Hallmarked Fantasies Read online

  “It’s nice to be able to escape from reality in such a comforting oasis, thank you for the life!”

  3

  Love is bitter, though I have little idea if that’s the precise word. It sinks into your heart and soon enough you’re filled with feelings and thoughts that aren’t your own. It’s as if my body is only a measly vessel for another, no longer mines, no longer something in your capability to control. You lose yourself and not in the romantic way described in poems and novels. It’s not peaceful, it’s not cured meat. It's a parasite, leeching onto you and the only way to get rid of it being to cut off the hand it so desperately clings to. Love is Russian Roulette, playing for your life as if it’s only a petty thing to give. Love rots you, it drains you, and frankly i’ve had my fill. I no longer with to understand the cold touch of sharp fingers slicing wherever they touch.

  Loss. A peace given to those who do not need it. It’s mesmerizing to watch them struggle towards anguish instead of giving in and relaxing in the gentle embrace of death. Some do, and for that I have great appreciation. When there is loss, there is a ripple, an effect on others. It causes the soul to linger a bit longer; like a game going into overtime there is still a winner to be crowned. If luck may stop by, their soul will linger in the memories of others, but more often than not, it fades, truly the loss of a loss. I no longer wish to understand how easy it is to forget.

  People are so dull in their knowledge, their assumptions about right or wrong. As if anything could be so black and white. Everyone’s thoughts and opinions are validated by facts, however no one has ever stopped trusting to consider that the facts themselves are opinions based on previously trusted facts, or should I say opinion? We live in a world where our grip on reality is so slim that we feel obligated to give definite rules to the universe. Meaningless things taught at such a young age, such as “the sky is blue” when in fact, not only is it purple, red, green, and gray, but also a multitude of colors and designs that our own eyes eyes can’t even hope comprehend. We say we’re the dominant species yet here we sit, telling ourselves our own limits on earth when we haven’t even reached its full potential depth. We set down rules to fool ourselves, though I suppose that’s the only way anyone can go on living in such a place.

  It’s maddening to watch, to see the inner-workings of the mind, to see the truth bathed in lies and knowing that i could never scrub it clean. It stays dirty, corrupted. I wonder if there is any pure truth left in the world.

  I no longer wish to understand that acceptance and denial are two sides of the same coin. They’re practically the same feeling, the same process. I no longer wish to understand the constant narrative in my own mind, personifying the drip and drop of my tears as they hit the pavement at my feet, their lives diminishing as they slowly evaporate into the atmosphere. It’s annoying, it’s aggravating; the pounding of my head causing me to grab my dark hair in agony.

  “I can’t take it. I can’t take it!”

  The pounding gets louder and hot tears scream as they run down my cheeks. It won’t stop.

  So pitiful. So pitiful. Everyone complains about work and school, but they’re blind by the perfection of their existence. Simple. Clean. Yet they run their mouths constantly as if their world is about to crumble.

  The only retort to be had even today is the cuddle embrace that sleep has been able to provide me.

  Brick after brick it falls, some shatter, some crack. I weep, untrimmed nails digging painlessly into my scalp until bathed in warmth. There is no flashback, no bittersweet ending. Fear and sorrow engulf me, sheltering my trembling body from the debris around me. Such a silly way to -die after a meaningless life, I’d love to call this poetic, but the art is ruined by the ignorance of others.

  4

  “That was a gutsy move. I dig it.”

  There was a certain tranquility to our time together. I sat staring blankly at dad who was sitting across the kitchen table with pursed lips; we were playing chess on a Sunday morning, this pretty much meant neither he or I had much else better to be doing. On top of this, he was being unreasonable and keeping silent with the occasional snide remark; I didn’t even realize losing this badly was possible in chess and him not flaunting his inevitable victory made the passing time even more strenuous. There was nothing to be done, I shamelessly lost in a couple of minutes. At least he began speaking again,

  “You could’ve just flipped the table or something, y’know? Although you would’ve needed to have done that after your third turn since you were in dead water after that.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind for when we play in front of mom next time.”

  “I’m fine with that, just make sure to not look immature with a half-baked explanation. Let’s just leave it at that for now. More importantly, I noticed that you stopped talking to yourself, did something happen recently?”

