CW: alcoholism, implied/referenced child abuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, depression.

A Decade Filled With Nothing

He had enjoyed ten years of being totally irresponsible. Running wild in the streets with an army of boys who feared his psychic powers, Bobby had complete control over his neighborhood. There wasn't anyone who stood against him. If he wanted a kid's lunch money, they'd fork it over with a whimper. If he wanted to shove some poor girl's face into the guts of a dead raccoon, he did it with an ugly sneer stretched into his cheeks. Any sign of rebellion was met with a sharp punch to the face or the threat of being burned alive, and Bobby wasn't afraid of dishing out punishments to anyone who defied him.

He was unhinged and free. He had seen the inside of juvie too many times, but he never stayed for too long. Security guards and parole officers wanted nothing to do with him whenever he arrived and got him out as quickly as possible. When he could pick the locks of the other kids' cells to start a riot, there was nothing anyone could do to prevent him from wreaking havoc.

At sixteen, he grew weary. It was the same routine, the same neighborhood, the same kids who grew up into deadbeats when they once had hope in their eyes. It had all become mundane. Nothing kept his interest for too long. Not even when his boys chopped off a little girl's braids at the crappy playground behind the elementary school or when he smashed an officer's face into the hood of his car when he caught him shoplifting from a grocery store. (It was only a chocolate chip muffin. He had hoped the cop would've been sympathetic when he heard his stomach growling, but he had the nerve to snicker at him and ask why his mom didn't make him breakfast.)

From five to fifteen, he had been wretched. No one would defy him even if his clothes smelled or his teeth rotted out of his mouth. He was the king of the neighborhood, but as he neared adulthood, the urge to throw his crown to his cronies crossed his mind too many times to count.

He had other opportunities that he squandered. He had been offered an internship position at the Motherlobe when he graduated from Whispering Rock. He had rather high marks, his telekinesis, pyrokinesis, and levitation far better than anyone anticipated. Oleander had said that he would have written him a letter of recommendation to put him in a program at HQ to continue his training, too. He had promised that Bobby could be great with the Psychonauts with combat powers which would have skyrocketed him to superstardom.

It wasn't like he had any drive to be a hero like a certain gogglehead. He had laughed in the coach's face at the mere thought of working for the Psychonauts. That memory had been a good one to revisit at fourteen whenever he came home to a clogged toilet.

But at sixteen when he stared at the same broken appliances or the new hole in the ceiling, that memory turned the tables and mocked him.

There always had to be some problem when he came home. Groaning as he inspected the toaster, he realized it was sparking inside and unplugged it. The last thing Bobby wanted was the fucking house to burn down while his stuff was still inside.

Directing his attention to hole in the ceiling, he thought it looked larger. More pink fiberglass slipped out. Wires threaded through the fiberglass, knotted together like shoelaces. Scratching through his hair, he sighed and decided it wasn't his problem. If the old man wasn't going to fix it, then he sure as hell wasn't.

Reaching into his hair, he pulled out a pair of glasses and ran his thumb along the lenses. The red paint on the rims were chipped, but they sufficed. He had just stolen them from Sears a few towns over. When he realized his eyesight was failing three years ago, he took the liberty of keeping that fact to himself and stole ready-to-wear glasses whenever he needed to go up a prescription. By hiding them in his hair when the employees' backs were turned, no one suspected a thing, not even the security guards when they tried searching his pockets for the missing glasses. (It wasn't like the broad was going to buy him anything. She wouldn't dish out a fucking penny for his dentistry either, the metal in his mouth courtesy of one of his gang members' dads. He couldn't remember which boy it was who gave him that chance, but the procedures were free of charge when it should have cost him thousands, and he wasn't going to say no to that.)

Setting the glasses on his face, he frowned when they didn't fit. He pulled the templates and stretched them. Fixing them back on his nose, he sighed. They were a little lopsided, but he could deal with that. He marched out of the kitchen, his footsteps making the tiles creak and flinched.

"That you? That you, Robert?"

He gnashed down on his veneers. He thought his father was still passed out in his armchair.

"Can ya get me another beer? Should be one more in the, uh, fridge. Prolly the last one." He croaked out a laugh. "Don't go havin' it. Hit you with my belt if you do."

With a trembling fist, he glared over his shoulder. The old man's whine was like a fuse setting off his rage. He had every desire to crush the bottle over the bastard's head as he called out to him again in a voice like a dying moan.

Bobby opened the fridge, making sure the drunk heard it humming. He rummaged through moldy fruit and curdled yogurt, grimacing as he snatched the last remaining Budweiser. He curled his fingers around the cool glass, a bit of condensation having settled around the label. The old hag must have taken a swig and left it inside when he noticed the cap was missing.

"Ya got it? C'mere, give it here."

Bobby kicked the door shut, putting all of his weight into the blow. Something plastic hit the shelves inside, which he assumed was the milk when a white liquid seeped out of the bottom of the fridge. Old magnets slipped off the door and landed in the growing puddle. Scoffing, Bobby took the bottle and set it on its side, the alcohol quickly mixing with the milk. The beer's light brown color tainted the pure white liquid, giving it a rustic hue as it spread across the tiles, and Bobby decided the mess was much better than breaking the bottle over the old fucker's head.

Get yelled at by the broad, shithead. She'll think you did that, he thought only to suddenly frown.

He felt nothing at all from that. It would have amused him if he were ten or even fourteen. Causing trouble always made him feel something. Whether it was delight from inflicting pain or wrath from someone trying to antagonize him, he always felt something.

But he was numb. There wasn't any joy in Drywell. No matter what he tried to do or how much chaos he caused, that same dullness plagued him like an old throbbing scar.

As he left his shitty little house and glared at the dead brown grass, he sat on the brick stoop. His father screeched from inside, quickly followed by a sharp slamming sound. Dragging his fingers through his hair, he tried ignoring the anxiety swelling in his stomach as his father roared his name.

I ain't gonna be here forever, he told himself, but the little voice in the back of his head told him to stop lying.

(He wondered what happened to that alien from summer camp. What was the kid's name? He couldn't remember; they lost touch years ago.)