A World Where Fantasy Is Dead

Groaning, grumbling, and mumbling in annoyance, I left the building where my therapist's office was.

My mood was in an even worse state now than it was when I had come here early this morning, if that was somehow even possible.

Why do I even care to see her three times a week?

That woman irritates me to no end. She's probably the only woman – no, the only human in existence who frustrates me more than my mother.

I should definitely consider changing my therapist.

Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I can't bring myself to do it. It feels like I've known her for a lifetime. Which, in a way, is accurate, considering I've been seeing her since I was a kid.

Shaking my head in exasperation, I took out a penny from my pocket and placed it on my left hand. Then, swiftly waving my right hand over it, I made the coin disappear into thin air.

I did magic.

…Not really, though.

In reality, it was just a simple sleight of hand. I deftly picked up the coin with my right hand while waving it over and then discreetly tucked it into the strap of my watch.

It was my own version of the famous vanishing coin trick. Silly as it may sound, performing magic tricks like this always calms my nerves. It puts me at ease.

I love magic. Actually, saying that I love it might be an understatement. I live for it. Or at least I used to when I was a kid.

I was only eight when Sarah, my then-best friend, introduced me to a fantasy novel. I can't recall the name of that novel now, but I can never forget the magical feeling it stirred within me.

It was incredible.

Sarah and I then started reading more high fantasy together. Perhaps it was because we started reading at such a young age that we grew up to be such intellectuals.

Yes, I take pride in my intelligence.

While for Sarah, reading fantasy was merely a form of entertainment, for me… it was everything. I was enchanted by the mesmerizing worlds of swords and dragons.

I loved how each story showed a unique magical world, yet at their core, they all told similar tales.

A protagonist whose life was about to change would get a call of adventure. He would heed the call, go on a quest with his friends, and ultimately save or alter the world.

The adventurous spirit of it all made me fall in love with fantasy stories. It made me want to go on my own adventures! It made me yearn to use magic myself!

So, I began learning magic tricks. Though deep down, I knew it wasn't real magic, I still found joy in performing my tricks.

And I especially enjoyed the look of awe and shock on Sarah's face when I showed her my latest tricks. I suppose I always enjoyed impressing her more than I cared to admit.

The both of us would also embark on little 'adventures' in the park, searching for buried 'treasure' or making up fake, elaborate scenarios to entertain ourselves.

Looking back at it all, I think I now realize it was all just a means of escape for me—a coping mechanism.

Things were never easy for me at home. My mother, for as long as I could remember, hated me. Why? I have no idea to this day. Maybe she just never liked me. Nothing I did was ever enough for her.

Following her example, my siblings also bullied me. My father had always been passive, so he never voiced any concerns for me either.

Perhaps my mind crafted those false fantasies as a means of temporary escape from my toxic household.

It started like that. It started as innocent fun. But then, after one day… all those fantasies started becoming reality, at least for me.

I began seeing real monsters prowling through city streets and people using real magic by summoning some kinds of mystical cards.

The weird thing was no one else ever noticed anything unusual. Everyone continued their day-to-day life as if there were no monsters wreaking havoc right in front of them!

Of course, how would anyone have noticed since it was all in my head?

I tried telling adults around me, telling them that monsters were as real as magic, but all of that was being kept hidden from the general public by elitists.

I tried telling them that the real world was not as real as it may seem. Everything was just an intricate illusion designed to keep people in check – like a herd of sheep locked in a prison.

Naturally, no one believed a word I said. Everyone, even Sarah at first, dismissed my claims, thinking I was playing with them.

You know, the typical eighth-grade syndrome most children go through.

However, my spiraling behavior soon became overwhelming. I looked and sounded as if I was descending into madness. Because I was.

I ranted about some government conspiracies and secret societies. Complete nonsense, basically. In fact, at times, I even tried hurting myself by cutting my wrists with a kitchen knife.

That was the last straw. Finally, my parents had to take me to a psychiatrist. There, it was revealed that I was suffering from a crippling case of schizotypal personality disorder.

Basically, I suffered from hallucinations and severe detachment from reality, making it difficult for me to distinguish what was real and what was fiction.

On top of that, I had magical thinking and paranoia. Forming long-lasting, meaningful relationships was also difficult for me because of this very reason. Because I was paranoid… and weird.

Needless to say, I was fun to talk to at parties.

Now, after years and years of grueling psychotherapy sessions, I've made full clinical recovery.

While I no longer experience hallucinations, I still have to take medications. According to my therapist, I'll be on meds for the rest of my life.

I've pieced together the fractured fragments of my broken mind to stop my descent into madness. I'm an average, functional teenager now.

I have recovered. But I doubt I'll ever heal.

Why? Because life… real life… is mundane. Boring.

Nothing interesting ever happens in this world. Each day is just a carbon copy of the last – an endless cycle of monotonous existence.

Wake up, go to school, return home, sleep, repeat.

And college? It would be more of the same. Corporate life? That would be even worse.

