Title: Hurt
Word Count: 812
Summary: That's all his life had been, hurt. It was partly his fault, he knew that, but he was always hurt.
The first time Gary Barkovitch realized there was something wrong with him, he was seven years old.
He'd been at the park, just playing with his toy cars. Another boy came over – a boy that was probably around Barkovitch's age but twice his size – and asked to play with him. The boy was fat and wore glasses. Barkovitch thought of the film his mother liked to watch and said, "No, Piggy."
The boy went off crying and Barkovitch giggled and continued to play with his cars. Soon, his mother's friends dropped their kids off and the kids all played nicely, except maybe Barkovitch had made Leah cry a little. But Leah didn't mind.
When Gary Barkovitch was twelve, his family moved across town. He acted the way he always had, and by the time he was fourteen and entering high school, he cursed himself for not being able to keep his goddam mouth shut. Because that was his problem, really. If he thought something he said it, and half the time people took offence.
At just-turned-sixteen, Gary Barkovitch decided he wanted do The Long Walk. Last year a boy from his school had done it and nearly won, surely Barkovitch could handle it. So he tried for it. And he got picked. And he couldn't have been happier.
He carefully scripted how he would act, and decided that he would think before talking. And when the day came, he was more nervous about the 'people' aspect than the 'walk or die' aspect.
He was also a little nervous about the fact that, the sadder other people got, the happier he got. But he could hide that… right?
He sat by himself the hour before the Walk, and was more than a little jumpy when he went to go get his number.
There was an easy slide into conversation near the beginning and it had been going well, until that goddam number seventy-one made fun of him. He left before he could say anything that would really make them hate him.
As the Walk went on, however, he found he cared less and less. Who gave a fuck if they hadt him? They'd be dead soon anyway.
That was what he'd been thinking when the Rank thing happened – you know, the Rank that he hadn't killed so would they fucking stop calling him a killer. He'd just… retaliated. Retaliation was fine. It was OK. Rank was the second-worst, right after scarface. Number seventy-one would've been first, but Barkovitch was pretty sure he was going to die soon, so he didn't matter.
But scarface. Scarface wouldn't leave him alone. It wasn't like Parker, who was only a bastard when you talked to him, no, McVries followed him around and fucking told him to shut up whenever he opened his mouth, no matter what he was about to say.
And then Garraty had come up and he'd poured out his fucking soul, Christ there was something wrong with him and now Garraty knew that he was lonely and was probably going to tell scarface and then they'd hate him even more, but worse with a dash of pity thrown in.
He needed to show them he was fine on his own.
Because he had his Plan and his Plan was all he needed. His Plan, himself, his thoughts.
His thoughts were nice, in his thoughts he could float and dream and be alone but the nice kind of alone, the good alone, the Planned alone. He could do anything with his thoughts and even though the pain of his feet was still there in the back of his mind his thoughts were blissful and
Goddammit would Garraty ever leave him alone. The bastard had given him a third warning, too, and fuck, now he was going to die, fuck fuck fuck he was going to fucking die.
Oh, he'd been asked a question. A simple, easy question – one he didn't even have to think about. Plastic feet indeed.
But Garraty was pretty insane, Barkovitch figured, because he'd asked the weirdest question and fucking Abraham and Collie Parker who was just as bad as the rest of them now and fuck he hated them, oh fuck it all and dammit his thoughts wouldn't let him back in and he was stuck in reality and he couldn't take it but he was done crying goddammit and then someone died and they thought it was him but HA he wasn't dead.
Not yet he wasn't dead yet-
But he would be soon.
He needed to take care of it himself.
His hands found a hold on his throat and he pulled , it was surprisingly easy. Somehow thought all of this he was walking walking and still screaming because it hurt and his head hurt and his feet hurt and that's all his life had been, hurt, and-
This is the third time I've done this exact same thing. Oops. Cx
But I like it. I liked writing it, and I did start back sooner… I dunno. I had fun writing it, though it gave me a headache.