I am a recluse, a social introvert and outcast of the same. For my condition there is no one to blame, but myself. That is to say, no one made me this way, in as much as I can divorce myself from the influence of those around me. No, this all started way back when. I would even go so far as to trace it back to my childhood.
When I was a boy I was into action figures, just like other children of my age. But unlike these same playmates, I loved to explore the possibilities of every character and situation, sometimes to the point of absurdity. But even barring that, other kids were just not interested in infinite possibilities, this included my own brothers.
They preferred the predisposed disposition of each character as depicted by the show they were facsimiles of and only rarely, would expand on this. This caused for me a dilemma, I could either play with the other children in the same mediocrity that they seemed to enjoy or I could play alone and have all the freedom I should want.
I chose the latter and eventually, I stopped playing altogether with other children. This was the start of my shell which I would employ a great deal later on in my life. Though at this time of my life, it simply was a means of surrounding myself in a world all my own. To immerse myself in a fantasy that catered to my whims.
I even developed a greater interest that made me nearly forget all about my pithy little toys. I sat myself down at my desk and started to draw. I wasn't very good and I'm still not. The best I can do now as then, is draw bulky armor and stick figures. Neither could I draw faces so I always left them blank.
My talent with artistry was far too limited for my ever expanding mind so I took up another medium, writing. I won't say that I made stories everyone would enjoy, but I was pleased with them. My first narratives changed with me and I never let go of a story so I was always changing and revising my manuscripts.
As my experience grew in the art I started sitting around creating fantastical worlds one after the other. I delighted in this frivolous activity and shirked my other responsibilities much to the chagrin of my parents who wished to see me succeed. They were pleased I was so passionate about something, but they needed me to be realistic as well.
In high school I was taken under the wing of my English teacher who hosted a creative writing group. This same teacher would get me there as often as he was able and encouraged me to read aloud to the whole group. He hoped this would create in me an ease with other people and possibly a cure to my awkward social graces. It did just the opposite.
Whenever I read aloud I would become terribly self aware of my surroundings and every sound I heard registered disapproval. Every eye seemed to stare at me in mock fashion and every cough a mark of dissatisfaction. The air would become still and I would feel as though a caged animal in a room full of hunters.
Eventually, I tided down my readings to very short paragraphs and then to nothing at all. And I would remain glued to my seat, despite the cheering of my fellow writers, and I would meet no one's gaze. I still felt the burn of the eyes, but it was nowhere near as bad as before, so I could tolerate them.
After a time, I moved away from home into an apartment, which I was to share with another tenant in a commodified layout. He wasn't a bad sort, though at first I didn't care to know him since I spent all my time either writing on my computer or working, but even my work got to be too much.
I was too aware of others around me and their whisperings, as well as their eyes which were always staring. Further, it was when I was at work that I would continually get ideas and feel so compelled to write that it would nearly drive me mad. Finally, I couldn't take the emotional strain anymore, so I quit my job.
I was still pretty well off though as I had a trust fund check given to me every first of the month from an account started by my grandfather, in the amount of one thousand dollars. My grandpa is dead now, but he continues to support me from the grave anyway. I'm not sure if I was his favorite relation, but he was certainly mine.
I cut down my basic necessities to the barest minimum and even cut into that particular boundary. Why? So that I would have plenty of money to blow on comics or anime. I loved both and couldn't get enough of either. Even to the point where I would starve myself just so I could support my habit.
For this reason I cut all other vices, including smoking and drinking. I wasn't going to waste a single penny that I could put toward my entertainment needs. Anything I wanted I would save up for and cut back even further to get hold of it that much further. In this manner did I procure for myself a computer, iPod and other such electronics.
It's exactly one year later that I met my roommate for the first time. Sure we'd bump into each other in the small hall of our apartment and exchange pleasantries, but that was it. Let me explain something, my rent is cheap because not only was I sharing the apartment, but it was built economy style.
There's one large room that is maybe the size of a normal bedroom and a half. In the middle of this is a divider that works as an entertainment stand for both sides. Doors had been constructed for privacy so that each of us had our own room, technically. Next to the rooms is a single narrow hallway.
At one end is the front door, at the other a small bathroom, which we share. Near the middle is a small kitchenette with a refrigerator, though it really doesn't matter as none of us ever cook. He prefers to eat out and fill the fridge with leftovers he never eats, while my own cooking consists primarily of hot water and ramen.
Anyway, it's my one year anniversary of having moved in, and I spend it buried in comics. My roommate is having a party, but it doesn't bother me. At least not until one of his guests, slightly drunk, barges into my side. He apologizes immediately, but not before noticing the stack of comics next to me.
