June 2, 1997
Hope was a cruel thing. Hope was not a thing with feathers like Mr. Van Driessen said it was, no, hope was a thing with sharp claws that stabbed and tore the heart into shreds. Hope was the thing that had stranded two expecting wives in an unrelenting state of melancholy when their husbands never returned from a war overseas that slaughtered millions and ended in nuclear catastrophe. Hope was the thing that had torn innocent little Shirley apart when she and her neighbor had been forced to grow up in a foster system full of all of the wrong people, their birth mothers resting beneath dirt and stone after succumbing to the tide of despair. Hope was the thing that had left young but tough Miss Head abandoned at an empty altar with nothing but dried flowers to her unchanged name and her neighbor the only person at the pew, the fertility of their bodies clearly the only redeeming quality they had that mattered to the men they pined for, nothing more than that. Hope was the thing that had separated two young mothers from the children that they had lost the chance to ever love, sparing two little boys from an uncaring foster system by leaving them to fend for themselves in an empty house while the two young women with sellable bodies faded away in the throes of all-consuming addiction. Hope was the thing that had haunted two unwanted boys in the dark of night when they each thought the other was asleep when they were really both wide awake, wondering what it would be like to have those toys they saw on TV and why their mothers hadn't wanted to stay home to really get to know them even though they both knew that they never would get answers to any of those late-night questions. Hope was the thing that made two teenagers wonder when they would finally score with a bunch of hotties and if those kisses they had shared with each other in private had ever meant something or not. Hope was the thing that had shown Beavis a glimpse into what he could have had but never would that stifling day when Butt-Head had pushed that plastic spider ring onto his finger and made him wonder if he could've ever been loved during all of those years he had lost to the haze of dissociation masquerading as faulty memory. Hope was the thing that kept Butt-Head up late at night wondering what was so wrong with him that every hot woman he had ever met rejected his advances and if he would wake up one day on an empty couch or in a cold bed, even Beavis having grown tired of him and leaving him all alone in a silent house. Hope was the thing that feasted on generations of lives but never felt satisfied, always craving more warm blood and unshed tears. At least hopelessness could be forgotten in front of something as simple as a crackling picture show or grainy television screen, but the same could not be said for hope. Loneliness did not come from hopelessness, loneliness came from hope, and hope was pain. Loneliness was the worst kind of pain and its only remedy for two miserable teenagers right now was blood or bile. Tit for tat, pain for pain. Consistency was a sham and pain changed every single year, so they just sucked it up and moved on. It didn't matter what they did to cope as long as they were still together and didn't dwell on whatever hope could mean for them. Maybe they would change a teensy weensy bit, but as long as they weren't risking losing each other like when Beavis had rotted half to death and had nearly become a complete stranger, which definitely wouldn't happen again because they were indestructible and that was totally just a one-time thing, not to mention that Butt-Head was perfectly fine, barely bleeding at all and never going that deep, then it didn't matter, right? They were doing fine. They were doing just fine. Heck, they were probably doing way better than their own mothers had probably fared at their age. Unlike their mothers, they weren't smart enough to figure out how to get bootleg alcohol or actual drugs that weren't just plain old paint thinner fumes, and that one guy who had used to sell them cigarettes had left for a different town a couple of years ago, so it wasn't like they were seriously addicted to anything. Well, at least not yet; alcoholism would become a major cornerstone later in their lives, but they didn't have easy access to the sweet refuge of a cheap bottle yet, still stuck in the boring old present as dumb kids who needed something to make their lives bearable. Well, their lives were bearable and they were doing fine, they had TV and each other, and they were doing so fine that nobody could possibly ever change their minds on the matter or try to get them to make goals for the future like that dumb career counselor they hadn't taken very seriously had tried to do. The blood on those shorts in the corner of the bedroom and the too-full box of Eggo waffles in the freezer didn't matter, they were doing fine and didn't need to think about crummy old hope or something wussy like that. MTV usually had some good stuff on and they always both sat on the couch close together, doing fine. They were fine just the way they were. Babes and explosives would be more than welcome, but Beavis and Butt-Head still had everything that they thought they needed. They didn't need to let hope into their lives, they needed to forget the hope they'd accidentally gotten a taste of. They just couldn't dwell on dreams that would never come true. Hope was just too cruel for that. Hope sucked.
