July 31, 1996
FWUMP. Butt-Head jerked his head up from the smoke-scented floor, sprawled out on his stomach, and winced as he stumbled to his feet after apparently rolling off of the rickety old bed again. Dead to the world, Beavis didn't even twitch at the commotion, the only sign of life being the intermittent release of a particularly rancid fart from beneath the tangled sheets. As Butt-Head pulled back the blanket to get back under, a dead scorpion fell out from an unfolding crease. For a few seconds, he sleepily watched it fall onto the floor, its lifeless body a testament to how vile his housemate's gas could be; seriously, the farts were worse than ever, sometimes smelling almost like straight up decay. Nudging Beavis aside and squeezing onto his own side of the too-small bed, he settled into his usual position, blankly staring ahead at the early morning sunlight streaming into the room and spilling across the burnt floor with tired eyes. Usually, the pair would have passed out on the couch after staying up all night watching TV or wandering around town, never very picky about their sleeping arrangements as long as ants weren't crawling on them; that time they had woken up to hundreds of fire ants biting and crawling on their bodies when they had decided to sleep in the backyard after getting inspired by a survival show was not a very fond memory. They usually only used the bed if they were too tired to stay up, as was the case more often than not, or if someone had vomited or pooped on the couch; thankfully, the latter hadn't happened in years. Butt-Head's thighs smarted when he shifted slightly, the small collection of raw streaks beneath his shorts a reminder of what he'd dragged across his skin last night after an especially stressful day. Mealtimes had become nightmares, weeks of screaming and fighting having barely accomplished anything at all; Butt-Head was still stuck in that same helpless rut as he watched more and more pieces of the person who used to be Beavis steadily fall away single day, those slightly dimpled cheeks and lively eyes lost somewhere in his faulty memory. Yesterday had been pretty difficult, and for an awful moment, he had thought that Beavis was actually going to cry; the blond never cried, not since that time in first or second grade they never talked about, and the brunette just had no idea what he would do or if he could even handle it if his companion did cry one day. So what if Butt-Head bled a little? His body belonged to him, nobody else. Maybe he had no control over anything else, but he could tear open his own skin over and over, as much as he wanted, until that fateful day when every little secret hidden in his veins would finally bleed out into the open, leaving him empty and free. The pain of broken skin was nothing in comparison to the memories of strangers who didn't keep their hands to themselves, nothing in comparison to being ditched by his own wastrel excuse of a mother to fend for himself in this wretched house with a lousy job barely paying minimum wage, and sure as heck was nothing in comparison to what he felt having to watch the only person he actually cared about rot away every damn day. Sometimes, not even TV could distract him, not the way blood could. Blood took his mind off of things, so many things.
What a stupid, worthless waste of space. You'll never be good enough for anyone. Everything you do is worthless. Look how much better everyone is. You're such a dumb little piece of shit. I wish I could make you suffer so much more than you think you are now. This isn't enough. You need more. You need to really suffer. You deserve worse than just death.
Beavis abruptly sat up and rubbed his eyes with a scabbed hand, eczema having taken over the sallow skin there. Well, that was one heck of a wake-up call, good morning to you too, dear little voices; he didn't remember much about what happened in his dreams last night, but he clearly remembered feeling nearly debilitating hunger in his own dream, like he was being eaten alive from the inside out. Shuddering slightly at the memory that he would probably forget within the next 15 minutes, he pushed that out of his mind and crawled out from his spot under a blanket that smelled kind of like gunpowder. Not bothering to check whether Butt-Head was still asleep or not, he crawled over the giant lump in the bed and hopped onto the floor with a grunt, a nasty and slightly bruised mark that never fully healed from an encounter with a beer bottle a few weeks ago decorating the side of his left foot. While Butt-Head rolled over with a grunt and took over the whole bed, not being scheduled to work that day, Beavis swallowed acid in his throat as he rummaged through the dresser and pulled out a pair of socks that were slightly stiff from dried sweat, oblivious to the scorpion carcass nearby. Tugging the ratty socks over his feet, which were red from blood pooling rather than the sunburn he irrationally assumed it was, he dug through a pile of clothes on the floor for his Burger World uniform. Unlike Butt-Head, Beavis did have dumb old work to go to today, and he had no idea if he was even running late, though he didn't consider deciphering the microwave's digital clock in the kitchen; although he didn't particularly care about being on time to pretty much anything, he knew that they needed the money and that a few extra hours wouldn't hurt, especially since their air conditioning unit had been looking a little rough around the edges lately. After swapping his faded Jaws shirt for the red polo, he grabbed a severely worn pair of khakis from around fifth grade instead of the pair of khakis he got the summer before his first year of high school and usually wore to work, the latter too loose to use anymore. Tugging up the older pants, they fit fairly well aside from being a few inches too short, not that Beavis cared. Throwing on the employee visor and slipping on his shoes, he dashed down the hall and out the front door into the balmy mid-morning air that would leave him covered in sweat within five minutes, making sure to practice his Martian as he skittered along the cracked pavement.