This leads his eyes all around my room where I have posters, statuettes and other nerd paraphernalia scattered about. I hear him shout for some guy named Jimmy. Turns out that's the name of my roommate, you learn something new each day. Anyway, the possessor of the name enters the room, sits down and starts talking. So enthralled are we both by what the other has to say, that neither of us care that his party is dying.
Someone would stop by, my now open door, thanking their occupied host for the party in a sarcastic manner. He, in turn, would wave them off telling them they were welcome. When the last of his guests had left it was well into the morning and we had pretty much covered all the bases of popular media. Then we get on to personal interests.
I'm happy with our conversation, but the old fear creeps in me and I don't say anything about my stories. However, my computer is on, as it always is, with my latest story glowing in the shadowed room, I had turned off my screensaver. I am acutely aware of this as we talk and try again and again to close my laptop without drawing attention, but I'm unable to.
Then it happens, much to my horror, Jimmy sits down and starts reading. I begin to bite my nails, I can't tell just how far he'd gotten as I cannot bring myself to look at the screen. Suddenly and quite abruptly, he excuses himself and goes back to his room. I'm ready to throw up and not stop till my shame was all expelled.
It had happened just as I feared it would. Someone had introduced themselves to my work and been so disgusted by it that they couldn't even say anything polite about it. So they simply excused themselves. I don't know what to do. I just sit there blankly staring at the glowing screen. I can't move a single muscle.
Suddenly, Jimmy appears in my doorway and steps inside my room. He has with him a sketch pad and a pencil. He sits down and starts drawing at length. I glance over his shoulder, careful not to disrupt his process. My fears having been chased away by my curiosity, I barely notice that I am penetrating someone else's social bubble.
He's drawing one of my characters. He draws the overall outline of the character and then he starts to add. They aren't things I depicted in my writing, but the completion of it looks better than what I had envisioned. When he's done he turns to me and shows all the changes and explains them to me.
After that night we start collaborating on stories, I write and Jimmy draws. After which, we have discussions about ideas and spitball till we have something. Though he's a much better artist, I still sketch out my characters in my own blocky, stick figure style. What can I say, I prefer my personal touch when it's all said and done.
Now, I never watch anything that isn't anime. So it's somewhat of a surprise to me when my roommate advocates our first real project be based on an American Television show. He sits me down and catches me up with the previous seasons. I'm impressed to say the least and we both endeavor to create our own story lines and character development, within the show's conscripted universe.
Shortly afterward, Jimmy tells me there's a convention coming up and not only is the cast of the show, as well as the writers, going to be there, but they're holding a contest for new ideas. They want to hear what the fans have to say and see their inspirations. He says this is our chance to really show what we are capable of.
Jimmy jumps all over it and wants me to go along. I'm reluctant, but his positive attitude rubs off on me and soon I am working on it too. We basically clear our lives of all distractions and for a solid week concentrate on our story. This is not going to be some simple story just to read for our own entertainment. This is going to be as professional as we can make it. Because even if our story is rejected, I hope that we'll at least get points for professionalism.
I proofread after each paragraph and iron out all the details ensuring proper flow. Jimmy not only draws the characters, but also a story board. He's certain we'll win. In fact, he guarantees it. I would have agreed if not for my being a naturally negative person and have a tendency of expecting the worse.
The day comes and I'm a wreck. I was too excited to eat anything all of the previous day and my stomach is protesting. As well, I couldn't sleep and kept tossing and turning. Finally I gave up and looked at the clock. There were three hours to go and already I was sweating bullets. I rouse myself, shower and dress. Still too much time. A long, torturous period passes and finally it's time to go.
I have never gone out looking for companionship and I certainly do not frequent places with a lot of people. In fact, I try to avoid human contact as much as possible. Jimmy drives, while I try to find my nerve, But I can't. The whole way there I can't think of a single thing and yet I'm so scared. When we get there it is even worse. There are so many people milling about and the noise level is very high.
I'm nearly in complete panic mode and showing no signs of coming down. There are just too many people and their numbers are growing. I see them and their eyes. The only thing that helps to get me through it, is metaphorically tethering myself to Jimmy. He knows where he's going, so I just simply follow.
My roommate finds the appropriate booth and writes down our information before handing it in. All the while, I stand by myself holding the envelope with our idea in it. I see a hand extend toward me as though it wants something from me, but what? What could they possibly want from me? I can't figure it out!
