Prose

It wasn’t always like this, you know. Before, I used to have lots of friends and family by my side, I had a smile on my face, and my thoughts were clear and mild and happy. That beautiful picture of all of the relationships I had with people—family, friends, relatives, acquaintances. The picture was full of people who all knew who I was. And for that matter, made sure I knew who I was.

But it became different. We all start at the same place, you know. So in the beginning years of life, everyone isn’t that far from each other. We are easier to make bonds with—find friends, find smiles to share. But time draws us a line, a line that, if you start from the starting point—there are infinite directions you can lift off and go. I didn’t know, in the beginning—in the beginning, we were all the same distance from each other—generally. But it was, I noticed later on, true that even in the beginning, I was drawing my line in a direction much different than everyone else.

It’s not like I could help it—or that I knew what would happen. What could I do? As a teething little tyke, I could do nothing but oblige to my mother’s commands and scolds. She was, in a way, putting her hand around mine and directing the line for me.

But when It was time for me to draw my line on my own, and I looked up, there were less people in the picture. That picture—that once had lots of friends, family, relatives, acquaintances—that picture was becoming something entirely different. I began to feel a strange sensation in my heart—that if I ever looked up, there would be less people by my side, less people to share smiles with, less people to talk to. Their lines were going in the completely opposite direction. This sensation grew stronger as I grew older. I felt weak. And lonely.

I would approach others, hoping to find that it was possible to break that feeling—to recreate that beautiful picture I had in the first decade of life. I tried to communicate with other people, smile at them, and wave—do what they all seemed to do on a daily basis. But all I would be returned was that look. Those eyes—they were all the same. They had that scornful, hateful, disgusted look. It would come in variations—after nearly two years of the effort, I realized that subconsciously, I had been analyzing those looks, tucking them into different shelves—sorting them into different categories of contempt. There would be embarrassment, hatred, disgust, amusement, condescension, a large variety. But I did not give up.

Whatever I had done to try recreate the bonds and relationships of life that I so dearly, so desperately yearned for—whatever I had done, it turned out to be the wrong action. Very wrong. They began to look at me differently—after a point in time. And very rapidly, their looks all assimilated into one category. It was something I couldn’t identify—not at all, until whatever I had done, it broke. It finally erupted, and they created a bond with me for the first time. But it wasn’t one, not at all, one that I had wanted.

The first time they began this ritual, it was in school. They took me into the bathroom and made me inadvertently gulp toilet water. They kept me there for an uncomfortably long time. It was, at first, a delight to realize that someone was finally acknowledging my presence. But after a sickening amount of time, I realized that this was not something I should be happy of, that, if anything, this was taking me in the total opposite direction than the one I had in mind.

It became more frequent, and then less aquatic attacks were used, and more physical offenses. I found myself encountering my own blood so often, it was like a daily sort of thing, I’d expect it. And all the while, I kept my efforts in trying to create a bond, a relationship, with anyone. Please, anyone who would give me a hand and let me find myself away from this desert.

By the time my acquaintances with my blood were becoming regular, I realized that the beautiful picture that once was, was now only a fragment of my memory—almost becoming a figment, confusing me whether it was truly real or not. For now, I was in a dry, arid desert of nothing but my shaken, lonely mind, filling the empty space. My voice cracked in the dry, moodless air, and my hands were bleeding from no moisture. I was purely, utterly alone in this world.

Did I dare consult my mother? No, her strong voice and opinions, her forceful looks and actions—they all gave me a realization not too long after I began to lose the beautiful picture. I realized that it was she who had been the cause of this—she who had drawn the beginning of the line, pushing me into the direction, so far out, that by the time I realized, I could not turn back—it was too difficult to turn back. For everyone was not letting me go in their friendly direction—nobody was letting me through—they were all pushing me away. They refused to give me a chance.

My first second decade of life was in utter misery and pain, loneliness and hatred. My pure innocence in the efforts to befriend any being began to grow weak and desperate. I began to lose hope.

It was those words that truly cut me off, that gave me the true idea, that gave me the realization of my future. My void future.

“Nobody wants you here.”

Nobody.

All those words, I had refused to accept before, words that were vulgar, words that were cruel, words profane. They all pierced my heart, but those—they broke it. I finally realized that it was true. Nobody wanted me alive. I had no purpose of life. What was I do to, but be a pathetic human to exchange mean words about, to glare at, to throw hurtful words at. I was truly a nonexistent being, to the point that, people merely knew who I was, to acknowledge me as someone they didn’t know, who was a nobody. That’s what they called it. A ‘nobody.’

When I found myself in a position that I had to get a life, a job, I had nobody to consult, nobody to ask. For I was landed in a desert of loneliness, completely, utterly alone, in the darkness of the desert, trying to read the sand, to find a pattern in the sun—anything, that would be a means of communication—a means of getting a meaning, a flower into my heart. After searching for years and only getting yells and shouts and curses of my mother in return, I somehow managed to get into a place which they called college, which I called, the last step before true loneliness.

After college, I realized that I would truly be alone in this world, no classes to attend, only a job to search for.

