January 4, 1997
Burn. Burn. Burn. Burn. Burn.
By now, he knew exactly which half-eaten muscles to contract whenever he chose to drown himself in his own rancid bile. It wasn't a common habit, not at all, but it was still a desperate measure he took refuge in from time to time. It wasn't common, but it wasn't rare, either. Sometimes, those liquid flames would rise even without provocation. He didn't entirely mind when that happened, only if he was in front of somebody else and had to swallow it all down, squandering the opportunity at hand. However, he was alone at the moment because Butt-Head had a full day shift at work; his body had refused to keep down the Eggo waffle he'd eaten in front of the brunette this morning, and the blond had immediately jumped at the chance to relieve himself of the unseen burden within once the house was empty. Going down, the waffle had been sweet. Coming back up, the sweetness had been tainted by pain. Suppressing a final gag, having emptied his stomach to the point that nothing but scorching bile and strings of blood were coming up, he lifted his face out of the messy toilet bowl. He looked down at the mess floating within, hideous and absolutely disgusting. It burned up his stomach and throat, sometimes even searing into his nostrils. It wasn't just addictingly painful, it was disgusting. So, so disgusting. Nearly as disgusting as himself. He hated it, which is why he loved it.
This isn't enough. You deserve more. You deserve so much more than this. You deserve to lose something you won't ever be able to get back. I know you're too chicken to kill yourself, so the next best thing you can do is kill a part of yourself. You know exactly what to do. All you need to do is listen to me. I am always right. Get up. Get up your sorry ass up. Stop being so pathetic and weak. Listen to me. You know exactly what you need to do. You need to get rid of a piece of yourself. You need to tear it out. Now. You need to do it now. You can't keep it any longer. You can't just have yourself scattered around. You need to disappear as much as you can. You need to dwindle into nothing. You need to get rid of anything that has you in it. You need to slowly get rid of yourself, piece by piece, so that by the time you die, there will be nothing left to remember you by. Right now, you need to kill a part of yourself, so get up. You need to get rid of it. Destroy it. Burn it. Kill it.
Wiping the yellow saliva off of his red chin as he gasped for breath with a heaving chest, he lowered his eyes once more to the putrid mess steaming in a toilet bowl that faintly reeked of bleach, his throat scraped raw and slightly bloody. Sniffing to keep any further liquid in his nose from dripping out, he reached over with shaky fingers and fumbled for a few seconds until they landed on the toilet's flush valve, pressing down. Nearly microscopic splotches of acid and chunks of mushy waffle splattered onto his skin, not that he even cared. Blinking back the moisture in his eyes that had accumulated from the physical exertion he had chosen to inflict upon himself- his choice, nobody else's- he got to his feet with a practiced ease, no longer the same shaky idiot who needed to sit and catch his breath for a full two minutes after something so easy. Striding out of the bathroom without even glancing down at his slightly wet shirt, he purposefully made his way down the hall and into the bedroom, nothing but fire in his mind.
Burn it. Burn it all. Burn it and kill it.
Without even a second of hesitation, he reached up and tore down every single picture hanging on that dreadful bedroom wall. Every single one. He tore down pictures he drew last week. He tore down pictures he drew last month. He tore down pictures he drew last year. He tore down pictures he drew dating back to the time he had learned how to grip objects. He tore down pictures dating back to the days when his mother had still been around with that loveless look in her eyes. He tore down pictures dating back to the days when he had been in elementary school and had tried to talk to other kids beside Butt-Head for the very first time. He tore down pictures dating back to the days before he'd been touched in ways he didn't even know were possible. He tore down pictures dating back to the days before he'd ever wondered what it would be like to be wanted. He tore down pictures dating back to the days before he'd thought about whether Butt-Head might have liked him back. He tore down pictures dating back to the days before he'd ever worried about not being good enough for Butt-Head. He tore down pictures dating back to the days before his life had been pervaded by a harsh coldness that had seeped into the very core of his being. He tore down pictures until there was no trace of his life left on that crummy wall. Once the wall that had once been full of those wretched pieces of himself was finally soullessly bare and nothing but a naked, silent radio remained hanging on a lone nail, he turned to the items sitting atop the dresser, gathering the lighter fluid and matches into his arms along with a single piece of paper. He'd be back soon for the rest of the papers that had been strewn all over the floor like the garbage they were.
Burn and die.
