[Z]

Episode 1: Origins

Maybe it’s time for a miracle. Jake McAteer had fallen into a routine. Every morning, he got up at 7am, he had a cold shower to wake himself up, he dried himself from head to toe, making sure he was completely dry before putting on underwear, trousers, his left sock, his right sock, sprayed deodorant, put on a shirt, tucked his shirt into his trousers, making sure all of the buttons were done up on his shirt, tied his tie with a Windsor knot, before leaving the bathroom. He would then proceed through to the kitchen, where he would have two slices of toast, so toasted the bread was almost burnt, with butter and a light layer of strawberry jam. He brushed his teeth mechanically, and eventually left the house at 8am to catch the bus to work. Every single morning. It hadn’t always been this way. Jake had once been young, with aspirations for the future and dreams of visiting faraway places, but reality had put an end to those hopes. He had been forced to grow up faster than all of his friends, and as a result, lost all of them. He was, then, too mature for immaturity, yet too immature for maturity. His mother had died during childbirth, so Jake had been brought up by his father. He had had a lonely childhood. His father worked a long day, and had never been there for Jake when he had needed him. Jake didn’t complain, it gave him personal space, and he knew that most fathers were distant; except other kids had a mother to rely on. Jake was now twenty five years old; working at a dull office, in a dull town, leading a dull life. That was until Jake’s father fell ill.

He had always been prone to bouts of illness, but last year had been particularly bad, so bad that Jake finally paid attention to his father and took him to the hospital. They discovered that he had leukaemia, and had been doing their best to keep him alive ever since. Jake’s father was still relatively young, at the age of fifty six, it was deeply shocking to those who knew the family; yet not one person who knew the father and son came forward with open arms to help them. Jake never once expected them to, nor did his father. They were not the most approachable of families. Mr McAteer, Jake’s father, kept a quiet dignity throughout his life, and was not about to change his sentinel, aloof ways. Jake had been forced into a routine, therefore, by necessity. Every day he came home from work, checked on his ailing father, made their dinner, and then spent two, listless hours at the gym, just running on the treadmill, not thinking about anything or doing anything. And so, this was the way he lived his life for many, many months. Jake murdered his father on a sunny Thursday afternoon. He had booked the day off work three weeks in advance. He woke up unusually late, at 10.07am, and had gone straight through to the kitchen. He had four slices of toast, a standard shade of black, but with butter only, and wore only a pair of boxer briefs as he ate his breakfast. He gulped down a glass of orange juice, and then treaded through to his father’s room. His father lay in his bed, sleeping. Jake watched him for a moment, taking in his ageing, dying father’s appearance for one last time, and then made his way to the side of the bed. Jake picked up one of the many pillows which lay unused on his father’s bed, and placed it over his father’s face, and then held it down and began to suffocate his father. Mr McAteer barely struggled, and soon died. Jake, with a complete lack of emotion, lifted the pillow up, placed it back where he had taken it from, left the room and went back to bed.

He woke again at 3.23pm, unwillingly, for he had been having a pleasant dream, and began to reminisce about his teenage years. He had left school as soon as he had attained qualifications and gotten a job to help pay the mortgage on the house; and had been stuck in the same job ever since. Eight long years of working at the same place. Most people were in their thirties by the time they’d had a job for eight years; but Jake was only twenty five. He did not complain about the perceived unfairness of his situation, but merely accepted what had happened as one would accept the names of colours or the logic of arithmetic. How can something be anything other than what it is? Jake did not believe in fate as such; he did not see believing as an option. Fate was fate. Every decision a person made, every hand that life dealt to a person: that was fate. Jake showered as usual, going through his routine of methodically putting on each item of clothing, and fixed himself some breakfast, despite the unusual hour. He ate his two slices of toast, with butter and strawberry jam, but felt unusually full as he ate them. He got on the bus to work, and arrived at the office, to the confusion of his boss, who told him that today was his day off, and to go home and enjoy the rest of the day. Jake was perplexed, but did as he was told and went back to his house. He sat outside on the bench at the front of the house, and watched as the occasional old lady slowly walked past the house, and then as the day drew to a close, businessmen drove home in fancy cars. It reached 7pm, and Jake finally went inside the house. He changed out of his work clothes into gym clothes. He went into the kitchen, made dinner for his father, but chose not to eat anything himself, and then left the house to go to the gym. Jake continued to live this lie for another three weeks, before the postman called the police. The postman had become wary of the house, as a bad smell emanated from it, and he became convinced that somebody had died in the house. The police broke down the door, found Mr McAteer’s lifeless body, and had arrested Jake on suspicion of murder. They soon established that Jake McAteer was truly unaware and unrepentant about what had happened to his father; as did Jake’s legal adviser, and all parties involved agreed that committing Jake to a psychiatric ward would be for the best.

