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Gary felt as if someone was tugging at the hem of his skin.
It felt like, in just a moment, he would tear open.
He couldn't tell if it was freeing or horrifying.
It was hard for him to breathe. The cold air on his face was like an invitation to something new–something he'd never had before. Even though.. he did have it, at one point. This sensation should've been the feeling of having his life back, not gaining a new one, and yet, it was like he was being reborn anyway.
Only 3 years ago, he'd been thrown into this awful place. Now he was finally out. Free. He couldn't really tell if it was from the shock therapy, but something in his mind felt like it was going to pop open and flow out. Like blood.. or pus. Something disgusting. His grip on the handle of his suitcase grew tighter.
Walking away, he felt like he was walking back into the kind, safe arms of humanity. A seemingly loving embrace he wasn't hesitant to reject. It felt like spitting up a poorly cooked dish. Sure, it was edible, but the emotion wasn't in there. A good meal lets you feel the love that went into it, and the world didn't bring any sort of similar sensation.
The sky was a pale gray, lifeless, but bright, and hard to stare at. The sun wasn't visible but he could still feel rays shining through, straining his eyes, temporarily burning his retinas whenever he looked up.
Looking down on the city brought a powerful feeling.. a returning feeling. Being on top of everything again. It was nice. It felt like he finally, genuinely earned it. He began to walk away, down the path into the city. All of the lights emanating from below were so sparkling and inviting. The weather was getting colder though, and he could tell. His face felt icy, like he could turn blue if he stayed outside for too long. Trying not to shiver, holding himself close, he hoped he could find a nice warm place to keep away from it all, and quickened his pace. Going back into the city would feel weird. He hadn't actually socialized with anyone for a long time, but at least he knew he wouldn't be awkward. He hated isolation. He feared it. He's never done anything by himself.. he's always needed another person to use as a stepping stone. A pawn. An oblivious friend. A desperate person crushing on him--but that one didn't happen as often, especially once word got around that he was a "sociopath."
He couldn't bring himself to look back at the building before he left. The scars on his body could tell you the full story of how it all ruined him without him needing to say a word. Self inflicted, given to by others, it didn't really matter.
If you asked, he would only be able to force out dry jokes and vague lines to distract you from everything you could tell he was really feeling. The thought of other people genuinely worrying about him was comedic in his eyes. He was a bad person, he was always a bad person. He thinks people who care about him are stupid. He'd probably be right.
He shook all of his excess thoughts away and tugged at his collar to re-adjust. His clothes felt stiff and awkward. Nothing he wore felt very comfortable anymore, but it was better than that hospital gown.
The only thing his parents provided him when they were told he was being let out was $30 and a card that said "We hope this helps you. Please don't come home yet. Your father doesn't want you here, and I don't think I'm ready either. We love you, okay? Be safe - Love, mom" Every word stung. The last part of the sentence felt tacked on out of guilt–or more so, obligation, obligation to be nice to your only kid. Whether or not they're nice to him, he could still tell they didn't see any hope in him anymore. The sinking pit in his stomach grew worse. His feelings were strong and just plain awful.
He would never admit it or even think it, but he deserved this. He was a conniving and reckless person, manipulating people at every turn just to get what he wanted, no matter who he hurt. He knew he was terrible, but he tried to choke down the problems that came with it, so he could replace it all with a facade of unearned pride.
Being a real person was a scary thought to him. Vulnerable, weak. Made of soft pink flesh with blood flowing underneath. Sometimes he felt like he should've been made of mechanical parts. He was always thinking, always pushing for solutions, plans, reasons, excuses, lies.. anything he could come up with to execute plans that served him.
It was awful, but he'd never considered the thought of being "good" because he didn't think it was an option for him. When he was younger, he was always considered an issue by the people around him. A bad son, a bad student, a stand-offish friend who never knew when to talk or how to act "proper." He was hyperactive and loud, a brash little kid whose parents always threw to a baby-sitter or a television screen. Now he was nineteen years old.. and the world continued to treat him the exact same way. So he felt no need to change or get better… All he could do was act according to how people saw him.
