Pavilion of Identities: The Presentation Stage

- This is a work of fiction -

"PhD students these days, they only know how to participate in extra-curricular activities, be a part of those shitty societies, those dumb poetry clubs that the undergraduates joined, and they had the galls to invite me to skip two days of research to holiday in some damn beach!

This is very unlike me; I did my research fifteen hours a day, published five papers and excelled in five modules during my first year alone. My friends were staying up late celebrating some birthday. Who the fuck has time for that? They were not doing it right! They were not true PhD students! This is what I call the culture of students these days.

Hysteresis can be defined using one word: lag. A lag in reacting to a stimulus. A delay in response. It's like if someone presses their finger onto my eyeball, and I feel the intensively painful press. But when they stop pressing, it takes me two seconds to realize that my eyeball is no longer being pressed. That is hysteresis.

But in the end, my eyeball would have bled, no? Actually, it's bleeding right now. And I can't fucking see using my right eye. My demonstration of hysteresis to you has costed me half my sight. 

But I do not have any right to complain, for I pride myself in the lengths I would go to achieve greatness. To be honest, I'm not that great. I just do my best, like everybody else in the world. 

But to fucking sacrifice half my sight just to illustrate a stupid example to you, that is some next level shit right there. But I want you to learn. I want you to understand what I do. 

I have written a paper on hysteresis.

To be precise, corneal hysteresis, or the cornea's lag in response to external stimuli and changes in environment. It's a concept that is so vague, so misunderstood, so... intriguing. Think about it; don't we all experience hysteresis every day? We are slow to respond to changes. We see an assignment going to shit and procrastinate for twenty-one days. And what do we do a day before the deadline? Chugging thirty Red-Bulls while bullshitting all ten-thousand words of the assignment!

Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not part of this "we". I'm different; different from all you shits in the audience! I respond quickly, effectively, and greatly. A task assigned to me will be instantaneously responded with a high-quality completion the very next day. This is so that I can spend the next twenty-one days improving on my already perfect assignment!

But that's all gone to shit! I'm half-blind now, and I need two eyes to produce great work. Who's to blame now, huh? It's not that I don't want to be great, it's because of you shits in the audience who blinded me, who actively tried to stop me from surpassing you, so that you shits can celebrate some birthday, so that you shits can holiday in some damn beach, without worrying about me stepping on your sorry heads!

It's your fault. If you knew what hysteresis was in the first place, I wouldn't have to instantaneously respond to your confused expressions with a live demonstration of corneal hysteresis! A demonstration that costed me half my sight, my life, my future, and the happiness of everyone who love me.

Just kidding, shitheads. I was gonna go blind anyways. The intraocular pressure in my eye has reached an astonishing high level, and I was at a severe risk of contacting glaucoma, which would've rendered me blind anyways.

But my eye still hurts from that demonstration.

Hey, I'm not complaining. I'm just stating facts.

The fact that my paper has been published before you shitheads.

The fact that I blinded myself in front of you shitheads.

The fact that I made you shitheads feel guilty for five minutes.

The fact that...

all I want

is for someone to stay up late

and celebrate my birthday..."

Pavilion of Identities: Aisle of Hatred

- This is a work of fiction -

A lonely group of people embraced the quietness of the pavilion. Shivering from their own shadows. They walked down the aisle of hatred and they tried to love others. They told me that they needed me to help them feel love again.

A truth from the worldwide culture of alcohol and sex and drugs and doing absolutely nothing. A norm, yet we accepted and lived through it. A norm, yet aren't we but normal people?

But they still sought my help. They wanted me to prove them wrong; that they could love and be loved. Having lost all sense of direction, they were in a bleak state of utter despair. They anticipate nothing, not even their state of living. 

But they wanted me to give them a reason to be missed. They wanted to end their lives, yet they wanted their legacy to remain. A corrupted sense of pride, I thought. But what if I used to be them? Have I ever considered how human it is to feel loneliness and having thoughts of giving up?

Do they understand the truth? Do I understand them?