Jake had been living at Desswood Psychiatric Ward for two years, when he met Ivy. She was physically attractive; with haunting brown eyes and dirty blonde hair, and Jake enjoyed looking at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice. She had been there, at Desswood, for as long as Jake had been there, but it was by chance that they finally spoke. Hank, a sixty something year old veteran of the ward, had gotten into a fight with Jimmy, a thirty seven year old widower, over whose turn it was in their game of chess, and the fight had turned nasty; Hank had spent the afternoon sharpening one of his nails and had embedded it in Jimmy’s cheek; and it had taken four nurses to break the fight up. Ivy had been sitting at the same table as the scrapping men, and had fallen out of her chair when the fight broke out. Jake had helped her up, and the two had sparked up a conversation from there.

“Been here for?” Jake ignored the fight.
“Thirty one months and eight days.” Ivy responded automatically.
“Name’s Jake.” Jake spoke without enthusiasm. Enthusiasm was for people with positivity in their lives.
“Ivy.” She responded with, if possible, even less enthusiasm.
“Wonder how long he’ll be in confinement.” Jake stated. It wasn’t a question, he already knew the answer, and Ivy did not humour him with one. “Here for?”
“Husband and kids died in a car crash, been here with clinical depression ever since.” Ivy chose not to give too much about herself away; she had a deep mistrust of strangers. Of all people.
“They say I killed my father.” Jake looked away from Ivy. They had not made eye contact; instead he had been staring intently at her eyebrows. It gave the impression of strong eye contact, without having to make eye contact.
“Did you?” Ivy asked with no real interest.
“I don’t know. They say I’m crazy. I don’t know if that’s true either. I think I’m fine.” Jake shrugged.
“How do you know you’re not crazy? If they say you are, you must be.”
“But what if I’m not? If I’m not crazy, how do I make people believe I’m not?” Jake’s brow furrowed with frustration.
“You’re asking me?” Ivy blanched.
“Yeah.” Jake nodded.
“Hell if I know, I’m just as crazy as you are.” Ivy laughed humourlessly, and walked away from him.
Jake smiled. He’d made a friend today.

I felt like writing something serious, not really sure if anyone on here will even humour me by reading it, but if you do, then please tell me what you think of it and if you'd like me to continue writing... I tend to need encouragement before I'll continue to do something .

[MrGaryy]

Urgh at first I was like; cliche much? But then towards the end it really picked up my attention. Icy seems interested but is a character that really needs a lot of work put into her backstory.

I like it.

[Shaun]

Originally Posted by Zee

Episode 1: Origins

Maybe it’s time for a miracle. Jake McAteer had fallen into a routine. Every morning, he got up at 7am, he had a cold shower to wake himself up, he dried himself from head to toe, making sure he was completely dry before putting on underwear, trousers, his left sock, his right sock, sprayed deodorant, put on a shirt, tucked his shirt into his trousers, making sure all of the buttons were done up on his shirt, tied his tie with a Windsor knot, before leaving the bathroom. He would then proceed through to the kitchen, where he would have two slices of toast, so toasted the bread was almost burnt, with butter and a light layer of strawberry jam. He brushed his teeth mechanically, and eventually left the house at 8am to catch the bus to work. Every single morning. It hadn’t always been this way. Jake had once been young, with aspirations for the future and dreams of visiting faraway places, but reality had put an end to those hopes. He had been forced to grow up faster than all of his friends, and as a result, lost all of them. He was, then, too mature for immaturity, yet too immature for maturity. His mother had died during childbirth, so Jake had been brought up by his father. He had had a lonely childhood. His father worked a long day, and had never been there for Jake when he had needed him. Jake didn’t complain, it gave him personal space, and he knew that most fathers were distant; except other kids had a mother to rely on. Jake was now twenty five years old; working at a dull office, in a dull town, leading a dull life. That was until Jake’s father fell ill.

He had always been prone to bouts of illness, but last year had been particularly bad, so bad that Jake finally paid attention to his father and took him to the hospital. They discovered that he had leukaemia, and had been doing their best to keep him alive ever since. Jake’s father was still relatively young, at the age of fifty six, it was deeply shocking to those who knew the family; yet not one person who knew the father and son came forward with open arms to help them. Jake never once expected them to, nor did his father. They were not the most approachable of families. Mr McAteer, Jake’s father, kept a quiet dignity throughout his life, and was not about to change his sentinel, aloof ways. Jake had been forced into a routine, therefore, by necessity. Every day he came home from work, checked on his ailing father, made their dinner, and then spent two, listless hours at the gym, just running on the treadmill, not thinking about anything or doing anything. And so, this was the way he lived his life for many, many months. Jake murdered his father on a sunny Thursday afternoon.

He had booked the day off work three weeks in advance. He woke up unusually late, at 10.07am, and had gone straight through to the kitchen. He had four slices of toast, a standard shade of black, but with butter only, and wore only a pair of boxer briefs as he ate his breakfast. He gulped down a glass of orange juice, and then treaded through to his father’s room. His father lay in his bed, sleeping. Jake watched him for a moment, taking in his ageing, dying father’s appearance for one last time, and then made his way to the side of the bed. Jake picked up one of the many pillows which lay unused on his father’s bed, and placed it over his father’s face, and then held it down and began to suffocate his father. Mr McAteer barely struggled, and soon died. Jake, with a complete lack of emotion, lifted the pillow up, placed it back where he had taken it from, left the room and went back to bed.

