April 6, Saturday
"Your cities shall burn!" he said in a fake, beautiful English accent as he pressed the keys, held the mouse and directed his skills at his enemies. "Swift as an arrow," his character cried. He's on a killing spree now and he's on fire. He always is. I hated him for it.
"I could finish that in less than an hour," he said in that disgusting tone of his I hated so much, when he noticed that I did not care less if he wins the game or not. I looked over the book I was reading and raised an eyebrow, rolled my eyes and read on; although the annoyance I was feeling was well past my level of tolerance. It wasn't a lie. He could -if he wanted to, at least.
I watched him from behind and tried to remember how he got to be this arrogant.
He's perfect and he knows it. Well enough to stand so tall, walk his confident walk and draw the most certain of movements; well enough to think that I secretly love him as much as everyone does.
Beauty is power, he discovered at an early age. He'd use his charm to try and get anything he wanted and he did. With his face he captured hearts; his wits were his reins and in the palm of his hands he held the world around him like a chariot. Life was easy -for him at the very least. His existence is magical and it enthralled everything around him, even the inanimate.
He was born a victor. He breathes life into the lifeless, hope to the desperate and defeated.
People loved him, though he never once did as much as greeted any of them. They flee from his presence, not because of fear or hate but in reverence. He was right -too right that people cannot stand it, so they flee in pity and repugnance on themselves.
I was once thankful to have been born without siblings. The lack once brought security, for I thought the loss would thwart degrading comparisons since there was none to compare my insufficiencies with. To my disbelief, a child was conceived from the womb of my mother's best friend on the same day as I was; and while I was born during a storm, amidst chaos, he was born from the marriage of lightning and rainbows.
"Your garrison has been laid waste," the game announced. He was losing; I could see his enemies devouring his barracks from the couch I sat lazily on.
"How many deaths?" I asked.
"One." He said in reply.
"And kills?" I followed.
"Twenty-three." He replied with a hint of boasting.
"Twenty-three and still losing?" I laughed. And with a loud crumbling sound, the game ended. He never quits even from a lost cause -even from the most trivial of things.
He stood and sat beside me, leaned on my shoulder and said, "It's your fault, entirely yours." I could feel him sniffing me.
"And why is that?" I asked with an apathetic voice, pretending to be busy.
"You've always watched me play."
"And?"
"Is it too much to ask for you to watch me? Why are you here anyway? Don't you have a house?" He said, pissed.
"You know why. Besides, it's the summer vacation, I don't have to be at home and pretend." I answered, slightly irritated.
"Why can't you just fix things with your father? Why do I have to be involved? You've seen him look at me. He's the one person who hates me."
"Oh, I beg to differ." I said with a smirk then he stood and restarted the game.
"Come on, it was a joke."
"Just come watch me play, would you?"
"Alright." I said, defeated. He knew I wanted to.
I sat there feeling the rush as I held onto my seat. We laughed at his foes' mistakes and cursed their luck. I forgot how much I loved it -not just the game but all the emotions that came with it. I was laughing when his smile distracted me. Then I remembered why I loved watching him play.
It has always been impolite to stare, or so adults would have me believe. Unfortunately for them, staring was a habit I cannot get rid of and probably never will, I believe; I find it rather hard to understand why people would not want to be observed. I am not one to speak, though, for I have never been on the receiving end. The birds don't mind and neither do the flowers. Beautiful things deserve to be gazed upon but humans are not blessed with the ability to preserve and capture. Even videos and photographs hold no authority to match up to real events and real emotions and so I stare in the most futile of hopes to imprison such rare occurrences, ones that I wish to hang in the walls of my limited memory.
This guy beside me, unsurprisingly, doesn't mind being stared at. At a terrifying rate, he welcomes my intense gapes like a map laid out on a floor, like a kid dancing within a ball of glass. I watched the game through the lens of his eyes, dropped my jaw as he finds the perfect moment to strike, and found confidence in the hands that moved so quickly and with such certainty.
I remember holding those hands once. We were fifteen. I have no idea why I was there, or how I even got there. All I remember was the space I had to cross and from the fear I could still feel now, I could tell it was a highway. I gazed upon the chaos and must have looked terrified. I may have even been shaking -enough to make him think that it was fine to touch me.
I felt a warm hand take mine.
It was warm and sure and strong. It felt nice to be seen, to be touched. My heart pounded so fast that I forgot that we could've died then. That's when I started thinking that feeling couldn't be all that bad.
"How's that girl you've been crushing on for some time now doing?" He asked, probably feeling my eyes on his hands.
"Perfect. She's perfect. And busy. Busy ignoring me, that is. I'm tired, Jer, she doesn't see me. No one ever does." I said as I leaned upon his shoulder.
"Why don't you try falling for me then?" He asked after he had his character invade his opponents' quarters and died -on purpose.
