'I'm fine' is a lie that people will quickly accept, at the most giving it two-seconds thought before moving on. People have always been happy to avoid conflict and delude themselves that nothing is wrong. We always have these 'Suicide Prevention' events at school, and the teachers go to these conventions and shit, but I see no reason. The more depressed someone is, the better they are at hiding it. There is a reason the most normal seeming people are the ones who end up killing themselves. They have been depressed the longest, and know how to seemingly blend with normal society.
Smiling is just moving certain muscles to show a pleasing facial feature.
"Who do you live with?"
Roxas, playing quietly by himself with legos in the sandbox, looked up at the boy, now blocking the sunshine. "My mommy." He answered, going back to his legos.
"What about a daddy?"
"Don't have one." He didn't bother turning looking back up at him.
"Everyone has a daddy."
"I don't. The man who lives with us is not my daddy."
"Than who is he?"
"I dunno."
The other kid was quiet, and, if not for the shadow still on top of Roxas and his legos, Roxas would've thought he had left Roxas in peace.
"Bastard."
Roxas pounced.
As the boys rolled around in the dirt (Roxas being easily taken over due to his smaller than average height) the legos laid forgotten in the sand.
At the age of three, Roxas could fill a dictionary with all the swearwords he knew.
Roxas' grandpa took him home two hours later. Neither of the boys in the fight told the origin of the scuffle. Swearing earned a bar of soap in the mouth for two minuets.
When Roxas' grandpa showed up, he eyed the fresh bruises suspiciously. "Those bruises come from home?" He asked in his gruff voice.
Roxas shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he say a pair of mothers look toward his way, and talk in hushed tones. Grandpa nodded, then took the little hand into his. Roxas smiled leaning a little into his grandfather. Maybe grandpa got some McDonalds. And McDonalds meant food for the night, and maybe breakfast if Roxas could hide it from his mom.
He figured his life was always normal. He knew TV was made up and that anything from there had to be fake anyway, same thing with the picture books he would read with families all happy and warm, with a mommy and daddy taking care of their child. Roxas was aware that there were happy families out there, but he figured he somehow made God unhappy and that his punishment was living with his mommy without a daddy.
Apparently, Roxas looked like his daddy. Obviously Asian features, even though he had blue eyes, he had dark brown hair and was small and quiet. The only Anderson in the family to inherit those traits. Anderson was his mom's name.
At church, a lady came up to his mommy and asked if was adopted. His mommy had to be escorted out of the church, and Roxas waited in the parish office until his grandma could pick him up.
The last time Roxas tried to ask why he didn't get his daddy's name, he got sent into The Closet for the whole night, not allowed out until noon the next day.
Until he had gotten older, Roxas never realized all the glances and double takes he would get if he was out with any member of the family, as if something was just not right.
The elementary school Roxas went to was a Catholic School. The nun principal was a nice lady who shook hands with all the kindergartners, proud to show off their new skills in introducing themselves.
By now Roxas was living with his grandparents. It was a condo very close to the beach. Every day one of them would take Roxas out to the beach, and watch him run around the sand and into the water. They would call out to make sure he stayed only deep enough so that his upper half would stay dry, but he rarely listened to them, going out to ride the biggest waves.
If someone asked, Roxas would say he was happy. He had three meals every day and all the playtime in the world. Being an only child was still lonely, but now parents would allow their kids over and Roxas was hardly ever alone anymore. He was very happy, but he missed his mommy, who had disappeared shortly after he went to live with his grandparents.
When Roxas was six, their was a knock at the door around midnight. Roxas was fast asleep in his room, book still open on his chest rising and falling in time with his breathing, and didn't hear the talking that happened at the hallway.
He woke up with his mommy's arm around his waist, feeling extremely happy and a little unhappy with his mommy back.
For the next week, he spent the whole lunch time crying with guilt for being unhappy to see his mommy.
Religion class was always Roxas' least favorite. Jesus was always there...God always protecting us. More and more times, Roxas found himself reading a book or going to sleep when the teacher told everyone to get their children's bibles out, filled with pictures and the same underline message: God is always there.
He didn't believe a word of it.
Roxas knew enough not to talk to anyone about it. He saw the way the other kids were content and happy that someone somewhere was watching over them. No one else never gave any doubts. No one else expressed doubts on His existence.
Roxas was, obviously, abnormal.
When Roxas was eight, his grandpa died. He remembers being angry. He remembers becoming quiet. He remembers the other kids separating themselves from him. He remembers that being the first time he wanted to kill himself.
"You stupid cunt!" Roxas was hiding in the closet, trying to cover his ears to block out as much of the yelling as possible.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that if you plan to stay in this house!"
You're not here. You're far away. Alone on an island, swimming in the-
"I'd leave this fucking place if I could just take Roxas with me!"
Alone on an island, swimming in the warm water. Swimming with fish-
"You won't lay a damn finger on that child, so long as I'm alive, kiddo." Kiddo was said with so much malice and hatred...
You're not here. You're anywhere but here.
Anywhere but here.
AN: Read. Review if you want. When my mom died, I knew I needed to do something. I choose to right about my childhood, talking about it for the first time ever. This was almost a first person narrative, but I couldn't. This prolouge is %100 true, even though I sincerely wish it wasn't. I left some stuff out, only for the fact that typing it, seeing it staring back at me, would make me go insane.
At this point, I don't really care if it looks good, or sounds good, or anything like that. I just know I had to write it.