Fictional World

The Entitlement


The Entitlement

The entitlement is either ripening or rupturing the personal lives of people all the time. The doubts that I had on the sanity of a person cleared up automatically after almost a year and a half. This is the war between me and my sub-conscious on a topic pertaining to what makes someone an open-minded person. Let me tell you who I am before we dive into a cynicism, which in my definition is incredulity. I am Ian from an upper-middle-class family and I’m looking forward to pitching some ideas that are considered nonsensical by my peers. I believe in democracy only when the citizens rooting for democracy are aware of what it means. I listen to César Frank and I think Beethoven is over-rated. However, I mean no disrespect to the music Beethoven has put out in the world. I was told the music I listen to reflects on my personality. So, I try my best to keep myself unreadable all the time. This is one of my pity attempts. Last night, I was grounded by the police and I was almost arrested. Their loaded pistols, pointed out towards me, got my brain cells frozen and it caused my brain to almost shut down. I used to say I’m not scared of death but I knew I was a coward right away in the alleged crime scene when I had no idea whether I was about to live or die. The police were hesitating to give the replies on my carefully worded questions because they were adamantly claiming me a traitor. After further investigation, they found out I do not have any background in journalism. A political journalist, a facsimile of me, apparently had written an article on the president, threatening his life. Even though I was aware of the fact that the health of my lungs is degrading, I pulled out a cigarette and started smoking so as to calm myself down after I somehow managed to escape out from my death-zone. “Everything is alright, everything is good”, I was goofing around inside my apartment. My dog was looking at the smoke curling up to the ceiling of my room. I have locked every way into my apartment; particularly my room with a dim red lightbulb on from the inside. Even though I am not a journalist, I’m used to giving my opinions on social media. I opened my laptop with an unflicked cigarette on my mouth. As I forgot to flick the cigarette, the ash along with a tiny amount of burning tobacco dropped on my uncovered leg. Ignoring the minute pain caused by it, I proceeded to clean my emails and public posts which had political references on them. I’m still haunted by what had happened last night and I just woke up with a starving stomach. In a dithering predicament, I somehow managed to give several taps on my phone, I can hear a passive knock towards the door after an hour or maybe more; I have not been able to keep track of the time. I had no idea there is someone waiting outside of my apartment until I heard my neighbor calling my name in an unusually loud voice. “Ian!” “Ian, open up!” “Open the door, Ian!” The constant knock on my door followed by the loud voices of my neighbors caused my heart to beat faster and faster. I decided to run away from the emergency exit before I heard “FBI, open the door!”. I can see my face on every billboard with the sign ‘wanted’ imprinted on them. I am feeling exposed and I’m getting threatened by people walking past me by the strange looks on their faces. By now you must have had many questions about my personal life. One, in particular, might be ‘Do you not have a family or a girlfriend?’. I was financially independent ever since I was sixteen. So, I moved out during my late teens with many questions about my sexuality. No, I am not in a relationship. I believe love is the language that eulogizes greed of lust and possession of a living human body; backed up by the verbs like socializing and networking. Love is dead. To be more precise, love has been dead ever since the unicellular organisms with life had first evolved on earth. Every organism had to go through killing other organisms so as to survive and fit in with their own kinds. This practice is still relevant to this day. My guilty conscience, it has turned me into a pickpocket. Now, I have a few bucks in my lower right pocket of the blue denim. My nose is tracing the smell of bacon from a restaurant located a block away. I sneaked in with a smelly rug on my face. The menu had nothing under two dollars. I am heading towards the exit. To my surprise, the waiter was serving on the table very close to the exit. My hungry stomach is growling and I couldn’t resist the smell of the fried chicken. I snatched the food immediately with my left foot firm towards the door and I rushed towards the parking space. I robbed a valet and got away in a car. I knew I had to cross the border as fast as possible to get away from the crimes I’ve committed. I stole a car and then I drove off to the freeway. The media obviously did not wait to aware people of a possible serial killer. My car is slowing down. I just realized I’ve been so consumed by the fear of the false accusation and hunger that I stopped my car right outside of the police station. I am about to plead my innocence and I do not know who I am anymore. The policemen are pointing their pistols out towards me. The resemblance is uncanny to that of the previous night. “Officer Shawn put your hands in the air.” They are calling me Shawn instead of my real name ‘Ian’ with the title ‘officer’ in the front. “Officer, please co-operate with us. You’ve been involved in a felony with multiple identities.” “I am here to claim my innocence.” “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court.”

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