"Your bread's naked," Beavis chittered as he made fun of Butt-Head, who was sitting at the kitchen table and taking a bite out of a very soggy sandwich , the untoasted bread a reminder that they still hadn't replaced the toaster the former had destroyed last Thanksgiving; having decided to make kebabs since he had gotten banned from the only pizza place that stayed open on holidays, which was an entirely different rabbit hole to go down, the blond had skewered pickle slices and chunks of slightly green lunch meat onto a couple of forks and jammed those into the toaster thinking that his idea was absolutely marvelous when it had, in fact, not been nearly as good an idea as either teen had thought it would have been and they'd ended up making the problem even worse with "solutions" no sane person would come up with once they'd realized that Beavis' dish had gone horribly wrong. Needless to say, every sandwich eaten in that household for over half of a year had been a cold, soggy disappointment and one of their lucky kitchen counters was still streaked with burn marks that would apparently last until the end of time. Considering smacking Beavis across the face but deciding against it since he just really wanted to eat something substantial after a long and extremely busy shift instead of ditching his food in favor of a fight, Butt-Head just scowled back at his companion with pink lunch meat stuck between his braces before taking another mushy bite while the back door slammed, Beavis having gone out to the backyard with a box of matches and a bunch of stolen newspapers he'd collected all morning. Butt-Head had already eaten one of the two burgers he had brought home from Burger World, but he'd always had a habit of saving one for Beavis even though they didn't work together anymore just because that was what they had always done before, so the brunette had made himself a crummy old sandwich to make up for his missed lunch, the first meal he'd missed in months; having grown more accustomed to having somewhat filling meals pretty much every day now, it had been surprisingly difficult for Butt-Head to miss a meal that day even though he and Beavis had gone years together without eating properly while still doing fairly well in the past. Years of malnutrition hadn't made him as immune to hunger as he thought he should've been; it'd actually made him weaker, which was kind of embarrassing since Beavis didn't seem to have a problem with sticking to those old habits from a lifestyle that wasn't nearly as necessary anymore. Whatever. At least Butt-Head wasn't a total wussy who would freak out over a stupid little nosebleed, something he would never let Beavis live down. Finishing up the stupid sandwich, he wiped some potato chip crumbs off of the sticky table and onto the severely unswept floor before plodding over to the couch without bothering to push the flimsy kitchen chair back into place, Beavis still tending to the fire in the backyard. Turning the TV on, Butt-Head curled up on his side of the couch and flipped through some channels until he found some decent MTV segment, watching the music video for a grand total of two minutes before his thoughts drifted to that terrible day. His luck had been absolutely terrible that day when he had wasted his handful of coins on a vending machine to get a toy capsule that had revealed a green glow-in-the-dark ring with a spider emblem inside. Hot enough outside to evaporate a full bird bath within minutes, he and Beavis had been sitting under some pathetic excuse of a tree while waiting for some hot chick to show up so that Butt-Head could use his ring to marry her for the noble purpose of scoring. After Beavis had bathed himself in a lovely layer of dirt following his siege on the unsuspecting ants below, Butt-Head had convinced him to be a test subject so he could practice proposing. At first, it had gone fairly normal and Butt-Head had thought that he would have a decent chance of landing a hot babe, but the moment he took the plastic ring off of Beavis' finger, the latter had immediately kicked the former in the nads without any warning whatsoever. Whatever the heck went on in Beavis' head was such a mystery that not even Butt-Head could even begin to imagine what kind of thought process the former had, if he even had one at all; sometimes, it seemed like Beavis acted out of sheer impulse rather than the sort of demented reasoning only these two teens could be capable of, but even though they'd known each other since birth, it was still extremely difficult for the brunette to tell the difference between whether the blond was acting without thinking at all or acting while thinking about something extremely specific. Anyway, that kick to the nads had been so uncalled for, especially since they hadn't even been arguing or anything like that! Doubled over in the sort of agony that only a man with the most honorable junk could endure, Butt-Head had looked up just in time to see a super hot chick walking down the sidewalk right next to the park. Seriously? Right when he'd been kicked in the nads, then all the hotties had decided to finally show up? It wasn't fair, how the heck was he supposed to propose to his bride-to-be while his nads were killing him? To make matters even worse, Beavis hadn't even noticed the chick because the idiot was too busy chasing some fat frog- well, it could've been a toad, but neither teen knew the difference nor did they care- as if he'd never seen a frog before. Even with Butt-Head's guidance, Beavis had always had a hard time prioritizing what was most important, like helping the former score in this particular case. By the time Butt-Head had mostly recovered from the impromptu attack, he'd waddled over