from the OTHER archives: Socks, Part 3, Chapter 3

A few of my former friends might tell you that I’m a masochist. I inadvertently drag on awkward moments more than necessary, constantly reopen old emotional wounds, and otherwise relish in being an asshole to myself and others. But, see, there’s a reason that they’re former friends- my pain tolerance may be high, but I do not enjoy unnecessary pain, and all the self-depreciation is an attempt at humor.

With that being in mind, today is only going to be one chapter long. Not because I’m frustrated with myself, but because I have a family event within an hour of writing this post and don’t want to anger my parents. (The new school year starts tomorrow! How does it feel, future Vane? Still holding up?)

“We had to shoot the dart at her to get her out of the sky.”
“You know we can’t fly.”
I squirmed. The drones apparently didn’t have a good vocabulary, in addition to no emotions. Much unlike me, who could, without blushing or bragging or anything like that, call these guys a bunch of self-deserving, bigoted jerks. (Go look it up if this is Gibberish to you.)

Algeria: rags on drones- MACHINES- for not having a larger vocabulary than they were programmed with.

Also Algeria: can only come up with the word “good” to describe her ideal vocabulary and then proceeds to be condescending. Because that will totally help your current situation.

“Don’t come back,” someone said to me when I fully came out of the haze of drugs,  which was about 5 seconds. (I have a fast metabolism. Poison works fast and also gets out fast, and food goes through quicker than usual. Again, go look it up. )

If I had kidnapped a special snowflake, I too would have told her not to come back to consciousness after my noiseless tranquilizer failed. That’s what you meant, right, G?

I was trapped somewhere very dank and somewhat damp, with a hard, cold, floor. Maybe a basement, but then again, it was dark, so I couldn’t tell.

Somewhere very dank? What, did Pepe the frog kidnap you?

I rest my case.

I was in the classic annoying duck tape trap, which didn’t taste very good, by the way. Note to self: Duck tape does not taste good. What? I was trying to chew my way out, since I didn’t have any scissors. Duh. And why would they have let me have scizzors? They are way too easy to turn into weapons.

Nice job misspelling “scissors”, G. Have fun with your duck tape sandwich. I’m sure that will do wonders for your stomach and dysfunctional diet.

“What did you say, Mr. Freak?” I said, once my night vision kicked in and I could at least see my captors. And they did look like freaks, from what I could see.

ǸỊ͓͇̞͎̱͔G͉͠H͔͙̯͖̺̥͜T ͙̹̜͝V̟̣͇͉IS̖̯̟̘̫I̶O̰N҉̟̗ ͚̦́A͚͎̰̳̣͙͠C̜̘̮͖̭̙T̬͙̻̭I͈̫V̜̪̮͓A͏̹͔̳̥T̮͖̬̟̕E̪̺̤̣̩̘͘

This one had weird green hair, and cat eyes that looked like a cat had chewed on them. (Squeamish people- read ‘really wrinkled’.)

Was that last sentence the 2012 equivalent of “trigger warning”?

I can never escape, can I?

Eew. Not saying that any cat ever WOULD – I bet that they would taste horrible to cats, or anyone. And if you don’t think that’s a weird sentence, then maybe you should reread it. That’s not sarcasm.

I have the feeling that awkward transition was stolen from another book, G. Admit it. This is a convoluted fanfiction that has and never had any chance of rivaling My Immortal or After in infamy and overall stupidity.

“Don’t come back,” he repeated, sensing my lack of attention to him. “Or we will kill you.”

“Be dead or we will make you be dead. I am robot. Beep beep boop.”

“Huh,” I replied. “With what? You’re unarmed. I wonder how many times you said that to other people, looking like that. Anyway, what’s with the duck tape?”

“Actually, you’re our first victim. I hear that Ebony girl is on the queue, but it’ll be a while before we find her.”

“Keeping you under control,” another one said. This one had a neon blue hairdo that was either a mop-top or dreadlocks. It was covering his eyes, which I was grateful for because then I didn’t have to see whatever they look like. “We will get rid of you. We do not want to die.”

“Because,” he added, trying to ignore the slow rotting of his skin, “everybody knows that those who disagree with Mary Sues befall catastrophe of all kinds.”

“From what? Your little prank?” I retorted. That earned me a swift kick in the ribs, which took my breath away. Literally. I couldn’t breathe for the next 5 seconds, which was spent in silent agony, cringing the best I could. Which was basically just my face.

If I was told by a snotty teenager of middle school age that my thoughtful attempt at self-preservation was “a little prank”, I would be pissed as well.

“Go! While she is helpless!” Yet another freak said. He flipped me into a pool of something neon purple, which immediately vaporized the duck tape. It was buoyant on all sides, but I couldn’t see in it, so it was darkness. I could touch my face and my hair and all that, but I reached out with my hands and I felt nothing.

What was the purpose of the duck tape then? Why didn’t she start in the pool? She wouldn’t have been able to fight back regardless, as she was still drugged up! And surely the experience of waking up in liquid capable of carrying sufficient oxygen and also depriving me of all possible senses would deter me from whatever the freaks had a stick up their bum about.

The top closed, and it immediately started to pressurize, which was making me feel cramped and as squished up as a piece of gum on the sidewalk.

“Stop! I’m not a deep sea diver trying to avoid the bends!”

This stuff hurt; an unbelievable pain exploded inside me. It sent all of my pain receptors in my body screaming.

And then the story ends there on such a thrilling cliffhanger, allowing me the pleasure of going back to writing poetry. Nostalgia Week made my stats take a sharp dive, and one of my many weaknesses is seeking validation over the internet. Poetry it is!

But, of course, Algeria is not so kind as to shut up.

I wanted to scream myself. But the thing was, I couldn’t, so instead I blacked out. Again.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to do the same. The difference is that I will first restrict myself from stuffing my face with hot dogs and then go cry for a few hours about the new school year. As they say in ninth grade Spanish, buenos noches and get out of my face.

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