Locked in Hell. (1,565 views)

“You know what! Fine! Whatever, it’s just your fault you’re too narcissistic to see how certain things are your fault! Fucking idiot...”

God damn it. He wished that he’d just left, or waited for Chardonnay to go in first. Had that been the case, perhaps the perpetrator would have just locked her alone. It would be great to give her time to make out with herself and tell herself how amazing she was.

Or maybe she’d just scream and cry in here, all alone. He’d be asleep right now, or eating some crappy microwave meal he bought from the store, because he didn’t want to deal with those housemates of his.

Speaking of, thanks to the fiasco of discovering Audrey Moore’s junk, now that annoying girl Kara had filed a harassment report. Although Arthur had never done anything besides check to see if the girl hadn’t set herself on fire, the school board had agreed, with the firm insistence of Susan, that Arthur would switch houses with a boy who hadn’t yet arrived to satisfy Kara’s harassment claim. So half his stuff was packed, and his move was designated for Monday afternoon.

He wished it was Sunday—then, at least, they’d be looking for him tomorrow.

“Dealing with you isn’t a treat like you think it is, Princess. Apparently I pissed off God, because he keeps pairing me with you! You are the most annoying bitch I have ever met, and it’ll be a reward to never see you again!”

“I have a stick in my ass?!” Arthur growled. “Look who’s talking! Even if it’s not your fault, like you say, you still have a role in it because you’re a fucking idiot! You’re so self-absorbed you don’t notice anyone around you, you make yourself out to be annoying, and you just stand around and expect others to do the work! You probably pissed someone who actually did the work off!”

If that was the case, he was either:

A) An annoyance to the person who locked them up.
B) Thought to make Chardonnay more miserable than just being locked up herself.
C) In the wrong place at the wrong time.

Frustrated, he slammed the back of his head against the wall of the unit, hard. Maybe if he passed out, she’d freak out. Doubtful, actually, she’d probably be relieved. He didn’t notice that the impact had displaced the topmost shelf in the unit. It didn’t fall—not yet—but it wouldn’t take much more aggravation.

“Likewise.” Arthur hissed, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re not predictable and that’s what fucking pisses me off! I’ve dealt with thousands of stuck up bitches, but you’re proud of being a spoiled brat. You're disgusting. God, when we get out of here, I never want to see your ugly face again, I can't stand arrogant, silver spoon fed brats like you!”

He wondered if there was a church on campus. Maybe he should join it. After all, if he prayed enough, maybe she'd transfer schools.

“Well obviously you pissed someone off, or we wouldn’t be locked in here! No idiot would walk away when they heard us yelling unless they did this on purpose! And I do listen to reason, but all your arguments are full of shit!”

He opened his eyes, narrowing them at her. His expression was twisted into one of disgust, as though she smelled like rotten eggs.

“Jealous? Why would I ever want to be like you? You disgust me. Take away the money, and you’re just a spoiled kid who can’t do shit! You’re useless to the word, just another arrogant rich snob who will die and be replaced. But you have no idea how I was raised, do you? Maybe I was as privileged as you, but I didn’t turn out as shitty.”

That was full of shit-- Arthur grew up hard working and honest, for the most part, without much money at all. Sure, he wished that Susan had more money sometimes, or that she just gave up on him because he wasn’t much of an asset, but she was a good mother figure. Even though he still viewed her as a sister, since he still remembered a vague time in which his actual parents had existed.

He readjusted the back of his head on the wall, with a smaller slam than before.

“The resident jackass of the school?” Arthur snorted, shaking his head. “As flattered as I am, no. I don’t talk to anyone, really. I keep my mouth shut and do my work. Unless someone talks to me first. So I don’t have that many enemies.”

However he did have people who didn’t like him, and vice versa. Aside from Chardonnay, however, he knew no one at the cleanup. So it couldn’t be from a past grudge or something that cheesy. Sure, Kara hated his guts, but she wasn’t here. There was no way this was her doing. He somehow doubted that the Audrey girl had the guts to do something like this. So there went the two people he was fairly sure legitimately had reasons to hate him.

She did have a point, though. It wasn’t that Arthur wished he didn’t have money—in fact, he and Susan both could have used it in life—but he wanted to earn every penny he was given. He hated silver spoons and he hated being given things. It made him feel sick to his stomach. Mostly because he didn’t feel like he deserved the money he’d received if he hadn’t earned it.

“You cook.” Arthur deadpanned. “You cook with fancy ass ingredients, and let me guess? You’re a picky eater. That’s not really something that benefits the world. When you don’t like a dish, what do you do with it? Throw it away, right? Even though it’s perfectly good. Your work is probably like that. You waste more than you produce. Working hard to earn money, that's how it's supposed to be. Not cooking fancy-ass meals only the rich can afford, and throwing away an entire meal if it has a pinch too much salt.”

