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I never told him anything, as if there was no need for it. I never touched him. I don't love him. I used to think he was autistic, but it's something different. It's like he just don't have any feelings. Or as if his emotional development had stopped at the age of six. There was no attraction but it just seemed right that we were always together, not doing anything particuliar. He was as frail as a child, I once saw him cry for no particuliar reason, I suspect it was because of a dead pet. He was eighteen then. I've never really known what his problem was, nor if he realized there was a problem. Or maybe he was the only sane person in this world and everybody else has a problem. I'll never know. Because I'm never going to talk to him again. His life is just school and video games. I guess reality is too much for him to face. He doesn't fit anywhere but in his own world.
I've been to his place twice, once I was alone here with him. He showed me his favorite video game and his pets. A child would have done the same. His room was like him: you see things and you don't quite know what to do of them. A weird poster of a cat skeleton probably found in a scientific magazine for kids. Star Wars books. Mice. An old desk cluttered with sheets, probably stuff for school.
I feel that an important part of him always escaped me. Something that was in his head, something only him could understand. Most of the people at school never thought he could have this thing inside of him. I remember what he told me about his childhood. How he used to bury living ants in boxes, like egyptian pharaohs, how he got this scare on the corner of his right eye by banging his head against a garbage bin on purpose, how the teachers would always be yelling at him him since kindergarten.
I don't know if this stuff was made up or true. But he was proud of it. That was what he wanted me to know of him.
Sometimes he would joke. About how he was going to rob the cafeteria, or be the next big dictator. He used to draw too: he was really bad at it, but kept doing it. He draw mostly rockets, basic human figures getting killed in various ways, or penguins. It would make him laugh.
I guess you meet someone like him once in your lifetime. You usually choose to make fun of this kind of people because the first thing that comes to your mind when you see this person is 'looser'. I used to make fun of him, like everybody. But he seemed not to mind, I think he never get how truely ridiculous he looked. He let his hair grow really long, to have them longer than me, or so he said. He looked proud when his hair finally get longer than mine. I don't think he ever considered me as a girl. He was like one of these freaky aliens in science fiction movies, and everybody around him could feel this.
He used to have a problem with food: he wouldn't eat anything somebody had touched. He was often buying junk food, over the five years I've been knowing him, I saw him fatten. But I didn't see him get more mature. Like if he was born completed, and didn't need anything more than what he already have. Maybe that is wisdom. Maybe he is truely happy, maybe he doesn't even need happiness.
I was considered as a freak for spending so much time with this boy. Some kids thought we were making out, some thought we were from the same family. How could I have explained to them something that I can't fully grasp, even now. I guess we both knew we would never be like everybody else. There was like a sort of unspoken agreement that we should be together, even if nothing was never supposed to happen, even if we both didn't want anything to happen.
I needed him, like a protection against the other kids with who I didn't fit. Maybe it was the same for him. Though he didn't seem to mind when he was alone.
Sometimes he would do weird things during class and laugh at it alone, while everybody else would say how immature he was, and then he would tell the story over and over again, still laughing about it.
I spent almost one year of high school talking exclusively to him. Or listening him talking to me. I don't know if he ever talked this way about anybody else, nor why he talked to me and not somebody else. I learnt tons of things about his video games or his plans to escape from school. But not much about his family, his town, or anything related to real life.
During my last year of high school, it was hard to get him talk to me: somehow we ende up with different timetables. His allowed him to come back home in the middle of the day, which he would always do, to play video games.
He didn't come out of his house often, except for school. I actually saw him do so twice.
First time was to go to the pictures, second time was because I blackmailed him.
I've made friends with other outcast young in my new school, but none of them is like him. They're just loosers, period.
Did he ever care about me? Or was I just something to fill his loneliness when he was away from his video games? Is he a child in the body of a teenager? Is he human at all? Or is he too sensitive to be called a human?
Thinking about him has made me what I am now. Mad. I know it will be alright again if I can know what is in this special place inside his head, the thing I felt but never saw. It is hidden somewhere in his brain, I know it exists. And it appeals to me. I need to see this thing, to understand it. I don't care about the rest, about the human being he is supposed to be, about what he could say to me.
Now I'm ready to find out what this special thing is. I'm in the dark street, just outside his house. I know his parents are not here tonight. I got this bag with me, there is everything I'm going to need in it: white surgeon gloves, knife, saw, scalpel, claw, chisel, even a hammer if his skull is too hard for me to incise in...
Copyright 2008 Rover
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