My mother always told me it's going to be fine. That my life will get better. She promised me she would find a way to control my father, my psychotic father, so we could both move out and life a better life in peace. These words that came from my own mother's mouth were the sole things that comforted me in my miserable existence. I wish I could just die…. why won't anyone just let me die? Mom isn't even here to stop me, so why does my father stop me from killing myself? Someday, I bet he'll kill me. So why not kill me now? I live in the top bunk of a bunk bed in the basement. Below my bunk is my 4 year old sister, Monique. My father always loved Monique more than me. "Beautiful thing", he called her. "Ugly monster", he called me. He abused Monique only slightly less than he does to me. He hits her, but doesn't do the things he does to me. Like hit me on the head with a toaster. He would never, ever ruin Monique's perfect little face. He treats her like a delicate China doll. He treats me like he treats the hungry stray cats that come to our doorstep at 5:50 am each day. He always kicks them around and shoos them away from the pet food dish he sets out on our doorstep before the cats come. I've always thought he was torturing the poor strays when I was little. Now that I'm 22, I'm sure of it. My name is Ky MacGregor. My sister's name is Monique Brendan. Lucky for me, I have my mother's last name instead of my father's. Because of their last names (and dad's personality), people tend to stay away from Monique and dad. My dad named me Ky, even with the argument mom and dad had the day before I was born, because Ky is a boy's name. He's always said I was a tomboy. A fucking tomboy. I've always wondered if he really thought that would anger or sadden me. I have red eyes that scare people into thinking I could murder them someday. I would never kill anyone but father, but I let them think that. I wouldn't want to discourage them, after all. I have shoulder-length black hair with dark-brown streaks. My hair looked like dark chocolate to me. My dad said it looked like dirty mud. But of course he'd say that, he's dad. Nobody has ever helped me, not even mom. Although she has tried before to free me from this life. She opened the back door and let me run free when I was 10. But later on, the police found me in a coffee shop, and brought me back to dad's house. He probably called the police when he found out I had run away. And later on he told the police a big, fat lie about the knife-scar on my cheek being from a fall, and that he had no idea how and why I would run away from my happy, happy family. Well, to hell with that! Who ever said I was happy? That I loved them? I don't care about my dad. I don't give a rat's ass about that man. But I loved my mom. And I loved little Monique. But later on, my dad killed mom when I was 15. After the funeral, dad had told everyone she was shot and killed by a madman. That was very true. Dad was a madman. Maybe even madder than a madman. I got off my bunk and went to the living room, as quietly as I could. I'm going to run away from this funhouse, I am, I am. I told myself these very encouraging words as I snuck outside. I had managed it. I'm outside. I stand there and hold my hands up in surprise and happiness as I contemplate how easy this was. But I shouldn't have stood there, I should've had run while I had the chance. Because, when I turned around, when I was about to run, my dad was standing on the porch. He had a gun. He shot my back. I am unconscious.
I awoke in a white, plain room. I was laying in a comfy bed, not my scratchy and small bunk. I knew right away I wasn't at home anymore. Could I have gone to heaven? Could my body have been kidnapped? I looked around and I felt a throbbing pain in my back, and started to scream. Then, a slender figure came into the room. When my eyes shifted into focus, I found this figure was a man, possibly 22 years old. He had red eyes and black hair, just like me. He wore a hospital uniform and a card attached to a string around his neck that read "Resurgam First Care - Surgeon". "Are you alright?" The strange man asked me. I tried to nod my head, but it hurt, so I just said "yes". I couldn't see anything with my left eye. I tried to touch it, but I only found a giant bandage covering the top left side of my head. The rest of my head was free. The bandaging felt a bit strange. I moved both my arms, testing them to see if I had any nerve damage. They were fine, but one of them had an IV in them. "What's the IV for?" I asked the man. "Painkillers. You were shot by someone. You're lucky I am a surgeon, and that I found you on my apartment's doorstep. I later on found the bullet and operated on you. You might experience discomfort for now, but try not to move. You'll be fine." He said. I let out a slight groan. He didn't hear me. "What's your name?" I heard his voice, serious and confident, asking me. I looked and stared into his eyes. They're red, almost like a ruby. They certainly shone like rubies. "My name?" "Yes, your name." "My name….My name is Ky MacGregor." After I told him, I saw his serious expression change into a smile. A smile looked a bit weird on his face, because the rest of him looked just as serious as always. But it looked very attractive as well. "Ah, well, Ky. My name is Edhard Muller, but people call me either CR-S01, kid, or moron." He grinned when he said "moron". "Why CR-S01?" "Let me tell you my story, and after, tell me yours." I nodded. TO BE CONTINUED...