to Beavis and yanked him by the elbow while smacking him across his stupid sweaty face a few times, the mud-colored amphibian hopping away and the woman that had been walking down the sidewalk earlier nowhere to be seen. That had really sucked, and if he hadn't been sweating as hard as Coach Buzzcut did after demonstrating, like, hundreds of push-ups, he probably would've strangled Beavis right then and there. Instead, he'd just dragged the idiot out of the park, hoping they would pass some chicks on their way home. After slogging through a few blocks of scorching pavement, lo and behold, there had been a few gorgeous women smoking on the sidewalk in front of that old lady's house. Releasing his grip on Beavis' elbow, he'd immediately gotten onto his knees and basically thrusted the spider ring at the closest woman before the blond could mess up his chances to score again. This was it, he was finally going to score! Oh! Nope! He was not going to score! Apparently this dumb lady didn't care about the law because she'd just kicked him away like a picnicker would kick away a stray dog trying to beg for scraps. Scrambling to his feet, his tender crotch forgotten for the moment, he had tried to warn her that she wasn't supposed to say no, but she and her friends had already started walking away at a very brisk pace that he couldn't keep up with since he had felt that precarious soreness setting in again. Stupid Beavis, why did he have to kick him? Rejected for the umpteenth time in his undesirable life, Butt-Head had stayed up late that night, waiting for Beavis to fall asleep before he left the couch in search of something sharp. Years of being unwanted hadn't bothered him that much before, but lately, it had been driving him crazy for reasons he couldn't put into words. Barely having slept at all the previous night due to his need to see blood drip out of himself, Butt-Head's half-lidded eyes widened slightly as he realized that he hadn't even been really paying attention to the TV for who knows how long; the fire in the backyard must've still been going since Beavis hadn't come back inside yet. Blinking a few times, he was struggling and failing to redirect his attention to Cher singing on the TV due to the combination of less than three hours of sleep, a long shift at Burger World, and the lack of Beavis' commentary. Cher was hot and cool, but Butt-Head was really tired and Beavis wasn't there to get him all riled up over something stupid, so he just sprawled out all over the couch and promptly conked out.
Not you. Not you. Not you. Not you. Not you. Not you. Not you. Not you. Not you.
Finally dying down, the blazing fire had shriveled into a pile of ash and glowing embers, stray pieces of charred paper fluttering in the muggy air. Sweat dripping down his back and off of his face, Beavis stared at the pile of ash for a moment, the image of the strong, bold fire still vividly pictured in his mind. Today's fire had been so massive and powerful that he swore it could have lasted forever, but like all fires, even this one had dwindled down to nothing but smoldering ash. He didn't care that the evening sun was searing into his skin or that the fire had only made the backyard even hotter. He just cared about the dancing flames and the little things hidden within, eyes captivated by anything that could flare up and burn. Sometimes, it was like fire was a friend that could talk. It told him things that nobody else except his mother could hear. When he was little and she was miles away in a different town, he had occasionally pretended that she had been listening to the fire with him; fire had been his only friend. He never got to know much about her except that she understood fire in the same way he did, an understanding nobody else could ever understand. Not even Butt-Head, who wasn't even his friend, just something he didn't know how to describe, knew fire the way Beavis did. That might have been for the best, though. Fire could seem warm and friendly, but it always had a cold heart. A very cold heart. It had always been in front of fire that he'd met new voices. It had always been in front of fire that those new voices had become a permanent part of his life. It had always been in front of fire that those permanent voices told him things he'd forgotten long ago. It had always been in front of fire that those things he shouldn't have even been remembering had turned into weapons he used against himself. It had been in front of a fire when hope had reared its hideous head for the very first time in his entire life. He had been standing beside his mother when she had been burning every single photograph of herself and Butt-Head's mother for reasons he didn't understand, only understanding that the fire was bright and glorious. Once those pictures had curled up and died, she had thrown the first- and last- camera she would ever have into the flames and had hugged Beavis for the only time he could remember; he hadn't even started kindergarten yet when that had happened, but even through the fog of memory, he still remembered that one hug over a decade later. Fire had a cold heart because no matter how fiercely it burned, it would never give the same warmth that hug had given him that day. In fact, sometimes fire did the opposite of warming. Some of the things it told him would make anybody's blood run cold. Yet, he still gravitated toward it because fire had been his friend for as long as he could remember. Even now, as it whispered how he would never be good enough for the only person left in the world that actually mattered to him, he could barely get that searing image of dancing flames out of his head even though all that was left of his friend was a dull clump of ash