We're All Hurting

Part One: The Reasons

Her

You've been stuck in the habit for a while now. You still remember when you started, and you have a pretty good theory as to why.

For fifteen years, you were treated like dirt. They were all mean as maggots to you. They called you names. They destroyed what few possessions you owned. They pushed you into puddle after puddle after puddle. Sometimes, if you listen carefully, you can still hear their voices echoing in your memories.

"I wish you didn't exist."

"You'll never be a racer."

"You're just a glitch – and that's all you ever be!"

Worse than all that, though, was the casual remark that He Who Shall Not Be Named made one night. He'd caught you after a long chase and was shoving you back into your cell in the Fungeon, your home away from home. As he wrapped a glitch-proof collar around your waist, he said three words that stuck with you long after he locked the door.

"You are nothing."

That got to you. You remember thinking angrily that you weren't nothing. You were a person. You had hopes and fears and dreams and feelings, just like everyone else. That didn't change because you pixelated now and then.

But with so many hours alone to think, you started to wonder – was he right? Were you really a person?

So when you were released and you returned to Diet Cola Mountain, you hatched a plan.

You found a nougat stone with a jagged edge.

You pulled a sleeve up.

You drew the stone across your wrist.

And there it was: confirmation that you existed. You felt the pain and winced. You saw the thick red line ooze through the opening in your skin. You saw the thin blue line twisted around it. 01100010 01101100 01101111 01101111 01100100. Binary for "blood."

You smiled to yourself. He Who Shall Not Be Named was talking out of his butt.

But you could never be too sure.

So you did it again. And again.

Every.

Single.

Night.

Really, you should have stopped by now. He Who Shall Not Be Named is dead and gone. Your code has been fixed; you're not an outcast anymore. You're back in your position as President of Sugar Rush. Your bullies are now your best friends. You have a big brother (literally) who always looks out for you and would never let you down.

It all seems too good to be true.

Maybe it is. Maybe your crazy mind is creating an elaborate dream. Maybe you'll wake up at any moment and find yourself back in the doughnut bed under that crudely-built lean-to, a glitch and a nobody once more.

But wait! Here's the sting of the knife. Here's the stab of pain. Here's the trickle of interwoven blood and code. Here are the leftovers from all the other times, the ridges of skin on your arms concealed by a hoodie.

Here is the proof that you're not dreaming.

It's more than that, though. Your code is not like it was before. It's been restored to its former glory. The zeros and ones sparkle and (if you look closely) are tinged with gold. It's beautiful. So are you. You're not nothing. You deserve the good treatment that's been thrust upon you. You have worth. You matter.

You have nothing to fear.

Everything is all right.

And that, along with the endorphins released from your agony, makes you happy.

Him

You're a bad guy.

Okay, technically, you're not. You're supposed to be the Good Guy, the one who fixes the wreckage. And that's usually what happens. Everyone treats you like a hero. You've had so many shiny medals and tasty pies from grateful townspeople that you've lost count.

And do you deserve any of it?

No. Not one crumb.

You never won any of those medals. It was always the girl with greasy mop-like hair, or the boy who kept picking his nose, or the grown man who slowly developed a hunchback. It was always the human on the other side of the screen who saved the day. You were just the man who ran and jumped and fixed whenever they told you to. All you did, day in, day out, was follow orders – and yet everyone saw that as something to be rewarded.

Their prizes trapped you in a bubble of indulgence and make-believe. You enjoyed it at first. For thirty years you let yourself be treated like a hero. You happily blinded yourself to the truth.

And the truth was that, all that time, he was suffering.

You still remember the conversation that changed everything. It was when, for the first time in thirty years, you'd experienced heartbreak and hatred. For the first time in your life, you'd been rejected and treated like a criminal. In a moment of rage, you yelled at him, told him that he didn't understand what that was like. You did not expect his reply.

"Yes, I do. That's every day of my life."

You didn't realise it then, but your eyes had been opened. Oh, how could you have been so blind? How could you not have seen how much he ached for a slice of your glory? How could you not have offered to be a friend when he needed one?

Not that you'd have made much of a friend.

After all, in the Turbo/King Candy/Cy-Bug fiasco, who emerged as the real hero? He did. He stepped forward, ready to sacrifice himself to save the arcade. He was not afraid. He was willing to die and never regenerate if it meant that a little girl had a chance to live out her dream.

You will never measure up to Wreck-It Ralph. And if he's the Bad Guy, then what does that make you?

Every day, the fog of negative thoughts descends on your mind. You are ignorant. You are horrible. You are despicable. You are . . . struggling to find any adjectives that best describe you.

So you let the razor blade do the talking.

When the fluid dribbles down your legs, it's like someone pressing a RESET button in your head. The fog clears. Emotional pain has an escape route: physical pain. You feel a little better.

For now, at least.

Of course, whenever you catch a glimpse of the brick pile, or hear his little friend prattling on about how awesome he is, the fog will return. You'll have to go back into the bathroom and find a new patch of skin to cut.

But it's only fair that you take the blame for Ralph's misery. You need to punish yourself because no-one else will. They would never accept that a Good Guy could be so awful.

That's why you can't tell anyone. They would pity you – or worse still, offer to help – and you can't have that. You can't be a burden on them. You are the rescuer, they are the rescued. That's how it was programmed. Anything else would be unthinkable. As long as you hide the lines on your thighs and legs, you'll be just fine.

You could make the scars go away, if you wanted to. A few taps with your magic hammer and they'd vanish. But when you hurt yourself, you let your wounds heal the hard way. And you want to keep the scars, even though they make you wince when you sit down. They remind you that you are not above anything else. You are not the "super, super guy" they sing about in that famous song.

You are a bad guy and you must be punished.