FicWad

I do not understand what it is I've done wrong
Full of holes, check the pulse
Blink your eyes one for yes, two for no
I've no idea what I am talking about
-Bodysnatchers, Radiohead

“I hate you. So much.” I said to Christa, glaring at her when she giggled. “I already feel stupid. Stop fucking laughing!”
Christa grabbed her stomach and somehow calmed her laughter enough to talk. “I-it’s fine, okay? You look fine. I’m not laughing at you.”
“Oh, right. You’re just laughing next to me.” I grumbled, crossing my arms. “Just shut up, will you?”
“Okay, okay. Shutting up, now.” she grabbed the pile of clothes that was presumably what she was wearing to the party and headed for the bathroom.
When she closed the door, I uncrossed my arms and stared at myself in the mirror. I was in a purple top, patterned with skulls and crowns, with a dark denim skirt and black lace up boots. I didn’t dislike the clothes, really, it was just that I’d had bad experiences with parties before.
Well, not so much a bad experience as an enormous, neverending clusterfuck of bad experiences. Social gatherings aren’t really my thing. Parties were things Christa went to, as the one half of our duo who had better social skills than a housefly. She was no social butterfly, but for the most part, people liked her because she was nice. And when people disliked her, you can bet your arm that it was because she’s friends with me.
I still don’t know why she sticks with me. If she didn’t, she could easily squeeze her way into the popular group, and if she wore more makeup and didn’t talk about video games so much.
“Are you done in there?” I called, getting impatient. If I was being forced to go to a party, I was going to be there before the food ran out.
“Since when did you get excited about house parties?”
“I’m not, I just wanna be there before the free food runs out.”I said, leaning on the doorframe. From somewhere inside the bathroom, I heard water running. “Otherwise, what’s the point in even going?”
“You have a point there, actually.” Christa mused. “Okay, I’m ready.” the bathroom door opened and she walked out with her makeup done (which is a rare occurrence for both of us) and her hair pulled back into a bun. “Let’s go.”
She held her arm out for me to link with and we made our way down the stairs, pausing to say goodbye to her mother. As they hugged, I couldn’t help but feel a little envious. Christa’s parents were divorced, but amiably so, and everyone got along well, with Friday night family dinners and everything. Even if her parents were less friendly with each other, I’d probably still be jealous.
At least she had parents.

Brendon looked surprised when he opened the door to welcome us in. I supposed it was because he didn’t know I had the ability to even go to social events, but then he asked me if I was wearing makeup.
“A little.” I said. “What? Who said I couldn’t?” I was starting to feel insecure. I knew I wasn’t exactly a professional when it came to applying makeup, but I didn’t think it was that bad... I turned to Christa. “Is it running or something? People are staring.”
Christa shook her head, laughing slightly. “It’s fine, God! Relax. I didn’t know you could get so panicked about these things.”
“I’m not panicked.” I insisted. “I just don’t want to give anyone a good reason to get on my back.”
She patted my back. “Honey, they’ll always find something to bother you about.”
I decided to ignore her and turned to Brendon. “So, where are you keeping the food?”
He pointed me to a table set up in the living room stacked with crackers, chips and dip, all the standard party foods. There was a keg at the far end of the table, but I decided that could wait until later, when I’d resign myself to standing against the wall with a beer, praying to God I wouldn’t get noticed.
A trio of girls I recognized from English brushed past, each one whispering about one thing or another- most of which I could infer to be about the new student. Even though it was a pretty ordinary occurrence (some poor kid comes here and is either loved or hated by the general population, then leaves after the first week if it’s the latter), for some reason it got everyone riled up this time around. I wondered what set him apart from all the others. Maybe I could catch a glimpse of him tomorrow at school, have a little look-see for myself. My curiosity, although piqued, was passive and not enough incentive to ask anyone about it.
I nearly dropped my plate of brownies when the door slammed open, followed by a loud, obnoxious voice rambling about how ‘Dude! This party’s totally rockin’, dude!’ Through my peripheral vision I saw Brendon flinching at the gross overuse of ‘dude’, provided by a probably already wasted football player, and groaned inwardly.
That keg is starting to look pretty friendly, I said to myself.
I emptied a healthy amount of beer into a red plastic cup, then got another for Christa. I handed her the cup.
“To annoying assholes,” she said, holding her cup up in a toast.
“And to the death of our livers.” I tipped the cup and drank.
Soon, more people started arriving, which I took as my queue to head for the wall with another cup of beer, for safety precautions.
