Driven To Tears (The Darby Trilogy Book 1)

by Jason Jauron

  The entire process – wet to dry – took just 3 minutes.

  He always returned from the shower a little edgy. All this hustle and bustle drained him. Hell, his first class did not start until 9; Jed left his dorm each day at seven.

  His farthest class was less than 15 minutes away, but Jed would orbit the campus for nearly two hours. He enjoyed the walk, despite the sometimes-frigid early morning temperatures. These meandering journeys used up his neurotic energy, and the cool mornings helped his face recover faster. He was still careful to avoid contact with people and was clever enough to make it look like he was actually going somewhere.

  He also started talking to himself on these daily trips. Talking to himself out loud. He would do this to try to calm himself down; he also would try to rationally evaluate his current station in life. But it was becoming harder for Jed to see the bright side of his situation. There was no simple solution to cure his skin’s polluted evolution. As his face turned volcanic, his thoughts turned more manic.

  After his classes, he would return to his dorm, walk the stairs. The elevator was not the place Jed wanted to be. Once inside his room, he would spend another 20 minutes or so popping, piercing the whiteheads that had formed in the last few hours. After that, if he had the energy, he would go after the blackheads. If he was too tired, he would rinse his face with cold water, lock the door, lie down on the couch and place a cold cloth on his face.

  Then he would brainstorm how he was going to survive dinner in the commons.

  Sometimes he would cry.

  Thank goodness Dave’s classes were all in the afternoon.

  It was around this time that Jed started to “talk” to Mister. There was no unusual meaning behind the name he gave the needle; it just made sense not to use a real person’s name. Jed was grateful to Mister for helping him do the “dirty work” his face required.

  Besides, Jed had no real friends on his dorm floor anymore.

  He was all by himself.

  He was becoming a shut-in. A hermit. A castaway. A loner.

  Pretty boy was now pus boy. And pus boy was becoming more of a circus tent freak show every day. So Jed decided to quarantine himself. He figured he was better off, safer this way.

  10.

  7:15pm

  “Dave’s fucking girlfriend at the time was no help either,” he blurted. Jed got up, decided to change clothes.

  “If I’m gonna relive this shit tonight I might as well be at the bar drinking.”

  He chuckled.

  “That bitch Melissa would be proud.”

  ***

  It was after midnight.

  Friday after midnight.

  Jed liked Friday and Saturday nights. Listening to the drunks stagger back to their rooms was becoming a pastime for him. And after spending nearly 10 minutes smearing two entire tubes of Clearasil on his face, his emotions needed a distraction.

  He heard the girl in the room directly below him stumble in with her redneck boyfriend. The boyfriend was a real SOB - he had a rebel flag tattoo on his chest.

  Everybody’s getting laid but me.

  He tried to smile but the thick Clearasil refused to crack.

  But who would want to fuck pizza-face?

  He exhaled loudly. Then heard a familiar intoxicated voice in the hallway.

  “Kiss me Dave Taylor or no pussy for you tonight!” shouted a drunken Melissa Shull.

  She lost her balance, fell on her ass.

  Dave laughed. She is drunk big-time, he snickered. That means head all night long. Cause I don’t just like head, I demand head.

  He snickered again.

  “Come on Melissa, let’s try to be quiet in the room,” said Dave calmly. Dave was not drunk. He only drank beer, not the “good shit” like Jack Daniels.

  Melissa craved the “good shit.”

  “Oh, you think I’m gonna be quiet tonight!” she blurted. “I want you to stick your cock in me.”

  Dave quickly put his hand over her mouth at the exact moment she grabbed his crotch.

  As he opened the door Dave whispered, “I don’t even know why Jed bothers locking it. It probably isn’t necessary as he has become the floor hermit.”

  Melissa burped.

  The kind of burp that might have won a blue ribbon at a state fair somewhere.

  She let go of Dave, went and sat on the bottom bunk.

  “He’s no hermit,” she muttered. “He’s just one ugly motherfucker.” She immediately burst out laughing, having found her realization irresistible.

  Dave was smothering her seconds later.

  “Be quiet,” he whispered. “And that was not nice. Jed is asleep so let’s not raise our voice anymore, okay?”

  Melissa nodded.

  He removed his hand, kissed her forehead.

