Day after day, year after year, I've endured – not truly lived. I yearned for a grand, sweeping existence, but I'm just another face in the crowd, someone you'd pass on the street without a second thought. I'm trapped in this monotonous routine, a cycle etched into my very being. Only the memories of brighter days offer any kind of comfort.
Sigh.
I wish the world would just... end. Obliterate this dull ache, this constant reminder of a life unfulfilled. It's an escape, a twisted fantasy where my past is erased, and my heart, dormant for so long, can finally beat with a purpose, a thrill, even if it's born of chaos.
I can't voice these thoughts, of course. Why wish for the end?...
Am I that selfish? To damn millions for my own twisted desire?
The question spirals in my mind, a silent debate that stretches into long, internal dialogues. It's a familiar habit, born of years of solitude. I've never had a true confidant, a friend in the real sense of the word. In middle school – Blackwood Middle, a name that still sends a shiver down my spine – I was a ghost, unable to connect with anyone. My social awkwardness, combined with, let's face it, my less-than-stellar appearance, made me a target. The easy target. I was the school's designated scapegoat, teetering on the edge of being shunted into the special classes. My grades were abysmal, and no teacher seemed willing to invest the time in a kid who seemed determined to fail. The weight of that constant rejection, that feeling of being unwanted, it crushes a young boy's spirit.
So, I built a wall of defiance. I became the class clown, the disruptive force, anything to distract from the hollow ache inside. I'm eternally grateful for my family's patience – the endless calls from Principal Davies, the report cards filled with failing marks, and, most unforgivably, the way I lashed out at Liam and Sarah, my younger siblings. I was meant to be their protector, their guiding light, their hero. Instead, I was a storm of anger and resentment, a monster barely contained within human skin. I should have been the one cast out, leaving them with a perfect family of four. A cleaner equation, without me as the flawed variable.
Yet, they kept me. Forgave me. Their love, a lifeline I clung to, seemingly erased those dark years, as if they were nothing but a bad dream. But I remember. The shame is etched into my memory, a permanent scar. Because of their unwavering faith, I was granted a clean slate in high school – a chance to rebuild, to forge friendships, to finally reinvent myself. I will forever carry the weight of my first sin: the betrayal of the people who loved me most.
Fairview High. A new world. Time seemed to accelerate, and I began to change, slowly, painfully. The fear of connection was a constant knot in my stomach, so I forced myself to act. I became my own teacher, devouring books, desperately seeking knowledge. It felt alien, this pursuit of learning, after years of actively avoiding it. I hated the feeling of ignorance, the weight of each unread page pressing down on me. Every turned page felt like a physical effort, my eyelids heavy, my mind resisting. The words swam on the page, refusing to coalesce into meaning. Why did something that seemed so natural to others feel like scaling a mountain to me? I desperately wanted to understand...
The truth was, I did understand, deep down. The fear was a suffocating blanket, smothering any attempt to confront the terrifying possibility that my suspicions were correct. Even as I grew older, taller, I was still that small, lost boy at Blackwood, the one nobody wanted. The fear of being different, of being truly broken, was a constant shadow. Could their cruel taunts have held a grain of truth? Each time that doubt surfaced, it felt like a physical blow, a hammer striking my skull, driving the old insults, the memories of rejection, deeper into my consciousness.
Yet, I pushed forward. I willed myself to learn. To be better. To achieve some semblance of "normal." No one warns you that the path of self-improvement is paved with loneliness. Progress was a twisting, frustrating maze, filled with dead ends and false starts. I had to stumble, to fail, countless times before I saw even a flicker of progress.
I started lifting weights, transforming my body. My grades slowly crept up to average. I made a few hesitant connections, even some I dared to call friends. I joined the football team, finding a physical outlet as a linebacker. But none of it truly resonated. Every connection felt tenuous, a fragile thread on the verge of breaking. But I didn't care. My goal was simple: to be ordinary, to finally become the son my mother, with her endless sacrifices, deserved, and the man my father, with his quiet, watchful eyes, hoped I could be.
I was content, or at least, I convinced myself I was, settling into a life of quiet mediocrity. And then, a seemingly minor decision – my high school elective – irrevocably altered the course of my life.
Mr. Harrison. My history teacher for that single semester. An old man, unassuming, the type you'd easily overlook in a crowd. But he possessed a quiet wisdom that I've never encountered since. I didn't recognize it then, of course. I treated his class like all the others: I did the bare minimum, completed the assignments, showed up physically, but my mind was elsewhere. I was just another nameless student in a sea of faces. Yet, he singled me out, approaching me after class one day.
