¥Choose To Remember¥ {A character RP}
Jul 31, 2017 21:05:21 GMT -5
Mongo the Destroyer, ForeverKuroi, and 1 more like this
Post by ¥Ezriel¥ on Jul 31, 2017 21:05:21 GMT -5
{ The human brain can be more complex than meets the eye. Take memories for example. Memories are one of the most objective things that one can observe and recall. We may remember differently from others, small details may be changed from one person’s perspective or huge fabrications can be displaced between one subject to the next. In some instances you remember only what you want and in other cases we repress memories that may be difficult to digest mentally. Good memories can be treasured for a lifetime, shaping the way we act in a positive and reinforcing manner. On the other hand we may be blemished, even haunted by memories that can manifest themselves through all sorts of physiological and social ailments.
What do you choose to remember? What do you choose to suppress? Can we ever fully be in control of the already played out tales in our mind? Is it possible for them to enlighten us as well as destroy others? Can we harness these impulses and how manipulative could they possibly be? We live within the confines of our own sanity. Follow me. Trust in me. Believe… And remember… }
We’re looking out on a bleak morning with the dew still dancing and glistening on the grass like fairy lights and the birds fully revelling in morning song. The sun struggles to wink through passing rainclouds overhead which threaten to burst at any moment. The outskirts of City Centre in Glasgow. An area known as Townhead and not a place for the timid. The 1980’s are well underway and Thatcherism is fully in swing. The damage to the poorer urban neighbourhoods around the UK has become abundantly clear with mass job losses and crushing poverty takes its grip on the blue collared man. Gangs are rife with young men having no work to fill their days and focusing on more disruptive activities to vent their anger and boredom. To flourish in such an environment would take a certain kind of callousness and street smarts. Watching your back and knowing what streets are safe to walk down or not have simply become part and parcel of everyday life.
Afternoon eventually rolls around. Time tends to stand still in this place, our surroundings rapidly resembling more of a ghost town with every passing minute. It seems to suck the very life force out of anything and everything it comes in contact with. We follow along a small black railing which blocks off small patches of grass in front of high rise and smaller tower blocks, most of which look as if they have seen far better days. Empty bottles of fortified wine and cheap cider lay strewn around the grass and paving in front of it. We even notice the occasional discarded needle where desperate addicts haven’t even tried to use discretion about their habits. Eventually we arrive at the front of one of the smaller apartment blocks. It hosts a stoop area outside with concrete steps leading up to the heavily enforced doors which require a buzzer and clearance to enter the premises. A small looking scruffy boy sits on the second step up, scuffing his tattered black dress shoes up and down the concrete. He chews heavily on some sort of chewing candy and hawks the residue from his mouth out in front of him, seeing if he can beat his furthest previous expulsion of saliva. He adorns a knee length pair of grey school shorts and a scraggy wooly sweatshirt that looks like it was probably knitted at home. The boy squints into the sun. A few seconds pass and suddenly the heavens open. Rain lashes down from the sky, instantly soaking the boy.
”Get your arse in here right now son before you catch your death! I won’t be tellin’ you again!!!”
The youngster gathers a small wooden spinning top from beside him and bundles it into his pocket. He buzzes the top most button and there is a beeping sound followed by the click of the lock releasing. The camera follows as we hurtle up the narrow flights of stairs, tailing him. The boy begins singing an old Glasgow traditional tune at the top of his lungs as he ascends boisterously.
“Oh I wish I was in Glasgow
With some good old pals of mine
Some good old rough companions
And some good old smooth red wine
We would talk about the old days
And the old town’s sad decline
And drink to the boys on the road!
Oh I was born in Glasgow
Near the centre of the town
I would take you there and show you
But they’ve burnt the building down
And when I think about it
It always makes me frown
They bulldozed it all to build a road!”
His footsteps echo loudly through the tower block as a couple of the residents poke their heads out of their doors to see what all the commotion is about. As we reach the top floor winding stairway we see a pudgy rather dishevelled looking man bumbling out of the top flat. He is dressed in a string vest with a tattered bandana wrapped round his head. He scours at the youngster and motions towards him with a frantic beckoning motion, his face beetroot with embarrassment and exasperation. He shepherds the boy inside and slams the door behind him. He clips the boy immediately round the head as the door closes over. He lets out a startled yelp and rubs his head slightly, squinting up at the man.
“What have I told you about makin’ such a racket when you’re comin’ up those stairs? Ya wee gobshite. Folk already have it bad enough around here without you screamin’ and ballin’ all over the place.”
The boy continues to wince in pain. He looks up apologetically.
“I’m sorry Da’, I didn’t know I was being so loud.”
