on the subject of insanity
Jul. 30th, 2002 10:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hackthis_archivei. look. pete icon! show the man some love people. (and then thank ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
obsessedmuch
2. the new season of the sopranos starts september 15th. oh yes.
3. another drabble for the crayola challenge since i'm not allowed to write clex. i offer you something. well. hell, it's definitely different. who was trying to pimp me some chloe/lana the other day? maybe i'll try that too.
White Stripes and Silver Bars
(Post-Leech)
The first thing Eric noticed about the room were the silver bars on the windows. They were shiny and looked new, or at least polished, which was a big difference from the bars in his bedroom which were dusty and rust-colored and housed a dozen spiderwebs. Still, bars were bars, and they were in the visiting room, too.
There had been gratings at the police station, and at the hospital they had kept him handcuffed to the bed.
The bars were definitely different. They were definitely a new thing. At least in there Eric could *see* the bars, at home they had been invisible. Not that Eric ever had to imagine being locked in, it was pretty damn apparent. Maybe all kids who had dads who were ex-military lived that way, except Eric knew that he couldn’t be right.
The military taught honor and valor and semper fi and stuff, there was no way the military taught you to lock your son in the closet when he spilled sugar on the counter. There’s no way the military taught its soldiers to have their sons transported around Metropolis in a straight jackets.
It must’ve been a Summers thing.
Eric wouldn’t have been surprised. It’s not like Eric's dad didn’t already have his own set of rules anyway. Just because everyone else got away with murder, Eric never could. He never got away with *anything*. Even in here, every time Eric thinks he might have a real thought they pump him full of drugs and whatever it was gets shorted out.
Eric's dad always has control, he doesn't even have to be in the same zip code. Eric knows this, even sitting there, waiting at a rickety wooden table, his dad has latent control. That's why Eric’s got something lighting his fire, some sort of tranq or muscle relaxant. That must be why he’s cuffed to the chair, so that he doesn’t collapse into a pool on the floor.
So that he doesn’t start asking a lot of questions. So that he doesn’t ask them to fix him, fix his father, fix his *life*.
Eric wonders what it would be like to have a father that can fix everything. What it would be like to have a father that doesn’t make it his mission in life to find fault with everything you do.
He thinks he’d like to find out one day. He knows he wants to find out what it’s like to be acknowledged by everyone including his father, as opposed to no one *except* his father.
Eric never wanted to be in the spotlight. Still, he’s found there’s nothing quite like being ignored by 99.9% of the people around you to make you feel insignificant and small. To make you feel invisible and alone, particularly when the one person paying attention is the one person you’re desperate to avoid.
It’s not good for the mental health. It’s only a matter of time before it all goes wrong.
Eric knows he was always going to end up behind some set of bars. Staring at slatted light and waiting anxiously, or as close as he gets all doped up these days, for the echo of footballs and the creak of the doorknob.
Right now, Eric wishes he *was* invisible. He wishes that he had found that niche between not being seen and being seen too much. Eric thinks that Jeff Palmer got off really easily.
He remembers being jealous when Jeff was taken away because Jeff was never the science teacher’s son; Jeff never had to be better than everyone else. He never had to be an example, or wind up being used as an example.
Jeff really was invisible, but as neat trick it was only when people couldn’t see him that they had to pay attention. Eric wishes he could’ve tried that out on his dad. Just one accident down the stairs would’ve done the job.
But no, Eric was never invisible. He never had that luck. He was always there, always around for a father that only paid attention to yell at him, to find fault.
Of course it’s his dad’s fault that he’s here now.
Only a really sadistic father would have his son committed. Fathers are supposed to protect their sons, not call the cops on them. Fathers are supposed to love their sons, not have them locked up and disowned. The funniest thing, in a really sad way, is that his dad said he was doing it for his own good.
For the good of the Summers family, because Eric put a cop car through the roof. Just because the science teacher couldn’t have a son that was a bit *off*, that might taint the wholesome image of Americana. But Eric knows that if his father had paid attention to him like a good dad, then Eric wouldn’t have had to act out. He wouldn’t have had to turn the house into a Matchbox garage gone awry.
But it’s all those ifs that got Eric in this predicament in the first place. Always with the ifs and never with the actuality. *If* Eric hadn’t been struck my lightening, if his dad wasn’t such a prick. If Eric wasn’t all doped up and still had some of his strength.
It’s all *his* fault.
Nothing was ever enough; and then when Eric *could* finally do it all, his dad didn’t actually care. He had a scientist friend in Metropolis. He came after his own son with a goddamn fucking golf club. Even the therapists haven’t been able to justify that one.
