“I’m afraid I can’t explain myself, you see, because I’m not myself, you know…”
As I laid there sprawled across my bed, I was arguing with myself on whether or not waking up to face another day was worth the effort, despite the fact that I was already wide awake. I weighed the pro's against the con's, but nothing seemed to be worth getting up for. These inner battles have now become part of my daily routine; I had been facing this for a long time by this point, but I am still scared that this feeling is all I will know not long from now.
I get up off my bed every morning with the feeling of an iron ball tied around my ankle. I do not want to move, but at the same time I realize there is nothing more for me in my room than there is out in the real world. I lose either way. I pick my clothes at random, not really caring about color coordination or presentation. Getting dressed is just another instance to let my mind wander in disparity of what the day has in store for me. Even though I felt anxiety about the day, I did not seem to care what might happen to me, and I always expected the worst.
I had just finished high school two days ago, and I did not give a damn about anyone who I had "left behind"; I didn't have anyone to separate from in the first place. I had shed tears at the end of my graduation day, but they were not tears of joy that I had graduated. They were not even tears of sadness for leaving anything behind. They were tears of fear for the unknown, and not having a clue for what the real world held for me.
I lost my feelings of hope for betterment long ago, and had no room in my heart for anything or anyone; or so it seemed. I mainly spend my days now just lazing about, and doing nothing productive. I feel as though nothing is worth doing anymore. It is the sad story of man taking one step forward just to be pushed two steps back.
I was a lonely kid living in Toronto. I was adopted from birth, but after I had found out I was the child of nobody - on my 16th birthday, no less - I felt betrayed. Not just by my adoptive parents, but the whole world altogether. I could not handle the thought of being with anyone when I really belonged to no one at all. I could not trust anyone either. I was lied to for the first sixteen years of my life about who I was and where I came from. I had received the "gift" from the two people I thought were my parents . It was my birth certificate. I went through sixteen full years living as another person under a fake name and I was none the wiser. I was renamed to Scott Monaghan at the time of adoption. They thought that being hidden from the death of my parents would help me out in life. They thought that a secret like this would fly under the radar when they revealed their "big surprise". I had learned my real name.
My name is Mitchell Davyson.
Days go by like months now. Every waking hour feels slowed to a crawl, and I cannot make the time pass any faster. I keep feeling a terrible realization that this is what my life has come to. I do not feel compassion for anything or anyone, but it hurts knowing that there are still people in the world who care for me. I feel guilt from it. Why am I so damn special that I deserve this sentiment?
I live with a sort of paradoxical mentality. I do not feel grateful to be alive, or like I want to for that matter; but, as it so happens, I fear death with every fibre of my being. I cannot picture what things would be like if I wasn’t living any life at all.
My day started off with a walk down to the espresso bar across the street from my apartment building. I am a regular there by this point, and they all know my name and what I like. Asking them for the usual would be hastily greeted with two toasted and sliced english muffins with a fried egg and Kraft Single in between each of them. They would also give me a freshly brewed cup of coffee at no expense; a way of repaying me for setting up their WiFi and not charging anything. It was a quaint little eatery, but it was a convienient location, and I couldn't get around the fact that it was reasonably priced yet delicious fare.
Every time I walk in and sit down at the bar, I am pestered by at least one of the employees playing therapist. He or she is telling me constantly that they're there if I need to talk, that I can always go to them, they know what depression feels like, or that I need to seek professional help. The have a bad habit of venturing into thoughts they don't understand. They just make my world seem more bleak and make me feel more isolated. However, despite my feelings about them, they do seem genuinely concerned.
|Anton Yelchin||as Mitchell Davyson|