All I Have To Live For

Chapter One

Karkat's day began with a loud clamoring of metal on tile nearby outside his door, followed by the low hum of curses he knew all too well. He forced an eye open to check the glowing red numbers from his alarm clock on the night stand. Five o'clock in the morning. With a groan, he rolled out of bed and shuffled out to check on his dad.

The kitchen floor was littered with red-painted metal pots and shattered glass lids. His father was clutching his head with a tired expression, but glared when he turned to face Karkat. Without any explanation (not that Karkat needed one; he was used to this by now), asked, "Where did you unpack the plastic bowls?"

Cautiously, Karkat moved to a cupboard by the fridge and brought one down. His dad took it without a word of thanks and began making himself some cereal. After he left, Karkat grumbled to himself and warmed up some pancakes.

It was still very dark outside, and rather cold on the balcony adjoining the living space of their apartment, but Karkat slid out onto it anyway. He liked the balcony, and he was sure, given different circumstances, his father would, too; his father had always wanted one in the dream house he and Karkat's mother had already begun construction on. But after she died, his father became too much of an emotional wreck to finish the house. They now lived in a semi-rundown apartment just outside Houston, surviving (barely) on the money they had. Karkat's dad was "looking for work" every day, which, Karkat knew, was a lie. He was just out blowing their money on alcohol at the local bars. Some nights he came home drunk and the next morning's hangover would wake him up extremely early, hungry and grumpy and tired.

Karkat rolled up his left sleeve gently and winced as he saw the bruise his father had left the night before. It was sickly blue-purple and roughly the size of a peach.

When his father left the living room to go out to town, Karkat slipped back inside to clean up the mess he knew would be there. The tan plastic bowl seemed to have been thrown towards the sink. Milk sloshed sloppily over the side onto the false granite counter top and tile floor. He checked and, sure enough, found the metal spoon that had been carelessly tossed into the trash can. He sighed, righting the kitchen and rinsing off the dishes.

It was almost six in the morning when Karkat could finally go back to his room, but it was too late to go back to sleep and a bit too early to get ready for school. He chose instead to pull one of his favorite books from the small shelf above the computer desk and curled up with it by the window. He read and watched the sun rise through dim, dirty panes of glass.

When he finally left for school, looming gray clouds had formed low in the sky. For this, Karkat was grateful; the less direct sun the better. In his old town, strong sun rays were nearly a non-issue, but here he burned very easily. Even when it was rather warm, he wore long sleeves and pants. But on days when the sun was covered, he didn't have to worry too much.

Within a good twelve minutes or so, the short brick building came into view. Teens cluttered the small park-like area outside of it, but Karkat avoided them and weaved his way in through a side door. He headed towards the secluded music rehearsal rooms near the band hall. He liked to leave his guitar there to practice in the mornings, in a nice, quiet environment, much unlike his home.

He strummed a few chords gently and fiddled with the tuning. Finally, he deemed it spot-on and began his warmup. His fingers slid easily across the strings, changing positions fluidly. He hummed along; he always felt happy when he played, especially since there was no one around when he did. Well, not usually.

He knew of one guy- Dave Strider- who sometimes came to the rehearsal rooms, too. Dave liked to mess around with his turntables, spinning records and syncopating beats. Karkat knew Dave got lost in his electronic music, just as Karkat did with his guitar. Anyone could walk up to Dave and try to get his attention, but if he was playing they had as good a chance at conversation as with a wall.

One day, Dave had somehow managed to barge in on his session without being noticed. Rather than set up his equipment, though, he leaned against the wall and listened to Karkat play. The latter was so caught up in his jam that he still hadn't noticed his audience until the bell rang and disturbed his trance. Dave clapped as he finished. Karkat stuttered and shrunk back defensively, embarrassed at not having seen the onlooker, but he packed up quickly and rushed out.

After all, Dave was popular and cool and of high social caste- that much was drilled into his head from day one- and Karkat was just...

Nobody.

…

Classes went by slowly, as they usually did. Karkat sat at the backs of classrooms, away from the other students. Sometimes they looked at him weirdly. Even though he put on blue contacts to hide his weird, pink-red eyes and a dark wig over his pigment-less hair. He hated his genes, hated how even though he covered them up best he could, people still stared at his face, the smooth, paper-white skin that reddened and was broken so easily, so often...

Lunch was no different. He often skipped it to hide away in the locked band hall rooms, where he could be alone. He didn't eat often because of it; his dorky friend, John, back in his old town had said he was going to starve, though he was already skinny as a rail and couldn't gain weight (regardless of how hard he tried). He missed John sometimes, missed their squabbles and jokes, missed hanging out with him after school. He didn't have friends here, thanks to his mutant genes. A girl named Nepeta had shown interest in talking to him the first day, but a tall, muscular boy with a sweating problem dissuaded her from "cavorting" (who even used that word anymore?) with the stranger. Karkat didn't care. He was ready to accept being alone all the time.

It was just the way things would have to be.

The last period in Karkat's day was health. His teacher, Mr. Noir, was a tall, olive-skinned man with a hint of an upstate New York accent, Karkat had placed. He mainly wore dark suits and a black hat- which he even wore inside, much to the principal's chagrin, gleaming black shoes, and a scowl. There was a scar running across his face, slicing over his left eye in a deep gash, rather unsightly. Mr. Noir didn't say anything of it and the students were all too afraid to ask how he got it.

Health was a boring class. Most days their teacher was busy working on some thing or another, so there were several consecutive days of free period. Many of the students chatted amongst themselves. Karkat read and occasionally glanced up to watch them. That day, he noticed Dave, pencil poised, doodling in the back of the book. Dave caught his eye- or at least Karkat thought he did; it was hard to tell since Dave had on those dumb sunglasses- and smirked, holding the book up to display his drawing to Karkat. It was just a scribble of a man falling down stairs. Karkat rolled his eyes and went back to his book. Dave huffed and, after a moment, Karkat heard his pencil scratching across paper again. A moment later there was a crumpled piece of paper on his desk.

Dave watched as he opened it. Scrawled almost illegibly in bright red ink was a note. Karkat blinked and set his face to hide his disbelief. A note? When was the last time someone had wanted to talk to him?

hey your names karkat right? you play guitar dont you

Karkat looked back to the cool kid, whose arms were now crossed comfortably, and who nodded at the note, a gesture for him to reply. He hesitated. What was Dave up to?

Yeah, I do. Why do you care?

He re-crumpled the paper and tossed it back. Dave caught it easily and read the answer. He scribbled again, taking a bit longer this time.

cause me and my friend are looking to start a band. would you be interested?

Karkat tapped his pen against the paper.

Next Chapter choices:

Karkat: Why not

Karkat: No way