  “Whatever,” she blurted. “I still think his face looks like a pepperoni pizza.”

  More giggles.

  What the fuck do I see in her?

  After he threw his shirt in the corner, he turned to her as she was unsnapping her bra, exposing a monster rack of farm-girl titties.

  Why do I even ask?

  Moments later he was stripped down to his boxers, laying on the bed.

  Melissa slithered on top, and they began kissing. Her right hand slid underneath his boxers.

  “What do we have here?” she teased, still way the fuck too loud.

  Dave’s penis poked out of his boxers.

  Melissa peered at it, snorted.

  “It looks like a fucking banana.”

  Dave motioned to her to be quiet.

  I wish she would just hurry up and go down.

  As if on cue, Melissa went down.

  Balls deep.

  And as she licked Dave’s sack, Jed was crying.

  I still think his face looks like a pepperoni pizza.

  He could not believe the bitch had actually said that.

  The tears slid down his cheeks as his body lay still.

  Great, now my zit cream is going to run. Fucking bitch.

  He squeezed his fists.

  Did you hear what she said God? Where is your mercy now Lord? Can’t you see I have suffered enough? Or maybe you enjoy hearing white-trash bitches refer to me as pepperoni pizza face?

  More tears ran down his cheeks.

  Lord, I’ve learned my lesson. Please. No more zits.

  “Oh Mr. Happy is so big,” cooed Melissa.

  “Mr. Happy is so cute.”

  She was licking the tip of his penis when she suddenly chuckled. She tried to use her hands to muffle the noise, but she was too late.

  Dave sat up slightly, shook his head.

  But Melissa couldn’t fight the urge.

  “I wonder if Jed has those big zits on his Mr. Happy.”

  She snorted several times.

  11.

  7:30pm

  As he buttoned his Brooks Brothers shirt, moments of memories - of Patty, his childhood, and his acne, took turns playing in his mind. There seemed to be no order to them - alphabetical, chronological, or geographical - as if his life memories were a compact disc on “shuffle.”

  They kept interrupting him, slowing him down.

  “Let’s just take a piss and get the fuck out of the room,” he announced. Hearing his own voice seemed to activate him.

  Two minutes later - more deodorant, some cologne - he was starting to relax.

  Let’s lay out the condiments now.

  Jed chuckled.

  That was a good sign.

  A positive sign.

  Let’s see here: Washcloth. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Floss. Comb. Hair gel. Q-Tips. Deodorant. Cetaphil lotion. Razor. Shaving Cream.

  He made sure each item was spaced evenly apart.

  Now if I get too fucked up tonight, at least the shit is laid out and ready if I have to hurry tomorrow morning.

  He looked down at the cheap, blue disposable razor.

  ***

  It was the morning after the Dave and Melissa fuckfes
t that Jed took a risk - a risk that would become a turning point in his collegiate life. Melissa and Dave had put on quite a show. Melissa was loud. Every fucking exhale sounded like a car horn. No wonder Dave never brought her back to the room. It took forever for his roommate to orgasm. But that’s what the concoction of alcohol and a condom will do for a male teenager - turn him into fucking Ron Jeremy. And damn if his roommate did not prefer Melissa face down, butt in the air.

  Thankfully, they did not play any encores last night.

  Jed did not wake up until around noon the next day.

  Dave had taped a note to the mirror above the sink saying he had headed home for the weekend.

  As Jed sat up in bed, he glanced at his pillowcase.

  Fucking Melissa.

  He had cried.

  His pillowcase was covered with what looked like orange stains.

  Fucking tinted Clearasil.

  He jumped down, walked to the sink.

  He looked, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

  His face looked dry and cracked, like peeling paint on an old house. But that is what the zit cream did.

  I am one ugly motherfucker.

  He splashed his face with cold water for several minutes.

  Again, he looked up.

  Jesus.

  My face is so discolored, so swollen. So obviously fucking irritated.

  And it hurt.

  Especially his cysts. To push against them this morning was unbelievably painful. A stinging sensation like no other. And their color was turning Tyrian purple.

  Jed had tried so many times to pop them. His efforts bore no real fruit - just the fruit of deceit. Mister could pierce the outer layer, but no pus, blood, or liquid of any kind came out. No matter how many holes Mister created. No matter how many times Jed pushed on them, stretched them, or squeezed them. And it appeared to Jed they were getting bigger. At least bigger than they were several weeks ago.

