Sequel: This Was Never Gonna Be Simple ›
I Made You up to Hurt Myself
I'm tough, me
I counted the scratches on the wall with great care. I'd only been here two days, but I'd already counted them so many times that I reckon I could probably count them in my sleep if you asked me to. I'm not quite sure why anyone would ask me to, but then again, you never know. They were my only form of entertainment right now, as I was stuck in my room until lunch time, and it was only after lunch that they even thought about letting anyone into the lounge.
The lounge itself was a bit of a bore too. It was a small room with light blue walls - it was the only room with coloured walls, but it still disappointed me that they refused to make them a brighter colour - and within the room there were two sofas, a red one and a green one (no, they didn't even have matching furniture), a small television that could possibly be, by the looks of it, from the early 70's, and an air hockey table. In all fairness, the air hockey table was pretty fun for a while, but I eventually lost interest in it, too, after several games and a boy who said he would knock me out if I beat him at it ever again. Pft, I'd like to see him try. He seems like a right nutter, but I'd be able to beat him in a fight any day. I'm tough, me.
I'd decided that staying in my room would probably be the best idea. I don't think anyone would take too kindly to me beating the shit out of someone on my third day here, so counting it was. Most of the times I had counted the marks, I'd get the same answer - one thousand, two hundred and seventy three - but sometimes I would neglect one small scar on the otherwise flawless white wall, and I'd have to begin again. It's no use telling someone that your wall has one thousand, two hundred and seventy two little blemished, when, in fact, there are one thousand, two hundred and seventy three. It's simply pointless. And I know what you're thinking - "Oh, it's only one out, leave it be. What's the difference, anyway?", but what if you were in France and you ordered fish in one of those big, fancy French restaurants, and the chef had two labelled items - one said 'poisson' and the other said 'poison'. And so the chef decided, "Ah well, I'm only one letter out" and rather than giving you fish, he gave you poison. How would you feel then?
Okay, that was a bad example... But still, all these details mattered.
The lounge itself was a bit of a bore too. It was a small room with light blue walls - it was the only room with coloured walls, but it still disappointed me that they refused to make them a brighter colour - and within the room there were two sofas, a red one and a green one (no, they didn't even have matching furniture), a small television that could possibly be, by the looks of it, from the early 70's, and an air hockey table. In all fairness, the air hockey table was pretty fun for a while, but I eventually lost interest in it, too, after several games and a boy who said he would knock me out if I beat him at it ever again. Pft, I'd like to see him try. He seems like a right nutter, but I'd be able to beat him in a fight any day. I'm tough, me.
I'd decided that staying in my room would probably be the best idea. I don't think anyone would take too kindly to me beating the shit out of someone on my third day here, so counting it was. Most of the times I had counted the marks, I'd get the same answer - one thousand, two hundred and seventy three - but sometimes I would neglect one small scar on the otherwise flawless white wall, and I'd have to begin again. It's no use telling someone that your wall has one thousand, two hundred and seventy two little blemished, when, in fact, there are one thousand, two hundred and seventy three. It's simply pointless. And I know what you're thinking - "Oh, it's only one out, leave it be. What's the difference, anyway?", but what if you were in France and you ordered fish in one of those big, fancy French restaurants, and the chef had two labelled items - one said 'poisson' and the other said 'poison'. And so the chef decided, "Ah well, I'm only one letter out" and rather than giving you fish, he gave you poison. How would you feel then?
Okay, that was a bad example... But still, all these details mattered.
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New story and a shitty introductory chapter. It's short, but I'll hopefully have chapter two up soon enough if I get the laptop from my brother (yep, I have to let him use it too).Feedback would be pretty awesome.