I used to be them. I used to be me. That was the me that I hated, but that was the same me that defined the present me. Until they're gone, I would have never known of their importance in my life.

I step forward and peeked over the bridge. An endless abyss, all leading back to the same pavilion. The same dark pavilion. The same dark place I never wanted to be in again. Yet, I learned the way out, but not how to figure a way out.

We're learning something every day, aren't we?

But we all dream and we all wake. It's a cycle of life, between cold hard reality and the comfort of a personal fantasy. Yet, if this fantasy looms over you like a dark cloud of your very own shadow, it would be better not to dream at all. Reality ain't that bad.

Or so we thought.

But which is worse, to live in a dream or to dream to live?

We're just so damn tired from it all.

And I used to think that I'm different. I thought I was unique, deserving of all the friendships and love and praise. I thought I have escalated past the pedestal of being human.

But I'm them and we're we.

We stare at the aisle of hatred from an isle afar. We swim closer. Those great white jaws and those electrifying jelly stings. We risk it all. We are almost there. 

Why are we swimming towards an aisle, much less an aisle of hatred, if the isle is connected to all the world's lands and seas through the very same blue that is leading us to the aisle of hatred?

A cramped aisle, dirty yet comforting, for we feel protected, by all the rubbish around us, from all the rubbish around us.

As we walk down the aisle, what can we possibly witness, other than the cries of our own shivering shadows?

Galactic Wind Tunnel

Written as part of the Malaysian Poetry Writing Month.

They walked me through the laboratory
filled with some very oblong
very expensive equipment
a wind tunnel, in fact
and they left me alone in the laboratory
for I was to discover the purpose of the experiment
the purpose of life
alone

Then, they threw some other poor souls into the laboratory
and we are to suddenly bond
suddenly become lifelong friends with one another
for the sake of the experiment
that is only worth a tiny bit
in the grand scheme of life
death
and everything in between

So I was to lead the poor souls to success
and thus I started my journey
to understand the purpose of this
life...?
Because... you know,
isn't life but an experiment
for us to play around with the equipment given to us
to walk through the valleys of hope and despair
and witness the results, with our very own eyes?
Or maybe
our eyes are just a simulation?

They bonded with me in this outer space
this weird galactic equipment
designed by some foreign hearts
some deserted mindset
and some simulated eyeballs
and they expect me to discover the truth to everything
using ancient equipment
but really

All I have to do is
fly far, far away from this planet
swim through the galaxies
the astronomical winds
and I will die trying to figure out
the purpose of this
never-ending wind tunnel.

Simulation of an Eyeball

Written as part of the Malaysian Poetry Writing Month.

eyeballs are staring at me

all day until the tomorrow

comes and breaks the windows to this

eternally shitty slumber

in the slums

sly smile shivers 'so sorry'

why do we seek to fulfill the plight

of the other good people

when the truly bad are confined

in the hearts of the brightest

b'light

stop being so negative about the world

but sometimes the voices misspoke

and the images are vivid

eyeing faces on the bottles of vodka

putting a halt to the dizzying party

and all the dumbstruck

flashing lights and humans

fleshing out the impunity

when we raise our water guns and aim

at one another, but sorrily

yet unapologetically murder the

worldly desires of one another

but this is all just a simulation

and they lambaste the culture

of loving one another

in exchange for sucking the eye-dicks

of those unsexy books

and those unappealingly stupid

dog politicians

the eyeballs were just a simulation

made with this senile program

and eye see these eyeballs every day

but seeing the humaner eyeballs

is not an everyday occurrence

in this brilliant month of

may

The Human Nature

Simply put
I dreamed of a world where no one will die
walking down the streets with smiles on their faces
not needing to hide their imaginary sorrows
never wanting to mask themselves from the truth
that they love each other

But also simply put
I thought of this dream as a dream
and dreams are but an escape from reality
but what if
someday I live in
a world where people could never lie
and will look at each other in the eyes
and say, with all their hearts
my brother, my sister
my love for you cannot be expressed
even with the dreamiest words
even with the sweetest soul

Yet a sickly person would have spoken
soft
yet strong words
about the ways and the truths of life
death
and everything in between
for this world would never have survived
the onslaught of a thousand fallacies
hammering down the truest desires of this
bloodied, battered world

Simply put
we could have just looked away from the
dying lands of this world
couldn't we?