I guessed I was being a little prejudiced when I said all parties sucked. It was better than school, definitely, because most people were distracted by the booze and music to bother me too much.
Plus, there was the matter of free food and alcohol.
“Hey.”
I didn’t notice until then that someone else had joined me at the Wall of Losers, who was leaning a little too far into my personal space with one of his hands positioned above my head on the wall.
“Can I help you?” I asked dryly, looking up with disinterest. My fellow apparent loser was odd-looking, to say the least. Cropped silver hair was the first thing I noticed, then bright hazel eyes and the fact that although the guy was probably eighteen, he had the face of a twelve year old girl. I panned down to his torso, where I became very irked because he’d done his tie up wrong. “Do you need help with getting your tie right?”
“Huh?” the unknown male looked confused, but quickly picked his suave facade back up. “So, my name’s Gerard, and I’m new here... obviously.” he flashed a smile at me and I glared back. “I was just wondering if you could, y’know, show me around.”
Oh, God.
“Well.” I said. “Let’s start with Seth. Football star, basketball MVP, asshole, to boot. And continuing in a clockwise motion around the room, there’s slut, schizo, twat, other asshole, douchebag... well, I think that about sums up the entirety of the student body here.” I smiled sarcastically, handing him my now empty cup. “Can you throw this away for me? I have no further need for it.”
Up until then even I didn’t know I had the ability to be that sarcastic. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder to see ‘Gerard’ still holding my abandoned cup, looking bemused. Then he crushed the red plastic in his hand and threw it in the garbage. I suddenly felt the need for another drink and made my way back to the keg.
The fizzy amber liquid was already spilt in some places around the keg when I got there, indicating that ‘tipsy’ would soon become an obsolete term for those here who’d had alcohol. Whether that was a good thing or not I had yet to find out. Behind me, I heard someone singing a very off-key rendition of some Britney Spears song. Maybe I should’ve told Christa to bring a video camera.
Halfway through filling my cup, it was suddenly knocked out of my hand, spilling beer over my shoes. I didn’t even bother turning around.
“Hey, you just wasted a perfectly good cup of-”
I didn’t finish, what with most of my face suddenly being occupied by a fist. I fell backwards, barely catching myself on the table. My teeth throbbed. The rusty taste of blood filled my mouth.
Of course, Seth stood over me, rubbing his fist and grinning evilly.
“Sorry, but you were in my way.” he grabbed the now empty cup out of my hand and refilled it with his own beer and looked like he was about to walk away and I thought that would be the end of it. A good punch, a pair of ruined shoes, an optimistic thought that that would fill the night’s quota for unfair torment.
But suddenly Seth turned around and I felt a wave of cold alcohol soaking my top, seeping icily through the thin fabric. I don’t scream or stand with my mouth open in shock- actually, my biggest concern is how I’m supposed to wash the smell out so Christa doesn’t get in trouble- and no one else really pays any attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brendon staring sympathetically at me, all soaked in beer and my own blood. But he doesn’t do a thing to help me.
It’s that one small detail that causes me to break. I’m used to the bullying, the general shunning. But everyone standing in that room had the chance to help me but they didn’t take it, and nothing had ever made me feel so small and ignored before.
Not even when I tried to talk to my dad and he wouldn’t answer.
And that’s really saying a lot.
I didn’t say a word to anyone as I walked out, not even pausing to wonder where the hell Christa was. Absently, I tried to wring out the excess moisture from the shirt as I walked, acutely aware of my face scrunched up in an oncoming ugly-cry. And for the first time in awhile, I decided that it was okay to cry. I’d had kind of a bad night.
For such an evening as this, the waterworks were on a surprisingly low gear. Most likely because I’d actually suffered a low amount of actual humiliation, since no one had noticed the incident, and I was just more of really fucking angry. At Seth, at Brendon, at Christa, at myself. I heaved a silent sob and then composed myself, roughly wiping the heel of my hand across my face to wipe off whatever makeup that had been smeared.
Trying to inject some humor into the situation, I found myself comparing the whole situation with Welcome to the Doll House- probably the only movie that has a downer ending so crushing it could make the happiest of people chronically depressed. I liked to think that if someone made a movie about me, at least it wouldn’t be that miserable. At least I had a friend.
I wiped my eyes again, just in case I had missed any leftover eyeliner. Streaks of black came away on my hand, and I focused on that in a feeble attempt to keep my mind off of what just happened. For a time, it kind of helped.
