Ah, there was Blake, more motionless than a salt statue on the edge of a sinful city, fixed like a cardboard hero on a windy day. And me? I scratched my head with the handle of the dagger melodramatically named "Fangs of the Dirt of Nature". It sounded like the title of a cheap documentary about the sanitary habits of a wild boar… and yes, the blame for this deeply poetic nomenclature was all mine.
The drama of Blake and Ellie - ah, what a delight of Shakespearean cliché in the midst of hormonal crisis! A teenage soap opera broadcast on the frequency of a broken heart with intermissions of languid looks. "Who I want doesn't want me, who wants me I don't want." Oh, what a beaten script this is, but puberty is that, a bad taste tragicomedy.
The story, this one, is a toy that I would like to throw out the window, just to see if it flies or makes that satisfying noise of something that shatters. It's all mine, a playground where the sands are the ashes of happy endings that I burned with pleasure. Ah, the readers want a sunny ending? Poor souls, they don't know that the writer here is firmer than an ostrich's stomach, he digests even the heaviest criticisms without burping a "sorry".
And Blake, ah, this personification of affective despair, this ode to emotional dependence - it's the kind of thing that makes me want to open a second-hand store of second chances. Want a heart? I have a sack full of them here, poorly used. The idea of depending on someone to survive? Pff, as charming as a cactus offering a hug. I keep myself as far away from this need as possible, because if there is one thing that I really love, it is the uncomplicated company of my own sarcasm.
Ah, nothing like being the emotional puppeteer in a plot of your own creation. Let's see, the fault was mine, of course. I, the great sentimental tyrant behind the curtain, had armed Blake with a complete romantic arsenal: arrows bathed in eagerness, swords forged in insecurity, and shields embedded with the reflection of his sweet Ellie. Time to shake things up!
"Were you looking for Ellie?" I asked, with a fabricated innocence capable of making an angel boast of his moral transparency.
The impact of the question hit Blake like thunder. His eyes seemed about to pop out of their sockets, like two moons about to break free from their gravity. "Where is she?!" He cried, hopelessness dressing him like a poorly fitted cloak.
I put my fingers on my chin, drawing a little smile of someone who knew the exact price of the truth - and inflated it with pleasure. "Hmm, I thought I saw her kissing Sam a little earlier. That girl is... vigorous, isn't she?"
Watching Blake shiver after those words was like watching a gothic spectacle to which I unexpectedly sold all the tickets. And the anger? Wow, it boiled in me like a pot of self-pride on high heat. "You've known her since childhood, Blake, but where's your backbone, son?"
"You're lying... Ellie-" Blake stumbled over the words, but I, in my impatience, cut him off with the precision of a blunt scalpel. "Would I have a reason to lie? But wait... is it really you, Blake Nightshade? Don't tell me you came here to defeat the boss and impress that girl?"
"Shut up!" Blake's answer was a roar of denial. "You're just a nobody! Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?"
Oh, 'nobody', what a beautiful title for a puppet master like me. At that moment, I wondered if Blake would ever find his self-esteem in the same place where he got lost and maybe, just maybe, I would consider giving it back to him… Or maybe not.
My laughter cut through the silence like a blade - cold and cruel. "A nobody like me defeated the boss before you. You should have seen your own surprised face when you entered and saw me standing, triumphant." The mockery danced in my voice as I watched Blake, but my amusement was brief.
Almost as a direct response to my taunt, a murderous aura sprouted from Blake, enveloping him like an impending storm. Despite the palpable threat, I laughed, the indifference sharpened by years of confrontation.
In the blink of an eye, reality distorted and Blake disappeared from my front. When he reappeared, his daggers traced an arc in the air, aiming to finish what he had started. However, seriousness took over me, and I decided that he deserved a reprimand.
The blades spun, ready to pierce me, but Blake could not complete his threat. With a calculated movement, his blade failed, finding only air, while his left trapezius burned with a new open wound.
