Hello, everyone!
IMPORTANT: I did not like the episode that this was supposed to be based off of, so I made it my own idea instead of going along with the episode.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
WARNINGS: VERBAL ABUSE, DESCRIPTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE
"Face it, kid. You're not good at anything," his mother muttered.
"But Riley said-"
"What? That you were good? She's just trying to be nice."
"At least she isn't mean like you," Farkle muttered before he suddenly straightened, and he prepared himself for the blow that would surely come because of his disrespect.
Surprisingly, his mother laughed. "At least I tell you the truth. I may not be kind or all bunnies and rainbows like your friends, but at least I don't lie to you or sugar coat it when you screw up. Which is most of the time, by the way."
Farkle flinched at the harsh words. "Mother-"
"Seriously, kid, you should stick to academics. You fail at everything else," she grumbled before leaving the room.
Was that true? Was he really not good at anything besides academics? Did that mean acting, art, music... did that mean every activity that didn't involve math, science, or any of the other academic subjects was pointless because he'd never be good at any of them?
It had to be true. His mother was far from nice, but she was painfully honest. She wouldn't tell him something unless it was true.
She was right. She was always right.
"Farkle," a voice called, and he turned to see Lucas standing behind his desk in history class. "Is it true that you quit the play?"
Farkle nodded. "Yeah, I wasn't any good at it. I know what Riley said, but she was just trying to be nice."
Lucas sat in his desk beside Farkle's. "Who told you that?"
Farkle swallowed. "My mom."
Lucas blinked. "Your own mother told you that?"
Farkle shrugged. "At least she told me the truth."
"Farkle," Maya said as she stormed into the classroom. "You dropped out of art class."
"And you quit choir!" Riley added, appearing at her side.
"And creative writing," Maya said.
"And the play," Lucas finished.
"The only electives and clubs you didn't quit were debate team, academic team, and science club. You obviously had too many extra curriculars; I don't even know how you had enough time for all of those, but you quit all the creative ones, the ones you enjoyed the most," Riley said. "What's up?"
Farkle sighed. "It doesn't matter, guys."
"Yes, it does, Farkle," Maya disagreed.
"No, it doesn't," Farkle reinforced.
"Bay window," Riley snapped, worry shining in her eyes. "After school."
The door opened, and Mr. Matthews stepped inside; he frowned at seeing every student in their seats except for Riley and Maya, who were standing over Farkle's desk, and the gazes of both girls and Lucas were all focused on Farkle.
"What did Farkle do?" He asked.
"Later," Riley assured her father before taking her seat.
"Okay..." he muttered. "Anyway, can anyone tell me who these three people on the board are?"
Farkle raised his hand.
"Farkle?" Mr. Matthews called.
"Albert Einstein, Walt Disney, and Stephen King," he answered.
"Yes. Now... Lucas, can you tell me what made these three so important?"
"Albert Einstein was a great mathematician; Walt Disney is a brilliant and famous writer; and Stephen King writes tons of horror stories," Lucas answered.
"Yes. Now, how many of you would call these three... well known and talented?"
Every hand was raised.
"Would you be surprised to know that someone once told Walt Disney that he had no good ideas?"
You could almost crickets chirping as a shocked silence descended upon the children.
"Or that Albert Einstein didn't speak until he was four and didn't read until he was seven?
Silence continued to reign.
"Or that Stephen King's book, Carrie, was rejected thirty times? King actually threw the book out, but his wife rescued it from the trash and convinced him to resubmit it?
"Does anybody know what my point is?"
Riley raised her hand and spoke slowly as the answer dawned on her. "Be confident in your talents and follow your dreams, no matter what anyone tells you?"
Mr. Matthews smiled. "Exactly. Can you imagine what would happen if everyone gave up the first time someone told them they couldn't do something? How different the world would be? Technology, Microsoft, famous books. Famous movies... even a bunch of food projects wouldn't exist.
