yes. I have ANOTHER ONE

Thank you. Call me the boy who can never finish anything. Bwahahahaha.

SO anyway, I'm having problems with this sim story.

1) it needs work, but i don't know where.
2) it needs screenshots, and i suck.

anyway, here goes.

Welcome to My Life

Home was never the place I’d love to be. In fact, it wasn’t even the last place I’d rather be instead of any other place. I hated it more than the trailer park a few blocks away. The junk, the smell, the people, all of those I could handle. But home? Oh goodness no. Not with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named (but he will be, sooner or later) living under the same roof with me. Put aside the fact that he was three years older, three brains wiser, and definitely three arms stronger than me. I hated him. Oh, and have I mentioned he was my brother?
   Belladonna. Of all the places on Earth, I lived in Belladonna, with my ‘family’, renting a fairly spacious room in a middle-class apartment; just a few blocks away from those trailer parks. Imagine my life. Sweet Belladonna, where status is everything, oh how I hated it here. Especially those sons of daughters of the high-class. Think they already got enough? Oh no, they always had to brag about their magnificence and charm and dignity and what-the-hell-am-I-saying kind of things. There was a good reason why the high-class were all piled up far on the hills; far from the middle and lower-class, and most especially far from me; but of course, with their greatness and air, they seemed to be scattered like rats or virus all over the town, and their work of doom could never be surpassed by none. Bravo, people. Bravo.
   311 Bella Park Road. The cursed 4-unit apartment that was called Crossroad Apartments. A pair of two two-story long buildings placed lengthwise on each side of the lot, facing one another, containing two apartment units each. This was home. At least, a part of it. The other three units were occupied by other families that need not be mentioned, as they hate them all the same. There were the Black family, a breed of whites (yes, I could notice the stupid irony) who know nothing than complain about every single freaking thing around them. Just days ago I saw Mrs. Black complaining about how the weather wouldn’t suit her plants’ conditions, and she kept on ranting about the whole day. It was torture, and it was fucking irritating. Just replace your messed up plants already! Or leave and move to a new apartment, for crying out loud! Sheesh!
   And then there were the Sutherlands. Or rather, Sutherland. Richard had lived alone for a few years now, but I had yet to see him actually bring a girl home. I always wondered on that matter; Richard was good-looking at 26, and he didn’t look like someone who would swallow his date up in the ass (did that even make sense?). I even once came to the conclusion that Richard was gay, but I dropped that. I already had to many gays in my life, even a neighbor would destroy me completely. Anyway, Richard was always seen outside his unit, sitting on a coffee table in front of his laptop, typing the hell out of him like there was no tomorrow. I dared myself to count how many mugs of coffee he could gulp down in one sitting, but I lost count. He was a coffee-gulping, never-sleeping, laptop-wrecking workaholic monster.
   And not but not the least (when it comes to the worst, they’re definitely not the least), may I present the family O’Hare. That couple of wicked, sadistic, possessed, psychotic, addicted, schizophrenic, masochistic, freaky, macabre cultists would definitely be at the top of the list of people I’d never want to meet again in my next life. Ugh. Just the thought of that horror couple could creep the nerves off of me. The spawn of Hell! They should be called the spawn of Hell!
   A simple day at Crossroad Apartments never existed. Everyday a Black would shout at no one complaining nonsense about things that should have been left alone; everyday Richard would be seen typing something in his laptop in front of his unit out in the yard, perhaps sinister, perhaps work, or perhaps a novel, while gulping countless gallons of coffee. Were there drugs in each mug, I would never know. And of course, everyday a psycho O’Hare would creep out of their doorstep and wreak havoc on Earth. In other words, the O’Hare couple never comes out at all, but a mysterious red glow would always be visible from their window. Which is why there was always a number of the nearby church posted on the fridge door, and even a self-proclaimed exorcists’, just in case…
   As I said, I never wanted to be at home, at Crossroad Apartments. Never. But somehow, through the work of some invisible and invincible vow, I was chained to this stupid unit like an old undisturbed and unnoticed painting. If there were a way to reverse the thread of life (uh, what?), I could have been living my life at the hills with those high-class goody two-shoes. Yes, I might be insecure. Got a problem with that?

