Don't You Care? | Teen Ink

Don't You Care?

January 4, 2019
By Crashlyn GOLD, Hemet, California
Crashlyn GOLD, Hemet, California
12 articles 0 photos 2 comments

Why do you do this? Don’t you understand what you’ve done to yourself? You saw an opportunity for love and flew like a dove to an olive branch, hoping your new parter would be the answer to all of your problems, all of your battles you’ve fought within your mind. The voice you have been cursed with tells you this is it. He is the one to change your disgusting habit. What your sick, cruel voice hides is that your “habit” is exactly what will crush the next victim’s being. Your callous ways have claimed a new soul as the girl you had hoped to love cries to herself, nose red with tear-drenched, flushed cheeks to match. You invited her into your aberrant mind, deciding the voice in your head is wrong about what it tells you. “Sociopath,” it claims. You respond, “Never. I can feel love and I can be loved. You. Are. Wrong… this time.” your voice, in an oddly familiar sense, replies, “You will be the cause of her tears.”

You shake your head, attempting to dispel the thoughts you direct and process in an instant. You see her smile and think, “this is it. This is the time I am finally right.” Later that day, a single month away from the night she begins crying herself to sleep, you get a text from your new exclaimed love of your life: “Hey”. You stare at the text for just seconds before you hear, “What does she want? Your pathetic attention? You are sick of her already. That means I was right.” You type back a reply, biting back the hint of annoyance that begins creeping within your mind, attacking the affection you held for her like a cancer resisting chemo. “Hey there :)”. You add a smile for good measure, fighting against your urge to ignore her message.

A week later, you check your phone, seeing 2 missed calls from your supposed savior. You sigh angrily, the annoyance that was once a simple disease now transforming into a rotting corpse, rooting itself into your life and diminishing any feelings you could possibly have for your supposed partner. But she doesn’t see your horrid thoughts or decaying patience. You are a good actor. You press “call back” when your voice seemingly smirks and says, “Didn’t I tell you this would happen again? Honestly, you’d might as well stop trying. All you’re doing is pretending now. High-functioning sociopaths can’t feel the way others can and acting as such will get you nothing.” You cringe, feeling the words in your mind cut deeply within your being, leaving a gash of flesh that reveals the secret you’ve ignored for years: you are not like everyone else. She answers the phone, “Hey, I was worried about you. What’re you doing right now? I love you.” You hold back a snide remark and choose to say, “Sorry, I lost my phone earlier. I love you too.” Your voice chimes in once again, “Aren’t you sick of saying what others want to hear? You’re only saying what you know you should say, not what you want to.”

You’re at dinner with your significant other, irritably ignoring her sad rant about how she feels. You are disgusted with your disturbing thoughts as she says, (as if you are truly listening), “It wasn’t your fault for not answering the phone, I just overreacted a bit and I couldn’t get the stupid thought out of my head that you were mad. Anyway, ignore me, I’m just being a downer.” Ugh. The attention-seeking words you hear light a small spark to your deteriorating composure. You clench your teeth, disregarding your disgust with human behavior, and respond the way a caring girlfriend should, “No, angel, you had a right to worry.” That sounds like something a non-sociopathic person would say. “I feel so stupid for forgetting where I put my phone again so I understand why you were concerned.” Sure, blame yourself for her problem. That’s what normal people do. “I could never be mad at you, cutie. If you’re feeling down, I’m here to talk always. You know that.” Throw in a fake smile; it works overtime. That’s it. Show your fake concern with her obsessive worry. That’s exactly how other people act. Your voice hears the distaste in your tone and replies with a sickly grin, “Back to acting? Mimicking normal people behavior? We both know that’s not you. Just drop her, you know deep down she means nothing to you.”


You lie on your bed, the same song playing on repeat as your phone dings with messages, impeding your solace. You take a breath and check your phone, reading the messages displayed upon the piercing light of your screen: “Hey” “We haven’t talked in a few days. Is something wrong?” “Did I do something?” “I know I was really annoying. I’m really sorry.” “Can you just respond please?” Your voice manages a chuckle, “Do you realize it yet? The annoyance you’ve spawned within yourself that you’ve directed towards her very being?” You lock the screen of your phone, ignoring the messages she continues to send you. Why are you like this? Why can’t you just say you’re not interested anymore? Are you afraid of being wrong? Are you simply incapable of feeling? You already know empathy is out of the question.

It was January 12th, a normal day at school where the people you sat with at lunch, deserving of the title of friend if you were capable of having such, talked about their illicit extracurricular activities after school. Your friend (?), Diana, said “I don’t appreciate the topic you’re discussing; my brother died of an overdose six years ago.” You, being the insensitive sociopath you are, said, “Diana, that was obviously in the past. I’ve seen you try the same things that got him killed so why should our friends not be able to talk about their hobbies that just so happened to have killed your brother?” She obviously did not see the situation the same way you did. Her best friend at the time scoffed, “What are you? Some kind of sociopath? She has feelings you sicko.” Ouch. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that was an attempt at an insult. Maybe you should have stuck to the script.

The truth is, you have no explanation for your constant disregard for human emotions. Except anger. That is an apparent one you can’t seem to shake. Someone chews sloppily, their lips smack as they eat their $3 burger that will most likely lead to clogged arteries and cancer in a few years. You flinch with each sound of saliva being swallowed as you try to breathe deeply, recalling that a normal person would never react the way you wish you could. You keep your dark thoughts at bay by sliding in earphones and blaring that very same song you find solitude in on repeat. Yes, anger is an issue for you, as you have admitted. But empathy, consideration for others, compassion for any being but animals, and the morals you should have developed as you aged are not traits you experience like a normal mortal would. You find human emotions to be weak, impaling, pointless, and irrelevant. If all you have to do to pass by life is pretend to have emotions, (Which is exhausting by the way), then what is the point in actually experiencing them?


The girl you had first liked now stares at her phone, praying to the god she does not believe in that you will just reply to her barrage of messages. You delete her number from your phone, deciding that avoiding her evident confrontation is simpler than faking the pathetic apology she craves. She sobs into her already tear-stained pillow, filling the pillowcase with her sorrows as she tries to reason with what she could have done to make you disappear. In reality, she did nothing wrong. You are the sick one. You are the monster that made her and all of the other failed experiments of love feel emotional pain. You are the disgusting, morose, repulsive, repugnant, gruesome excuse of a human being that led these people to a spiral of depression and questions they will never find the answer to. Your voice finally says what you know to expect, “Wasn’t I right?”

Yet after acknowledging the agony you have cursed others to experience, you still don’t feel a drop of remorse.

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