Paper Boy

[2] NOT A Psycho Stalker

[2] NOT A Psycho Stalker

Writing's all fun and happiness until you somehow bring one of your own characters to life.

Sitting across from each other, we both remain silent. While I'm still in shock over the fact that someone I created from my own imagination is literally right in front of me, flesh and bones and breathing and real, he is busy reading.

I had always preferred to write my stories down pen to paper, in one of those colorful leather-bound journals from the store down the road, rather than on my laptop. Sure, my hand tended to cramp up after a while of writing, but there was nothing like watching the characters come to life, take shape with a personality and likes and dislikes and appearance with your own handwriting, be it the kind of neat, longhand that Apple does or the messy chicken-scratch writing I'd never gotten better at.

I'd just never quite imagined that when I brought Jensen - he may or may not have been named after my favorite Supernatural actor - Parrish to life, I was actually bringing him to life. It was all still a total shock.

Jensen seems relatively calm considering he is reading a story of his life. By the time he exhales deeply and closes the book, my fingernails are bitten to the quick with worry at how he is going to react.

Will he explode at me? Scream that he was under no circumstances a fictional character? Burst into tears? Maybe he will -

"Well, this explains it."He waves about the journal.

My jaw just about drops and I almost literally fall off the other end of the bed."I'm sorry - what?"

Jensen nods calmly."Yeah. You're a stalker. You're obsessed with me, drugged me and kidnapped me then brought me back to your place."

"I repeat - what?! I am not some psycho stalker - "

"Whatever floats your boat."

"I'm not!"If I hadn't just bitten all of my nails, I'd be bleeding from how hard I was clenching my fists.

His eyes narrow icily as he shuffles on the bed, once again waving the journal around."How about a deal: I burn this book, go home, you forget about and stop stalking me, or close-range-Jensen-watching, or whatever you wanna call it, and I don't press charges."

Taking my shocked silence as an answer, he flips open the first few pages, grabs them, and prepares to tear.

I have a horrifying vision of the paper shredding and my whole story being ripped apart by one of the characters and before I know what I am doing, I rugby-tackle him the way my older brothers taught me and send the both of us toppling off the bed.

A violent string on curses leave his lips as we kick and scratch and yell and I'm pretty sure he bit my arm, but to be fair I think I kneed him where the sun don't shine.

Everything is kind of dizzy and blurry when I come into focus, breathing heavily and I realise what an uncomfortable position I'm in. For him at least. For me, it's pretty great.

I'm straddling his chest and my hands are placed firmly around his neck, squeezing. He's cursing you crazy bitch and trying to hit me with the journal that he managed to hold onto and I'm yelling put the fucking journal down and he's yelling get the fuck off me you psycho.

Too busy shielding my face from his wild attacks, I don't see the other arm slide under my bed, where I keep my stuff for art projects. It is only when I hear the clear snip, somehow louder than both of our screaming, that I freeze. Jensen had grabbed a pair of yellow safety scissors from under the bed and snipped a chunk of the back of my hair off.

It's almost in slow-motion that I watch the blonde strands drift to the carpet and then, making Jensen literally whimper, my left eye twitches. In fact, it's more of a sudden, violent spasm of the eyelid than a twitch.

Growing up with six brothers had ensured that I never had much stuff to myself. If it was girly, my brothers destroyed it or burnt it or drowned it or smashed it and if it was a boy's toy, they took it and kept it, then proceeded to destroy it anyway.

My hair had always been off-limits to them, though. After Thatcher cut most of my hair when I was seven and left me with a terrible pixie-cut, mum had threatened them that if they dared go near my blonde curls she would personally cut them open and pour bleach in their insides.

My hair had become a sacred thing to me. It was the only thing that I could have and not worry about the boys ruining. And now, Jensen had cut it.

With an animalistic scream on my end and one of terror on Jensen's, we are once again a mix of awkward limbs and snarls and I have tears in my eyes because the fucking bastard cut my hair and that's how Apple finds us.

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how we ended up with our legs entwined, my arm awkwardly bent under his back and my face pressed into his chest as he gags on my hair, nor am I sure of how Apple actually gets into the house considering I remembered locking the door the night before.

"Well then,"Her wicked voice makes us freeze, tangled on the floor."What's this, El?"

I look up - a near impossible task, mind you - and meet the gaze of my closest friend. A smile that reminds me of the Cheshire Cat is spread across her lips and she places her hands on her hips in a haughty way.

"Mind explaining what's going on here?"

•••••••

i'm so, so, so sorry for the lack of updating Paper Boy but i've been busy with school and for a while i lost motivation for this story but i hope that now i can continue with the story of elliot and jensen

ily all for the follows and votes seriously you guys are amazing