disclaimer: The Long Walk does not belong to me.
Take a moment to count your breaths.
Count each sweet, human, alive intake of breath. Human and alive were words that used to apply to you, but you're not sure anymore.
You can feel your feet bleeding through your socks-or is that sweat-and you're used to it by now. The dank, stale feeling of blood against cloth is one that's been with you for the last mile or so. Or was it two miles. Or three. You don't know anymore.
All you know is that once upon a time your name was Gary Barkovitch and you had a Plan. Now you're a haggard shell of a boy called number five. You don't have any warnings right now, and you know that that's good.
Just keep on walking, slowly picking up one foot and putting it down again and wondering how many blisters are forming on your feet as you hit the ground.
You don't know where you are, really. Definitely not the waking world. Maybe some sort of fucked-up purgatory between being alive and dead. It's a primal state of being, makes you think of the Neanderthals who'd walk through snow for hours on end. Maybe this was how they did it. Huh.
You feel pus start to ooze out of something on your foot, and you know you deserve it. You deserve every last fucking thing you get. You're a worthless, stupid fucking mess of a waste of space that probably can't even be called a person anymore.
What does being a person constitute of, anyways? Who decides what's human and not human? Was it those damn Neanderthals?
Whoever it was, you'd like to sit down and have a talk with them. You know that whatever a person is, you're not one. You're just a fucking ball of atoms and molecules that the world would be fine without.
But you know what? You could say the same about every other goddamn person you know. No one's special. You're all just completely trained to do what's decreed right and good by some higher power from long ago and no one knows why but you all just do it anyways. No one's special. Everybody dies, in the end. And a hell of a lot of people deserve it.
Because it's a filthy goddamn world, you're all just the scum of the earth and nobody knows it. Everybody thinks that humanity is all so special, because of some scientific bullshit. A developed brain doesn't make you any less of the filth you are.
You just wish everyone would just hurry up and die. And that includes you. You're taking your sweet time living. You wish with all your heart that you could just lay down at and die and bam, that'd be it. No more you.
Hell, you want to see everyone around you drop like a fly. Maybe that's why you joined this damn thing. Because of the sick pleasure that comes with watching people die. Knowing that it's not you who's dead. Man, that feels great.
Sure, you think, there's probably somebody out there whose existence is worth it, but you have yet to find one. Funny how things are like that. A select few get the good side of humanity all to themselves, but everybody else is left with bullshit. You aren't buying any of that stuff about everybody being equal, because it sure as hell isn't true.
That brings back a memory of back when you were real. When at least you could sit down every once in awhile. You remember when you would just be doing whatever the fuck you wanted, and someone would shove you against one of the vomit-colored lockers. You could feel the metal through your sweatshirt, grating against the fabric.
You'd pull out your knife and curse at them, and then run away as fast as you could. Ah, shit, running. You don't want to think about running. Or moving at all, for that matter. Well, not the actual action, but the feeling. As long as you don't feel it, you can keep walking.
Yeah. That's it. Just keep on walking as a numb shell of a boy.
You like this emotionless state. Feels sort of like you do after you've had a smoke, like you're on the edge of death but nothing can touch you. Nothing really hurts. Sure, there's some pus in your sucks, but you can't feel it. Not at all. You're just numb, numb, numb all over.
You hear your name. They think you're flickering out. Ha. Hahahahah. Fuck them. You're going to win. Yes, you're going to win against all these shitheads. This brings a smile to your face. Not a real smile, but the twisted crescent grin of someone who can end a human life. You haven't had a real smile in awhile. Wonder what it feels like, you think. Just to pull your lips up into a nice little smile because you're happy.
Happy. That almost makes you laugh. Cheerful today, aren't we?
Happiness is for the ignorant. Happiness is fucking overrated. You don't need it, you don't want it, you don't-
Suddenly you can't stand the fact that they're talking about you because you can hear it don't they know that you can hear it fuck them fuck humanity fuck-
You scream whatever obscene words come to mind and hope that they're appropriate for the moment and then there are hands around your throat. You're not sure whose they are and you want to claw at them but somehow you can't. You bet it's that asshole McVries, he's wanted you gone for awhile.
The hands get faster, harder, and it feels good. Like jerking off. But then nails dig into skin and you make a gasping, screaming laugh as you realize whose hands these are.
They're yours.
You said you'd fucking win and you will. No one wins the goddamn Long Walk. Everyone loses, ninety-nine get shot and one gets to live. He's the real loser.
You won't pick either of those options and you tear harder at your own skin, hoping to god that you hit something vital that will just end it already. You can hear someone screaming and warnings going off, and practically feel the others' eyes on you.
Yes, boys, look all you want. Look at your winner. Look at you breaking out of the game, kicking the ball out of the court and smashing a window. You suddenly just find it so fucking funny that if you get a foul, it counts against you. People who get fouls are smart. They're too aggressive for the system, they deserve some recognition.
And you scream again, this time out of pain, because your hands are covered in your own blood and you think you hit something that'll make it finally end. Your world starts flickering in between black and white, the numbness is going away and suddenly you can feel again.
Dammit, you want to die, not feel. Death is the absence of stimuli, you want that dammit, why won't they just let you have that? Fuck, it'll feel so great to finally be rid of all this. You start counting your breaths again, just for good measure.
One.
Warnings are still hanging in the air. They don't even matter anymore. Fuck the whole warning system.
Two.
Every fucking one of these things means you're still alive. Why don't they just fucking end?
Three.
You're not such a bad guy, after all. But then again, no one will care about that or ever even get a chance to find that out.
Four.
Your little life doesn't mean anything.
Five.
And then there are none.
I was in a bad mood, so this happened.