self-destructive empathy ; setosolace

4

I woke up very early the next morning to the chime of my stupid alarm clock that I haven't used ever since junior year of high school. It's this digital clock that has been smashed, wrecked, and broken due to my pubescent fist smashing against it all the time. There are cracks on its face and top, and the buttons are pretty non-functional at this point (only if you jam it at a certain angle it'll work). I still kept it at my nightstand because it brings back decently good memories of my youth.

I never intended on using this alarm clock today, but considering I don't know where I put my phone, it's better than nothing. I'm stuck with using my old flip phone that I used when I was around eleven until I can actually find where I put it. Since I don't have my number memorized, I can't simply ring it.

I do my usual morning routine (taking a shower, changing, etc.) and head to the kitchen for breakfast. I exploded my ramen noodles in the microwave last night and until now there were still hints of artificial chicken flavoring. Ty's sitting at the table, a grilled cheese sandwich in one hand and Lord of the Flies in the other. At least he's reading the actual book.

"You're awake early," he points out as I walk past him.

"Um, yeah," I nod my head nonchalantly. "I'm heading to get your book."

"The library doesn't open until nine thirty."

"I have stuff to do."

Ty rolls his eyes as if he doesn't believe me, "Yeah, right. Do you even remember the book title?"

"Something with Rye..." I mumble under my breath. "Is it The Hunter in the Rye?"

I've never seen someone's face scrunch up so quickly. It looked as if he had swallowed a peeled lemon whole, or maybe choked on one of those sour candies. Whatever the expression, it definitely showcased how offended he was.

"It's The Catcher in the Rye," he corrects.

"Hunter, catcher, it's literally all the same," I exasperate. I reach for the box of Cheerios then proceed to pour some into a bowl. I then head for the fridge to get some milk. Thank god it wasn't expired this time.

"What about the author?" He pesters.

I don't bat an eye as I set my overflowing bowl of milk and cereal down onto the table, "J.K. Rowling?"

"J.D. Salinger."

"Whatever, they're still the same person." I set the milk back into the fridge, grab a silver spoon, then sit down to eat.

"J.K. Rowling is the author of Harry Potter!"

"Ty, I'm no English Major but I'm pretty sure Percy Jackson wrote Harry Potter."

"Are you just fucking with me right now? Percy Jackson is not even a real person! If you actually read some books, maybe that brain of yours will actually remember things."

I've personally was never the big reader in my lifetime. There's just something that is discomforting about a bunch of jumbled words on a single page. Sure, literature can seem like an "art style" with authors carefully perfecting their craft, but there are no fun colors in books. They're just boring pieces of black and white paper. Reading makes my head hurt; there's just too much to process.

If I had the choice, I'd rather be a character in a painting rather than a character in a book. Paintings are visually appealing and can express emotion and thoughts all without the usage of words. Everyone can see and understand a painting in the same fashion. Books, however, have to try to convey that to the reader. The author has to clearly state what the character is in order for their readers to understand what the author means. Interpretation is a funny thing.