cifuentes

Up Side Down. Chap 2.

Wed, 19 Jul 2006 05:15:55 GMT

Title: Up Side Down
Chapter: TWO
Genre: Original, humor, romance and maybe a tad bit of drama
Warnings: Unbeta'ed, slash
Rating: I'd say PG-13, but maybe a soft R is required, since there's a lot of cursing and sexual innuendos
Summary: Meet Frank McCole.

I dragged my feet across the school’s enormous football field to the lonely oak tree planted on the far end of the grounds, exhaling long, white clouds of cigarette smoke as I whistled, stopping only to breathe in the dry, cold air. I loved winter.

My favourite spot to waste time before class had always been this tree. It was planted behind the library building, and since the first day I came to teach in the academy, that tree had been my quite little friend. It sounds stupid, I know, but if a tree can soothe me like that one could, it deserved to be called my friend.

Every morning I would sit under it, between its large, thick roots, and just...just do nothing at all. Stare into space as I sipped my coffee and smoked half a box of cigarettes. No one would ever bother me there. No one could ever find me there; at least it felt like it. It was great.

But this morning, when I reached the tree and sat down on one of the thick roots sticking out of the dark earth, there was someone there already. He turned around to look at me, wide-eyed, and for a second I was actually surprised to see him there, but then my surprise hardened into frustration.

Frank McCole. One of my students. Fuck!

Damn him to Hell! I was hoping not to see any of them stupid brats (my students) until 8:00 AM.

To hell with that thought...and with Frank McCole.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Mr. McCole?" I asked, blowing smoke in his face.
Frank quickly stood up, hiding his right hand hastily behind his back. Was he being obvious on purpose? I sure hoped so, because if he wasn’t, his sneakiness skills were non-existent and that was just heartbreakingly sad. Then again, Mr. McCole was a pretty-faced, stupid twit, so I guessed lack of sneakiness (which was a skill of the mind) came with those nice green eyes and the soft-looking skin.

"Oh...Mr. Barker," he stuttered. "I wasn't hoping to see you here...ha..."

"That," I growled, as Frank grinned nervously down at me, “is obvious, Mr. McCole, or you wouldn't have been smoking, would you?"

Frank's eyes widen slightly, but he didn't say anything. I knew he was desperately racking trough his brain, looking for an excuse, a lie, (I could see it in his eyes and his wavering grin) but when he couldn't find anything he resorted to the stupidest, oldest and more childish defense in the book (I didn’t expect anything better of him):

"Well, so are you."

I grinned humourlessly, pushing myself up from the root I was using as a stool to level our heights. Well...not exactly to 'level our heights', because the kid was half a head shorter than me and I had to tilt my head down to look him in the eye. It's just that having him look down on me didn't make me comfortable.

"Yes, indeed. But I'm not underage, am I? Or a student," I grinned wider, colder. "You could get expelled for that, I think."

The kid took a step back, sighing in defeat, frowning just a tad.

"Look, Mr. Barker, I'm sorry, I...I just...I just...I just needed it, alright? Sorry," He met my gaze unflinchingly, waiting for me to either condemn him or absolve him.

I took my time to decide. Not because it was a hard decision, but because I'm such an IDIOT (and, okay, let’s be honest: I liked watching him squirm). You’re going to probably think this is sick, strange, and that I’m one hell of a disturbed, sick, sick person, but to hell with that too, because we agree.

This kid had the nicest pair of green eyes I had ever seen. Every time I looked at him in class I thought the same thing: ‘Fuck! Nice eyes, kid’; not that I ever told him so, however I did think that a lot. Bright, luminous, absolutely green eyes. Not only that, but his hair was ink black, which just made his eyes look even lighter and greener.

Ah, but that isn’t freaky and sick like I promised, is it, you yellow creeps? Well, what if I tell you the other real nice thing this kid had going on were his lips and that I just wanted so bad to put them to good use and I don’t mean answering questions in class.

And don't even get me started on his face...

God help me, the kid was beautiful.

Ew, okay, this is where we start to agree. I feel like a pedophile and I bet you think I’m one, too. Let me clarify: I’M NOT. No matter what my thoughts seem to show you, I’m not, I swear on my mother’s grave, I am not a pedophile, don’t crucify me yet, let me explain. ‘Kay, on to the story, those of you who are willing to listen:

Alright, so Frank…How old was he? 16, if I remember correctly.