HAPPY

- This is a work of fiction -

Hallucinatory Arm Pretense ParalYsis (HAPPY) is a medical condition whereby an individual experiences varying degrees of hallucinations, in addition to partial or complete lost of arm control, with the possibility of the arm moving reflexively, due to extended periods of self-inflicted conflicts between reality and fantasy. In simpler terms, an individual who fakes his/her emotions will have a small risk of being diagnosed with HAPPY, with this risk exponentially increasing with continuous self-infliction of fake emotions.

HAPPY is a relatively new medical condition, with its causes, symptoms, and treatment not fully understood; this is made worse by the fact that many leading medical experts outright refuse to believe in the existence of the condition. These experts generally claim that the condition is simply a scare tactic used to frighten individuals out of embracing fake emotions, or for a better term, pretense.

A number of renowned philosophers, however, have continuously advocated the existence of HAPPY, due to its simple and effective nature in minimizing pretense in a society that is booming with selfishness, indifference, and greed.

These renowned philosophers are now begging on the streets.

Yet, Richard is a teenage boy who was diagnosed with HAPPY. This is his story.

Richard has learned to fake his emotions ever since his father started abusing him when he was three. Outside the "comfort" of his home, Richard and his family seemed to be perfect, full of smiles and generosity and eagerness to lend a helping hand. At home, Richard was beaten, burned with cigarette butts, cut with knives, called "retarded", "crippled", and was raped by his father on a nightly basis.

At age twelve, Richard's mother was killed by his father, and he was left alone on the streets. An elderly couple, who were a pair of philosophers that refused to believe in the existence of HAPPY, found him, adopted him, and raised him to be one of his school's friendliest people.

Richard was never without his signature laughter. He was always so eager to be there for a friend in need, and he would never fail to make them happy. On online messaging services like Facebook and WhatsApp, Richard has a habit of overusing positive emojis and "haha". In fact, he would begin most of his messages with "haha", as he believed that it would make him seem happy in the eyes of others.

Yet, the trauma of his childhood continued to haunt his dreams. There were so many nights where he started screaming and wailing; there were also days where he was one hug away from hanging himself. His adoptive parents were very supportive of him, and will do anything to keep him alive and happy.

In his teenage years, Richard had his adoptive parents convinced that he has successfully rid himself of the trauma. They were finally confident in leaving him alone at home while they went for a short walk in the park, just the two of them. It was their first date in twelve years, as they never left Richard alone during those years. They were so afraid that Richard would lose control that they actually followed him to school and waited outside his classroom until his lessons were over.

So they left to the park. Richard was alone. He has been hiding it all along, the fact that his right arm can no longer be directly controlled. It seemed to move by reflex. He was just so good at pretending that his right arm was fine. Once, Richard right arm reached for his adoptive father's pants. He pretended that he was just helping his adoptive father to zip his pants. His adoptive father did not suspect one bit, for he did not believe in the existence of HAPPY.

Having recognized the paralysis and reflexive actions of his right arm as a possible symptom of HAPPY, Richard decided to seek a counselor for support. He did not opt for a doctor, one due to the controversy surrounding the legitimacy of the condition, and two being his belief that the condition is psychological, not physical.

He was warmly welcomed into the male counselor's room. He sat on the sofa, with a cup of hot coffee sitting on the wooden table in front of him. The counselor is seated on a simple plastic chair to the right of the table. The counselor smiled and softly bit his own lips.

'How are you feeling, Richard?'

'Haha... It's all good, except that I think... I faked my emotions a lot... Hahaha...'

It is clear that Richard was still trying to make light of a very dire situation. The counselor questioned Richard, and Richard eventually told him about his dreadful past over the course of an hour. Noticing the haphazard motions of Richard's right arm, the counselor gradually steered the conversational topic to that of HAPPY.