A familiar wave of anxiety washed over me. My stomach clenched. "What had I done? Why me?" I plastered on a brave face, but inside, I was bracing myself for a repeat of the Blackwood nightmare. My thoughts raced, conjuring up a thousand worst-case scenarios, but his actual question caught me completely off guard.
"Why are you wasting your potential, Aurthor?"
….What?
Me? Potential?
The word felt alien, a relic from a forgotten past. I hadn't heard it directed at me since… before Blackwood. There had been a time, back in elementary school, when I'd earned honors in science and English, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Was he confusing me with someone else?
I opened my mouth to question him, but he continued, his voice surprisingly strong, belying his frail appearance, "You're achieving decent marks, even without appearing to exert much effort. But I believe you're capable of so much more." Those words… they were so unexpected, so foreign, that I stood there, speechless, for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Finally, I stammered, "I… I don't know about that, sir. There are others far more capable than me. And, to be honest, history isn't really my passion. I'm just aiming to keep my grades respectable for football."
The words felt hollow, a practiced deflection. I liked football, but it wasn't a burning passion. It was a safe space, something I was moderately skilled at, something that earned my mother's approval and kept me physically fit. So, I clung to it.
But Mr. Harrison possessed the unwavering enthusiasm of a young teacher, determined to cultivate talent wherever he found it. Except, the "talent" he was focusing on… felt misplaced. It was as if a blind prospector, searching for gold, had stumbled upon a tarnished, unremarkable piece of metal, convinced it held hidden value. He persisted, his gentle voice firm, for another ten minutes, until he finally proposed, "Let's put your doubts to the test, Aurthor. Dedicate yourself to this class, just for the remainder of the semester, and we'll see what unfolds. I suspect you possess far greater abilities than you realize."
If a bit of extra effort would end this awkward exchange, so be it. "Alright, Mr. Harrison. I accept." For the rest of that year, he called on me, relentlessly, for every question. Initially, I underestimated his resolve. I started actually studying, driven by the fear of public humiliation. Weeks blurred into months, and, unexpectedly, other students began approaching me for assistance. And, even more unexpectedly, I discovered a genuine enjoyment in explaining the material, in clarifying complex ideas. It ignited a spark of pride within me, a feeling I hadn't experienced in… I couldn't even remember. I began to anticipate his class, craving the challenge, the opportunity to learn and to share that learning. And then, abruptly, it was over. The semester ended. For me, it felt like a sudden, jarring halt. For everyone else, I'm sure they'd been eagerly awaiting its conclusion.
I expected to fade back into anonymity. But then, I received something I hadn't seen in years: recognition.
Honor Roll - History
It was probably a trivial achievement to most, a simple certificate. But to me, it was a gleaming trophy, a validation of… something. I held it, my fingers tracing the embossed lettering, and looked at the camera for the obligatory photograph. Later, someone pointed out the tears glistening in my eyes in the picture. I hadn't even been aware of them. It was a flood of emotion I hadn't felt in what felt like an eternity. The last time was in the suffocating darkness of Blackwood, where I'd clawed at the walls of my own mind, desperate to escape the medication that was supposed to "cure" me, the pills that had instead leached away my will, my sense of self, leaving me a hollow automaton. This time, the tears were different. They were tears of pure, unbridled joy, the joy of achieving something I'd deemed impossible, of proving to myself that I wasn't inherently flawed, that I wasn't… abnormal. I didn't need to be extraordinary. I was simply… me.
I did it.
Without assistance.
Without medication.
Without any special concessions.
I, Aurthor, had earned an award, a feat that had eluded me for years.
After the ceremony, summer vacation arrived. But before leaving, I needed to speak with Mr. Harrison, to express my gratitude. I sprinted through the corridors of Fairview, feeling strangely detached from reality, as if I were the only person inhabiting that space, searching for the man who had, unknowingly, altered the entire trajectory of my existence. But his office was empty. I can't remember the precise reason, but he wasn't there that day. He'd vanished, like a phantom, a well-meaning spirit.
So, I spent the summer without seeing him, but his impact resonated within me, a persistent, quiet hum beneath the surface of my everyday life.
I would surpass my limitations. My ambition, long dormant, ignited. I intensified my workouts, immersed myself in philosophical texts, and, most dauntingly, I began the arduous process of learning to interact with people, to communicate. Talking to guys was one challenge, but engaging with girls? That triggered a whole new level of anxiety. But I refused to be ruled by fear, not anymore.
