When The Mob Villian Doesn't Want To Die

011: THE PURPOSE OF A MOB VILLAIN

HIIII! I am back with another update! Today, we are having some juicy existential crisis of Lester, that I promised in the last chapter, lol. 

The fonts used in this chapter are:

{bold + italics} = Novel Parts.

'italics' = Talking with Desiderius. 

Other fonts will be used to emphasis on certain scenes and works. 

Anyways hope you all enjoy this chapter too!

________________________________________________________________________________

Lester only breaks off from his daze when the librarian comes at him and scolds him for making such noise. To which Lester shrugged and ignored the older man, who stormed off right after, cursing the boy's very existence.

The blonde meanwhile, sits back on his chair after putting it in its right position and leans over the table, crossing his arms on it and puts his head on top of it. He looks forward with a dazed expression, trying to come to terms with what just happened.

His world is a story book.

Lester blinks, still in a daze.

"My world is a novel." He whispers softly to himself.

"A novel." He blankly whispers.

"A fucking storybook."

"We are characters made by someone."

Lester exhales softly, blankness on his face still.

All of a sudden, reality comes crashing down on him like a wave. A novel. A storybook. They are characters. They are just stories written for fun. For entertainment.

Like some damned puppets.

'To think my whole world is just a lie.' Lester scoffs absentmindedly.

A feeling of immense tiredness envelops his heart and head. A familiar loneliness paired with suffocating yet dull terror comes in after. He is the only one in this world who read this book. He is the only one who figured out the truth of his world. 

It's very suffocating.

Tiredness runs through his veins, as if his energy got sucked out all of a sudden. A chilling feeling of eyes surrounds him. The whole world is now looking at him, preying on his existence. The burdening weight of the world is on his head and shoulders. And there is nothing he can do.

He is just some words written on a sheet of paper.

He is insignificant. Just as the others. His existence is just there as a stepping stone. That is his purpose in life.

What even is the meaning of his being now, if his very existence—his body, his mind, his blood, his thoughts, his morals—are just words ready to be scraped off, after being sacrificed for someone else, who is just as insignificant as he is?

'Is that it?' Lester wonders, eyes dull yet pointed, like his entire being was set ablaze. He stares holes into the book before him, sitting there as innocently as just another harmless inanimate object. As if it just did not ruin everything for him.

Emotions swirl into a ball of utter chaos. Strength leaves his body, yet the heart and soul seems alive. And it is painful; his heart being squeezed by phantom hands until it bursts and turns into a mess of blood and flesh. Heaviness sets in his lungs, as if a large rock is being put on top of it. His vision blurs more; the bookshelves, windows and walls twisting and merging into black. Fire fills his veins and bones, and then it is overcome with chills, extinguishing the flames. And then it repeats.