Richard's eyes lit up. He was very interested.

'According to several unverified reports, there are five stages of HAPPY; the first involves losing control of one or both of your arms. Based on these reports, the very act of pretending, or faking emotions, will require so much brain power that the brain had to sacrifice the functionalities of several body parts, and in this case, the arms are usually the main targets for sacrifice. The term paralysis grossly undermines the severity of the problem, as these sacrificed arms will still move by reflex, potentially causing... problems.'

'Haha... The reason sounds a bit unbelievable, I think. But I ain't a doctor so... I don't know... Hahaha...'

'Ask anyone in the medical community and they will most likely shoot down such a ridiculous and unproven hypothesis, but, think about it, the brain has the capability to make you feel both happy and sad at the same time, as years of forced smiles and laughter made you genuinely believe that you're happy, yet you're still weeping somewhere inside.'

'It can therefore be theorized that this very act of balancing facades require tremendous brain power, which explains the symptoms of HAPPY.'

'With your brain too occupied to resume control of your arm, the spinal cord, which processes the reflexive reactions to any stimulus, will go... awry. At least, that's what I think.'

'Think of the body as the father and the arm as the son, with a sacrificed arm being equivalent to a son who no longer loves his father. The father will still have his son, but will have lost control of his son, and the father will be desperate to regain control of his son, for that is what fathers do. For your case, your body is desperate to regain control of the sacrificed arm, and thus explains the spinal cord's sad, sad attempt to regain control of your arm by heightening the sensitivities of its reflex sensors.'

Richard was pleased with the explanation. Richard wanted to seek more advice, however, the counselor noticed something peculiar.

'With your right arm effectively paralyzed, I highly doubt you can... masturbate, can you?'

Richard was appalled. It was a disgusting turn of topics. Richard no longer looked at the counselor in the eyes.

'What if... I help you masturbate?'

'Haha, that wouldn't be neces-'

The counselor was already in front of him. He unzipped Richard's jeans and stripped him off his undergarment. His right hand was already wrapped around Richard's penis.

Richard wanted to scream. Richard hated it. Yet, the daily abuse by his father when he was a child conditioned him to take pleasure in it. It was a self-defense mechanism.

Richard moaned during ejaculation. He enjoyed every single moment of it, yet tears started waterfalling down his face.

'Please stop... Haha...'

'You enjoyed it, right?'

'I do... But pleas-'

Richard's right hand reflexively moved to the area of the counselor's crotch. The hand started to rub, to unzip, to fondle, to grip, to move.

'Second stage of HAPPY is when your sacrificed arm start repeating your most often executed actions, and in your case, it seems to be...'

'I used to do this... to my... father... Haha... ha... Please don't beat me.'

Richard's right hand moved faster and faster. Richard screamed, his eyes bloodshot, yet he still continued smiling. Richard laughed and sobbed. Richard desperately tried to regain control of his right arm, yet, it was too late, for the counselor ejaculated.

'That was amazing, Richard.'

Richard ran to the door, yet his sacrificed right arm could not reach for the doorknob. He tried lifting his left arm.

'Paralyzed? Richard, We talked about this for so long, stop pretending, if you didn't like what I have just done, you could've just told me.'

'But... Haha... I-I was, I-I felt... p-p-powerless...'

'I'm just a kid... right? I should l-listen to a-adults... Haha...'

Richard, still exposing his lower half, fell to the ground. The counselor approached him.

'Third stage is where you start hallucinating, son of a whore. Who the fuck asked you to be so fuckable?'

Soon, he was on top of Richard. He stabbed his penis into Richard's bottom. He moved his hips. Richard could not resist, for both his arms are sacrificed, and his legs were quivering. He bit his own lips so hard it bled. Blood flowed down his cheek and stained his shirt. Richard could no longer perceive his environment; the only thing he noticed was the cup of coffee on the wooden table. When Richard first entered the room, it used to read 'Be happy!', then it changed to 'World's Best Dad!'

The counselor retracted his penis from Richard's bottom. The counselor's penis enlarged and elongated upwards, past his own height.

