If I want this to be real

A Story by A. Star

Why is it no matter how hard I try to shut things out they come back, haunting my thoughts like ghosts? No matter how much I try to remind myself that the past is the past, vivid memories bring me back to an old, vibrantly colored reality that is indefinitely superior to the drab grey world I currently live in. I feel like there are always people willing to paint my world, but they come with dirty fingers and pale colors. I want rich. I want varied. I can't even handle it anymore. I can't even live like this. The people I have faith in do nothing but make my world darker. But I don't know who to trust. I'm a terrible judge in character - otherwise I wouldn't have ended up this way in the first place. It's the only plausible thing...

Conor angrily kicked a can that littered the sidewalk, watching it bounce off the curb and into the street, crushed by a passing Honda. He didn't know how he felt about that event - he didn't know whether to consider it some sort of sign or just a random occurrence. Conor was somewhat superstitious in random ways - he never stepped out of bed with his left foot. That's just crazy talk.

"Conor, I want to be with you. You know that. You know I can treat you a thousand times better than all those other stupid s***s." She had said a few months before, pleading with him. He simply hung his head and looked away from her - he couldn't be tied down. He couldn't suddenly toss out his black book of sexual conquests for some girl that'd probably end up f*****g him over anyway. All of them were the same.

"Come on, Ashley. You know me better than that. If I want this to be real, I want this to be real. I don't want to f**k this up. And right now, I KNOW I would. There are people in my life I just can't ignore." He said, his eyes meeting hers for half a second before hers looked away.

"Whatever, Conor." She said. "You know I haven't talked to anyone since we started talking. You know that I want to be with you. Figure out your s**t and get back to me."

But now, now he wanted her. Now he knew for the first time in years, he was ready. All she had to do was ask. One tiny question, one hint that she wanted to be together. He wasn't going to ask her now - that'd be some sort of emotional suicide. What if he got turned down? By the girl he turned down not because he didn't give a s**t, but because he actually did? Despite this, she went away. And now was with some d****e that she probably didn't even like.

God, I'm such a f*****g prick, Conor thought, pulling at his hair in frustration. He wished someone could understand why he was the way he was. But no one does. No one gives a s**t. No one understands. Conor had worked hard to stop himself from having legitimate feelings for people, yet the ones they developed for always turned him down, or fucked him up even more. It's not like he TRIED to get himself hurt. It's not like he walked around thinking "wow, that chick seems like a total b***h, let me fall in love with her!"

He arrived at the grocery store, walking inside. Ramen, coffee, cigarettes. Who really needs much more. It was always funny to him where people's priorities lie - he had friends who'd much rather spend half a paycheck on weed than food, or who'd rather get drunk every weekend than go to the movies or to a concert they wanted to see, or who spent fifty bucks a week on fast food. He wondered what s**t was like during the great depression - did people who grew gardens also grow marijuana plants? Hell, did people smoke then? He wanted to google it, but the grocery store didn't have wifi.

He got to the register, armed with enough stuff to last him the week. He added to his list milk, bread, and a jar of peanut butter - these things were always handy to have in a apartment with exactly one bird-like inhabitant. The cashier looked at him, shaking her head.

"Geez, Conor, will you at least take multivitamins? You're going to die a brittle old man someday."
"I'd much prefer to die a sexy young man." He replied. "Speaking of dying, marlboro reds, please."
"I'm only concerned for your health." She replied, rolling her eyes at both Conor and a fellow coworker who eyed her hungrily. Conor grinned.
"Still not giving him the time of day? Come on, girl, you haven't dated since whatshisface. Get back on that horse." Conor'd gone to this grocery store since he moved into his apartment, and ran into this girl frequently. He sometimes would see her at parties, always a designated driver or some other position of responsibility.
"Find me a boy who will text me at 2 oclock in the morning to tell me to go stand in 40 degree weather and look at the stars. THEN I'll start dating again." She replied, a hint of sarcasm and sadness in her voice. She got his cigarettes out of the case that was behind her and scanned them, figuring the total and holding her hand out. He handed her a pile of disorganized bills, which she placed in the register - prices never changed, and they both knew it'd come out to an even dollar amount. It always did.

"Get out of here, s**t." She said to Conor, who bristled slightly - normally such a statement wouldn't bother him. It was true. But for the first time in a long time, he felt bad about it. This whole self esteem thing needs to get better.

"Later." He said, grabbing his bag of stuff and the gallon of milk, walking out of the automatic doors and back towards his empty apartment. It was Friday, and he didn't even have the will to go out. But no matter what, he'd put on a face and go out on the town, race some gal to bed. It's not like he was good for anything else.