The Inventor of The Game
Life is useless. Living it hurts. I don’t want to live. I never did, but I can’t bring myself up to do anything to change that.
I am sat here at dinner, not talking, as usual. I’m basically dead inside. I have no emotions, no feelings. I feel nothing. I don’t show affection. I don’t get lonely. I NEVER am happy. Ha! Like that’s possible. Happy isn’t a word to me. Love isn’t either, because if there was love I wouldn’t be sitting here at this dinner table. I wouldn’t be surrounded by a bunch of oblivious people. I wouldn’t be sitting next to… The Enemy.
Carson was telling a story. A story that I wasn’t paying much attention to. I don’t listen, I observe. I don’t join conversations, I watch them.
You would think that people would think I’m a freak and not want to hang out with me, and that guys would ignore me, but it’s the total opposite. HE tells me that my whole act makes me mysterious; my whole not talking and observing. HE says and does a lot of things. His sayings are annoying. His doings are hurtful.
I felt a hand go up my thigh, but like always, I ignore it. It kept getting higher and higher, but I do nothing to stop it. What could I do? Slap it off, then moments later for it to be right back on my thigh again.
There’s no way of beating the inventor of the game. He made it, he’s good at it, so he wins… Every. Single. Time.