Everything bled together. Memories were an unintelligible haze. In the back of his raw throat, the scraped innards distantly pounded with each pulse of his heartbeat. Nothing was real. Nothing. Everything always came to an end. All games did. Surely, there would be no harm in playing along. There really was no point in fighting back, after all. Life was not reality. Life was only pain, an illusion designed to keep the players from following the real rules. The trick was to play along. Embrace the pain. Before you know it, nothing will hurt anymore because you will have become part of the game itself. That was the only way to win the game: become the game. There never was an escape. Whatever any of that crap even meant. Everything bled together into a confusing mess of colors and sounds. He didn't know what he was thinking about. He never did. He didn't even know what kind of game he was playing; sometimes it was like hide and seek, and sometimes it was like gambling. He just knew that the game was run by something in his head and that he needed to play along because he had no other choice. To play along, he just needed to listen to what the friends in his head told him. They were friends. They had to be friends. What else could they have possibly been? They never left him alone, not for a single second. They always told him what to do. They always tried to teach him. They always tried to tell him what was right and what was wrong. They always hated every decision he made because he always happened to make the wrong move, every single time. They told him he was bad at a lot of things, but all friends probably did. They made him give up a lot of stuff he had kind of liked or even cared about, but all friends probably did. They were difficult to please, but all friends probably were. They were demanding, but all friends probably were. They were draining and took away a lot of his attention, but all friends probably were. They were never satisfied with him, but all friends probably were. They wanted him to suffer and die, but everybody probably wanted that from him. Even Butt-Head had hinted at that a few times, in his eyes. Everything in his head was a friend, simple as that. Like a good friend, he just wanted to please them. He wanted to make them proud. He wanted them to stop being disappointed. He wanted them to care. He wanted their approval. He would do anything for them. Anything. Cold hallway floorboards creaked under the pressure of his bare feet. Door hinges screeched. The smell of kerosene pervaded the frigid air in the backyard.
Die.
Swollen by the frigid air, red fingers with knuckles quickly turning purple numbly dragged a match against the side of the matchbox until a bright spark of death flickered to life.
Beautiful.
Limp on the ground, a damp piece of paper bearing the supposed visage of a walkman eagerly accepted the embrace of death, faint crunching the only sound in the stagnant dryness of the winter air.
Burn it all.
Returning to the backyard in barely under a minute without even bothering to throw on any extra layers for the cold, only wearing the same ratty sweatpants that kept slipping off of the bones that had once been hips and short-sleeved shirt stained with cooling blotches of bile that he'd worn for the past two days, he dumped all of the wretched papers he'd gathered into his arms onto the frozen ground. The papers that had once held so many pieces of his life and memories fluttered to the ground in the still air, their colorful surfaces joining the blackening walkman drawing that had already curled up at the edges. Nudging a few stray papers into the pile where the fire was slowly spreading and coaxing the small gathering of flames to keep burning, he struck another match with numb fingers and added it to the slowly growing fire, his cold-numbed yet fluid movements reflecting the experience that came from a lifetime of burning anything he could get his hands on. For the first time in a long time, he felt happy. Maybe happier than he had ever been before. He'd burned stuff before, he couldn't go a week without burning something whether on accident or on purpose, but this felt extraordinarily good. Everything felt good. Everything felt so, so good. Everything was going right. He felt like he was finally doing something right. He felt like he wasn't a complete failure at that very moment. He felt anticipation, hoping for some sort of approval. Maybe the friends in his head would finally look at what he had done and not be disappointed. There was no way he could feel so good and be so wrong. He felt good and that was all that mattered. Even the emptiness in his stomach felt welcome and comforting. He felt good. That was one of the perks of playing along. Accepting the pain of the game wasn't a coping mechanism, it was a reward. He wasn't just playing with something in his head, he was playing with fire, and he didn't care about the consequences. For a moment, a wide grin split those chapped lips apart, breath visible in the freezing temperature. He was high on hunger.
Die.
Aliens with special ray guns holding Santa hostage that he had drawn last week: dead.
Die.
An alien abduction he had drawn immediately after seeing Mars Attacks!: dead.
Die.
A Bigfoot he had drawn after Butt-Head bought new shoes last month: dead.
Die.
A menagerie of doodles he had drawn for Butt-Head's birthday: dead.
Die.
Burglars robbing a bank drawn after he and Butt-Head had tried to get free money: dead.
Die.
A bus drawn after he had gotten deported to Mexico: dead.
Die.
Red scribbles drawn while stuck in detention: dead.
Die.
Lizards, dogs, and birds drawn after he had gone to the pet shop: dead.
Die.
A ton of scribbled schlongs drawn after he woke up to find a schlong drawn on his face: dead.
Die.
A sad chicken strip drawn after Butt-Head wouldn't let him choke his chicken at the fried chicken place: dead.
Die.
Pizza slices shooting each other with giant guns drawn after last Thanksgiving's botched attempt at making a homemade pizza: dead.