Thankfully, Jimmy knows. He takes the envelope from my sweaty, clammy hand and gives it to the man, who receives the entry and places it on top of a stack of other entries. That's when it happens. All my old fears come rushing at me, all at once. Suddenly, I can no longer hear the loud rambling crowd. Now everything is silent, a silence that crawls under my skin. That's when the whispers begin.
I become acutely aware of the eyes that watch me. I can tell at once that they're malicious and the whispers they pass to one another are directed at me. There's too much negativity. I'm sweating profusely and finding it hard to breathe. I feel as though an alien surrounded by humans and I shrink to the smallest level possible.
From that point on I become Jimmy's shadow, never do I dare to stir from his side. Furthermore, I slip inside my shell and there I stay. I remain aware of the eyes and voices, there are far too many of them and they find the holes in my armor. I have to get away before they tear me to pieces.
Jimmy remains at the convention visiting booth after booth. I ardently wish to go home, but I can't find the voice to express my desire. At long last, he as well decides it's time to leave. He asks me if I thought the same and I tell him I'm fine with whatever he wants. I'm ready to strangle myself. For my words cause us to remain an additional amount of time.
At last, we exit the human stockyard and drive home. The ride lasts far longer than it took to get there and I'm only too glad to see our familiar parking lot. From here I am fine on my own and make my way back to my apartment. There are a few people milling about outside. I do my best to ignore them and slink back to my room.
I'm home, in my inner sanctum, surrounded by all the familiar things. I look to my fellow outcasts, the mutants, the aliens, those that were simply different from everyone else and I realize something. They're the normal ones. Despite what disadvantages they are saddled with, they're still able to function in society.
They aren't afraid to just talk to people and they are able to stand up for themselves, even amongst throngs of people with hatred in their eyes. I'm the weird one. I'm the freak. All the same, I can find solace amongst them. After all, they protect the weak right? At least some of them, and you couldn't get any weaker than me.
I retire myself to my laptop and begin to write. Now my stories are far more personal and all of my heroes become me. They're still strong and heroic, but they are all of them, extensions of myself. My darkness becomes their darkness, but unlike me they're always able to overcome it, though I know I couldn't do the same.
Things change drastically from then on and there is no sign of normalcy coming back to town. I can't go anywhere that there are people. Even places that have few people in them are difficult to get through. I even go with Jimmy out to eat. He wants to celebrate and I'm far too hungry to disagree.
In the end, I barely eat anything and the majority of my food becomes leftovers in my fridge. I just can't shake the voices or the eyes. Even the children seem to look down on me. It's then that I wonder if people are really so evil as that, or if it's simply my own imagination. Though it really doesn't matter.
Anyway I look at it, I'm still stuck in my head and the voices are still whispering and the eyes still staring. It used to be that I simply preferred my room, now I need it. It is my bastion against the world. Without this, my fortress, I'm not sure what I would have done, but I'm almost certain it would have led to madness.
Time passes and things in my life change yet again. For one thing, Jimmy becomes less interested with my stories as my villains are too dark and lacking in any real motivation for their actions. They become simple mongers of hate, who simply wish to crush the hero using whatever absurd lever I create. I need it to be absurd, because it would be too much for me to be otherwise.
Little by little, my roommate and I drop off until once again we become strangers. The only occurrence that brings us together for even the briefest moment, is when we received a letter from the contest holders. They thanked us for our submission and apologized for not using it. I figure by the way it was written, that this was just a rubber stamp letter, sent to all of the losers and they simply changed the letterhead.
Jimmy's upset. I'm not. He remarks at how there's no mention of our professional entree. I really don't care, but that is because I don't want anything from them. It's then that I realize, Jimmy, is looking for an out. He's hoping that they would be so impressed by his work that they would hire him on, to at least do story board.
Problem is, his talent is only good compared to me. Everyone is drawing just as well and today's artist has to know about computer graphics and the like. The only specialty he has, is knowing how to put pencil to paper and that simply isn't enough. But he feels his talent is more than enough and going to school would be a waste of time.
After that, we stop talking to each other altogether. Jimmy never gets over the rejection and well, you already know my bit. It may sound cruel and evil, but his social failing actually helped my own. It helps to know that there's someone out there in worst straights than I. From then on, whenever I hear the whisperings or see the eyes I simply imagine that they're talking about me only because I had been Jimmy's partner. They're talking about him, not me.
Suddenly, I'm only guilty by association which is a lot better than being the only target. I even go back to the creative writer group, reading and all. But I doubt anyone cares for my work anymore, it doesn't matter. I found my niche. I am simply the victim of someone else's folly. It isn't my fault and that makes everything all right in the end.