That day, my family took me out for a celebratory dinner. We went to a buffet, and I indulged until I felt gloriously, contentedly full. We laughed, we bickered, we bonded, as if the shadows of the past had been completely erased. I didn't feel like a monster; I felt human. I felt like I had rediscovered my family.
Summer faded, as it inevitably does. I returned to Fairview a changed person, and the difference was palpable. Apparently, I'd developed a certain "charm," a way with words. I knew, deep down, that this persona wasn't entirely authentic, but I embraced it. It was a tool, a means to an end. My goal remained: to improve. This new, refined Aurthor finally encountered Mr. Harrison again. I wished it had been the old me, the awkward, tearful boy clutching that award, who'd raced through the school to find him. But it wasn't. It was this… constructed version. I'm grateful I saw him, of course. He expressed amazement at my transformation. The new me engaged in light, casual conversation, offering a nonchalant "thank you." But the old me, the genuine me, remained hidden, a silent observer in the back of my mind, fighting back tears, yearning to express to this unassuming, gentle man the profound impact he'd had on my life. He longed to convey how no one had ever truly believed in him, how he'd felt like an outcast, a pariah, and that Mr. Harrison had been the sole individual to perceive him as a human being with potential, not merely a damaged object to be discarded.
But those words remained unspoken, trapped within the confines of my mind. He'll never fully comprehend the gift he bestowed upon me. Because of him, I could finally sit at the dinner table with my family, engage in laughter and play without that constant, gnawing fear. I could show my face, could emerge from my self-imposed exile.
For as long as I could remember, self-loathing had been my constant companion. My own mind had become my refuge, my sanctuary. I'd erected a formidable wall, a fortress, to protect them – my family – from the perceived monster within. I failed to realize that the wall didn't just confine the monster; it also excluded them. I'd habitually retreated to my room, devoured meals with haste to escape, remained a silent observer during family gatherings, a phantom, a mere fly on the wall. I'd become a detached spectator in my own family, oblivious to the empty space, the void where I should have been.
He'll never grasp the magnitude of his gift. And that day, my second profound regret took root. Not a sin, perhaps, but it carried the same weight, a heavy burden on my soul.
Years unfolded. I graduated from high school and entered college. My aspirations had been to pursue electrical engineering, or perhaps law, something intellectually stimulating, something meaningful. But my parents… well, they dismissed electrical engineering as glorified manual labor, and they harbored anxieties about my dream school rejecting my application for law. So, I settled on computer science. I possessed the aptitude, and my parents were thrilled – the financial prospects, the social standing. It became my predetermined path, not chosen, but accepted. And gradually, subtly, I began to transform once more, molding myself into the person others expected me to be. I participated in sports, I maintained excellent grades, I became, somewhat to my own surprise, conventionally attractive. And, regrettably, I embraced the persona of a… fuck boy.
It's not a period I'm particularly proud of. Once I'd deciphered the intricacies of flirting, it became almost… effortless. Initially, my intentions were genuine: to find a girlfriend, to cultivate friendships with both men and women, to forge authentic connections. But the way I presented myself, the facade I'd constructed, it attracted girls who were primarily interested in one thing. And I was inexperienced, lacking in discernment. I hadn't even mastered the basics of kissing, for heaven's sake. I'd always envisioned my first time as… romantic, significant. Not a blurry, drunken encounter, devoid of any real memory. I can't even recall meeting her, only fragmented images of conversations with friends.
And then, she appeared: Rebecca. A girl I'd never encountered before, suddenly attached to me, refusing to grant me any personal space. I felt a pang of guilt. Someone liked me, but the feeling wasn't mutual. They desired me, but I… didn't reciprocate. I sought advice from my friends, and their consistent response was to "just go with the flow." I'd always acquiesced; it had become the defining characteristic of my existence. But this time, for the first time, I rebelled.
I resisted. For weeks, I held my ground.
But the guilt… the relentless pressure from those around me, and the insidious self-doubt gnawing at me… it proved too powerful. Even as I struggled against the tide, I knew I was destined to lose. So I yielded the flow. For a few excruciating months.
I was overwhelmed with self-disgust, ashamed of my own lack of conviction. My personal time was usurped, becoming our time; Rebecca would materialize and disappear from my life with an almost comical randomness. One day, I attempted to evade her calls, desperately seeking solitude, a moment of personal space. A knock echoed on my dorm room door, and for a fleeting second, I experienced a surge of hope. It was Mark, one of my acquaintances. I felt a flicker of anticipation, imagining a chance to connect, to escape the suffocating presence of Rebecca. But as I swung open the door, Rebecca stepped out from behind him, a self-satisfied smirk playing on her lips.