Then I caught sight of a couple some ways ahead of me- a dash of silver hair against the dark. I squinted my eyes despite knowing I probably wouldn’t see anything more. Most likely, it was just my eyes playing tricks.
But then I saw it again- just clearly enough to judge that it was actually the top of someone’s head, adjoined to a torso and legs. Walking home, with another figure next to it- this one female.
Only one person I knew of had white hair.
I groaned internally. It was that creepy kid at the party- Gerald or Gary or something with a G. And I thought I’d escaped him.
I could have just ducked into a separate alley and taken another route home, but at that time of night it would be practically suicidal. So, as quietly as I could manage, I walked as slowly as possible behind them and stayed there, being sure to walk in unison with their steps so they wouldn’t know I was there. Gerard (yeah, that was his name) didn’t make any physical indication that he knew, but somehow I was sure my incredible stealthiness wasn’t fooling him. But, like I’d said before, he didn’t seem about to rat me out. Instead, he wrapped his arm around the other person’s waist and laughed noncommittally at whatever she was saying.
Funny, I knew that girl.
Her name was Emilie, a grotesquely skinny brunette whom I’d once worked on a science project with in the ninth grade (which she ended up doing most of, bless her heart). I was on reasonably decent terms with her (at least, as decent as they could get), but we weren’t close by any means.
Still, I felt this sort of fear for her as I saw Gerard lean over and whisper something in her ear. It almost perfectly paralleled the rape-safety videos we’d been forced to watch in Health class- a naive, drunk girl brought home by a seemingly gentlemanly suitor (admittedly, the guy in the video didn’t have silver hair), and then bam- instant starring role in the Rape Show for the girl. And based on his behavior towards me earlier, this was exactly what Gerard had in mind for poor Emilie.
Ashamedly, I didn’t do anything. I followed them to an old, peeling house (an Antebellum house- one of the prized possessions of the Deep South, if I remember correctly) and then they disappeared inside and I couldn’t follow them in.
Unsure of what to do, I shuffled my feet and stood in the driveway for a minute. There was no noise coming from the house- no cries for help or horrified screaming, which I took as a good sign. On the other hand, the silence could've meant something far worse.
Eventually, I lost my patience waiting for them. I stepped up to the bay window and peered in, cupping my hands around my eyes.
From what I could tell, I was looking into the living room. Two couches, old and dusty-looking, faced off over an oak coffee table with several half-empty mugs placed carelessly on it. At the back of the room, there was an unused fireplace, the mantle cluttered with dusty old photographs in dusty old frames. There wasn’t anything indicating sociopathic tendencies (though the coffee cups implied mild disorganization), but whatever could be said about Gerard, it probably didn’t involve anything about being a rapist. Weird, maybe, but not psychotic.
I pulled away from the window and looked up at the window above me, absently wondering what was up there. Maybe the bedroom? I imagined a very unkempt room, with the bed unmade and dirty clothes lying everywhere, maybe posters of eighties metal bands half-hanging off the walls. The very image of a cluttered teenage boy’s room- of course, I could only derive that from what I’ve seen on television, or in movies. I’ve never actually been in a teenage boy’s room (and I didn’t have any interest to, either). But for whatever reason, I imagined Gerard might have had a thing for Anthrax.
I realized I’d been standing in front of the window like a creeper for what could’ve been at least five minutes. Quickly, I stepped back and started for the sidewalk without looking back. Hopefully, no one noticed me.
I kept my hands behind my back and walked at a leisurely pace, feigning disinterest, but I kept my ears pricked for any other noises I might hear.
And I did. But it wasn’t a scream, or cry for help.
It was a moan of pleasure.
I shuddered and tried to shut out whatever gross mental images were making their way to my eyes. Ew. I guessed that unless he wasn’t using any protection, Emilie wouldn’t need my help.
As I started walking home again, I pulled my slightly damp jacket tighter around my shoulders, feeling oddly cold and lonely. Normally, the idea of sex or relationships disgusted me- a thing that could be blamed by the fact that I hated pretty much everyone I knew, but when I saw or heard other people enjoying that kind of thing, I couldn’t help but feel envious. It was in my nature. Humans hungered for the warmth of another.
Whoever came up with that part of human nature should’ve shoved it up their ass, I thought bitterly, ignoring the cold splash as my left foot fell into a puddle.
My surroundings began degrading from mid-sized nuclear family homes and parks into shady drug stores and itty-bitty slum shacks, and I knew I was getting close to home. The icy water was now seeping into my shoes, and I imagined taking a long, hot shower before I realized the water had been cut off almost a month ago. For now, dry shampoo and cheap perfume would have to do, because I was too lazy to walk over to Christa’s.