  It made no fucking sense. They were obviously filled with some type of liquid, and much to Jed’s dismay, more of these “domes” were decorating his face – like bulbs on a Christmas tree.

  So today he decided to shave his face with a razor, not his usual electric.

  After rehashing all the shit comments from Melissa, he figured shaving with a razor could not make his complexion any worse. Plus, with all the bumps on his face, his electric shaver sucked. And he felt like a pussy for using one.

  But how was he going to make it to the showers and back without anyone seeing him?

  He opened his dorm door two inches, peered out.

  Oh, the sweet aroma of living in a dormitory.

  He stood there for minute looking, listening.

  Nothing.

  He threw open the door, sprinted down the hall.

  Jed showered in record time. He shivered under the cold water. All the hot water was gone by mid-morning. But Jed did not care - he just did not want to be seen. He was still utterly mortified by the thought of running into the other guys on his floor.

  Three months ago, he was spending the entire lunch hour boasting to his tablemates about his latest female conquest. Telling everyone that he was the “Master.”

  Master, sighed Jed, toweling off in his room. Now I’m just the “Master Zit Popper” who talks to no one but is talked about by everyone. The whole campus was probably having a good laugh right now at my expense.

  He thought about the girls he had slept with at college.

  Poor girls. They once weren’t ashamed to admit to their friends that they had power-sucked me off. Or that they had rode me like a Harley on a bad stretch of road.

  He took a deep breath, looked in the mirror.

  But now I imagine they are busy picking pieces of wet shit out of their hair. Shit that was being hurled at them by everyone, not just the fat pig-bitches who secretly covet their beauty.

  Jed winced when he imagined the verbal jabs his one-night stands must be getting hit with.

  “When he came in your mouth, did it taste like pus?”

  “Did you suck face or just pop face all night?”

  He spit in the sink.

  If only I hadn’t been such a selfish asshole, such a prick, maybe someone on the floor would knock and invite me to watch a football game in the lounge.

  But that was not going to happen.

  He took another slow breath, turned on the hot water.

  God I used to love to watch my father shave every Sunday morning before church when I was little. The warmth of the room. The aroma of the shaving cream and the Afta aftershave lotion.

  He smiled.

  For all of three seconds.

  After applying a way-the-fuck too hot washcloth to his face, he made a wish and grabbed the disposable razor.

  He decided to shave the left side of his face first.

  No use pussyfooting around. Let’s get the bad shit over with right away.

  He ran the blade down his face twice.

  This razor might as well be a guillotine.

  It was doing quite a number on his whiteheads.

  Moments later he was rinsing the blade, focusing on his chin.

  Fucking cyst. Size of a golfball.

  Jed exhaled loudly. He rolled his head along his shoulders as he tried to psych himself.

  The first scrape against the cyst produced the stinging sensation he was so familiar with.

  But the second time the blade passed over the cyst, something happened.

  He felt a “spark” - like a tiny electrical shock – that made him cringe.

  He stopped shaving, leaned close to the mirror.

  A stream of milky-white fluid oozed from a corner of the cyst. The fluid ran down his chin like a river.

  What the hell?

  He stood there transfixed.

  For nearly two minutes he just stared at the white fluid draining from his cyst.

  I haven’t even tried to pop it. I haven’t applied any pressure. I just ran the blade over it.

  He was horrified.

  The white liquid kept pouring down his face.

  Where is all this shit coming from? It’s like somebody turned a valve on. I mean I’m not doing anything. Why won’t it stop?

  It took nearly six minutes for the cyst to stop draining.

  Jed sighed. He was trying his best to make sense of what had happened. Trying to rationalize how one measuring cup full of white liquid had just drained from his face.

  This has to be a good sign. It’s like a dam that suddenly burst. I don’t know what the white liquid was, or where it really came from. But it’s out of my face, and that has to be good.

  He smiled.

  Maybe I’m finally winning this war.

  He smiled again.

  I hope.

  He quickly finished shaving. As he looked himself over, he gave no special attention to the myriad of nicks that were bleeding.

