(Han I couldn't wait *giggles maniacally*)

A story of 'Has beens' and 'Wannabes', written by myself and Han (she's a great author/friend/spunkrat/muse/insane person(s))

Rating: NC-17 as to not limit ourselves.

Disclaimer: We aren't Miller, Lewis or Tolkien, but our stuff's good at times, please respect that by not copying our 'craft'. (Plus we're poor and would probably sue you lol) We own all characters and the storyline.


Prologue

Sweat dripped down my forehead as the stagelights signalled my arrival, my clothes were drowning me, down, down, down, in the spiral of polyester and wool, I was sinking. My nerves didn't help, and I could see the make up packed on me dripping down my cheeks, I was a wreck. Drug highs couldn't match this sensation, a feeling of up and down, a high and then the plunge. This could make me famous, this could be my break, or this could break me, shatter dreams that could never be replaced. The music began, slow steady beating of the drum, cymbals next...cymbals??

I was thrust onto the stage by stagehands as the curtains opened, red curtains, red curtains!!!

I knew it!


I had done it!


My eyes opened as I spun around with glory pulsing through my veins. This was it, I raised my green hands as the tune started. My voice belting out. I was king of the world as the roar of applause met my ears.

'Kids around the woooooorrrrrld! Join in the Doppy Dinosaur dance!'


*~*~*~*~*~

(Author's Note: BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!)

*immediately riveted to the screen at the mention that it's a fic written by the spectactular shiny beyond shiny duo, Spuddy and Han* I know this is going to be good!

:lmao: :lmao: :lmao: *dies laughing after reading the prologue* Ahahahaha, that's hilarious, the guy's Doppy...whoever that is, I'm guessing a version of Barney the Dinosaur (the annoying singing dancing reptile of children's entertanment over here in the US, lol).

I can't wait to see how this turns out. :shine: *sits on the edge of her seat in anticipation*

Who's the guy in your signature, Spuddy? *blinks* I feel like I've seen him somewhere before...once upon a dream, lol.

Psst...by the way, are you guys still going to continue with Growing Pains?

Indeed we are going to continue growing pains...it's Han's turn to update so yaaaaaah.

ehehe Jack Davenport is Commodore Norrington! :heartbeat: HE'S ON COUPLING! I LOVE COUPLING! weeehehe

:heartbeat: Pat

Yay for Growing Pains! *dances around*

Commodore Norrington! He looks so different without the wig, lol. "He's got to be the best pirate I've ever seen." "So it would seem." hehe :lol: What's Coupling? :huh:

It's a UK show heehehe he's such a lost cause in like all his movies where he doesn't play a red coat or Navy officer lol.

:heartbeat: Pat

Cedric

They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you die. That a glistening tear, hectored, slides down your cheek as your liberated soul rises to join God, if you’re lucky. As a coma patient, I can say the same thing happens when you lose your fucking head over too many pints and rush into oncoming traffic, losing your memory too, in the process.

I had a suspicion that I died then, one of those suspicious that digs into you until you can’t hold any longer, until you forget and two days later, what you thought comes true. I had this suspicion, because when I awoke, I was staring at an angel. I think by that time, I had lost two years of my life to emptiness, a false death.

I can remember everything about that day, the water in my drip, how white the surroundings were. It looked like heaven should, but reeked of disinfectant. No one should ever have to get better in hospital, no one really does. Hospital is where you go to die. I remember how perfectly poignant her lips were; poised. A cherry ripe for the picking. I had that absurd song in my head too, the one from the movie, where Nicolas Cage is an angel. Maybe he was here too.

She was shocked to see me; I know I looked like a right idiot blinking rapidly, drooling. My face was dead.

One thing I have learnt is even in the most dire circumstances, never, ever profess your undying love to a woman you don’t know. I said I’ve learnt. Past tense. The lesson wasn’t very easy to get over. Humiliation is a funny thing. It’s like a disease you don’t know you have. Like malaria, slumbering deep in your recesses, until something triggers its outburst, and you’re over an operating table, a Thai doctor cutting your spleen open.