He staggered, falling to the ground in an involuntary act of submission. If he had faced the monsters with strategy and patience, he could have avoided such scars. But there, kneeling, I just watched.
"Seriously, Blake? You tried to kill me in your pitiful state?" I moved my head, staring at him with absolute disinterest.
The confusion marked the tension in the muscles of his face. "Why is my trapezius cut? What is… Who are you?", Blake whispered, the desperation scratching each word.
Without a drop of pity, I held his hair, forcing him to lift his head, only to see him try to hit me with his free arm. But the arm… the arm no longer existed… The astonishment took over his features and there it was: the panic of not feeling his own arm.
I lifted Blake by the hair, bringing his gaze to my level. His eyes, once full of fury, now plunged into despair, met mine. A dark smile sprouted on my lips as I witnessed the abyss that opened in his iris.
"What a waste of talent," I pronounced, without hiding the disdain as Blake, in a mixture of confusion and pain, was freed from my claws. "And to think that you put yourself in this condition because of a girl who doesn't even care about you."
The words, though dormant, rooted themselves in his being, a mute echo that resonated through the corridors of disillusionment, closing in the dungeon of his most intimate thoughts.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked, curiosity tinting the tone of perspicacity, "do you really want to live under the shadow of that girl? Or worse, turn into 'Sam', in a pathetic attempt to occupy a place beside her?" The smile on my lips was a dangerous curve, carved by the irony of fate.
Blake, lost in an expression of a man who found his reflection for the first time, was static, as if I had hit a vital nerve - not in the body, but in the soul.
"Consider this an intriguing paradox," I continued with the serenity of a master who delivers a crucial lecture to his apprentices. "But it doesn't matter the answer, if it exists. To base one's existence on the love of another to fill the holes in one's own heart… that is for those who do not have the courage to face their inner emptiness. In this world, affection is a prize given to strength, influence, the ability to emerge intact when everything around longs to see you fractured."
My words, now devoid of scorn and filled with the weight of reflection, hovered in the air, laden with a bitter truth. It was believed that self-love, achieved through the inner battle, was what forged the true power in a challenging and relentless world. It was a harsh, but necessary teaching - a lesson for Blake, and maybe for me too.
---
There I was, with the posture of a 'hero' without a cape, when the voice of a hurricane in the shape of a woman echoed through the environment. "What's going on?" Oh, that was Professor Lizy, the kind of face you don't want to see even in a bingo game if you stole the last bean from the card.
I turned faster than a cockroach when the light comes on. You know, this transformation from a cold boy to a scared lamb would have won an Oscar. "Professor Lizy! Blake went to a better place… no, wait, I mean, he got hurt fighting the boss!"
"Blake!" Lizy changed from the 'inert' position to 'I'm the Flash' in a snap of her fingers. She crouched down next to Blake, who had the expression of someone who had played all his chips and won a big fat nothing. She checked Blake's injuries without missing a beat - the cut trapezius, a missing arm. Besides, there were some bruises all over his body, which would give him some scars and stories to tell his grandchildren.
The teacher assessed Blake's mental state, who had that look of someone who tells jokes at a funeral - no one laughs and everyone wants to know where they went wrong. Professor Lizy stared at that shredded boss for a few moments and made a scene analysis better than a detective in a police series. She didn't even need a flashback to know that Blake had entered a dangerous dance with his own luck.
"I'll take Blake out, he's a priority. The way to the exit is clear. Come back immediately!" Lizy commanded, without even waiting for my 'yes ma'am' confirmation. In the blink of an eye, she disappeared with a speed that made me consider changing my diet.
Staring at the empty space where before was a very serious teacher and a student with questionable life prospects, I could only let out a: "You spoiled all my fun, Lizy. I wanted to see the end of this show."
I shrugged and left. One thing is certain, combining Lizy's seriousness with my ironies was like a dynamic duo… or maybe, just a recipe for more disasters. And me, well… I was ready to watch.