and paper scraps. For a few more minutes, he stood there and stared at the ash and embers blankly, sweat dripping down his limbs as those words continued to run through his head in a carousel of pain. Then, he blinked a few too many times and turned to make his way back to the house, stepping over an anthill he wasn't in the mood to destroy at that moment as he twisted the rusty door knob and stepped into the cool foyer, clothes clinging to him as the change in temperature sent an involuntary shiver through his body. Slamming the battered door behind him, he glanced at the kitchen table where Butt-Head had been eating earlier and remembered that the latter had brought him dinner. Peeking into the living room since the kitchen was empty, he saw that Butt-Head was asleep and hogging the whole couch to himself. Typical. Sliding into one of the chairs at the table, Beavis reached for the bag and contemplated whether he should throw a frying pan onto the floor to scare Butt-Head awake. That would be so funny, but he would probably get beat up for doing that. It was a really hard decision, though. Unable to make up his mind, Beavis reached for the greasy takeout bag sitting on the table and took out the remaining burger, trying to think of something funny to do to Butt-Head while he was asleep. Unwrapping his food, he thought about how maybe he could draw a mustache or schlong on Butt-Head, or maybe find a tarantula and put it in his mouth, or something. There were so many cool things he could do that he couldn't decide, just staring at the cold burger sitting on the table as those same words danced round and round in his head. He would never be good enough for Butt-Head, he knew that, but there wasn't any reason to make a big deal out of it. Those were just words in his head. Besides, if Butt-Head got sick of him, he would've left a long time ago, right? Or did Butt-Head feel stuck, like he still had to take care of Beavis just like when they were little? No, that probably wasn't it. They were practically adults at this point. Still staring vacantly at the untouched food on the table, those words just wouldn't stop running through Beavis' head. Every single fire brought back things he couldn't understand- voices, faces, words, even solid memories- but he could never look away. He needed to burn. It was basically a necessity. Poking at the slightly squished bun, he glanced at the trash can. No. No, he wouldn't do that. After years of going to bed hungry, throwing away any food, no matter how moldy or rotten, was basically an average Texan's equivalent of pooping in a church's confession booth. Of course, Beavis couldn't care less about religion aside from the occasional fascination with the idea of this magical guy living up in the clouds who could grant wishes or something. However, he had pulled his fair share of stunts that would give the nuns nightmares for years to come when he'd been sent to a summer church retreat for children since not a single local summer camp had been willing to accept him- go figure, every single camp counselor just happened to have crossed paths with the notorious Beavis at least once- so that his mother could tend to undisclosed business with Ms. Head while Butt-Head was sent to stay with one of his aunts during the day. The chaos and destruction he had brought to that retreat was kind of epic and still made him proud years later. Anyway, the main point was that throwing away perfectly good food was absolutely unthinkable. He and Butt-Head had even salvaged food from dumpsters when they were younger just so they could have something to eat. There was no way he could throw away something that wasn't even two weeks old. Yet, there he was, hovering over the trash can with the untouched burger clutched tightly in his white-knuckled hand, those same words still parading through his mind as the memory of that plastic spider ring resurfaced. Even though he'd microwaved it into a puddle of melted plastic after he and Butt-Head had gotten home from the park a few days ago, he just couldn't forget that stupid toy. He couldn't forget how Butt-Head had put it onto his finger while probably imagining a chick instead of actually looking at him. How that plastic had felt on his skin. How a cruel flicker of hope had singed something within him. How he knew that the ring would never be for him. How he knew that those kisses probably never meant anything. How he knew that Butt-Head still cut himself. How he knew that it was his fault Butt-Head even felt the need to cut in the first place. How he knew that he would never be enough for Butt-Head. How he knew that one day, Butt-Head would get sick of him and leave. How he knew that he didn't know what he would do when that happened. How he knew that he would rather die, yes, die, than live to see that happen. How he knew he wanted something, badly. How he knew that he wanted something so, so badly, but he didn't even know what it was that he wanted. Unclenching his fingers, he watched the burger fall into the mishmash of trash with a soft thud and slammed the lid of the trash can down. Padding out of the kitchen in ratty socks he'd been wearing for the past three days, he squeezed onto the couch, shoving Butt-Head aside. Settling onto his side of the couch, Beavis reached for the remote and pressed a button to change the channel as Butt-head's arm heavily flopped onto his lap. Pushing it off, Beavis turned from the Godzilla movie playing on the TV to look at Butt-Head, who had flopped over on the armrest. Looking at the guy sleeping on the couch next to him for a few seconds as the lights from the TV flickered across their faces, Beavis felt hope. He felt hope, and it was the most cruel thing he had ever felt.