   “I’m home,” I said, with the usual glum and indifferent expressions to show my undying gratitude. In my mind, ‘I’m home’ means ‘oh, great’. When would I be able to get the hell out of this place? When? When??!! “What’s for dinner? I’m starving, and we have big exams for tomorrow. I’d better stack up.”
   But the door didn’t answer me. In the first place, I’d die of shock if it did. That would have meant that one of the O’Hares cursed our door. Sighing, I walked up and turned the handle, my mind already conjuring up a view of what I would see in front of me. And hell, was it horrible.
   Hell, was it horrible.
   There they were, the monster and his monster girlfriend. Making out on the sofa like crazy prostitutes. Oh God. And if I thought that woman on Rihanna’s Disturbia (the one lying on something with a fan) was disturbing, then it was nothing compared to the sight of my own big brother and his freakish goth girlfriend committing sacrilege on Dad’s very own sofa. His hand on her butt, his lips on – God, I don’t even want to know what that part is called, it was unholy! Unholy, I tell you! And the worse part, they were enjoying it! Give me the knife so I could get this over with, I thought.
   I coughed.
   “Oliver,” I whispered, but by the way it came out, it turned into a soft command.
   Oliver looked up, at the same time his girlfriend Stephanie stared at me with those scary, scrutinizing eyes. Yikes. Not that I hated Goths, I just… hated Goths. They creep me out like roaches on a bun during a hot Monday morning. The make-up, the eyeliner, the outfit, the blackness, and the gloomy, tragic atmosphere they carry around – what’s not to hate? Add the fact that one of their species was my the doofus’ girlfriend, and well, let’s just say I’d rather eat fried roaches on a stick. No, I’d rather choose neither of the two.
   I mean, c’mon! Stephanie was a living vacuum, specializing on sucking the life out of every single happy thing. Her aura was tremendous, unbeatable. One look at those dark, gaping holes of the abyss, and you know you’re lost forever in eternal suffering. Ugh. It was a miracle how I managed to survive days and days of seeing her and looking into her eyes, much less see how she gets overcome by goth lust. Not a pretty sight.
   “What?!” was the only word that came out of his mouth, and with a sneer at that. His words became vacuum themselves. Stephanie’s goth disease was highly contagious, after all, and could only be prevented through the right vaccine. T’was a good thing I had mine a long, long time ago… Poor Oliver though, but hey, why should I care for someone who never even cared for his own life? Let him die of gothiness. It was his problem, not mine.
   “I’ll be in my room,” I said, as calmly and stoic as possible. Of all times that I hated Oliver, I hated him most when he was rebelling. And he was definitely rebelling. And not only did I hate him when he was on his stupid freaking ordeal, I feared him too. He would be capable of doing things unimaginable, I shuddered at the thought of it. He could kill if he wanted to, and when he was on his rebel mood, he would.
   That event marked a traumatic past for him. He was weak to such happenings. It had been only three months since it happened, and time wasn’t doing anything to ease his pain. To ease both our pains. But he never wanted to show his weakness. So instead of feeling so emo about it, he chose the other way around. He took to the goth nature; dated goth girls, wore goth clothes, did everything in a goth way. If My Chemical Romance could send me whimpering with fright, Oliver in his Joker-inspired make-up could kill me.
   I sat against the blue walls of my microscopic bedroom, my feet flat on the floor, my chin rested on my knees, my hands around my legs. I just sat there, unaware of everything around. What Oliver had done in front of me – it made me remember what made him like that. I was still on the process of loading that data, and it was taking me a long time to do it, but for him, access was denied. Still, though he could kill anytime he wanted to, there was still no sign of him actually wanting to. He was strong, yet also weak.
   If someone was to blame for this, then I was a hundred percent positive it was our dad’s fault. Three months ago… I could still remember everything. The white walls of the hospital, the busy nurses and doctors, all running about like all hell would break loose, the screams of nurses, telling others to fetch doctors, the sound of the wheels of wheelchairs echoed in my ears…

   Doctor Carter was possessed. I could feel it. Or he was crazy. Either way I knew he knew there was no hope for Mom. But he still insisted that she would live, that she could make it. But dear Lord, he knew he was wrong. He was fooling himself. Worse, he was fooling Dad. He was completely oblivious to the inevitable. Oliver, on the other hand, was trying his best to reject the truth. I could see in his eyes – eyes that were both hopeful, yet utterly hopeless – that he was seeking some portal to another world, to escape this harsh fate that awaited us.
   I never thought I would be this strong in front of the Intensive Care Unit room. I always thought I’d be crying when I face this room of death. Now, in front of me was a simple, white door which upper half was made of glass. I was standing in front of the boundary between me and Dad and Mom. Dad, who was grasping every inch of hope he could. I pitied him. It was definitely too much for him to bear, with the added fact that he was the cause of all this. But why did he choose now to destroy Mom’s life? OUR lives? Why, I kept on asking myself, but I knew better. There would never be an answer to that.
   Beside me was the spawn of hell. Just like Dad, this person was the cause of all of this. Both of them were. Why Mom was hospitalized, why Oliver was on the verge of insanity, why we silently waited for a miracle while expecting Mom’s death – no, there were no use for any euphemisms, it would be less painful this way – everything was their fault.
   It was all because Dad had another lover. If it were another woman, oh Jesus, Mom might have endured it. But no, hell gave us everything it got. I just didn’t know whether Jesus or Satan was to blame for all that has happened, for making Dad the way he secretly was.
   When Mom knew Dad was gay, the rapture came earlier than expected.
   George. George Dawson was the name of the man beside me. May he burn in the deepest pits of hell. The man who grabbed Dad from us, who pulled us from our serene life and put us in torture.
   Suddenly Oliver came bursting out of the ICU, and tears were flowing nonstop from his eyes. He headed straight to George. It didn’t surprise me that he punched him straight in the face.

   The sound of a car pulling over saved me from the suicidal memories. Only after a few seconds did I realize that the one driving that car was connected with those memories. But I had to forget everything again as quickly as possible. It wouldn’t help in the first place. What was done was done. I had to move on. If Oliver didn’t want to, it was his choice.
   Besides, reminding George and Jacob – the ones in the car, my dad and his new partner – the experience would make matters worse, as if it weren’t worse already, what with Stephanie (may the gods forgive me, but she is just a zombie, a lifeless, dull zombie) at our house. Oh, God. I could already imagine George’s reaction when he sees Oliver and Stephanie on the couch doing what heaven forbids.
   But I didn’t have to. It was already happening the moment I stepped out of my room to greet my dad and my dad – or so he wanted me to treat him. As if. Moving on…
   “Oliver, what in the name of all things holy are you doing?!” was what came out of Jacob’s – I’m surprised it wasn’t George who said it – mouth. From the looks of it, I was amazed his jaw could endure such length, and talk at the same time. Trains could come out of that thing if you added railways.
   After that, a war of words ensued, the first side being gay men, the other side a goth couple. I didn’t remember much, everything was too hazy, as if I was thrown a metal pot on the head (though I was damn sure Jacob couldn’t hurt a fly, much less Oliver, and Oliver was still sane, amazingly).
   I couldn’t remember because I didn’t want to. I was already facing too much of everything at school, seeing my own father and brother fight wouldn’t be of much help to relieve me of my stress.
   And of course, who could forget the crisis I was facing alone.