A Blank Page

A boy lays in his twin sized bed, covered in cozy and warm blankets and accompanied by his pet bulldog who is fast asleep in a deep and noisy slumber. His expression is cold and lifeless as he scrolls through his social media feeds. Watching people live happy and fulfilling lives while he lacks motivation to even leave his parent's home. Eyes glossed over as he sends hearts to his high school friends as they show they're newborn babies and marriage announcements.

In a way, he resented those that pursued they're passions, resented that they had passions and he didn't. If he harbored any kinds of feelings of anger at himself or others for his situation, he didn't show it. The faint noise of a song playing through his phone speakers was the only thing that helped him keep his mind clear. Some would say that he was already long dead at this point. For what's the point of living if you aren't seen?

The drab grey painted walls are only shown up by the depressingly black and small desk with a cheap laptop. Barely powerful enough to load up his online college classes. Not good enough to play any games or keep his attention, only good for keeping barely passing grades in his classes. He wasn't stupid, in fact he could be described as a genius compared to other people his age, but he lacked the motivation to prove his intelligence. There wasn't a reason to get straight A's in his classes since he wasn't even sure what he wanted to do for a career.

His parent's worried about him an awful lot. His mother would cry when she was alone at her teaching job and his father would resort to the garage. A place that he wouldn't have to interact with his son who he had nothing in common with. His mother forced him to see a therapist, to solve any kind of underlying problems he didn't know he had. It was useless to him, just another waste of time.

His therapist told him it might be helpful to write down things that he was feeling, a sort of diary. In spite of her, he would write down one sentence on each page. 'I feel the same thing I did yesterday, nothing.' His immaculate handwriting was the only impressive thing about his stubbornness. His parents stopped forcing him to see the therapist, if he wasn't going to take it seriously, they wouldn't waste their money on expensive rates. His parents eventually seemed to give up on him. His younger brother was widely more ambitious than him. Attending a prestigious law school, on his way to becoming a politician or something equally impressive. They were so proud of him, unlike his brother.

"If you don't want to write about yourself, write about someone else." His father recommended in hopes of finding a light inside of him. The boy shrugged and retreated to his hideout under the covers of his bed.

When he popped his head out from the darkness, he found that he had slept during the day and awoke at midnight. Somehow, his laptop was open, and a bright white page lit up his shallow room. A blinking cursor beckoning his attention to the top left of the page. His therapist's and his father's words rung through his head. Maybe if he would just humor them, they would leave him alone for the time being. Until they thought up a new scheme to test out on him. He got out of bed and sat at the desk, staring at the blinking line on the blank canvas. Who would he write about? What would they be doing? He had no answer to these questions.

The blank page almost entranced him; it was odd to him. How could something so simple turn into epic fantasies that he read in school? The utter potential enthralled him. The first thing he had felt in a long while, curiosity. How had esteemed authors created their complicated worlds and complex plots? All of which were spawned to a white blank page, with a blinking cursor on the top left corner.

Then, he was transported. To a world that wasn't his own but was still vaguely familiar to him. A world he didn't recognize but still felt comforted by. It was more soothing than reality to him. He looked down to his body and found that his sweatpants were replaced by leather padded pants. His loose hoodie replaced with a form fitting tunic that offered protection while still granting him mobility. In his hands was a bastard sword, longer than a short sword but still shorter than a longsword. It was in between both worlds like he was.