disclaimer: you know the deal it isn't mine
Art Baker was a nice enough guy, but even he had limits.
And some people just pushed them. In his opinion, there were some people in the world whose aim in life it was to push other people's limits. Just to get under their skin until they screamed and got mean.
And Gary Barkovitch was a prime example of a person like that.
For starters, he was always yelling. And swearing. And just...throwing himself at other people. Like some sort of really jumpy dog that bit everybody.
Baker almost pitied the guy. He really just wanted attention, it was sort of obvious. And he didn't seem to really know how to get it in any other way than, well...being a huge dick.
The small, angry boy appeared to be getting at least a little bit tired. Baker would've said that that was a good thing, but honestly, he didn't want Barkovitch to die or anything. He was just sort of tired of him talking.
"What're you looking at?" Barkovitch's head snapped up from his half-doze. "Fantasizing about me while I sleep or whatever shit?"
"Lord, no." Baker crossed his arms. "I wasn't looking at anything."
"Huh. You're a real piece of work, d'you know that? Acting like you're all fucking nice and pure to everybody. Man, guys like you really piss me off."
"I'm not aiming to get you to like me, you know. You piss me off too, Barkovitch."
"Never you said you were fucking trying to get me to like you. That'd be creepy as fuck. Why aren't you with your stupid-ass musketeers, anyways?"
Baker shrugged. "They're just carrying on conversation without me. And I just wanted some time to think, you know? Being alone can be sorta comforting."
"Alone's the only way to fuckin' be in life. Other people are terrible."
"Oh, come on. They aren't so bad half the time. Sure, there are some pretty bad people, but not all of them." Baker sighed, looking up at the fast-darkening night sky.
"Yeah. All of them. All of the fucking people in the whole goddamn world are horrible and don't deserve my time."
"That's a little narrow-minded, don't ya think?" Baker moved closer to Barkovitch, trying to look as pleasant as he could.
"Shit, no. Every last one of you fucks is terrible." Barkovitch gestured at the boys in front of him. "All of humanity is annoying and fucking disgusting. Me included."
Baker got close enough so that he could walk next to Barkovitch. It was a little sad, actually. The poor guy's self esteem was out the window. Baker had to wonder what had ever happened to him in life to make him such a sad, angry fucker. "Not you. You're not disgusting, Barkovitch."
"Shut the fuck up."
"Why do you hate yourself?"
"Everybody hates me, why not fucking hate myself too? And you're not helping, you piece of southern shit. I hate me because I'm like a carnivorous plant in a garden of weeds. I don't belong and I'm even more of a fuck-up than everybody else, but that doesn't make everybody else any less horrible."
"Barkovitch. I think that you look lovely today and that if you tried, you could be a pretty damn fine person."
"You're a liar, Art Baker."
"I mean it." Baker put a hand on Barkovitch's shoulder, feeling him quickly jerk away. "I don't think you really mean it all, Barkovitch, not really. You don't think you're any good so you don't want anybody else to think they're any good. I think you're a nice guy, under all that. You just want somebody to like you."
"Stop making me out to be some sort of fucking Holden Caulfield!"
"See, you've got knowledge in literature. That's always a good thing to have. I think the real place to start with you, my friend, is to get you to realize some things about you that are actually pretty good. The world's a piss poor place, Barkovitch, but there are some awfully good things in it." Shit, why am I doing this? The guy's never going to listen to me.
"What're you even suggesting?"
"That you and I should talk for awhile. Talk about you. Tell me, Barkovitch, what's something you like about yourself?"
"I hate every fucking thing about myself, you fucking prick."
Baker put his hand back on Barkovitch's shoulder. "There's something good down in your stupid, silly soul. You just haven't looked hard enough."
"What sort of stupid friendship novel did you hop out of?"
"This is reality. You can deny it all you'd like, but I'm fucking real. And I'm trying to help you out, no matter how much you don't seem to want it."
Barkovitch snorted sardonically, but seemed to give in to the fact that he wasn't going to get Baker to go away. "I guess...I'm good at writing shit." He fished around in the pockets of his sweatshirt and shoved a wad of paper into Baker's hands.
It was scrawled in messy handwriting and crease lines from the paper being wadded up were all over it, but it was poetry. Angry, sorrowful poetry that looked more like a plea for help than anything Baker had ever seen before. It was good, though. Better than anything Baker had ever written.
Baker squinted at the paper. There were erased ramblings in the margins of the poem, he could make out 'kill me' and 'i mean nothing i am nothing no one needs me no one fucking wants me here on this fucking earth.'
"Barkovitch," he said softly. "You need help."
"I fucking know that! I know that I need help! Now leave me the fuck alone!"
"Barkovitch." Suddenly every bit of hatred Baker had had for the other boy just filtered out. He was just a sick, sad, scared person just like the rest of them. He needed somebody to be around, just somebody to listen.
"Yeah? The fuck do you want now?"
"I'm here."
"Yeah, I gathered that."
Baker wrapped an arm around Barkovitch. The boy was slight enough that it seemed like he practically crumpled into Baker's embrace. "I'm here. You're going to live through this alright, you poor fucking thing."
Baker waited for Barkovitch to say something snarky in response, but nothing came. It took a few minutes for him to realize that Barkovitch was crying.
He'd never had an urge to just grab somebody and pull them away from all the bad things in the world the way he had with this stupid, angry boy. Because he'd seen far too many of them and it was just so fucked-up that good people got ruined like this. Baker found himself whispering 'shh' over and over again and stroking Barkovitch's dark hair, and for a moment the two boys seemed to be completely content with each other.
sad music can do some horrible things to your head