Vol. I Chap. 2

Here is my comment from the previous post, a fitting introduction:
"Now that my grasp for attention has been successfully secured I can move on to writing more, without the insecurity that plagues my writing. Just kidding, I'll definitely keep on with my insecure writing. Things take a little turn for the worse in chapter 2, but it should return to the narrative in my next post. I'll do my best to keep it interesting, but sometimes I trail off, like in real life. I seem to be giving myself a lot of freedom in this project anyways. Keep reading. There should be about a third of a chapter a week, more or less."

Ch. 2

  I'm tired of being on the defense. The truth is, I don't really have any skills. People just always told me I was doing good. I didn't even know what I was doing. How could it have been good?

  So, I feel about as low as I could at the moment.  Part of me wants to embrace this new environment and great opportunity, while another part of me thinks it's inhuman to let go of everything I knew and everyone I loved.  Now, I have a problem adults shouldn't have.  Children can't always tell the difference between reality and fiction.  It's like when I was a kid, about four or five years old.  I was watching T.V. and some movie was on and some parade was going on in the movie.  Suddenly, there was a murder scene.  Some lady was suffocated with a plastic bag and dumped out of the parade float onto the street.  People screamed.  I turned away, but it was too late.  That was the first time I had ever seen that kind of violence.  I felt an uneasy nausea and a tightening in my chest.  What was that?  I didn't know then.

  After that, I went to play with my toys.  The stifling feeling lingered.  I did the only thing I could.  I imitated the scene with my animal toys.  Typically, the one in trouble would be saved.  That was all I knew.  I think I had tried to save her, but I couldn't.  She died right in front of me.  Again.  I held them in my hands and she died.  I let it happen.  That was the first time one of my toys died.  It still hurts when I think about it.  I can't remember if I cried or not, though.

  That scene was so real to me, though I knew that television wasn't real.  Yet, the confusion was on the outside, with the world.  I suppose that's what makes this an adult problem.  Children don't question the reality of what they think and feel.  Is that really what I've been struggling with?  A distorted loss of innocence.  I don't even remember what I was writing to you about anymore.  Well, now I do.

  Right, I'm going to let you in a little.  I won't tell you the whole truth, just a little.  If you're intuitive you may figure it out.  That's enough clues for now.  I don't really have any special skill.  I don't "understand" things.  I don't know anything special.  I'm just a depressed guy who keeps abandoning people and things.  That's what I was supposed to tell you.