"I'm not saying you're going to be good at everything, but if you enjoy doing something, don't give up on it. Maybe you're a writer, and someone tells you to stop writing. Maybe you listen; that book could've been on the best sellers list. Maybe you're a musician, and someone tells you to stop playing music; you could've been the next big thing. Maybe you're a scientist and someone tells you to stop doing science. You could've been the cause of the next big discovery in science.
"My point is... even if you're not good at something, but you enjoy it so much, don't give up on it. Because if you enjoy it enough, you'll develop a passion and that passion will make you determined to improve."
Farkle stared at his desk.
He was stuck between two places, the ideas and opinions of two people he cared about, and he wasn't sure which one was right.
Should he listen to his mother, or should he listen to Mr. Matthews?
"So why did you quit all of your extra curriculars?" Maya asked.
Farkle shrugged. "There were too many."
"But why did you quit some of the ones you loved the most? Creative writing, art, acting, and choir... you loved all of those activities. Why quit all of them?"
"I wasn't good at them, so I exchanged them for things I was good at. Chess club, math club, and such."
Maya barked a laugh. "What do you mean you weren't any good at them? You were good at them."
"You're just being nice. The person who told me I wasn't any good... she's not what I would call nice, but she is brutally honest."
Maya sighed. "You want the truth. I'll give you the truth.
"You're horrible at acting. You're okay at music and singing, and you're better at posing for paintings in art class than actually painting-"
"Maya!" Riley hissed.
"But," Maya continued, "you love those activities. I've never seen you happier than when you're on stage; you inspire a lot of my art work, Farkle, because you're unique, creative, and that's why art class is the perfect class for you. You're a work of art all on your own. And music... you love singing, Farkle. You always look so happy when you sing.
"And creative writing... you love it, and you're amazing at it!"
Farkle laughed. "Don't lie to me, Maya."
"I'm not, and I can prove it."
Maya pulled a colorful flyer out of her pocket and unfolded it.
"A short story contest is taking place this week. It's supposed to help you connect with your world, and you have to write a short story based on a hard-to-talk-about topic, like self harm, suicide, car accidents, murder, etc. It's a very hard contest due to the topics and the other contestants are also great writers, but I think you could do it. It can't hurt to try. Please, Farkle?"
"For us?" Riley added.
Farkle sighed and took the flyer. Maya handed him another sheet of paper with the topics, and Farkle scanned the list before his eyes landed on one that caught his attention.
Child abuse. Now, that subject, he (unfortunately) knew a lot about.
A week and a half later, Farkle sat in the audience with Lucas on one side and Maya on the other, Riley beside her. There was a small audience, only two dozen or maybe two and a half dozen people. It was time for the winner of the creative writing contest to be announced.
"The winner of the contest is," Mrs. Rogers, the writing teacher, announced, pausing for dramatic effect, "Farkle Minkus for his short story on child abuse."
Applause rang out, and Farkle's jaw dropped before Maya pushed him forward, and he walked onto the stage.
"Your writing was so realistic, almost painfully so," Mrs. Rogers told him. "If it's all right with you, I'd like you to read it aloud."
Farkle blinked. "Really?"
She nodded, and Farkle stepped up to the podium, staring out at the audience with sweat beading down his foreheard. He'd never been so nervous in front of an audience before.
"Picture Perfect Family," he read the tile. "The tale of an abused child.
"Abuse. Such a complicated and simple term. Where does punishment cross the line into abuse? People say honor your mother and father, but if they're hitting you, are you allowed to hit back to protect yourself? Is it betrayal if you turn your parents in to protect yourself?
The child was a baby when it started. His father would work twenty four seven, and his mother would be left alone with him. She'd leave the house to go out drinking with her friends, and her baby would be abandoned in his crib until his father returned home to find the baby alone.
The father was worried for his son's safety, but he never confronted his wife about it.