How puny. How pathetic. How pitiful. Nobody was around me. I was slowly drying away in the desert, my skin turning to dust, my hair crumbling. My eyes would barely crack open, and my muscles and joints—were rusty old because there was nobody to oil them.

I realized one day, upon looking in the mirror, my life before me, and the life ahead, would never, ever be any better. It would never get better, and I would never be able to find a smile. Because I was already dying, because for two decades, nobody would reach out to me, no matter how hard I tried. Because society just could not accept me, whether it was for my efforts, for who I was, or for who I wanted to be. They only judged by their eyes, and not their hearts and souls.

It was a sharp, sudden, flash of a realization, because my heart was so dry and tiny, it could not take it.

I looked into those eyes of mine and saw but one emotion. Fear.

What had I done wrong, that put me in this position? What did I do, that, in the beginning, set me away from people whom I once called that warm, happy word—friend?

Nothing, nobody cared. Nobody wondered. Nobody asked. Nobody.

How could I make them see me? How could I make them smile, other than showing my pitiful, bloody self, embarrassed self to them? What could I do, that would make them look at me, look at me with anything other than disregard, ignorance, and condescension?

I went to college classes, day after day, and decided to pick someone whom I would try to befriend, once more. If it didn’t work, I would truly find no need in being alive. I soon found a beautiful lady, someone who had kind, twinkling eyes, and lots of friends. I began to like her more than I did to anyone else in my life—I fell in love. Seeing her gave me a seed of hope, a droplet of water on my cracked lips.

It wasn’t long before she noticed. And it wasn’t long before I even managed to gather up courage to confront her, that she courageously came up to me—oh, how blissfully happy I was that she was looking at me—but something was wrong. Those eyes.

Those eyes of contempt.
And fury.

“Can you stop staring at me? You’re so creepy. You don’t have any friends, and you’re always alone. Who are you?”

“But—I like you… can you be my friend?” How long it had been since the last conversation…

“You’re so creepy. Get away from me, get out of my life. You’re always following me. I’m going to call the cops if you keep doing that! Nobody wants people like you here.”

It was that again. And this time, because of the affection I had felt towards her, that hope that somehow unchapped my lips and let a faraway oasis appear in my field of view—it brought a heavy wound upon not just my heart, but my mind, soul, and body. I felt dread, and for the first time, I felt hatred. Hatred for this world, that created an atmosphere to make her hate me, hatred for all of the people who made each other so prejudiced and cruel, hatred for the living beings of this world—for not letting me in.

And I began drop the classes. I stayed home, and using a computer, began to draw myself into the world of fantasy, where I could find a world with no humans, or humans who were kind, or humans who ended up as heroes.

I began to watch movies, movies of what people called villains, whom I found myself deeply interested in. I shared those moments they had, I could understand them fully, their loneliness, their hatred to the world—I could feel it bubbling in my heart. I realized that I was not alone in this world, that those people also felt these things. And I realized that I could also end up as they did, in positions of power and wealth. If I could just steer the world in a different direction, I could manage to evade deaths like theirs and maintain a life of success. I realized that this hatred and this loneliness could breed a new type of life for me—of this thing they so often identified, that word they so often used—power.

I began the task of walking the paths of those people, and started out by picking a movie. This would be a very dangerous road to take, enemies could appear, and threats could occur. I carefully planned out the whole road. I began to force a way out of that desert. The first step was physical likeliness—which was much easier than planned—the Internet was quite useful a tool.

Becoming obsessed in creating a world where I was no longer dying of dehydration, of no moisture, of complete, utter darkness and loneliness—it became my life.

It was not long before I realized my final step. I had to create fear in people—I had to do something that would force them to look up to me, not down.

It was a perfectly well planned out idea—an ironic one, that I would create my first act of mercilessness towards the people I so hated—it was beautiful. I no longer needed the ‘beautiful picture’ I once longed for. I needed respect. And this would earn it, as did in the many videos I analyzed and watched for studies.

I used tools and weapons to create the diversion and work upon my first attack.

It succeeded, and I identified myself in front of the remaining crowd, looking for that look in their faces—and indeed it was there—fear.

Not long before I knew to carefully protect myself—for enemies would come, as did in the videos, and not long before my name became popular, it was on the Internet—when once it was a name to spit upon, to curse at.

Not long before a person came looking for me, telling me she would help me out of my problem. Finally, a follower. I had expected more, but one, for now, was enough. I would reward her later.

But she did not seem to understand the rules of apprenticeships. She constantly asked me questions, about my painful past. I tried persuading her about the future, of my plans—but she told me they wouldn’t work. She was a frustrating apprentice.

I saw her one day, and it was before she noticed me, but she was speaking of her fear of me, of her worry.

Only then did I realize that somehow, upon trying to create fear and respect in people—I had returned on my old plan. On relationships. She was the first person I could truly speak to, who would not tell me of my uselessnesses to the world.

It was then, that I changed my mind, and began to cooperate with her, in search of a bridge that would help me cross it, and for the first time, take a look at the lush fields of flowers, friendships, families, bonds, relationships.

It was in her that I planted my seed of hope. As my drying body began to emit an ugly stench, I weakly, meekly hoped that seed had found a fertilized soil. I planted my hope once more.