𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

𝙎𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮 ⋆ [just write it]

It's not always so simple.

When you're a kid the world doesn't seem so rough. It's glossy. Smooth.
We seem to think that everything is easier than it actually is. But it's not.

You ever get that feeling in your gut that something isn't the way you remember it? It's painful.
Nostalgia can be a dangerous thing.

Ever since I was young, I knew what I wanted to do. Who I wanted to be.
I wanted to be like my uncle.

He's one of those people who love his work. 'Live to work rather than work to live,' kind of guys.
I think it was his passion for his job that made me admire him; that made me want to be just like him. And so I devoted myself into the industry.

I spent every minute outside of school focused on my future. It felt good to have an ambition. Lots of kids my age had no clue what they wanted to do after graduation. But I think somewhere the scale tipped. Slowly, I was doing this for my uncle. Not for myself.

Which is what makes it so hard to say no.

The world is not smooth. And it's definitely not dipped in gloss.

Anyone who saw my change in behavior knew what I was thinking. But I couldn't let them know. It wasn't a matter of, "But this is what you've always wanted to do." It was a matter of life or death.

Now I wanted to be like the other kids. I didn't want to know what I wanted to do after school. I wanted to be clueless. What is it they say ignorance is? Bliss. I needed that.

But it's hard to want to be like the other kids when you're not a kid anymore.

I had convinced myself that my opportunity had passed.
It was too late. So just keep going.

I can always leave if I want to.

Right?

It's not always so simple.

Still, there was some passion left inside of me. There was still a light I wanted to reach.
I had been chasing this goal ever since I was a kid. And I hate the feeling of deficiency.

But I should have listened to my head.

Maybe I would be somewhere better.
Maybe I would be happy.
Maybe I wouldn't be holding a gun in my hand.

Not this.
I didn't think it would take this to reach my goal.

I can't do it.
I don't want to do it.

Why are you making me do this?

"I didn't know,"

No.

"I didn't think,"

Please stop.

"Please, don't make me do this."

"But this is what you want."

No.
No, I don't want this.

"You have to do it." His voice sounds like gravel under tires.

Pop.
Crack.

"Stop shaking." He tells me.

"I can't."

I can't even move right now. My feet feel deep in cement, like the floor is molding to my shape.

I feel hollow.
But something is dragging me down.

My hands feel heavy with the weight of murder.

"Pull the trigger."

I don't want to.