AGE FIFTEEN
existence, or the lack thereof, is intriguing.
I remember the first time I picked up Nausea by Jean-Paul
Sartre from one of Mum's shelves. It was covered with dust, not
having been touched in years.
I remember reading it in one day. I was twelve. I didn't understand
much of it back then, but every time I reread it, I get these bursts of
nothingness.
Other people would steer clear from that, but I keep coming back for
more. I read about the existentialism theory and followed all of Sartre's
counterparts, and while I'm not a believer in the theory — or in anything in
general — I still find myself engrossed in Sartre's main character in
Nausea, Antoine Roquentin.
A lonely man suffering to come to terms with his existence while being
horrified by it.
When Mum saw me reading the book, she said she pitied him because
he didn't have anyone to understand him. Antoine is, in her mind, the
worst-case scenario for writers who delve too deep.
Mum might be a novelist herself, but she's into what I call thoughtprovoking fiction. She writes books about the darkest parts of human
nature, psychopaths, serial killers and cults. She writes books where villains
are the main characters and she doesn't try to romanticise them. That's what
makes her plots heart-pounding.
No matter how much I love Mum's talent and her literary genius, I think
she missed the point in Nausea. It's not that Antoine didn't understand
himself; it's that maybe he understood too much, which became a burden.
I didn't tell her that, or she would've given me that look. The one where
her brow creases and she watches me closely as if looking for signs from
her serial killers' articles cheat sheet.
Then she would've booked me an appointment with the therapist so I
could talk it out.
It's been the same endless cycle since my father died. Over the years,
I've learnt to keep my most unconventional opinions to myself. Whenever
Mum says I sound a lot older than I am, it's usually my prompt to cut back
and mimic those surrounding me.
Especially Xander and Ronan; they're the most normal amongst the
four of us — or as normal as they can get.
I've been having my suspicions about Ronan. His overall joyful
personality sometimes seems to be the camouflage of something.
He's now grinning like an idiot as we gather in the Meet Up — the
cottage Aiden's late mother left him. We usually come here after games
with other team members. Today, however, it's only the four of us because
Ronan said it's a special occasion.
