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[ n o t . q u i t e ]|
Don't think I don't know how you all see it. After all, I am the mastermind, right? So it only par for the course that I'd know. I'm the criminal, the asshole that seduced poor, innocent, sweet sweet little Justin into my sick sadistic plot. That poor cherub faced Justin was only trying to fit in, to be liked, to be a part of something. That I took advantage. And sure. Yeah. Absolutely. But not quite.
So yeah, I'm Richie Haywood. Richie, whose parents have a shit load of money, and drives that fine ass car you only wish you could have. With all of the friends, and the spare change that equals up to more than your yearly allowance. The pretty face with the pretty eyes and the mind that's sharp as a razor, and a tongue that's even sharper. Richie, who could talk anyone into buying ocean front property in Oklahoma. And sure. Yeah. Absolutely. But not quite.
People, the peons of society, the poor schmucks who have to actually work for their money, they sneer at me. They laugh behind my back and say I don't appreciate what I have. Say I'll get what's coming to me. Say I don't know how good I have it, how empty my existence is. Say my looks and my charms will only get me so far before I wind up waking up in reality. And sure. Yeah. Absolutely. But not quite.
But the thing is, yeah, I do know that. I do know that Justin was probably wooed easily because I'm that big bad popular guy that he always mistakenly wanted to be. Because popular means immune to ridicule, and a license to be a dick. I do know that my life is empty, and that my charms only get me so far. Because looks fade, and money isn't made easily without something else to back it up.
My friends are shallow and only come over because they get free pizza and watch movies on my big screen TV till all hours of the night. Because my parents give me a shit load of money, but not a whole lot of time. But kids like me, with the looks, and the charms, and the money, aren't allowed to have actual complaints. We're not allowed to actually be pitied.
It doesn't matter that my parents never gave a shit about me, because they gave me money and people think I should buck up and shut up about it. My life can't be all that bad because I drive a nice car and I live in a big house and I have money for everything I need or want. It can't be as bad as theirs, and anyway, they're the only ones allowed to complain. The rich boy is just spoiled, and should just shut the fuck up and stop his whining.
But Justin... see, Justin understood. There were a lot of parallels between the two of us, which I'm well aware you'll never acknowledge. He was on the outside of everyone, but so was I. But I was on the outside of everyone while surrounded by people, so no one ever noticed. He had problems at home, and at school, and on one noticed because well... Justin was just invisible. I had problems at home, and problems at school, and no one noticed because well... I was Happy Rich Kid.
So we bonded. It was unconventional, and fucked up, and a secret, but it was there. Two kids with completely different backgrounds who found some kind of common ground to meet in the middle of. Some kind of fucked up kinship that couldn't be labeled a friendship because our lives were too different. Because my friends, who weren't really friends at all, would never understand. Because he didn't have any friends anyway. Because it was easy, and it was all mine, and I didn't have to share it with anyone else.
And it started out with this push and pull that we have. This thing where I was drawn to him and he was drawn to me, but I couldn't be honest, and he couldn't get up the balls to say anything. Where I would kiss him and I knew he kissed back, but he'd always mumble about it being wrong and not what he wanted. Where I'd grab his dick in my hand and jerk him off and he'd cry afterwards because he never asked me to do that.
And yeah. Yeah. Somewhere along the line I got obsessed. I got used to our aloneness and I began to poison him a little bit. I began to tell him things that fueled his self-hatred because it meant that I got to smooth his feathers. Got to be his fucked up little Hero. And that made me feel needed, and wanted, and necessary. And it was unhealthy, and it was fucked, and it was wrong. And I knew that. But I didn't care.
But it was him that came up with the plan. It was him that hated society so much that he wanted to kill someone. I was along for the ride, because I just didn't care. He wanted me and needed me and I was in charge, and it got fun after a while. The planning, the long hours plotting and talking about how we would set up everybody to be fooled. How we were gonna be the ones to throw shapes and watch them fall.
And yeah. I'm ruthless. I went through with it. I did it with a smirk on my face and not a care in the world. Because if I'm used to anything, it's pretending I don't give a shit. I set it up, and I followed through, and then it was done and there was no going back. And afterwards he looked at me with hatred like this was all my fault. Like this was my plan, like I'd dragged him into it.
Because he's a sneaky fucking bastard. He's a plotting, conniving little cunt that knew I'd wind up taking the fall anyway. Because he's got those doe eyes and that soft silky hair, and that perpetual sob lodged in his throat. Because I'm popular and I'm pretty and I've got that dangerous edge to me, and I seduced him and brainwashed him and it's all my fault.
And sure. Yeah. Absolutely.
But not quite.