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Gary Barkovitch didn't have a good childhood. Most people could probably guess that just by looking at him.
There was something in the way he carried himself all nervous energy and sharp edges. His fingernails traced his neck when he was thinking, when he was anxious, when the silence got too loud. His eyes moved too fast, like someone always waiting for the next bad thing to happen. He had a mouth on him too swore like it was second nature, said things that made people flinch. But get him alone with someone looking at him too closely, and he'd clam up, shoulders hunching in, words catching in his throat.
Gary Barkovitch was loud and crude and couldn't shut up when he should. But he was also terrified of being seen.
Because in Gary's experience, being seen meant getting hurt.
He lived with his mom first. He was only six when things started getting bad.
She was young too young, probably and tired in that bone-deep way that comes from disappointment and regret. She yelled a lot, smoked inside even though it made Gary's eyes burn, and blamed him for everything that went wrong. The bills, the broken TV, the fact that she couldn't go out with her friends anymore.
"If it wasn't for you," she'd say, cigarette dangling from her lips, "my life would be different."
Gary learned to stay small. Stay quiet. Make himself invisible.
Sometimes she'd disappear for days off with whatever boyfriend she had that week and Gary would be left alone. He'd scrounge through the kitchen for anything edible, sit in the dark waiting for her to come back.
That's when it started. The scratching.
Just a little at first his arms when he was bored, his neck when he was nervous. It made the loneliness feel less empty somehow. Gave him something to focus on.
Eventually, someone called social services. A neighbor, maybe. Or a teacher who'd noticed the bruises.
His mom didn't fight to keep him. Didn't even show up to the hearing.
Gary told himself he didn't care. But he scratched his neck raw that whole week anyway.
His dad said he wanted to "do better."
He didn't.
Gary was ten when he moved in with his father, and it only took three months for him to realize it was worse than living with his mom.
His father had a drinking problem the kind that turned mean after the third beer. The kind that made his voice go cold and his hands go heavy.
He'd slam doors, punch walls, grab Gary by the arm hard enough to leave marks. He thought yelling counted as parenting, thought fear was the same as respect.
"Man up," he'd say when Gary cried. "Stop being such a fucking baby."
Gary learned not to cry. Learned to take it. Learned that showing weakness only made it worse.
The scratching got worse too. His arms first, then his neck. Raw patches that never quite healed because he couldn't stop picking at them.
The hitting wasn't constant just often enough that Gary was always waiting for it. Walking on eggshells, keeping his head down, staying out of reach.
He started staying out late just to avoid going home. Got into fights at school because at least when someone hit him there, he could hit back. Talked back to teachers because he'd stopped caring about consequences.
Eventually, his dad got sick of him too.
"You're going to your grandmother's," he said one night, not even looking at Gary. "I can't deal with your shit anymore."
Gary packed his bag and didn't say goodbye.
Meemaw was kind. But she was old and tired, and Gary didn't know what to do with kindness anymore.
He was thirteen when he moved into her house. It smelled like tea and dust, and the TV was always on too loud game shows and soap operas playing to an empty room. For the first time in his life, Gary had a bed that was actually his. Clean sheets. A door that locked from the inside.
But peace made him restless. Made him scratch at his neck until it bled because at least pain was familiar.
School didn't help. Kids thought he was weird too quiet, too angry, too much. Teachers thought he was a lost cause. He started skipping class, sitting behind the bleachers with his hood up, scratching at his neck when the silence got too loud.
That's when Mr. Ellis noticed him.
Mr. Ellis was the photography teacher. New to the school, youngish, with an easy smile and a way of talking that made you feel like you mattered.
Gary was fourteen when Mr. Ellis found him behind the bleachers one day and instead of yelling, he handed him an old camera.
"Try looking at the world through this," Mr. Ellis said.
Gary didn't expect much. But something clicked.
For the first time, he saw beauty in small things: cracked sidewalks catching the light, raindrops on windows, sunlight filtering through broken glass. The camera gave him control he could frame things how he wanted, capture moments that felt true.
And for the first time since he was six years old, the scratching stopped.
His neck healed. His arms healed. He had something to do with his hands that wasn't destroying himself.
Mr. Ellis encouraged him. Told him he had "an eye." Said Gary could be really good if he kept at it.
Gary started showing up to class. Started turning in assignments. Mr. Ellis would keep him after to talk about composition, about shadow and light, about seeing the world differently.
It felt good. Being seen. Being told he was good at something.
But then Mr. Ellis started getting too close. Touching Gary's shoulder when he leaned over to look at photos. Standing too near. Making comments that felt wrong about Gary's eyes, his hands, how "mature" he was for his age.
Gary tried to ignore it. Told himself he was imagining things. But his neck started itching again, and he couldn't stop himself from scratching.
Then one day, after Gary turned sixteen, Mr. Ellis asked him to stay after class to discuss his portfolio.
The classroom was empty. Mr. Ellis locked the door.
"You're special, Gary," he said, stepping closer. "I see something in you."
His hand went to Gary's face.
Gary froze. His stomach dropped. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his body wouldn't move.
When Mr. Ellis tried to kiss him, something in Gary snapped.
He shoved the man back hard. Mr. Ellis stumbled, surprise flashing across his face.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Gary's voice cracked.
"Gary, calm down"
"Don't fucking touch me!"
Gary grabbed his bag and bolted for the door, fumbling with the lock. Behind him, Mr. Ellis was saying something trying to explain, trying to make excuses but Gary couldn't hear it over the roaring in his ears.
He slammed the door so hard the glass rattled.
The next day, Mr. Ellis filed a complaint. Said Gary had been "aggressive" and "violent." Said he'd shoved a desk, threatened him, acted unstable.
