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by bozik
Rated: 18+ · Chapter · Family · #2236208
A misterious phone call and a hurricane that both wreck the Firewood household.
“Not my phone.” Said Mrs Firewood listing her science magazine, unable to be bothered. Mr Firewood slowly raised his own head from computer work and picked up the ringing phone which was buzzing on the kitchen table. He gradualy brought it closer to his face and stared at it like he was only figuring out what it was he was holding. The answer was Antonie's phone, whose owner was busy at the moment. Mr Firewood stared at the screen that displayed a picture of Antonie and another boy at a stadium. ‘Georgie’ it said and Mr Firewood accepted the call with the intention to tell Georgie ( to fuck off) that Antonie will call him later.
Proud owner of the Orange cased phone was staring in the bathtub with utter disdain and in open contempt as he looked in the mirror. He had just wshed his hair. Half of it apparently decided to dessert him and were to be found blocking the drain. Other half was still there but after a good scrape with a towel (more desserters) it appeared to defy gravity. Static electricity didn’t remain in his hair and spread all over his body until his every body and nape-hair and nerve was ready to strike something when coming back down.
With his hair still somewhat damp and a towel around his neck like a fancy scarf, Antonie staggered down the stairs, ruged with celtic pattern, into the kitchen. Before he could even say a word his parents were at him like a bunch of hungry hienas.
“Antonie Lars Firewood we have something to discus with you!” His dad was sitting in his usual spot at the table and smacked his newpaper down ot the table in much similar fashion that Antonie has recently slammed his test. Mrs Firewood was looming close behind.
Antonie was taken by surprise as for once in his life he absolutely had no clue what this could possibly be about. But there was always a swarm of possibilities…
Antonie sat down and waited to face his judgment. They were fools if they thought there was to be no opposition.
An orange-cased phone was slided across the table, an object of his suppose ‘guilt’ and the main source of evidence that was being used against him.
“That’s my phone.” He pointed out in pursuit of getting the ball rolling. It was in vain as his parents obviously liked playing with their pray and wouldn't grant his the plesure of getting this over with, for educational purposes of course.
“And... I guess it’s being confiscated for the common good?” Asked Antonie still trying to trigger the main chain reaction while his parent gave him the silent treatment.
Relaxing on his chair he thought about getting a bevarege.
“I was promised some kind of discution. Am I early?” With his hand slowly raising like the glorious sun, he was about to check out his nails to show them exactly how flippantly he thought of this. Then his dad finaly broke at his remark and drew his attention to him with a loud stomp that echoed, demanding to be taken siriously.
“Listen. We want to know why you’ve been neglecting your friends.” Mrs Firewood said. She sounded worried and Antonie couldn’t help but foresee that her tone is going to pick up disapointed as well.
He brought forth his poker face and ordered a wall to be build around his chest. Take your positions, defend forth, we’re under attack!
“What do you mean neglect? It’s not like they’re my responsibility.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.
His dad leaned back as well, almoust like this was a game and he was meant to copy Antonie’s moves.
“Using that kind of logic you’re not my responsibility as well, yet we still feed you. However that’s not the point and you know it.” Rumbeled Mr Firewood and went on looking at him throuhg very thin slits. “You said you wanted to handle this yourself. You know you can entrust us to help you.”
Antonie was like a sponge absorbing any piece of information that was flown his way. His brain turned into a smithy where he carefully shaped his next response using gathered data that was metled and made into a sword. After several vibe-checks he decided to pounce out of hiding and swing that sword into his full glory.
“ Yes, and how do you know that I’m not ‘hadeling’ stuff? Exept you do, because you don’t trust me and you went through my phone! You invaded my privacy for some kind of exuse that would allow you to fucking ‘handle’ my stuff. Yeah, I’ve said I’ll take care of telling my friends, but you forget you two promised to trust me to do whatever I saw fit! You want me to trust you when you can’t even set a good example and trust me!” His ripcage was going up and down at an dangereus rate and he dropped his gaze. His parents had obviously crossed the line this time but he wasn’t doing a good job keeping under the belt either, that probably made them even, except that Antonie wasn’t going to settle for even. He felt like he had just swalloved a hurricane and it was raging inside of him, whispering of some kind of releaf that comes as a reward after storming.
Handling the hurricane was a two sided sword; on one hand he could mercilessly lose his temper and only vaguely regret it as he was supposely too overcome with emotion to control or later scold himself. The other side of the sword was that it teared down his belowed, newly constructed wall that could last for a days alowing him to emotionlessly wonder around on an autopilot like a zombie. But since it didn’t last-
In the eye of the hurricane it is quiet. After all is blown and ruthleslly sweeped away, there in the middle is like heaven, clear and peacefull, while the surrounding world just swirls around.
