Flash Fiction: The Child Who Didn’t Know Love

I want to be ice.

Pretty to stare at, cold to touch. Transparent to look through but distorted to look at. Solid, but easily shattered under extreme pressure.

I want to be painful to love. Selfish, I know, but that’s the easiest way to maintain control. Equal playing fields don’t exactly exist so I want to freeze over anyone that leans too close to my soul. When they think of me, I want them to hear the saddest of songs as they cry out in self-pity. I want them to hate me but also want me, desperately want me as they longingly glance over at my uncaring and distracted self. I want them to feel guilty when I make a mistake. To need me so unconditionally even holding my body isn’t enough to satisfy them.

I want them to hurt. I want them to care, so I can disappoint them. Little old emotionally detached me wants to turn them into ice too. I’ll create a world of people who can’t be sad. Who can’t be used for a night then awkwardly passed back into the acquaintance/friendzone. Warmth won’t be able to be drained because they’ll be absolutely nothing to take. Only a numb, dead sensation of disinterest. If they want to leave us, we won’t mind. If they want to be with us, same story. I’ll be, no, we’ll be unstoppable.

And that’s fine. It’s fine. We won’t be able to experience positivity but that’s fine. The concept of not holding onto sorrow or grief or rejection should be enough to make it fine. Sure, we might become emotionless sacs of hollow supressed rage with no ability to form any sort of connection with anything – but it really is fine. I think it will be fine.

It has to be better than these constant waves of trauma. This… pain. Emotions must be overrated. They aren’t worth having at all.

We won’t have to feel.

I won’t have to feel.

I can’t want to feel.

I don’t feel.

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