"Garraty's name was shouted with monotonous frequency, but blocs of out-of-staters cheered briefly for Barkovitch, Pearson, Wyman."
What the everloving fuck were they doing here?
Gary Barkovitch studied the group as he walked past, narrowing his eyes in half-confusion, half-annoyance. He didn't know why they were there. Were they hoping to actually see him die now? He didn't think one person there had ever even tolerated him. It would be too much to hope for someone who liked him – his family was back home, and even that wasn't a definite 'like' – but there had been a few people who had tolerated him. Maybe. If he really thought about it.
There was that Beyr kid – oh, wait, nope, Beyr didn't tolerate him anymore. Not since Beyr had 'rescued' him from Hollard and his gang and Barkovitch, annoyed with Beyr stepping in, had snapped at him. Now Beyr didn't like him, just like everyone else. Maybe Allan Carson had tolerated him; Carson tolerated basically everyone. He was best friends with the retard, after all.
Oh wait, Carson hadn't liked him since Barkovitch had pointed out that he chose to spend his time with a retard.
Who had been there, anyway? He'd only caught a glimpse of them, even though he'd glared for as long as the four-miles-per-hour pace would allow. He'd seen Lucas Hollard, the prick who liked to have his lackeys shove Barkovitch down flights of stairs and into garbage cans and lockers and had been the cause of many broken bones for Barkovitch. Allan Carson and the retard had been there, of course, Carson was a social kid and he drug the retard around everywhere. No Casey Beyr – his dad hit him and he was probably too busy hiding out while his bruises healed. It had been a rare day at school when Beyr didn't have a black eye or something of the sort, if he was there at all. Sometimes he was so beat up he couldn't use the multiple fights he got into as a weak excuse nobody believed.
Edith Tanner had been there. She'd been the school slut, the bitch that had kissed Barkovitch the day before he'd left D.C. His… well, his first kiss, actually. It had been rough, it had tasted like cigarettes, and Edith had taken off before Barkovitch could react. He still didn't know why she'd done that. He didn't think it had anything to do with her liking him.
Of course it hadn't had anything to do with her liking him.
Nobody liked him.
Hell, he didn't even think he liked him.
He didn't want to think about them anymore. The list of people who didn't-even-tolerate-him was too long, much longer than those few he'd thought of there. If he thought about school and what had gone on there and the day-to-day near-torture he'd had to deal with. He wasn't being overdramatic about it, either. Nobody had liked him, and he didn't blame them. He was a prick. He was a freak. He was a bastard.
He had the Plan, though, he'd be fine. The Plan, the thinly veiled suicide plan. But it wasn't suicide. Because he was going to win.
But if he didn't win, it didn't matter, anyway. Nobody would care. People at school would be happier. His family would sure as hell be happier without their problem child – sure, they'd mourn, Mom and Dad because it was the right thing to do and Joshua because, maybe, he was sad that his little brother had died.
But if he did win…
If he did win, of course he'd be happier. 'Money can't buy happiness' was bullshit. Of course money could buy happiness. Money could buy friends, money could buy everything he'd wanted. He could… he could buy a nice house, a nice car, and of course everyone would like him because… because he had money. And that's what people liked, because human beings were shallow bastards, the lot of them. Money could definitely buy happiness.
Caught up in thoughts of happiness, Barkovitch tripped and was warned. He swore under his breath as he picked up the pace, shoving his hands into his pockets and slouching a bit. He could head the pack. Some kids liked to stay in back, like the freak with the purple pants, and maybe that 'conserved energy' and all that shit, but who the fuck cared about that? Unpredictability was… well, it was his thing, right? Be different, stand out? They couldn't hurt him here. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me, right?
Right?
That was bullshit too, no matter how much he tried to think it was real. Total and utter bullshit. Words didn't hurt if you thought you were the best fucking thing that had ever bothered to grace the Earth with your presence, but for the rest of us, words did a hell of a lot. Get told you're a freak and that nobody likes you enough times you start to believe it. And anyway, if he didn't believe it, he'd be delusional, at least about that last part.
Even here he'd tried talking to people, tried being a little nice. First that fucking Olson had screwed everything up, and then he'd tried talking to Garraty, "Maine's Own Queer for Scarface", on his own, but he could tell that Garraty didn't like him. The thing about Garraty though, was that he didn't show it as much as the others. Not like Collie Parker, who, to be honest, scared the shit out of Barkovitch. Not only was he huge, but he was violent, and Barkovitch had a feeling that, if he wanted to, he could convince other people onto his side.
Yeah, if all the Walkers had met in other circumstances, Collie Parker would probably be making his life a living hell.
Not that Walking wasn't hellish enough, of course. His feet hurt, his back hurt, his legs hurt, and he was alone.
Not really the best recipe for success, there, Gary, you should've thought this through I did then why is it turning out like this I don't know the Plan the Plan is stupid the Plan isn't doing shit shut up you're talking to yourself asshole you're crazy no wonder nobody likes you shut up shut up shut up.
He was breaking down. He couldn't do this; he couldn't fall apart now, this was the absolute worst time to fall apart. He needed to concentrate. Concentrate. Maybe if he got a few more warnings, put himself up to three, he'd concentrate better.
Yeah.
That would work.
He stopped walking, ignoring everyone's gazes. He just stood for a minute – he debated sitting down, but he had a feeling that he wouldn't be getting up anytime soon if he did so – waiting for them to call out his warnings. After they had and he was thirty seconds away from death, Gary Barkovitch continued his walk.
and now I am back in barkovitch's head
now i can write sad fanfiction with him because i have a perfect pandora station and have successfully gotten back unto mostly not-insane barkovitch's head
prepare yourselves
also that is probably the most rambly thing i've ever written jesus christ aurora have you ever heard of paragraph breaks