To tell you the truth (and freak you out even more), I had fantasized about Frank more than once, and, oh, boy did I feel bad afterwards. I usually tried to cut the fantasies off when they got too R rated, but it’s really hard to stop something that feels so good. I only felt the incredible, eat-me-alive-from-the-inside-out guilt after my orgasm had died down and my hand was sticky; that’s when I started to feel wrong in my own skin. The worst part? I couldn’t help myself and I didn’t want to admit how much I lusted after the kid; I kept repeating in my head that he looked 21 and that’s why he made me feel all hot and bothered like that. Just for the record: he didn’t looked 21; he looked his age and that was just me, being pathetic.

To clear things up: I'm not gay. Bisexual, yes. When I want to jack off I have two choices: Angelina Jolie or Jude Law. It all depends on how I feel that night.

Masochistic: Angelina.

Sadistic: Jude.

I was a bit freaked out when I realized, back in high school, that I liked dudes the same way I liked girls and that the captain of the football team was gayer than Boy George, but I never expected to lust after a 16-year-old until I met Frank.

"Mr. Barker? Are you quite alright?" I heard Frank's voice and blinked a couple of times before slowly shaking my head ‘no’. Frank had an eyebrow raised suspiciously and looked a bit impatient. At the time, it surprised me he could muster such a smart expression.

Shit. I had been staring…again.

"Look, McCole, just go the fuck away." I said, rolling my eyes. I was annoyed at myself and my hormones, but I was furious at Frank for making me want him. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but I needed someone to blame and he was the nearest escape-goat since my father was in New York.

Frank didn't move.

"What?" I asked, blowing smoke to the side, out of the corner of my mouth.

The kid opened his mouth to say something, but quickly closed it again like he’d thought better of it. He looked at me for a while, without saying anything, and I was about to tell him to piss off when he grinned innocently and spoke.

"Could I use your lighter, Mr. Barker? Mine ran out of gas and I used my last match a few minutes ago," he explained, showing me an empty, blue Bic lighter and the equally empty box of matches. "When you scared the shit out me I kinda put out my cigarette against the tree, hoping you wouldn't notice."

I leaned my back against the oak and reached inside my pocket, wrapping my fingers around my own lighter hesitantly. As a teacher, I wasn't supposed to do this, but what the hell? The kid was already nicotine-dependant, an addict, and school hadn't started yet, so technically I wasn't his teacher.

"Don't you dare tell anyone, kid, or we'll both get our asses kicked out of this place faster than you can say Bic. Here," I threw the lighter at him and watched him light his cigarette like a pro. When you’ve been smoking and hanging out at pubs as long as I have, you learn how to separate the amateur smokers from the experts just by watching them light the stick.

"Thank you," Frank said, blowing small clouds of smoke. He was looking straight ahead; not at me, not at the tree, not at his cigarette, not at the school, but straight ahead into space, like he could see something I couldn’t. But the scary thing was the wicked grin spread across his fine features. It made chills ran down my spine. It confirmed he knew something I didn’t.

"Did you like my essay, Mr. Barker?" he wondered suddenly, turning his eyes and his grin on me. He reminded me of a very pretty Cheshire Cat.

"Which?" I inquired, raising an eyebrow. "If you hadn't noticed, kid, you're not my only student and I don’t have time to memorize all of your handwritings. You better tell me which one was yours if you want an answer."

"The one about the 'beens'", he chuckled and I knew. It was him!

I turned my neck so quickly I heard it crick, grinding my teeth almost audibly. I could tell my expression was vicious, but Frank didn’t even blink and kept grinning.

"You...," I growled, narrowing my eyes dangerously. "You little fuck. You fucking owe me 20 minutes of my life and a fucking red pen. D'you know how much my head hurt after correcting all that gibberish? D’you know how expensive good red pens are? D’you think I have time for your bullshit?"

And after my furious, little speech, Frank had the nerve to burst out laughing.

"I didn't think you’d correct the whole thing!" He said between fits of laughter. "How could you have been so stupid? I thought you’d give up after reading the title! Or the first sentence, at least," and then he laughed some more. Asshole.

I waited until Frank stopped laughing, with my jaw muscles tightly set and my fists clenched under my armpits to keep myself from punching the kid. I’m not a particularly violent person, but with headaches like the one I had at the time, not even I can be safe.

...and what the fuck did he mean by 'the whole thing', did he think I only corrected the titles?

"I should refill my pen with your blood, McCole, but you know what? I'm going to solve this in a less satisfactory, though legal, way," I said, once he’d shut his muzzle.

