"You're leaving again?"
I've lost count of the times he's asked me this question.
"There's no point in sticking around a place where you sit mired in frustration and self-pity every night. Might as well look to the next high."
The spider strokes his long beard. He squints.
"You would truly allow the actions of one person to drive you away? You wouldn't even attempt to advocate for yourself?"
"Advocate myself to whom? I've no power in that domain. Nepotism drives the social circle, and I've no clout with this group."
My discomfort is my own. I'm used to being the upset outlier. There's no reason to cause a fuss about something I know won't get resolved. It just makes the room uncomfortable for everyone else.
"What of the people whose presence has come to fill you with joy? What of your friends?"
I flip the page. "What friends?"
The spider bellows out a deep, frustrated sigh.
"You have friends, child. You spoke with them, did favors for them, played with them—you made friends. You wouldn't abandon them, would you?"
I don't look up from the book. "They won't care. In fact, they won't even think about it."
"Yes, they will. They will think, and they will worry about their missing—"
"Enough to ask where I am?" This is the part of the argument that stings. "Enough to seek me out and inquire about my well-being, or to ensure that I'm happy and enjoying life? You think they care that much?"
The spider grimaces. "They care."
I glare at the page. "No. They do not."
This is the part that hurts, the part where I remind myself—
"My presence is not a necessity or even a desire. My own self-worth is not a reflection of how much value others see in me. I am tolerable. Replaceable. I can disappear and never come back and the Earth will turn all the same.
"I do not have those that worry for me, who relate to me. None that love me, anyway. My well-being is a tool. A means to an end. My hubris is in a foolish desire to lend myself to others, well aware that I am to be discarded in the same manner as I've always been—bullied, ignored, and forgotten. I do not have those who invest in me. There is no one who seeks to put a part of themselves in my hands."
The spider barks. "Once again, you fall prey to your own lack of self-worth! You refuse to advocate for yourself if only to keep a faulty peace for those who you believe don't desire you anyway! And then you slink away, coward that you are, to wallow in the mire of your own self-pity. Are you truly so weak to change the narrative of your life?"
I gently set my book down, still open. I feel the parchment. It is smooth, but sandy. Pleasant. Stimulating.
"I'm tired of fighting something I've never been able to win. I am the one who seeks out friendship. I am the one who has changed themselves, for better or for worse, to make others comfortable with my presence. I have shrunken, and quieted, and kept a leash over my own psychotic mind so that I may have a place within the circles I've managed to infiltrate. But I am an invader. My place within that ecosystem does not exist, no matter how hard I try to make it so. And no one will make it for me. My struggle is futile. It always is."
The spider wears a face of grief. Once again, I've worn the conversation to a halt. He will pester me no more. "What will do you next, if I may ask?"
I pick my book back up. I've yet to read a single word on the page. The parchment is wet. "I'll look again."
Comments (0)
See all