Failure To Thrive

Lunch Break

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.