leo roper. / district 9 (fin)

if i don't exist
i'll be louder when i state my case

if i don't insist
am in danger that i would fade away?

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    Yours was a rocky prologue, and you know this because it was filled with screaming matches between parents who never should have gotten married let alone should have had a child. But even to this day, those are tall tales of which you remember very little, mostly passed along second-handedly by your grandmother who never had a nice thing to say about your mother. For your father thought it was just too much to bear, rehashing the past and everything he'd lost. In his mind, he’d loved her and she’d left him, forever turning her into the one that got away.

    After her fleeing, it turned their two income household into one, effectively rendering any time home your father spent only a few hours in the night between shifts at work so he could put food in your belly and support his new nasty habit of drinking himself to sleep. So those few hours you saw him were spent watching him in his recliner, legs kicked back, and a glass of whiskey in his hand.

    By the time you turned seven, you were taking care of your and your father. Putting him to bed each night after he’d drank a bottle and a half. Never did he raise a hand to his son, nor yell or scream, or scare you as any other drunk very well could. No, your father only wanted to dull the ache, and in some twisted way, you understood. So, you made your own dinners. You read your own bedtime stories. And you tucked yourself in each night.

    It wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, but if you had learned anything in your youth it was that you make the best of the hand you're dealt. Your father was a good man, a hard-working man who broke his back to put food on the table after your mother split, so if you had to pick up the slack, then that was what you were going to do. It could have been a lot worse.

    Having to be the adult at home, you acted out as much as you could during school—only in little ways for it was your menial chance at freedom. You were always sly enough to make a fart noise as the teacher talked, and somehow never get caught. You could let the classes’ pet out during lunch and seemingly never get blamed. You were who they called for a good time, sought out for a nice laugh, or thought of when it came time to label clown in the yearbook. And you wore the title with a grin from ear to ear plastered across your face, another joke or witty quip lying in wait atop the tip of your tongue.

    Even still, you're smart and you know it. Academics always come so easily to you, but the lack of effort only frees up more time for you to mess around, to insert yourself into sticky situations just for the thrill. For the dramatics, the attention of it all. Having never received any at home, you crave it in the face of your peers, secretly begging to be liked beneath this easy, breezy facade you wear so well.

    Puberty was kind to you, offering up silky locks and a perfect smile, you coast through life. Not on your good looks—make no mistake you're not the prettiest rose in the garden—but on your personality. On your ability to morph before those around you become exactly who they want you to be. The jester. The butt of the joke. The yes man. But much to your dismay, you remain average still. Likable—lovable, even—but no better than the rest.

    But the desire to find something magical, to find some greater purpose than that of class clown has always been in the back of your mind. You love your fun, but there has to be more than just this.

    If he were to pin-point the first spark of his obsession in all things mystical, supernatural, paranormal, it would track back to the day he realized while it may very well be real, he’d never see it first hand. Never experience it, witness it with his own eyes, unless you went out and hunted it down. So you saved up, took odd jobs, working for next to nothing for nearly eight months until you could afford that polaroid camera you'd been eying at Gus's.

    You had a plan. Buy it. Pick the oldest, creepiest building in town and spend the night alone. They say you never forget your first love, and for you, it was hunting ghosts. The frightening excitement at hearing a disembodied voice, or the discovery of a floating orb caught on camera. There’s nothing else quite like it, experiencing it first-hand—proving it’s all real.

    Even though such an upbringing as yours has made you cynical, it never squashed your imagination, or rather, your ability to believe and your knack for rallying those around you to your cause. It’s why people ask to join you on your hunts now, why they scoot to the edges of their chairs as you recall your last spooky outing, why your photos are revered and highly sought after. You’re convincing. And now, with every waking second, you seek that same validation, that same rush of finding evidence and sharing it, spreading your same belief to anyone who will listen. No doubt because you never received any as a child. Recognition, that is.

    You'd break your back to make yourself the center of attention now, no matter what. With your quick wit and sharp-as-a-tack humor, you float through crowds as if you’re the life of the party, meant to arouse chaos and to make sure everyone is enamored by your long-winded rants and hilarious tirades, enraptured by your ghostly tales and as equally obsessed as you.

    And you wouldn’t have it any other way. Because if they believe, too, then at least you're finally no longer alone. 

being young is one thing
but i want to be young for something