It's the CRIME

November 28, 2017 10:12am CST
(N.Y. Continued) Valentine’s day was nearing, and Lavender had already started dating again. By this point, she had found someone who…just seemed to make sense with her. We all had our doubts about him. I’m not afraid to say that I believe he might be a classic example of a sociopath. I don’t think this is a bad thing, exactly. Sociopathic mindsets feel more comfortable to me. Benefits of being friends with a sociopath? While I’m here, I’ll go into that. I like this topic, and it’s not one that’s mentioned much in it’s positive light. Someone who is sociopathic is much less likely to be considerate of how another person feels. “Treat others how you wish to be treated” can mean “Don’t coddle if you can’t stand being coddled”, which in my experience, is kind of like Socio-Code. I like this, because I’m the kind of person who’s used to hearing their family say compliments with undertones of urgency to act on the talent or skill being criticized. It’s still nice to hear every once in a while, but I have so much more respect for someone who is willing to say what my faults are. Sociopaths also have a kind of glamour that I find entertaining. There is a difference between someone who hides behind a mask, and someone who needs a mask in order to hide. An emotional person like myself instinctively finds shelter in the comfort of make-up or decorum (lacking as it may seem at times), but an unemotional person must go to certain lengths to build the patterns, the responses, to perfect the mimicry until it is seamless. I love nothing more than the moment that mask slips, and the first sign of their true character shines out from beneath it. For Patrick, it was his humor. His smiles faded quickly. His eyes always kept a certain hardness about them that reminded me of the alert, green, pig’s eyes at the bar, although his were the light blue of fading eyesight. Lavender was taken with him. He matched her intelligence in a respectful way that let her inner Native American dance in summer breezes despite the bite of winter. It wasn’t long before she had decided to move in with him, and by March, my brother would be leaving as well. For the first time in our almost four years together, Niel and I would be alone together, in our own apartment. His mother and soon to be stepfather visiting as often as they usually did, seemingly head over heels in love. It was insufferable, really, having to sit there and see a well off couple that made Niel’s and my relationship look like two desperate rejects who just didn’t want to be alone. Unlike most couples, we functioned better when we were at work. In a lot of ways, it was the only way we really seemed to get along. He cooked. I served. We both fell into our roles as naturally as bees. At home though, we argued more than necessary. We drank so much more than necessary… Shades of resentment passed over us, until I started to realize that I just…didn’t love him. Tearjerker, from Korn, had become my theme song. Niel wasn’t the True Love that I had always dreamed of, who kept me strong and taught me to be better than what I was. I didn’t feel my soul quiver when we found ourselves alone, only a dire need to be away from him. I started writing, fictional, not quite romantic, stories. In these I detailed out the type of persona that called to me, the depth of love that, to me should have been so passionate, it made one forget to breath. A love that never let go, no matter how hard you ran away, how many times you ran away…a love that could never know the hardship of doubt. It’s so strange in that regard, how a person decides to fall in love. What things that call to the attention of their soul and heart, barrelling past their dramatic media-based fantasy to hit the very core of everything that might matter, or might have ever mattered.. There’s this anime, where all a guy had to do to keep the love of his life, was to Not Open That One Door. But he did. When he saw her crimes (murdering her abusive parents and stashing their bodies in a guest room), he held her accountable, and what love they had, began to dissolve. My situation, was like the opposite of his–I would be falling in love, so simply that I wouldn’t realize for years what the effect of that love would be. I still don’t, fully. Not yet.. I noticed one of the servers jackets hanging at the edge of a booth. It was nearing ten-thirty, maybe eleven o’clock by now, so they were all finishing up their side work as well, and preparing to close the restaurant for the night. What caught my eye were the lines of Kanji, dark grey set against black. What other graphics might have been are blurred into the folds of fabric resting in my memory. Still, I have always had a particular fondness for Japanese culture. The jacket was fairly important to him, and rarely left so ill-placed. At the table, a brown leather journal, yellow tinted pages, brown elastic strap to secure it..copper ribbon page marker.. My curiosity got the better of me. It’s not often that I see something as unique as that jacket, implying so much more than just aesthetic. Japanese culture has a sense of respect that is uncommon to most. Beautifully unique and strange, everyone you meet is worthy of a bow or at least a slight nod, every name carries meaning and every suffix attached accents it. I believed that the owner of said jacket saw these same telling subtleties, because of the journal. It was on the table, as if he had just written in it and walked away. A journal. A private collection of the souls innermost cries for recognition. Something so few in this world seem to honestly appreciate. It would serve as my secret door, when I sat down at the table. I had, either, been sure of him being busy, or careless as to if he saw; flicked the strap away, and set my eyes on the first page. The most romantic line of words I would ever read from him. “Meeting her, was like the opening scene of a movie…” As he went on to describe meeting this woman, someone he had lost recently. It came to be a sad fact that my first name was the same as hers. Somehow I considered it luck that he knew me by my middle, and then I questioned why I hadn’t picked up on the depth of character before. The light changed again, and I took my first step towards my new path. At the end of it, stood a short man, with brown hair, piercing green eyes, and a pig’s mask, smiling so painfully wide that I knew it couldn’t be real.
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1 response
@mohit459 (12016)
• Haldwani, India
28 Nov
Too long ....