Euthanasia (Kellic)

7: The Library

Who'd Write A Book About A Fucked Up Guy Like Me?

I never liked reading. Even as a young child I just couldn't get into a single book. I heard how people immersed themselves into stories and couldn't put books down for hours; I liked the idea of that, hours away from the harshness of reality with your head in a place elsewhere. To be honest, it sounded like a safer alternative to hallucinogenic drugs; something I'd been more than curious about, but of course, far too scared to try. I was just a pussy like that - it made sure I did do something too conventionally reckless, so I guess it had its pros, which certainly helped my sanity shield myself against the constant insults that people took such sickly, sadistic pleasure in hurling at me on a daily basis.

However, no matter how hard I tried to bury myself between the inked pages, the words didn't nothing more than turn into a confusing blur around me, and then I decided that I should be focusing on burying myself six feet under, rather than in some bullshit fantasy world. I certainly had the brightest of futures, which goes, of course, without saying.

I could never quite connect with the characters. Fantasy, mystery, romance, drama, sci-fi - it didn't matter what genre; there was forever a voice in the back of my head reminding me that none of this was real and that the books were lying to me. I couldn't even argue against it, because I knew far too well that there are no dragons, no Narnia, no USS enterprise, no Middle Earth, no Hogwarts, no Panem and thankfully no sparkly vampires that took a certain paedophilic pleasure in watching me sleep. I could find comfort in the latter one at the very least: Edward Cullen would get massacred in my world, and that was something I couldn't help but smirk furiously at.

I think I just wanted to read something that took me away, yet something I could relate to, something that meant more than just being the fabrics of a pretend universe. Of course, there was nothing that fit my criteria, because think about it; who'd want to write a book about a fucked up guy like me? Who want to write about the suicide plots, the blades, the hate for swimming, Vic Fuentes and the hell that is school? No one. No one would want to write about me, because no one would want to read about me. No one cares - at least I've finally managed to drill that into my stupid skull.

Yet, despite my lack of enthusiasm for books and reading in general, I'd found myself conned by Vic Fuentes into helping the school library throughout my P.E. periods. I guess it could've been worse and sorting books in alphabetical order and scanning books hesitantly handed over to me by nerdy eleven year olds was certainly preferable to being pushed into a pit of liquid chlorine and guys that hated my guts by my favourite teacher. Note the sarcasm there. Sarcasm is important, mainly because incompetent assholes are generally rather ignorant towards it, which of course sets it up as my preferred method of annihilation.

Vic had of course insisted upon supervising me in the library, which of course had both its pros and cons: I hadn't a fucking clue how to work half the shit in here and having some help was more than appreciated; I was just as intimidated by the aforementioned nerdy eleven years olds as they seemed to be of me and therefore Vic had to act as some sort of mediator between us; I got out of exercise and basically hell; I hated reading and by wearing this stupid badge it was just generally assumed that I'd know what to recommend as reading material, which for your information, I did not know the difference between Divergent and The Mortal Instruments - thank you passionate fourteen year old fan girl, I shall use that information wisely; finally there was of course the fact that I hated being in a room with Vic for an hour, talking to Vic for an hour, working with Vic for an hour - three times a week, civilly. This seemed equally as torturous at as sitting in a room with Mr Chins for any time longer than a millisecond; as you probably might have noticed by now, I hated that fucking guy.

And to put it lightly, well; this was not looking good for me. I should be used to it by now, because in the subject of things looking good, or being in my favour, there were minimal matches. And that was hardly something to be proud of.