He was perfectly content with his microwave meals, which were really cheap at the store and cooked in 5 minutes or less.

“Who knows? Maybe I’m the heir to a big fortune. You’d have no way of knowing. Not every rich kid is a spoiled brat, you know.”

“Well, I’m not saying I’m not. But there’s plenty of other jackasses in this fucking school.”

He certainly wasn’t king of them, or anything. And if he was, by some weird chance, he wanted a crown for it.

“I’m not saying it isn’t necessary, either. But your fancy shit isn’t. You waste so much, all for one stupid meal. The outrageous procedures you go through, those are unnecessary! At least with my job, I don’t fucking waste shit! And I bet you don’t do leftovers, either.”

Even when they were done for the day, if there was food left over, the limited employees usually took it home. He’d taken a lot of popcorn a few days ago. In fact, it was still in his room. He was eating it until it went bad—that was the plan anyway.

“And who cares about acting? It sucks. I only do it because I can. Acting isn't the only thing I know how to do.”

He started to drum the back wall with his fingers, for something to do.

“Taste good or not, food is food. And it just goes down your throat. That’s all there is to it.”

He’d never had a really fancy meal before. One time, Susan got a boyfriend when he was about 13 or so. The guy hadn’t lasted very long, but he did treat Susan and Arthur to a decent meal at some fancy seafood place. Arthur had ordered the most expensive item on the menu—lobster—only to discover he hated it. He didn’t eat any of the rest, resulting in the loss of about 20 dollars on the part of the boyfriend.

They broke up after that, and Susan never dated a soul since. To Arthur’s knowledge, anyway. Except, apparently, this Kasper fuckass. The memory of that little discovery brought a grimace back to his lips.

That was the only time he’d actually wasted food. Otherwise, he and Susan usually lived day to day, off of cheap food and leftover pizza.

“Yeah, because unlike you, I know not to waste food or money.” Unless it was necessary to prove a point, or to get some asshole away from Susan. “And I work to earn money to spend, because what’s the point of having money if I don’t earn it? I gather that you don’t have a job, and you just rely on daddy’s income.”

He could argue all day about his other skills besides acting, but he had zero intention of demonstrating. And he didn’t really care much about her opinion, either.

He stared up at the ceiling when there was another clang. His eyebrow twitched in frustration. “What the fuck, the shelves aren’t lopsided. What keeps slipping up there?”

Were the shelves actually uneven? What idiot designed this storage unit, in that case?

“I’ll eat anything that’s sanitary and satisfying.” Arthur snapped. He wasn’t a walking trash can, but he certainly wouldn’t let food that he or Susan had worked hard to get go to waste. He had standards—small standards, but standards nonetheless—of what he would and won’t eat. He didn’t want to get sick, after all. Medicine cost more than food, especially with their very pricey insurance, since Susan couldn’t get a quality job while raising him.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did spend that much. I mean, just look at your fucking wardrobe. It screams expensive. That’s money thrown away right there. You could by the same fucking thing for like 15 dollars at a thrift store!”

He shook his head, rubbing his head. He hated it when people with a personality like her had money. It instantly made them more annoying.

“Like I said, you don’t know how much money I make or have. All you know is that I’m not a waster. Your father sounds like a real bastard, spoiling you so rotten that you don’t have one redeeming quality about you!”

He glared up, his hand resting on the wall. There was another noise, but this was a bit of a chorus. Like more than one thing was moving up there.

“We didn’t touch those shelves, not that you would know! Everything we put, we put here.” He gestured to a pile of discarded décor. What was moving up there? Those things were rather heavy—they were metal bars for supporting flags during events. What if they fell? That would be miserable.

“I’m not a trash digger.” Arthur said. “If I dug in the trash for food, I’d catch a disease. Medicine is more expensive that your fancy ass shit, so if it did come down to that, I would actually buy the food. I’m not an idiot.”

At the mention of his clothes, he looked down at his outfit. “What the hell’s wrong with this? So what, if I got them at a thrift store! I bet my entire outfit cost less than your shirt! And how the hell is he a better man than I can ever hope to be if he just wastes all of his money of your ungrateful whiny ass!”

When she stepped towards him, he growled. She was too close for his comfort, and what the hell was she doing with her finger? He slapped her hand away, eyes meeting hers in a cold glare.

“Personal. Space.” He hissed. “And I did not do anything! These shelves should be nailed solid to the fucking unit!”

“Wh…” He glanced down at his outfit, cheeks puffed into a slightly irritated huff. He wasn’t tacky. Was he? It wasn’t— WAIT! He didn’t even care about being tacky?! Why was he even allowing himself to get upset over that! He growled again, face tinted a faint shade of red. He didn’t care about fashion, honestly. He’d always worn plaid, since he was a kid. He’d always whine and ask for the plaid clothes. At first, Susan tried to derail him, but she eventually caved. It started because plaid clothes were cheaper, from what he could tell- -but now he just liked the style.

