Varden makes me uncomfortable. Wait no, you know what, he makes EVERYONE uncomfortable. He's so fucking forward with everything he says and does, and he's the worst racist you'd ever come across.. He doesn't beat around the bush, that guy, he sits down and says what he means. If he wants you, he's going to say that he wants you. And if he hates everything about you, he will say it immediately and not even bother hiding it. Nothing is a game with him, he's all buisness.
So of course the second he hears that Drew (that immortal guy) is alive, he comes after me with letters and false smiles and:
and of course I spend the first few weeks of this laughing at his stupidity and throwing away his useless little letters. Yeah, but then it continues. He doesn't STOP sending these letters until I write him back, and I know that's what's going to happen. So I do, and I tell him:
…and he's furious; he's absolutely irate. But I keep living my sad interminable life and he continues on his sad little way and it stays like this for awhile.
And then the letters start up again.
They're nice now, and they're hiding the truth with their, "It-will-help-us-both-you-know," and their, "You-will-be-my-right-hand-man," and I start getting sick. Varden was being an annoying little prick, a thorn in my fucking side that won't stop causing me fucking pain. So I write him back a bit meaner now, a bit less polite:
…and NOW he's getting desperate. I get a letter each day with him begging me, and you know he's not used to begging for what he wants, and I tell him no.
And then he asks me out on a date, the fucker, and strange enough as it is I accept. Of course he makes it sound like a business date, and I'm a bored, bored god, so I went along with it expecting to talk about important things--things that matter.
But the second he sees me, he's complimenting me, and I'm complimenting him back, and we're fucking flirting and I don't even realize it because it's been forever since I flirted with someone, and he's so different from the mundane and the boring shit that I've been subjected to my whole life. But I swear to you I am not a homosexual. I don't know what happened; things escalated out of control.
And I guess he took that too seriously, and he expected too much out of a person he barely knew, and I told him that I was NOT whatever he thought I was and I left and went back to my boring cult in my boring town in my boring house.
So he wrote me again, and he asked:
…and I replied:
…and he thought whatever Varden thinks and continued writing me. The cult members-- (To address some questions, I'm Drew the guy that's been alive for 1,002 years, and there is a lovely lot of people that think I'm a god. Who am I to tell them they're wrong?)-- took wind of what happened and they urged me to join them with the Perdition (Varden's hate group against all people who aren't white like him), but they didn't seem to understand the point I was trying to make by not joining them. That point has long since evaporated now, and there's no longer any point in discussing it.
Varden found my house and visited me, much to my chagrin, and we chatted for awhile over some stupid television program about some stupid people doing even stupider things, and I oh-so-wanted to explain the problem I was having; this irritation I gained simply by knowing this strange, strange man, but things escalated again.
He got me to eat something, he got me to EAT SOMETHING and I swear to you, that's harder than you probably think. It had been at least a few weeks since I'd even looked at my kitchen and I was so thin and on the verge of collapse and he got me to eat something.
(I've been anorexic since I was 12, and very few people have gotten me to eat. My mother once forced me to choke down some stupid meal, and a good friend of mine who stabbed me in the back for a fucking job did the same. He told me we were friends, and he got me a job, and then when offered a better position he took it, kicked me out, and left me to my devices.)
Honestly, I don't even remember what it was I ate that day. All I know is that I choked it down because I honestly thought Varden cared, and the he wanted me to be healthy and I suppose I accepted that. I really wanted to believe that, because it's been so long since I've had someone I could trust; someone who I could call a real friend. I think I thought I loved him. I thought he was one of those people, as I'd mentioned, that was forward and said what he meant, but by knowing me... I suppose that changed. Asshole.
He left some time after, and I felt good about whatever strange relationship we had. He wrote me, and asked me about how I was feeling and if I was happy where I was, and how the cult leaders were doing and if everything was going quite swell and I told him:
…and he laughed.
So we talked for the longest time, and he would often tell me:
So I'd sit down and I'd look at my kitchen and I'd look in the mirror and I'd tell myself that I really, really need to do this. I need to eat. I need to stop acting like a fucktard and face my problems. And I'd tell myself that Varden loved me, or at least cared for me, and that even though he whined like a little bitch, he was my friend and I owed it to him to at least try to take care of myself.
Thus, I tried to eat like a normal human being, and I was stronger and I could stay awake for longer than a week at a time without passing out. I was happy, I guess, and I suppose I really liked Varden. I considered him some twisted form of a friend, and deep down, though at the time I'd never admit it, I said I loved him.
And judging by my past mistakes I suppose you can tell where that led me. For a year we chatted about silly things and I told him about my life and what had happened to me, all the real shit, and he told me a bit about himself.
We swapped our life's stories and he told me about his nephew Philip, and I told him about my accursed family and how much I hated them (and how much I STILL hate them). I opened up to him about everything, about my backstabbing friend and how I hated everything about myself for the longest time.
You don't know how much I abhor every word I wrote down on those fucking pieces of paper.
It was about two weeks after he stopped writing me that I realized there was a book published about me, and not some superstitious shit, either. It had every aspect about me in it, from my last name to my original hair color and my family and-- fuck I was so fucking angry; you can't understand the word rage until you've felt what I felt! I ripped half of my mansion apart! I went on a bloody rampage and killed three cult members! I nearly decimated the entire fucking town I was so upset!
And fucking hell, who wrote the goddamned book? Why none other than Varden himself! The first ten pages were all him writing about himself and how amazing he was and how everyone needed to join the Dark Perdition because a fucking GOD HAD FUCKING JOINED HIM.
And I didn't write him, no, I visited him, and I brought the black fucking rain on him with me. I confronted him, and all he could say was that he considered it all an interview, that he wasn't really interested in being friends. He needed to boost his Perdition, and he wanted me to join him. That was what he thought had happened, and I explained to him with expletives aplenty that he could go shove his Perdition and never speak to me again or I would rip him apart with my bony, weak hands, and he would be able to do nothing about it because I was a god and he was a weak, snivelling human being.
And I went home, sat down, and cried for three hours, lamenting over my pathetic extended lifespan and how horrible the world was. And I passed out promptly after for three months, and my cult was wondering where I was, slipping notes of worry under my door every day I was out, and I decided that I couldn't let this get to me. I would simply never trust anyone ever again because human beings are all assholes with no dignity for themselves or anyone else, and I haven't flirted with another man ever since.