The kid raised an eyebrow, grinning widely. Well, well, he was bolder than I originally thought. It wasn’t like he didn’t gave me shit in class, because he did, but usually he just threw the stone, hid his hand and when I asked who’d said what and do they care to repeat it in my face, he buried his face in some book. Now that I thought of it, he always had a book. Was he looking at the pictures? Because he sure as hell wasn’t reading the damn thing. I mean, if he read so much, why was he so below average in my class?

"Yeah? How?" Frank asked insolently.

I gave him a calculative stare and without another word I crushed my cigarette against the oak’s rough trunk, turned around and stalked off towards the main building, whistling again.

McCole ran after me.

"You didn't tell me..." he started in a rather defiant tone, but I cut him off.

"You'll see, Mr. McCole." I growled. "Now get the fuck out of my face or I'll make it double."

"What? No, but..."

"Now!" I barked.

And Frank did as he was told. He stayed behind, but I could feel his green eyes glaring at my back.

When I finally reached the Teacher's Lounge most of my colleagues were there already, chatting, drinking coffee with too much sugar and being too happy for my taste (its was 7:51 AM. Why were they smiling?). Most of them (especially the younger ones) still said hello, even if all I did to acknowledge them was nothing. The older teachers knew better and without asking Mrs. Washington poured some coffee in my mug and set it on the table, giving me a small reserved smile that I returned when she wasn’t looking.

I had only 10 minutes left before class started to scheme vile revenge against Frank McCole. I don’t take shit from anyone. Not even the ones as pretty as McCole. Frank had to learn once and for all: you don’t fuck with me. I can’t really explain why that joke with the essay made me so angry, you’d have to be me to understand, but the fact was: it made me furious enough to seek revenge.

But I could hear the obnoxious call of duty whispering in my ear: There are still two un-graded essays, it chirped happily; so I sighed irritably, took my blue pen out of my pocket and sat down.

...Up Side Down...

Fri, 23 Jun 2006 09:09:13 GMT

Alright, so Imma explain...

This is the first chapter of an old story I'm re-wrinting. Please keep in mind that English is my second language and this story is still unbeta'ed when reading it. Don't be too harsh with the comments.

Constructive criticism, however, is encouraged.

Title : Up Side Down
Chapter: ONE
Genre: Original, humor, romance and maybe a tad bit of drama
Warnings: Unbeta'ed, slash
Rating: I'd say PG-13, but maybe a soft R is required, since there's a lot of cursing and sexual innuendos
Summary: Roger's not a happy guy. He's worked all his life to keep people as far away from him as possible. Eventually it all back-fires on him, just to complicate it all in the most pleasant way.

Oh, that sound...that sound.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Sharp. Constant. Continual.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Horrible. Irritating. So...so loud.

Close to my left ear, bursting my eardrum with its sharp ‘beeps’. So fucking loud!

"Fuck!"

I reached out, my hand going straight for the unsuspecting alarm clock on the bedside table. I was still two-thirds asleep, so for a couple of seconds all I could touch was the hard, frustrating, cold wood. But when I finally got my hands (or rather hand) on the small clock, it was automatically hurled full-force across the room.

A deafening crash against the wall. Score!

The sound stopped.

I opened my eyes slowly, lazily sitting up on my bed, letting the blanket slide down my naked chest carelessly. Then the awful morning cold hit my naked skin and I could hardly suppress the hard shudder that ran up and down my spine. In the blink of an eye the warm blankets were wrapped around my body again, tighter that before and I looked down at my wristwatch.

5:00 AM.

Why the hell did I have to wake up this early, again?

Oh. Yes. Work. Obviously. How could I have forgotten?

I looked out the window of my fifth-floor apartment, rubbing my eyes. It was still quite dark outside, but the morning birds were chirping and singing blissfully as they flew around, exited about being able to, once again, wake up alive to another glorious morning.

"Some day I'll get a shotgun, little motherfuckers, and you'll all fall, one by one…some day," I said bitterly and my threat went blatantly unnoticed. I know it’s stupid, I know they’re just retarded birds, but that hurt my pride just a tad.

Eventually I found the courage to toss aside my soft, cozy blanket and, sighing resignedly, slipped my feet into the Garfield slippers my brother had given me for Christmas three years ago. I had to sit at the edge of my bed a few more minutes and gather up some goddamn will before I could walk groggily to the bathroom, scratching away at a few parts of my anatomy that no one but me had the right to scratch away at.

What? Don’t give me that look. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a guy. I like scratching.

I turned the bathroom light on, squinting at the sudden brightness, letting my eyes get used to it after five hours of complete darkness. Three minutes later I still couldn’t open them wide enough and had to blink rapidly several times, rub my eyes and then try to open them again.

Good. It worked. I could see. Halleluiah.