'It's your fault, Richard, for you did not resist. You could've told me to stop, but you always sat there crying, powerless, so blame no one but yourself.'

'If you need to blame someone for giving you such a tight asshole and fuckable face, blame me, for it is my sperm that produced you!'

Richard realized.

'Dad... Why are you in my... room...? Please, hahahaha... please leave me alone... please!'

'You like it, Richard, it is written all over your face. You're just prompting me to fuck you more, eh? Son of a whore, you are just like your mother, pretending to feel pain and trying to beg me to stop. Your whore of a mother dressed like a whore, and so she would've enjoyed being fucked like a whore, yet she screamed for help when I tried to fuck her!'

'Don't lie to me, you loved it all, son of a whore!'

The father stabbed his elongated penis into Richard's bottom. The tip of the penis emerged from Richard's throat.

Richard was dead.

The father pulled out the umbrella from Richard's bottom.

'They said the third stage of HAPPY is a self-defense mechanism to convince yourself that you're in a good situation although you're in a shitty one.'

'Were you really so depressed that you deluded yourself into seeing me as a counselor? Thinking that I would help you? Bullshit.'

'My verdict? Fuck off, you weakling. I did you a favor by killing you off, so fucking bless me from hell, son of a whore.'

'Here, I moved you to this chair in front of your computer screen, with a picture of a whore on it. Stare at it with your dead eyes, for you, your mother, and this picture of a whore are all the fucking same!'

And here I am.

Dead.

The fourth stage of HAPPY only kicks in once the individual is dead.

The sacrificed arms continue moving reflexively after death.

Except the arms are reflexively executing what the individual wanted to do the most before death.

And Richard... He really wanted to type this essay out.

I really wanted to.

I wanted to let society know.

I wanted to let you know.

Please, don't do this to us...

Respect us...

Is loving us normally... such a difficult thing to do?

Don't... hurt... us...

Please, haha...

i just want to be happy

fifth stage of happy is

all i did was

laugh
laugh
laugh
am i happy
dad dont beat me
dad why are you showing me your
peepee

dad i'm not crying
i'm laughing
hahaha
see

dad
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Tyrant Eliza

- This is a work of fiction -

Eliza wasn't real.

I have made that statement obvious, for I do not wish for you to believe that I am still troubled by her.

There is no need to fear me now, for the past is the past, and I have changed for the better.

But the times with Eliza were bittersweet.

It all started six years ago in high school, when I first fell in love with a girl. It was high school, and puppy lovers were everywhere; everyone had raging hormones and reveled in the short-term pleasure of masturbation. Me too, cause I have always been a very healthy person. I met this girl; a classmate, whose beauty was unrivaled. She was my destiny. I just had to kiss her.

I would've done that if we were anything more than just friends. Well, I'm actually glad that I was thrown into the friend zone, for I wouldn't have a story to tell otherwise. I was her best friend, helping her go through her tumultuous relationship with some famous dude who only wanted to fuck her. That dude was so fucking pretentious, masking his perverted face with forced smiles and spitting out cheesy jokes and trying his damnedest not to stare at her breasts.

But she liked him. Why didn't she like me? I was the nice guy. I thought girls love nice guys? 

Was I too nice?

Maybe. I started to doubt myself. I stared at my own reflection in the mirror. I reevaluated my personality, and I realized that I was a fundamentally flawed person. I had shitty social skills and zero confidence in myself, that's why I had no friends. Too bad my hormones were still there, though.

I told myself that I will change.

I stopped replying to her messages, I deliberately ignored her in class, and I refused to even think of her as a human being. Okay, the last point sounds pretty fucked up, but that's because I've superimposed her appearance, personality and soul onto this imaginary being named Eliza.

So Eliza has been following me around... not that it was a very interesting thing to do, since I literally had no social life. The most notable thing that happened during the first few days with Eliza was when she looked at me when I masturbated. She liked it. I liked it too. It felt good.

