Work of great workiness
Apr. 30th, 2015 01:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdThere was much work today
Dinner was BBQ pork. Hickory BBQ sauce was fairly intense.
Oli had a rhuemtologist appt. She's slated for physical therapy and psych therapy. Chronic pain can cause depression, after all.
Got a pic of Chris and his car, a purple Chevy Spark:
Finished a hotpad:
Edited on Anthony. The beginning is weak and we can't have that. "A beginning is a very delicate time." I know what I'm talking about in the story, but the reader doesn't. So work has been accomplished.
Former:
“I’m not going.” Anthony glared at the officer's back. He'd figured out quickly not to glare at his front. The tattooed R on his hand just below his thumb attested to that. As one of their 'worst offenders', he'd been here longer than most. And, having failed their tests time and again, he was certain he'd be outbound in a small pine box soon. But something in him couldn't just repeat the rhetoric.
Current:
“I’m not going.” Anthony ignored the orderly who’d come to fetch him and stared blankly at the plaque on the wall. It read, in serious blue letters above a field of inexpert but cheerful flowers, “This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
His last roommate had painted that, before a series of electroshock therapy had “cured” him of his gayness, and he’d been released from Peaceful Haven Sanitarium and sent out to wander the country of Heartland, nameless, erased from the computer banks and unable to make a living. With a large and visible H for homosexual tattooed on his hand, he would be easy prey for anyone who wanted to take advantage of him. Anthony sometimes wondered what had happened to him last winter.
The orderly jerked him out of his chair and Anthony stumbled to his feet. He didn’t dare say anything or take a swing. The guard in the door made sure of that. The orderly turned, expecting Anthony to follow. He glared at the man’s's back. He'd figured out quickly—and painfully--not to glare at his front. They took it as a challenge and an act of aggression. Most were all too happy to retaliate in kind. And although firearms were not permitted, every orderly had his favorite makeshift weapon and all the guards carried batons. They were allowed wide discretion on the use.
Anthony had learned the favorite targets: the gut from the front and the meat of the thigh from the back. Although he’d lost more than one tooth and his glasses to a face shot. They’d quickly decided he was a troublemaker, in perfect agreement with the judges of Heartland who had sent him here. The tattooed R for Reprobate on his hand just below his thumb attested to that, along with several bruises and a black eye that was almost three days old.
As one of their 'worst offenders', he'd been at Peaceful Haven longer than most. And, having failed their tests of to demonstrate “proper readjustment and social integration” time and again, he was certain he'd be outbound in a small pine box soon. He hoped they’d at least send it home to his folks, instead of just cremating him and all his records. He’d already been erased from every Heartland computer. Anthony Hatcher no longer existed in any legal sense.
It was the very likely, completely foreseeable, if mostly unavoidable future. But something in him couldn't just repeat the rhetoric or say the words that might save him.
Dinner was BBQ pork. Hickory BBQ sauce was fairly intense.
Oli had a rhuemtologist appt. She's slated for physical therapy and psych therapy. Chronic pain can cause depression, after all.
Got a pic of Chris and his car, a purple Chevy Spark:
Finished a hotpad:
Edited on Anthony. The beginning is weak and we can't have that. "A beginning is a very delicate time." I know what I'm talking about in the story, but the reader doesn't. So work has been accomplished.
Former:
“I’m not going.” Anthony glared at the officer's back. He'd figured out quickly not to glare at his front. The tattooed R on his hand just below his thumb attested to that. As one of their 'worst offenders', he'd been here longer than most. And, having failed their tests time and again, he was certain he'd be outbound in a small pine box soon. But something in him couldn't just repeat the rhetoric.
Current:
“I’m not going.” Anthony ignored the orderly who’d come to fetch him and stared blankly at the plaque on the wall. It read, in serious blue letters above a field of inexpert but cheerful flowers, “This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
His last roommate had painted that, before a series of electroshock therapy had “cured” him of his gayness, and he’d been released from Peaceful Haven Sanitarium and sent out to wander the country of Heartland, nameless, erased from the computer banks and unable to make a living. With a large and visible H for homosexual tattooed on his hand, he would be easy prey for anyone who wanted to take advantage of him. Anthony sometimes wondered what had happened to him last winter.
The orderly jerked him out of his chair and Anthony stumbled to his feet. He didn’t dare say anything or take a swing. The guard in the door made sure of that. The orderly turned, expecting Anthony to follow. He glared at the man’s's back. He'd figured out quickly—and painfully--not to glare at his front. They took it as a challenge and an act of aggression. Most were all too happy to retaliate in kind. And although firearms were not permitted, every orderly had his favorite makeshift weapon and all the guards carried batons. They were allowed wide discretion on the use.
Anthony had learned the favorite targets: the gut from the front and the meat of the thigh from the back. Although he’d lost more than one tooth and his glasses to a face shot. They’d quickly decided he was a troublemaker, in perfect agreement with the judges of Heartland who had sent him here. The tattooed R for Reprobate on his hand just below his thumb attested to that, along with several bruises and a black eye that was almost three days old.
As one of their 'worst offenders', he'd been at Peaceful Haven longer than most. And, having failed their tests of to demonstrate “proper readjustment and social integration” time and again, he was certain he'd be outbound in a small pine box soon. He hoped they’d at least send it home to his folks, instead of just cremating him and all his records. He’d already been erased from every Heartland computer. Anthony Hatcher no longer existed in any legal sense.
It was the very likely, completely foreseeable, if mostly unavoidable future. But something in him couldn't just repeat the rhetoric or say the words that might save him.