I leaned over the sink to stare at myself on the foggy bathroom mirror. My reflection didn’t seem to have changed much over the course of twenty-four hours. Surprise, surprise. Then again, as I looked a little closer, maybe I did look a little more tired, a little bitterer, the bags under my eyes a little darker and deeper, but only that. Definitely no wrinkles. I mean, how many wrinkles can a 24 year old have? But I bet you my life that I'm going to look like a raisin when I turn 40…well, that’s what everyone tells me.

People are always telling me that, you know? They love it. They just love it. They love annoying me and giving me shit. They love saying things like: 'You act like such an old man, Roger, nya, nya, nya. Bitter bastard, nya, nya, nya. If you don't smile more you're gonna be wrinkled at 30, nya, nya, nya' Yeah? Well, bite me!

My reflection didn't lie. I looked pretty much the same way I had for the entirety of my life: short black hair, yellow eyes and pale skin. Okay, so maybe I needed to shave that three day stubble today, but that was it. Still no wrinkles! Take that, fuckers!

My looks always got me in trouble way back when I was a little munchkin, but not because I were a pretty little thing and they (they, meaning kids in general) were envious. No. I got in trouble because I was…peculiar. No, okay, I was a weirdo. They found all kinds of reasons to pick on the dorky, freaky kid. They connected my date of birth with the colour of my eyes and, in an outstanding demonstration of brainpower and imagination (they were idiots), associated me with a hell-spawn creature of sorts.

I don't blame them, though. Never did. A shy, antisocial kid, born on the thirty-first of October, whom on top of everything had bright freakishly-yellow eyes…,

Satan's son!

Kids are morons and, man, I would've bothered me too.

But now that was all history.

I graduated at a very young age. Eager to leave that hellhole where I’d been spawn once and for all, eager to get the hell away from my father, I had studied myself out of high school with absurd effort and determination. I was top of my class, had to make the valedictorian speech and got a scholarship to Yale. I used it well; the scholarship, that is. English Literature and Linguistics had always been a huge passion of mine. I was ecstatic the day I graduated Uni, about 3 years ago, and moved out of my father's house. I hated him and he hated me, it was the best thing I could've done.

Now I lived alone in this tiny apartment and had a good (I’m not going to put up the quotation marks on ‘good’, but I should) job at a co-ed boarding school, teaching English and English Literature to a bunch of hormonal teenagers. The teenagers were a total pain—hateful creatures, really—, but the gig paid the bills pretty well, it also paid for my car’s gas, my booze and cigarettes. All was good, right?

Wrong.

I hated everything I had going on in my life. Everything seemed to annoy the hell out of me all the time. Nothing satisfied me. Not my ‘good’ job, not my apartment, not my car, not my anything!(note how left out ‘booze and cigarettes). I’d take a wild guess and say I was so unhappy because I just wasn’t getting what I wanted; problem was, I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t have a clue. Not one.

But there were a few things that could persuade me to stop thinking about how screwed up I was and how much I wished I could stuff my students in a cardboard box, duct-tape it close and send it to Madagascar in a Japanese fishing-boat. Curious?

No? Well, screw you, too. Out of pure spite, I’m telling you anyways.

Reading a book in a quite corner of the local Irish Pub, as I chucked down a bottle of Vodka and smoked enough cigarettes to give a 3-year-old instant lung cancer, was one of them. The other nice, pleasant thing included going to an OTB parlor and betting on (what I prayed to any god was) the winning horse; then going to a pub to gamble away what was left of my salary (and my OTB winnings) with some random truckers in a poker game. But alas, I could only do that on weekends. The week was for grading papers. Fun, fun! Not.

There was something else, apart from nicotine-and-alcohol-induced gambling sprees, that could make me forget my unpleasant existence, but with my constant bad mood and perpetual sarcasm I could only get it from the stupidest brand of people (sarcasm just flew right over their pretty heads) or, in its defect, the mentally and emotionally masochistic brand of people…SEX.

Personally, I preferred the masochists. Mainly because I didn’t have to change my personality at all; they just came pinning after me and I let them stay until they got bored or found the emotional abuse too much to take. But, sadly, there are more idiots that masochist. So, when masochists were scarce, I used to clench my jaw, bite my tongue and hope my face didn’t look too screwed up with all the effort I was making to keep from insulting my dumb-blond/e target of the night, down at the pub.