A carefully orchestrated ambush. In that instant, I simply… surrendered. I accepted my perceived destiny. The relationship, if one could even dignify it with that term, continued its downward spiral. But I lacked the knowledge of how to terminate it. I was terrified of being labeled the "villain," as self-centered as that sounds, and I dreaded the potential for circulating rumors. So, I became accustomed to it. I even began to retaliate, in subtle, passive-aggressive ways. When she displayed anger, I mocked her. When she became enraged and attempted to strike me, I physically restrained her. She was… a deeply disturbed individual. She seemed to derive pleasure from the conflict, the theatrics. She'd almost invariably attempt to initiate intimacy an hour later, as if the preceding argument served as some twisted form of arousal. It was akin to being forced to grasp a rose, a visually appealing, captivating rose, but one riddled with razor-sharp thorns. It appeared beautiful from afar, but any attempt to touch it resulted in pain. And I was compelled to hold it, to feign a smile, to act appreciative of the agonizing experience.
"This is my existence now," I muttered to myself each time I encountered her. Everyone else behaved as if it were perfectly normal, and I, who had never possessed a true understanding of what "normal" entailed, I accepted their perception as reality.
The illusion finally shattered when my closest friend, Kevin, posed a seemingly innocent question.
"You good?"
He was unaware of the full extent of the turmoil, but he'd consistently observed me in Rebecca's company. I was prepared to fabricate a response, to dismiss his concern with a casual lie. Lying had become an instinctive reflex, as effortless as inhaling and exhaling. But… I paused. I harbored a deep aversion to deceiving Kevin. He was… exceptional. Our paths had crossed unexpectedly during my freshman year of college. We shared absolutely no common interests. I had embraced the role of the carefree, hedonistic party-goer, while he was a devoutly religious, church-going individual – polar opposites, yet we formed an inexplicable bond: we could engage in playful banter, share jokes, and spend hours immersed in games. He was the one who'd subtly guided me back towards faith, something I hadn't even realized I'd been yearning for. It felt profoundly wrong to betray his trust with a lie.
So, I confessed. Everything. I unleashed the entire, convoluted narrative: the suffocating sense of confinement, the paradoxical feeling of insanity for harboring such emotions, every manipulative, twisted act Rebecca had perpetrated. I acknowledged that, despite perceiving myself as a flawed individual, she was something far more sinister, a predatory creature disguised in human form.
The mere act of articulating my experiences, of having him listen attentively without passing judgment, was… incredibly liberating. I realized, with a sickening lurch in my stomach, that this wasn't typical behavior. This wasn't the blueprint for a healthy relationship.
The realization acted as a catalyst, breaking down the carefully constructed dam of denial. The most significant breach occurred when Rebecca demanded that I physically assault Mark, the same friend who'd inadvertently led her to my doorstep, for the audacity of defying her. If I refused, she threatened to contact her ex-boyfriend – an ex with whom she apparently maintained a disturbingly close connection – and have him inflict harm upon Mark, perhaps even shoot him.
That was the final straw. That was the precise moment when my tolerance shattered. Ex? Why was I even tolerating a relationship with someone so deeply entangled with a former lover, an ex for whom she'd openly wept when she believed he was near death, yet displayed no such concern when I was genuinely, critically ill? And the threat against Mark… I refused to sacrifice a genuine friendship for someone I desperately longed to be rid of.
I stood at a precipice, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I made the correct choice.
I severed all ties with her.
I summoned every ounce of resolve, blocked her on every conceivable social media platform, and completely erased her from my life.
She retaliated, predictably. She unleashed a barrage of phone calls from unfamiliar numbers, spewing a torrent of insults – labeling me a spineless coward, a disgrace, someone who would bring shame upon my parents. She even resorted to disparaging my mother.
But the instant I ceased to care about her, about her distorted perception of me, about her very existence, I experienced liberation. All those venomous words transformed into meaningless background noise.
I imposed a self-imposed hiatus from dating, a crucial period of introspection and healing. When I eventually, tentatively, re-entered the dating scene, I was, to put it mildly, met with resounding failure. But I was liberated, and that was the sole consideration.
I moved forward, or at least, I believed I had. I embarked on a journey of self-redefinition, striving to construct a new identity, one grounded not in external approval, but in my own internal moral compass. I aspired to become someone I could genuinely respect. This new path, I comprehended, would be arduous and circuitous, and that initial, excruciating step – but severing ties with Rebecca – had been the most hardest step.
