Disclaimer: I don't own Bender. There, I admitted it. Now you can't sue me.
The light flickered, that clicky electric buzz echoing around the tiny room. The floor seemed so close to him as he sat on the edge of the bathtub donning only his ratty old jeans and some socks, his chest aching. He sniffled instinctively, brushing at the blood that dripped from his nose with the pad of his thumb. The cherry red blood glistened on his fingers and he was sure that it was smeared across his top lip and across his cheek, thick and sticky.
He stared, fixated, as he rubbed his thumb against his fingers, the blood clinging between the stretched out digits in stringy, globular lumps.
His head hurt.
It was a lie. All a great big lie. Nobody cared, nobody wanted to care. His mere existence was just the gum on the bottom ofhumanity's shoe, begging to be trodden into some cheap carpet in somebody's dingy home. All that would be left of it eventually would be the lingering sense of annoyance, the dark hardened spot that could never truly be removed. John smiled bitterly to himself, knowing that was what he had been reduced to. He was the hardened patch of gum on the carpet that nobody ever really recalled tracking into the house but always noticed and thought 'where the fuck did that come from?' but were never really too bothered to care.
He fingered the bruise around his arm, just below the elbow. His old man knew that he always wore shirts with sleeves, no matter what the weather was like outside. That's why he would grab him there, hard enough to swing him around and propel him into the wall. Sometimes his head would bounce off the drywall, sometimes it would crack against a picture frame or occasionally even into the key hooks just inside the kitchen door.
John always knew how bad the next beating would be, depending on where it happened. If it was in the living room, he never bled. Too hard to get out of the carpet and upholstery. His injuries were always minor in the living room. If they were in the kitchen when his father deemed it necessary to discipline him, there was blood. The slick substance was easier to lift off the linoleum floor in there. When they were in the garage… There were burns.
He gingerly touched the burn scar on his forearm, the memory of searing pain still fresh in his mind. He could still hear himself screaming as he twisted in his father's meaty grip, trying to escape from the pain, begging, pleading for mercy. The smell was horrible, acrid and sour all at the same time. He could still taste the salty tears as the leaked down his face, could still feel the dull stinging in his throat, hoarse from screaming.
He swallowed thickly, looking out the window. The lights next door burned brightly and briefly, he saw his neighbour Mrs Huxley moving about in her kitchen. She looked to be in her own world, dicing vegetables at the bench by the window in preparation for dinner. She looked so happy, content in her easy little life. He scowled, staring at her. The woman had heard him screaming, she had seen him begging on his knees in the back yard as his father yanked his arm out of its socket, effectively dislocating the limb. She had watched his father stalk out of the yard, dropping him onto the grass in a scraggly, groaning heap. Her silence annoyed him. John got up and walked to the window, leaning his head against the filthy pane of glass. The blood from his nose coated his chin now, rivulets of crimson sliding thickly down the column of his throat.
He pressed his palm to the glass, long fingers splayed across the grimy surface. His shoulders slumped, defeated. Watching Mrs. Huxley do her best impersonation of June Cleaver, he ached for more. He wanted what she had, what her family had. He, John Bender, wanted her perfect little life.
It was at that moment that she looked up and met his eyes. She took a few steps backward, her hand pressed over her mouth in horror. John sighed, making no move to staunch the blood flow from his nose. Let the bitch feel horrible he thought, sliding his hand a little further up the glass, well aware that the red stain left behind would be back lit for her viewing pleasure. He was right. Their houses were close enough to hear each others conversations if everything was quiet enough. He could see the horror in her eyes, the way they glassed over as she looked at him, bloody and defeated in the window, his scar littered torso bared. He could make out her mouthed 'oh my god' from where he was standing.
Wordlessly he backed away from the window, shaking his head slightly. He didn't need her pity, nor did he want it.
He reached toward the sink and turned the water on, splashing his face to soften the already dried blood. He scrubbed at his face with a handful of scrunched up toilet paper, avoiding the tender areas as much as possible. He bit the inside of his cheek, cinching his eyes shut against the throbbing. Bracing himself over the sink on his elbows, he fought the urge to throw up. Breathing deeply, he waited for the feeling to subside and splashed his face with water before wetting some more toilet paper and walking to the window. He ignored his neighbour as much as possible as he cleaned the blood off the window pane before flushing the blood stained paper down the toilet.
He avoided looking in the mirror, knowing he would still hate who he saw there. He would still be John Bender, school criminal, social outcast.. Filth. He would still be the world's mistake.
Today sucked, but tomorrow.. Tomorrow everything would be ok. Tomorrow was Saturday. It had to be ok. It had to be. Then again.. Tomorrow he would still be him.