For as long as I could remember, my father had always been abusive. He was never home, he was out drinking instead. And when he was home, I would get beaten. My mother had always tried to protect me, but there was no stopping him. He was an alcohol-fueled monster. We tried running away, tried escaping from his grasp. But we both knew there was no escaping him, there was only hoping he might have a sliver of mercy for you, hoping he wouldn't beat you unconscious.
The worst of it happened when I was six years old. To this day, I can still remember that day in such vivid detail that it amazes me. I was outside, I could hear the shrill scream of my mother from the kitchen, and I knew that could only mean one thing. I ran inside to attempt to aid my mother; despite the fact that I knew it was hopeless. My father was standing before her, half empty bottle of Jack in his hand. My mother lay on the floor, a large gash across her head. I could sense her pain. Frightened, I stayed back, hoping not to be seen. I was so scared; I didn't know what to do. Not like this was the first time something like this had happened, but something about my father was different, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
He laughed, walking up to her with a knife in hand. Terrified, my mom tried desperately to get away, letting out a shrill scream when he stabbed her in the back. Not once, not twice, but several times, far too many for me to count. He yelled several things at her, things I didn't quite understand at the time. Things like "…Worthless bitch! Quit cryin', you dumb cunt!" along with plenty of other obscenities that I can't quite remember. Now, the tears streamed down my face. I ran to her, asking if she was okay. She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. With a look of desolation in her eyes, she pleaded to me.
"Please...run. Get far away from here. Run and never look back." And that was the last thing my mother ever said to me.
I was too young to understand why she had gone still, so I just sat there for a minute or two, shaking her and begging, pleading for her to wake up. I looked back up to see my father again, bloody knife still clutched between his fingers. I was terrified. I got up, I tried to run, but it was hopeless. He had grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me back with enough force to dislocate my frail little wrist. I screamed out in pain, and even more tears streamed down my face. I sobbed, looking up into his eyes, pleading for mercy. He let out a drunken laugh, slamming me against the wall. He kneeled down to my eye level, looking straight at me. He held the knife to my throat; it was the most terrifying feeling I had ever felt before. Again I begged, hoping he would let me go. But he just laughed. His breath reeked of alcohol. He grabbed me by the throat, lifting me off the ground. I couldn't breathe. I desperately gasped for air, trying to pry his giant hands away. I still remember what he said to me. He looked me deep in the eyes, and he told me,
"Heh. You are weak and frail, just like your bitch of a mother. I never should have given birth to a piece of shit like you."
Of course I didn't understand what all of this meant at the time, but his words hurt. Cutting in deep, almost as deep as the knife he held to me. I closed my eyes tight, almost as if I thought that would make him disappear. I heard something loud, not sure of what it was. My father threw me down to the floor, with enough force to shatter my ribs. I let out a loud scream and lay there, the pain was agonizing. I watched with tears in my eyes as he ran off, leaving me there to die. Just a few moments later, the police ran in. They saw my mother's limp body, lying on the floor lifelessly. I still lay on the floor in pain, afraid to get up or move. I remember one man coming over to me, lifting me up and holding me close, promising me everything would be okay. I just laid there in his arms, sobbing and sobbing. They were putting my mother in a body bag, and I shouted, "No! No! You can't take her away from me! You can't!"
I tried so desperately to get down, to run to my mother's side. But they wouldn't let me. They just told me I wouldn't see her for a long time. I was so hurt and confused, I had no idea what was going on or what was happening to my mother. I was in shock and terrified. All I remember after that is they led me out of the house, and I was put I the back of the one man's car, and they drove me down to the police station. I was so exhausted; I fell asleep as soon as they put me in the car.
When I woke up again, I was at the orphanage, in the man's arms again. My wrist was in a cast and I had bandages on my ribs. I had no idea where I was, and I desperately tried to flee. He had set me down in one of the rooms there, and he said something to me...I can't quite remember what he said, but then he just left me there, scared and alone. Heh, that place was awful. Everyone was afraid of me, no family wanted to adopt me. They thought I was crazy, but really I was just in shock. I was never allowed out to play with the other children, for they feared I would attack them. So for the next ten years, I sat in one little room, the only human interaction I had was when I was brought my meals or when I was getting my schoolwork on weekdays. After about 7 years there, I was introduced to drugs. Some of the other kids there would smuggle stuff in. Back then however, it was just the small stuff. Smoked a few cigarettes, maybe a blunt or two once in a while. Heh. But after a while, it wasn't enough. I needed something more, something that would make me forget about my wretched life, even just for a little while. I tried just about everything there is. I did coke, crack, meth, you name it. But none of them were quite as amazing as the first time I did heroin. I think I was fourteen the first time I tried it. Oh, the high was wonderful. For hours on end I was in complete and total euphoria, it was the only thing that made me feel normal. I did it on a daily basis; I was completely addicted within a week. Without it, I couldn't function properly… it was terrible, slowly eating me alive… but I couldn't stop. I did it every single day, up to three times a day for the next two years.
