Genuines

Prolouge

            Everyone has their quirks- or at least thinks they do. The human desire to be unique is such a universal idea. The media practically drowns us in it. Everyone thinks they're special, or different, or fucking one of a kind or some shit. I guess I can't blame anyone for wanting that. Even I, once upon a time, craved the need to be different, like a plant wasting away its life trying to reach the sun. Maybe I'm being too harsh, it's not their fault that they're too stupid to realize their naivety. Everyone may think they're special, but in the real world, being special gets you killed. We hide behind our averageness, baring mundanity like a sword. To ourselves we appear unique, trapped in our one-of-a-kind minds. But to everyone else? We're as 'mary sue' as we can possibly be.

        The education system may be severely flawed, but the one thing it actually manages to teach us is how to conform. We fall in line like dolls in a factory, painting on faces. To everyone else we're perfect, pristine, polished people. For most people, that's all they'll ever be, dull solid porcelain. Thinking to themselves that they secretly aren't like the million other carbon copies.

        For the lucky few of us, however, we actually are different. Please note I say lucky with all the seething sarcasm this tiny world could possibly hold. Because dolls with chips, or cracks, or painting malformations may be different- but they're nothing compared to me.

          I am a Russian doll. Carrying a million things within me. Secrets about my past, tragedies and traumas, hopes for my future. However, nestled at the very center of my being, at my core there's something dangerous, something with a mind of its own. And when it decided to reveal itself, it tore away all of the other dolls with it. Ripping through each layer of my being as if it were nothing more than mere plastic.

        I can't help it I suppose.

        Some boys were just made to watch the world burn