Author's note: I don't own the movie or the characters, but I like to make them dance around for your reading pleasure. Please read and review. My reason for writing this? People tend to think that Bender is mean and I wanted to show you why. More chapters to come.
It didn't matter how you looked at him. You hated him. John Bender was a rude, immature pig. That's what everybody thought. That's what John thought about himself.
It had gotten to the point where he didn't care any more. He was the asshole who shouted at the teachers and was always in detention. Like anybody actually cared about him.
Andrew had put it into the right words; "You don't even matter. You could disappear and nobody would even care,".
This was what John told himself as he left the school that Saturday. Claire had kissed him because he was her bad boy. He knew that she wouldn't give him the time of day back at school. Like he even wanted it.
As he slouched along the road back to his house he thought about the others. He thought about Claire, and her prissiness. He thought about Andrew and the way he had fallen for the basket case, he thought about Allison and how she would never fit in, about Brian and his stupid, perfect life. Most importantly, he thought about Vernon. Dick. Sorry - Rich.
He had threatened him. The worst part was that he knew that what he had said was true. Nobody would believe him. His parents - he didn't even consider them. The other teachers - would you believe the boy who set fire to the homecoming queen? His friends - did he even have any? Sure, he hung out with people, but he didn't really know them. They were his dope group. That was it.
He heaved a sigh and kicked the wall. He hated this stupid place.
Again the words came to him; 'You don't even matter.'
Those same words that kept him awake that night. He tossed and turned, trying to sleep. Now he remembered why he tried to be out most nights and fall asleep on somebody's roof. He could hear his parents in the next room. Arguing. They argued all night and then in the morning his mother went off to sleep with a 19 year old who worked in Bargain Barn with her. He didn't know what his father did -and frankly, he didn't give a damn.
He stood up and walked outside. He needed air. He tried not to look at his reflection as he passed the large hall mirror. He couldn't help it though. What did he see? An idiot. An idiot wearing a grey t-shirt, complete with sweat patches, and a pair of cruddy boxers. An idiot who still had nightmares about clowns and got up early so that he could watch kid's cartoons.
John looked aware fiercely. He walked outside into the yard and headed to the garage. He sat down, pulling off his t-shirt. He moved his hands to his stomach, and stroked a scar. They were thin, long. They ran across his stomach, straight lines. He had no idea if they would ever go. He didn't care. You couldn't see them unless you were looking for them.
He reached around the garage, searching for his knife. He found it, lying on top of the work-top, where he'd thrown it upon arrival from detention. He picked it up, and concentrated on the next set of cuts...