Picturesque, Hm... Old story. Options

[sporadic]

Tap-tap-tap-tappity-tap-a-tap-tap-tap-tappity
5 months. 4 hours per day. Weekends and holidays off.
Tap-tap-tappity-tap-tap
I consider myself a fairly tolerant person.
Tappity-tap-tap-tap-tap-a-tap-a-tap
But, for God's sake... Who can honestly take that?
Tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tap-a-tappity-tap
...For approximately 320 hours?
Tap-tappity-tap-a-tap-ta---
...snapped.
"WILL YOU STOP THAT INCESSANT TAPPING ?" Forcibly stopping his fingers with my hand. He drives me to this.
"Whoa, geez What's wrong with you? ...Don’t touch me."
I suddenly realize my hand is trying to push his through the recycled plastic desktop. I ease up on the force.
"Day after day after day after day... All I hear... tap-tap-tap-tap... It's driving me insane. It would drive anyone insane."
"God, it's a nervous habit. Sor-ry if it bothers you."
"...just don't... do it... again..."
“Bitch.” Whispered. Loudly enough to hear.
Deep breaths, deep breaths. It's okay. It's just some tapping. It's not his fault. Not his fault. Pep talk. That's depressing.
The tapping has ceased, if only for a couple of hours. That’s okay. I could use the next 24 hours to recuperate. Oh, silence... how blissful. Only the shuffling of papers and scratching of .07mm lead on college-ruled paper. I had never heard such beauty in a classroom. Simplicity.
The silence.
Am now painfully aware of what a mouth-breather he is. I can hear the air passing his tartar-stained teeth, down his esophagus, into the nicotine-coated, tar-patched rotting organs that once passed for lungs. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Saliva is clinging to the carbon dioxide escaping through his thin-lipped mouth.
Slowly, I look to my right. He’s sleeping. What a disgusting thing, even when sleeping. Isn’t that when people are supposed to look at least slightly angelic? No wonder he sounded like such a mouth-breather... His mouth was hanging open, pressed against the hard plastic... The beginnings of what looks like a decent-sized drool pile gathered at the side of his mouth. Simply grotesque... The gaps in his teeth look monstrous and childish. His greasy bleach-blonde hair hangs over his eyes. His acne is frighteningly prominent.
How... disgusting.
His eyes fly open. Yellowed eyes with a dull brown-yellow color that makes a mockery of the golden shades found in a lion’s mane or the sidewalk when covered in leaves, shucked from Maples and Elms in Autumn.
“...why are you staring at me?”
A valid question.
“What, do you think I’m hot or something?”
...Not quite.
“God, why do all of the ugly chicks like me?” said loudly and with a lot of emphasis on ugly.
That’s embarrassing. I’m struck dumb. That kind of dumb that only happens when an idiot is insulting you. When the witty-repartee of your brain ceases to function. You know, the best time for your brain to abandon you to the disappointing realities that is a junior high schooler’s vocabulary.

---

Hate. I don’t recall ever hating some one before. It’s a new emotion for me. It’s not an emotion I throw around. Something clicked today. I hated someone today. Every fiber of that someone’s being. The tapping. Was it the tapping? No. It couldn’t have been. No one could absolutely hate some one for tapping their fingers. No matter how interminably persistent the tapping is.
I don’t know what happened, but something’s different.
I can’t stop thinking about him. Those greasy locks, squinty, piss-colored eyes... The gaps in his teeth, the saliva dripping out the side of his small mouth, the dried lips and acne-infested forehead... Those basketball shorts hanging past his knees, his patriotically “funny” boxers, those Nike shoes, perfectly burnished.
I positively despise this boy.
This boy who I hardly know, yet have to spend almost all of my school days with.
This idiot who has terribly smelly breath and I, 5 months ago, would not have deemed worthy of conversation.
Hell, even now I don’t deem him worthy of conversation.
What a positively detestable person.
After returning home, I go through the normal routine. Homework, dinner, reading, writing, sleeping. Not generally in that order, but all the same... Throughout my evening. Ever since the end of homeroom. Ever since clapping his hand to the desk in hopes of making the tapping stop. I can’t stop thinking about him. How can one so utterly repulsive dominate my thoughts like this?
Pulling the heavy comforter over my head, I try to stop thinking.
One hour passes. 1:00 AM
Two hours. 2:00 AM
Blinking at me.
2:35
2:35
2:35
2:35
2:36
2:36
...
Desperately, I try to erase all thought.
3... 2... 1...
Silence. Think silence. Think nothing.
Think colors. Think nothing.
Black black black black black
Black isn’t a color.
Black is a shade.
I learned that in 7th grade... I remember that was on some trivia thing I was playing with my neighbor. On her porch. A long, long time ago... we’re not even on speaking terms now.
God, he has such a loathsome face.
NO NO THINKING OF HIM. WILL STOP.
...
No... more... thinking...

