Second Person Perspective - Tumblr Posts

Desserts

Hey, guys. This here is a quick story I came up with on the fly for a story exchange between a user named Casualpatrolperfection and myself. I refined the content a little from the initial draft that I wrote in our chat room and am now ready to transfer it on to here for others to read. I hope you all enjoy it!

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. One minute, you were cringing back from some douchebag bullies. The next, Devon Capernick, Cap for short, was sitting next to you at the principal's office, while the bullies were being treated at the nurse's office. The Senior towered over you as he smiled reassuringly. The chair creaked under his weight, and you could practically hear the thick wooden arms splintering against his broad frame. 

"It's all good," he assured you. "Everything'll be fine." His face darkened. "And if they come after you again...." You could practically hear the splinters crying in pain as he clenched the edges. "I hate bullies."

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. You're sitting at the jocks' table, surrounded by behemoths of muscle chowing and joking with each other, even wrestling from time to time. Nothing serious enough to get in trouble with the aides, but enough for them to get their messages across. You note how they all keep smirking or grinning, despite the pain or humiliation that might be involved.

 Devon is smiling down at you as he watches his friends and cheers them on. He takes the time to introduce you to everyone on the team, tells them you'll be hanging with them for lunch from now on. You half expected them to want to pummel you. Instead, they grin and welcome you with hearty smacks to the back that almost burst your chest.

 You want to object to the treatment, say you're not worth it. Devon won't hear of it. He won't even let you address him formally.

 "It's Cap, bro." He huffed a deep guffaw of a chuckle. "Just think like you're calling me your captain, all right?"

 It wasn't like you could argue with him, so you did.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Your gym teacher stared across at you from his desk. Cap is grinning as he lays a heavy hand on your shoulder from his place next to you.

 "You're sure about this, Devon?"

 "You bet, Coach. Lil'bro's got spark, and he's super smart."

 "I'll have to set it up with the rest of the school, but I don't see why he can't tutor you boys, if you need it." He smiled. "And maybe you can teach him a thing or two, while you're at it."

 "That's the plan." He laughed again.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Hard music thumped over the speakers of the weight room. While the rest of the football team worked on their exercises, you worked with each of them on the bits of homework they didn't understand on shifts.

 Breakthroughs were heralded with, "Oh, now I get it," or, "Dude, that's so fuckin' simple. Why didn't I see that?"

 Their enthusiastic thanks and effusive praises left you feeling warm and happy. Sure, they had a few problems with school work, but they weren't the jerks the stereotype made them out to be. They were almost like a family. It was ... nice, to be able to see that, and experience maybe just a little part of it.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Sweat beaded your brow, and your lungs felt like they were ready to explode. Everything felt so heavy and swollen. Your arms trembled as you struggled to hold them in place. Cap beamed encouragingly at you from above.

 "C'mon, lil'bro. You can do it." His strong hands grasped the bar that hovered dangerously over your chest. Together, you lifted it. He didn't make it easy, but he made it bearable. Cap, ... really was a great guy.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Practice was over, like usual. Since the team had to perform outdoor exercises, you cycled through teammates as they finished a certain number of practice runs. On scrimmages, you watched them scramble and play against each other, hard walls of muscle colliding like savage beasts.

 Now you found yourself surrounded by your friends as Cap wrapped a sweaty arm around your shoulders. You enter the locker room and pass the lockers in favor of the door marked STRATEGY.

 The chairs are soft and form-fitting. You try to decline, but Cap pushes you down into the chair.

 "You helped us with school, so I figure you can help us here, too."

 You couldn't resist his grin, even if you could break out of his grip. Still, the room struck you as oddly equipped for a strategy debriefing. Why make it so comfortable? Why the soundproofing boards? Why stack the chairs with adjustable controls to ensure everyone could see the front?

 Coach gave his usual spiel of the need to pay attention and focus on the video. Then he stepped aside and a familiar whirring sounded. Someone must have been adjusting their chair.

 Images flashed over the screen. The whirring became more pronounced. You felt a little dizzy, sort of like the room was moving. But ... no, not the room. You were. Up and down and side to side and spinning and SIDESTEP! DASH! CATCH! RECEIVE! RUN! TOUCHDOWN!

