Maps to You #Wattys2016

Prelude

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For Mr. D, I hope I can make you proud one day.

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I AM NOT NARCISSISTIC.

Although saying I am would probably raise any suspicions of me actually being so, I genuinely think I am not as narcissistic as I might sound right now. 

Narcissistic, egotistical people believed they were the protagonist in not only their life story, but everyone else's. These types of people always thought they were the heroes, the good guys everyone wanted to know and be. In their heads, they were right about their actions. Their conscience was inert.

I wasn't like that. But he was.

"Give that back to me!" I demanded loudly. I breathed heavily as I struggled to run at his pace.

With an almost psychotic glint in his eye, he smiled wryly, "Why should I?"

And this is when I introduce my second category of human beings: the sacrificers. Although this word is technically not found in the English dictionary—it exists in the real world. These sad, unfortunate beings have been thrown into a series of events that have led to their decisions of sacrifice and regret. This is when I raise my hand and smile sheepishly and shamefully because I, Isabella Lancaster, am a sacrificer.

He wasn't like that. But I was.

"You know why. Don't even try to point this at me. I need it," I breathlessly attempted to formulate my sentences as steadily as I could. He held the last shred of sanity I had in his hand.

"Why don't you go ahead and steal it? You're pretty good at that." His frost bite words made me pause for a second. But I resumed my demands after recovering slightly from the sting in his words.

Sacrifice does not necessarily mean I donated a kidney to someone, or gave out my bank account to an ex lover. What I sacrificed was much more abstract and real than anything I could have given someone physically.

I sacrificed my mentality and everything I believed in. I let myself go and delved into a world of inconsistencies and sin and mystery.

Mystery.

My life became one big fat enigma. One after the other came rolling in. As I dug myself a deeper grave than I intended trying to solve the puzzles and mysteries, I sacrificed my sanity.

But with every sacrifice comes good intention.

"Please." Begging was my last resort. He held the sheet of paper in his hand, crumpling the side he was aggressively grasping. In his shaking fist, he held my salvation. My getaway from everything I've gone through.

I was trapped; with every step I took, I had to make a decision that would either bite me or save me in the process. Whenever I made a wrong decision, I slipped into a hole, falling endlessly and hopelessly into a pit of failure, killing time and killing myself slowly every single time.

Narcissistic people seemed to have an immunity against self destructing mistakes. That's because they believe they could never make them. But I tried, I profusely attempted, to make him change. To make him help me.

And I fell into another never ending hole.

"You're so horrible you can't even see it," he spat, throwing the crumpling sheet on his carpeted floors. When he spoke, daggers twisted at my chest.

I lost myself while trying to keep him. And Grandpa. And everyone.

I am not narcissistic when I say I did too much good and sacrificed so much for the people around me because it is true. For once, I know I am the protagonist of this story. My conscience did do me good with every action I took, even if I took the fall sometimes. I wasn't like him. I wasn't like him.

But why do the words feel so bitter on my tongue as I say them?