Mr Orange
Rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb...
seeing as the wounds from my last critique have just about healed, i thought i'd post up another one. 
this is the opening chapter of the same WIP that the prologue i posted a while back is from. my main worry is that there is just too much information in it before i get to any reason to care about the MC or his situation. to try to combat this i have added the voicemail message in at the start of the chapter, but i don't think this really works either. anyway, here we go:
____________________________________________________
“Gerry! Are you okay? It’s Christy. Answer your phone! Have… Have you seen them? They’re everywhere!… I’m scared Gerry!”
Gerard woke with a start. He immediately wished he hadn’t, as drums began to beat inside his head. The thudding sound rose, getting louder and louder until it reached an unbearable climax. He waited for the throbbing to recede and, when it was almost bearable, tried to get out of his chaotic mess of a bed. Tripping over his crumpled blankets he fell onto a wet patch on the floor that he hoped was whiskey.
After a pause, he managed to pull himself up by the doorframe and turned to survey the room. One pillow was still on the bed, the other was nowhere to be seen. The offending blankets that had just caught him out partially covered the pile of beer cans and whiskey bottles that littered the once expensive carpet. The sight of all this wasn’t making Gerard’s headache any better but he stood, unmoving, as he had a feeling that his living room was going to be worse. He caught sight of himself in the mirror that stood on the other side of the bed. Red, bleary eyes stared back from beneath an unruly mop of mousy brown hair and above a bare, pale and overweight torso.
Summoning what little energy he had left, he pushed off the doorframe and stumbled into the open plan kitchen/dining/living room. Heading straight to the kitchenette he pointedly ignored the living area, yanking open the two cupboards that still had doors in search of a clean glass. Nothing. The third door-less cupboard – presumably the door lying on the floor belonged to it – was empty as well. A large tumbler of what he could only assume was orange juice sat on the counter. He took a tentative sip. Vodka and orange, even better. Gerard rummaged in the kitchen drawer until his fingers touched the foil encased paracetamol tablets. Popping two in his mouth he took a gulp of the vodka and orange and washed them down. He paused, then broke open another tablet and washed this down with the remaining contents of the tumbler.
Seeing the half-empty bottle of vodka and the juice carton next to the sink Gerard shrugged to himself and poured another strong one. He drained half of it and then, steadying himself with a deep breath, spun around to face the living room. A little too quickly it turned out as the room swam and his head threatened to float off his shoulders. Finishing the drink seemed to help with the dizziness and the scene in front of him slowly swam into focus.
Gerard’s living room resembled his bedroom, except that there were various pizza boxes and half-empty takeaway containers amongst the beer cans and liquor bottles. At least the mystery of the missing pillow was solved, as he could see it sitting against the wall in the corner. Well, half of it was anyway. The synthetic filling was spilling out of the torn bottom end like white fluffy intestines. That interesting thought was enough to bring nausea to Gerard’s stomach and he quickly waded through the mess on the floor and fell heavily onto the old, worn Chesterfield. As he sat staring at the static on the widescreen television, he noticed the picture of Christine beside it.
The thought of Christine brought back the whole reason for his stinking hangover, and Gerard instinctively reached for the unopened can of Guinness on the coffee table. Cracking it open, he took a mouthful and glanced up at the clock on the wall. The digital display told him it was 10:06am, Wednesday the 4th of August. That meant he hadn’t left his flat for over 3 days. “Not a bad effort Mr Lesol” he muttered to himself. Although he was going to have to leave soon, as it looked like the alcohol supplies were running disastrously low. Sighing, he closed his eyes against the hissing static.
As the hissing played a symphony with the banging inside his head, a hazy memory started to nag at Gerard’s mind. A voice.... Talking to him.... Christine..... But he couldn’t answer her....
“Oh crap, my phone!”
He jumped up, and a heavy wave of dizziness hit him. Before Gerard knew what was happening, he was spread-eagled over his coffee table, flying like some drunken, takeaway stained superman, his stomach supported by a mulch of wet curry and sweet and sour pork.
Using a method that involved much flailing of arms and legs and that ended up with the coffee table upside down, he managed to get to his feet and stumbled around the room, dripping sweet and sour curry. Searching for his phone, he soon found it on the floor next to the Chesterfield. He quickly dialled his voicemail and the polite, tinny, strangely asexual voice informed him that he had one saved message. It seemed to take an age to play but finally started in a slightly garbled version of Christine’s voice.
“Gerry! Are you okay? It’s Christy. Answer your phone! Have… Have you seen them? They’re everywhere!… I’m scared Gerry! Please please call me when you get this. I really need…“
What she needed was lost in the harsh click of a disconnected phone line. Gerard played the message again without getting any more information, then hung up and called Christine’s mobile. The call went straight to her voicemail. He tried her home phone next. The phone rang nine times before he hung up. He tried both numbers again with the same results. Hanging up the phone, Gerard was immediately stung into determined action. In his dazed, hungover state he was certain of only one thing: He had to get to Christine’s house.
Gerard hurriedly poured himself another large vodka and orange. He gulped it down, hoping it would help to get rid of his annoyingly persistent hangover. He wondered what Christine’s rather strange message could mean, and what the rest of it was... “I need your help”... “I need a favour”... or... “I need you back”
Whatever it was, the edginess and fear in her voice was unmistakable. The copious amounts of alcohol and junk food Gerard had consumed in the last few days were meant to get rid of his feelings for Christine but it was obvious now it hadn’t worked. The need to look after Christine and keep her from harm still burned inside him. It was a feeling that had washed over him the first time she had spoken to him and had never left. Even after all the hurtful words that had been spoken and the even more hurtful things he had done, he still had to make sure she was okay.
this is the opening chapter of the same WIP that the prologue i posted a while back is from. my main worry is that there is just too much information in it before i get to any reason to care about the MC or his situation. to try to combat this i have added the voicemail message in at the start of the chapter, but i don't think this really works either. anyway, here we go:____________________________________________________
“Gerry! Are you okay? It’s Christy. Answer your phone! Have… Have you seen them? They’re everywhere!… I’m scared Gerry!”