 "Fuck yeah!" the room screams. You're panting in the rollercoaster, the heady excitement of it all. What … what just...?

 And then you feel a familiar hand squeezing your arm reassuringly. "Just watch, lil'bro." He grins. That same grin. And then that chuckle. The whole room is filled with it.

 And suddenly, you're laughing, too. And it feels ... good. Words like BIG, BUFF, MUSCLE, SWOLE, and GROW, echo over the whirling sea. The churning increases, and you find it harder to focus.

 "Just a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK. Want to be a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK for coach. Gonna be a BIG, DUMB FOOTBALL JOCK for coach."

 The words are like a mantra. You hear the familiar husky chuckle, and something inside just ... sort of snaps. Your mouth widens into a grin. Your teeth are bared. You laugh as everything fades into the darkness, and Cap is laughing right beside you. And it's RIGHT.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. The crowd roared around you as you hunched down and called out the secret code every quarterback seemed to know for their teammates to notify the play and run down the clock at the same time. Besides, sometimes, the lugs had to be reminded.

 You take the snap. You spot the opening. The receiver is open! You crank your arm back and throw for all it's worth. The ball hurls like a bullet. You know immediately that he's caught it. He's running. Nobody can touch him. Dodge. Sidestep. Lunge. Dash. TOUCHDOWN!

 You roar with your fellow teammates, and rush up to join your bros at the end zone. You all just scored the game-winning touchdown. Chestbumps, shoulder smacks, dances, everything breaks out in the pandemonium that follows. You turn and see Cap's familiar grin through the face guard of your helmet. He's standing on the sidelines next to coach, cheering you on. Sucked you couldn't play with him in his last season, but at least he came to cheer his lil'bro on. That's what mattered.

 Yeah....

 And you were a good lil'bro.

You weren't sure what you did to deserve this. Your thick muscular frame towers as you pose in front of the mirror. Your slab-like pecs glisten with the sweat from your hard-earned victory. You gape at it, almost in awe, but ... that's not quite the right word.

 ...

 Whatever. S'not important. Your compression pants hug tightly to the thick pistons that your legs have become through had work and intense sessions with your teammates. Big bro helped a lot with that. Then your eyes rest on the bulge at your crotch, and your gaping turns to a cocky sneer. Big bro had nothin' to do with that, though.

 You turn to the side and flex one of your pythons. You watch the bicep swell into a thick, powerful globe of solid muscle. You whisper a dull, "Fuck, yeah," at the rush of endorphins and adrenaline from the victory. A low echo reverberates through the locker room as your teammates follow the ritual in front of their own mirrors. Doesn't matter if it's creepy. You're a team. Teammates act as one unit. 'Course you're gonna do the same stuff. Your bleached hair shines in the dim lights. Your new short style helps to accent the edges of your masculine square jaw as glassy eyes stare dully back at you.

They are empty, unthinking. Just as they should be.

 “Just a big, dumb meathead,” you mutter to yourself. You chuckle and flex again. “And proud of it.”

 You grin and turn to the scrawny form of the new freshman water boy. You wrap your arm around him the same way your big bro did for you. "C'mon, lil'bro. Time to listen to Coach." The numbness in your head increases as the room starts to spin and you swagger along to compensate, like a good DUMB JOCK. Because that is what you are now. You weren't sure what you did to deserve this, but as you settle into Cap’s old chair and the STRATEGY room starts to dim, a last thought plays over your head. You’re a BIG DUMB JOCK BRO now. And even if you could, you wouldn't change a thing.

You asked yourself that question every day as you sat at your reception desk and welcomed patrons. Funds were tight, and it was a quick and easy job to get some cash on the side. You never pictured yourself working in a gym, but there you were. You often brought a book or some music to help drown out all the heavy clanking, though you would make some exceptions for certain songs that played over the speakers through the building from time to time.

The man was always quiet when he walked in. His gaze remained locked on the weight machines. Sometimes he would carry a gym bag in. Sometimes he would just go straight onto the floor, fresh off a run.

When he wants a machine, he doesn’t ask. People move for him.

When he’s ready for a break, a fountain or vending machine is always free, even at peak time.

