When A Sociopath Loves

.3.

It's my birthday.

I go into the living room and sit cross-legged in front of the coffee table. This is a part of my birthday ritual: there is a single candle lit in the center of the cake. Who placed it there? Oh, yes. I did. I close my eyes and make a wish. I blow the candle out. “What did you wish for?” I ask as soon as I open my eyes.

Really there’s only one thing to wish for—a magic spell that will allow me to run free in his arms like a wild animal, but I never make that wish because it’s impossible.

It's like wishing that mermaids and dragons and unicorns were real. But they ARE real! Instead I wish for something more likely than a magic spell. Something less likely to make us both sad. “World peace,” I say to myself.

Three slices of cake later, I start jumping daily routine: journaling. I think about him, write about him. I print out the pictures I sneaked of his porcelain face and timid body on my Polaroid printer, and stick them into my journal. Sociopaths aren't supposed to feel this way. What's wrong with me? I thought. Why shouldn't I? I thought.

After another slice of cake, I stop decorating the pages with the glitter that glistened down his eyes like the sparks between two neurotransmitters. Now, what is THAT supposed to me?

After making my bed, cozy enough to let me dream about his tight embrace around my limp body, I slide into deep slumber, trying not to give much into the episodes of hyperactivity nagging my body to not to take the rest it deserves after a hectic day.

...Ray.

All in all, not a bad way to spend your eighteenth birthday.