Who'd Write A Book About A Fucked Up Guy Like Me?

I never liked reading. Even as a young child I just couldn't get into a single book. I heard how people immersed themselves into stories and couldn't put books down for hours; I liked the idea of that, hours away from the harshness of reality with your head in a place elsewhere. To be honest, it sounded like a safer alternative to hallucinogenic drugs; something I'd been more than curious about, but of course, far too scared to try. I was just a pussy like that - it made sure I did do something too conventionally reckless, so I guess it had its pros, which certainly helped my sanity shield myself against the constant insults that people took such sickly, sadistic pleasure in hurling at me on a daily basis.

However, no matter how hard I tried to bury myself between the inked pages, the words didn't nothing more than turn into a confusing blur around me, and then I decided that I should be focusing on burying myself six feet under, rather than in some bullshit fantasy world. I certainly had the brightest of futures, which goes, of course, without saying.

I could never quite connect with the characters. Fantasy, mystery, romance, drama, sci-fi - it didn't matter what genre; there was forever a voice in the back of my head reminding me that none of this was real and that the books were lying to me. I couldn't even argue against it, because I knew far too well that there are no dragons, no Narnia, no USS enterprise, no Middle Earth, no Hogwarts, no Panem and thankfully no sparkly vampires that took a certain paedophilic pleasure in watching me sleep. I could find comfort in the latter one at the very least: Edward Cullen would get massacred in my world, and that was something I couldn't help but smirk furiously at.

I think I just wanted to read something that took me away, yet something I could relate to, something that meant more than just being the fabrics of a pretend universe. Of course, there was nothing that fit my criteria, because think about it; who'd want to write a book about a fucked up guy like me? Who want to write about the suicide plots, the blades, the hate for swimming, Vic Fuentes and the hell that is school? No one. No one would want to write about me, because no one would want to read about me. No one cares - at least I've finally managed to drill that into my stupid skull.

Yet, despite my lack of enthusiasm for books and reading in general, I'd found myself conned by Vic Fuentes into helping the school library throughout my P.E. periods. I guess it could've been worse and sorting books in alphabetical order and scanning books hesitantly handed over to me by nerdy eleven year olds was certainly preferable to being pushed into a pit of liquid chlorine and guys that hated my guts by my favourite teacher. Note the sarcasm there. Sarcasm is important, mainly because incompetent assholes are generally rather ignorant towards it, which of course sets it up as my preferred method of annihilation.

Vic had of course insisted upon supervising me in the library, which of course had both its pros and cons: I hadn't a fucking clue how to work half the shit in here and having some help was more than appreciated; I was just as intimidated by the aforementioned nerdy eleven years olds as they seemed to be of me and therefore Vic had to act as some sort of mediator between us; I got out of exercise and basically hell; I hated reading and by wearing this stupid badge it was just generally assumed that I'd know what to recommend as reading material, which for your information, I did not know the difference between Divergent and The Mortal Instruments - thank you passionate fourteen year old fan girl, I shall use that information wisely; finally there was of course the fact that I hated being in a room with Vic for an hour, talking to Vic for an hour, working with Vic for an hour - three times a week, civilly. This seemed equally as torturous at as sitting in a room with Mr Chins for any time longer than a millisecond; as you probably might have noticed by now, I hated that fucking guy.

And to put it lightly, well; this was not looking good for me. I should be used to it by now, because in the subject of things looking good, or being in my favour, there were minimal matches. And that was hardly something to be proud of.

-

I'd bribed some girl with a lisp into making me coffee and smuggling it in here, despite the no food or drink rule that the librarian took as seriously as the death penalty, but apart from that she was a nice lady. I just had to focus on hiding my necessary fix of caffeine from her eagle eyes. I was thinking maybe making some sort of book fortress to protect it in, but if a drop of coffee landed upon a page of any book, she'd know and she'd hunt me down and forget Mr Chins, she'd push me into that chlorine pit herself. As you can guess, that was an idea I wasn't exactly that keen on, or at least I'd hope you paid any attention to my pointless ramblings and finally got something upon these lines in your head, but if you don't care, I understand too, because if I were you, I certainly wouldn't.

The aforementioned girl, that I had rather heartlessly not cared to learn the name of, prodded me unexpectedly and my eyes fell upon the steaming cup of coffee that she was partially hiding with her scarf. I grinned at her and gestured for her to put inside this empty drawer I'd just found. It was rather brilliant because if someone came nearby I could close the draw and hide my caffeine fix completely - I was rather proud of myself in fact.