The child entered school, and he was bullied because he was smaller than the other kids. What they didn't know was that his mother hadn't fed him in three days as a punishment for leaving a few of his toys in the hallway, and she tripped over them in a drunken haze.
Every grade that was below an A was a failure to his mother, not to mention his father. Every time the teacher confessed her fears about the boy's lack of friends, his dismal social life, and his odd behavior, so unlike other children his age, his mother would become angry. She'd ask him why he couldn't be normal, why he had to embarrass the family by not being a normal child, before storming into her bedroom, ignoring the tears streaming down her child's face.
Time passed, and a few slaps became punches and kicks that left him lying on the floor in pain for hours on end.
Remember, he would tell himself. Don't cry. Don't beg for it to stop. It'll only make it worse.
He didn't know why she was doing this. Was it something he did? Why couldn't she love him like mothers are supposed to love their children? Why didn't he deserve love?
The boy went to school, where he was bullied and ignored, and he plastered a smile on his face and told no one of what went on behind closed doors in his home. He had a plethora of lies at hand if he were to ever be questioned.
A black eye. "I fell and hit it on the corner of a table."
A gigantic bruise on his leg that was exposed during PE. "My friend accidentally kicked me during soccer."
A broken arm. "I fell down the stairs."
No one even thought of his family at the time. To the outside world, they were a perfect family. No one thought to look any deeper than what they saw on the outside- a picture perfect family.
Then, the boy reached his preteen years, and injuries started becoming too hard to lie his way out of.
Hand shaped bruises on his wrists and upper arms and shoulders from being shaken.
Split lips, burns, concussions, cuts from wine bottles being thrown at him.
And worst of all, finger shaped bruises wrapped around his throat.
People were suspicious, but everyone was too afraid to ask.
She's mad at him for being alive, saying she never wanted a child, and as soon as she leaves the room, the boy whispers to the empty air, "I wish I'd never been born."
He wanted it all to stop hurting. He couldn't tolerate the pain, the abuse, the physical and emotional torture. He wanted it to stop hurting.
In a way, he got his wish.
The boy was now a teenager, and he laid on the kitchen floor of his house, watching his blood stream down his skin and stain the white floor scarlet.
His eyes wandered in confusion. He'd lost too much blood. He was so confused, and his brain was beyond muddled. His mother had kicked him in the head and pounded his head against a counter. Probably a severe concussion.
It wasn't. It was much worse.
His friends arrived the following morning before school to find their friend lying on the kitchen floor, surrounded by a pool of blood and cold as ice.
At age thirteen, the boy died, all because no one thought to pursue their suspicions, all because he was born to a mother who didn't want a child, all because child abuse is a murderer that will keep on killing... unless someone puts a stop to it."
Farkle exhaled as the crowd stared at him for a solid minute before thunderous applause rang out.
His friends ran onto the stage and hugged him.
"I told you you were good," Maya smiled.
"That was deep, man," Lucas added.
"The teacher was right. That was frighteningly realistic," Riley told him. "It was amazing and well written."
"Will you rejoin some of your activities now?" Maya questioned.
Farkle nodded. "Definitely. Thanks, guys."
"What are friends for?" Lucas asked, and Farkle felt a smile stretch across his face.
Maybe his mother didn't think he was good for anything. Maybe his father cared more about the company than he did about Farkle. Maybe Farkle's picture perfect family wasn't so perfect.
But that was okay because he had great friends, and for the first time in a long time, Farkle felt like he deserved to be loved.
Sorry the chapter's shorter than usual. I hope it was still good.
I chose writing to be Farkle's talent because the show portrays him as a genius that's really good at school and they don't look into a lot of his other talents. Maya's talent was art; sports obviously couldn't be Farkle's talent; and music just didn't seem right. Then, I thought Farkle's really creative, and he's obviously good at English (they mention his straight A's), so maybe he's good at writing.
Anyway, thanks for reading! See you next time! Goodbye!