Masturbation did get boring when it became routine. I needed friends, but I was scared. But then I look into Eliza's eyes and I realized that I could never get to kiss anyone if I did not improve my social skills. Eliza has always been a reminder that my first love preferred a lustful dude who only wanted to stick his dick into her, instead of someone as kind and loving as me.

The next day, I went to class with Eliza accompanying me, the usual. Except this time, Eliza kept dragging me off my seat and pushed me into the realm of strangers. It says a lot when I called my classmates of six months 'strangers'. At first, conversations were abso-fucking-lutely awkward, with me saying hi and them saying hi. They looked at me a little weird, then they continued talking among themselves, while I just listened and zoned out. I displayed no reaction to anything; not to jokes, not to gossips, and certainly not to the ongoing rumor that my first love has just lost her virginity.

On the next day, Eliza dragged me away from my seat again.

And the next. And the next. Nothing evolved beyond 'hi' and some weird glances directed towards Eliza and me.

One day, Eliza had a serious conversation with me in my room. She told me that my lack of social confidence was precisely the reason why my first love was unrequited. She encouraged me to practice maintaining conversations with her, and be more emotionally engaged in the conversed topics. 

So we talked and talked and talked and slept together.

I overslept and missed class the next day. The following day, the classroom strangers asked me, why were you absent yesterday?

I told them I spent the previous night honing my socialization skills with Eliza. They asked me, who? And I pointed at Eliza, sitting on the chair right in front of me.

And they were like, oh so that's "Eliza".

And in my heart I was like, shit, I fucked up.

But they all laughed. They thought it was a joke. And I thought, hey, that went a lot better than expected. Eliza was laughing too. I was confident for the first time in my life.

Over the months, the strangers became my friends, and I was commonly known as the joker in the group. How did I accomplish that? It was all thanks to Eliza, who spent two hours with me every night helping me fine-tune my humor.

Of course, there were times were I would fuck up and feel so bad about it, as I thought that my friends would hate me, such as the time when I accidentally said an offensive joke and two friends went off crying and the entire atmosphere changed. But Eliza told me, true friends would not mind the occasional fuck-ups, as long as you apologize afterwards, with sincerity, of course.

So I apologized. All went well. I graduated from high school with a handful of true friends that I still keep in contact with till this very day. I even apologized to my first love about ignoring her and all that, confessing to her the reason I did so. She understood and we left on good terms.

With that, I was even more grateful to Eliza for helping me grow.

In university, I had my first relationship with this other girl. To be honest, Eliza advised me against this relationship, but I wanted to kiss someone. So we dated and we made out. I felt bad, as I believed that I did not know how to sexually satisfy her. 

She offered to teach me, but I refused, as that would be a huge blow to my confidence. I mean, Eliza was already shaking her head in disgust when she saw how I used my tongue. There was once when Eliza forcefully pulled us apart. The girl was bewildered. I apologized and came up with the excuse that I had a bad stomachache and needed to use the washroom. I ran into the cubicle and wept. Eliza patted my back. I felt so embarrassed.

That night, with pornographic videos playing in the background, I made out with Eliza in my room.

The next day, the girl actually trembled in pleasure when I made out with her. It was working. Eliza saved my life. Over the next few days, we progressed from making out, to removing clothing, to me sucking her tits, to her sucking my dick; it all went by too fast.

It was eventual.

She told me she was ready to lose her virginity to me. My confidence shook, for I always had the assumption that sex was the ultimate intimacy session between two lovers. I was scared. What if I ruined her first time by giving her some shitty sex? What if I lasted less than two minutes? What if...

You can practice on me.

I was having the most fucked up dilemma of my life, you know? Eliza wasn't real, so it technically didn't count as me having cheated on my girlfriend... right?

It was all so fucking surreal, I tell you. Me. Fucking. Eliza. How the fuck?! I know it sounds stupid but I ejaculated inside her. Her vagina was so fucking tight that it hurt so much, yet the more it hurt the more I wanted to stab it into her.

I... don't know, okay? Gosh. We fucked for seven nights in a row. She taught me all I had to know about it. She made me a beast on bed. I was confident. I felt so fucking good.