  He was right, I didn’t spend so much time crafting absurd stories that ended up only being shards of what it could’ve been, and I didn’t pace around my room for hours on end spitting nonsense that I’d forget about the day after. It was hard to accept but I felt as if I had obligations to people other than to myself, I wouldn’t even be able to explain it if I tried. I still despise being who I am, I still despise the vague uncertainty of my life, I still don’t quite understand the difference between death of the body and death of the mind. There was a certain haziness in my head as I processed his question.

  “Mistakes were made, mistakes that make me wish I could go back in time and take back. I’ll learn from these mistakes, I'll remedy myself. I’ll tell you what happened when I’m not so tired.”

  I will be a better person. But, in order to do that and write, I need that missing piece. I need that companionship. I need it to hold my hand, and say, “You've got this. I gave you the slap, now it's your turn.” It doesn't even to do anything, but it's all I ask. I used to think that writing would make me feel better and it will! Tremendously! But I still need that missing piece. I need that friendship. Unrequited love. I love it, but it doesn't love me back. Not in the same way, at least. I've read a lot about unrequited love a lot, and I always felt terrible for the characters. I never would have thought it would be me who becomes that character. In the stories, they always manage to get that love back. The characters have epiphanies, they fix themselves, they beg, and then everything's okay!

  “Tell me whenever Faris. I’ll have an ear open for you as long as you want to use it. Although sparing me all of the details like you just did is anything but informative, so also keep that in mind next time.”

  With that, Dad just got up and out of the kitchen, probably to laze around near the television during his holiday vacation. It’s humorous how similar we could be with one another even though I’m sure he’s just putting up an act to gain any insight on if I’d absolutely fail his expectations when I’m a few years older and more independent with my role in society; I could empathize with that considering I told him a few months back with a blank expression I didn’t even want any role and would just get by silently, I still remember the look he gave me hearing something so cliche for someone with a deadpan archetype.

  Wondering what was to be done from now on, I had resigned myself from the prospect that I would be able to pry whatever information Mom desired so much to keep away from me at the moment, but I could probably force her hand in a matter of time to tell me whatever part of the truth she didn’t feel like telling, I already have an idea of whatever she is feigning ignorance on, but I’ll let her make her move whenever she feels ready to do so; Dad and I are essentially anticipating it.

  I’m proud of my achievements, it’s the only thing to look at because regardless of the person, I would rather not look directly at my own shortcomings that have built themselves up to now; a dramatic end is not befitting myself so it would probably be best to not ponder.

  “…”

  I sat at the table for quite a while, it was happening again and this time I let it happen more natura
lly than it often would. After derailing the thought goings through my head, I packed and cleared the chess pieces still left motionless on the tabletop. Dad was fast asleep and the outside light was more brilliant than the frosty sky blue that was apparent earlier this morning. Pacing myself up the stairs I cut myself some slack and would just sleep for a little while more, what better si there to be doing but to conserve energy for whatever pointless endeavors I’ll be facing once I’m conscious back. Entering the humble bedroom, I didn’t bother to worry about the repercussions of continuing this cycle, but knowing that I was now set up for change was enough pleasantries for the time being, even if it took a lifetime to get here. When was the last time you did something for the first time? This rhetorical question question seemed to resonate so well with me as I took a look back at the void that was my past. I few phrases seemed to have instinctively escape my mouth,

  “I just want to move along each day sleeping, reading, and writing. There are of course are other things I desire to do but I can do those all while asleep.”

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my mom for helping me create this book, as it if weren’t for her knowledge on the topic and encouragement to finish, I would have probably not been able to complete the entire premise of my story. This story was inspired by research conducted on the developmental disorder, Asperger’s Syndrome, as I attempted to create a plot involving a character with this particular disorder. Other people that have helped me create this book was the few interviews I had conducted in order to get my research to write my book. This includes the people at the International School of Phnom Penh (ISPP), as the both the teachers and students had contributed ideas and helped me keep in track with my work throughout the months that I used in order to create the book.

  This book was written for the sole purpose for my personal project that is needed for the Middle Years Program at International Schools. The book was the product in which I believe is a creative representation of Aspergers that can help clear the stigma around this developmental disorders and mental health as a whole through the narrative fiction genre.