Writer

Dawn spilled in through the window of cracked glass, casting shadows like webs over Bartholomew as he awoke.

Sleep clung to his eyelids, threatening to force them shut, but his gargantuan yawn shook him awake. He smacked his lips, life returning to him as he frowned.

‘Ah, it was all a dream…”

He looked around at the basement he dwelled in. There was a rug of crusty, stiff socks to his left, and a mountain of carefully-stacked maruchan instant cup noodles containers to his right. His computer had been left on, whirring as it struggled against the dust that had caked on the parts. A text file lay open, revealing its contents to whoever could have been foolish to enter his lair.

After turning his chainsaw man manga pages crusty, and reading all of the sword art online light novels out there, he had decided to write his own bit of fiction. Of course, never having touched a woman, made friends, or gotten revenge on his internet foes, the content he wished to discuss was clear.

A character that made his way to the motherland, finding a woman and fulfilling his dreams, only to tragically die in the end- what could make for a better story?

But when he returned from this fantasy, it was blatantly clear to him.

In the end, he remained a loser.

There wasn’t comedy in real life, not like in fiction. He couldn’t make an obscure or out-of-place reference to cheer himself up, not without looking silly. There was no real action, no magic, no gods, and no swords. Cat furries didn’t live in trees, and the God of Malady wasn’t his real…

He suddenly was awash with illness. Nausea thrust itself into his head as he keeled over, spilling last night’s dinner onto the carpet. A mixture of bitter alcohol, noodles, and heinz ketchup swirled about as it slowly soaked into the rug.

But he had no mind to clean it. There wasn’t really any point. Even if he did, the rest of his room would still be a mess. And he would still be a loser. And nothing would mean anything at all, because nothing would change, because he had no mind to change.

Because happy endings were meant to reside in fiction, and that was the end of it.

He glanced up at the sunlight that peeked through the curtains of his cracked window, grimacing.

Two weeks prior, his mother had begun to refuse to bring food to his door. She had said that if he really wanted to eat, to survive, it was on himself to go outside and get it.

He didn’t hate her for this, tarnishing his image of her because she wouldn’t bend to his childish lifestyle. Because he knew it was on him, it was his fault that he was this way.

He stood up from his bed, his belly flaps bouncing as he got onto his feet.

‘Have I gained weight? How? I’ve been eating significantly less…’

After taking two steps, he pulled out his inhaler and took an emergency puff.

Then, sitting down at his computer, grasping the over-sized mouse, he got to work.

He scrolled through the Nsfw tabs, grimacing. Even with sixty-four gigabytes of ram, he could only have chrome open lest he crash the computer entirely. He eventually reached Honeyfeed dot com, scrolling down to check on his self-insert fiction. He frowned upon reaching the comments section.

He had completely forgotten that he had teased a Q&A…

‘Why the fuck are people even reading this…? This is just my attempt to make myself feel better…’

He clicked onto one particular comment.

[English or Spanish?]

He closed the Chrome window, leaning back in his seat.

‘English or Spanish? Is that a joke? How is that even funny? Should I tell him to kill himself? Is that even the right thing to do? Is the onus on me for being unfunny? What’s wrong with me? Can I be fixed? I should really kill myself instead-‘

He silenced the endless thoughts, standing up from his seat as he barreled towards the door to the basement. Climbing up the steps, he grabbed his coat from the railing and threw it over himself.

He didn't know where he would go, but he was being suffocated. He needed to go anywhere else at all. 

‘Bartholomew. Bartholomew Sagittarius Valentine Reid III. What a stupid fucking name. Even my funniest ideas are stupid. Why did I think writing was a good idea? Wright, that’s the only surname I’ll ever need…’

“I’m going out, mother.” He said casually as he walked past the kitchen, ignoring the woman that had gone about preparing breakfast.

She was short, thin and gaunt. Age crept towards her eyelids, shrouded in wrinkles and freckles.

