Failure To Thrive

Picture-Perfect

June 3, 1997

Blood blossomed across the smoke-stained pillowcase that had once been a young woman's favorite shawl as Butt-Head's beady eyes widened slightly, the teen jerking upright amid severely unwashed sheets and tilting his head backward while he sat upright, instinctively snorting down the warm blood bubbling up deeply within his nostrils; the pulsating mess dripping thickly down the back of his throat with each snort had likely been the result of too little electrolytes and too many walks beneath the severely dehydrating summer sun, neither Beavis nor Butt-Head having enough money to buy a car let nor enough practical knowledge to successfully hijack one without getting caught within three minutes. As Butt-Head choked down warm, coppery blood rather than caving in and letting a gloriously scarlet mess spill onto an extremely worn pillowcase that had seen far better days, silence permeated the dreary house save for the occasional hum of the clunky air conditioning unit next to the hall closet, Beavis apparently having already left to tend to the morning wave of unfortunate customers at Maxi-Mart; ever since Beavis had been hired, foot traffic in the convenience store had become noticeably sparse on the days the blond was usually scheduled to work, and it wasn't exactly a coincidence. Sniffing for a few more seconds and clumsily wiping at whatever blood had trickled down his face, Butt-Head disentangled himself from the stiff, yellowed sheets and slid off of the bed, stepping over a severely overdue movie he had rented from Blockbuster and had never bothered to return as he crossed over to the bedroom doorway without making an effort to change his blood-stained shirt. Maybe he'd get some Count Chocula or see if there were any leftover crumbles of the chips he'd been eating the night before. It was just another regular day, after all. Life never stopped for a breather, so neither did he. Butt-Head was fine. Beavis heard things and Butt-Head saw things, but they were fine. Butt-Head wouldn't be caught dead telling the things he saw, of course. No, not in a gazillion years, or not in however long that sex ed class had lasted when they weren't allowed to laugh. Showing weakness was humiliating and it was bad enough to be stuck with stupid little marks on his skin that didn't look anything like those super cool scars in the movies. Blood was a cheap thrill that dried quickly, and it was becoming nearly as flimsy as those walls that had begun to crumble after trying to keep them up for years in front of a staticky television. Beavis had it way easier because he was dumber than basically any other living creature and the dumbass forgot pretty much everything.

Well, maybe sometimes Beavis did remember things here and there, but he never remembered anything the way Butt-Head remembered things. Never. Butt-Head wasn't smart at all, but he wasn't nearly as forgetful as most people assumed he was. Sure, he didn't bother remembering boring stuff or anything he just didn't care about, but he always remembered the things that hurt the most no matter how desperately he wished he could cut those memories out of his body- nobody else's- forever on those sleepless nights. When the TV was off and the moon cast an unapologetic light on the little dark things that were always just out of reach of the sun, he remembered everything with a daytime clarity; not even those gut-wrenching epiphanies of all of those times Beavis could've died but hadn't could have rivaled anything the brunette remembered. When Butt-Head actually remembered things, he never forgot. He remembered those faces that had blurred over the time but always had something in common that he'd never really been able to identify but had never failed to send an unsettling icy prickling down his back. He remembered how searing sweat had run into his eyes and down his cheeks in trails that could have been mistaken for wimpy tears. He remembered the rough hands and flushed cheeks of alcohol. He remembered how scorching asphalt had scraped his bruised skin raw and bloody when he'd tried to fight back a few seconds too late. He remembered bitter, salty odors with metallic undertones. He remembered feeling dirt in every single crevice of his body as he laid somewhere hard and cold, all alone. He remembered smiles that had an undeniably sour sweetness like tainted lemonade. He remembered not being able to do anything. He remembered being weak. He remembered not understanding anything. He remembered feeling everything. He remembered how his mind had gone blank at first. He remembered how he suddenly remembered everything within a week after it happened, every single time. He remembered how life had just gone on regardless. He remembered being stuck on a carousel that went round and round but never stopped to let its passengers off because he didn't know any better and therefore wasn't entitled to anything better. He remembered nearly nothing of whatever he'd ever been taught by teachers. He remembered nearly everything he'd ever been taught by complete strangers. He remembered everything he didn't want to remember. Oh, but life? Oh, life just went on. No big deal, really. Just suck it up and move on. Look at the TV to feel like a normal person without a care in the world. Hit someone weaker to feel power. Break the neighbor's stuff to feel fleeting satisfaction before something dark and heavy sets back in. Steal random things to feel fulfillment that can't be derived from anywhere else. Hit on a chick to feel like a real man instead of a complete fraud. Trust nobody to feel truly secure for at least a short amount of time before something else comes along to darken the world a little more. Hold back tears at sunless hours to feel strong because the alternative is too humiliating. Don't ever get close to anyone to feel safe in a house that had once bled every night for years on end. Avoid anybody who could ever intervene, even if they're nice wussies like Mr. Van Driessen or that one counselor lady with the sagging boobs who had wanted to talk about feelings in middle school, to feel in control of a body which he would never understand had never even stood a chance in the first place.