Easy to Read

Just a bunch of blurred faces. That’s all I could see. Surrounded by a large group of people who aren’t really people. It’s fascinating, really. Seeing the static behind eyes, noticing how each person seems to think, act, and speak the exact same way. Nobody else seemed to have caught on yet.

I linger with these crowds just as everyone else does. It’s easy to fit in with people who are easy to read. It doesn’t take a genius to adjust your morals to fit a group. As more and more dull-eyed faces and fake smiles join the group, there is one that stands out unlike the others. Her face held flaws, her voice broken with something human. She was loud, unafraid. She didn’t care about who said what. She joined the conversation and made it her own.

I never got the chance to speak with her. She bounced from person to person, a mix of curiosity and concern in her bright gaze. She seemed to be looking for something, as was I. She never made her way to my side of the group. The quiet, silent ones who nodded along with smiles that held no emotion but all performance.

Once she joined, masks slipped. Faces lit up and people began to leave the group. Whoever started it; the person with the most blank expression of them all, seemed to disappear without a trace. Strange, but satisfying. Intrigued by her presence, just as many in the group, I stayed. Everyone noticed differences in appearance. Everyone held sincerity in their eyes. Voices grew louder with amusement and general joy spread within the group. It annoyed me.

Nobody talks about how difficult it is to become part of a smaller group of real people. People who aren’t afraid, just as she wasn’t. With each day, I had to force more of a smile, more of what I didn’t feel. I couldn’t stay back and nod silently, I was forced into conversation, peer pressured to do as others were doing. It felt awful. I would never be as happy as this group. Why do I stay?

I think the most important part of reading people is patience. I should’ve known something was wrong with the way she looked, spoke, acted. She was human, after all. The more time you spend with somebody, the more you get to know them, the easier it is to read. She had flaws, many flaws. Her new leadership in this hierarchy of “friends” was annoying. Nobody else seemed to notice, though. I knew, right there and then, that my role in this group was to expose the flaws. Nobody else was going to, anyways.

I became quiet again. I would refuse to join group activities or trips. I would attend some to remain within the group. I would make up the excuse of payment. I couldn’t afford a trip to the canyons; I couldn’t afford new clothing. With each excuse and apology came sympathy from some in the group. Many eventually ignored my dismissal, however she didn’t. She never gave up on me. It was annoying.

As I skipped hangouts and meets, I did everything in my power to find anything about her. I was tired of her flaws. I was tired of being a part of something I didn’t fit into. That realization came too late. I created accounts, multiple accounts, commenting on her posts that pointed out her issues. Subtle at first. Simple. Like, “The shading in this picture makes your shadow wide.” Eventually, it grew into, “Why is her nose shaped like that?” I smiled at each comment, selfishly enjoying each time she deleted a post. Everybody seemed to notice.

At the last meet I seen her, she was quiet. She wore heavy clothing and kept her hair down. Slowly, but surely, her eyes became blurred with the same static I loved to read. She pretended as though she was sick, but everyone knew about the comments and the deleted posts. Everyone seemed to notice her change in mood. It was annoying. Everyone else remained bright while her light seemed to dull out.

She texted less in the large group chat. She started to make excuses, just as I once did. I did the opposite. I stepped in, mask on as usual. I made plans. My prior excuses turned to a faux sympathy. She didn’t go to the next meet. I led the group, talking with everyone more and more until I replaced her. She eventually left the group chat, but many more flooded in. I watched as eyes dulled with lack of interest. I watched as phone usage spread from the bottom of the pyramid up. It felt amazing. It felt like I had true power. I led my group through events, attending gatherings where everyone had that mask on. Naturally, my group of robots grew and meets thinned out.

The more we met, the more I noticed. One man in the back had spoken louder than anybody else. He studied me. His face held static, but it seemed as though the cable was about to connect. I had to stop it. I had to point out his differences, the way he seemed odd from everyone else. As he moved up in this metaphorical rank, I jumped online. Nobody noticed my lack of planning. It was annoying.

Instead of deleting his posts, he kept them. He hearted each comment, replying with a snarky remark. Each account was shut down immediately. Each comment boosting his followers. His mask slipped. Even in pictures, anybody with sense could tell he seemed bright. I slowly stopped showing up to meets. I fell down the ranks, watching as he climbed back up. I knew then that I had seen this happen before. My mask was the dullest. My static grew louder, noisy enough where I couldn’t think straight. My past group noticed my disappearance, my disinterest. They finally noticed. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t get a sense of satisfaction. It fueled my anger.

Every extra account made was deleted, getting rid of past shame. It didn’t end there, though. My own comments flooded with names I recognized all too well. Nobody commented on my appearance, but every single one was painful. Each person was defending him like minions. Except their masks weren’t controlling them. I realize now that maybe it wasn’t so easy to read people. Especially not those who felt. It will always bother me.