-fashioned building with pillars and fancy carvings of Jesus covering it. As soon as I saw it, I hated it. Too much Jesus. I didn’t even believe in all the shit I’d been taught at my pervious schools, nor the bullshit I’d be taught there. I was Atheist. There was no God; I knew it.
“Frankie, baby, look at me.” The soft voice of my mother said in my ear. The morning before, when I found out I was going back to boarding school, I’d told myself I’d never look at her again. Never look at either of my parents. Never call, never write; pretend they didn’t exist. But as soon as she said that to me, I was overcome with guilt. To my great regret, I turned my attention to her apologetic eyes.
“Baby, please promise me you’ll try here? That you won’t get kicked out again?”
I was stressing her out. I knew I was. She’s been a nervous wreck ever since the death of my little sister, six years before—a year before my adventures of boarding school—and I wasn’t helping her. At all. Just to give her a little boost, I promised her I’d try. I doubted I’d stick to that promise though. This school was already pissing me off. It was probably filled with phonies, too. A whole bunch of people, with their fake laughs and their fake looks. I already decided that I hated these people. If the school didn’t kick me out, I’d probably just run away from here, eventually. I knew I would.
Together we had walked through the school, filled with boys talking about how many girls they can get, probably, to the main office. My mom signed me in and walked with me to my dorm—432W.
“I love you, baby. Take care of yourself.” My mom said, pulling me into a quick, yet love-filled hug. She kissed my forehead, and gave me a few words that I can’t even recall at this point in time. With that, she had walked away and I had entered my dorm, ready to meet which one of the jerks here I’d be bunking with.