Creative Writing Clips

His Mask

A chiseled face, an overrated cologne, and laugh that is not comparable to anything else: that is who he is. He walks into the room demanding attention, catching breaths. His stride resembles that of insensitivity, of unimaginable attainability. There’s this air to him that instantaneously creates a venomous connection that bites into your flesh and paralyzes any plan of escape you may have conducted. Momentarily a feeling of love rushes over you and makes you feel as if you’re the special one. But don’t feel special; you’re not. In fact, you’re one of many.

He prides himself on the belief that he is better than most. That he has put enough work into himself that he won’t ever have to worry about following a system like everyone else. He thinks he lives on a pathway lined with pure gold. He thinks he knows what he’s doing.

He’s 18 years old, his whole life ahead of him. He sits down at his kitchen counter and pours himself a shot of something strong. It doesn’t matter what it is tonight. It doesn’t matter at all.

He picks the glass up and allows the liquid to burn his throat on its way down. He proves to himself that he’s a man, that he can handle it. One down, so many to go.

The room around him is dark. It’s quiet. He reaches into his pocket and stares down at a screen full of messages from girls he’s dwelled on. He slams his phone down on the counter and sighs knowing it’s going to be another typical Friday night. Inside, he feels empty. Outside, he’s trying to mold himself into the ideal. But he fails to remember that beauty is only skin deep and that ugly goes down to the bone.

Outside lies a world of life, love, and promises, but these are unknown elements to him. These elements are something that seem to be in his grasp, but fate knows are also something he will never obtain.

He pours another shot and feels his phone buzz yet again.

He looks at the screen, but she’s not there. And she’s never going to be there ever again.

Another shot.

 

 

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