---

Whiteness. Everywhere. A desk, an ebony desk. Stream-lined and matter of fact. I walk closer to it and lightly run my hand across it, a hand I don’t recognize. Pale skin, perfect complexion... long, elegant fingers. Blood-red nails. The desk is hard and cold. Marble. Everything’s perfect. Even me, I suppose. On impulse, I begin looking through the drawers. Open the top drawer, empty. Second drawer, empty. Bottom drawer... An effulgent silver dagger. Intricate designs are sketched into its black wooden handle. Time is lost as I examine it. Elegant roses, imprinted by a meticulous hand, wind together. The thorns look menacing, for a threat so small. Suddenly--
Tap-tap-tappity-tappity-a-tap-tap
No.
Tap-a-tappity-a-tappity-tap-tappity
...I turn my head, afraid of what I’ll see.
And there he is. But he’s not a he anymore. He looks to me more like an it. His hand drums on the alabaster perfection of my dream-wall. A travesty, inexcusable, no matter how ominous the room may be. He’s twenty times more revolting in a dream. His hair is dripping with grease, dark and yellowed. His face has mountains of acne on it. Each zit clear and defined, each acne cliff worthy of a cringe or twitch from an innocent bystander. He’s slobbering, even with his cracked and bloody lips clamped tight. Whatever is clogging up his nose creates an execrable noise as the oxygen enters, and carbon dioxide exits. He’s sharing my air. He’s sharing my dream.
Waves of hatred, hatred I didn’t even realize I had built up inside me, rack my body. Though inside I am seizuring with abhorrence, I know my body is frozen. Frozen with the thought that even in my dreams, no liberation can be found from this... abomination.
And, hell, I’m dreaming. I seize the opportunity.
I walk to him. Powerfully, gliding, almost, in my sophisticated dress.
My dagger, my beautiful dagger... I am about to fulfill a dear fantasy. No more tap-tap-tapping will be heard from this thing any longer. Off with the fingers.
Don’t want it to be too painful, I cut quickly and efficiently. The knife cuts in like it would to a soft wax. There is a slight crunch with the addition of some gentle pressure in attempt to break through the bone. He screams, and I don’t mind, nor do I relish it. It’s ugly, but more bearable than looking at him.
Then the slapping begins. Slapping. It’s so crude, but I’m not much for punching, and what better way to get out frustrations? Slapping, slapping, endless slapping, his battered skin is a raw red and I’m not letting up. I wonder, if I hit hard enough, will the mountain peaks of acne recede? Slapping, slapping, even I’m wondering when this will end...
Finally, frustrations out, I smile. We’re almost done here.
I don’t take a lot of pleasure in mutilation.
One quick slash. It’s done now.
A wide gash appears. His neck falls back in forfeit. Blood pours out of his throat. Endless blood. Dark red, pouring out in torrents. Ridiculous amounts...
The once pure white room is covered in red, walls are splattered, the floor is slowly filling...
My dress is splattered. The whole scene is beautiful, in its way, picturesque... Of course, this is a dream... If only it weren’t for that hideous thing bleeding on the floor...

[sakaitone]

I am rendered speechless, well writeless. Screw that, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. I loved everything but the end. The end just.....I can't explain....it was very sardonic as in ironically humorous but I didn't find that very funny, I found the ending....scary? I hope you aren't writing what you know but overall I like the style that you used to write this. It also reminded me of Poe's TattleTale Heart (is that what it's called?).

[sporadic]

Wow. Thanks, really =] I'm glad you liked it.

Y'know, when I wrote this it wasn't based on anything real.
But a couple days ago, when I was sitting in Biology, I was thinking of this as I listened to the guy behind me breathe @_@

(Tell-Tale Heart)