Then came the invitation. A casual gathering with my "friends" – the large, undefined group I'd associated with during college. I felt a surge of anticipation, genuinely looking forward to the social interaction. I craved a distraction, anything to divert my thoughts from the relentless academic pressures and the lingering specter of Rebecca. We settled in the living room of someone's apartment, engaging in conversation and laughter, but the atmosphere felt… strained. Tense. I inquired about the palpable unease, and they exchanged furtive glances, their expressions mirroring discomfort. "We only desire what's best for you, Aurthor," one of them, I believe it was Sam, finally uttered, "and we genuinely care about you, but… this is the year of embracing forgiveness."
I was perplexed. "Forgiveness? What are you referring to?"
Sam continued, his voice wavering, and I observed a noticeable shift in the overall mood, a palpable descent into gloom. Then, I detected a female voice. It wasn't emanating from the living room, but from behind one of the closed doors. There were three: two bedrooms and a bathroom. It wasn't the bathroom, and it wasn't the first bedroom. It was originating from the second bedroom, the room belonging to… I couldn't even recall his name. He was supposedly a friend.
The realization struck me with the force of a physical blow, but I stubbornly refused to accept it. And then, the door creaked open. The beast emerged. Rebecca. Adorned in an alluring outfit, her face radiating smiles and feigned innocence, but I knew the truth. She was anything but innocent.
My instinct was to flee, to make a desperate dash for the exit. I rose up, ready to run.
And in that instant, standing there, encircled by the individuals I'd mistakenly believed to be my friends, the torrent of emotions from those harrowing months overwhelmed me with the intensity of a tidal wave. The agony, the manipulation, the pervasive sensation of being ensnared, the ultimate betrayal – it all crashed down upon me. I scanned their faces, their pleading, hopeful expressions, and the truth struck me with brutal clarity: they had never truly regarded me as one of their own. To so readily forgive someone who had inflicted such profound, enduring wounds upon their supposed friend… I could never comprehend, let alone condone, such a betrayal.
I tore myself away from their grasp – I can't even recall who was attempting to restrain me – and bolted out the door, sprinting blindly, fueled by an overwhelming surge of adrenaline. I couldn't remain there, not for a single second longer. Not after the arduous journey I'd undertaken, the significant strides I'd made towards becoming a better version of myself. My legs churned, my feet pounding against the unforgiving pavement, running without a specific destination, propelled solely by the primal urge to escape, the haunting specters of those horrific months snapping at my heels. My internal state was one of utter chaos, a raging storm within my very being, and I was completely lost within its turbulent center. Then, a sound. A sharp, piercing Creak! emanating from my side. I didn't register any immediate pain. Only… a peculiar sensation of weightlessness, of soaring through the air. Time seemed to decelerate, stretching into an agonizingly slow crawl. I glanced to my left, and there it was: a White truck, accelerating away, vanishing into the encroaching darkness as if it hadn't just ended a life.
Heh… So, this is how i die?
This is how the monster, the child, the man – Author Lionheart – met his end. My vision began to deteriorate, the periphery of my world dissolving into a hazy gray, the surrounding sounds becoming muted and distorted. My thoughts, unexpectedly, weren't focused on my own impending death. They were consumed by the individuals I held dear. Kevin… Mr. Harrison… My family.
A single tear, scalding and heavy, traced a path down my cheek. I can't abandon them. How could I inflict upon my mother the unimaginable anguish of losing a child? My siblings, Liam and Sarah, losing their brother…? A dark, insidious voice whispered in the recesses of my mind, suggesting that they'd be better off without me, but I quickly suppressed that selfish, self-pitying notion.
I shifted onto my side, the cold, unyielding concrete pressing against my cheek. And I initiated a desperate crawl. Each inch was an excruciating ordeal, my body growing progressively colder, heavier with each passing moment. Hush… hush… My breath emerged in ragged, shallow gasps, the sound reverberating in the sudden, oppressive silence.
As I reflected upon my life, a complex tapestry interwoven with countless errors and regrets, one particular thread shimmered with an agonizing brilliance. I wish I had been a better brother. I wished I had embodied the archetype of the strong, protective older sibling, a compassionate and reliable presence, someone whose mere name would elicit a smile, a sensation of warmth, upon their faces. As that lingering wish filled my thoughts, I can feel something in my pocket. My Hand reached for the object, a picture of my first award; Honor Roll - History award. A small warmth spread from the picture engulfing my body. And then my mind met oblivion. But oblivion was not empty. It was not the silent void I expected. Instead, it pulsed. A low, throbbing hum resonated.