2. Loneliness isn’t a word
My morning was perfectly fine- the same sense of anxiety when I drink my apple juice, the overbearing sense of being stalked. I am used to the sight of a worried teacher disguising themselves as a councillor. They always ask me if I need help. My friends think I am insane; my walking fantasy always talk to me like I am a two year old child, who has become a victim of Agent Orange.
My tongue is plagued with the masked vision of a substance unknown to me. My eyes, red and almost bolting, have been savaged by the unsuspecting images of another woman’s sexual capabilities. For the world is smothered with sex and every platform of Earth contains individual self loathing.
To protest against something which can benefit you in the long run is pointless. I have more alert actions, better heart rate and twice as much adrenaline thanks to the burden that you so describe. But it is not a burden- society has no boundaries. You can do everything in your own fixated mind. The pixelated repetition of conversations dawning on the horizons of shame, inflicted with a mirror kiss of our very own likelihood, make my life much more the person I destine to be than those cretins on the news.
The alleyways, lined with trees, stick out like a sore thumb. Searching for isolated avenues around here is like counting sheep in your sheep: it is endless. I strive to make a change to government, to order, to the world. Without me you wouldn’t be here.
Her lips, sacred and soft, widen my eyes for another time. To call this place a home is an embarrassment. It is anything but; an endless stream of controversy and low self esteem, a place where I don’t want to find myself in.
Who am I? What am I? Where am I? I couldn’t be asked to care really. I am the endless road of change intertwining with the realism of discovering road kill. I am the achiever- Robert Howard some call me as. For I am no character, no scenario, no cliché. I am a unique human being, wasting away 100 years of blood for means that I shall never end. Society has made me a man while the other particles of bacteria are still squirming around. I’ve told myself time and time again that I am different, for this is my motivation for another day of staring into space.
To see her, to touch her, to feel her. That is what I am: a man who embraces the only opportunity to be loved. Am I loved? To be honest I couldn’t give a damn if someone loves me. I won’t be surprised if my mother has in fact adopted me; we are not alike. My mother is brainwashed by “morale” and “wellbeing”, yet the same could be said for everyone around me.
From what I’ve learnt from my experiences everyone is the same. Everyone is infected, but the disease is always different. The cure doesn’t matter anymore. We eat and we sleep in a house cramped with self-esteem and choice. I don’t ever have that privilege. My father, probably asking for a favour by his new whore, never gave that to me. See that freshly squashed fly by the edge of your window? That is who I am. That is who I aspire to be. My father was right. Shame I didn’t learn it sooner.
But the day is droning on like a fractured episode of nostalgia. The same faces I once knew a few months ago pass by too quickly to notice. The same white flashes of a whip, the screams of a mother scorned, have kept me awake through a lot of the pessimistic classes on math and society and all that other bullshit. Blah blah blah I am here to teach you morals and well being; here is the square root of 64 etc. The concentration required for this exercise is endless- the pieces of shit that run this school aren’t very good at keeping the school in order. Repetitive fights, bullying, talks of sex, death, love, “who’s going out with who”.
My lips, blistered and always aware, turn to her attention. Kate Barker, the one I have my eye on, catches my eye. She lets out a smile, vulnerable yet inviting, and points to the empty seat next to her. As I sit down on the chair, my imminent thoughts reigning in my mind come back to haunt me. Her thighs, predictably smooth, move closer to my legs. The repetitive droning of her songs by that Justin Bible guy set my mind on edge. Finally, I can hear a soundtrack to the scene I have planned out for so long.
“So what’s your name,” she asks. “I bet it’s-“
“Robert,” I reply. “But my last name isn’t important.”
“Why isn’t it important?” She blows a hair away from her face. Now I can see her pitch black eyes, a rather fitting portrayal of the abyss.
“It’s just a very common name. And you are Katie. Simple as.”
“Well, you yourself must be important.”
“Not really. I am just another person. Like you or any other person.”
“Aw, but I think you are special. You have something about you. You have to be the most insightful person I have ever met. I really want to talk to you some more.”
Her smile, crafted by angels and scattered like roses, caves in everything. She has my word I presume. I never take this opportunity to accept anything anyone says but I am free. Finally, my freedom has been given to me on a silver platter. My life is getting better and better as the days wane on.
