“What kind of gamer do you want to become?”
“I want to be like Doublelift.”
“Doublelift? Why him? After all, Doublelift has never conquered the peak throughout his career.”
“You’re right. Maybe I like Doublelift for his arrogance.”
“What’s so admirable about arrogance?”
“Within arrogance lies a lot of effort and confidence. I always yearn for that confidence. Maybe because I always feel too weak.”
What’s so admirable about professional gamers? I don’t understand why I want to become one of them, there’s always something inside me urging me to achieve that, to attain something for which I would be willing to give up everything. In a post-game interview, the image of a gamer holding a microphone with a trembling voice but declaring to everyone that he will defeat everyone has always left an impression on me.
I realize that this is not a declaration for others, but a statement to himself. He knows that all efforts become meaningless if he fails. It’s strange if I told everyone that I’ve never truly enjoyed playing games. My only passion doesn’t bring me happiness, yet I still want to pursue it to the end.
I lived alone with my mother since childhood, in my memory, there has never been an image of my father. My mother has never told me who my father is, she always tries to avoid that whenever I ask.
It wasn’t until I was 5 years old that a strange man claiming to be my father appeared. He was a mature man, but it was hard for me to determine his exact age, he wore a very formal suit that created a sense of safety and closeness. But I can’t remember his face clearly, that image is too vague for a 5-year-old child.
Instead, I can clearly remember his deep and distinctive voice. The man seemed very concerned about me; he even brought a tightly wrapped gift bag. However, my mother seemed unhappy with his presence, I could feel the tense atmosphere.
Perhaps my presence was the only reason they could calmly talk to each other. Their conversation was quite confusing for me to understand what they were talking about; I only knew to hide behind my mother and observe the strange man.
After a while, he stood up, patted my head, smiled brightly, and left immediately. That was also the last time I saw him. My mother never mentioned this again, and I knew she never wanted to bring it up. I always felt inferior whenever I had to tell my classmates that I didn’t know who my father was; I even thought I didn’t have a father. But when the strange man claiming to be my father appeared, I didn’t have the courage to ask him clearly about the issue.
I had too many questions as a child that needed answers; I wanted to run to him the moment he stepped out the door. Perhaps I wanted to know if he was really my biological father, why he only showed up now, and why he couldn’t take me out like other fathers. During that time, I had nurtured the thought that I had a real father who could appear at any moment to be with me, to answer my questions. But that never happened again.
Unlike other children, I had to learn to play the piano from a young age; by the age of 6, I had been exposed to classical music, which not every child could do, and my academic achievements in class were also very high, making my friends and teachers admire me.
I never realized that; I don’t know when a snotty child like me became the hope of others. But perhaps, as people often say, the greater the hope, the greater the disappointment. Most of my weekends were spent in boring piano classes, and above all, I didn’t really have friends; my world was too different from other children my age.
“Mom, I don’t want to go to school anymore.”
That was what I told my mother at the beginning of middle school; she seemed quite angry and considered it the impulsive thought of a child. She burned all my toys, including some keepsakes that children in class often gave each other on special occasions. I had to stop playing the piano afterward to focus on studying. Among the fire was also the toy that my father brought me when I met him for the only time in my life. I wondered why I didn’t take them out to play like other children; I just quietly stored them carefully on the shelf and sat there admiring them like a peculiar child who couldn’t find joy in colorful toys.
The fire burned along with the only memory between you and the father whose face you couldn’t even remember. But like every time, you never had the courage to tell your mother to stop. You could only stand and watch it slowly being consumed. Perhaps that was your nature, silently witnessing the things you loved most gradually drift away from you. Above all, you are a cowardly child!
Whatever will come will come; around 8th grade, I quietly stopped my studies, and of course, not long after, my mother discovered it.
This time she said nothing. In my memory, there are still images of my mother silently crying at night; perhaps too many terrible things had happened to her. She always had high hopes for me; I could sense that from a young age, but perhaps my inherent nature was to disappoint others. When I stopped playing the piano, stopped studying, the only child she had probably completely vanished.
That was almost the last time I spoke with my mother; she had tightly closed off her emotions. I no longer saw her smile, be happy, sad, or even angry. She was just a mannequin trying to fulfill the role of a mother, going to work every day and leaving a sum of money for me to spend as I wished. Our house was completely silent; I still occasionally said things like “Hi mom,” “Is that you back?” but those hollow words never reached her; she just observed me as if to confirm whether I was still alive or had died.
I hate my father because he never tried to find me again, but I treasure his gift. The handheld game console he gave me, even though I never played it, I didn’t even know how it worked. When I was younger, some kids had invited me over to their houses to play video games, but I always refused. I don’t know why I always did that; perhaps the absence of my father made me more hesitant about everything, or maybe I was very afraid of making my mother sad.
THAT WAS WHEN I TURNED TO ONLINE GAMING!
