I am not sure what I am, in context of many things. I usually say that I am extroverted, but in truth, I crave silence and some time alone just as much as I pray for company. I hate loneliness, but I love being alone. It’s a troubling question for me. What am I? I feel as though I cannot spend a single second of my day alone. During the day, I crave for a friend to speak to me, to look at me, to hold me with no ulterior motive. I thrive off touch. The one thing I find myself wanting quite desperately is warmth. I want somebody to ask me how my day was, how I am feeling, how I plan to spend my day and to just convey some kind of care for me. But this is too much to ask for. That has been proved multiple times. I once had a friend. I treasured her. I showered her in affection, attention, gifts and all sorts of pleasantries. In the end, I was at loss. She left without warning, without ever telling me the reason. I wait for the day where she might come to me, sit down and hold me just like she used to.
What am I? It truly feels like a scientific mystery. Sometimes, I fear I may not even be human. Or perhaps I have been afflicted with such an illness that makes me devoid of humanity. I have no favorite color. I have no favorite food. I have no hobbies. I have no truthful answer when it comes to such ordinary questions. My life is simple and mundane. Yet, my life wasn’t ever mine. My happiness only comes from other people; it is not mine. My future was decided the day I was born; it is not mine. My past was spent in a similar manner; it is not mine. The only thing that belongs to me is my mind. Maybe it is for this reason that my mind is my greatest enemy. It is my biggest flaw.
I have no control over my own life. Maybe that is why I can’t find it in me to continue such a life. I simply don’t see the point in putting in the struggle and effort for something that it against my wishes, though it may make the others around me happy. Yes, it did give me a feeling of accomplishment and purpose, but now I am too tired to continue putting up such acts. The jester has truly failed at his own game!
I often find myself thinking about drowning. I believe it would be the most peaceful way to die. To float in an endless empty, limbs heavy yet light, a world of quietness to finally end my life. It sounds peaceful. The embrace of the water, so calm and so gentle, accepting me for all that I am; almost like it’s sentient. It would rush in through my ears and wash all of my thoughts away. It’s gentle but frim hold would lull me to sleep, it’s tide calling me, begging me to come to it; to hide away from the horrors of this world, waking me up from an endless nightmare. But if such a thing of beauty really existed, humans would have been quick to destroy it. As soon as I jump into the water, it denies me instantly. I float right back up. It shows me what I am in this society: oil in water. Smoke in air; destructive, but of their own making.
Death can be considered peaceful in comparison to a world where you have to pay for the right to live. Besides death, peace in such an environment can never be attained. I’m sure of it. The glow of warmth and security is bound to cease with age. Time does not heal wounds; it only teaches us to get used to the pain. Maybe the realization of this truth is the reason I am disqualified as a human being. My metamorphosis, but instead of the butterfly that shall emerge from the cocoon, an already decaying roach will emerge from mine; a transition from dove-like purity to a putrescent soul fostering in a human shell.
My name is Erik Dietrich. I am currently 17 years old. I am from Russia and I have lived in Amesbury for most of my life, moving here along with my mother for the treatment of her disease. I work as a computer repair technician in a dingy shop near the Dolores’ Dahlias farm park. Being beside such a popular site, you can only imagine the amount of customers that actually come to our shop. If you imagined none, then you are dead-on correct. We have more rats here than customers. What makes this job even more wonderful is that I only make around 5 pounds an hour. The only thing keeping me from leaving is the fact that I have no other place to go.
I study sculpture, mostly consisting of shaping and carving humanoid figures with reference to a live nude model, which just adds an additional infuriating touch to my already quite thrilling life.
Work mostly consists of me standing behind the counter and scraping the grime from under my fingernails and occasionally an old lady will show up, not knowing how to work her phone, thinking there’s something wrong with it.
Of course, you can’t blame her. The poor old lady thinks something is wrong with her phone because her children don’t call or even text her anymore. To be honest, it might be better for her to live in that lie, because the truth might quite literally break her heart. Hey, she has a little life left ahead of her, might as well enjoy it as much as she can. I would rather die in a happy lie than be depressed because of a bitter truth, especially in my last days.
What really gets on my nerves is when some pompous old lady comes in with more than just a cracked phone: she comes in with an attitude.
“What’s a young boy like you doing here, wasting away?” “How do you provide for your children? The poor souls deserve better than whatever lifestyle you can afford for them.” “You ought to take a shower, dear”.
You ought to shut your mouth, old hag.
But of course, I need the money. I may not have kids, but I do have a mother to take care of, as well as a college tuition to pay. So, unfortunately, I can’t say that kind of stuff. But maybe, someday after I graduate and get a job that’s actually worth my time, I can come back and flip her off and tell her to stay in her place. If she’s alive by that time. Surprisingly, I prefer the latter. Not because I like her in any way, but because I want to see her face when I tell her to piss off.
The worst part is, she’s not really wrong. I’m not much of a looker, which is painfully obvious considering my yellow, coffee-stained teeth and greasy black hair. Dry shampoo can only do so much. But hey, she’s old. She has way too much free time. One day, I’ll ask her,
“What’s common between your husband and the dead sea?”
“He’s salty and dead. Plus, he clearly couldn’t see, considering he married you of all people. Get it? Dead sea, dead see?”
What? Too far?
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