"There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man," Rod Serling narrated as Butt-Head, sprawled out in the middle of the couch, divided his attention between the TV and a couple of Pop-Tarts after a couple of hours spent lounging in bed. "It is a dimension as vast and space and as timeless as-" Sterling was cut off when Butt-Head got hold of the remote and flipped to a different channel; it was way too early for watching something so dangerously boring. All the people on The Twilight Zone ever did was talk, talk, talk, and they always had to use big, fancy words; sometimes, Beavis did willingly watch it for reasons Butt-Head couldn't comprehend, though the former also agreed that the show needed a lot more violence and nudity. Settling on a rerun of The Simpsons, Butt-Head slumped in his seat, restlessly picking at a scab on his thigh between bites of pastry as the morning stretched on, the sun slowly creeping closer to its midday position. Head pounding as bright colors danced across the screen, his mind kept straying to the previous day.
"Eat the burger," Butt-Head had instructed simply, punctuating his point with the shake of a fry. Squished together in a sticky Burger World booth during their lunch break, Beavis had sat next to the window, Butt-Head sitting beside him and blocking his way out. Their laughter had been strained, that look of wild fear flickering in Beavis' eyes again.
"I-I can't," Beavis had stuttered, his fingers twitching in his lap; that had been new. He had always argued or tried to derail the conversation, not say something so unbelievably submissive. It made no sense. Beavis had always tried to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted; nobody could tell him what to do. Yet, here he was, burdened under the command of something neither of them could see. Never had he sounded so restrained before, let alone for such a basic, necessary thing like eating.
"Really?!" Butt-Head had scoffed, actively restraining himself from starting a brawl in the middle of a public space supervised by their employer. "Ugh, alright, fine, have it your way! Don't eat that, I'll just take you to the hospital instead so the doctors can shove some d-mn tubes down your throat!" That had gotten Beavis' attention, the blond gaping back speechlessly as he mulled over the thought of being confined in some sterile, unstimulating room for an indeterminate amount of time, which sounded like an infinitely worse punishment than death itself, in his opinion. Sitting still and being told what to do in school was already difficult enough, so there was absolutely no way he was going to spend the rest of his precious summer vacation stuck in a stupid hospital if he wasn't bleeding to death or something like that.
"Fine! Fine! Fine! I'll eat it!" Beavis had looked slightly panicked, picking up the burger but not acting further. Butt-Head couldn't even begin to imagine what must've been running through his partner's head. It was just a simple burger. Neither of them had ever had issues with burgers before. They had always eaten pretty much anything they could get their hands on as long as it wasn't some sort of gross health food or something. Sure, Beavis had always preferred fries over burgers, but he'd never been so fussy about actually eating burgers. This was the guy who could tell you what raw worms taste like, for crying out loud. Beavis had always been weird, but whatever Beavis' thought process had been at the moment, it definitely wasn't on par with his usual weirdness.
"What, are you on a diet or something?!" Butt-Head had mocked as Beavis set the burger down, losing patience and becoming more embarrassed the longer they continued to make a scene out of such an insignificant matter. Their raised voices had already attracted unwanted attention from nearby patrons, but Butt-Head wasn't going to back down yet. Cheeks reddening under the unwelcome stares while Beavis yelled something stupid at him in response to the mortifying accusation, Butt-Head reached for the discarded lettuce on the corner of the tray and placed it in the center, plucking a couple of pickles out of the burger and placing them on top of the wilted vegetable. Ugh. Vegetables.