Die.
Hot dogs with big boobs drawn after arguing with a chick who took the last buns at the gas station: dead.
Die.
A poodle with sharp teeth drawn after visiting Mrs. Higgins: dead.
Die.
Bloody ears drawn after he and Butt-Head tried to get piercings: dead.
Die.
The Joker getting blown up by dynamite drawn a week before he got fired from Burger World: dead.
Die.
Smiling frogs drawn after his mother had hugged him for the only time in her life: dead.
Die.
Tanks shooting at Coach Buzzcut drawn after getting this giant stick thing stuck in his hand: dead.
Die.
Sports cars crashing into each other drawn the week before he went to Ms. Anthrax's house: dead.
Die.
Explosions drawn after he and Butt-Head had boiled a lobster: dead.
Die.
Tornados destroying the school drawn after he and Butt-Head had gotten struck by lightning: dead.
Die.
Indecipherable shapes drawn before his first day of school: dead.
Die.
Guitars on fire drawn before he got banned from the dentist for a month: dead.
Die.
Giant ants invading a city drawn after the first time Butt-Head had dared him to kiss him during Truth Or Dare: dead.
Die.
Airplanes shooting aliens drawn before he and Butt-Head stole walkmans and cassette tapes: dead.
Die.
Giant worms eating people drawn before getting a baseball bat on his birthday: dead.
Die.
A gravestone being struck by lightning drawn before he blew up a concession stand at the drive-in theater: dead.
Die. Die. Die. Die. Die.
Vibrant memories smoldered into lifeless ash, smoke leaving a harsh, lingering odor on his clothes. He knew he would still remember everything because if he hadn't forgotten something within a few seconds, then it had been burned into his mind forever. Forgetting wasn't the point, though. Fire didn't erase memory. Fire killed. He had needed to kill something in him, something that had been frustratingly alive, and fire had been the perfect candidate for the job. Really, this should have been inevitable. Fire had always been his friend. Fire had never yelled at him. Fire had never forced him to give anything up. Fire had never left him. Fire had never whispered rotten things into his ear in the dark of night. Fire had never hurt him in the ways that mattered. Fire had always been there for him, always ready to join him. Fire wasn't ugly like the rest of his life. Fire was the only beautiful thing he could look forward to. Well, the only beautiful thing he could rely on. There were a few other beautiful things in his life, but they were so rare and out of reach that they just weren't as reliable as something that could be summoned with the strike of a match. Stretching out the numb, swollen fingers of his purple hand, he slowly pulled out another match and struck it, tossing another lit match head into the dwindling fire. Stiffly unscrewing the cap on the bottle of lighter fluid, another round of kerosene sated the thirsty flames. Something inside of him was dying.
Make sure it's all dead.
July 8, 1993. Gone.
Taken by a man at the hardware store because he was too weak.
June 11, 1989. Gone.
Believing a woman who promised him candy because he was too dumb.
August 24, 1988. Gone.
Ditched at the Maxi-Mart by his mother because he was too forgettable.
March 2, 1990. Gone.
Forced to throw away his first drawing in art class because he was too weird.
February 27, 1984. Gone.
Locked in the closet by his mother because he was too annoying.
October 9, 1991. Gone.
Unable to find his way home while stranded in the rain because he was too stupid.
November 13, 1987. Gone.
Left alone on the cold roof by his mother because he was too disobedient.
May 16, 1995. Gone.
Ignored by the men in uniforms because he was too insignificant.
December 4, 1985. Gone.
Told by his mother that she didn't want him because he was too worthless.
You deserve to suffer. You deserve to burn. You deserve to burn and die.
