NOVEL WEB Prologue
I am different. For as long as I can remember, I have been different. My sense of detachment far exceeds normal boundaries. It is as if I am a spirit possessing a long-dead corpse. Emotions are a foreign concept to me. My earliest memory is proof of it.
My mother and I were out grocery shopping and were on our way home. I was five years old and in the backseat when a drunk driver ran a red light and crashed into our car. The left side of the vehicle was crushed, and my mother’s body was left mangled and destroyed. I watched my mother die, the light fading from her eyes as she told me everything would be fine. And I felt nothing. She wasted her last words on a broken boy who felt no attachment to her. She died in the accident, and all I got was bruises and a scar on my left side. The paramedics who arrived at the scene didn’t know I was alive because I was silent. My injuries weren’t that severe, and I had already come to terms with the pain. They told my father I must be in shock. Yes, my mother created and cared for me, but I could not and did not feel anything for her. She was a caregiver I didn’t care for.
My father decided I would start seeing a therapist for what doctors assumed was some sort of PTSD due to the accident. I saw the therapist for years, and thankfully, over time, I learned how to mimic the correct expressions and the appropriate emotional responses to situations. So many mornings, I practiced smiling and frowning in the mirrors to get it just right. Psychology became an interest of mine that's continued to this day. None of the different possible diagnoses I read about fit me. PTSD, ASPD, and BPD don’t quite describe my brain. I don’t have any impulses to hurt people or violate boundaries; I just don’t feel anything. I’m a freak anomaly that doesn’t seem to fit any particular definition.
At a basic level, I understand that losing a baseball game is upsetting, that putting your pet down is sad, or that someone insulting you makes people angry, but I do not experience those emotions. I can recognize them thanks to my studying, but I do not understand them. It’s similar to the disconnect between hearing about atrocities being committed in another country and actually living through them.
My father, Daniel Blakely, is an architect. A diligent man who works tirelessly to provide for me. He puts in endless hours at his job to pay for everything. The least I can do is avoid trouble and be self-sufficient. The man lost his wife, so I don't want to add to his stress. The last thing the widower needs is a problematic child. So, I carefully formed my personality as an above-average student with varied interests and hobbies like cooking and working out. Fitting in doesn’t mean unnoticed; it means overlooked. I’ve created a close-knit group of friends that hasn’t changed over the years. It takes me a while to learn how others will act, and by carefully curating the friend group, I can minimize surprise complications.
Things were going well until sophomore year. My three friends asked me why I had never pursued any girls at our school. It was an oversight on my part that I quickly remedied. I found a classically pretty girl of similar social standing who struggled with self-esteem issues. Maria Estella was a girl that most guys assumed would never talk to them, leading to her feeling isolated. Carefully, I made contact with her and slowly got her to open up more and trust me. The truth is she would’ve fallen for anyone who showed her attention. We’ve been together for the last two years, but that’ll end at the end of this school year. I’m leaving our small town of New Farford to go to a university that is two and a half hours away, and she’s leaving for UNH in the opposite direction. We’ll try the long-distance thing as I slowly become busier and busier until we separate.
Still, even with all the juggling of friends, hobbies, and acting like a normal high school guy, I’m still incredibly bored. One more month and senior year will be over. Then I’ll move and hopefully find something to break up how boring life is. I’m looking for anything that can provide me with even a minute amount of excitement or feeling. Day in and day out I pretend to be normal, that I’m not just a damaged machine missing important parts.
Maybe I’ll reinvent myself and become someone completely different. Because the current Eryk Blakely is a doll wearing a facade of humanity. An above-average everyman but not unique in any discernable way. I am intelligent, attractive, and well-off. I have everything needed to become somebody, but in a world where people can pick up cars, shoot lasers from their eyes, and fly, I am nobody.