  “Can you believe what happened to me today Mister?” he mumbled as he poked Mister into a pimple on his neck below his ear. “Just unbelievable.”

  He squeezed the pimple.

  Nothing.

  “Fuck!”

  He turned, slapped his dorm door.

  “Everything was going just fucking great and now this.”

  He was shaking now, his face felt hot.

  Damnit. This is not what I need.

  He picked up Mister, again pierced the zit.

  His face puckered with pain.

  He pinched as hard as he could.

  Pus splattered the mirror.

  Relief washed over Jed.

  Fuckin spitters. They are the worst zits to pop.

  He ran Mister under some hot water before placing him in the top drawer of his dresser.

  He then rinsed his washcloth in cold water.

  As he lay on the couch – cold cloth on his face – he imagined a happy ending before falling asleep.

  12.

  Jed managed to sleep peacefully for 15 minutes. Even with the cloth on his
face.

  The bad dream began shortly after.

  The voice.

  Unrecognizable.

  Loud as hell.

  Resonating, reverberating.

  Taunting, demeaning.

  “LIKE ANYONE WILL MARRY YOUR UGLY ASS JED. AND BESIDES, JED BUDDY, WHAT KIND OF BITCH WOULD WANT TO CARRY YOUR LITTER?

  ONE UGLY SKANKY MOTHERFUCKER BITCH IS WHO. A SCARRED CUNT DEVOID OF ANY HAPPINESS.

  THAT’S RIGHT BREAKOUT BOY. AN EMOTIONALLY LIFELESS DEAD PIECE OF FLAT ASS IS WHOM YOU GET TO SPEND YOUR LIFE WITH.

  AND WHAT A LIFE IT WILL BE. TWO MOTHERFUCKERS WHO REFUSE TO EVEN LOOK EACH OTHER IN THE EYE BECAUSE THEY DONT WANT TO EMBARRASS THE OTHER. THEY DONT WANT TO TURN THEIR PUS PARTNER INTO STONE. YOU WONT HAVE ANY FRIENDS. YOULL BOTH WORK SHIT JOBS AT ODD HOURS TO AVOID THE PUBLIC AND SPEND YOUR NIGHTS IN SEPARATE BATHROOMS POPPING ZITS FOR HOURS BEFORE SLIPPING UNDER THE COVERS TO ENJOY A TWO MINUTE GRIND.

  WHO THE FUCK AM I KIDDING JED?

  YOU AINT GETTING MARRIED.

  JUST HOW MANY DAYS HAS IT BEEN SINCE YOUVE GOTTEN LAID? HOW MANY DAYS SINCE YOU EVEN TOUCHED A WOMAN? BUT BOY YOU SURE LOVE TO MASTURBATE, DONT YA JED? AND THAT AINT WHAT I CALL GETTING LAID. AND DONT THINK I HAVENT NOTICED A CHANGE IN YOUR BEATING OFF. NO MORE JERKING IT TO FARRAH OR CHERYL. NOT ANYMORE. YOUVE BEEN STROKING YOUR MEAT TO SOME UGLY BITCHES. MUST BE YOUR SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY. BUT YOU AINT RUBBING YOUR BALLS FANTASIZING ABOUT BO DEREK NO MORE. CAUSE YOU KNOW YOU AINT NEVER GONNA FUCK NO HOTTIE. YOUR ONLY HOPE IS TO BAG AND BED A SKANK BITCH. A PASSED OUT FISH-SMELLING PIECE OF PIE.

  SO LETS RECAP JED MY BOY.

  YOU ARE AN UGLY MOTHERFUCKER.

  YOU WILL WORK A SHIT JOB. NEVER GET PROMOTED. YOU WILL SPECIALIZE IN SELFDEPRECATING HUMOR. WON’T HELP YOU MAKE FRIENDS THOUGH.

  YOU WILL NEVER REACH YOUR POTENTIAL.

  YOU WILL SPEND NEARLY 3 YEARS OF YOUR LIFE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR POPPING ZITS AS AN ADULT.

  YOUR FRIENDS WILL BE UGLY MOTHERFUCKERS.

  YOU WILL GO WITH THEM TO SKANKY STRIPJOINTS.

  YOU WILL MARRY AN UGLYMOTHERFUCKER. SHE WILL MOST LIKELY BE OVERWEIGHT.