This is Not a Love Story

1

Stockholm's Syndrome; a psychological response to abuse by the hands of one's captor that may develop over a time of repeated unwanted acts of violence. 

Do you have Stockholm's Syndrome? Do you feel a connection with a crazy fucking psycho to the point where reality is so distorted that you yourself don't believe you are real? I'm watching myself outside of my own body, tempted by the realization of my own condemning thoughts. I know I'm stupid but I indulge. Conscious of my own actions, knowing fully well the consequences of what I partake in. How can I, a man of barely anything, fall in love with someone who hurt me so deeply? Is this real? How can it not be real? My own depiction of what is real is so far gone I may as well kill myself.

The unavoidable event occurred one year ago. From what I recall, the weather was decent. The snow was beginning to melt away into the sewers and the grass was starting to sprout weeds once again. The chill in the air was bearable and the need for thick, long, winter coats was no longer an obligation. The trees were naked but were beginning to dress themselves with leaves again and the cement sidewalks were back in plain view.

College.

I hated college. As lovely as the courtyard was, it never sufficed my need for purpose. Studying for a degree that would lead me into a mundane nine of five job with a little less than a seventy thousand dollar yearly pay. I would work away my life into the ground with maybe a few kids along the way. All the while trying to keep afloat in a world where money is the bases of all living. We don't choose to be born onto this floating rock called Earth and yet we're all struggling to pay for the living we didn't chose. How pathetic. Society, that is.

I was studying for a bachelors degree in marketing. With half decent grades in high school, I was able to glide through the admissions process. I did enjoy high school, it had its ups and downs but any high school experience does, I guess. It was in fact my math teacher who told me I had a real nag for marketing. It started with a project in which we had to accurately display a solution to the class and solve it in the best way we could. I was good at math, but not selling my technique. Or so I thought. I got a B minus on that project. Either way, it propelled me into the wonderful world of colourful charts and graphs that mean nothing.

Foundations of Marketing, Introduction to Business Analytics, Introduction to Business Skills, Principles of Macroeconomics, and Principles of Microeconomics. These are the classes you take in your first year of studying marketing; and I hated them all. Numerous speeches of nothing but how to manipulate naive consumers into buying things they know deep down that they don't need. What a fulfilling way to spend the rest of my days.

Since the dawn of man, we wake up. Everyone wakes up. Most commonly, in the morning. I, on the other hand, had the lucky opportunity of having insomnia bestowed upon me.

Insomnia; a sleep disorder which prevents one to fall asleep which may result in a constant state of tiredness.

I was granted long term insomnia. Stemming from the ripe age of sixteen, I lost my ability to peaceful drift away into dreamland. I think the restless nights of stress due to exams and girlfriends caused it and the only coping mechanisms I had at the time was masturbation.

I remember dining at this new Vietnamese restaurant that opened up down the street from my dorm. My dorm mate and I went to check it out in an attempt to actually enjoy living. They were cheap, and we were broke.

"This Cau Lau tastes great for being only two dollars." Matt stated informatively, "This could really be the place for people to go and who make less than what is actually minimum wage."

"You're right. Money adds up though. We're still paying for something that should technically be free." I replied. This is the kind of conversations Matt and I enjoyed. We hated society and everything it put us through despite how privileged we were to even be sitting in that restaurant.

"I agree. Do you think if we went up to the waitress there and requested we don't pay, she'll let us off the hook?"

"Fuck no."

We shared a few laughs and called it a night, making it known to absolutely no one that we just blew a mere seven dollars and twenty six cents on drinks and food. We both worked part-time jobs at the local gym near the university we went to. We were both towel boys who had to supply towels to the locker rooms. If I received a nickel for every naked child and parent I witness in those locker rooms, I would have made more money than I was actually being paid.

Studying was always a daily routine. While Matt went out to spend time with his friends to blow off his engineering degree, I worked diligently on my marketing research. I studied mostly because I couldn't sleep. I had to waste away the time I had left in my youth on something so what better than a pointless degree in something I utterly hated? That was my life. Oh, and a hint of insomnia. I grew a deep loathing relationship with myself. I loathed the fact that I hated myself. I loathed the fact that I hated my job. I loathed the fact that I spent most of my nights wide awake. I loathed how isolated I felt when I wasn't isolated at all. I even loathed myself for not joining Matt in his daily partying.

I know I'm jumping a lot here but when you're stuck in a basement with nothing but think before you meet your unavoidable doom, your brain functions in a way not many will understand. I haven't slept in four days so cut me some slack.

Matt and I were dining at the same Vietnamese restaurant as before. We invited a few more people this time since we were all tired from classes. I very much enjoyed the company of others. It distracted me from what goes on in the real world. Things I didn't see. Things I didn't want to see. With the metaphorical clock running out and the bags under my eyes growing heavier, being with others made me forget all of it.

Midori and Celine were with me and Matt that day. We shared a few cheap drinks and a round of appetizers. While slightly tipsy, Midori waved over a waiter. This waiter had only started at the restaurant two days ago. I'll admit, he was definitely attractive. He was the kind of attractive that would talk you into throwing yourself over a sky-scrapper in order to meet God at death. While looks seemed to be everything for him, he was rather shy and awkward.

"What can I do for you guys?" He said in a low voice while flashing Midori a bright but awkward smile.

"You can start by giving me your number!" Midori yelled, throwing herself over Celine to reach him.

"Aha- I better get back to work, sorry guys." And with that, he vanished into the crowd of other drunk college kids.

"Nooooo~" Midori yelled again as she watched him drown in the abyss of people.

"I think it's time we call it a night. We have classes tomorrow." I said as I took the last swig of my beer.

Matt, Celine, and I helped carry Midori out of the restaurant after paying and giving the handsome waiter a rather generous tip. Midori and Celine's dorm was three blocks down from ours which was longer than I was willing to walk for a friend.

"Hey, Sam! Me and Celine will take her home if you want. You look beat to shit." Matt was always good at reading expressions.

"Ah, thanks."

I headed back to dorm and threw myself over the fitted sheets of my bed. I wasn't wrong in ditching them but I did feel bad. Given the situation I am in now, I should have just helped them. I should have cherished every moment I could with them before I was kidnapped. But it's too late for that now.

Every man carries regret in his life. I never believe those who say, "I have no regrets in life." How is that possible? If you were in my situation, you wouldn't be saying that. I carry more regrets than a man who would run over his own child with his massive truck on accident would. I am a man guided by regrets as I feel the need for purpose. Without purpose, who am I? I am nothing to this world if I do not fit into society.  But even as I lay on this cold concrete with a rolled towel shoved into my mouth, I miss the feeling of having purpose. Despite deep down within myself I knew I had no purpose, it still felt nice to be doing something with my life. Being a functional member of society may mean nothing to others, but for me, it meant everything. I'm not sure if I was heavily conditioned into this thinking, but even so, my life depended on that thinking.

Purpose; the reason to do or which something is done, created, to exists, an intention of one's will power.

Author's Note; based on the amount of attention this book receives, I will continue writing.