After being there for so long, I had decided I wanted to escape. I was sick of it, being caged up and isolated like a freak. So, the one night when I was brought my dinner, I remember knocking the poor woman unconscious and making a run for it. I felt awful for what I had done, but I just had to get out of there, before I went completely insane. I ran as fast as I could, back to my old house. The police tape was still all around the house and on the doors. They had locked the house so nobody would interfere with the scene, despite the fact that they had given up on the case years ago, as they never did find my father. So, I broke one of the windows in order to get inside. Everything was exactly as I had left it, including the blood stains all over the floor, and the shattered bottle of Jack my father had dropped when he ran away. Heh, my father was such a coward. Maybe one day he'll face justice. I cleaned everything up as best as I could, trying not to think about what had happened. So, I tried to live a normal life, tried to forget about my past. I started high school, the first time I had a real education since I was little. I felt like an outcast, I didn't know anyone. I had no real friends. But it wasn't all bad. I was 17 when I met her. She had creamy tan skin, long, curly, gorgeous black hair, and hazel eyes. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her name was Veronica. Heh, as cliché as it may sound, it was love at first sight. I adored everything about her. She was always so happy; she had such a beautiful smile... and a wonderful personality. She was the whole package, everything a guy could want in a girl. We started dating my junior year, and everything was just so... perfect. For the first time in a long time, I was so happy. I was content. I remember how ashamed I felt when I had to tell her about my addiction, but she loved me all the same. She desperately wanted me to quit, but I just couldn't handle the withdrawal. So I could only use if she wasn't around, otherwise I would upset her. And I hated to see her upset… I was 20 when I finally had the guts to ask her to marry me. She said she would marry me, but only on the condition that I quit using before we got married. I would do anything to be with her forever, so I went to rehab for a few months and underwent the grueling withdrawal process. It was terrible, but worth it, and I stayed clean for a while. I thought my life was going to be perfect, I thought nothing could ever go wrong, and everything was better now that I was clean... Heh, I even slaved working 3 different jobs just to save up and buy her a beautiful ring. But of course, it was all just too good to be true.
A year later, we were both happily married, and she was eight months pregnant. We were going to have a baby girl. I was so excited, I was finally getting to settle down and start a family of my own. I only wished my mother was still around to see her granddaughter be born... but then, the unthinkable happened.
We were out for dinner, to celebrate our 5 year anniversary. Everything was going so well, I took her to the best restaurant in Gotham. She was so happy, and I just couldn't wait to spend the rest of my life with her. Halfway through our dinner, we hear a loud gunshot. Everyone turned to look, and we saw a criminal, wearing a hockey mask and holding a pistol. We stayed still, hoping he wouldn't cause any harm. He demanded that nobody tried to call the police, or he would start shooting. I remember holding her hand, and telling her everything was going to be okay... I wish that were true, I wish everything would have been okay. He started pulling money from the register and loading it into a burlap sack, we thought he would just take it and leave and everyone could go home safely. But when someone from across the street had heard the gunshot and called the cops and the cars began pulling up, he was infuriated. He thought one of us had called the cops. So he began shouting at everyone, all I remember was he fired a shot, and ran out. I still remember the terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach when I saw Veronica had collapsed. I quickly ran to her side to see if she was okay, only to discover she had been shot in the stomach. My heart sank. I knew that there was no way the baby would survive, and I was afraid she wouldn't make it either. "No! Veronica!" I shouted, feeling the tears coming on. I held her in my arms, running a hand through her hair, trying to convince her everything would be alright. People were already calling for ambulances, and a crowd was gathering around us. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. I looked back at her, "Please...please God no, please..." The last thing she said to me...she said "I'm so sorry. I love you."
And she died in my arms.
I just sat there, not knowing what to do. I pulled her bloody lifeless form close to me, sobbing into her dark hair. People tried to pull me away, take me away from her. I was so angry, they didn't understand how I felt, how could they fucking understand? I stood up, pushing them back and shouting at them. "Don't even try to give me your fake fucking pity! You have no idea what I'm going through!" In a tear stricken rage, I ran. I ran far away, never looking back. I ran back to my old house, I hadn't been here since I had moved into my apartment with Veronica. I ran inside, collapsing on the floor. I didn't know what to do. First my mother, now my wife and child were taken from me. "It's not fair!" I shouted. "It's not fair...I just want to be happy again." I lay there a while, curled up and crying. I sat up, deciding enough was enough. "My life is a fucking joke. A sick, twisted joke." I got up and walked to the kitchen, grabbing the biggest knife I could find. I grabbed it and walked to the bathroom, ready to end the fucking nightmare I had called my life. I turned on the light, and looked at my reflection staring back at me in the mirror, my face was red and tears were streaming down my face. I let out a loud sigh, looking down at the knife. I looked back up at my reflection, and it felt as if someone else was controlling my body as I lifted the knife up to my face, sticking the blade into my mouth. "I just want to smile again…" Without hesitation, I pulled the knife, feeling it slowly rip and slice through my skin of my cheek. I winced from the pain, the blade stung like thousands of needles in my skin, but I didn't care. I liked the pain; it took my mind away from the sadness, the anger, and the hurt. I stood there and put a hand up to my cheek, feeling the blood pour like a faucet from the fresh wound. I looked down at my blood smeared hand, placing the blade in my mouth again and repeating the process on my other cheek. I winced again and dropped the blood stained knife to the ground, looking down at it and watching the drips of blood fall onto the tile. I looked back up at my reflection, now with a permanent smile on my face. I grinned wildly, smearing the blood across my fresh scars with my fingertips. I just stood there for a while, laughing like a maniac. I looked like some sort of sick, demented clown. I wanted other people to feel my pain, understand the losses I had to deal with. It wasn't fair, that I was the only one who had lost everything. I shouldn't have had to be the only person suffering.
So I decided to change that.