He sniffs the air.
“What’s for tea?”
The older man, who appears to be the boy’s father, sighs and makes his way through the darkened corridor towards the back of the flat. It appears that the electricity has been cut off some time ago. There are bundles of newspapers piled up and other scattered pages of these papers which had been used to wrap up fish and chips takeaway dinners. The man lights a pre rolled cigarette and takes a quick drag.
“Corned beef hash and half a tin of Heinz.”
The boy looks as though someone just pissed in his ice cream and his face tells the whole story.
”Corned beef and beans again? For god sa…..”
A sharp and loud banging at the table stops him dead in his tracks. His father glares at him and points to the sky.
”That is the LAST time you blaspheme in this house boy! Do you hear me? It’s the best we can manage at the moment. Think about the kids in the world that don’t have anything. You should be grateful for what little we do have. Now…sit down, hold your tongue and eat. We’ve to take the glass bottles in my room down to the shops after dinner, I’ve run out of tobacco.”
The camera fades for a second and then comes back up outside the flat, looking at the concrete stoop once again. The boy bounds out of the door, followed by the older man who has a duffel coat wrapped up around his nose and mouth. He clutches a large black plastic trash bag full of bottles that clink together as he slams the door behind him, shuffling out into the dreary eventide. The light is beginning to fade fast.
“Best get a move on then.”
The man lights up another cigarette as they begin to plod down a cobbled backroad towards a gathering of shops at the end of the road. The boy skips along a little, jangling a few spare coins around in his pocket. He comes to a stop and looks up at his father.
“Did Mum leave a message with any of the neighbours today? She’s meant to be at my parents night tomorrow. I know that she was at Auntie Jeannie’s this weekend but I went round yesterday and she wasn’t there anymore. She needs to be there Da’. The teacher said…”
His old man strides on, trying to shrug off something which he has more than likely heard before and clearly has no control of. He hoists the trash bag further up on his shoulders and lets out a mildly irritated scoff.
”Let me tell you boy, if I had any sort of say where your Mother was then she’d be at home gettin’ me a drink ready for getting home and drawing my bath like a good wife is supposed to. Besides, do I look like a mind reader to you? She’ll no doubt turn up… in the gutter or otherwise. Pick your heels up lad. I’ve told you about scuffing those shoes. Whose goin’ to buy you new ones eh? Your ma’?
Silence.
Aye, I didn’t think so.”
As they arrive outside of the store entrance the old man turns around, bathing in the glow of a flickering orange street light. He crouches down and meets the boy’s eye line. He sternly but sincerely wipes away a stray tear from the child’s face and rubs it on his jacket.
“I don’t want you singin’ those songs either, the one I heard from you earlier. Times are depressing enough without that sort of a thing. Where did you hear that one anyway boy?”
He sniffs.
“You were singin’ it when you came home one night. I was meant to be asleep… But it’s so cold in that wee house Da’. I covered my head with my pillow but I still heard. Are you mad?”
The man rolls his eyes slightly and clears his throat as if trying not to choke up.
“Naw, I’m no mad. Now let’s see what we can get for these. You can spend your pennies on a sweetie”
The boy cracks a small smile through his sniffles.
“Aye but only a wee one mind!”
The boy chuckles and digs into his pocket as we hear a voice bellow from across the street. A figure steps out onto the road and approaches the two of them.
”Leave the bottles where they are big man and back to your house with ye now.”
A spindly man dressed in a polo shirt and a pair of designer tracksuit pants steps towards the two of them as he produces a small switch knife from his back pocket. He twitches nervously and as the camera gazes past the knife you can clearly see a few predominant track marks score the way down the inside of his forearms. The boy’s father takes a step in front of his child and pushes him back slightly.
“Listen mate… we’re not looking for any bother. I’m just tryin’ to scrape together some money to feed the wee one. You wouldn’t take bread out of a bairns mouth would you?”
The junkie freezes for a second unsure of what to do. His eyes dart back and forth between them and the bag full of bottles. He takes a small step forward and scratches the back of his head with his other hand, jittering all the while.
“Right I won’t say it again. You’ll be giving me the bag and whatever else the wee sod has on him.”
The boy quickly closes his hand in his pocket, trying not to let his loose change jingle. He tries to look brave but he quivers slightly. Underneath he is utterly terrified. Suddenly without notice the man in the polo shirt yanks the knife forward in a thrusting motion and clutches wildly at the bag. A hubbub ensues as terrified screams and aggressive expletives ring out in the cold night air. In a flash it’s all over.
