Another time, another place.
I’m staring around my blue painted room in panicked desperation. The computer, tabs flicking between Word and AltaVista’s ‘asian blowjob’ search results. A gothic poster that I hoped would look cool if a girl ever came here. Books from my recent childhood. My family unheard, in bed, perhaps asleep. It’s late. I’ve been drinking coffee. My heart races unevenly.
Do they know?
I can’t focus because of the gloomy pit of despair that twists like a cruel, bloated worm from my throat to my bowels. It’s there most of the time. Been there for years, growing and squirming inside me. I wake up to it and fall asleep with it. I’m sometimes amazed that I’m still alive. How can I feel like this, for so long, and yet move and breathe like a normal person? The feeling is so physically and emotionally painful that I’m sure it must eventually give me cancer or a heart attack. Sometimes I hope that it does. I am twenty but I feel like an old man looking back at my insubstantial life with regret.
I have few friends. The ones I have are getting sick of me and are trying to fade away but I persist, turning up at parties to which I have not been invited, ignoring their embarrassed confusion, talking hopelessly to girls even I find unattractive. I have no girlfriend. I have no achievements to my name. I stare at the ceiling, thinking again of my parents who have their own problems.
Do they know?
I roll over, flick again to the back pages of the local paper. Advertisements for brothels. There’s one not so far away, in an industrial area. But, do I dare? Read More
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