Last time

He was getting sick of it. All of it. He was sick of pretending. All he ever did was pretend. He wasn’t the only one either. All the people he knew around him couldn’t help but pretend they cared about him. He knew better though.

Not one of them cared one bit. The only thing they cared about was making him better so they could use him. They wanted him for themselves. But he was so sick of being used and dumped. He just wanted someone who actually cared. Was there anyone? Impossible, he told himself. Always an ulterior motive. Nobody card about anyone except themselves. Except him. What do I care about, he asked himself.

Nothing. Nothing at all. He didn’t know what he wanted, or needed, or anything. He could hardly eat or sleep or drink. He was lonely, but he didn’t want anyone else around. Sick of the tension and the anxiety. Nothing left at all. He didn’t know how to make anything work. All the lying bastards around him said that he had so much talent and promise and to not give up. That it would pass. He was done waiting but he didn’t know what else to do. He felt so trapped.

Is this the end of the line, or was there ever a line at all. Had he just been wandering his whole life, thinking he was going the right way, doing the right thing. He didn’t want to do the right thing anymore, but he didn’t get joy from living for himself either. He was the only person like himself. All alone in the world. He felt trapped inside his chest. He didn’t understand why he always kept trying. 6 billion other people on the face of the earth at the same time as him, yet not one of them cared about him or understood him. He wanted to be free. He didn’t even know what free was, but it must be out there somewhere. This couldn’t be the only thing there was. Couldn’t be how it was supposed to be.

There was one escape. But he couldn’t. What if there was nothing past the dark veil of death? He couldn’t waste his one chance. He couldn’t do anything but wait. So he would.