His focus can’t be disturbed. Literally, it can’t. You’ve seen it. Some teen tried to muscle in on his session, when he was lifting. He just kept staring ahead as he strained his lats, or spread his wings as your boss likes to call it. The kid grumbled, but backed off. He knew he couldn’t do a thing to this guy.

It’s funny, though. His silence is sort of contagious. Whenever he works out, it spreads like a wave. The other men get this sort of intense expression on their faces, and then they sort of relax and just ... work. It’s kind of creepy, really.

The ones who work closest to this guy always seem to have the most progress. A look of shock, a big smile, then that blankness of pure focus driven by repetition. It’s always the same.

Always.

Just who is this guy?

You find yourself wondering this yet again as you stare sightlessly at the page on your book. You haven’t turned it in well over an hour. He’s been in your dreams the last few nights. You see him there, pumping weights, pushing himself. And suddenly you’re the one standing in his place as his hands are on you, guiding you, pushing you. You feel strain in your muscles. You feel your skin tighten and swell like a balloon with each pump and silent ministration. When your form is off, he corrects with his hands. The whole time, those intent eyes stare silently into your own. And you watch as that same expression slowly takes over in your reflection in those orbs.

You blink owlishly as a heavy tap on your shoulder pulls you back into reality again. How long had you been daydreaming about that dream? You look up.

“Sorry about that, S--.”

And there he is. Your mouth is suddenly dry. The words stick in your throat. Your breathing comes out in a rasp.

He stares at you questioningly for a time as he folds his vascular arms and cups his chin in a loosely clenched hand. Then he nods. He motions to the gym floor with a curt jerk of the head.

“Sir,” you finally manage to croak, “I’m on shift.” A heavy hand rests on your shoulder. You look up to see that same blank intensity that you have dreamed of beaming down at you from your boss, of all people.

“Go on.”

You swallow heavily. Even your boss bows to the will of this person. The owner of the gym!

You look back at the man. He’s still standing patiently and looking expectantly.

Your limbs shake as you rise from your chair. The whole gym is silent as you step onto the floor together. The man surveys the room as the music thrums and gives a curt nod to the gym goers. The motion immediately picks up again.

You weren’t even aware of your own motion as he guided you to a butterfly press. The seat was already vacated by the time you arrived. You sit and stare helplessly up at the behemoth that has guided you there. He places his hands on either handle, sets the weight, then nods to you.

You swallow again. Why were you doing this? Why were you letting him direct you? Why were you sitting here, instead of doing your job? And ... why is it getting harder to breathe?

Clank.

The man nods in approval and backs to a machine parallel to yours. Two handles link to the cables that attach to the weight plates. It’s already set to his weight, courtesy of whatever gym goer had abandoned it for him. You watch his muscles flare, his veins bulge, his biceps mount. His pectorals clench as his traps tense on the back of his neck and shoulders and his lats spread out. In that moment, you finally understand why your boss referred to them as wings.

Clank.

And he stares ahead as you stare. That same blank expression bores into you as the breathlessness returns.

Clank.

And again.

Clank.

Now you’re starting to feel warm. He continues to stare, and you continue to watch his effortless rhythm flow as the muscle groups in his arms and upper torso ripple one after the other in perfect coordination.

Clank.

How does he do it?

Clank.

Why did he pull you out here?

Clank.

Why couldn’t you take your eyes off him?

Clank.

Why...? Why...?

Clank.

Did it ... matter?

Clank.

Just who is this guy? you question yet again as you slog through the strange quagmire that is rapidly becoming your conscious thought.

Clank.

It’s only then that you notice the strange fact. Everywhere, the whole gym. Every machine is clacking together. The same pace. The same strike. The same rhythm.

Clank.

His rhythm.

Clank.

His.

Clank.

As you feel your face go slack and your eyes begin to glaze over, you finally understand the truth. You hardly notice the effort it takes to press the two bars together. Why should you? You’re following him. He sets the pace. He says when you’re done.

He.

He.

Him.

Just who is this man? He is the King of the Gym.

And you have just been inducted into his kingdom’s ranks.

Clank.

Your mouth opens as the quagmire thickens and sets. One last thought burbles up and splatters on the surface, before it hardens completely. You grunt it out in a low monotone as you push through another press with burning muscles and a mindless intensity.

