- This is a work of fiction -
"You know, sometimes there's this pent-up tightness that's smothering my heart; this weird cure that can make me a better person, similar to a fantasy that rises day and night.
Inside my heart, what I used to be was something irreplaceably stupid, indescribably ignorant, but ultimately natural. What do you think? Do I not deserve any human rights? Look at me in the eyes and tell me I'm not human. I dare you."
I take two steps back. His words are sharp. Stern. Solid. I find no meaning from it, yet one glance at his bizarrely normal face is enough to understand the fact that he didn't choose this life. He was forced into it. Since birth. Since the day he spoke his first word, "Bye".
Oh man, you gotta be a mathematician to calculate the number of goodbyes he had to experience. His mom and dad. Tossed him in the trash can five hours after he came to earth. His adoptive mother. Died in a car accident. His adoptive father. Killed himself. All happened before he was eight.
He's twenty-two now. Had five adoptive parents who left his life. He lost all contact with his adoptive siblings. He had friends. Twenty-five of them in primary school. All died from a fire caused by the school principal, who was also his third adoptive father. "I wanted to watch them burn, these so-called 'friends' of my son, who tossed him around and beat him and stabbed him with pencils! Who burned him with cigarette butts! Why the fuck can't I just do something good for my son for once?!"
Middle school. He became an alcoholic. A drug addict. A sex maniac. It was middle school, so those kids looked up to him Rumors were spread about him fucking every girl in the school, by force. Rumors were also spread about him fucking every guy in the school, with consent. Truthfully, he was none of those.
He wanted people to look up to him. The bottle of vodka he brought to class every day, was just a bottle of water. The white powder he showed off in class, was just plain old baby powder. The sex part? Sure, if sex with his right hand counts.
But the rumors. The fucking rumors. They hurt. He was respected for a month. A fucking month. The remaining thirty-five months of middle school was hell.
Did he bring that upon himself? He just wanted some much needed respect. Love. Fuel for his pride. But could I blame him for wanting fame? He's a broken spirit.
"Look around you. You're standing on the Aisle of Hatred, yet people still seem to love you. Why is that so? You're just a faker, a sordid piece of shit! Trying to conform to the so-called 'norms' of this fucked up world, how thick must your skin have to be?
I'm just sitting here, begging for spare change, begging for attention, begging for someone to look at me in the eyes and tell me I'm a motherfucking human. But no! All I did was telling them my story, the origins of my scars, the reasons behind my mental collapse!"
In the last year of middle school, he was desperate to end his life. Yet, he was afraid of pain. He was afraid of the sudden darkness that accompanies life's end.
At that moment, he was living with his sixth adoptive parents. They cared for him too well. They loved him. They were the reason why he stopped himself from ending his life. He knew that if he inflicted pain onto himself, they would weep, hysterically, for years to come.
"There was one night. I couldn't resist it. I had to execute the plan. I left a farewell letter in my room. My suicide will not be symbolized through my death. That is far too plain and simple. No. What I did was walk. Walk far, far away. To a place where no one could find me. And I found this place.
The Pavilion of Identities.
But fuck it, what's the point of exhibiting myself, if no one is going to listen? Ain't my story interesting enough? Ain't I interesting enough?"
Truth is, he ain't interesting enough. His story was cliche, boring, overdone to hell. A typical sob story. To get attention. To leech onto the compassion of others.
To leech onto my compassion.
But no, the fucker talking shit about corneal hysteresis over there has more eyes looking at him. A whole bunch of brainwashed people, sucking up to him, licking his shoes, rubbing his dick.
And guess what. His research was fake. His study was fake. All he did was pretending to know everything. Taking his own sweet time doing things and blaming the difficulty of his study.
Bullshitting that his results were real.
But people look up to that. He's contributing to the world, they say. He's making a difference, they say. He's gonna fucking cure glaucoma, they say.
This poor dude here, with his boring, stupid story. At least it's real, no? His sufferings were real. His life was really affected by his real sufferings.
And that corneal hysteresis dude faked his study. He talks so much about his sufferings, his pride, his instantaneous response and his hard work. Fuck my life! How the fuck am I still here listening to his fake-ass bullshit?
Yes, he sacrificed half his vision. But he did that to make for an interesting story. People will be talking about him. How he sacrificed his vision to illustrate a stupid point. Some stupid hysteresis. And this poor dude who had six adoptive parents sacrificed his happiness. Sacrificed his human rights just because he wanted some respect. That's worth fucking more than half your eyesight.
Is life fair at all?
Why do some people suffer so much to get nothing in return, while some people suffer so little and get everything they want?
What about me?
I suffered a lot too.
But you know, I'm just living through life. Going with the flow. Waiting to see what happens.
Truth is, I'm a lost soul. I don't know where to go. I don't know what to do. I don't know what is the meaning of life.
But I guess that's why I'm here, no? The Pavilion of Identities. An open space that everyone can visit. A safe place to let out all our sorrows, to share our happiness, to make friends and to understand each other. To learn to be human.
Hey, you know what?
I honestly don't give a fuck about all that.
Really, I don't give a fuck
about all that.
I really don't.
help
And guess what. His research was fake. His study was fake. All he did was pretending to know everything. Taking his own sweet time doing things and blaming the difficulty of his study.
Bullshitting that his results were real.
But people look up to that. He's contributing to the world, they say. He's making a difference, they say. He's gonna fucking cure glaucoma, they say.
This poor dude here, with his boring, stupid story. At least it's real, no? His sufferings were real. His life was really affected by his real sufferings.
And that corneal hysteresis dude faked his study. He talks so much about his sufferings, his pride, his instantaneous response and his hard work. Fuck my life! How the fuck am I still here listening to his fake-ass bullshit?
Yes, he sacrificed half his vision. But he did that to make for an interesting story. People will be talking about him. How he sacrificed his vision to illustrate a stupid point. Some stupid hysteresis. And this poor dude who had six adoptive parents sacrificed his happiness. Sacrificed his human rights just because he wanted some respect. That's worth fucking more than half your eyesight.
Is life fair at all?
Why do some people suffer so much to get nothing in return, while some people suffer so little and get everything they want?
What about me?
I suffered a lot too.
But you know, I'm just living through life. Going with the flow. Waiting to see what happens.
Truth is, I'm a lost soul. I don't know where to go. I don't know what to do. I don't know what is the meaning of life.
But I guess that's why I'm here, no? The Pavilion of Identities. An open space that everyone can visit. A safe place to let out all our sorrows, to share our happiness, to make friends and to understand each other. To learn to be human.
Hey, you know what?
I honestly don't give a fuck about all that.
Really, I don't give a fuck
about all that.
I really don't.
help