“Alright, darling. Be safe out there.”

She seemed visibly excited by his willingness to go outside. It was vile, terrible, that should never have been the case. And it was all his fault. She should have been excited about him going to work, getting a girlfriend, or going out with his friends. Not going outside, not becoming more than a failure.

He felt some intense guilt, something that clawed at his heart, and it was certainly something that he couldn’t apologise for. It wasn’t pride, he just couldn’t bear to acknowledge that it was an issue at all. Because then he would feel it fully, that he was the most reprehensible, disgusting person imaginable.

He walked for a time through the suburb before reaching a crossing, watching as the stoplight flashed several colours, eventually focusing itself a terribly bright-green. Of course, as soon as he arrived, traffic would start flowing again, disallowing his crossing. Because in real life, things were as unlucky as they could bear to be.

“Excuse me, sir, are you from around here?” A soft, nascent voice broke the blaring thoughts in his head apart. He turned towards the voice, his eyes widening as he caught sight of a particularly gorgeous woman.

She was like the wind, light and airy. Her cheeks were round and soft in appearance, like she were made of clay. Her eyes were a gorgeous black, the same as her hair, and she wore a dress that resembled flower blossoms. She was the very essence of spring.

His gaze shuddered.

“Elizabeth?”

She let out a short, stifled laugh.

“My name is Keiko. But if I were to choose an English name, that might be a good pick.”

Bartholomew looked visibly dejected, even slightly embarrassed.

‘Of course, of course she’s not the same fucking woman. Because that’s not how real life works. You don’t just encounter people you made up. Why did I even think she looks similar? Am I actually racist? I really need to kill myself.’

“I’m sorry, I had a lot on my mind, I mistook you for someone else. Is there something I might help you with?”

Just because he was a basement dweller didn’t mean he couldn’t interact socially with others, even women. It wasn’t because he was an outcast that he had chosen to seclude himself from the world.

“I was wondering if you might point me out to the train station. I need to get somewhere quick, a job interview actually.”

His eyebrow visibly twitched.

“This is America, miss. We don’t use public transportation. That’s kind of our thing. Have you tried calling for an Uber?”

“An Uber? What is that?” She looked quite surprised.

‘Jesus…’

“Here, give me a second. We can share one. I was getting tired of walking anyway…”

Moreso, the walking was tiring him.

After typing the details in his phone, and a ten-to-fifteen minute waiting period elapsing, a bald-headed turkish man gestured towards the two of them. He had selected the ‘no-conversation’ option, but it turned out that it really meant ‘this guy won’t speak to you at all’.

They sat in the backseat of the Uber, Keiko carefully directing the man to where she needed to go.

Then, she turned to him, placing a hand on his shoulder as she smiled. But, to her surprise, Bartholomew shook her off.

“Sorry, please try not to touch me. I’m not very good with it, I would rather you not.”

Nausea rushed through his body once more. But he was sure he wouldn’t throw up, there simply wasn’t anything left for him to.

Keiko shirked back, visibly embarrassed. “Ah, I’m sorry. I should have asked!”

“It’s alright.” He spoke callously.

“Is it because you are not good with women?”

‘What the fuck is she talking about? Who asks something like that?’

“What, because I’m big and fat?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t mind that. Isn’t that also an American thing?”

His eye twitched.

‘This woman…’

“No, that’s not why I don’t like being touched. And I would rather not talk about the reason to a stranger.”

“Excuse me, you two-“ The Uber driver suddenly spoke out.

‘What? Why is he talking? I thought I selected ‘no-conversation’?’

“What is it?” Bartholomew replied, narrowing his brows.

“Sorry, I know you selected no-conversation. It’s just- I wanted to tell you both to brace yourselves.”

“For what?” Keiko asked.

They watched as the Uber driver pulled out a pistol, placing it in his mouth before pulling the trigger.

Blood coated the roof of the car, which unceremoniously veered off the side of the road, burying itself in a ditch.