Alright, here we go I guess.
My name is Tristan Oliver Vance Evans, my favorite color is orange, and I will be writing in here for a while (yippe). I'm not too sure why I have to do this. I'm fine. But according to my psychiatrist this will somehow help me learn to communicate better. Frankly I don't see the need to "communicate". I'm fine with being closed off from everybody else. And, to be blunt, I have no fucking idea how this is going to help me.
Dr. Sherwood says that my mind works in its own ways, which is just a polite way for people to call me stupid. And I am NOT stupid.
But like I said... I'm fine. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know what I want.
I know what I want in life, and I don't need anyone to help me achieve that. Well, I don't really have anyone, but that's totally cool by me. I guess this is the cheesy part where I tell you what I actually want to do with my life? You would like that, wouldn't you Dr. Sherwood?
Bottom line, I want to graduate and go to film school, work on movies and stuff. And I want to work somewhere far away from where I am now. Somewhere like America, or Australia or something. You get the point. So yeah. My plan is basically to graduate and get the hell out.
As you might have figured, with my wanting to leave and need for a psychiatrist, my life isn't very ideal. My stepdad is a drunk and has a slight issue with dealing with anger (if you could see me, you'd know what I mean). And I have a "pacifist" for a mother. She claims she hates violence, but whenever my step-dick comes back from a night out, she disappears and leaves me to deal with him. Thanks, Mom. Real pacifist, you are.
Okay. This is all bullshit. I'm not writing in this piece of crap notebook anymore. It doesn't matter. You know what does matter though? Film school. I'm off track, sorry.
But for real, this whole concept is absolute bullshit.
None of this is important. This journal thing isn't important. My life now isn't even important.
The only thing that is important right now is that my name is Tristan Oliver Vance Evans, and my favorite color is orange.
I closed the ugly purple notebook Dr. Sherwood had given to me today when I went to see him, picked it up, and tossed it into the small trash can sat next to my desk. I still didn't know why he wanted me to write. If he was trying to get me to talk more, you'd think he'd make me talk instead of write. I took the notebook none the less. I learned at a young age not to go against adults, but who gives a fuck cares about what you learn when you're young?
My childhood was like math class to me. I had to go through it just like everyone else, but I knew it wouldn't ever have a use in my future. Depressing, right?
I opened my door and almost instantly, my stepfather barged in, trusty bottle in hand.
"What the hell were you doing, boy? I've been calling for you for a while now!"
I didn't say anything in return, but I was think up many responses that I could say to piss him off. He scowled at my silence, growing angrier by the second.
Good.
That earned me a slap across the face. I could feel the handprint burning into my pale, thin cheek. I raised my hand up to lightly touch my cheek.
"You're worthless. You can't do anything for yourself. You make your poor mother pay for special help and you don't even do what your damn doctor tells you to. You can't do nothing right." He hit me again, only this time in the gut- and harder.
I squeezed my eyes shut, taking his blows. I kept telling myself that I would fight back one day, but that day still has yet to come.
My stepfather grabbed the collar of my shirt, pulling me up so I was face to face with him. If I had a mint, I would offer him it. Alcohol is not an attractive smell for breath.
"You're broken, Tristan," he sneered in my face. My bruised eyes widened. That was a new one. I had never heard that insult from him, and somehow, it hurt the most. He tossed my small body back against the wall and stumbled down the hall, laughing quietly to himself, clearly getting the reaction he'd wanted from me. I sat slumped against the wall, thinking about what he had said.
I was broken, wasn't I? I had issues with myself, with others, with food... I couldn't do anything right. I probably spelled half of the words wrong in the pointless journal entry I had finished. I was never going to make it to film school. Hell, I was never going to graduate. Can't get to step two without completing step one.
That was the first moment in a long time that I let myself cry. I pulled my knees into my chest and just let tears fall. I promised myself that I wouldn't let him get to me. I told myself so many times that I would be stronger than him. He was doing the thing I feared he would do the most. He was starting to figure my mind out. He was starting to notice what messed with me. I feared that he knew what to do now. I feared he was starting to catch on to my weaknesses.
I feared that he knew how to make me think.
Because once I start thinking, I don't stop.
*
Hi.
So this is my first story. It's crappy, I know. I'm still trying to iron everything out. But I got the idea randomly and thought, "what the hell?" So voilà. A fanfiction. Also I love tradley so why not?
I hope you like it.
*Also, this book will contain some topics that might make some people uncomfortable. For example: swearing, violence, drugs & alcohol and maybe mature content if I can get it to not suck. (pun intended)
