They were talking about him; he knew it. Ever since Number Forty-seven had come up and fucked with his head, they'd been talking about him, laughing about him, thank God they'd quit yelling at him. That stupid Number Two and stupid Number Seventy-whatever. And the other one. The other one that didn't even matter.
Did any of them matter, though? No. No, the answer was no. None of them mattered at all. Why would they? They were all stupid, Number Two, Number Three, Number Sixty-one, Number Eighty-eight, Number Seventy, Number Five.
Number Five especially.
Christ, how he hated Number Five.
But that was stupid. God, he was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid to think he could get into this and live. If that had been what he'd been thinking at all. Hadn't he wanted to die? All of the rest of them had. Number Sixty-one especially.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought once he'd called Number Sixty-one something different. Not in the ways of the others. Not the names. But something else. But it was stupid to think of that. Stupid to think of anything. Anything was stupid. Thinking was stupid. It was all just, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
It was dark. It was like he was floating, floating above the road but he knew that wasn't true. His feet hit the ground, one in front of the other. Throbbing, hurting, but pain on the outside was better than pain on the inside, he thought. Bruises would heal, eventually. Broken feet would heal, eventually. And if not. If not there were always the plastic ones.
Plaaaastic feet.
Hm.
Plastic feet.
But plastic feet brought back thoughts of 'because you don't have any' and 'we'll all spit on your brains' so he stopped thinking of the plastic feet. Plastic feet were out for when (if) he won. Nope. No plastic feet. He just wouldn't move. No moving. Number Five refuses to move ever again. Number Five will lay on his bed and watch television all day. Number Five will never walk again. Number Five will never think again. Number Five will never do again.
Number Five will die.
It would be unlikely for Number Five to survive, even if he did win.
He used to think so. He used to think he could win. Number Five used to believe in a hopeful future.
Number Five is unsure how he could've ever been that stupid.
Number Five looks at the Plan now and tosses it aside.
Number Five realizes it for the piece of shit it is.
Number Five wonders how close he'll make it to the end.
Number Five wonders if he can watch the others die or if they will all die tonight, in the dark. In the insufferable dark. He wonders if he will die in the dark.
Number Five decides that he will probably will. Just like everyone else. They all die in the dark. Everyone dies in the dark. Even the ones smart enough to not walk. Even his parents. Number Five's parents who he can barely remember but he knows they didn't like him. Number Five was the problem child. They already had their prodigy. Number Five was extra.
Number Five searched for attention and found none.
Number Five got attention from the kids at school. It was negative attention. Perhaps Number Five thought that negative was better than none. Perhaps Number Five was right. Probably not. Number Five is rarely right.
Number Five used to mean something to himself. He had his days where he thought he wasn't worth anything, but he usually got over them. Now Number Five knows he isn't worth anything. And it scares him. Or, he thinks it scares him. He's not so sure anymore. He's numb. The hurt from the plastic feet has ebbed away, leaving Number Five a hollow shell. If it scares him, he doesn't know. Number Five doesn't know anything anymore.
Another one of them dies. Dies in the dark. Number Five barely registers it. Near him, one of the others, another of the Seventy-somethings, thinks it was perhaps Number Five. Only he doesn't say Number Five. He says Barkovitch, and Number Five dimly registers that Barkovitch is Number Five.
That's stupid. Barkovitch is too impressive a name to be Number Five.
But Barkovitch knows what he's doing Barkovitch laughs, Barkovitch shrieks with laughter and tells the others, not Number Seventy-something one and two but Parker and Pearson, not Number Sixty-one but scarface, Peter McVries, not Number Forty-seven but that asshole Ray Garraty, that he's not gone yet. Not gone yet. He's screaming it. Not gone yet. Not quite yet.
Not quite yet but soon.
Soon.
Now.
It is Number Five that kills himself and Barkovitch, it is Barkovitch that reacts. Barkovitch that screams, Number Five that pulls. Barkovitch that feels, Number Five that is numb.
Both of them die.
And then he is floating. He doesn't know if he's Number Five or Barkovitch, then realizes with a start that he's neither. He's not killer, freak, or prick, either.
He's Gary.
He's the kid that was so excited to start school but devastated when he found out he didn't fit in. He's the teenager that taught himself to walk on his hands because he had nothing better to do. He's the guy that loved watching movies. Because while Number Five is numb and Barkovitch is the freak, the killer, the prick, Gary is someone worth something.
The road is gone now and it's all light. Gary is floating, and he feels, but not an overwhelming amount of hurt and negative emotions that Barkovitch feels, but the wonder and excitement of this new place. He's acting younger than his age, of course, Gary is sixteen (just turned sixteen, but that's beside the point), but he's dead. He can afford to act younger than his age.
He's dead.
Gary will be sixteen years old forever.
He doesn't know what will go on in this world where he is dead. It's just light. He thinks it needs some ground. He likes this floating thing, but what he'd really like to do now is stretch out under the bleachers and not get hurt. He wants to sit under a tree at the park and not have to worry.
He doesn't know what he wants more, so this world provides both. Gary tries out the bleachers first, then the tree. He decides he feels most at home climbing up into the tree, sitting on a conveniently large branch.
Of course it's conveniently large. It's his world, after all.
What else does he want?
Cats. He's always liked cats.
And just like that, a group of cats starts to prowl around. Some of them stretch out under the bleachers, some of them play in the grass.
There sure are a lot of them. And they all have collars, so probably all names, too. Gary jumps down the tree and reaches for the nearest one. It's pale yellow, and very pretty. A boy. All of them are boys. Gary picks it up and reads the tag on the collar.
#3
Arthur Baker
Chatham, Louisiana
Are they all the ones who Walked? Arthur and Raymond and Peter and Henry? Are they all here?
Will they be his friends now?
Arthur seems to want to be his friend. Arthur doesn't seem to mind when he pets him.
Gary suspects that some of the others (Collie Parker, for example) will not be so nice.
But perhaps he can win over a cat. Gary has always been good with cats, after all.
Gary laughs, but it's not the scary, insane, Barkovitch laugh. Nor is it the empty, hollow Number Five laugh. It's an actual laugh, because he's happy. Because he's got a place now where he won't be persecuted and he even has friends, even though they are cats. Humans are overrated, anyway.
i honestly don't really know what I just wrote
but
you know
why not
also
just looked up louisiana towns for baker
and decided that that was as good as any
