I don't know if anyone will read this. I know that people love me, and care about me, and some people might even like me. But it doesn't feel that way. To be honest, I'm not even sure that I exist.
When I walk around in the school ground, it feels like people are looking straight through me. Like I'm a ghost that they can't even sense.
I used to get picked on when I was younger. But everyone stopped doing that after I broke Josh's arm. Well, not straight after. Straight after I broke Josh's arm, the kids that picked on me picked on me even more. They threatened that they would bring their older brothers, and sisters, to come and "kick my arse," as they'd phrase it. But then, when John actually did bring his older brother to "slice me for breaking Josh's arm," and when I sent his brother to the hospital - with a broken leg - they all backed off. They realised that I wasn't joking about being a black belt. And they decided that they should just stay away from me all together. It was a smart option, I thought. For both of us. I hated hurting people.
I don't go to the same high school as them, so I had started in high school afresh. No one knew who I was and I didn't really care to know anyone, either. Kids scared me. I didn't get them and they didn't get me. It was okay to start with. I made a few friends, despite my not trying to, and we hung out sometimes. They'd come over on the weekends. We'd play video games and talk about cute girls at school. But I never felt a connection with anyone. I never have.
Mum and dad don't understand me, either. They just think I need to be medicated so that I can stop feeling sad. "You've a great life," they say. "I don't understand what we've done wrong, why you can't be happy. You've had everything you've ever wanted. What's the matter?"
They're so concerned with how they look to our neighbours that they don't even bother asking me what's wrong. They just tell me that nothing is wrong, and then tell me that I'm being stupid. I know I'm being ridiculous. I've read enough books to know that how and what I feel has mainly to do with my genes. I know that all of this gloom is in my head. But I can't help but wonder if the way I feel is in part related to them, the people, the humans.
Jess is too young to understand what's going on with me. I can see how much she loves me and I love her in the same way. But she's got that look in her eyes that I had when I was her age. That look of confusion. That look of loneliness. That look of isolation. She has my eyes, and my mind, and I wonder how she will grow up.
Frankly, she's the only person that I'm a little sad to leave behind. She's only three, and my death won't affect her that much, I don't think. But I can already tell already that she's going to suffer similarly to how I've suffered. There's 14 years of time between us, but we're tied together by blood, and so I know what's in store for her. It breaks my heart.
I wish I could leave something behind to help her. But I can't. I can't leave anything and I can't do anything. My body has had enough and my mind is at its wit's end. What's the fucking point of anything? What reason is there to keep on trudging through this hellfire that burns from the souls of these human eyes? These animals? These barbaric monsters of intelligent flesh?
To be honest, I don't even know how I've lasted this long. I wasn't made for this world in which my body was born. I'm also deathly afraid that my stupid parents are right, and that an afterlife could be real. Why the fuck would anyone want to live in this way forever? I'm scared of death because I fear it won't be the end. That's what has taken me this long to take this final leap into oblivion.
I fear that my mind will continue on, churning in a cold, vast expanse of imperceptible space. Attached to the memory of this life I've only ever loathed by a thin fibre, a vestige of past that will haunt me for eternity.
Some of my teachers said that I had a promising career as a writer. They said that I should continue to let my imagination run wild. If I worked on my sentence structure and trained my thoughts to run in an orderly fashion, they said I would be able to write great works of literature. They said that my imagination would carry me into the company of Nobel Prize winners: Through and beyond the realm of creative genius into a sphere composed of something exclusively my own.
But whatever. I know that I'm not that talented. Despite the awards I've won and the accolades I have drawn and the scholarships and the praise. My imagination is merely a vehicle for me to run around in circles of useless nothing, a way for my mind to distract itself from itself, for a certain period of time, ultimately, merely prolonging a silently desperate life that I never even wanted in the first place.
That's the truth. Everything is pointless. Some people are merely able to better convince themselves that this pointless hustle and bustle does have a point, a sharp edge that they will use to pierce through this veil of human illusion to see success in its most tangible form. God is what many people look for. Idiots.
I just know that no sort of success has a tangible form, because success is simply not tangible. It is as illusory as all other forms of fleeting human emotions, and unfortunately for me, these successful feelings are barren. Not ever to be seen, only felt as transient shimmers, here one second, gone the next, not to return for another month or three.
This life we all lead is no more than a cruel game that some people can play better than others. I'm sick of playing it. I have no more to say. I'm not sorry. You can all go and fuck yourselves.
Author's note: FICTION.