The camera finally finds focus down at the street level of the cobbled pave stones. As we adjust we can make out the outline of a small wooden top, spinning and dancing in between the cracks of the road. A glinting light a stones throw away… Five scattered silver coins. A drop of blood. A limp outreached hand. A weeping father on his knees, clutching a broken bottle and a shred of hope. Tears flow, silent and first and disbelieving. The patter of escaping feet is met with a blood curdling wail that reaches upwards towards the moon and the stars. The night once again grows cold and silent.
{ Never be afraid to remember… }
What do you choose to remember? What do you choose to suppress? Can we ever fully be in control of the already played out tales in our mind? Is it possible for them to enlighten us as well as destroy others? Can we harness these impulses and how manipulative could they possibly be? We live within the confines of our own sanity. Follow me. Trust in me. Believe… And remember… }
We’re looking out on a bleak morning with the dew still dancing and glistening on the grass like fairy lights and the birds fully revelling in morning song. The sun struggles to wink through passing rainclouds overhead which threaten to burst at any moment. The outskirts of City Centre in Glasgow. An area known as Townhead and not a place for the timid. The 1980’s are well underway and Thatcherism is fully in swing. The damage to the poorer urban neighbourhoods around the UK has become abundantly clear with mass job losses and crushing poverty takes its grip on the blue collared man. Gangs are rife with young men having no work to fill their days and focusing on more disruptive activities to vent their anger and boredom. To flourish in such an environment would take a certain kind of callousness and street smarts. Watching your back and knowing what streets are safe to walk down or not have simply become part and parcel of everyday life.
Afternoon eventually rolls around. Time tends to stand still in this place, our surroundings rapidly resembling more of a ghost town with every passing minute. It seems to suck the very life force out of anything and everything it comes in contact with. We follow along a small black railing which blocks off small patches of grass in front of high rise and smaller tower blocks, most of which look as if they have seen far better days. Empty bottles of fortified wine and cheap cider lay strewn around the grass and paving in front of it. We even notice the occasional discarded needle where desperate addicts haven’t even tried to use discretion about their habits. Eventually we arrive at the front of one of the smaller apartment blocks. It hosts a stoop area outside with concrete steps leading up to the heavily enforced doors which require a buzzer and clearance to enter the premises. A small looking scruffy boy sits on the second step up, scuffing his tattered black dress shoes up and down the concrete. He chews heavily on some sort of chewing candy and hawks the residue from his mouth out in front of him, seeing if he can beat his furthest previous expulsion of saliva. He adorns a knee length pair of grey school shorts and a scraggy wooly sweatshirt that looks like it was probably knitted at home. The boy squints into the sun. A few seconds pass and suddenly the heavens open. Rain lashes down from the sky, instantly soaking the boy.
”Get your arse in here right now son before you catch your death! I won’t be tellin’ you again!!!”
The youngster gathers a small wooden spinning top from beside him and bundles it into his pocket. He buzzes the top most button and there is a beeping sound followed by the click of the lock releasing. The camera follows as we hurtle up the narrow flights of stairs, tailing him. The boy begins singing an old Glasgow traditional tune at the top of his lungs as he ascends boisterously.
“Oh I wish I was in Glasgow
With some good old pals of mine
Some good old rough companions
And some good old smooth red wine
We would talk about the old days
And the old town’s sad decline
And drink to the boys on the road!
Oh I was born in Glasgow
Near the centre of the town
I would take you there and show you
But they’ve burnt the building down
And when I think about it
It always makes me frown
They bulldozed it all to build a road!”
His footsteps echo loudly through the tower block as a couple of the residents poke their heads out of their doors to see what all the commotion is about. As we reach the top floor winding stairway we see a pudgy rather dishevelled looking man bumbling out of the top flat. He is dressed in a string vest with a tattered bandana wrapped round his head. He scours at the youngster and motions towards him with a frantic beckoning motion, his face beetroot with embarrassment and exasperation. He shepherds the boy inside and slams the door behind him. He clips the boy immediately round the head as the door closes over. He lets out a startled yelp and rubs his head slightly, squinting up at the man.
“What have I told you about makin’ such a racket when you’re comin’ up those stairs? Ya wee gobshite. Folk already have it bad enough around here without you screamin’ and ballin’ all over the place.”
The boy continues to wince in pain. He looks up apologetically.
“I’m sorry Da’, I didn’t know I was being so loud.”
He sniffs the air.
“What’s for tea?”
The older man, who appears to be the boy’s father, sighs and makes his way through the darkened corridor towards the back of the flat. It appears that the electricity has been cut off some time ago. There are bundles of newspapers piled up and other scattered pages of these papers which had been used to wrap up fish and chips takeaway dinners. The man lights a pre rolled cigarette and takes a quick drag.
