I will begin with the truth.

I have never been one to hold to promises – no matter how small, nor how impacting. I have known that for a long time; so it is very scarce I make any promise, no matter the circumstances. Anyone who knows at least my name has the knowledge that I am not the most characteristically sympathetic. Even with that being said, I do not believe I am cold, or uncompassionate. Quite the contrary, in point of fact – I simply do not see a need to destroy something, when it can be avoided.

I do not believe in white lies. Once those escape your mouth, it’s like you’re burrowing a hole. Like digging your own grave. I find it somewhat interesting; they call them white lies. Did they mean white as in clean or unsoiled? Or did they mean blank like a sheet of printer paper? Did they mean empty, like the eyes of a blind man, or pure, like a child playing out on their front yard? What did they mean?

White lies are intended to protect someone from the bitter truth of reality. They are used to keep you in the dark, let you get lost in fantasies and allow you to stay pleasantly happy in your unawareness.

I never said I was a comparatively happy person.

In my mind, there is not anything washed down. I will give you the facts as they are, not sugar-coated or diluted. It will hurt, but nothing in my mentality is ever painless. Nothing goes without consequence. I find it less painful as it would be after you have been across the world and back, following a goose only to come home and find out your husband has been screwing the lady next door – the one who always sends fruit signed with an x.

Not many people agree with me, and I have learned to accept that information. Many would rather blindness than the harsh, unforgivable truth. Many would prefer to be spoon-fed white lies. I have learned to acknowledge that as well. Though the majority of people and characters do prefer unawareness, I cannot bring myself to allow a watered down version to escape on my account. I give it my own go, as sterile and as swift as I can manage.

Still, there are those rare occasions where it cannot be evaded. In those situations, where I find destruction is inevitable, I try my best to make it as painless as possible. It’s a touchy endeavor, because it is not as if I intend to inflict the pain, sorrow and tragedy that comes with what is liable to happening in my life, and those who chose to be included in it.

Sometimes, I realize I might not seem to have any form of empathy.

That is understandable. When you meet someone like me, or I should say if you meet someone like me, my physical and verbal language does not hold much passion or feeling. It often puts people off, and pushes them away from me. Despite what you may be thinking over, I do not feel lonely. I am rather glad no one has to stay stuck with my bluntness and lack of emotion. I am content with what simple and scant interactions I have with others.

And with that notion, I wonder how insane I actually am.

It could be possible that my genetic code has a mutation. Perhaps I was dropped into a puddle of biohazardous chemical waste. Those could be plausible causes for my psychopathic nature. Maybe I have seen something my feeble brain could not comprehend, and a case of post-traumatic stress disorder triggered this behavior. Still, I cannot help but speculate, even now.

I have never jumped from a second story window before.

I have never really held the desire to injure myself. My indifference to a large amount of things supports that. Something is unusual about the air I’m taking. I can never put my finger on it, no matter how deeply I concentrated. The idea is concerning, because usually I only need to consider about a thought for so long before I decide where my position on it is. This took nearly all class. That span of time is much too extensive.

It was intrusive. I felt like someone was with me. Someone was watching me. At first, I convinced myself that such a feeling was ridiculous, of course at least one person had dragged their eyes over me – I was in a room crowded with rowdy teenagers. But that feeling … was different. It was drawing closer to an itch, something I need to pick at or stop.

I kept glancing at the large bay window our classroom had, where the blue sky was the fill and the clouds were the detailing. I have always marveled at the sky, the birds, and as a child I had pretended I could fly. Fly from the shelters, and the pain, away from people, and even myself – that had been my reoccurring dream for a while. For the past five years, however, I have not had many dreams at all. None have entered my mind for those five years, in reality.

I dreamt of flying with someone last night.

The simple thought was absurd. I did not need anyone, whether or not I was flying, whether or not I was dreaming. I was completely content on being alone, why would I need another person now? It puzzled me. And as the room grew in volume, the itch began to immerse me in sensation.

In the dream, I was not content, which was part of the explanation. The reason was, in the dream, I felt alive. I did not feel indifferent, or sympathetic, or even bored. I felt exhilarated, elated, and overall … happy. It did not make any sense.

I did not want it.

I promised something to Mikey.

The promise was little, something when I was younger, but I remembered it all the same. I promised to stick around. Stay in the area, be at least a small distance to him, in case something happened. Mikey was the only person I could make a promise for.

And I broke it.

"Go out smiling, smiling because you’re going out somewhere nice." The voice whispered, sweet and sinister.

I glanced back at Mikey. He looked the same as he always did. It was comforting, knowing that something stayed relatively the same. I gave him an apology. It did not fix anything, but I figured I owed him as much.

A boy stood out from the crowd. The boy who sat next to me, who watched me with these sad, sad eyes; such wide, streetlamp eyes. They were bright when no one bothered to look, they shone what lurked in the darkness; drench the black in white, bleach the filth. Steal the griminess that tainted the world, the monsters that lurked while everyone slept. A martyr’s regard.

He seemed taken aback; frightened. I felt rotten.

He did not deserve it. I’m guessing this event will end with it fucking him up. I took off my sunglasses out of common courtesy and apologized to him too.

I didn’t … expect for him to look like that. He looked like he genuinely did not want me to leave. It was as if I had much to offer, but he did not seem to care. He did not move, but he kept pleading with his puppy-dog eyes. The weight pressed against my bones, the sufferer’s scrutiny overwhelming me.

My burden shifted. Open air slipped beneath my feet. For a moment, I felt a hallowed echo of flying and this feeling of being alive. Aside from the fact I was falling, not flying, but the person who flew with me wasn’t wrapping his hand around mine. That made it different, made it wrong.

Inky black hair dye, shaggy brown tresses curlicues over ears, contrasted on pale cheeks. Same smile, same mouth; beaming and obscene, warm and desperate; they were the identical. Mischievous eyes, ill behaved, glossed over and turned wretched with uncertainty, shame, fear.

There was no mistaking this.

I flew with him last night.

Notes

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