I wanted to see my father just one more time, to remember his image in my mind, to boast to others that I actually had a father. I realized I needed to play games, that was something I had missed out on as a child, the only thing connected to my existence and my memories of him, the thing my mother had ruthlessly burned before my eyes. Most of my time during the day was spent on games; I played non-stop, perhaps that was the only place where I felt my presence was truly acknowledged.
I like the feeling of defeating others. My existence in the game is both virtual and real. Above all, I realized I needed to play games really well not for any specific reason. In that world, no one had any expectations of me; they only admired my talent, they couldn’t even know who I was in real life. Honestly, this made me feel truly comfortable.
“Hey, have you ever tried searching for your father on Facebook?”
“I don’t use Facebook; actually, I did, but it was a long time ago.”
“Why not? Why don’t you use it anymore? It’s really useful.”
“Back in 6th grade, I accidentally hurt a classmate on Facebook, and the other kids in class started to hate me from then on. So I promised myself I’d never use that damned social network again. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
“Anyway, that’s a story from the past; if you try using it again, who knows, you might be able to track down some information about your father.”
“Actually, I’ve never had the intention to find my father. I’m still in the house where he first met me; if he wanted to, he would have come to find me a long time ago. Perhaps he’s not even alive to meet me.”
“Don’t say that!”
Later, I met a girl through online gaming with the nickname “Suri”; she is two years older than me, and that’s all I can know about her. I don’t know why I can talk comfortably with Suri, sharing with her about my past, something I’ve never shared with anyone. But of course, she couldn’t know who I am; we were just anonymous friends online, gaming and confiding in each other.
Nevertheless, there is something about Suri that I long to have. Suri is also a very talented gamer; she almost defeated me in a game that I was very confident I had no rivals, but she couldn’t beat someone like me who spends all day glued to the computer screen. But to be honest, she is very gifted at playing games; she never practices as hard as I do, she has a job to do in real life and only plays games as a way to relax, a passion outside of work.
Suri once told me that she had considered participating in a professional tournament but immediately dismissed the idea. Perhaps being born a woman made it easy for her to give up her passion; no one would accept a female gamer competing, they would immediately deny her talent and only see her as someone trying to gain attention. Suri knows this very well, and she doesn’t want to be the type of person who seeks attention like that. She enjoys the joy of gaming during her free time, and for her, that’s more than enough to enjoy everyday life. I always admire her for that; I only know to aim for the peak, but I am too cowardly to reach it.
“Sometimes I feel a bit worried about you.”
“Worried about me? What do I have to worry about?”
“How can you play games if you’ve never felt happy?”
“I don’t know either; perhaps that’s just how I’ve been my whole life.”
When playing games with Suri, I realized she puts a lot of her emotions into gaming; I could never have that kind of feeling. She can easily feel joy, excitement, or become angry with me for no reason while gaming. It’s strange that someone like me, who places great importance on winning and losing, doesn’t have that feeling while she can easily have it. All I could feel was the need to do everything perfectly and not make any mistakes.
A while later, I realized that I had fallen in love with Suri.
I am deeply in love with a woman who is two years older than me, someone whose face I don’t even know. Even if she told me she already had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t be surprised. But I still want to love her; I am tired of trying to define what my true feelings are; I only know that I love her very much. Since childhood, I have always avoided every girl who tried to approach me, I was very afraid they would know about my pathetic self, but with Suri, it was different. I could easily share everything about myself with her without worrying about how she would judge me. But what worries me is whether she would accept me; perhaps everything would be better if we remained two friends confiding in each other online.
That was when I realized I needed to change; I couldn’t keep living like this; I was tired of being a coward. That’s right, I need to leave this house.
“Dear Mom!”
Hello Mom, it’s been a long time since we talked, and perhaps these will be the last words I can say to you. Perhaps you still resent me, but I just want you to know that I have never hated you; I have always regarded you as a true mother throughout my life. And don’t worry, when I decide to leave home, it’s no longer an impulsive decision of a child; I have grown up and have been preparing for this for quite a while. I used to occasionally see you cry, but I regret that I didn’t have enough courage to come and comfort you. I know there have been many terrible things that happened to you, and the same goes for me; I despise my current life.
I realize I cannot love others if I cannot even love myself. I wish I were just an ordinary child, living in the love between my parents, but I know I don’t deserve that. Right now, I am in love with a girl who is two years older than me; I don’t know much about her, but perhaps she doesn’t even notice my existence. I have never dared to confess my feelings to her, but I know that this feeling only needs to come from one side for me. Just knowing that I still have someone to love makes me feel that this vast world truly acknowledges my existence. I have decided to pursue my passion to the end; I want to remake my life. Above all, I want to be truly happy, and I want you to be the same. Perhaps you should also remake your own life, a life where you can smile at yourself every day. To me, you will always be the only mother I have. Goodbye, Mom.”
The train left Hanoi station around 9 PM. Something inside me felt both excited and anxious about this new life; I didn’t know how I would live the next days or what I would do, but I knew very well that my heart was gradually beating again.
“Ho Chi Minh City? I really like that place.”
“Have you been there?”
“Not yet.”
“Then how do you know you like it?”
“Because I know Suri is there.”