The pounding of pellets vibrated with a satisfying intensity through the metal of the gun, and into his fingers. The sensation rippled through him, stirring more memories, which presently came rushing to the surface. Euphoria overtook his sight, blacking out the vision of a now paint-splattered man, roaring angrily from the ground, two storeys below.
Flashes of a scene infected his vision. Forested areas, bright splashes of paint where perhaps there shouldn't have been, the closeness of another body, female, breathing deeply...
Glass smashed again somewhere nearby, and it took every ounce of muscle for him to dodge the speeding brick that was hurtling towards his head. Finger slipped from the trigger, vibration stopped. The final remnants of the memory faded.
Recovering himself, James removed the arm that he'd thrown over his face. As he did, he was aware of a sharp pain somewhere near his wrist. Blinking, he twisted the arm so he could inspect the long scratch. Strands of red were already beginning to worm their way along his skin. He shuddered as another memory flashed through him.
Too much blood...
Post 2
His eyes reluctantly slid down, orange glare continued to throb against his closed eyelids. He turned on his side and pulled the duvet up to his chin.
He heard it before he felt it. The loud reverberating crash, like an operatic cymbal, followed by scattered tinkling.
James horizontally leapt in fright, smashing his head against his hardwood headboard. He swung his legs round dizzied, and looked towards the window nearest his Computer. It had been smashed, and on his floor was a crumbling red brick that had slid along his floor and drawn a thick orange line across his carpet until coming to its resting place against his phone. Shattered sections of glass decorated his floor blocking his route to the window. Now barefoot he grabbed his wheely chair, gave himself a kick off and rolled over to his window, ignoring the glass being crunched further into his carpet by the cheap plastic wheels.
He peered through the porthole of air now the centrepiece of his window.
There was a large, ogre of a chap dressed in the latest sports outfit, adorned in ticks, those ticks the unpleasant wish to coat themselves in, seeking affirmation even in their clothing.
“You fucked up big time kiddo”
He spat those words. Literally. He spat when he spoke.
Fuck.
“Get down here. Now.”
“But...”
“Get the FUCK down here, before I throw another”
The ogre tossed a brick up in his left hand a little way and caught it to demonstrate his seriousness in the matter.
Fuck.
“No”
“No? I’m giving you one fucking chance you little shit. Get down here now, and we can talk about what you did.”
He didn’t do anything. Not really. He didn’t mean to...
In a situation like this you should probably call the police, call for help. You should NOT grab your old paintball gun from behind your wardrobe and shoot an angry fat man with a brick.
He heard it before he felt it. The loud reverberating crash, like an operatic cymbal, followed by scattered tinkling.
James horizontally leapt in fright, smashing his head against his hardwood headboard. He swung his legs round dizzied, and looked towards the window nearest his Computer. It had been smashed, and on his floor was a crumbling red brick that had slid along his floor and drawn a thick orange line across his carpet until coming to its resting place against his phone. Shattered sections of glass decorated his floor blocking his route to the window. Now barefoot he grabbed his wheely chair, gave himself a kick off and rolled over to his window, ignoring the glass being crunched further into his carpet by the cheap plastic wheels.
He peered through the porthole of air now the centrepiece of his window.
There was a large, ogre of a chap dressed in the latest sports outfit, adorned in ticks, those ticks the unpleasant wish to coat themselves in, seeking affirmation even in their clothing.
“You fucked up big time kiddo”
He spat those words. Literally. He spat when he spoke.
Fuck.
“Get down here. Now.”
“But...”
“Get the FUCK down here, before I throw another”
The ogre tossed a brick up in his left hand a little way and caught it to demonstrate his seriousness in the matter.
Fuck.
“No”
“No? I’m giving you one fucking chance you little shit. Get down here now, and we can talk about what you did.”
He didn’t do anything. Not really. He didn’t mean to...
In a situation like this you should probably call the police, call for help. You should NOT grab your old paintball gun from behind your wardrobe and shoot an angry fat man with a brick.
Post 1
Shadows flickered at the corner of his eye. Turning his head slightly to dislodge the tunnel vision syndrome that had begun to set in, James narrowed his eyes at the empty room.
He sat alone in his bedroom, a book propped open against his pillow. Tastefully chosen fabric encased the fluffy feathery mass, sunken where the weight of the book lay. Similarly pattern material formed the cover of his duvet, upon which he was now stretched out, toes pointed, legs straight. He was fully clothed, having not bothered to change before collapsing exhausted onto the mattress. Generic faded blue jeans hugged his legs loosely while a pixelated-patterned hoodie covered a jet black t-shirt.
Turning the page, James perused the words printed there, black and stark against the pale beige paper. Little of what was written there was actually absorbed into his brain, both body and mind too tired for concentration. Even rational thought seemed too much of a stretch presently. Blinking, his eyelids felt too heavy, begging to remain closed. He pulled them open, with visible force, shutting his book simultaneously. Historical reading would have to wait for another night. Too much had happened that day.
Dragging his legs off his duvet, James stood, shrugging out of his hoodie smoothly. When it fell to the floor, he didn’t pick it up. Instead, the hoodie was joined by the crumpled t-shirt and jeans that had been on his person a few moments previously. Changing into a pair of incredibly creased shorts, he slid into bed, ignoring the continuance of harsh light due to the electricity pulsing through the light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
He sat alone in his bedroom, a book propped open against his pillow. Tastefully chosen fabric encased the fluffy feathery mass, sunken where the weight of the book lay. Similarly pattern material formed the cover of his duvet, upon which he was now stretched out, toes pointed, legs straight. He was fully clothed, having not bothered to change before collapsing exhausted onto the mattress. Generic faded blue jeans hugged his legs loosely while a pixelated-patterned hoodie covered a jet black t-shirt.
Turning the page, James perused the words printed there, black and stark against the pale beige paper. Little of what was written there was actually absorbed into his brain, both body and mind too tired for concentration. Even rational thought seemed too much of a stretch presently. Blinking, his eyelids felt too heavy, begging to remain closed. He pulled them open, with visible force, shutting his book simultaneously. Historical reading would have to wait for another night. Too much had happened that day.
Dragging his legs off his duvet, James stood, shrugging out of his hoodie smoothly. When it fell to the floor, he didn’t pick it up. Instead, the hoodie was joined by the crumpled t-shirt and jeans that had been on his person a few moments previously. Changing into a pair of incredibly creased shorts, he slid into bed, ignoring the continuance of harsh light due to the electricity pulsing through the light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
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