But, with my life experiences, humiliation wasn’t a foreign thing. I was the kid who got hung upside down naked from a rope for not eating porridge. I was the kid whose dog tried to murder him by pushing him down a well. I was the kid, who grew up to be a twenty-seven year old, entertaining children. A wannabe actor. A single, twenty-seven year-old.

“Just checking your vitals, love,” She was a London girl, probably from somewhere like Teddington, South London. Definitely South. Her accent was the dead giveaway.

That was the day I actually ate my pills, chewed them up, I didn’t need the morphine plugged in my arm. She wasn’t wearing lipstick that day. She had given it up for lip-gloss, glazed over her lips, like doughnut icing. So sickly sweet. She had licked her lips. I bet it had tasted good. I wanted with every ounce of strength I had, to do that. The urge grew at the bottom of my stomach.

Being a drooling mass of a hospital patient, one doesn’t have much to look forward too, besides the promise that your brain cells WILL grow back. Sponge baths aren’t customary. It’s a pity really. So, really, there’s little to be excited about, besides Australian soap opera marathons, that everyone tunes in for. Those beaches are so foreign to us.

I watch, not the soapies, though. I watch the surroundings, the people, graphically retracing their steps and actions again and again in my head, mulling over how different their lives must be. I’ve gotten good at watching, silently. I don’t want to speak much. I don’t think I can remember how, or the sound of my own voice. I used to sing once too, I was a tenor.

I’ve been entertaining people all my fucking life, now it’s their turn to entertain me. Entertain me till my head can’t take any more information for the day and my tired eyes close.

Pill swapping is entertainment, and Agnes, who tries to do the crossword using only the world apple, a compulsive thing, I’ve been told. There’s gossip here, you wouldn’t expect it. Sometimes I feel like I’m in a loony bin than a hospital, but I can’t be sure. They’re both so similar. It doesn’t matter where I lose my mind. I’ll be medicated anywhere.
The chorus of toga wearers in the morning is a sight. Thumbsuckers the lot of them, some droolers like I was. Really, it’s not my fault, and I bet anything, even if it was, it would do little to enforce whatever charm I may have had.

Romola’s kind though. Her brown eyes study me back, soft hand on my forehead checking my fever, as she balances a pen lid under her tongue. That tongue itches. I could scratch it.

She doesn’t judge, which is a relief. Everyone’s judged here, worse if you’re inanimate or speaking gibberish. Droolers are just laughed at, behind closed doors and shameful palms. How archaic. It’s harmless, I don’t take offence. If I was a doctor I’d bring a camera and laugh all fucking day. Alright, I wouldn’t, and I’m sorry for saying fuck mum.

She can see my blue eyes watching her, I stare but I can’t help it, or can I? To call her beautiful would deserve the prize for ‘Understatement of the year’. Her perfect teeth glow and she bites her bottom lip. I can’t lie and say I don’t think it’s sexy. I tell her this. I’m a fool, mumbling, words flowing like a leaky tap the fat plummer never got around to fixing.

She’s like the wind comes into my head now. Oh god, what a time to remember Patrick Swayze and Dirty Dancing. I could be all macho at this point. Take Patrick as a sign. Be macho. No one puts baby in the corner. But machoism is gone.

Those perfectly arched eyebrows of hers are raised; she puts her pen in her pocket. A white coat, so formal, so distinguishing. She whispers softly.
“It’s an anxiety twitch,” she says in her voice like silk. I smile; she’s trying to put me off. Make me turn away, thinking she has something wrong with her. No one’s perfect though. This is also archaic, female defense mechanism maybe. The neon lights flash. ‘I know I’m a freak, I’m telling it to you,’ is what they say. ‘Try Dickey’s next door’.

I don’t think this then; this comes later, as I mull over those days, sitting like a vegetable in a world of white, of absence, that matrix of white.

I don’t ever turn away. Heck, I’m not a fast learner.


****

:heartbeat: Pat

Heyy! :lol:

I really really like this!!
You should feel honored, it's one of the first things I've read since I came back, actually the first if you don't count a restarted fanfic I'd already read part of on my last time here...!

Seriously, I like the style of narration, like the "sorry for saying fuck mum" thing hahaha.

I'll be back, muehehehehe! :P

Keep up!

Love,
Kukka.-