~
Gerard woke with a start. He immediately wished he hadn’t, as drums began to beat inside his head. The thudding sound rose, getting louder and louder until it reached an unbearable climax. He waited for the throbbing to recede and, when it was almost bearable, tried to get out of his chaotic mess of a bed. Tripping over his crumpled blankets he fell onto a wet patch on the floor that he hoped was whiskey.
After a pause, he managed to pull himself up by the doorframe and turned to survey the room. One pillow was still on the bed, the other was nowhere to be seen. The offending blankets that had just caught him out partially covered the pile of beer cans and whiskey bottles that littered the once expensive carpet. The sight of all this wasn’t making Gerard’s headache any better but he stood, unmoving, as he had a feeling that his living room was going to be worse. He caught sight of himself in the mirror that stood on the other side of the bed. Red, bleary eyes stared back from beneath an unruly mop of mousy brown hair and above a bare, pale and overweight torso.
Summoning what little energy he had left, he pushed off the doorframe and stumbled into the open plan kitchen/dining/living room. Heading straight to the kitchenette he pointedly ignored the living area, yanking open the two cupboards that still had doors in search of a clean glass. Nothing. The third door-less cupboard – presumably the door lying on the floor belonged to it – was empty as well. A large tumbler of what he could only assume was orange juice sat on the counter. He took a tentative sip. Vodka and orange, even better. Gerard rummaged in the kitchen drawer until his fingers touched the foil encased paracetamol tablets. Popping two in his mouth he took a gulp of the vodka and orange and washed them down. He paused, then broke open another tablet and washed this down with the remaining contents of the tumbler.
Seeing the half-empty bottle of vodka and the juice carton next to the sink Gerard shrugged to himself and poured another strong one. He drained half of it and then, steadying himself with a deep breath, spun around to face the living room. A little too quickly it turned out as the room swam and his head threatened to float off his shoulders. Finishing the drink seemed to help with the dizziness and the scene in front of him slowly swam into focus.
Gerard’s living room resembled his bedroom, except that there were various pizza boxes and half-empty takeaway containers amongst the beer cans and liquor bottles. At least the mystery of the missing pillow was solved, as he could see it sitting against the wall in the corner. Well, half of it was anyway. The synthetic filling was spilling out of the torn bottom end like white fluffy intestines. That interesting thought was enough to bring nausea to Gerard’s stomach and he quickly waded through the mess on the floor and fell heavily onto the old, worn Chesterfield. As he sat staring at the static on the widescreen television, he noticed the picture of Christine beside it.
The thought of Christine brought back the whole reason for his stinking hangover, and Gerard instinctively reached for the unopened can of Guinness on the coffee table. Cracking it open, he took a mouthful and glanced up at the clock on the wall. The digital display told him it was 10:06am, Wednesday the 4th of August. That meant he hadn’t left his flat for over 3 days. “Not a bad effort Mr Lesol” he muttered to himself. Although he was going to have to leave soon, as it looked like the alcohol supplies were running disastrously low. Sighing, he closed his eyes against the hissing static.
As the hissing played a symphony with the banging inside his head, a hazy memory started to nag at Gerard’s mind. A voice.... Talking to him.... Christine..... But he couldn’t answer her....
“Oh crap, my phone!”
He jumped up, and a heavy wave of dizziness hit him. Before Gerard knew what was happening, he was spread-eagled over his coffee table, flying like some drunken, takeaway stained superman, his stomach supported by a mulch of wet curry and sweet and sour pork.
Using a method that involved much flailing of arms and legs and that ended up with the coffee table upside down, he managed to get to his feet and stumbled around the room, dripping sweet and sour curry. Searching for his phone, he soon found it on the floor next to the Chesterfield. He quickly dialled his voicemail and the polite, tinny, strangely asexual voice informed him that he had one saved message. It seemed to take an age to play but finally started in a slightly garbled version of Christine’s voice.
“Gerry! Are you okay? It’s Christy. Answer your phone! Have… Have you seen them? They’re everywhere!… I’m scared Gerry! Please please call me when you get this. I really need…“
What she needed was lost in the harsh click of a disconnected phone line. Gerard played the message again without getting any more information, then hung up and called Christine’s mobile. The call went straight to her voicemail. He tried her home phone next. The phone rang nine times before he hung up. He tried both numbers again with the same results. Hanging up the phone, Gerard was immediately stung into determined action. In his dazed, hungover state he was certain of only one thing: He had to get to Christine’s house.
Gerard hurriedly poured himself another large vodka and orange. He gulped it down, hoping it would help to get rid of his annoyingly persistent hangover. He wondered what Christine’s rather strange message could mean, and what the rest of it was... “I need your help”... “I need a favour”... or... “I need you back”
Whatever it was, the edginess and fear in her voice was unmistakable. The copious amounts of alcohol and junk food Gerard had consumed in the last few days were meant to get rid of his feelings for Christine but it was obvious now it hadn’t worked. The need to look after Christine and keep her from harm still burned inside him. It was a feeling that had washed over him the first time she had spoken to him and had never left. Even after all the hurtful words that had been spoken and the even more hurtful things he had done, he still had to make sure she was okay.