Then everyone went quiet like they’re resources of words, ready to defend their cases, had run dry. Like something just brushed their minds clean and in that little moment of stilness Antonie realised that his hands were made into fists and that his chin was twiching, twiching as he realised just how loud he had expressed himself. There was something liquidy and wet that had dropped onto his shirt and he figured what it was that made his vision dim and murky.
Hurricane had left their house but the traces of it were everywhere. Antonie hastly began to build another wall, but all too late, bricks would slide off eachother and wouldn't fit together. It seemed like the whole simplicity of placing a brick on a brick was compromised. There was no willpower to hold them in place, no stamina that wouldn't melt under a tsunami of anguish.
He noticed, late as well, that his outbursts jeopardised his stability. His pokerface was grimaced and the twiching was already spread over his body. Now his hands were merely half funcionate, like they were undergoing a seizure and frankly he had to leave before it contaminates his legs as well.
Back in his room, his nerves were still knoted into balls, much like wool after your cat’s done with it, a preposterous fluffy mess.
His neuro funcions acted accordingly. Antonie would stare at random objects while not quite grasping what they were. He supposed they were 3D and in color, but other than that, it was just not relevant.
‘This must be it.’ He thought; ‘A state of such paralasis and resulting apathy in which I can kill someone and my subconciousness wouldn’t even notise, as it’s too busy licking its newly mutulated wounds. Apathy that’s used as my most powerful painkiller.’
His head felt heavy. Every limb felt somehow heavy which was super-weird, because he felt disconected from his body. Nothing made sense, but he somehow understood it. He wasn’t a stranger to this state, especially lately when it saved him from first explosion wave as his life felt apart like a house of cards. Mark first wave, aftershocks still came running. How is his object gawking any differend to a hundred-yard stare?
There’s something deeply unsettling about eyes that look not at you, but into you. Without your consent they see past your skin and stare at what makes you tick and how you bleed. It’s that tipe of unsettling, radioactive exposure not even the most pealrless of Extroverts can handle. So Antonie the epitome of neither, didn’t stand a chance of shaking them off… they got ingraved into his skull and he could see them everytime he closed his eyes.
Knots were not curbed to his eye funcions, oh no, his sphaghetti-ball brain was most likely like those old film tapes where you could cut out picture frames and glue new ones in. That being said his nerve-tapes had looped. Somehow glued and cutted themselves forming a cursed circle, a never ending movie projection of former events. Of him and his parents screaming.
Not just the visuals, his evolutional mistake of a brain developed a photographic memory, not to use for his own good, nope! The brain went on and remembered the pugnatious smells (wet hair, coffee, half cooked dinner) and audio (screaming, banging heartbeats, more shouts) just to fuck with him when he needed clarity most.
Why couldn't his newly found painkiller terminate those as well?
Why were they bringing him back, damned stabing eyes, with sinking claws that had somehow hooked themselves in the one part that was still most steaming from radiation and raw from exposure? He was quite happy to drown and drifft in the never ending nothingness of his present inside, if it meant that he was going to spare himself Icarus’ fate.
But there is always that one nagging little voice in your head, a revolutionary whisper that’s like a little ray of sun cutting the darkness. That one activist, who you don’t want to listen to as it temporarly blinds your darkness acostumed eyes. That one ripple-making droplet that disturbs your whole ocean, because you know it speaks the truth.
How did Antonie know it was the truth that crossed his mind like a little epiphany-comet? Because it was hard and it hurt and it was way easier said (or thought about) than done.
The truth was that painkiller was not all that great. It closeted all the negative emotion, but there were no pozitive ones left eather. It was like an antibiotic, killing the bacteria and antibodies (casulties), until you’re empty of both.
And emptiness is much worse than pain… It’s like an eternal death. Theories say many things, but it all comes down to organisms (living organisms, unlike Antonie whom you could draw mustashe on with a permanent marker) reacting to their enviorment.
Lying on his bed and staring at silhuettes he couldn’t even comprehend, no metter how hard he wished, was no rehab. It was running away. Away from something greatly formidable.
But he needed some time off to stop shaking and to re-programe himself, but first! He put on a movie he knew he wasn’t going to follow. As soon as it was on, his brain went to sleep again and he blanky stared at the screen.

Succubusses; … Humans; … *Antonie.exe had stopped responding* Cue pensive staring
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