Not that anyone ever had to.
Eric’s dad has always viewed him as a disappointment: not big enough, strong enough, popular enough. Whatever it was that Mr. Summers wanted, Eric didn’t have it. At least now Eric doesn’t have to worry about what his dad thinks anymore, but if he’s being honest, he misses his mother. That’s what he tells the nurses he wants, that’s what he says during lunchtime, and medication time, and before lights out.
Eric just wants to see his mother, but apparently she doesn’t want him. Or maybe she does and *he’s* keeping her from Eric. He always did things like that.
Eric hates his father. He bets other fathers aren’t like his.
He bets other fathers don’t ignore their children to prepare them for life inside a sanatorium, but at least here being ignored is more a figment of Seconal and Temezepam than it is of his imagination. At least here Eric knows it’s not deliberate. Nevertheless, it’s been a long time since he’s talked to anybody who didn’t continually drool all over their shirt or jump up every five seconds screaming that the aliens were finally in their midsts.
It’s been a long time since Eric saw his mother or anyone who acknowledged him as a human being and not as the sum of his parts. Maybe that’s why he’s so curious about waiting in the visitor’s room. Maybe that’s why he’s even more drugged than normal right now. Eric’s kind of surprised that he’s even *allowed* to have a visitor.
No one ever comes to see Eric.
No one has even admitted he’s alive anymore. The only acknowledgement of Eric’s existence is the warm sun blazing through the bars when he wakes up in the morning. Eric is a no one, he’s been told that his entire life.
He’s always been told that whatever he has/does/says isn’t enough. But Eric isn’t stupid, no matter what his father told him. So when the door opens up, and Eric sees who it is, he can’t help but be interested.
Eric knows that Lionel Luthor doesn’t come to see a no one.
obsessedmuch2. the new season of the sopranos starts september 15th. oh yes.
3. another drabble for the crayola challenge since i'm not allowed to write clex. i offer you something. well. hell, it's definitely different. who was trying to pimp me some chloe/lana the other day? maybe i'll try that too.
White Stripes and Silver Bars
(Post-Leech)
The first thing Eric noticed about the room were the silver bars on the windows. They were shiny and looked new, or at least polished, which was a big difference from the bars in his bedroom which were dusty and rust-colored and housed a dozen spiderwebs. Still, bars were bars, and they were in the visiting room, too.
There had been gratings at the police station, and at the hospital they had kept him handcuffed to the bed.
The bars were definitely different. They were definitely a new thing. At least in there Eric could *see* the bars, at home they had been invisible. Not that Eric ever had to imagine being locked in, it was pretty damn apparent. Maybe all kids who had dads who were ex-military lived that way, except Eric knew that he couldn’t be right.
The military taught honor and valor and semper fi and stuff, there was no way the military taught you to lock your son in the closet when he spilled sugar on the counter. There’s no way the military taught its soldiers to have their sons transported around Metropolis in a straight jackets.
It must’ve been a Summers thing.
Eric wouldn’t have been surprised. It’s not like Eric's dad didn’t already have his own set of rules anyway. Just because everyone else got away with murder, Eric never could. He never got away with *anything*. Even in here, every time Eric thinks he might have a real thought they pump him full of drugs and whatever it was gets shorted out.
Eric's dad always has control, he doesn't even have to be in the same zip code. Eric knows this, even sitting there, waiting at a rickety wooden table, his dad has latent control. That's why Eric’s got something lighting his fire, some sort of tranq or muscle relaxant. That must be why he’s cuffed to the chair, so that he doesn’t collapse into a pool on the floor.
So that he doesn’t start asking a lot of questions. So that he doesn’t ask them to fix him, fix his father, fix his *life*.
Eric wonders what it would be like to have a father that can fix everything. What it would be like to have a father that doesn’t make it his mission in life to find fault with everything you do.
He thinks he’d like to find out one day. He knows he wants to find out what it’s like to be acknowledged by everyone including his father, as opposed to no one *except* his father.
Eric never wanted to be in the spotlight. Still, he’s found there’s nothing quite like being ignored by 99.9% of the people around you to make you feel insignificant and small. To make you feel invisible and alone, particularly when the one person paying attention is the one person you’re desperate to avoid.
It’s not good for the mental health. It’s only a matter of time before it all goes wrong.
Eric knows he was always going to end up behind some set of bars. Staring at slatted light and waiting anxiously, or as close as he gets all doped up these days, for the echo of footballs and the creak of the doorknob.
Right now, Eric wishes he *was* invisible. He wishes that he had found that niche between not being seen and being seen too much. Eric thinks that Jeff Palmer got off really easily.
