Nothing Ever Happens

Lately, I’ve been waiting.

Growing up, I’d occasionally feel that something was missing.

I would eat, even though I wasn’t hungry.

I’d dream of riches, even though I didn’t want to buy anything.

I’d compare myself to people I didn’t even want to be.

As the years went by, the feeling went from periodic to persistent. I’d constantly be thinking to myself: surely this can’t be all there is to it… right?

It got so bad, eventually I’d refuse to go to bed. Turning in for the night felt like conceding another uneventful day, and I hated losing. Still do.

I’m not ashamed to admit that sometimes, I’d cry alone in my room.

The worst part is, no one seems to understand where I’m coming from. They tell me “Boredom is good, because it lets you be creative!” Their solutions never apply to me. “Go to the gym, get a girlfriend, join a club!”

I tried all of those things, yet the feeling persisted.

I quickly figured out why nothing anyone told me worked: they were abiding by the structures provided to them by the world. They found purpose in pop culture, politics and relationships.

However, I’ve always dreamed of something bigger. The only way something can matter, is if it needs to be done. When you’ve given up so hard that even your own life doesn’t matter… well, nothing matters.

And so, I’ve been waiting.

When will my notebook of death fall from the sky? When will an alien parasite burrow into my arm?

I know what you’ll say- what they all say: “you’re young, you’ll figure it out.”

What they don’t understand, is that I figured it out long ago; they simply don’t like the answer.

What they also don’t understand, is that I am old. Okay, please bear with me, because this is going to sound ridiculous: I determine what should happen to me and when, by comparing myself to my favourite fictional characters. Every birthday, I’d think childish things, like I still have two years before I’m their age. That’s a long time; something’s bound to happen!

Now that I’m in my final days of high school, I can safely say that I hoped in vain.

I’m scared. Maybe I’m waiting for something that’s never coming…

"Kugo. Hey, Kugo!"

Really, I should have introduced myself.

My name is Sato Kugo. I’m eighteen years old, and until two days ago, I lived in Tokyo, Japan.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been hearing a voice inside my head.

It's safe to say that I was a strange kid, since I would constantly talk to myself. And yes, I do mean constantly. I kept asking questions to what seemed like no one and would then actually wait for an answer. My parents would often shoot me worried glances. They thought I didn't notice, but I knew they were scared of me.

When I was only six years old, they dramatically confronted me. But, hey, that was the Sato family; always turning the mundane into a Shakespearean play. I hated it.

When I told them I was speaking to the man in my mind, they took about as poorly as you'd think. My mother started screaming something about demons and my father was already lacing up his shoes. We all promptly left the house and drove to the nearest psychiatric hospital.

Following extensive tests and evaluations, I was predictably diagnosed as a schizophrenic.

As a result, I grew up scared and paranoid. After my diagnosis, I felt I couldn’t trust anything around me, not even my own senses.

Now, going way, way back- back to when I was been born- my parents had gifted me a teddy bear, which I had named Shinichi. Shinichi became my best and only friend.

However, when I was twelve years old, I began to suspect that he was the source of the voice. I maintained my distance from him from thereon out.

But he kept calling to me. He didn't actually say anything, but I knew he wanted me to look at him. Most nights, I could hardly sleep. I was constantly terrified that Shinichi would crawl inside my bed. I know it sounds stupid, but at the time, it felt very real. Every morning, the first thing I'd do when I wake up, was check if Shinichi was still there.

He always was. He'd sit there on my nightstand, beckoning me forward.

One evening, I reached my breaking point. I stabbed Shinichi to death and slashed his throat for good measure. His stuffing flew everywhere, littering this psychological torture chamber that doubled as my bedroom.

Then, I hid under my covers and waited for the police to arrive. Surely, I was in trouble, right? I mean, I had just committed a murder...

I didn’t hear the voice for the rest of that night.

It returned when I awoke. "Good morning, Kugo," it had said to me.

The only consequence of my murder was my parents' anger. They told me I'd just destroyed a piece of my history.

The voice never stopped insisting it was real, but I knew better. This was an inescapable illusion.

I felt trapped in my own mind.

I guess my problems made me look really strange to the outside world, because I was severely bullied by my classmates. In elementary school, they called me a freak and would mockingly ask me if I could speak to ghosts. In middle school, they matured along with their insults. They said I talked to perverts in my head, because I couldn't get enough of adult men.

I stopped going to school when I turned thirteen.

The bullying turned me into a recluse. My parents tried everything to get me to go outside, but to no avail.

I spent my days cooped up inside my room, working through textbooks, playing video games and solving puzzles. My hair grew long and my skin pale.

I may not have attended school, but I had an insatiable thirst for knowledge. I read anything I could get my hands on and learned all sorts of skills. When I was fifteen, I made the decision to join high school. By that point, I was far more academically advanced than the average student.

Now, by all accounts, my life was going well. I could speak five languages, and I was about to graduate with a 4.0 GPA. Plus, I’d already received a preliminary acceptance to the University of Tokyo.

And yet, I still felt like something was missing. What had once been a sense of anticipation was slowly turning into a persistent sadness.

At least, that’s how I felt until two days ago. So, why did I say I lived in Tokyo until two days ago? Well, here's what happened...