“Long live the king....”

Who is this guy?

mundane!

you're perusing the aisle of your local "More For Less store; new sale every week!". This week's sale being 25 cents for every unmarked pill bottle. "Trying to weed out the duds", they say.

You happen upon a prior unexplored aisle.

You can tell by the sign that says "never before seen goods".

You don't trust the sign but you enter the aisle regardless.

After a quick walk along the shelves and then a slower walk back you realise you Have never before seen any of these products. For once a sign told you the truth. Take that Martha.

You lean in to look closer at a bottle of pills.

This one is labelled ‘Boost your curls instantly’ you're bald but you choose to buy it anyway.

Soft music plays in the background, the singer stopping halfway through the song to tell the listeners he loves them. It is the most intimate moment you've ever experienced and you are lonely.

A light flickers at the distant end of the aisle as you pass the bathrooms.

Always out of paper towels.

A bell rings signifying that the sale is indeed still going on.

You pass someone in the aisle and realise the sign did lie to you.

You trek back to the sign only to see that it now reads ‘previously seen items! Still good though!!’ which you thought was uplifting.

Fifteen more minutes your voice whispers into your ear. You don't know why.

You lean down and pick up a pill bottle clearly unlabelled.

You shake it and the tell-tale rattle of a bottle with things in it follows.

You walk up to the cashier to pay but the sign says ‘cashier on break’ but you aren't going anywhere.

The air is warm and the lights are dim but not unpleasantly so. That said it could be brighter

The music is still playing.

It has a nice baseline but the melody is a bit repetitive.

A person lines up behind you. You look first to them, then the pill bottles in their arms.

You tilt your head in the direction of the sign, feeling uncomfortable about talking in the store. You don't want something in your mouth after all.

They mistake your nod for a greeting and nod back, jaws firmly clamped together.

A cashier appears behind the counter. Nothing unusual in her entrance but not having noticed her walking towards you, you imagine she teleported.

How fun.

She rings up your two items.

50 cents.

As you're walking away you shake the unlabeled pill bottle before opening it.

Empty

mundane 2

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP

You turn over in bed and read the face of your Intelectronics™ brand alarm clock, “7:15” it reads.

You sit up and stare around your room tiredly, smacking your lips tiredly.

The room is mostly empty save for your twin sized bed, a dresser, and a hamper in the corner. You reach up and pull the chain which turns on your light, shedding a dull and ugly yellow on the room.

Sighing to yourself you climb out of bed and make your way to your bathroom. It’s a dingey little room the size of a closet. The face looking back at you in the mirror doesn’t look happy. They’ve got a pair of sunken eyes, skin yellowing slightly like an old piece of paper. Their lips are chapped and their teeth are uneven and brown. You smile in the mirror only for the face on the other side to give you an openmouthed grimace. You shake your head ruefully and the face on the other side follows suit before turning to leave.

You walk into your kitchen, a room between the size of a small Sonic drive-in and a large hippopotamus. Against one wall is a refrigerator and right next to it is your oven. Against the wall parallel to the first one is a counter with two cupboards on it, a coffee maker, and a microwave oven. After getting out a fresh filter and some ground beans, and filling the pot with water, you make a pot of coffee.

While you’re waiting for the coffee to be finished you go to your living room and see that your roommate has brought a newspaper and a box of donuts. He’s a graveyard shift worker and you work in the morning so you don’t really talk to each other, nevertheless the note on top of the box says, “Dig in, i know you’ve got a sweet tooth ;-D”. You open the box and pull out a maple bar.

‘This will go great with my coffee.’ someone thinks with your brain. You head back to the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee.

The mug you use is chipped with a picture of The Mystery Machine on it. You never were an avid viewer of Scooby Doo but you decided that your taste in shows was outweighed by your taste in cheap dishes.

You go back to your living room and glance at the newspaper.

“EVERYTHING IS AWFUL AND YOU WANT TO DIE!” the front page screams at you. After skimming the rest of it. You decide you agree.

After checking the forecast you decide to layer weather appropriate clothes and step outside.

The sun shines uncaringly upon the desert landscape of your town, a bleached white skeleton of a place.