She placed it down and I mouthed a quick thanks. Smiling at me, she shuffled away quickly, burying herself between bookshelves of physics textbooks. How she had the motivation to commit to studying that much, I had no idea. Maybe it was for the best that I didn't know her name, because when- if I was caught, I couldn't heartlessly blame her as she doubtlessly suspected I would, but really I don't blame her: I know far too well how essential trusting no one but yourself is. Or maybe she's a part of the Russian Mafia- wait aren't they anti-feminist or well basically anti anything in Russia? Meh, sadistic assholes seem to be the superior race nowadays anyway, it's not like there's much we can do to stop them.

"I saw that, Kellin." Vic came up behind me, catching me by surprise, both of our eyes immediately falling upon my coffee lying like bait in a trap in the open drawer. "Mrs Harolds will kill you for that." I nodded, quickly shutting the drawer. He raised his eyebrows at me, "and by that I meant get rid of it and don't do it again, not hide it better." I shrugged, not exactly caring what he thought as long as I got my caffeine. Caffeine was a drug that I certainly was not scared to experiment with. I was a caffeine warlord, I'd smuggle that shit in - I didn't care.

"Caffeine is a necessity." I mumbled, my voice lacking emotion. Vic rolled his eyes at me, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he was forcing them down to hide his amusement, which I guessed he was. I always found his obsession with me weird, no matter how long it lasted, I just couldn't get my head round the fact that he voluntarily talked to me. It was a first and an annoying first which made me glad I hadn't made friends in Year Seven, because if I did, I would have certainly killed off all of them by now. My antisocialistic personality may certainly be the death of me, but the anxiety that thought brought to me most definitely wouldn't make socialising with people, especially people called Vic Fuentes, any less painstakingly unbearable.

"I get that." He grabbed a chair and sat down next to me, overlooking the mostly empty library. I liked the lack of people, abundance of life, and if Vic would just shut up and fuck off maybe I could sit in complete silence and pretend I was dead. It was a morbid, yet comforting thought. "I'm just not sure Mrs Harolds does and believe me, she'll book you a one way train journey right out of this library if she catches you." Train similes, really? I snorted immaturely, causing those Fuentes eyebrows to rise momentarily, but he quickly gave in and pushed aside the disgruntled expression: sticking around with me for such unbearably extended period of time, would no doubtedly ensure some sort of resilience towards my general sarcastic douchebaggery would form.

"I just have to make sure I don't get caught then." He rolled his eyes, presumably giving up on the matter. I opened the draw and took a breath sip of my slowly cooling coffee before slipping it back into the draw and making sure to close it this time. I didn't want to get caught by someone much less used to my endless bullshit and vicious caffeine addiction, who most certainly wouldn't take it as easily and with as many rolls of the eyes as Vic Fuentes. The guy put up with me regardless, and therefore made himself rather easy to manipulate so maybe having him following me so love sickly wasn't all a pile of shit. Okay, maybe it was, but it was lovely to look at the positives for once in a million years.

"How are you doing, Kellin?" He looked me straight in the eye and it was that fucking concerned look, it was the look from the bathroom, the look that wanted to talk, and by talk I didn't mean idle small talk, I meant things that mattered; things I'd rather not share with him, which in turn made him all the more eager to know them.

"That's a bit vague." I brushed off the fact that I knew exactly what he was getting at here and just mumbled an equally vague remark in response. I knew exactly where this was going, I just didn't like the direction. I didn't like the fact that he knew, I didn't like the fact that thought in that egotistical head of his, that he thought it appropriate to ask shit like this with such a lacklustre, bullshit excuse proclaiming that he cared and actually thought about my wellbeing on a regular basis. No, no he did not. I was just some charity case towards him, maybe I'd been pointed out to him by some superior and he was simply befriending me in order to fuck up my life and earn him some extra merit for his college application, because I guess he hated this place as much as I did and although that would remain the sole thing we had in common, I could vaguely understand where he was coming from, I just wished he'd picked a slightly less familiar charity case, with slightly less colossal problems. He liked to think he knew what he was getting into here, but really he didn't; because really, he hadn't a clue at all.

Unfortunately, he saw right through my bluff and hit me with a rather blunt response, "have you cut again?" I almost laughed aloud; did he expect that he was some sort of miracle maker, a depression Jesus? That simply making sure that his existence pissed me off would cure me of all my depression and push away those thoughts and triggers that were as natural to me as my own limbs. Did he actually expect that just from his abysmal presence, I'd be miraculously healed from every asshole that pained my sorry life? Did he actually think that that stupid grin and those loathsome eyes would stop the pain, would stop the bleeding, would stop the thoughts that kept me up at night, haunting my and pointing daggers to every pumping vein in my fragile frame. I wanted to collapse, I wanted to give up and I certainly did not want to be told I was getting better, especially not by someone as gut twisting as Vic Fuentes. I loathe, I despise, I detest, I scorn, I abhor, I contemn, I disdain, I deride, I spurn, I execrate, I hate - I hate him.