He woke again at 3.23pm, unwillingly, for he had been having a pleasant dream, and began to reminisce about his teenage years. He had left school as soon as he had attained qualifications and gotten a job to help pay the mortgage on the house; and had been stuck in the same job ever since. Eight long years of working at the same place. Most people were in their thirties by the time they’d had a job for eight years; but Jake was only twenty five. He did not complain about the perceived unfairness of his situation, but merely accepted what had happened as one would accept the names of colours or the logic of arithmetic. How can something be anything other than what it is? Jake did not believe in fate as such; he did not see believing as an option. Fate was fate. Every decision a person made, every hand that life dealt to a person: that was fate. Jake showered as usual, going through his routine of methodically putting on each item of clothing, and fixed himself some breakfast, despite the unusual hour. He ate his two slices of toast, with butter and strawberry jam, but felt unusually full as he ate them.

He got on the bus to work, and arrived at the office, to the confusion of his boss, who told him that today was his day off, and to go home and enjoy the rest of the day. Jake was perplexed, but did as he was told and went back to his house. He sat outside on the bench at the front of the house, and watched as the occasional old lady slowly walked past the house, and then as the day drew to a close, businessmen drove home in fancy cars. It reached 7pm, and Jake finally went inside the house. He changed out of his work clothes into gym clothes. He went into the kitchen, made dinner for his father, but chose not to eat anything himself, and then left the house to go to the gym. Jake continued to live this lie for another three weeks, before the postman called the police. The postman had become wary of the house, as a bad smell emanated from it, and he became convinced that somebody had died in the house. The police broke down the door, found Mr McAteer’s lifeless body, and had arrested Jake on suspicion of murder. They soon established that Jake McAteer was truly unaware and unrepentant about what had happened to his father; as did Jake’s legal adviser, and all parties involved agreed that committing Jake to a psychiatric ward would be for the best.

Jake had been living at Desswood Psychiatric Ward for two years, when he met Ivy. She was physically attractive; with haunting brown eyes and dirty blonde hair, and Jake enjoyed looking at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice. She had been there, at Desswood, for as long as Jake had been there, but it was by chance that they finally spoke. Hank, a sixty something year old veteran of the ward, had gotten into a fight with Jimmy, a thirty seven year old widower, over whose turn it was in their game of chess, and the fight had turned nasty; Hank had spent the afternoon sharpening one of his nails and had embedded it in Jimmy’s cheek; and it had taken four nurses to break the fight up. Ivy had been sitting at the same table as the scrapping men, and had fallen out of her chair when the fight broke out. Jake had helped her up, and the two had sparked up a conversation from there.

“Been here for?” Jake ignored the fight.
“Thirty one months and eight days.” Ivy responded automatically.
“Name’s Jake.” Jake spoke without enthusiasm. Enthusiasm was for people with positivity in their lives.
“Ivy.” She responded with, if possible, even less enthusiasm.
“Wonder how long he’ll be in confinement.” Jake stated. It wasn’t a question, he already knew the answer, and Ivy did not humour him with one. “Here for?”
“Husband and kids died in a car crash, been here with clinical depression ever since.” Ivy chose not to give too much about herself away; she had a deep mistrust of strangers. Of all people.
“They say I killed my father.” Jake looked away from Ivy. They had not made eye contact; instead he had been staring intently at her eyebrows. It gave the impression of strong eye contact, without having to make eye contact.
“Did you?” Ivy asked with no real interest.
“I don’t know. They say I’m crazy. I don’t know if that’s true either. I think I’m fine.” Jake shrugged.
“How do you know you’re not crazy? If they say you are, you must be.”
“But what if I’m not? If I’m not crazy, how do I make people believe I’m not?” Jake’s brow furrowed with frustration.
“You’re asking me?” Ivy blanched.
“Yeah.” Jake nodded.
“Hell if I know, I’m just as crazy as you are.” Ivy laughed humourlessly, and walked away from him.
Jake smiled. He’d made a friend today.

I felt like writing something serious, not really sure if anyone on here will even humour me by reading it, but if you do, then please tell me what you think of it and if you'd like me to continue writing... I tend to need encouragement before I'll continue to do something .

[img]http://uberoops.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/****-bush.jpg[/img]

[Tom4784]

Rofl Shaun.

I really liked it, I hope you carry on with it Greg.

[Lewis.]

That was really good Zee! And I agree with Gary, it did seem a bit Cliché in the first couple of paragraphs with the ill father etc. but I liked the idea of Jake actually being mental and not knowing that he killed his father. It made it interesting from the first part! Well done.. I am looking forward to the next few parts

[LemonJam]

I like it, keep it going.

[MissKittyFantastico]

I like it, to start with I thought the same as Gary and thought hmmm a bit of a cliche but like the twist of him having killed his father (unknowingly) and being in a psychiatric ward.

Look forward to finding out more about Ivy, you should write more definitely

[Z]

Thanks for the kind comments everyone , just a bit of late night random rambling, I do like the story though so I'll definitely work on it and post more when I have time! LOL Shaun btw. sad/