He still had the clothes he kept tucked in his closet at Bullworth. Some of the shirts were too tight for him now. He was taller. Somewhat thinner, too, though. The food provided to him throughout his time at Happy Volts was far from nutritional. Or sanitary. He found himself vomiting a lot. His stomach constantly felt irritated. Always shaking.
Even now, in this moment, he felt like he was going to cough up something vicious. But he pushed it down.
He had been repressing a lot lately. Deep anger, worries that really stuck with him. It made his mind feel heavy. His worn heart was reaching; Reaching for something to hook onto. Things he felt he needed to do, wanted to carry out, but never did. For better or for worse, he still regrets what could've been. He didn't have fantasies of romance, the closest he got to anything 'romantic' was being forced to pick a girl to give a valentine's candy back in elementary school.
His fantasies tended to be all about authority, being above others, whether it be as a dictator, or.. exerting power in other ways. No matter what, he didn't think his thoughts were ever romantic. Certain ones he had really made him hope they weren't romantic.
Suddenly, he reminded himself of somebody. James Hopkins. He shook his head and began thinking of how to exact some sort of revenge. But how? It's been years now. For all Gary knows, Jimmy could've ran off down to some foreign country with a whole new identity.
But, that was a very unlikely possibility, of course. Gary had thought, "No way Jimmy could ever get enough money to do that. That moron is probably just a gas jockey now." And he giggled to himself over the idea of it.
✆
He rented a hotel room for a couple of nights–thanks to the money he'd saved up back at school, he had just enough.
The room wasn't inviting in the slightest. The windows were cracked in some places, but it didn't matter because he kept the curtains closed. The view outside wasn't great.. It was dark, and it looked cold. Nobody was even out there. Black empty night. He didn't exactly like the sun much either, though.
He didn't know where to go past this.. other than desperately searching for a job as soon as he could to keep himself alive. Or finding some brain altering drugs to choke down and prevent himself from ever thinking of anything again.
Although… Neither of those things were what he was worried about at the moment.
He was thinking about his freedom. His former desire for it that really used to crush him.
How he could do anything he wanted now.
Well, not anything.. but still. The world felt open again. His own personal playground he could finally get his hands back on. He couldn't wait to find all of those people from his past and run them ragged.
He fantasized constantly of what he might've done to them all, back at Happy Volts. Always making up little schemes and plots all just for fun… He knew not to speak of any of it with the staff, or even other patients. Who knew what they might've done to him if they heard what he had thoughts of carrying out?
He's always had these fantasies, it's been a problem of his for ages now. Considered them normal. He assumed that more 'intelligent' people were naturally accustomed to them. Of course, this was dead wrong. He was of average intelligence.. but he had an over-achieving ego that refused to let him believe that. Something about the thoughts now though, have recently made him feel ill. He couldn't pinpoint why… All he knew was that the good, odd feeling it used to give him was gone. Resentment of his own inaction had embedded itself into them. How useless he felt because of it was hard to express through words. Although, expression of emotion–or, moreso, openness in general, has never been his strong suit. So it still felt normal. Barely.
All of these feelings were plain awkward. He never had the desire to really go through with the scenarios in his mind until recently. Even now, the thoughts didn't exactly give him "urges." Just strong guilt for the absence of said urges. It all felt highly complex and confusing to him. He hated it.
He continued to sit motionless on the creaky poorly-padded bed he couldn't believe he actually paid to rest on. It was hard to stop thinking… About everything. All of it, all at once. Thoughts were rushing out of his brain faster than they entered. It was like he was a powerhouse of ideas. A twitchy, deranged powerhouse. He had nobody watching over him making him take his medication anymore, and he still held the idea of not needing it. He was too good for it; It only set him back, he thought.
Even with no real eyes watching him through cracked doors, he could still feel the presence. It constantly felt like something was staring. He'd covered everything in the room that might've looked like a camera.. even a part of the showerhead, and an old outdated piece of technology that couldn't have possibly had one. All of these fears would seem irrational to the average person, but unfortunately these ones were pushed into his head with force.