His eyebrow twitched, again.

“This necklace was a gift, thank you very much, and it’s probably cheap by your standards! And my clothes are perfectly fine! I don't care if you don't like plaid! Fuck you!”

He looked away from her, folding his arms over his chest. He made a “Tch” nose, hearing something up on the upper shelves shift again.

“Ha! Okay, sure. He just sounds like a privileged piece of crap. I highly doubt anyone worth a shit raised something like you.”

He stared at her finger for a minute, and then his blue eyes slowly narrowed at Chardonnay, his expression twisted into a grimace. He then very slowly removed one arm from the fold on his chest and slapped her hand down again then returned it to its former position. He pointedly ignored commenting on his hitting his head on the wall, he just glared at her.

“I’m not a hillbilly. And yeah, I can tell you’re a huge money waster. That was my original point! You waste money on expensive, ‘fashionable’ clothes, when you can buy the same stuff at like—wal-mart or whatever! You remind me of those fucking pinup girls in magazines, so fake, and that’s what’s really disgusting. Whether I wear plaid or not, at least I don’t waste my money on overly priced clothes!”

He clenched his teeth, one eyebrow raised at her as she defended her father. He was something she was very protective over—ironically, something they had in common. A fierce defense of their parental figure.

At least she wasn’t so rotten that she only used her father for money—no, she actually seemed to respect him. But then again, that wasn’t too unpredictable. The rich only respect the rich.

“Wow, it’s hard to imagine you coming from a loving home with that logic.” Arthur snapped back. “You’re rotten, materialistic, and don’t respect anyone except people with money! I may not know about him but I know about you. A decent man can’t have raised someone like you.”

Sure, he wasn’t that much better than her, but at least Arthur was hard working. He pulled his own weight, and he had a strong sense of values that Susan had taught him. Chardonnay expected others to work, others to carry her weight, and her values, from what Arthur inferred of them, sucked.

“There is nothing wrong with me. I just slapped your annoying finger away! Didn’t your daddy ever teach you it’s rude to point?!"

“It’s a waste because you don’t need fancy clothing to function! As long as you’re covered up, why do you need to spend thirty more dollars for a brand name! It’s stupid! And you don’t know shit about me! All you know is that I piss you off. I guarantee I have way better values than you do!”

He could feel his heart starting to pump faster. Great. He smoked that cigarette to calm his blood pressure, and here Chardonnay was, raising it again.

He was about to comment on the parents remark when there was a loud and huge crash from above. Arthur looked up just in time to see the top two shelves collapse. He covered his face, his ears ringing as the onslaught of metal flag holders rained down towards the two teenagers in the unit.

Arthur had miscalculated when he shielded himself, exposing the crook of his neck. A silver flagpole crashed down onto the exposed skin there, and in response, Arthur cursed loudly, one of his hands moving to fly to his shoulder on instinct, but that hurt more than holding his current position. So, he stayed like that.

His shoulder was tingling in pain, and with a groan, he realized it was probably bruised. Once the poles stopped falling, Arthur immediately peeked out from the temporary shelter he’d made with his hands to see if Chardonnay had been hit. He hoped she hadn’t, if only because had she been hurt he’d never hear the end of it.

“Tch! Don’t ask me!” Arthur snapped, straightening up and surveying the damage done to both of them. Apart from one or two injuries, they weren’t too badly banged up. He still felt the stinging pain of his shoulder, though, and that meant using his arm would be limited. It was dark, so he couldn’t look over the rest of his body, but he had felt poles hit and bump him in certain places. Nothing too bad, though.

“At least we’re both still conscious. Even though the quiet would be a nice change form your shitty jabber. You’re not bleeding, are you?” Arthur asked, looking his injuries over for blood. He didn’t see any so far, thank god. When he bent down to survey his knee his hissed, the action hurting his shoulder.

Slowly he brought the not attached arm up to his hurt shoulder, just enough to feel for any moisture. Nope, none. Looking at the back of his wrists, however, he saw he had a few minor bruises there. He really hoped no other shelves were going to break.

“Well who else is in here to ask?! No one!” Arthur snapped. He tried to roll his shoulder but that hurt a lot—he really hoped the hit hadn’t dislocated it, too. But if the stinging pain was any indication, it had been dislocated. Arthur had lived through worse, though, so he did his best to ignore it.

He glanced at Chardonnay. The sun was going down now, so the unit was cast in dark and eerie shadows. The light filtering in through the window was golden and bright in caparison to the dark, but the light let so little in that it was more annoying than helpful for visual purposes.

“No. I’m fine.” He said, looking Chardonnay and her motions over with a frown. “You should probably sit down, it hit your ankle, right? Don’t stand on it, or you’ll make it worse. The last thing I want to do is listen to you complain about your ankle. Again.”