NOVEL NEXT Prologue - Different (Updated on 8/2/2025)
I am different from other people, not just from my peers, but from everyone. 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 concept that I understand, but I cannot experience. Like reading a fairytale from a book filled with fantastical elements, you can read and picture it, but you will never truly know what it is like. My earliest childhood memory is proof that this was not done to me but has been a part of me since birth.
My mother and I were out grocery shopping and were on our way home. The setting sun's scarlet hue dyed everything in shades of pink and orange. Five years old and in the backseat, I was getting sleepy when a drunk driver ran a stop sign. He crashed into our car, crushing the left side of the vehicle and sending us spinning toward a telephone pole. The car seat was dislodged from the impact, which is what saved my life. My mother wasn't as lucky as I; her body was thrown violently inside our car, mangling it. I watched my mother die from where I was, the light fading from her eyes as she told me everything would be fine. She died in the accident, and all I got was some scrapes, 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 understood that crying out because of pain was a pointless endeavor. They told my father I must be in shock from the accident, that it must be some form of shock that caused my silence. That wasn't the truth. The truth is that deep down inside, I felt nothing. She wasted her last words on a broken boy who felt no attachment to her. Yes, my mother created and cared for me, but I could not and did not feel anything for the woman. She was a caregiver I didn't care for.
Weeks passed after her funeral, and I still hadn't shed any tears. My father decided right then and there that I would start seeing a therapist for what doctors assumed was PTSD due to the accident. I saw Anna for years, and over time, I began to understand what was different about me. I learned how to mimic the correct expressions and the appropriate emotional responses to situations. All to hide my true self, to mask my oddness. I spent so many mornings practicing smiling and frowning in the mirrors to get it just right. Psychology became an interest of mine that has continued to this day. None of the different possible diagnoses I read about fit me. PTSD, Autism Spectrum Disorder, Antisocial Personality Disorder, and Borderline Personality Disorder don't quite describe my brain. I don't have any impulses to hurt people or violate boundaries; I just don't feel anything. Once I learned of social cues, I could perfectly recreate them. The reality is that I'm a freak anomaly that doesn't seem to fit any particular definition neatly.
At a basic level, I understand that losing a baseball game is upsetting, that putting your family 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 comprehend them. It's similar to the disconnect between hearing about atrocities being committed in another country and actually living through them.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
My father, Daniel Blakely, still grieves for my dead mother to this day. Holding vigil for a woman who has been dead longer than they were married. He's a diligent man who works tirelessly to provide for us. He puts in endless hours at his architectural job to pay for everything. But I can tell by the distant, haunted gaze in his eyes when he looks at me that I serve as a monument to the worst day of his life. His monetary compensation is all I require from him; a regular child would crave the love of their parent, especially their only remaining one. The lack of a present parent is what helped me become so self-sufficient. It gave me the freedom and time to craft who I would pretend to be. I carefully formed my identity as an above-average student who stayed out of trouble. A studious, kind person with a variety of interests and hobbies, like working out, cooking, and a love of old horror movies. Fitting in doesn't mean unnoticed; it means overlooked. Shining too brightly grabs attention, but so does casting a long shadow. I've created a close-knit group of friends that hasn't changed once 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 our sophomore year. My three friends asked me why I had never pursued anyone at our school. Sexuality was never something I focused on. 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 whom most guys assumed would never talk to them, leading to her feeling unwanted and isolated. Gradually, I made contact with her and slowly got her to open up more and trust me. Before long, she was head over heels for the concept of Eryk Blakely. The truth is, she would've fallen for anyone who showed her attention and care. We've been together for the last two years, but that chapter will conclude 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.
Even with all the juggling of friends, hobbies, and acting like a normal high school guy, I'm still empty. One more month, and senior year will be over. Then I'll move and maybe find something to break up the monotonous nature of my life. The goal is that somewhere out there in the world is something that can provide me with even a minute amount of excitement or feeling. The idea that my life will continue to be devoid of genuine connections and experiences would probably depress someone else. 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. A mask that holds up to scrutiny, but lacks real substance. 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, to succeed, but in a world where people can throw cars like baseballs, shoot lasers from their eyes, and fly, I am nobody.