Chapter Text
The Golden Child.
That’s what my brother calls me sometimes, when he wants to mock me or insult me. I never really mind it; it’s almost like a drop of boiling water in a freezing ocean. A small inconvenience in an endless turmoil of despair. Perhaps the reason this name never affects me is because I have known for a long time that it is far from the truth.
I’m not necessarily putting up a façade; I never pretend to be the golden child. I take my part in some easy violence, I snuck out during my teen years, took alcohol while being underaged and so on. It’s people who make the assumptions.
But mostly, when my brother, or anyone else, calls me a golden child, I always wonder:
‘Does a golden child have a voice in their head that tells them that they’re worth nothing?’
Don’t get me wrong, I too have an internal monologue, and it goes as normal as anyone else’s. Random commentary when I’m doing something, judgmental snide remarks about something that displeases me and mental notes about stuff I should do.
Although I had done it before, I was five when I first realised that I could simply talk to myself in my head. That I could spend hours upon hours, talking to myself, making jokes, coming up with elaborate plans to avoid school. It was like discovering a magic you’d always had.
But it took me a decade more to realise that my internal monologue had another… voice. Well, I call it a voice, but it sounds like me. Except I would never say such vile things to anyone. At least not in a tone as sincere as the one in my head.
While my internal monologue is something I can control and often reflects how I feel, this voice seems to be a separate entity who knows only to be negative. A quick Google search once told me that it was common and often found in people with stress or anxiety. Some called it negative self-talk, but most people seemed to be able to control it.
So why can’t I? I thought endlessly that day.
After I first acknowledged its existence, it manifested into a constant presence, always there, always judging, always trying to cut away at my self-esteem.
But it never succeeded simply because I don’t believe it the way some people do. My self-awareness in enough for me to know that most of the things it says are merely false. I’ve never lost sleep due to it or had to second-guess myself.
Whenever I volunteer for charity, the voice tells me that I’m being an elitist prick who garners attention.
Whenever I become the consecutive top of the class, it tells me that I’m being a selfish moron who won’t give others a chance.
Whenever I give into my introverted self and lock myself in my room whilst ignoring all calls and texts from my friends and family, it tells me that I’m being a neglectful cunt.
And right now, I’m lying in a king-sized bed after having had the most amazing sex of my life.
The soft duvet is brought up to my chin as I curl my legs underneath it. The morning sun pours through the tall arched windows that face the street and runs along the mahogany floorboards and expensive rug. The soft, muffled sound of the shower in the ensuite mixes with the sounds of a waking city; cars, honking, conversation from the pavement.
I roll around and extend my hand under the covers, running my fingers over the smooth fabric beside me; still warm.
The voice in my head calls me a whore.
And I find myself doubting if I should believe it this time because honestly, who the hell fucks their professor?