The school believed him. Why wouldn't they? Gary already had a record fights, skipping class, talking back. Of course he'd lash out at a teacher trying to help him.
No one asked Gary what had happened. No one wanted to hear it.
The school labeled him violent. Suspended him for a week. Told him he was lucky they didn't expel him.
Gary stopped going to photography class. Stopped taking pictures. Stopped trusting any adult who looked at him too long.
And he scratched. Scratched his neck until it bled, until Meemaw asked what was wrong, until he learned to wear long sleeves to hide the marks on his arms too.
He felt dirty. Used. Like something fundamental had broken inside him that he'd never get back.
After that, Gary withdrew completely.
He finished school quietly, head down, talking to no one. The camera sat in his closet, untouched. The photos he'd taken all those beautiful moments he'd captured he threw them away. Too many memories attached. Too much of Mr. Ellis's voice in his head saying "good eye" and "special."
Meemaw was proud when he got accepted into college. Said it was a chance to start over, to leave all the bad things behind.
Gary didn't believe in starting over. But he packed anyway.
He left behind his mom's bitterness, his dad's fists, and the feeling of Mr. Ellis's hand on his face. The only things he brought were clothes, his laptop, and a nervous habit he couldn't shake fingers always finding his neck, scratching until the itch went away.
It never went away.
Move-in day was chaos.
Gary was eighteen now, fresh out of high school, and the dorm was everything he'd feared it would be loud and crowded, smelling like instant ramen and body spray and too many people in too small a space.
He dragged his suitcase through the hallway, already annoyed, already wanting to turn around and leave.
But part of him some stupid, desperate part wanted this to work. Wanted to make friends. Wanted to be normal for once.
The common room was full of guys introducing themselves, unpacking, trying to figure out room assignments.
Gary stood in the doorway, scratching at his neck, trying to figure out how to join in without fucking it up immediately.
A guy with dark hair and an overly friendly smile walked up to him. "Hey! I'm Pete. You moving in?"
"Yeah. Gary." He shook Pete's hand, probably held on too long, then shoved his hands in his pockets. "This place is fucking loud."
Pete laughed. "Yeah, it's a lot. That's Ray over there" he pointed to another guy unpacking by the window. "And that's Stebbins, Harkness"
Gary tried to keep track but there were too many names, too many faces. His neck itched.
A guy with a bright smile Art, maybe? came over with a bag of chips. "Want some?"
"I'm good," Gary said, then immediately regretted it because now he looked unfriendly. "I mean thanks. But I'm not hungry."
Fuck. He was already messing this up.
Another guy Hank, someone had said was complaining about having to carry boxes. He glanced at Gary and nodded.
Gary nodded back, scratched his neck, looked away.
Harkness made some joke Gary didn't quite catch, and everyone laughed. Gary forced himself to laugh too, a beat too late, and it came out weird.
Stebbins was organizing his desk with the kind of precision that made Gary nervous. Everything in its place, everything controlled.
"You need help unpacking?" Pete asked, still hovering.
"No, I'm fucking fine," Gary snapped, then caught himself. "I mean I got it. Thanks."
Pete's smile faltered slightly but he nodded. "Cool. Let me know if you need anything."
Gary watched him walk away and wanted to punch himself. Why was he like this? Why couldn't he just be fucking normal?
He was scratching his neck again, hard enough to hurt.
Eventually the chaos died down and people scattered to their rooms. Gary found his a small double that he'd apparently be sharing with someone who hadn't shown up yet.
He unpacked slowly, methodically, trying to calm down. His hands were shaking.
An hour later, the door opened.
A guy stepped in tall, long hair pulled back, carrying a box under one arm and a guitar case slung over his shoulder. He had this easy, relaxed way of moving that immediately pissed Gary off.
"Oh, hey," the guy said. "You my roommate?"
Gary stared at him. At the way he just walked in like he belonged here, like making friends was easy, like life was just that fucking simple.
"Yeah," Gary said flatly.
"Cool. I'm Collie." He set his stuff down and held out his hand.
Gary looked at it for a second too long before shaking it. His palm was sweaty.
"Gary."
"Nice to meet you, man." Collie started unpacking, humming under his breath.
And something in Gary twisted. Here was a chance a chance to make a friend, to not fuck things up for once. His roommate seemed nice. Normal. Easy-going.
And that terrified him.
"So what's with the hair?" Gary heard himself say. "You trying to be a hippie or something?"
Collie looked over, surprised. "What?"
"And the guitar. Let me guess, you're gonna be one of those assholes who plays Wonderwall at 2 AM?"
Collie's expression shifted confusion, then something harder. "Dude, what's your problem?"
"No problem," Gary said, crossing his arms even as something in him screamed to shut up, to take it back. "Just wondering if I'm gonna have to deal with your shitty music all semester."
"I haven't even" Collie stopped, jaw tight. "You know what, forget it. I'll just stay out of your way."
"Good."
Collie turned back to his unpacking, movements sharp now. The easy atmosphere was gone, replaced with cold tension.
Gary stood there, hands shaking, neck on fire from scratching.
He'd done it again. Ruined everything before it even started.
But at least Collie wouldn't get close enough to hurt him.
At least he was safe.
Later that night, Gary lay in his bed in the dark, listening to Collie breathe on the other side of the room.
He hated being alone. Always had. The silence made him itch, made his thoughts too loud, made him remember things he didn't want to remember.
But being alone was the only place he was safe. The only place where no one could disappoint him, hurt him, use him.
His fingers found his neck again, scratching in the dark.
Outside, he could hear laughter from the common room. Pete and Ray and the others, probably. Making friends. Being normal.
Gary turned his face into his pillow and scratched harder.
He didn't like being alone.
But that's the only place he knew how to be.