I saw my apartment complex coming up on the right, and took a moment to be thankful that I somehow wasn’t mugged on my way (not that I actually had much anyone would have any interest in stealing).
My heel carelessly shoved the wedge doorstop out of the way as I started peeling my jacket off, which I discarded on the floor with the intention of returning it to Christa the following day (after I washed the beer out of it). I didn’t feel bad about borrowing clothes- actually, Christa encourage me to, because, as she put it, “Teenage girls shouldn’t have to walk around in their fathers’ oversized polos and Goodwill jeans.”
I didn’t really understand that. If it fit, it fit, and clothes that actually fit me were in short supply as of late.
I pulled an old blanket out from the hall closet and pulled it over my shoulders as I walked to my room. It was way too late to be thinking about much of anything now, and I thanked God that tomorrow was Saturday.
With three blankets plus a few pillows, I was sweating up a storm from underneath the covers, but I didn’t remove any, for reasons I was a little too embarrassed to admit to myself.
When I was little, I, like pretty much every other six year old, thought there were monsters in my closet and demons under my bed and clinging to the ceiling. I hate admitting it, but now, a whole decade later, I still kind of believed that. Like the drunk thing.
My toes felt cold. I reached down and tried to straighten the blanket out to cover my feet, but I was too tangled in the sheets to move them anywhere.
Great. I thought. Just as I was starting to get comfortable, too.

When I woke up, the sun, which would normally be shining precisely, irkingly onto my face, seemed to have burned out in the center, sparing my eyes some grief but leaving me a little suspicious. I opened my eyes, arm partially shielding them as I sat up (even with the sun giving off only half its normal light, my eyes would still suffer if I looked up too quickly).
In the middle of my window, right where the sun would normally be, was an egg.
It was still raw, the whites trailing behind the yolk like slime from a slug, a gross whitish-gray hue leaking onto the window. I should’ve known. I had slept reasonably well, but the faint thumping- which I’d earlier assumed to be the rain- had kept me half-awake through to around three or four in the morning. Despite the disgusting quality of it all, I felt a pinch in my stomach. I hadn’t eaten much in the past few days.
“Didn’t even have the courtesy to fry ‘em for me,” I grumbled, climbing out of bed.
In the kitchen, I dug through the drawers until I found the spatula, then slammed it shut and made my way outside, where I assessed the damage.
Four eggs were smashed unceremoniously against the side of the apartment, luckily all congregated around my own window. From the small, seldom-used balcony I reached out and slowly scraped the egg off the wall, letting each one fall in the dirt thirty feet below. Something for the birds later on, I guess.
When I finished with that, I went back inside and wrapped back up in the blankets, intending to go back to sleep for another few hours. I knew it was around noon already but hey, I had an excuse. I’d just gone to a party last night and came back with a hangover.
As soon as my head hit the pillow, I felt my body instantly start to relax, and exhaustion took over from there. Somewhere in the back of my head I remembered uncaringly a social studies assignment I was supposed to do but- fuck it. I could put it off until Sunday. It wasn’t like I had plans or anything.
I was nearly asleep until frantic knocking on the front door drilled spikes of pain into my skull. I stumbled drunkenly out of bed, one hand cradling my throbbing head while the other darted around, searching for the doorknob. I wondered who the hell it was that was outside the apartment (and what they wanted) but I had a pretty good idea already.
“Could you please lay off on that fucking banging?!”
Christa jumped, her knuckles inches away from my face where the door had once been. Her eyes were wide and scared, and her hair looked messier than usual.
“You okay?” I leaned against the doorframe, one hand idly pushing the door back and forth. “No offense, but you look like shit.”
The scared look melted out of her eyes, replaced by indignation. “Thanks a lot.” she said sarcastically. Whatever. I’m fine.” She stepped past me and let herself in, shedding her unnecessary jacket. “Your neighborhood just freaks me out.”
If I was more of a bitch than I already was I probably would’ve been slightly miffed. But I wasn’t, and we were best friends, and it was the truth anyway so it wasn’t really insulting.
“So what are you here for?” I asked her, kicking her shoes out of the way as we both headed towards my room.
“Well, two things. Firstly,” she picked up her leather boots that I’d borrowed last night, gave them a whiff, and wrinkled her nose. “My clothes you borrowed. You can, uh... you can keep the shoes, though.” She set them back down carefully, discreetly wiping her hands on her jeans. “And I also wanted to see if you were okay.”
