Damn.
"I Want You To Want Me"...
That takes me back.
7th grade. There was this kid in my class.
He always used to wear this black Cheap Trick t-shirt.
What was his name?
Anyway, he'd always wear this shirt, and people always made fun of him for it.
Stereotypical good kid:
Never spoke out-of-turn,
Raised his hand, turned in homework...
Never gave anyone any shit.
Way I figured, he had a real good upbringing and what-not.
So people called him "Cheap Trick"; I thought it was kind of funny.
He didn't. So one day, he doesn't show up to class, which is odd, 'cause he never misses a class.
No note.
No nothing.
I get home from school, and my mom is sitting on the couch, with her head in her hands.
I looked at her, then looked at the TV, which was on mute at the time, with a picture of Cheap Trick on the screen.
"You knew him, didn't you?", my mom asked.
"I knew...I know him. Why?"
"He's dead."
This, again, struck me as odd, at first...then it set in.
Apparently, his dad used to beat the shit out of him. His mom didn't do anything, so it's obvious he was beating her, too.
So, between him being called "Cheap Trick", and his dad being living shit, I guess something in him...kind of clicked.
Took a knife to him.
23...24 times, something like that.
I guess his mom saw something she shouldn't have, 'cause he took care of her, too.
Then he cut his own fucking throat. I mean...the throat.
You wanna cry for help, you slit your wrists. When you want to die, you go for the jugular, right?
So there was this big memorial. Everybody showed up.
I even went.
It was then and there I understood this kid for what he was.
Nobody else could understand him.
No one fucking knew where he was coming from.
There were there because they had to be.
Pricks.
That pisses me off to this day. Being there just because. Not because you care. Not like I cared, anyway.
Goddammit, what the hell was his name...