“Corned beef hash and half a tin of Heinz.”
The boy looks as though someone just pissed in his ice cream and his face tells the whole story.
”Corned beef and beans again? For god sa…..”
A sharp and loud banging at the table stops him dead in his tracks. His father glares at him and points to the sky.
”That is the LAST time you blaspheme in this house boy! Do you hear me? It’s the best we can manage at the moment. Think about the kids in the world that don’t have anything. You should be grateful for what little we do have. Now…sit down, hold your tongue and eat. We’ve to take the glass bottles in my room down to the shops after dinner, I’ve run out of tobacco.”
The camera fades for a second and then comes back up outside the flat, looking at the concrete stoop once again. The boy bounds out of the door, followed by the older man who has a duffel coat wrapped up around his nose and mouth. He clutches a large black plastic trash bag full of bottles that clink together as he slams the door behind him, shuffling out into the dreary eventide. The light is beginning to fade fast.
“Best get a move on then.”
The man lights up another cigarette as they begin to plod down a cobbled backroad towards a gathering of shops at the end of the road. The boy skips along a little, jangling a few spare coins around in his pocket. He comes to a stop and looks up at his father.
“Did Mum leave a message with any of the neighbours today? She’s meant to be at my parents night tomorrow. I know that she was at Auntie Jeannie’s this weekend but I went round yesterday and she wasn’t there anymore. She needs to be there Da’. The teacher said…”
His old man strides on, trying to shrug off something which he has more than likely heard before and clearly has no control of. He hoists the trash bag further up on his shoulders and lets out a mildly irritated scoff.
”Let me tell you boy, if I had any sort of say where your Mother was then she’d be at home gettin’ me a drink ready for getting home and drawing my bath like a good wife is supposed to. Besides, do I look like a mind reader to you? She’ll no doubt turn up… in the gutter or otherwise. Pick your heels up lad. I’ve told you about scuffing those shoes. Whose goin’ to buy you new ones eh? Your ma’?
Silence.
Aye, I didn’t think so.”
As they arrive outside of the store entrance the old man turns around, bathing in the glow of a flickering orange street light. He crouches down and meets the boy’s eye line. He sternly but sincerely wipes away a stray tear from the child’s face and rubs it on his jacket.
“I don’t want you singin’ those songs either, the one I heard from you earlier. Times are depressing enough without that sort of a thing. Where did you hear that one anyway boy?”
He sniffs.
“You were singin’ it when you came home one night. I was meant to be asleep… But it’s so cold in that wee house Da’. I covered my head with my pillow but I still heard. Are you mad?”
The man rolls his eyes slightly and clears his throat as if trying not to choke up.
“Naw, I’m no mad. Now let’s see what we can get for these. You can spend your pennies on a sweetie”
The boy cracks a small smile through his sniffles.
“Aye but only a wee one mind!”
The boy chuckles and digs into his pocket as we hear a voice bellow from across the street. A figure steps out onto the road and approaches the two of them.
”Leave the bottles where they are big man and back to your house with ye now.”
A spindly man dressed in a polo shirt and a pair of designer tracksuit pants steps towards the two of them as he produces a small switch knife from his back pocket. He twitches nervously and as the camera gazes past the knife you can clearly see a few predominant track marks score the way down the inside of his forearms. The boy’s father takes a step in front of his child and pushes him back slightly.
“Listen mate… we’re not looking for any bother. I’m just tryin’ to scrape together some money to feed the wee one. You wouldn’t take bread out of a bairns mouth would you?”
The junkie freezes for a second unsure of what to do. His eyes dart back and forth between them and the bag full of bottles. He takes a small step forward and scratches the back of his head with his other hand, jittering all the while.
“Right I won’t say it again. You’ll be giving me the bag and whatever else the wee sod has on him.”
The boy quickly closes his hand in his pocket, trying not to let his loose change jingle. He tries to look brave but he quivers slightly. Underneath he is utterly terrified. Suddenly without notice the man in the polo shirt yanks the knife forward in a thrusting motion and clutches wildly at the bag. A hubbub ensues as terrified screams and aggressive expletives ring out in the cold night air. In a flash it’s all over.
The camera finally finds focus down at the street level of the cobbled pave stones. As we adjust we can make out the outline of a small wooden top, spinning and dancing in between the cracks of the road. A glinting light a stones throw away… Five scattered silver coins. A drop of blood. A limp outreached hand. A weeping father on his knees, clutching a broken bottle and a shred of hope. Tears flow, silent and first and disbelieving. The patter of escaping feet is met with a blood curdling wail that reaches upwards towards the moon and the stars. The night once again grows cold and silent.
{ Never be afraid to remember… }