So I went and told my girlfriend that I was ready. We fucked. I lasted less than two minutes.

She said it was okay. She still loved me for that. But I was fucking embarrassed, I tell you. I no longer had any dignity. I ran out of her room and never talked with her again. Fuck my life.

Eliza was waiting for me in my room. I ran to her and embraced her and fucked her. We spent the whole day fucking. Fuck toilet breaks, and human hunger, and dehydration, all I wanted was my dignity back.

We fucked for two days straight. It was so intense that I was bleeding all over.

And I blacked out.

I woke up on this hospital bed. The nurse informed me that I was in a coma for a day. She also told me that I broke my dick. I could never fuck again. I could never fuck again.

How the fuck would you feel? You understand me, don't y-you?

The nurse said I was found in my room, with the skin and flesh of my dick scraped off, and some veins popping out and shit. Also, it seemed... crooked?

I mean, yes, my dick is useless now, but that's not the point.

She said I have been fucking a hole in a mirror.

You get my point, right? She literally denied the existence of Eliza! How the flying fuck? Eliza... she was there, the whole damn time!

Eliza taught me how to fuck! Eliza taught me how to be human! Eliza changed my life, and yet...

The nurse Eliza denied the existence of Eliza.

But but but, my girlfriend certainly wouldn't, right? She loved me unconditionally, r-right? I ran to her place and told her about Eliza. I told her everything, how I have been honing my fucking skills with Eliza so that I could properly fuck my girlfriend Eliza. My girlfriend Eliza embraced me and told me that she Eliza is willing to live with me and Eliza and we will all be happy together.

And her mother Eliza came into the room and we all fucked each other and and and

Calm down. Please, keep yourself together! What happened to that high-and-mighty opening statement about Eliza not being real and you not being troubled by her anymore?

...

... I'm sorry. I got carried away. Please don't write about that outburst in my autobiography, I don't want the readers to know about it.

I mean, I want to inspire them, not scare them away. You understand me, don't you?

Yeah, I do. You apologized with sincerity, and that's all that matters. We all want this book to sell well, don't we? People like happy endings, no matter how contrived it is. 

People need role models, and you're going to be a great one.

T-thank you. S-so, back to the story... we all fucked each other, and I ran away, and I came across this abandoned house, and I've been living here for the past two years, going out to the streets to beg for food and money once every sometime.

Actually, I lied, we didn't fuck each other. I just ran like a coward after seeing so many Eliza's.

That's the end of it?

Yes.

Thank you for your time. It will be interesting to see how the readers respond to this story. But I gotta say, you're still pretty screwed in the head, aren't you?

Y-yeah... As much as it pains me to say it, I'm perhaps at the worst stage of my life now.

I'm sorry to hear that. But your book will change lives. Let us just go through the recorded interview we just did one more time, to see if there's any discrepancies in your story.

...

Okay, let me get this straight. You have been fucking a mirror this whole time, right? To be more direct, Eliza is a mirror, right?

Precisely.

Did your classmates in high school seriously laughed when you called the mirror that you brought every single day to school, Eliza?

Actually...

They didn't, right? They shunned you even more, talked behind your backs, and were generally even more afraid of you. It didn't help that you kept apologizing to them with a mirror by your side.

Y-yeah, that's true, but how do you kno-

Anyone would've been spooked out if someone brought a mirror to school every day and call it by a human name. Truly, you're one fucked up person, you know that? Trying to charm your readers with some innocent high school story, eh? That's really smart, you know.

... Sorry.

Sincere apology. I like it. Also, you didn't even fuck your girlfriend, right? She saw your bandaged dick and ran away.

... Please don't include that in the autobiography.

Well, it's okay, it's your story after all. 

Yeah, I know. Thanks, for everything, for being here for me, for being a true friend, for being my only friend...

Thank you... Eliza, what would I do without you?

Haha, we're all pretty fucked up eh, Eliza?

---

As I look around me, in this room of mirrors Eliza's, I see them applauding my bravery, my courage, my dignity.

And I feel good. :)