Story: Addicts
Jan. 28th, 2012 08:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
walkwithheroesWritten for the new group ofthepistol an original writing challenge group. I'd just like to say I kind of know who these characters are, but this was written in a free-form way, so - it might not make sense.
He only made fun of people he liked; though he’d never admit to liking any of them. He couldn’t admit to liking a bunch of addicts, after all. Even if he was one too.
They were an odd mixed up bunch. They had only come together because no other support groups would have them. Them, his group, the outcast among the outcast:
The gambling math teacher, the one he called Old Man, even though Laurence Peabody was only thirty-seven. The alcoholic Detective, the walking cliché, Danny Oz. The all-around addict (he seriously wasn’t she what she wasn’t addicted to) Laura Foster, woman of mystery. Those three were the adults, the messed up ones. He called them all sorts of names. He made fun of them every moment he could. In a way, he liked them, but he also wanted them to hate him. Because they were all adults – people who you were supposed to look up to – and they had all failed. Miserably.
He was different; young. He was only twenty-eight. He could get over his drug addiction, easily. Besides, all the great artists had a ‘drug period’ and this was clearly his. Even the other one – the one he often called ‘Phobia’ - said he was just going through a phase. Not that it meant much coming from a little school girl who technically wasn’t even an addict.
At any rate, he did like his group – even if he did treat them like crap most of the time. It was just that, well, he liked them. He won’t them, though. He couldn’t tell a bunch of addicts that they were liked. That might make them think they were normal.
And they were anything but normal.
ofthepistol an original writing challenge group. I'd just like to say I kind of know who these characters are, but this was written in a free-form way, so - it might not make sense. He only made fun of people he liked; though he’d never admit to liking any of them. He couldn’t admit to liking a bunch of addicts, after all. Even if he was one too.
They were an odd mixed up bunch. They had only come together because no other support groups would have them. Them, his group, the outcast among the outcast:
The gambling math teacher, the one he called Old Man, even though Laurence Peabody was only thirty-seven. The alcoholic Detective, the walking cliché, Danny Oz. The all-around addict (he seriously wasn’t she what she wasn’t addicted to) Laura Foster, woman of mystery. Those three were the adults, the messed up ones. He called them all sorts of names. He made fun of them every moment he could. In a way, he liked them, but he also wanted them to hate him. Because they were all adults – people who you were supposed to look up to – and they had all failed. Miserably.
He was different; young. He was only twenty-eight. He could get over his drug addiction, easily. Besides, all the great artists had a ‘drug period’ and this was clearly his. Even the other one – the one he often called ‘Phobia’ - said he was just going through a phase. Not that it meant much coming from a little school girl who technically wasn’t even an addict.
At any rate, he did like his group – even if he did treat them like crap most of the time. It was just that, well, he liked them. He won’t them, though. He couldn’t tell a bunch of addicts that they were liked. That might make them think they were normal.
And they were anything but normal.
