The Confession
So I never know how to start these kind of things. It always seems so impersonal because it is impossible for someone to really put brainwaves into words, except if you are maybe Humbert Humbert in which case nothing is off limits and nothing is impersonal. In fact, with that guy it seems that everything is a little too personal for my personal taste. But in one respect I guess me and that particular fictional character are alike. No no, I do not have a highly inappropriate school-girl fetish, but I do have a confession. At least, a confession of sorts. I was neglectful to someone who needed me someone who needed me desperately. I let them down and I couldn’t help it. It was like going fishing and taking the fish out of the water and just watching it wriggle, gagging for breath but unable to grasp it. That smothering desperation that manifests itself as writhing agony. I watch that fish knowing that with one movement I could end it. It was in my power. I was living out the twisted and disturbing Superman theory. I killed Nietzsche’s God. I controlled this God-like power, I held a life in my hands. Now, the holding-a-life-in-my-hands thing relates only to the fish metaphor, not my confession. Although the writhing agony part was not far off. I could see the pain written all over her face and I did nothing. More worryingly, I didn’t want to do anything. I always used to joke that we all should embrace the inner bitch, but I think that I may have taken things to the extreme and for that I need to apologise.
But in order to do that, I guess that I might have to start at the beginning. I was new in school and a bit of loner. Wait, no no, wait. I probably shouldn’t start this off with a lie. I was a complete loner and a teachers pet and a book worm (hence the ‘Lolita’ reference). I was that person that you could and would walk past in the corridor because they are just invisible. I was invisible. I used to crouch next to the library door, book in my hands, desperate for the bloody librarian to hurry up and finish her lunch so I could escape the agony of having to watch other people who actually had a life. Witness the joy on peoples faces as they shared a joke and solidified friendships. I was sinking into a world where all I saw was blackness, engulfing blackness that comes with rejection. And she took me under her wing. They enfolded me in their group and I did very little to pay them back. But the thing is, that even though I was being notice it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. I wanted more. Sorry, I am potentially getting ahead of myself. In fact I know I am. The thing is, I didn’t just want to just be included in the group, I wanted to be one of the leaders or the leader's right hand man so to speak.
As with every group there are leaders, be it a subconscious gravitation or a deliberate one, there must be a core. In our group (using the word our in itself feels like I’m taking a liberty I have done very little to deserve) there were two leaders. They seemed to represent a united front. One was quiet, rational, kind but strong. She allowed no one to pull the wool over her eyes but she was always so desperate to please everyone with her truly generous nature that she was like the mother hen. We all loved her. The other was opinionated and loud, witty because she had to be. She was not pretty. The opposite of the other in that respect. Her wit, sarcastic as hell, was her enduring quality. While the quiet one was compassionate and open, the other gave all the show of being open and honest but she was a closed book about many things, only ever showing her cards to those she trusted. It was that trust I played off of. The two were inseparable but the latter had a temper on her. A short fuse that often put the unison of the leaders under strain. I found it fascinating to observe this. One moment they could be arguing something in an almost friendly way then bam, she would be off. There would be a fire in her eyes and you could tell instinctively when you had gone too far. But it took a lot for her to lose her temper with her fellow leader. This is what made it so difficult to separate them. But that is where fate intervened. They both had sisters. And the two eldest sisters for the most part didn’t like each other. In fact, you could say there was somewhat of a feud. And, as always, it was rooted in the ever present boy trouble of high school. One sister had the boy, the other wanted him and he loved the attention. When a nonsensical argument about a ridiculous misunderstanding bubbled over I knew it wasn’t entirely based on the why-did-you-say-that quarrel, the underlying motive was the sister drama.
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