"Yes." I snapped back in response, avoiding his gaze because I didn't want to run the risk of laughing at his sad expression, because really this whole ordeal was pathetic. I was pathetic, it rather fitted. Maybe I'd earn a degree in patheticism, the science of being a loser, the theory of having no friends. Look at it, there goes coincidence; a pathetic ordeal that fits perfectly for a pathetic person and his rather pathetic charity worker, hoping for that college application to take him into the pathetic schools of law and lies. He'd never make a good lawyer, quite simply because my coffee still sat unharmed in that draw. He'd get fired within a week. I bet on it.

Then he said something that I didn't quite expect, "I thought so." I turned back to face him immediately, raising my eyebrows. Had he gained some brain cells recently that I didn't know about or what? I didn't expect competence, I didn't expect this. I expected something stupidly easy to handle, yet of course painstakingly irritating to deal with. But of course, luck would have it that I landed with Vic Fuentes, who by my reckoning warranted a charity case of his own.

"You thought so?" He nodded, not quite looking me in the eye for reasons I didn't care enough to dig deeper into. They would mainly be bullshit anyway, or at least the thought of that helped me sleep at night and that was essential here; I worked for myself, certainly not for assholes like him.

"Yeah, I guessed that's why you'd been so persistent on skipping every swimming lesson, despite the constant threats of piles upon piles of detentions." For once he'd actually got something right. I felt like applauding him right there and then, ignoring what the other library residents would think about my growing state of madness. I bet the girl with a lisp would've thought she accidentally drugged my coffee or something. Or rather on purpose, maybe she was part of the mafia, maybe she'd even changed gender to blend in and the lisp was simply to cover the Russian accent- it was all making sense now; everything pieced together- No, I was being stupid and unforgettably irrational, which seemed to be one of my most frequent qualities.

"You've got that right, I guess." I was embarrassed to let him have the pleasure of knowing more about how my goddamn brain worked. "And then there's the fact that chlorine makes me sick to my stomach." He chuckled. I didn't know why I'd said that; it almost sounded friendly, it sounded like I was talking to my friend, but no I didn't need friends, I didn't have friends. Friendship wasn't a thing that occurred amidst the fucked up life of Kellin Quinn. I didn't need friends and most certainly, friends did not need a fuck up like me. I was hardly the candidate for yearbook best friends now was I? Vic seems to have other ideas though.

"You should really talk to me about these things, Kellin." I shrugged; he had a point, but I didn't like him and therefore I was going to be childish and ignore it. This tactic was tried and tested and veritably stuck up and therefore perfect to use in case of Vic Fuentes and his nosy butthead.

"I don't want to." Vague response of the day number three. We were getting rather good at the vague response, Russian Mafia lisp girl would be proud of our feeble attempts at secrecy and identity protection. Maybe it'd warrant me more coffee smuggling or maybe she was just content with the off packet of Haribos I had formerly provided as payment. Did the mafia allow Haribos? Hell did I know.

"Why not?" He raised his eyebrows, looking slightly offended, but I didn't really care; it was an expected consequence. Maybe I was even slightly looking forward to the smug grin inhabiting my face for once. I deserved the sadistic pleasure once in a millions years and I'm sure Russian mafia lisp girl would agree.

"You wouldn't understand." Vague response number four. I was getting rather good at these. That seemed to have taken place as my number one strength by now. I was rather proud and hell I had the right to be, because as far as I knew, Vic certainly didn't appreciate it which in turn made it all the more enjoyable.

"Try me, Kellin. Try me." I shrugged, dumbfounded at his response, nothing that made any sense able to form in my head. I was truly a literacy genius, a William Shakespeare in the making, in the form of a fucked up kid with the fucked ideas on how to end his fucked up life. And apparently a very vulgar vocabulary.

"I want to die. There? Happy?" He looked at me rather taken a back, but soon calmed his expression and did something neither of us would ever expect - he hugged me. I wasn't sure if I enjoyed this, but I think part of me did, human contact was a rare and beautiful occurrence in the life of someone as pitifully lonely as Kellin Quinn.

At first I panicked, but then as his arms tightened around me, I did something neither of us could ever imagine, I wrapped my arms around him and hugged back.

And with my head pressed against his chest, I concluded that maybe Vic Fuentes wasn't so bad after all. This was sure to be a conclusion I'd regret.

Hey guys:) I hoped you enjoyed this and I'd love it if you voted and/or commented, it really helps other people find this story as well:) Also I do actually like reading and know about TMI and Divergent and shit, please don't cause a shitstorm in the comments;)