Everything is so tediously predictable and dreadfully dull. Boring!

Earlier, when I told Colleen I was happy, I lied. How could I be happy when there's nothing in this world to be happy about?

Everyone moves through life like programmed drones, blissfully unaware that they are puppets dancing on the palms of the authorities.

Or perhaps some are aware but choose to remain complacent, allowing the top one percent of the population to dictate their pathetic lives.

The real world is just a colossal machine, and we're all just cogs in its relentless mechanism. How can I find happiness knowing I'll be just another gear in the corrupted system?

As a child, I naively believed that growing up would be exciting. It would be fun. How wrong I was.

There's no fun in adulthood, no thrill of adventure. It's merely an unending cycle, devoid of wonder.

The real world is a place where fantasy has long been dead.

You know when I was truly happy? When I was lost in my hallucinations. Yes, I know those weren't real, but I found solace in them.

Sure, I was going mad, but there was a strange joy in believing that monsters and magic were real. There was joy in knowing that there was more to the world than what meets the eye.

There was a sense of wonder and adventure.

Now that I know it was all a lie, I can't help but feel bitter resentment. I loathe magic for not being real as much as I love it.

Yet, it's my magic tricks that offer me a semblance of peace. Without them, I fear I would actually go mad from sheer boredom.

"Hey, Kay! Here! Look here!"

After exiting the building and stepping onto the bustling sidewalk, I heard a familiar crisp voice calling out to me from a distance.

I knew instantly who it was. I mean, aside from the fact that I hear this voice almost daily, there aren't many people who call me Kay.

Sighing softly, I turned around and scanned the street in front of me. There, parked in front of a busy open restaurant, was a familiar golden brown Civic.

Peering out from the car window was a handsome young man, his tawny hair dancing in the morning breeze as he waved in my direction enthusiastically.

The sunlight bathed him in a warm glow, filtering through the lush canopy of a nearby sidewalk tree as though the world itself wanted him in the spotlight.

That was Alex Myers. His dark brown eyes lit up as soon as our gazes met, and he began waving at me even more fervently.

"I see you, idiot," I muttered under my breath as I made my way toward him.

Crossing the busy street, I reached the car and slid into the backseat without a word.

I didn't bother going for the front passenger seat because I knew who would be there.

And as expected, there she was, sitting proudly beside Alex. She was a brunette beauty in her teens with a stunning, slender figure and a complexion as fair and pure as alabaster.

That was Sarah Irvine.

Her dark brown hair cascaded down her shoulders in gentle curls, framing her already beautiful face. A touch of makeup – dark eyeshadow and red lipstick – accentuated her delicate features, enhancing her natural beauty.

She had vibrant green eyes, the same as mine, though hers sparkled brightly while mine were dull.

She wore black stockings paired with mini shorts that teased a glimpse of skin on her thighs, along with a cute blue top to match Alex's T-shirt.

Alex, by the way, always managed to look sharp with his impeccable fashion sense. Even today, dressed in a sleek blue polo shirt and white jeans accessorized with a silver chain and signet rings, he exuded effortless charm.

Despite not coming from a wealthy family, unlike me, he dressed like old money.

Once again, I was reminded of how different he was from me. Or rather, how different I was from these two.

Although all three of us were nerds, they had outgrown their nerdy phase. I had not.

For instance, just today, I was wearing a black superhero t-shirt paired with matching slacks and red sneakers, looking bizarrely out of place with them.

Hey, in my defense, I don't have a drop-dead hot body to show off in tight clothing like Alex does! Yes, I've started hitting the gym, but I was still a bit chubby.

I caught my reflection in the window glass from the corner of my eye and sighed. Dark circles lingered under my eyes, and faint acne scars dotted my cheeks.

I had accepted that I could never be like him. I couldn't look like him. I couldn't boast washboard abs or smooth skin like his.

But you know what? I didn't care. I had stopped caring about such things months ago.

As if sensing my discomfort, Sarah turned around to face me. I glanced at the light freckles sprinkled over her nose, highlighting her fair skin, and paused as she spoke:

"How was the session?" she asked, as if the sour expression on my face wasn't indication enough.

"It was fine," I lied. I'm good at lying. It's better to lie and say you're OK than to explain what's wrong with you.

Unfortunately, these two knew me well enough not to take my words at face value.

"Well, that's good then," Alex commented, starting the engine. He glanced at me through the rearview mirror, his tone warm, almost like a protective older brother. "Do you want to grab a sandwich from your favorite BK drive-thru before heading to school?"

Why did he always have to act like this? Like I was a child in need of his care? I couldn't even get mad at him for it!

"No," I replied curtly. "Let's just go, or we'll be late for school."

Alex shrugged and exchanged a glance with Sarah, who gave him a subtle look that seemed to say, 'Let him be, he'll be okay.'

Tsk, damn it! I'm right here! Don't exchange looks about me! I hate that, too! Both of them always act like this, always fussing over me as if I was a kid!