Oh yeah. I left the party after only about half an hour, so Christa was probably really worried about me. I hadn’t thought about that, being a little too occupied with other matters.
“Well, now you know. I’m fine. Not raped, not mugged...” I held my arms out to show that there were no signs of anyone handling me.
Christa looked unconvinced. “You have a split lip.”
My hand flew to my mouth- sure enough, there was a bloody scab on my lower lip where Seth had punched me the night before. I’d forgotten about that, too. The throbbing went down long before I woke up.
“I forgot about that.” I said stupidly. Then, “It’s fine. Just a...”
“Did someone hit you?” She asked anxiously, reaching for her purse.
I glared. “No, Christa, I hit myself.” I said sarcastically. “I got into a scrape on my way home, okay? But it’s fine now. Dickhead ran off.”
“You sure you’re-”
“I’m fine.” I cut her off impatiently. “Hungry, though. Can we get some food? You’re paying.”
I couldn’t be entirely sure, but I was pretty confident that I had successfully dodged all her questions. Hesitantly, she put her shoes and jacket back on as I pulled on a pair of trainers(to go with my baggy sweatpants and Anthrax t shirt combo) and tied my hair back into a bun, following after me with the apartment key in hand. I once again propped the door open with the doorstop.
“You know, you’re gonna get robbed someday if you keep doing that.” Christa told me, for what seemed like the ten thousandth time.
“Not like there’s much to take.” I said. “Besides, I’m more likely to lose the key than have someone break in.”
There was a ratty McDonald’s about a block from my apartment, so, agreeing on a budget of five dollars each, we went there. A homeless guy was laying outside the door, Lakers baseball cap pulled over his face. Christa, being the charitable saint she is, dropped a dollar in his cup as we passed.
The acne-riddled college aged cashier looked nervous as we walked up, like he’d never handled a cash register or seen a scruffy, annoyed teenage girl before.
“I’ll have two coffees, pancakes, and a McGriddle, please.” Christa said sweetly.
He nodded quickly and tried (key word being ‘tried’) to punch in our orders, mashing the backspace key more often than anything else. We got our food, which was exactly the kind of mass-produced low quality crap I’d come to expect from Mickey D’s, and sat down in one of the booths. Christa took a tentative sip of her coffee, cringed visibly, and set it back down.
“So, what happened last night, exactly?” she asked.
I groaned internally. And I thought I’d avoided that topic- oh well. I could tell her. It might unintentionally guilt trip her, but she’d get over it soon enough.
“Seth happened.” I said plainly. “He punched me, then took my beer. Asshole.”
Sure enough, Christa jabbed her soggy stack of pancakes with her fork, looking guilty. “Why didn’t you call for me? I could’ve helped.”
“I handled it fine.” Evasively, I took my coffee and chugged it, resisting the urge to gag at the lukewarm, slimy feel of it sliding down my throat. “Hey, it ain’t your fault.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Oh yeah, and I met that new kid, too.” I tried to change the subject again.
“Oh?” Christa smeared a glob of butter onto her pancakes. “How was he?”
I paused, hunting for the right word. “...Weird. Yeah. He was really weird. And he also banged Emilie. Within half an hour of meeting her, I think.”
Christa nearly spat out her drink. “Fuck! That’s disgusting, and I’m eating.”
I laughed as she gagged again on the coffee and shoveled in another forkful of pancake to get rid of the extra liquid.
“Well, I’m sorry.” I grinned. “But at least you didn’t have to hear it like I did.”
“So,” Christa wiped her face with a napkin. “I guess, based on previous events, that we can judge this new guy’s character-”
“Gerard.” I interrupted. “His name’s Gerard.”
“-Gerard’s character as being a creepy pervert.”
“I can attest to that. He tried hitting on me last night.” I took another bite out of my McGriddle and crumpled up the empty wrapper.
“Ooh, that’s an interesting development.” Christa finished drinking her coffee and smiled coyly. “Didja play hard to get, then?”
I groaned. “Ugh, no. I can’t play hard to get.” I gestured to my face. “I’m already hard to want.”
Christa shook her head. “You need to fix that low self esteem of yours.”
::
So it seems to have been approximately one thousand years since I’ve posted this story, and I sincerely apologize for that. Blame my fascist AP World History teacher (and I also lost the sheet for the plot).
Anyways, I guess (?) have a happy Halloween and stuff.