I stroked my jaw with the back of my right hand. It was rather rough. Not as much as it should have been (because as much as I hate to admit it: I was a 24 year-old late bloomer), but enough to be obliged to shave that day. Well, it had been about four days since my last shave, so I guess I was due. In other circumstances I would have gone a whole week without touching the razor, but my boss (the schools headmistress) made it very clear when I started working at the school that I could wear anything I liked to class and have my hair anyway I wanted, as long as I kept my face cleanly shaved. I don't know why and I don’t care; she did say something about looking like a hobo not being a good image for a role model, but fuck! Role model?! To those little parasites? Ugh, Really. Freaky bitch.

But to guarantee that I would not slit my throat (accidentally? Maybe, maybe not) or cut of an ear while trying to shave I, astutely, decided to take a cold shower before attempting to handle any sharp objects. Actually, if we kept in mind the mood I was in and my grade of alertness (a notch over nothing), we could very well come to the conclusion that even a spoon would’ve been a dangerous object in my hands.

Warm water was always good for my moods, at least until I had to get out of the shower, but since I had to wake myself up so I could shave so I could get to work and not have the headmistress on my back all day so I could smoke in my free time (teachers are not allowed to smoke on school grounds) so I could moderate my headaches a bit and relax so I could stop myself from murdering my students so I could keep out of jail, cold water it was.

* * * *

I looked down at my wristwatch.

6:32 AM, it read.

Damn. It was still too early.

I took off my glasses to rub my eyes properly, not wanting to bump them off my ears like last time and have to walk around school with a cracked lens. I was mentally preparing myself for whatever awaited at the other side of the door. Usually the other teachers tried to talk to me and shake my hand, which annoyed me to no end, especially in the mornings before I had coffee. I put my glasses back on and went in through the door labeled "Teacher's Lounge".

Yes! It was deserted! Thank God.

I hanged my book-bag on the back of one of the wooden chairs and flopped down in it (the chair, not the bag), taking off my trucker cap and brushing my (still!) wet hair out of my forehead because I just hated how it stuck to the skin when it was damp.

In case you’re wondering: yes, I did get in trouble with the headmistress for wearing the trucker cap to class, just like I did when I was 15, but after countless arguments my boss decided it was all a waste of time because I was not going to give up wearing the damn thing and it wasn’t interfering with my job, anyways. She said so herself and I agreed because she was letting me do what I wanted.

School started at 8:00 AM and my wristwatch flashed 6:38 AM, so I was going to get some time for myself, to relax alone, drink coffee, smoke and grade the last three English essays before I had to face my students at dreaded eight o’clock. Oh, yes, dreaded eight o’clock.

I leaned back on my chair and pulled the grading-pen out of the back pocket of my jeans, where I kept it next to my half-smoked pack of Marlboro, uncapping it with my teeth. I was ready to start grading the first essay when I read the title: 'when i eet beens'. It had to be a joke. It just had to be a joke. Please, God, let it be a joke. I read on.

It wasn't a joke. But knowing my luck, the idea of this horrendous writing being a joke (a one-time thing in the title, just to scare me a bit) shouldn’t even have crossed my mind. That was me, always the optimist.

By the time I was finished correcting the spelling and grammar from this particular essay my head felt like it was about to explode into a million pieces and I flirted with the idea of writing a DNR order for the unlucky paramedics summoned to ‘help’ me and inform them they should just limit themselves to scrape my brains of the walls and pluck fragments of my skull out of the couch...but my exhausted red pen had run out of ink.

I stood up lazily and walked to the Teacher’s Lounge’s coffee machine, filled my own personal gigantic coffee mug almost to the brim, pocketed a bunch of those small, pink sugar packets (I drank my coffee bitter, I never ruined it with sugar, but I did love chewing on the sugar packets) and went out the door, whistling some random punk song I had been listening to that morning in my car.

Practice Makes Master...or something like that...

Fri, 02 Jun 2006 04:09:09 GMT

Dunn mind me. I-m just having fun with the tags, gotta practice for when I really need them.

Cut Tag

Live Journal User Link/Tag
my

Insert a Link
Google..duh.

Now lets see what happens with all those cool letters and symbols...

Riiiighhhttt........

Wed, 31 May 2006 00:26:20 GMT

Right...

I'm bored...I'm VERY bored...

Imma go write something...

Greetings, earthlings...

Thu, 18 May 2006 02:05:02 GMT

Riiiiiight......So I'm new here and I dunn know what to do.

I'll figure it out.

I got this LJ thingie so I could post my stories, since http://slashfanfiction.com doesn't do it for me anymore...not with that new configuration. It's hard to post and I hate it. XP

Anyways. Yes. I do write Slash, so if you like Slash, come and visit me in a couple of weeks *wink*.