"Eat that, then!" Butt-Head had shouted, struggling to not throw hands and wanting to disappear as more people turned their heads or shot sidelong glances at them. Beavis had shut up and stared at the pathetic mimicry of a salad or whatever the heck it was supposed to be, his cheeks burning red and eyes slightly watery. Oh, he had better not start crying like a sissy little baby. Not now, please, not now. Looking more like a petrified animal than the Beavis everyone in town knew and steered clear of, he had smacked the gross old vegetables away and picked up the burger, taking a bite as he blinked back tears that stung with shame. Between bites, he kept stopping to yell at Butt-Head, almost pleading with him like his life depended on it. Burying his face in his hands as the patrons' eyes bore into him, Butt-Head just muttered as he avoided Beavis' eyes, the blatant terror in them making him uneasy, telling him to shut up and eat before one of them resorted to violence; they didn't need to get kicked out by their own manager right now, this was already humiliating enough already. By the time both of them had finally finished eating and started to head back to their respective shifts, Butt-Head had returned to the booth to retrieve his treasured Walkman. He'd been so stressed out that he'd nearly left it behind.
Hitting the power button on the remote, Butt-Head pushed himself off of the couch and trudged out of the living room. They hadn't really said anything to each other since what was probably the most embarrassing lunch known to mankind, having spent the rest of the day communicating with body language and subdued laughter. At the moment, the crumbling person masquerading as Beavis was away at work, leaving Butt-Head to his own devices. Maybe this person he shared a home with was no longer the Beavis he had known, just a decaying person on the verge of imploding under some unseen pressure, but it was company nonetheless. It was a little lonely sometimes, if he was being honest, but he'd rather die with a ghost than live all alone; after a life of being abandoned or abused by everyone else that had been supposed to take care of him, that's how desperate he was for some form of company. Luckily, he'd found companionship coursing through his own veins.
Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit. Stupid, worthless piece of shit.
Beavis opened his eyes as his vision slowly returned, swiftly pulling himself up into a sitting position as a hairy hand yanked him by the shirt collar. He had collapsed onto the sticky kitchen tiles less than a minute ago, frozen fries strewn all over the floor and his manager kneeling in front of him with a disappointed scowl on his face. The words went in one ear and out the other, Beavis automatically tuning out a good 90 percent of what his boss was saying. Though uncommon, this wasn't the first time he'd passed out at work, but the look on his manager's face told him that he'd definitely screwed up this time. Not really paying attention to the lecture, he just picked at his nose vacantly. Apparently, this had been his "last strike" or something. Blah, blah, blah, something about violations and health and workplace safety. Anyway, the dumb manager guy took his visor away and told him to go home. Fine, he'd go home, but no, he would not return the uniform; Beavis mentally made plans to burn it later. Screw that guy. He always made everyone else do work while he hid in his office all day, his breath smelled like spoiled milk, and he breathed super loud like Darth Vader, which didn't improve Beavis' perception of him in the slightest. Flicking a booger in the direction of the adjacent grill, Beavis glanced at the burn marks and scars from years of clumsy labor in the kitchen still visible even under the cracked rash that had taken over his hands. Although he couldn't really afford to get fired so suddenly from a financial and logical standpoint- not that he was ever conventionally logical anyway, though he did know financial strain far too well for someone so young- he did feel a little glad that he wouldn't have to be trapped between these confining walls underneath the fluorescent lighting that never failed to worsen the killer headaches that had been becoming more and more common. Getting to his feet and stumbling out of the kitchen after the manager had finished talking about whatever he'd been talking about, Beavis pushed his way past the front doors and into the brutal summer sun. Within minutes, sweat was running down his body and a few faded curls were plastered to his forehead. Reaching up to his scalp, he popped a pimple right above his hairline and withdrew a chunk of dried hair when he pulled his hand back. Shaking the dry strands off of his hand, he swallowed the acid painfully rising in his throat with a lingering flavor that vaguely resembled the fries he'd eaten earlier. He tried not to think about that. He didn't want to deal with what the voices had to say about that. His mind wasn't his anymore, if it ever even was.
Imagine if you were actually worth something. Oh, you can't imagine it? Of course you can't. You don't know any better. You've never been worth anything at all. You will never be worth anything. You are worth nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. You are nothing. You have always been nothing. You will always be nothing. The only thing you can do is mess everything up. It's always your fault. Everything would be so much better without you.
