Alone
Hello, guys! This is my first submission in a long while, and my first clean submission.
I've been meaning to write something for a while, but...well, ready below and I think you'll understand. ;)
I finally found a moment where I hadn't set myself up to do other distracting things, and just sat to it. It's a short little thing, but I wrote it from the heart. I hope it'll speak to you. Remember, though! You're never /really/ alone out there. There's always someone going through the same problem. Someone who knows exactly how you feel. So take heart in that; you're not /really/ alone!
EDIT: Referenced song is "Here I go Again" by Whitesnake.
Sitting in his apartment, he stared at his computer's monitor. Yet again. He wasn't particularly paying attention to the jiggling breasts on the right side of the screen, the oiled-up asses bouncing atop hard dicks at the bottom, or even the sight he'd come to see in the first place: some lady being anally violated by an unhealthily-hung chap.
"Here I go again, on my own..." he sang with an ironic, distasteful drip in his voice, "going down the only road I've ever known..." He sighed and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "Like a drifter I was born to walk alone," he continued wistfully. He just sat there in silence, listening for the echo he was sure ought to be there in a cold, empty apartment. But apparently, he wasn't even worth a mocking echo.
"Alone...alone....alone..." sounded the echo in his mind. "Forever alone. You'll be like this for the rest of your life," cooed the succubus over his shoulder, "doomed to sit at a cool desk in a nice, comfy chair, jerking off pathetically until your heart eventually gives out and you pass on. I'll bet they even find you a week later, wreaking of death with flies eating your corpse and your dick still in your hand." He turned to face the cruel mistress, but there was nothing there. It had been another figment of his tortured imagination, of course. He wasn't even worth that.
He had been like this for a long time, he figured. He remembered back to a time when he had friends. Back when people may not have liked him all that much, but at least he had one or two friends he could spend his afternoons and weekends with... These days, he had no friends. Sure, his colleagues at work seemed to like him alright, and he went out with them to the occasional happy hour. Outside of that and the occasional water-cooler moment, however, he never saw nor heard hide nor hair. Even his coworker who lived in the same apartment complex never came over to hang out or visit.
He somehow found himself staring into his empty refrigerator. There was nothing in it but a pack and a half of bacon, a bottle of fine wine he'd bought for his mother's birthday but never ended up taking over, and an old pizza box with nothing in it but dried crusts, little bits of air-hardened cheese and congealed sauce still clinging to the rock-hard bread. A 2L bottle of soda, sure, but that wasn't worth anything when one was hungry. And that was probably the worst part: he wasn't really that hungry... he was just so bored and alone that he ate and ate and ate just to have something to fill the time....something to fill the hole.
He closed the refrigerator and popped open the freezer. "Frozen burritos to the rescue," he said sardonically, grabbing a couple and setting them in the microwave with care. He was always careful with food. It was his cocaine, after all...couldn't let even a little go to waste, it was the only thing keeping him going. As the microwave buzzed, he realized how pathetic it was that he was picking between that and the pepperoni pizza pockets; he had fish and chicken fillets, sitting there and waiting to be thawed and cooked for an enjoyable, fulfilling, and significantly-more-nutritious meal. Dried beans sat uselessly in the cabinet, passed over for the more convenient options. Even with his drug, he couldn't be bothered to put too much effort in; no that would take too much time away from his /other/ drug.
Beeping snapped him out of his reverie, and he opened up the microwave and flipping the burrito over for the next round of nukage. He had some money. He could go out to the bar right now and start making friends. But that would require leaving his apartment and going where there were people and alcohol, two things he was simply no good with. He just didn't drink; nothing about it appealed to him. It just wasn't his thing. No, instead, he took his steaming, cheap burrito over to his desk and sat back down. He stared at the lower right corner of the screen, praying that /anyone/ would come on and end his lonely misery. Clothes sat piled on the floor of his closet, waiting to be taken to the laundry. But that would require his leaving his drug and being useful.
Day in and day out. The same battle waged in his mind. The same self-loathing washed over him as he engaged in this vicious feedback loop of drowning his misery and hating himself for letting his addictions keep him from happiness. Addictions he knew he'd never find treatment for because seeking them out would not only require him to leave his drugs for a little while, but potentially even give them up for good. And he just couldn't see that ever happening. And so there he sat. Again and again, day after day, week after week, he sat there. Alone.