Remember when Lou Reed played a concert in a swamp?
Gem stared at the parchment, his quill clutched between his fingers with utmost gentleness. Lou Reed played a concert in a swamp-- yes, he remembered that, that was something that happened. What he hadn't remembered was why he was here, there were absolutely no traces of any actual studying he had to be doing, just the paper that said something about Lou Reed playing a show in a swamp, sitting right before him, torturing him. He stared at the parchment for longer and longer, the text unmoving, there to haunt and vex him. Why did he do that?
What was he here for again?
Oh yeah, he was responding to an owl from his dad and the best place to sit and write was the Study Room, right. He had no idea why he would respond to that, because the only thing on the parchment was "Remember when Lou Reed played a concert in a swamp?" and that was it. Absolutely nothing else, except for his dad's name at the very bottom. He felt like that could've been fine if his dad sent him anything else, but nope. This was the first owl his dad ever made an effort to send. Nothing else. Truly incredible parenting, nothing could top it.
He sniffed, unblinking, suddenly feeling a small twinge of irritation. Was this sent to bug him? Because it wasn't funny. I mean, yeah, it was funny, but it also wasn't funny at all. What was his dad hoping to achieve by sending this? What was going through Jeff Stuart's mind when he sat down, wrote that sentence out, and made the effort to send it to his son, who was in school, hardworking on his wizardry? No substance, nothing to respond to, just that.
If you were to sit Gem down and ask him why this parchment was consuming him with so much stress and irritation, he would probably burst into tears, because that's what he felt like doing right now. This stupid note about Lou Reed playing his stupid concert in a stupid swamp was making him feel heavy in the chest, his hands feel weak, and his stomach weigh on his little body. There was no telling whether or not he was tearing up, but he definitely looked troubled, flustered, confused, frustrated, most of all. His eyebrows knitted together in a bit of a more decipherable expression, but it didn't take long after that for him to give up on keeping his head on his shoulders and slam his face against the table.
Lou Reed... he thought bitterly, stupid. Stupid idiot, playing a stupid show in a stupid swamp that maybe FIVE people attended. Dumb stupid, bish bosh, dumb, dumb, dumb. This is daft. I hate Lou Reed.
Part of him hoped that his tantrum would cause someone would come sit with him, able to distract him from the terrors and shiteshow that the dumb owl his father sent had caused him. This was true teenage angst, pain, and sorrow. Nothing could ever possibly top it, not a single thing.
Last edited by Gem Stuart on 10th September 2019, 7:12 pm, edited 1 time in total.
What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.