Kicking an abandoned ball, one of those cheap plastic things sold at the supermarket, onto the road just in time for an approaching car to swerve and knock over a trash can, he wiped sweat off of his brow before it could drip further down and sting his eyes. Heat seeped into the worn soles of his tattered shoes, but there was that coldness in his bones that persisted despite the sweat trickling down the vertebrae of his spine. No matter how hot it was outside, it was like warmth could never actually get to him anymore, something inside of him unable to let go of that awful, lingering cold that had settled painfully inside long ago; it was like trying to give a soda to someone who was thirsty but had no mouth, or something like that, he wasn't sure how to describe it on the few occasions he actively acknowledged it. Hopping over a yellowed mattress reeking of sweat that had been dumped on the sidewalk, he remembered to practice his Martian, knowing that Butt-Head would get annoyed if he practiced at home. Maybe he could convince Butt-Head to learn Martian one day. Beavis could teach him how. As he ambled down the sidewalk, perfecting the language in a sweat-stained uniform for a job he got fired from less than 10 minutes ago like this was a totally normal occurrence, he thought about that time he had been arguing with his mother about something. He didn't remember what they had been fighting about at all, he probably hadn't been any older than eight or nine years old, but he did remember how she had told him to stop acting "innocent" and that he wasn't in the right. He wasn't innocent. He had no reason to hide from the blame. Something about the way she had said it had stuck with him, although he couldn't even remember the actual context of the argument and whether he had actually been right or not. Heck, he could hardly remember the actual phrasing of what she'd said, but he kind of understood the main thing she'd been getting at. He knew that the reason she left was his fault. Nearly everything could usually be traced back to something stupid he did. His mother had always given him clear instructions, but he could never follow them. Be quiet? He'd be talking a mile a minute within the next 30 seconds. Sit still? He'd be running around the house in the blink of an eye. Be careful with that? He'd already broken it. Stop pretending to be innocent and just take the blame? He'd already started to argue, clearly incapable of doing anything right. He probably would've been more loved by most of the people in his life if he'd been more obedient and quiet, but he always managed to do the exact opposite of that and therefore didn't deserve to be loved, not that he'd ever been loved very much anyway. His mother had never been very present in his life and had always treated him more like a rash than a child, but he'd still always wanted her to notice him, be proud of him, maybe even care about him. Of course, he'd never succeeded at anything, so he wasn't surprised when she never came back. He never did anything right and he sure as heck wasn't good enough to be loved by her, but that could be said about nearly everyone he'd ever met. Somehow, everybody else just happened to be so much better than him in every way possible. They were all out of his league, their love unattainable. The only thing that really bothered him, though, was how he always found himself wanting love from the people who cared the least. Every single time. He briefly wondered what would happen if he never met the voices' standards before deciding that was too confusing to even think about; he kind of didn't want to know the answer to that anyway, at least not yet. Besides, what even was love? Here he was having sissy thoughts over something insanely wussy like love, which made him shudder as he stepped over a used condom wrapper, but he didn't even know what love really was. The closest thing to love he knew was whatever he had going on with Butt-Head, but Butt-Head wasn't really sure what love was either; they'd never actually discussed it out loud, that would just be lame and wussy, but they could both tell that the way they interacted with each other was very different from the way families and couples interacted on TV. Well, they had each other and they were fine with that. Beavis couldn't help but feel like a complete sissy for getting worked up about something stupid like love- ugh, what was this, a princess movie?- when he had Butt-Head by his side. Walking up the empty driveway, he made his way to the front door with a final exclamation in Martian and twisted the knob a few times, his sweaty palms making it hard to get a good grip, before finally opening the door and stepping into a cool living room that faintly reeked of blood.
"Butt-Head?" Beavis stood still after taking a few steps into a house devoid of its usual laughter, dripping sweat onto the floor and letting the door slam unceremoniously shut behind him. Metal thumped against the dingy carpet as Butt-Head's fingers twitched, moving to belatedly hide the fresh cut along his forearm. Having seen the metal poised against the flesh just seconds ago, Beavis incredulously stepped toward the couch, where Butt-Head had returned to after finding something sharp enough to satisfy his needs. After putting the pieces together at a noticeably slower pace than the average layman, he miraculously had enough clarity to realize that Butt-Head had lied to him about those "battle scars" for who knows how long and that the injuries were, in fact, self-inflicted rather than the aftermath of run-ins with bears and wolves. Shoulders slumping, he looked up at the only person he had ever mutually cared about, the brunette stammering out something his ears couldn't decipher at the moment. Beavis wasn't mad, but he wasn't disappointed either. It felt worse than that. By the time Butt-Head had salvaged a crappy bandage from the closet in the hall and slapped it onto the shallow cut, listening to the blond's explanation that he had come back from work early because he was so cool that the manager had gotten jealous and fired him, Beavis finally realized what that feeling was as he remembered what the nagging voices in his head always told him. Oh, he knew that feeling well. Too well. It was guilt.