Fatal flames eventually blackened the surviving papers that had once been colorful and smeared with boogers, embers drifting away and searing into the barren cracks of a yard that had suffered drought for years. Years of childhood had just slipped away as if they'd never even happened in the first place. Just like that, those pictures were gone. Most people used photographs, but he wasn't like most people. First of all, he couldn't be trusted to keep a camera functional for more than a few hours, if he even splurged his money on one. Second, he wouldn't even remember to use the dang thing. Drawings were different, though. They weren't just cheaper. They weren't just easier. They had something in them that photos didn't have. They had something that photos would never have. They had pieces of him that photos couldn't ever capture. The handful of photos taken by miscellaneous family members had never seemed quite right. They were always missing something. Missing something those pictures in the fire always had. Those pictures had been drawn by his hands, whereas a photo would have just been taken by a fancy little doodad. Photos were just flat images, but those dying pictures were him. That was what made his drawings so disturbing when he looked at them sometimes. Looking at his drawings had been almost like looking into a mirror, and mirrors had long since become the enemy. Looking at drawings that looked back at him was too much to bear day after rotten day. He didn't need to see himself every single time he accidentally looked at the wall; avoiding his reflection in the bathroom mirror wasn't nearly as difficult, though slip-ups still happened. Burning the papers may as well have been necessary. Sure, he could've stashed them in a box or scrapbook or something boring like a normal person would, but he didn't take the most conventional approach to pretty much anything. Whatever impulse he felt, he usually acted on that. His impulses just usually happened to involve the need to burn or break something. For him, burning the papers was not only rational but also quite natural. After all, fire was one of the most beautiful things to ever exist. He could spend hours just watching it. Though his numb toes and stinging fingers were purple by then, he continued to watch the fire, his blue-lipped face devoid of emotion. Despite the involuntary shivering and chattering teeth, the physical pain could hardly hold a candle to the neverending coldness that had settled into his bones long ago. The winter climate was nothing compared to what he had to endure day after day inside of his body, something that had no cure, something that medicine or bandages couldn't help, something that ate away at him slowly until the fateful day when there would be nothing left. He wasn't sure what he would do when that day came, but he just knew that it would come eventually and that he couldn't avoid it forever. Eyes locked on the blazing fire, he laughed as if he'd never laughed before, hearing the back door's hinges screech as it opened but not caring. Familiar footsteps approached from behind, but he didn't so much as shift his eyes away, just standing there and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing. For once, he felt like he had something useful. For once, he felt like he had done something right.
Help me. Please. Somebody help me.
Everything hurt so much all of the time, but at that moment, he didn't feel a thing at all. Light danced across his face, eyes captivated by the flames eating his life away. Scattered pages melded together into one mass grave for dreams and laughter, pieces of him burning away. Yet, nothing was missing inside of him. He hadn't killed a piece of himself like he'd hoped to. He'd only destroyed objects, not himself. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it certainly hadn't been this emptiness. He'd expected at least some pain, regret, maybe even sadness, but instead, he felt nothing. He only felt emptiness where he knew he should have felt something. Confused, his mind wandered. Was it important that he didn't feel anything? Was it a sign he made the wrong decision? Was it a sign he made the right decision? Would Butt-Head feel something? Oh, dang it, Butt-Head. What would Butt-Head even think? Would Butt-Head be mad? Would Butt-Head be sad? What would Butt-Head do? Oh, man, he'd probably be dead meat once Butt-Head saw what he had done. Wait, would Butt-Head even notice? Would Butt-Head even care? What if Butt-Head was happier that he'd burned it all? What if burning all of these papers just wasn't enough? What if Butt-Head had wanted him to burn himself? Of course. Of course he'd done the wrong thing again. He always had to mess everything up. Those papers meant nothing. There had been no need to waste the day standing outside in a temperature below freezing just to watch a bunch of dumb papers burn up. He should've burned himself or something like that, not a bunch of stupid little papers. Well, he didn't really know what to do with himself, just that the papers had been the wrong target. He never knew what to do with himself, though. He just existed or something. Was he supposed to die? That would be kind of lame, honestly. He didn't really feel like dying. He hadn't even gotten to see RoboCop yet! Still, he did know that he'd always disappointed everyone by being alive, but he didn't even know what it was like to not be alive. What was the point in not being alive anyway? He would miss out on so much cool stuff. This whole thing really sucked. Dying was super lame and boring, but if he lived, he'd only make everyone more disappointed and the things in his head more mad or something. Since when did he even care about what others thought of him, though? Why was he so dead set on trying to get somebody else's approval? Why did he crave it so badly? He didn't have a single answer to any of these questions because, frankly, he wasn't a nerd who spent all day thinking about the meaning of life or something geeky like that. He'd always just winged it and went along with whatever life threw at him. Yet, here he was now, beaten down by the unseen burden on his shoulders that had been slowly wearing him down into an early grave, destroying his own personality under the neverending pressure. Long story short, he had pretty much wasted his time burning all of the papers that had once hung on the bedroom wall. Ugh, he never failed to impress himself with how he always managed to make the worst decisions. He'd accomplished nothing and the friends in his head would never let him hear the end of it. All he'd done was waste lighter fluid and matches on a bunch of worthless papers that should've just been stowed in a dumpster full of maggots. Regardless, he was still laughing and the fire was still burning. He couldn't stop.
Look.
"Beavis? What the hell are you doing out here? You don't even have any socks on, dumbass! Where is- wait, what is that? What is- Beavis? Beavis?! Beavis! What did you do?! OH, MY GOD, WHAT DID YOU DO?!"
Stupid, worthless sack of shit. You always mess everything up. Look at what you did.
He laughed so hard he wept.