Crazy is the Name of My Game

(16) I hate tears.

Writing takes time, and by writing, you share a part of yourself to others whether deliberately or not. As readers, it is your duty to imagine the world as the words meant them. The connection between a writer and a reader is something special, magical and for all eternity, infinite.

I only have two requests as a writer. Support my story and keep on reading. Is that too much to ask? 

Erica Santos

Leonn smiled, almost sadly, but before the wistful image fully registered in my mind, his emerald-colored eyes became cold and hard. Like stone. Something about it scared me. It never occurred to me that his perpetually calm, thoughtful face had this side to it – apathetic, proud, and dangerous. His sneer was condescending. It made me feel suddenly smaller.

“So?”

Don’t look at me like that. Someone please slap me awake.

“What’s it to me?” he added, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He was the opposite of everything that initially attracted me to him. He stared mockingly at me as if I was the biggest fool in the whole wide world. Perhaps I was. "Who do you think you are?"

I worked my mouth for a retort, but none came out.

“You know, you were a really entertaining project, but you're a bit too easy to manipulate. I just showed you a tiny bit of interest, and you're making a fuss out of it. That's a major turn off. I like a bit more of a challenge. Now, what I'm saying is that I’m already done playing with you.”

Stop it… just stop it already…

“I’m bored."  He was shaking his head with a small smile on his face, obviously enjoying whatever he saw in my expression. "For both our interests, I think you really should leave."

Suddenly, a piece of me broke, then another and another. Crack, crack. It was hurting me, all the tugging and the tearing inside my chest. I was torn to pieces. I knew it. I could sense it. The feeling was so horrible that my numb mind registered the pain despite me losing all sense of reality.

What was reality, in the first place?

What was fantasy? Illusion?

Was everything a waking dream? A waking nightmare?

Was Leonn Adams, or what I perceived as him, all a product of my loneliness? My imagination? Was I reading him too much, jumping to conclusions that he liked me, even a bit? Did I create a character out of a guy who was supposed to be the worst one out there?

I stared at the gorgeous boy sitting across the table. He was not looking at me, but rather he was paying attention to the pretty waitress who was smiling flirtatiously at him. When he returned his gaze at me, I fervently prayed he glared.

Oh, a glower would be so much better than this… than this… emptiness in his eyes. I would prefer he hate me than this because at least he was feeling something. But this… this was beyond agony. The indifference in his eyes made me feel like I am worth nothing. Like I am nothing.

This was no bravado. This was real.

The pressure that had previously kept me nervously pulling at my clothes yanked my brain from one side to another; I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. To say I was hurt was an understatement. He cut right through me, piercing the part of me that believed there was something more to life than suffering and death.

What the hell was I doing here?

I knew right then that I had to leave.

I would never give him the pleasure of seeing me cry.