I have read countless books in my non-existence. I have read them all. Books of knowledge. Psychology. Philosophy. Science. History. I have read all the greatest works of literature. Romeo and Juliet. Othello. Odysseus. And I have read many novels, from a variety of genres. Mystery. Adventure. Romance.
No matter how many books I read, I was never satisfied. I did not acquire the sense of accomplishment when I read a particularly large tome. I did not get excited that I had reached the climax of a story. I never understood a character completely, not able to relate to their feelings.
No matter how many pages I turned, I could not fill the empty void where my heart lay.
Yet, I kept on reading. I held on to some ridiculous hope that If I kept on reading, that if I read and read and read, I would somehow gain the key back to my heart. I would somehow have the thing I covet most. I would have emotions. I dreamt of a happy ending for myself, dreamt I would get a happy ending like the endings in the fairytales I read.
Right when the plan seemed to work, that silver-haired brat had to enter the scene. He came in, and I had no choice but to confront him. I had to manipulate this boy. I thought I knew what the ending of this meeting was going to be, so therefore I did not overanalyze the situation. Yet, there was a twist I did not see coming, and that twist had changed the whole tale. Instead of the boy falling into the Cloaked Schemer's lies, the boy had cleverly outwitted the Master of Deception.
Now here I am at his feet, at the mercy of this adolescent. I realize now that everything I had ever done was in vain. Knowledge wasted. Understanding never truly obtained. Feelings never felt.
The keyblade slays me and thus concludes my story, where no happily ever after befalls this protagonist.
