Proud to be a Coward
Act I: Chapter 1
As I stared at my monitor for hours on end, not making a single progress, I began challenging the thought of the fairness of one's life, karma, some might call it. Mine was in a constant state of war, every day fighting a battle against money and deadlines, living in fear and anxiety.
My life depended on my ability to publish books, so I fought, writing, drawing, creating stories every single day. And that day was no different.
There I was, sitting in front of a computer screen, again, desperate in need to think of a story to write about. I lacked inspiration, so instead of wasting my time, I pushed my chair towards the window to give my aching eyes a break. As I stared outside my window, my eyes naturally drifted toward a happy family casually walking by.
The parents were both carrying bags from Toy Kingdom as well as a cake from Red Ribbon. They smiled, staring at their giddy child, who seemed to be over the moon, jumping over and over with a huge beaming laughter as he held both his parents' hands with each of his own.
I couldn't help but smile myself, remembering the time I once had that, thinking the choices I made weren't the best ones, well, not that I regretted it either. Being only 16 years old, I had no money in my name, no friends to call, and no one to lean on, none except my audience and readers. They were my support, my lifeline, my only chance of being able to afford food and next month's rent.
Perhaps father was right; maybe I was, maybe even still am, too prideful. Maybe it's what got me to this shit hole in the first place. I slapped my cheek, "Wake up…" I whispered, thinking although it's a challenge, it's also a thrill. Yes, a life worth living, a story worth sharing.
Just keep writing, keep drawing, keep struggling, and maybe at the end of all of this, you'll be living the life you've always dreamt of.
"Nasa Diyos ang awa, nasa tao ang gawa", or so they say… It means those who give their best effort will receive the best rewards from God.
As my thoughts kept rumbling on and on, my eyes lit up. My life in and of itself may be a story worth sharing! Yes, this might be a good idea to write a story about! Filled with hope, I thought to myself, I have to start writing ASAP. So, with a kick to the wall I was facing, I quickly pushed myself back into the initial position I was in, along with my chair to the computer table.
I checked the time, and it was nearing midnight. How many nights have I stayed awake? I wondered. It doesn't matter; with a new idea in mind, I had to write about it, or else my mind would forget the next morning.
I grabbed my half-empty bottle of Adderall and started taking some profusely. My heavy eyes became lighter, my turtle neck corrected its posture, and my mind woke up. With this, I began writing my story.
I wanted to use a significant figure in my life as the main character. The man I've always compared myself to; Einar. He's a character I created, an OC. He's the same age as me who also desires to be an author, but he's hesitant in being either a writer or an artist(neither of us found an opportunity to be an artist). Good-looking and talented, he might be a better author than me with the amount of media he consumes. Plus with everything he's bottling up (plenty of material to use)… He envies people quite frequently, especially those who have something he doesn't, something I have at the cost of comfortable and convenient living: freedom. I've always thought of him as my polar opposite. He, who has no pride or even self-respect, much less self-esteem, is adored by everyone because of it. Meanwhile I, who is filled with pride, got hated and isolated because of it.
Actually, I could be living his life right now if I didn't run away from my previous home. Trapped, suffocating, living with selfish, self-centered people, all the while desiring to be selfish myself. It's fine, though. I'm not envious whatsoever.
One day, I want to be able to say: "I'm proud of being prideful."
Ah, my head hurts… My eyes became heavy again. I began having double vision, and I started feeling terribly nauseous. "Maybe I should grab another pill—" My head dropped down to the table mid-thought as I tried reaching for my pills. My chest grew tight and heavy; I grew restless. My hands wouldn't stop shaking; it felt as if my heart was getting endlessly stabbed; my trembling hands reached for the ache in my chest as my breathing became unstable.
Is this how I die? I dramatically questioned. I've always thought death wasn't nearly as scary as the process beforehand, but as if it was a natural reaction, a reflex, I started praying. "God, please…" It confused me for a moment; what exactly was I asking for? Did I not want to die? Although the thought of death doesn't make me want to run away, it certainly doesn't entice me either. Did I want something? Certainly, I had dreams and goals, but I would argue I was too much of a dabbler, a procrastinator to even try to achieve those… What was I begging for? What caused me to pray? Was I asking for something? Then what exactly is that thing?
Memories came flashing back right into my eyes, from my family, to my old schools, to my classmates, to my first published book; I thought to myself, What a disappointment… I realized I was praying for adventure. For thrill. For emotions. For a story. For a life worth living.
And with that, on the night of March 28th, 2024, Etsuko Nokori died of a drug overdose.