He remembers being jealous when Jeff was taken away because Jeff was never the science teacher’s son; Jeff never had to be better than everyone else. He never had to be an example, or wind up being used as an example.
Jeff really was invisible, but as neat trick it was only when people couldn’t see him that they had to pay attention. Eric wishes he could’ve tried that out on his dad. Just one accident down the stairs would’ve done the job.
But no, Eric was never invisible. He never had that luck. He was always there, always around for a father that only paid attention to yell at him, to find fault.
Of course it’s his dad’s fault that he’s here now.
Only a really sadistic father would have his son committed. Fathers are supposed to protect their sons, not call the cops on them. Fathers are supposed to love their sons, not have them locked up and disowned. The funniest thing, in a really sad way, is that his dad said he was doing it for his own good.
For the good of the Summers family, because Eric put a cop car through the roof. Just because the science teacher couldn’t have a son that was a bit *off*, that might taint the wholesome image of Americana. But Eric knows that if his father had paid attention to him like a good dad, then Eric wouldn’t have had to act out. He wouldn’t have had to turn the house into a Matchbox garage gone awry.
But it’s all those ifs that got Eric in this predicament in the first place. Always with the ifs and never with the actuality. *If* Eric hadn’t been struck my lightening, if his dad wasn’t such a prick. If Eric wasn’t all doped up and still had some of his strength.
It’s all *his* fault.
Nothing was ever enough; and then when Eric *could* finally do it all, his dad didn’t actually care. He had a scientist friend in Metropolis. He came after his own son with a goddamn fucking golf club. Even the therapists haven’t been able to justify that one.
Not that anyone ever had to.
Eric’s dad has always viewed him as a disappointment: not big enough, strong enough, popular enough. Whatever it was that Mr. Summers wanted, Eric didn’t have it. At least now Eric doesn’t have to worry about what his dad thinks anymore, but if he’s being honest, he misses his mother. That’s what he tells the nurses he wants, that’s what he says during lunchtime, and medication time, and before lights out.
Eric just wants to see his mother, but apparently she doesn’t want him. Or maybe she does and *he’s* keeping her from Eric. He always did things like that.
Eric hates his father. He bets other fathers aren’t like his.
He bets other fathers don’t ignore their children to prepare them for life inside a sanatorium, but at least here being ignored is more a figment of Seconal and Temezepam than it is of his imagination. At least here Eric knows it’s not deliberate. Nevertheless, it’s been a long time since he’s talked to anybody who didn’t continually drool all over their shirt or jump up every five seconds screaming that the aliens were finally in their midsts.
It’s been a long time since Eric saw his mother or anyone who acknowledged him as a human being and not as the sum of his parts. Maybe that’s why he’s so curious about waiting in the visitor’s room. Maybe that’s why he’s even more drugged than normal right now. Eric’s kind of surprised that he’s even *allowed* to have a visitor.
No one ever comes to see Eric.
No one has even admitted he’s alive anymore. The only acknowledgement of Eric’s existence is the warm sun blazing through the bars when he wakes up in the morning. Eric is a no one, he’s been told that his entire life.
He’s always been told that whatever he has/does/says isn’t enough. But Eric isn’t stupid, no matter what his father told him. So when the door opens up, and Eric sees who it is, he can’t help but be interested.
Eric knows that Lionel Luthor doesn’t come to see a no one.
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no subject
Date: 2002-07-30 12:15 pm (UTC)Is this another example of special interest groups calling the shots? If so, booooo! Bad special interest groups! BAD!
*sniffles a little pathetically*
But I love the way you write CLex. You have to write more. Have to. Break free from your CLexless chains. Overthrow your tyrannical oppressor and VIVE LE CLEX!
no subject
Date: 2002-07-30 12:22 pm (UTC)oh, it's okay darlin,' it's nothing offical just something that kass and i have been discussing. i'm not going to *stop* writing it or anything, i just can't write any of it for the crayola challenge.
I know how much trouble it is for you Americans to have a recount, but I really don't think this is fair.
Oh, and this? LOL.
Re:
Date: 2002-07-30 04:13 pm (UTC)*wipes sweat from brow*
I was more than a little concerned, but now you've put my mind at ease.
To celebrate, you should write some porn.
*runs away giggling*
no subject
Date: 2002-07-30 12:38 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2002-07-30 12:47 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2002-07-30 12:58 pm (UTC)i dunno. make the conversation! *g*
Re:
Date: 2002-07-30 12:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-07-30 04:15 pm (UTC)Re:
Date: 2002-08-01 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2002-07-30 08:39 pm (UTC)Chloe/Lana. I want to see that.