Chapter Text
“It was only four days. . . . You should be lucky that you weren’t in there longer like some of the other victors.”
“It wasn’t that bad. Honestly, Basil, you’re exaggerating things.”
“I don’t see why you aren’t more thankful that you survived.”
“Not many fifteen year olds make it out of the arena alive. You’re really lucky.”
I know I know I know I know I know I know—
I wrote these things down. They’d call me crazy if they knew. But I wrote them down in a notebook that I keep underneath my mattress. It doesn’t make me feel any better, but seeing those words written out in my own handwriting makes them seem less real, if that makes any sense.
If it doesn’t make sense, I don’t blame you.
Nothing really makes sense anymore.
Can I tell you something? Let me tell you something, please.
I wish they’d stop talking to me. Even when they try to make me feel better, it doesn’t work. The sympathy is there but the empathy is lacking entirely.
It will start out nice. “Hey, Basil, I’m sorry that you’re struggling so much.” But then the moment that I try to reach out for them to let them know what I need—or what I think I need, rather—they then shove a dismissive statement at me.
I should be lucky. I should be grateful. I should be happy.
I should be _____.
I should be _____.
I should be _____.
But you know what? I’m not lucky, I’m not grateful, and I’m not happy.
I’m fucking dead inside, and no one seems to care about it.
The fact that I’m alive is enough to override any concerns, any feelings, that I may have.
Why?