No matter how full his brain was, he still couldn't pin down a solid idea, or plan. He needed to find a way to push himself back into the lives of the people he hates, a way to make them feel guilty for everything, real or fabricated by his subconscious. All of the thoughts rushing through his head felt like liquid, seeping through and leaking out onto the floor as he struggled to cup it all in his hands.
It was like this for him most of the time, nothing was easy to capture, no idea could live up to the next, everything had to be in its right place or it would be forgotten. He needed to take his mind off of.. his mind.
He stood abruptly and walked outside, throwing on an old jacket that wasn't exactly the most fun to wear. God, he needs new clothes. It was like stretching an extra layer of skin over himself. Mildly annoying, highly uncomfortable. Wearing these clothes again felt awkward to him.. even a little sickly. He decided not to look in any mirrors, secretly worried of how he'd feel to see himself wearing the clothes of a version of him that wasn't around anymore. He'd like to talk to himself, a version of himself before his life took a turn for the worse. He would tell him, "Keep yourself in check, as much as you can. Don't let yourself grow emotional to the point of anger–don't let them know who you are, or you could fuck everything up for yourself. But just in case, enjoy good food while you still can."
Rain fell and immediately began to drench him. His hair looked practically slicked down by it. Actually, it was too long to really slick down at all anymore. Not exactly shoulder length or longer, but definitely not the clean cut he used to have. It was scruffy and hard for him to look at. After slipping outside, he didn't know exactly what he wanted to do–but he definitely wanted to do something. What's the point of freedom if you spend it thinking quietly instead of putting things into action?
He wanted so badly to find anything that could inspire him. He was caught up with rushed ideas, concepts, scenes, and made-up interactions, but they brought no real substance. His thinking was blurry and fast-paced. He hated it, but it made his mind feel a lot less quiet, and he liked that part. Silence was weird to him.
In the middle of all of his disordered thinking, he noticed a payphone standing in front of the hotel entrance.
It felt so perfect, like it was put there just for him. His thoughts had finally latched on to something. He already had the idea of calling everybody of course, the problem was that he never really thought it was logically going to work. But if this wasn't a sign he should just go through with it, he didn't know what was. He always looked for signs–hidden messages from the divine. He was hardly spiritual, never religious… But he'd felt like higher beings looked after him in a twisted kind of way. Not like some sort of guardian angel, but a scientist watching their hideously deformed experiment, occasionally tending to its needs and/or wants only to keep it alive for more study.
For a moment he thought of trying to call Jimmy, but it didn't last long due to the fact he knew he would immediately be hung up on the second he uttered his own name. But what about his little girlfriend? You know.. Petey.
It hadn't been that long. He could still have the same old number. He remembered it perfectly.. but only to keep tabs, of course. Or at least that's what he tells himself. It's what he always told himself, really.
He had "kept tabs" on Petey for a long while, actually. He wasn't just somebody he liked to torture, he was someone he almost considered a friend, but not exactly. More like an interesting thing to have around–always nice to poke fun at.
He did think Petey was a loser, but he never really disliked him. He was just an easy target, and he probably still is… Just as lowly now as he was before. Gary liked the thought of that. Of course, he didn't like that he liked that, so he decided to repress those thoughts before they fully developed. Gary missed how everything was, even if he couldn't admit it. He actually sort of.. missed Petey, almost. Definitely in a weird way. He didn't know how to process that, so he pretended he felt nothing at all.
No doubt Petey was probably too broke to buy a new phone, right? Well.. okay, Petey probably wasn't poor.. he could've gotten a decent job. Even though Gary thought of Pete as a completely weak-spined pansy, he didn't doubt he could actually get somewhere. Not somewhere big, or great, but.. decent, maybe. A part of him wondered how Petey was really doing– but I guess he might find out soon.
He took out his busted up flip-phone and began dialing.
603-XXX-XXXX
(AN: if u enjoyed this pls let me know in the comments i Lav interacting with everyone hi hi hi h i hi h)