Short stories!

The Emotion

I have a best friend, I swear I do. His name is sadness!

When I was born, I never cried unless I was hurt. When I turned one, I was disinterested in the toys given to me (most people thought I hated them (as a person) but I just didn't care about the toys). When I turned three, everything bored me; yet I wasn't bored, I was three. Three, there... What's the difference? They both have the same letters and paint my existence at that time. That was all I felt, just there; a small three years old kid who was just there going through life. I'd wake up, I'd get dressed, I'd go through the day, do as I'm told. There was nothing that truly interested me but also nothing that bored me enough to gouge my eyes out.

I existed and that's about it.

The flowers growing through concrete didn't make me grin, nor did it provide any form of inspiration as so many claims it does. The "long therapeutic walks in the rain" never meant anything to me. Sure, I tried it. Didn't make me feel anything; but why would it? Nothing else has. I spend hours online trying to find something of interest, but that never works either. I blew through most of my life on that (A.K.A. my life was wasted).

In school, I was described as dull, boring, weird, empty. Sometimes I was called a sociopath or psychopath, but there's hardly a difference and if you want to get really technical, the symptoms aren't me. They were right, you know... about being boring, weird, and empty; but not about me being a psychopath (I hope).

In school, I always took the classes that seemed most interesting. Physics, psychology, anatomy, history. There was no point; studying was just a way to pass the time. They didn't spark a wildfire of passion, they were just a class I went through in high school and now I'm here.

You might ask where exactly, but where doesn't matter. I sit on the street with a basket that says "unwanted emotions" It's written plainly, neatly, there's nothing to catch someone's eye whos passing; in fact, half of the time, people can't even read it because it's written so small. Not like I care either.

Again, don't get the wrong idea. I'm not homeless, jobless, depressed, or suicidal. I'm not bored with life either, I'm just... Disinterested. There's that word again. Disinterested. I've said it many times because it's the only word that I know can even start to describe how I feel. But the flaw in that sentence is that disinterested provides the idea that I can be interested in something and that I feel at all, I guess I'm more indifferent or impartial but you get the point. Of course, I do feel, I receive sensory input just like everyone else. But emotions. That's what I mean by feel, I don't feel emotions.

Now that's when you might call me a psychopath, but I'm not. At least, I think I'm not. I'm sure there's nothing I can say to change your mind and I'm not going to try because I don't care or want to. I don't care what you think and I can't control it either so what's the point.

There's no good way to describe how I feel, but as a writer, I should be able to, but I can't. I feel nothing, I've never known what it's like to feel emotion, I'm just empty. And that goes for neurotransmitters like dopamine, serotonin, acetylcholine, etc. I just don't feel. Not like I care though, or can, for that matter.

I sit at Cherry Rd. and May Blvd, a small neighbourhood where no one entirely important lives. It's full of run down homes and children who definitely aren't fed enough or know how to read books with a 12 size font and more than 300 words. I sit there every weekend watching people pass, sometimes people will ask what I'm doing or if I need help. As happy as it makes me that there are people in the world that care and would be willing to help someone, I can't say I care. Again, I don't feel. Also again, I'm not depressed. And I'm not in denial. I'm just here.