Chapter Text
If someone were to ask me to state what I know to be fucking indisputably true, they’d probably walk away with a justifiably small list of such absolute truths. The first one would be that I know they must be some sort of insane asshole—probably a psychologist or some sort of egomaniacal asshat of the same nature—to be asking me that question. The second thing would be that my name is Karkat Vantas, a ridiculous title which was probably inflicted upon me as foresightful punishment for that fact that I am and have always been a colossal shitstain of a person. Thirdly, I would make a point of mentioning that I and everyone surrounding me exists. Finally, I’d tell the hypothetical, wannabe-shrink that I—the fucking impossibly hopeless romantic, who tends to have some sort of freakish knack for matching people—will die without ever matching himself.
Of course, a lot of my friends—and by “a lot,” I mean “a large proportion of the tiny number of companions I have who haven’t turned into assholes or ceased all forms of communication with me”—argue that this last fact isn’t true.
“Oh, but, Karkat!” they often coo in their most annoying, finger-wagging voice, “You’re a great guy! You’ll find someone one day!”
“Yes, of course,” is often my response. Often—no… Not often. Always. Always, this reply is accompanied by a drawn-out sigh of dismissive vexation and a swift topic shift. Most of the time, the topic changes to the first thought my tiny, piece-of-shit mind can come up with—stupid assfuckery like what the latest essay topic is or how my conversational partner’s room is faring with the misfortune of their discommodious presence.
Sometimes, if I’m feeling especially confident—an occasion which occurs once every piss-yellow moon—I may actually throw around the idea for a moment or two. I might consider that there’s some asshat who’s just as much of a societal flea as I am and that this aforementioned douchebag’s near-constant presence would be (at the very best) tolerable to me.
Today, however, is not such a day. This isn’t very surprising, since confident days are so rare as to be deemed occurrences which, as has already been mentioned, happen once every piss-yellow moon.
In fact, today is one of what I call an “everyone can shut the fucking hell up while I loudly and perhaps pointlessly berate and decry my own existence” day. As such a moniker implies, this is due to the fact that I feel particularly shitty.
My unpleasant sentiment for this day might be caused by a good number of things.
Earlier this morning, my roommate, John, declared that I have no option but to follow him as he drags me off to some sort of imbecilic community event, where I will be forced to watch countless talentless anus-dwelling fuckers pretend to have talent. Also, upon waking this morning, I found that the essay I had been working on for weeks had self-destructed and disappeared from my shitty laptop. And now, as I stare at the blur which happens to be my reflection, I find a million other things to loathe about myself.
I find things such as a bandage fuck-knows-how-many-skin-tones too tan for my paper-white skin covering a superficial cut on my chin. (As a bit of pointless background pertaining to my equally meaningless life, I acquired the wound two days ago. I misjudged the position and placement of the razor I was shaving with.)
I fumble about until I find my hairbrush. Then, as I lean so close that my nose is a mere twitch away from touching the mirror, I force myself to look at my reflection. I attempt to tame my wild mess of white hair. I fail, I sigh, and I catch a glimpse of the ridiculously thick, nearly-black tinted glasses resting on the bridge of my congenitally crooked nose. I don’t bother raising the glasses to get a “clearer” view of my murky red eyes. Instead, I close my eyes and pull myself away from the stupid reflection. I refrain from my nasty habit of smashing mirrors only by reminding myself that it’s not mine and that I’d already broken one pricey mirror this year.
“Karkat!” a familiar voice calls from behind the door leading into the dormitory.
I sigh and drop my hairbrush, listening as it clangs against the porcelain sink. Then, haphazardly, I respond, “What do you want, you twit?”
John, as per usual, either ignores or fails to mention my commentary. He opts, instead, to continue his conversation. “We’ve got to get moving. We’ll be late if we don’t hurry the hell along… like… now…”
“Okay! Hold your fucking horseshit,” I mumble as I wiggle the doorknob about so that it tricks itself into working like it’s actually supposed to. I open the door and step out of the coolness of the bathroom and into the warmer air of the dorm.
As soon as my foot touches the ragged but still fairly soft carpet, I’m off. John has a firm grip on my wrist and he’s doggedly dragging my ass off to the talentless talent show.
Not surprisingly, the talent show is a load of bullshit. Of the first fifteen performances, the most interesting didn’t even get a chance to demonstrate how far they could shove a dildo up their ass before being kicked off the stage. Aside from that, it’s utter, balls-numbing boredom.
Unfortunately for me, I can’t go to sleep or ignore the damned thing. John, knowing that my vision is as close to 20/20 as the toilet in our bathroom is to the fucking sun, just had to be a good samaritan. He got us front row seats. I might not like the acts, but I’m too decent to upright fall asleep in the middle of a performance. My only solace is that Dave Strider—the ass we’ve come to see—is up soon.
I barely have time to wonder how soon “soon” really is before the announcer, a bored-looking, balding man from the local radio station which stupidly funded the affair, speaks up. I tune him out, though I manage to glean from his short introduction the name I’ve been waiting to hear. “Dave Strider.”
The crowd claps unenthusiastically. i snicker. No one seems to want to be here.
The curtain rises and I squint at the central figure—a blonde guy in jeans and an unimpressive red-and-white baseball shirt. There’s nothing special about him. Hell, he’s the least extraordinary person to take the stage yet. It doesn’t help that he seems to not take any particular pride in himself, seeing as he’s hunched over like he’s got the weight of half the world on his shoulders.
There’s nothing special about what’s set up around him, either. Whereas some people have had all sorts of insane shit—like giant rubber tires and flaming juggling supplies—he has only a music player.
What the fuck was he trying to pull? Surely, it wasn’t what it seemed like.
He wanders over to the CD player he’s brought along and carelessly punches the button to begin the song. Silently, he moves to take his place..
The music begins mere moments after he’s settled into his place. It’s soft but fast. With every passing second, though, it’s as if it grows louder. It does this slowly—nearly imperceptibly. One minute, it’s the volume of someone talking loudly, and the next minute, it’s the volume of someone trying to put a goddamned iPhone through their blender. It’s the kind of music I’d expect to hear in the background of the unholy fuckspawn of Need for Speed and some sort of dirtied-up pop music album.
Now, I don’t really see much more than a constantly moving slur as far as the dance is concerned. When I do see things, they’re quick snippets. The blurred image of a limb moving into the next position or the brief glimpse of a face. Long story short, he was pretty fucking intense. I guess I’d say it’s breakdancing, though I’m not an expert on dance styles.
The entire performance lasts no more than two minutes. It’s over before I can really think about what I witnessed. The judges sitting in front of us seem to feel the same way, as they’re grumbling under their breath to one another. The score only further confirms the assumption. Out of thirty points possible, twelve points are given. That’s not the lowest score, by any means. The guy who tried to shove a dildo up his butt as a display of particular talent got zero out of thirty. The idiot claiming that cleaning the exterior of a car on-stage in ten minutes was a talent was generously awarded a mere seven points. Hell, Dave’s twelve point score is the highest today. Still, from the resultant huff onstage, it seems that Dave isn’t too pleased.
I suppose that’s understandable. I mean… I don’t feel very accomplished if I win a game because everyone else sucks at it. So, in a sense, I understand his frustration. Still, I’m not sure that warranted the clearly audible and huff of frustration, but I guess that’s his choice.
By now, the crowd seems to have finally woken up. One man in the back seems to be yelling at the judges. Soon enough, a few more people join in. Within minutes, it’s full-blown chaos.
I take my chance. Using the mayhem of the poorly organised talent show, I glide discretely through and out of the crowd. Then, I make the short journey back to the dorm by foot, alone.